“Immediate regret, you mean?”
“Not exactly regret. Dread. I knew I’d done something awful and couldn’t ever take it back, and I hadn’t really meant to do it. There was all this anger coursing through me, but all the way up until the last second I thought I was in control. I thought he had to apologize, because the alternative should obviously be terrifying to him. I let my emotions carry me along because I thought I knew how it would end. But I didn’t.”
She nods and writes something on her yellow pad. Her pen scratches against the paper. After a moment she says, “Were you aware of what he had done to your stepbrother previously? You haven’t mentioned it.”
I answer with a perplexed look. “What he had done? What do you mean?”
She sets down her pen and regards me with a plain journalistic gaze. “In 2006, the Diocese of San Jose settled with seventeen individuals who claimed abuse by four priests who had served at various churches in the area. Father George was one of the priests named in the suit. The records are not public, but I made a special request to review them. Clinton Brand was one of the claimants.”
I feel myself sag against the back of the chair. The revelation stuns me, but the first feeling that courses through me is anger. “That…that filthy liar. He wasn’t a victim. He was a rapist.”
“Do you know for a fact that he wasn’t a victim? The claims were that the abuse of the male victims had taken place when they were all between twelve and fifteen years of age. It’s unfortunately not rare for abusers to have a history of abuse, themselves. I’d wondered if you knew that to be a factor with Clinton, and also, if you believe Ricky was a victim.”
I shake my head balefully. “No, definitely not. He would have told me if that were the case, I’m sure of it. I doubt—” I exhale a sudden hard sigh, because all of this information is too much for me. I can barely gather my thoughts to process it. “I doubt he would have been an appealing victim to anyone. He was too much of a loose cannon, always, the way he had no filter for what he said. But Clinton—did the documents say what his accusation was against Father George?”
“Not specifically. They didn’t even connect the two of them directly. Four priests are listed, and the names of the seventeen victims are expunged, but other documents show who received a payout from the settlement. And Clinton was one of those.”
Seconds tick by in silence. I twist my hands together, resting them on the table, and at last I speak. “Well, maybe he just got in on the lawsuit to make some easy money. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Maybe. But perhaps it would explain why Father George seemed so indifferent to your abuse. If Clinton was one of his victims, then his exposing Clinton—even by alerting your mother—may well have opened up the likelihood that Clinton would accuse him. Of course, that’s just a theory. I thought you might be able to shed some light on it, but it seems you’re as surprised as I was.”
I nod. I open my mouth to speak again. I’m about to think out loud about some of Clinton’s more confounding behaviors—but then I stop myself. “Can we continue this interview later?” I ask, instead. “I’m a little…overwhelmed.”
“Yes, of course. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you, Ms. Mattingly.”
I shake her hand, but my mind is already elsewhere. It’s in a fog, and I feel as though a door to my past has finally been blown wide open, or else quietly, politely, closed.
Back in the cell, I’m very quiet. Penelope is already back from her laundry job, playing Solitaire on the bed with her radio on low. I can feel her gaze following me as I take out the picture Emory Pugh sent me of myself and Ricky at the pizza place, and then sit at the desk, staring at it as if it might offer up some answers. Ricky looks so relaxed, so easy in his smile. Seventeen victims, I think, and marvel at the number. I’m sure Ricky wasn’t one of them, but I know he had fooled around sexually with some of the other boys from church when he was quite young—eleven or twelve years old. That type of behavior seemed fairly common among the boys in the parish. Now I wonder if there had been a more sinister reason for that part of their secret culture—if it had felt normal to them for darker reasons than mere adolescent hormones.
“You okay?” Penelope asks in a tentative voice.
“Yes, I’m all right. I just learned something… surprising.” I set down the photo and turn halfway around on the stool. “Apparently the priest I killed was later named in a sexual abuse lawsuit.”
Her laugh is abrupt and humorless. “Wow. Sounds like you picked the right guy.”
“Good heavens, no. It isn’t as if I did it for any noble reason. But it looks like my stepbrother may have been one of his victims. I never had even an inkling of that. Except—” I go quiet for a moment, remembering. “My stepbrother victimized me, too. One time, I remember, I got up and said to him—as kind of a threat—that I was going to have to confess about it. And he said—I remember he was lying in my bed, shirt off and pants open, just as relaxed as you please—he said very offhandedly, ‘Tell the old perv anything you want. He’ll just get off on it.’ At the time I thought it was empty bravado—a way to discourage me from saying anything. But maybe there was more there that I didn’t understand.”
Maybe that’s why Clinton was always so angry, I think. Maybe that’s why he seemed so certain there would be no consequences.
“That’s sick,” Penelope says, her voice muddled with sympathy. “But usually there’s more to the story than meets the eye. Maybe you have the whole picture now.”
“Maybe so. I don’t know why it never occurred to me before that there might have been a connection between those two things. Once it fits together, it makes so much sense.”
She leans toward me, across the spread of cards lining her blanket. “Can I tell you something?” she asks, barely above a whisper. Before I have the chance to answer, she says, “It was my mom.”
I feel my forehead crease. “What?”
“Who sent the guy to hit my dad. I didn’t know it at first, either. She was upset that he got engaged to Sherry, because if he married her it would mess up my inheritance and my brother’s. So she got her yard maintenance guy to drive all the way from Massachusetts and all the way back.” At my expression of large-eyed shock, she nods sagely. “Not that we got any say in this, mind you. And then I get arrested for it. Nice going, Mom.”
I huff a little sigh of astonishment. “How can she let you just sit here in prison for that?”
“Because she thinks the obstruction charges won’t stick, and I’ll be out soon. She’s paying for my lawyers. I mean, the alternative would be to rat herself out, and I can handle this better than she can. But I don’t know why the hell it’s taking so long. She’s going to owe me big time once I get free.” Her mouth twists to the side, and she scoops up all her Solitaire cards in a single sweep of her hand. “You see now why it makes me so mad that my brother wants to pull the plug? Yeah, my dad’s kind of a bastard, but I’d never wish death on him.”
“What about—I heard on the news that you took a lot of money out of your trust fund the month before it happened.”
“Yeah. Kevin and I were talking about getting a place together. They’re opening up a new apartment building in Merced Heights, near the water. I figured we needed a little nest egg so we could feel secure, plus security deposit and some money for furniture and stuff. I knew if my dad found out he might freeze my account, because he doesn’t like Kevin, so I was pulling it out on the sly and putting it in a regular checking account I opened up. Little did I know my mom was going to hire a freaking hit man. I mean, Jesus.” She shakes her head and begins to shuffle the cards. “You want to play Gin Rummy or something? My dad used to play it with me when I was a kid.”