“I did not.”
“Did you know he stayed for a period of time at the Via Coeli in that state?”
“I don’t recall.”
I fingered a piece of paper — a copy of a letter Koslawski had written to the bishop many years ago.
“What is Via Coeli?” Keets asked. “Do you mind letting me in on this?”
“A church-run facility,” the bishop answered, responding more politely to the judge than to me.
“I see,” Keets went on. “For medical treatment, for his hepatitis?”
“No, Your Honor,” Deegan had lowered his head. “It’s a monastery.”
“A monastery of sorts, wouldn’t you say?” I asked. “Bishop Deegan, is it more accurate to describe Via Coeli as a facility to which priests accused of sexual abuse — priests whose deeds were recorded in secret archives, or in the deep recesses of your brain — were sent?”
“Yes.” The bishop gave me another quiet yes. “They were transferred there for a good reason, Ms. Cooper. For rehabilitation.”
“Are you aware, Bishop Deegan, that most professionals in the therapeutic community don’t believe that there is any kind of rehabilitation that is effective for sexual predators, most especially for child molesters?”
“Objection,” Sheila Enright said. “Your Honor, this is a hearing. It’s not a bully pulpit for Ms. Cooper’s views on sex offenders.”
“Sustained. That objection is sustained. Move on, Ms. Cooper. I’ve given you plenty of latitude.”
“Yes, sir. Well, if you didn’t correspond with Denys, Bishop Deegan, do you recall receiving any mail from him?” I said, raising my copy of the old letter.
The heavy doors creaked open again. I leaned against the railing at the jury box and looked back to see Pat McKinney, the chief of the trial division and my archnemesis in the bureaucratic structure of the office. Although he wasn’t one of my regular supporters, he made his way to the front of the room and seated himself behind me, on the bride’s side.
“No, I don’t.” Deegan’s eyes narrowed and he glanced from the first visitor, dragging his line of sight like the cursor on a computer across the aisle to McKinney.
“Your Honor, I’ve had this exhibit pre-marked as People’s eighteen. I have a copy for the defense and for you,” I said, passing them to the court officer to deliver to each party. “I’d like to offer it in evidence.”
“Any objection, Ms. Enright?”
“I need a minute to read it,” Sheila said, accepting the document and slumping in her chair, tilting her head to talk with her client.
“Psssst.” It was Pat McKinney, trying too hard to get my attention.
“Mr. McKinney,” Keets said. “Always nice to have you in my courtroom. Do you need Alexandra? She seems to be oblivious to you.”
“Just for a minute, Judge, while Ms. Enright examines the exhibit.”
I walked over to the wooden barrier that separated the well of the courtroom from the benches. My arms were folded against my waist and my lips pursed as I turned my back to the defense table. There could be no good news wrapped into McKinney’s appearance.
“I know you didn’t drop in for a lesson in the art of cross-examination, Pat,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Just making the rounds for Battaglia. You’re not beating up on the bishop, are you?”
“Hardly. But he is stubborn.”
“Ever gone after a rabbi, Alex?”
“Actually, I have. A guy I grew up with who led a congregation in Greenwich Village. He was drugging teenage girls and sleeping with them. That’s the thing about these cases, Pat. Equal opportunity crimes. My perps come in all shapes and sizes. You don’t think this is some kind of religious persecution, do you? I’m beginning to get the picture that Battaglia does.”
“Try and wind it up this morning, Alex. You may have some media wandering around here in the afternoon. The house press is looking for red meat.”
“Red meat — or me? As of this morning, no one knew I was involved in this case.”
“Guess you didn’t have time to fill me in on last night’s excitement. Don’t forget the chain of command, Alex. You still work for me.”
“Funny. I thought I served at the pleasure of the district attorney. You’re just his ass-wiping yes-man.”
McKinney glared.
“Ready, Your Honor,” Enright said. She wasn’t going to challenge the authenticity of her client’s handwriting or the letter itself. “No objection.”
“People’s eighteen, Ms. Cooper. You may proceed.”
“Channel that gentle, feminine charm that must be lurking somewhere within you, Alex,” McKinney said. “Deegan’s a very popular figure in my circles, you know.”
“I’m almost done with him. Meanwhile, keep your eye on that guy sitting behind my defendant. You think he’s a priest?”
We both turned our heads, but the man was gone.
“Like magic, Alex. You made him disappear just like magic,” McKinney said. “Just like that woman’s head.”
The letter captured all the anguish of the young priest. I passed it to Deegan through the court officer and let him read it.
“Have you ever seen this document before?”
“Not that I recall.”
I repeated the date and referred to the postmark of New Mexico on the envelope. I asked Deegan to read aloud from the exhibit.
The paper rattled ever so slightly in the old man’s hands. “‘Eight months have passed, Your Excellency, since I have been here at Via Coeli. I realize the serious duties to which you must attend, but I plead to you again for some word of encouragement about whether I might return to the diocese.’ ”
The bishop hesitated and lowered the paper.
“Please go on,” I said.
“‘I do feel so alone here, even though at peace with God. I am hoping to hear from you, as my spirit is heavy and my heart longs to serve the church again, in all the ways that I can be of good use.’ ” This time Bishop Deegan rested the page on his lap. “Must I continue?”
“That’s not necessary,” Keets said.
“Do you recall reading that letter shortly after the date it was posted?” I asked.
“I don’t open my own mail, Ms. Cooper. I never saw this letter. I can’t account for every piece of paper sent to me,” Deegan said, coming to a slow boil. “Father Koslawski was a fine young man. That’s what I know.”
“And your opinion wouldn’t change, sir, if you believed he had molested seven teenage boys in the rectory?”
“That never—”
“Would your opinion change if such a fact were true?”
“Of course not. I’m a man of my word,” Deegan said, almost shouting now. “Judge Keets, if I may, the district attorney himself promised me I’d be on and off the stand in fifteen minutes.”
“You have spoken with Paul Battaglia about this matter?” Keets asked, faster than I could form the words myself.
I stared at the large gold cross on Deegan’s chest.
“By chance, Your Honor. I ran into him quite by chance.”
“I have no further questions,” I said, sitting and pushing Barry Donner away as he leaned in to talk to me.
“Then we thank you for your testimony,” Keets said, standing to excuse the bishop as he stepped out of the witness box and signaling to Enright at the same time to hold her comments.
The court officer led Deegan out of the room as Sheila Enright got to her feet.
“Judge, I want to know what kind of contact the district attorney had with my witness. What have we got here — tampering?”
“Deegan wasn’t even on the witness list you turned over at the start of the case, Ms. Enright,” I said, hoping my shock showed slightly less than hers. “I wouldn’t get too carried away with accusations yet. Ask the bishop which one of them initiated the encounter.”
“I intend to.”