“Most respectfully, sir, my question was whether or not you heard any allegations, whether in or apart from your duties?” I changed the course of my inquiries, though Deegan was determined not to give me an inch. The law allowed me to ask a character witness not only about specific acts within his direct knowledge, but also the defendant’s reputation for morality within the community.
“No, I did not.”
“Did you ever hear any allegations that Father Koslawski put his hands on the knees and thighs of a young man in a movie theater?”
“Objection.” Sheila Enright didn’t rise from her seat. “Asked and answered.”
“You may respond,” the judge said.
“I don’t recall.”
“Let me back up a step, Bishop Deegan. Would you consider such conduct — the unconsented groping of a minor’s thigh and knees, by an adult — to be sexual abuse?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“I’ll allow it.”
I had studied Deegan’s answer to this question in a deposition he had given in a civil case involving another priest.
“No, I would not.”
“Is there some other way you would describe that conduct, sir?”
Deegan cleared his throat with a cough. “I would say that it’s improvident, Ms. Cooper. Improvident touching.”
Exactly the language he had used in the civil matter two years earlier, which had led to a furious interchange with the plaintiff’s lawyer.
“So, ‘not sensible or wise’ would be your conclusion about such touching. Improvident, but not a sexual violation.”
“Correct, Ms. Cooper. I don’t consider those — those, well — areas to be sexual parts.”
He ought to talk to women who ride the subway in New York, subject to the uninvited stroking of strangers on crowded trains.
Enright was on her feet. “Your Honor, I think Alex — Ms. Cooper — is already venturing beyond the scope of my direct.”
“I’m just trying to get the semantics right, Judge. I don’t want to use a conclusory term like ‘sexual abuse’ if the bishop doesn’t agree with the legal definition.”
“Ask your next question, Ms. Cooper.” Keets stared at me over the rim of his reading glasses.
“You were responsible for hearing complaints against priests, were you not?”
“Most certainly.”
“And what were the nature of those complaints?”
The bishop smiled at me now, almost beatifically. “Some were liturgical, Ms. Cooper. Some were theological.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I received complaints that a priest’s sermons were too long,” Deegan said, “or that he sang poorly. On the more serious side, there might have been a charge that a priest was promoting a practice in violation of church teachings, that kind of thing.”
“And abuse of alcohol?”
“Yes, certainly. Those came to me.”
“So sexual abuse was the only parish problem that was not under your jurisdiction.”
“Those weren’t my words, Ms. Cooper.”
“I guess we can have your testimony read back, Bishop. I believe you said that oversight of such allegations wasn’t part of your duties as vicar of the archdiocese.”
A less enthusiastic smile this time. “I suppose I should say there were no records of any such misconduct, so nothing came to my attention.”
“Well, sir, were there written records of any sexual abuse allegations in this diocese during your tenure?”
“Written, Ms. Cooper? Specifically, written?” He was speaking to me but looking to the judge as though for help.
“Exactly.”
“No need for that. No need for anything in writing.”
“Why not, sir?”
Bishop Deegan tapped the side of his head with his arthritic forefinger. “Because I kept all that sort of thing up here, Ms. Cooper.”
“In your head?” I said. “Let the record reflect that the bishop is pointing to his head while speaking.”
“Precisely.”
“And neither you nor anyone else in a position of authority in the Archdiocese of New York thought it necessary to make any formal record of such complaints?”
“Why should it be necessary, Ms. Cooper? They trusted me, of course.”
I glanced at Judge Keets to see whether he was as unimpressed with that answer as Barry and I seemed to be, but his expression was glacial.
“By the way, Bishop Deegan, how many parishioners are there in this archdiocese?”
“Two and a half million, young lady.”
“And you keep it all up here, is that correct? Every complaint and allegation?”
“Objection,” Enright said. “She’s just getting argumentative with the witness.”
“Sustained.”
“Then let’s move on from these files,” I said, tapping my own forehead.
The bishop reached for the paper cup of water. I didn’t know whether the tremor in his hand was related to his health or was a reflection of his discomfort. “I’d like to do that. Where to, Ms. Cooper?”
“I’d like to discuss the secret archives of the church.”
“The what?” Judge Keets asked, over the shouted objection of Sheila Enright. “Is there such a thing, Bishop Deegan?”
The bishop didn’t answer the judge.
“There are indeed secret archives, Your Honor,” I said. “I’d like to inquire about them.”
EIGHT
“I’VE given you some scope, Alexandra, because there’s no jury here,” Keets said, pushing his readers to the top of his head as Enright, Donner, and I stood at the bench. “Would you mind telling me what these secret archives are?”
“I’d also like to know,” Enright said.
“I’m sorry if you didn’t do your homework, Sheila, but this goes to the heart of the matter. They’re church records, and I believe I’m entitled to inquire about them.”
“Do they have anything to do with this defendant?”
“Certainly.”
“She’s just fishing, Your Honor,” Enright said. “You can’t let her do that.”
Keets turned to the bishop and asked him to step down, letting the court officer lead him away as our voices raised beyond a stage whisper.
“You think what this man has said is credible?” I asked, trying to keep some semblance of respectability in the tone of my voice. “Every diocese in this country has been rocked by these scandals. The settlement numbers are over four billion dollars now, and at least six dioceses have had to file for bankruptcy. They’re closing down churches and parochial schools all over the country. Parishioners in the poorest communities are suffering, and it’s primarily because of the failure of the Mother Church to confront this issue for more than fifty—fifty—years.”
“That’s not my client’s fault.”
“I’m well aware of that, Sheila. But Deegan has been part of the problem. Philadelphia, Your Honor, and Boston, for example, are places typical for the kinds of reports that are involved. Their diocesan personnel files show that more than seven percent of the priests in their cities had been accused of abusing children in the last half century. At least seven percent. And you know what the numbers are in New York?”
Keets lowered his glasses and made notes as I talked. “Go on.”
“One point three percent. The lowest in all 195 dioceses in the country.”
“How fortunate for the children of New York,” Enright said with obvious sarcasm.
I couldn’t think of the legal term of art for the word “bullshit.” “That’s absurd and you know it. It’s totally artificial.”
“Ladies, ladies. Let’s not have a catfight,” Keets said. “What reason would you offer for that, Alexandra?”