Dark Debts

For the guy in the flannel shirt

If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

—Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn,
The Gulag Archipelago

Too few dark debts are ever paid . . .

—Gary Gilmore, untitled poem

M
ichael sat on the witness stand, feeling like a six-year-old who'd just been informed that the nurse would be back momentarily with his shot. He watched the defense attorney pace and think. Scott Bender. Court appointed, in the middle of his Andy Warhol fifteen minutes and milking them for all they were worth. Michael had developed a strong dislike for the guy somewhere around “nice to meet you,” for no concrete reason. His haughty attitude, perhaps, with no evidence of money or breeding to back it up. Michael had come from the social class to which Bender aspired, and then he'd opted for a life that meant giving it all up. Which was probably his reason for resenting Bender—the way someone on an eternal diet resents fat people walking around with ice-cream cones.

“Father Kinney”—Michael was addressed as “Father” every third question, lest the jurors lose track and begin to think of him as an insurance salesman in a Roman collar. “Father . . .” Bender repeated, for the sake of the truly dull. “Is Bishop Roger Wilbourne your immediate superior?”

“No, he's not.”

“And who is?”

“Frank Worland. The Jesuit provincial.”

“Can you explain to us how that chain of command works?”

If the jurors were having trouble remembering his occupation, Michael doubted they'd be able to follow the intricate inner workings of the Jesuit hierarchy. Nor could he understand what difference it made to the matter at hand. But he explained. Provinces. Regions. Rectors. Provincials. Father General. Rome. The delicate balance of Jesuitdom. Forever and ever, amen.

“So if you wanted to do something, say, out of the ordinary,” Bender asked, “you'd need permission from your provincial?”

“That's correct.”

“And that provincial would be Frank Worland?”

“Yes.”

Michael could see Frank glaring from his seat in the third row. Up until this insanity, he and Frank had been friends. Not particularly intimate, but close enough for the occasional dinner or game of racquetball. Those days were over, he knew. Their tense conversation from the night before was still churning in Michael's head like cerebral indigestion.

“Michael, if you go through with this, there will be consequences. And you're not going to like them.”

“I don't have a choice.”

“There's a very simple way out of this.”

“I don't consider lying simple.”

“No one is asking you to lie. All you have to do is plead confidentiality.”

“Frank, nothing that happened was told to me in confidence. Quite the contrary, as you well know.”

“But the judge needn't know it. And the defense has no way to disprove you.”

“Well, at least you're not asking me to lie.”

“All you're going to do is buy the Church another round of bad publicity. Is that your goal?”

“I don't have a goal! I was subpoenaed.”

“And so,” Bender continued, “was Frank Worland the superior from whom you needed permission to become involved with my client's . . . situation?”

“No. For that I needed permission from the bishop.”

Michael hadn't even told Frank about it, which was part of Frank's anger. But, as Michael had tried to explain, he'd gone into this mess thinking he was doing a small favor for an old friend. He would certainly have mentioned it to Frank had he known it was headed toward a triple homicide.

“And permission from the bishop was never granted, is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“So you made a decision to act without the authorization of either your provincial or the bishop, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“And why was that?”

Michael took a moment to search for a diplomatic way to put it. “I felt the situation was . . . critical.”

Bender nodded. Michael braced himself for the question he'd been dreading, which he assumed would come next. It didn't. Instead Bender returned to the defense table to check his notes.

Michael took the opportunity to scan the crowd. The courtroom was packed for the third straight day. People had been lining up in the mornings to get a good seat. The first two days had been pretty boring, but their persistence was about to pay off. Today they were going to get their money's worth.

Oh, hell.

That woman. The editor from the
New Yorker
. God had not taken him up on his offer: anything he owned, or would come to own in this lifetime, in exchange for her having some other pressing engagement today. It was bad enough to have to make a public fool of himself without her sitting fifteen feet away. What was her name? Tess something. Tess McSomething. Pretty name. To say nothing of its owner. She was wearing an emerald-green jacket, and her red hair hung loosely around her shoulders. It had been tied back every other time he'd seen her. He'd met her in the hallway the first day of the trial. She had introduced herself and asked him to do an interview for the article she was writing about the trial. He'd said he'd think about it. Yesterday she'd left two messages, which he hadn't returned. Now she caught his eye and smiled. He didn't return that, either.

Bender had reemerged from his legal pad.

“Father, we were talking earlier about this magazine that you edit. What kinds of articles would we find in this magazine?”

There was something subtly patronizing in Bender's voice. Michael wasn't entirely sure of its source, but had a feeling it was something along the lines of “I spend my life fighting for truth and justice, and you spend yours in complete devotion to a fairy tale.” There was probably a little bit of “and you're a eunuch to boot” thrown in there. Michael was used to that subtext by now, but it had never stopped bothering him.

“We publish scholarly articles,” Michael answered, trying hard not to repay the condescension. “Articles written by priests. Sociologists. Religious historians.”

“So this is a serious magazine? People take it seriously?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“You don't print articles on things like the Virgin Mary appearing on someone's garage door?”

“If we did, it would be under the category of psychosis and religious hallucinations, and it would be written by a Jesuit psychologist.”

Bender nodded and Michael took a breath. It was hard to remember that he and this jerk were sympathetic to the same cause.

“Father, would you describe yourself as a cynical person?”

“I'm a priest. I'm obviously selectively skeptical at best.”

“Do you believe in UFOs or alien abductions?”

“No.”

“Crop circles?

“No.”

“Spontaneous human combustion?”

“No,” Michael said, finally losing his patience. “And I don't believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny or weeping statues or milk shakes that cure cancer and I think that Elvis is really dead. If you're asking me if I'm gullible or easily misled, the answer is no. I am not.”

“Well, that's certainly direct and to the point,” Bender said. “You'd never make it as an attorney.”

There were snickers from the crowd and Bender's illusion of dignity was restored.

“Okay. Let's go back in time, to the day before you met Danny Ingram.”

Michael wished he could go back to that day, so he could turn and run in the opposite direction. Sitting at the defendant's table, Danny had his eyes locked on Michael. He looked exhausted, and much younger than his fifteen years.

“On that day,” Bender continued, “did Father Michael Kinney, the nongullible serious-Jesuit-magazine editor, believe in the Devil?”

A hush fell. Michael heard someone stop midcough.

“No. I did not.”

“And if we move forward from there to the day Danny was arrested . . . On that day, did you believe in the Devil?”

Michael didn't answer immediately, allowing himself one last moment of respectability. He could already see his picture on the front page of tomorrow's
New York Post
. He snuck a furtive glance at Tess McWhatever. She was taking notes.

“Father?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “On that day I did.”

Rustling. Mumbling. At least there was no laughter. No audible laughter, anyway.

“And did your encounter with my client play a part in your change of opinion?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, it was your encounter with my client that was entirely responsible for your change of opinion, isn't that correct?”

“Yes. That's correct.”

Bender smiled and nodded. This was his idea of a good time.

“Okay, Father. Let's go back to the day you met my client. I want to ask you a few questions about that day.”

Michael waited while Bender checked his notes again. He glanced over at the
New Yorker
woman. She was writing and did not look up.

W
hen the elevator door opened on the second floor of the Jesuit residence, Michael was accosted by the sound of a cocktail party coming from the lounge next to the dining room. There was always a cocktail hour before dinner, but it was usually limited to about seven regulars. From the sound of it, there had to be at least fifty people in the front room now. They spilled out into the hall.

Michael headed for his room. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it.

Halfway down the hall, Larry Lantieri came out of his room, drink in hand. Michael knew why. Larry claimed he'd taken an extra vow: never to drink cheap scotch.

“Mikey,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.

“What is that?” Michael asked, nodding toward the noise.

Larry smiled. “Frank's birthday party. Didn't you get an invitation?”

Strangers with wine glasses were making their way down the hall, examining a row of framed magazine covers. Michael looked to Larry for an explanation.

“He removed cloister until ten o'clock so everyone could admire his kingdom. But don't think you can hide in your room, unless you're dreaming of a small parish in Siberia.”

Michael ignored that and headed for his room.

“Where are you going?” Larry called behind him.

“To check my messages, change my clothes, and hang myself from the showerhead.”

He closed the door before Larry could offer a rebuttal.

He was pleasantly surprised to see only one message on the answering machine. He hit the Play button and started divesting himself of his clerical garb.

“Hi. It's Tess McLaren. Again. The reason I've been calling is that I've decided I'm not the one who should be writing this article. I've been reading some of your stuff, and . . . well, if they end up defrocking you for this, you can come to work for me anytime . . .”

The phone rang just as the message ended. Michael answered it, with some trepidation. He was greatly relieved to hear his grandfather's voice on the other end.