I called James.
“I have a connection to Kyle Richardson,” I said. “He’s expecting your call.”
“The Kyle Richardson? Brigid, I can’t afford that guy. His clients are all rich and famous.”
“Don’t worry about his fees. Richardson wants to defend you. Let’s see if you like him.”
The next day, James and I had a preliminary meeting at Richardson, Sykes and Briscoe’s skyscraper office on Park Plaza, near Boston Common. Fifteen minutes into it, Richardson leaned across the table toward James and said, “If you want me, I’m taking this case. I believe in you.”
I was moved when Richardson showed that he too believed in James. It felt like the UN choppers coming in. Like might had joined right. As we drove back to St. Paul’s, James queried me about the bills from this expensive firm. He said that he didn’t want to have “obligations to unknown benefactors.”
When he wouldn’t let it go, I said, “Can you just accept that God works in mysterious ways?”
“Fine,” he said. “Who are you, Brigid? Who are you, really?”
“You’re funny,” I said.
We both laughed.
And, finally, he dropped the subject.
But we both knew that he needed first-class help to save his reputation. He was an honest man, a good priest, and he had to clear his name.
Over the next three weeks, James met often with his lawyers, and then, as the date for the trial closed in, Cardinal Cooney of the Boston Archdiocese called Richardson, asking for a meeting with James at his lawyer’s office.
James asked me to be there with him.
The next day, six of us waited in Richardson’s conference room, wondering why Cardinal Cooney had called this meeting.
James said, “I’m encouraged. I think he’s going to tell me that the Church is going to fight this charge all the way. That I’m not being left to deal with this angry lunatic alone.”
A half hour later, Cardinal Cooney, accompanied by three attorneys from the Boston Archdiocese, were shown into the conference room and took seats opposite me, James, and Kyle Richardson’s team.
I have to admit that I was awed.
The cardinal was a strikingly good-looking man, silver haired, with refined features, and he simply radiated purity. He was well known in the very Catholic city of Boston for his active community outreach program on behalf of children molested by priests.
The meeting began, and James told the cardinal and his lawyers about his entirely innocent history with the accuser, Wallace Brent, who was now twenty-five years old and a bank teller.
The lead attorney for the archdiocese, Clay Hammond, spoke for his contingent.
“Father Aubrey. Even if there is no truth to this charge, the right thing to do is to put the Church’s needs above yours. We’re asking you to settle this dispute out of court. We will work with your attorney in writing a binding agreement with the plaintiff, offering him a cash settlement in exchange for his recantation of the charge. He will guarantee that he will never discuss the settlement or the charges again. This scandal will be snuffed out, and you can get on with your life.”
“I’ll be laicized,” James said. “Defrocked.”
“That hasn’t been determined yet,” Cooney said to James.
James said, “I never touched that boy. I’m not going to say that I did.”
Cooney said, kindly, “James, I understand righteous indignation. And I understand honesty. But a sacrifice for the greater good is in order.”
The cardinal went on to make an impressive speech about self-sacrifice, quoting Gandhi, St. Francis of Assisi, and John F. Kennedy. He closed by quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson, who had written, Self-sacrifice is the real miracle out of which all the reported miracles grow.
When the cardinal had finished speaking, James’s attorney said, “You realize, of course, if my client were to admit guilt, it would be an injustice and an indelible stain on this good man’s reputation. His accuser would not only profit; it would encourage him and others like him to bring false claims against the Church.”
Cardinal Cooney said, “James, do you have any money?”
“Very little.”
The cardinal said, “If you let this go to court, we won’t back you. If you lose-and the odds are heavily against you-you will have to pay the damages, and if he comes after us, we will defend ourselves. You will lose your church and our friendship. We won’t say a word in your defense.”
My mounting fury was firing me up. I really couldn’t listen quietly anymore.
“Your Eminence, Father Aubrey is innocent,” I said. “God would want him to tell the truth.”
The cardinal said to me, “Dr. Fitzgerald, what is your relationship with Father Aubrey, anyway? How do you know that he’s innocent? Explain that to me, can you?”
I’d had enough.
I said, “I can’t explain it, but I know it, and so do you, Your Eminence. In your zeal to defend the archdiocese, you’ve betrayed the Church and your conscience.”
The cardinal’s face went white. As if I had slapped him.
When James and I were alone in the elevator, he said to me, “Good of you to stand up for me, Brigid. Thank you for doing this.”
Chapter 75
IT WAS the third day of Father James Aubrey’s trial for child sexual abuse. I’d been sitting in the front row of the packed gallery from the first moment of the trial and had been in constant agony over what James had had to endure.
I had a clear view of the defense table, where James and his three attorneys scribbled notes. A few rows back from me, two of Cardinal Cooney’s legal henchmen watched the proceedings with apparent disdain.
Up ahead, sitting at the bench between two flags, was Judge Charles Fiore. He was in his fifties, a Boston native, and a Catholic. So far, he had shown no emotion and had maintained order in his court.
On day one, I had listened in openmouthed disbelief as Wallace Brent, a young man with a cherubic face and a crisp, gray suit, told his horrible lies. He testified that when he was a sophomore at Mount St. Joseph high school, Father Aubrey had taken him for long walks in the woods behind the school, where he had fondled and kissed him and told him that he loved him.
He said, “Father Aubrey told me that he would deny it if I ever said anything to anyone. And now, that’s what he’s doing.”
Brent concluded by saying, “I trusted Father Aubrey. I knew what he was doing to me was wrong, but I felt helpless to stop him. My grades crashed, and I flunked out of school. I can’t live with the shame of it anymore. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about what Father Aubrey did to me.”
Brent swung his gaze to the defense table and leveled his charge at James. “Father Aubrey. You ruined me.”
Murmurs swept the courtroom, interrupted by Judge Fiore asking Kyle Richardson if he wished to question the witness.
Richardson stood, gave Brent a cutting stare, and then did his best to discredit him.
Do you always tell the truth, Mr. Brent?
Did Father Aubrey write any notes to you?
Did anyone ever see the two of you together?
Did you ever tell anyone about this alleged sexual attention, either at the time or later?
No mention to a friend, a parent, another student, a nurse?
Is there anyone at all who can verify your unsupported accusations against my client?
Richardson was so good, most liars would have folded under his skillful cross. But there was only so much Richardson could do. It was James’s word against Brent’s. And Brent didn’t have to prove what happened. He just needed to convince the jury that he was telling the truth.
If he did that, he stood to cash in, Father Aubrey be damned.