by Chris Leibig
“Fair enough.”
“What if Father Andrada has been hearing a man in confession, and the man has made certain admissions to him? Admissions of horrible, repetitive sins?”
“May I interrupt?” Sam asked. Camille raised her eyebrows and nodded. “I see where this is headed. Virginia law recognizes a limited clergy-penitent privilege, enforceable by either party. In other words, Father Andrada is not legally obligated to disclose things learned during confession, and his penitent holds the right to prevent him from testifying about such private communications. There are exceptions, just like with the attorney-client privilege. For example, a lawyer or a priest must disclose information about a future violent crime, as opposed to a past one.”
“So I have a question for you,” Camille said. “You’re saying that a priest is under no legal obligation to disclose information about a penitent’s past crimes, no matter how heinous?”
“Right. But plans to commit a crime in the future can be different. I’d have to hear the details. It’s sort of a case-by-case analysis with these privileges.”
“Here we have a penitent who swears it will never happen again.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it anymore, except to say one thing. If it came out that Father Andrada told you about the man’s confession, then that could be enough to pierce the privilege. In fact, he’s already broken his vow, hasn’t he?”
Camille did not respond. She stood, folded her arms, and walked to the window behind her desk. She then turned and faced Sam.
Here comes the kicker.
“The man seeing Father Andrada claims to be the Rosslyn Ripper. He confessed, was forgiven by Father Andrada, and swore it would never happen again.”
Intense, to be sure, but the high-profile nature of the crimes did not change Andrada’s obligations under the law. Besides, lots of people falsely claimed responsibility for notorious crimes.
“The murderer first confessed to Father Andrada six weeks ago. That was after the second killing. He has since confessed to killing Joni West after his initial disclosure to Father Andrada. Andrada truly believed the man would stop.”
Camille turned sideways. Again, her posture was perfect, spine straight yet relaxed. She approached the desk and leaned on it with both hands, her face now much closer to Sam, her eyes directly on his.
“I don’t care about protecting the murderer. My problem is that Father Andrada is considering turning himself in—as an accessory. What I need to know from you is what will happen if he goes to the police now.” She paused and stood up straight before speaking again. “And perhaps more to the point, whether we can figure out a way to stop this killer without harming Father Andrada.”
“Whoa.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “I’m a lawyer, sister. A defense lawyer. You sure you don’t want a private investigator? Or why not go to the cops?”
“Because they’d come down on Father Andrada the second I told them what I know. He is still the only one who knows the identity of the murderer. Or at least … ,” she hesitated for a moment, “the only one who’s seen the guy. And there’s something else.”
Sam sat quietly.
“We have also received a journal.”
“From the killer?”
“Not sure. But one section of it arrived at the church, addressed to no one in particular, no return address, postmarked from DC, the day after the second murder, and then another the day after the third. It’s something of a rambling narrative. It appears to be selective chunks of some kind of a personal journal. I have no idea what it’s about, but the timing and the sheer oddness of the narrative itself makes me think it could be related. Like a clue or something.”
“A clue to what?”
“If it’s written by the killer, maybe there’s something in it that could, well—”
“Identify the killer,” Sam said. “Get him caught and save Andrada from ever having to admit that he knew about the killer and did nothing.” And save yourself in the meantime.
Camille looked away.
“I get it,” Sam said. “If the murderer is caught, legal problem solved. We could drop the journal on the police anonymously. On a case this big, they’ll run the guy down. That’s what most lawyers would probably say to do.”
“That won’t work. The journal says nothing about the murders. Its storyline begins decades ago. I can’t tell you if it has anything to do with the Rosslyn Ripper. People send all sorts of things to churches, actually. Confessions, threats, religious diatribes. You name it. I just think you should see it.”
“Let me talk to Andrada and check out the journal. See what I can make of it.”
Camille hesitated for some time before her eyes met Sam’s again.
“Okay. But we have to do something soon. You’ve told me what some lawyers would do. I also know what most priests would do. Break the privilege. But Father Andrada is not most priests, and I don’t think you’re most lawyers. We need to do something, as they say, outside the box.”
“How in the world would you know what kind of lawyer I am? I haven’t been in contact with Andrada, or this church, for years.”
“I’ve looked into you. We minister to Catholics in the jail. We know people. We hear things. I know you know how to look at things, I guess you could say, in a complicated way. The right way, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need a black-and-white thinker snooping around this situation. And I know you do every kind of case, no matter what it entails. And, like I said, Father Andrada thought your mother was a very special woman.”
“That’s not exactly accurate, that I do every kind of case. I don’t do death-penalty cases.”
Camille walked around her desk.
“Father’s not looking at the death penalty, is he?”
“No.”
“Then follow me.”
CHAPTER 3
SAM FOLLOWED CAMILLE DOWN the cool, dimly lit hallway, noting the religious art on the walls. Religion aside, churches were simply a good place to relax. Camille turned right, and they passed what Sam knew to be the offices of the various parish priests, with Father Andrada’s office at the far end of the hall. Camille knocked softly, opening the door as she did.
“Father?” she said softly into the room.
“Come on in.” The voice from Sam’s memory was a deep and scratchy baritone, the kind of voice that proved its words heavy with meaning—one that sounded awkward, even silly, when discussing mundane matters. It was like that of the guy who narrates the trailers for ninety percent of Hollywood’s dramatic movies. Camille swung the door wide open and stood aside.
Andrada wore his non-liturgical clerical garb, all black with a white collar. Sam and Camille sat in the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. Father Andrada extended his hand. Sam tried to place his age. He had a full head of thick, gray hair, but his tight grip and vigorous manner bespoke a tough man of robust health. Sam glanced quickly behind Andrada at the office décor. A small, framed, signed, black-and-white photo of Mohammed Ali knocking out Sonny Liston hung among Andrada’s various degrees and awards. Sam remembered something about him then. Andrada had been a boxer. He had discussed it with his mother, finding it funny that a priest would get into a ring and try to knock people out. As Sam met Andrada’s eyes, he remembered something else about the man. Something he had never noticed as a kid but had seen when he was eighteen, when Andrada spoke to him after his mother’s memorial service. The guy had different colored eyes. One brown, one green.
“Sam, I remember you well as a boy and a young man. I’ve always been sorry we didn’t keep in touch. Marcela was a real great lady. And I mean the real deal. She helped us with everything from accounting to development of the Spanish language liturgy that was way ahead of its time. But I guess you know all that.”
“I know she cared a lot about you, too. Anyway, maybe I can be of help to you now. I hear there may be a problem?” Sam felt awkward around the priest, like speaking to him might dig up an old annoyance or worry, like
an old high school friend with whom one no longer had anything in common. Or, maybe, like a reminder of something one would rather forget. Maybe religion just annoyed him.
“Has Camille explained the situation?” Andrada said.
“She has, but I need to get a lot more detail and do a little research before we really get into it. Before you talk to me about the case, I think we should be clear on the rules so you don’t accidentally put me in the same dilemma you’re currently facing. To put it bluntly, my first concern is that if you tell me about this murderer, you may have destroyed your own privilege to not have to reveal it in court. Secondly, I could incur an obligation to come forward.”
Camille stood. “And Father Andrada has confessions and meetings all afternoon.” Andrada nodded, but it was not at all clear to Sam that he knew he had confessions and meetings all afternoon. “May I suggest we talk early tomorrow?”
Sam stood as well. “Sounds good.” Though it didn’t sound good, or at least normal, if Andrada was really the client. “Good afternoon, Father.” They turned to leave.
“Sam,” Andrada said, “I hope we can move through this quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Camille walked Sam out without speaking. His car looked far away and alone on the old gravel in the back of the lot. The air had become still and light, with the thorough lack of pressure that precedes a thunderstorm. Strange. He hadn’t even noticed parking so far away while all the closer spots were open. Sam noticed that Camille carried a thin manila envelope at her side.
“I have to ask,” Camille said. “What do you do when a client tells you a story you don’t believe? Do you go with it or not?”
Sam continued walking without answering. He had always been good at reading people. He could already tell a few things about Sister Camille Paradisi. She played mental games like he did; she wanted him to wonder what was going on, to know she was holding back on him.
“Believe it or not,” he said, “it doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s all just narratives. The point isn’t whether I believe the narrative. It’s whether the narrative is believable. Whether it fits into a theory of the case that works.”
Camille ran a finger along the haunch of Sam’s car.
“Nice ride.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m as poor as anyone working for the public good. That car came to me for free.”
The 2013 Cadillac Escalade had come to him from Barnabus Farley, a former client—or rather, a permanent one.
“So public defenders can accept expensive gifts? Fancy cars? So much for God’s work.”
“Gifts, no.”
Sam dug for his keys. Camille stood in front of him with her feet crossed like a loafing teenager and her hand on a cocked hip. She let the silence sit in a way that made him feel the need to speak. Camille didn’t play by normal social rules. She looked at people a moment too long and didn’t fill silences with idle chatter.
“I bet my client we’d win his case. He bet we’d lose. So the car isn’t a fee or a gift at all. It’s gambling. I’ve always been great at it.”
“I read that on the Internet. Made it to round three of the World Series of Poker. Impressive. What would you have owed if you’d lost the bet?”
Sam looked down for a moment before smiling at Camille. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
“How old is Father Andrada now?”
“Sixty-eight, but tough as a Spanish stallion. It’s not his physical health I’m worried about.” Camille moved closer to Sam, closer than the normal American-speaking distance. Sam let the silence hang.
“I worry about his state of mind,” she said. “You’d never guess it, but he gets very, very upset and angry sometimes. And he drinks. A few weeks ago he punched a hole in the office wall and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—explain why. I hung the Ali-Liston photo to cover the hole, kind of making light of it for him. But still, I’m worried. It’s like somehow, even after a whole life of service, he feels some sense of deep guilt, like maybe he wants to punish himself or something. You know, like by turning himself in for not reporting the Rosslyn Ripper.”
Camille took a step closer to Sam, into his personal space, like Eastern European clients did when they wanted to tell you something important. Usually he stepped away. This time he did not.
She placed the envelope in Sam’s hand.
“The journal for your review. Check it over, see what you can figure out.”
“This is an original?”
“It is. I kept a copy. But remember, Sam, this may have nothing whatsoever to do with the Ripper, or anything else. It could just be somebody’s life story. A parishioner, a nutcase? Who knows. They’re in plastic, each section, to avoid contamination. Let’s talk tomorrow, and we can also deal with the matter of your fee.”
“I get it about the journal. It may be nothing. I’ll check it out. We can take it a little slow on the fee for now. I like to have a longer conversation with the client first, to make sure he knows how it works. The process, the decisions. Stuff like that.”
“What do you want to discuss?”
“I mean with the client. Andrada.”
Camille’s eyes narrowed. She gazed across the parking lot, sort of in the direction of the church, but beyond it, as if she were looking for inspiration from the landscaped suburban neighborhood surrounding the Holy Angels grounds.
“For now, you can think of me as the client. I want to help Father Andrada. He doesn’t deserve this mess.”
“Well, Camille, that’s not how it usually works.”
Camille stood in silence, her hand on her chin, watching Sam.
“Look,” he said, “there’s no court case involving Andrada right now. Hopefully, there never will be. Let’s think of it as a consultation for now. Between us. Frankly, the chances of Andrada being exposed are pretty slim, even if we do nothing. They’ll catch the guy, and even if he rats out Andrada for knowing, that’ll never be convincing enough to go anywhere.”
“Why are you so sure they’ll catch the guy?”
“Believe me, they will. The crime scenes are too messy. The press is too hot. Somebody will probably stumble across something and turn him in. This is Bennet County. They’re good. Murders don’t go unsolved. What’s more, all the victims were killed on federal property, so it may be a federal case once it goes to court. That means the perpetrator is screwed, blued, and tattooed. It means he’ll never be able to beat the case. Seriously, Camille, you should consider not even hiring me.”
Camille frowned. “And you should be able to see I have a dual motive in hiring you. I want the guy caught sooner. Before he strikes again. At the end of the day, I want to protect these women. It’s something I feel I must do, without harming Father Andrada, of course. And I’d be interested in your view on the journal, even if it has nothing to do with our problem.”
“Why?”
Camille shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bored.”
Sam pulled his keys out of his pocket.
“One thing you should know about the payment,” he said. “I’m a public defender. I only represent clients appointed by the court. Some people, let’s say, maybe even some people who matter, think I don’t accept money from outside clients. You understand that part, right?”
“But you represent drug dealers who gamble with sixty-thousand-dollar cars? Fascinating. I’m learning so much already,” she said teasingly. Sam met her eyes and moved ever so slightly closer to her. He was not sure why, only that something about the woman pulled him closer, as if she were surrounded by a comfortable energy field he wanted to be in.
The pre-storm wind had begun, and the first light drops began to strafe the gravel and ping off Sam’s car. Sam did not move to open his car door, instead inviting the first warm raindrops to splash onto his face and arms.
Camille shifted her weight, her high heels digging into the gravelly parking lot, partially turning away from him to head back towards the churc
h.
“I’ll bet you sixty thousand dollars you can’t stop the serial killer before he strikes again,” she called out to him. Her voice cracked, a bit like a child’s, mixing with the growing wind.
Sam lifted his chin towards Camille before she fully turned away, indicating he had one more thing to say. She stopped, face turned back towards him, serious now.
“My mother died sixteen years ago, Camille. If you’ve only been at this parish two years, how’d you know her?”
Camille nodded as he finished speaking. “You ask good questions.” Sam watched her until she disappeared inside, her gait relaxed and confident as she crossed out of the gravel and closed the distance over the new pavement. He stood alone until his vibrating phone reminded him it was time to drive away. Sam spun his car onto Annandale Road towards the highway.
“This is Young.”
“We’ve got court Thursday,” Amelia said. “My biggest closing argument ever, dude. You do remember that, don’t you? ‘I was just going after the purse’ and all that shit. Where the fuck have you been?”
“Busy.” Then he said, “Sorry. I’m on the way. Relax, Amelia. You’ll do great. Besides, what do you need me for? You’ve been ready for this for months.”
“It’s not that. Broadas called. He has a final rebuttal witness. From the Forensic Science Department. DNA. Claims they just got a result from the swab of Scarfrowe’s hand. Says it proves Scarfrowe touched vaginal fluid.”
“Bullshit. Not this late. DNA evidence mid-trial? Never. That won’t fly.”
“Call Broadas. Now. I’m freaking out.”
“On it.” Sam pulled onto the Rosslyn exit, just minutes from the office. “I gotta run over to the jail first. Then I’ll call Broadas. Sherita Owings got arrested last night. You know how she is.”
“Yeah, I do,” Amelia said blandly. Sam could feel her emotions through the phone. She wanted him at the office. But she was a true-believer public defender and wasn’t going to question a jail visit to a poor crackhead.
