The 7th Canon (10 page)

A raindrop brushed Donley’s cheek as he stepped from the revolving glass doors onto the concrete steps outside the Hall of Justice building, and he realized he’d left his umbrella in Gil Ramsey’s office. He wasn’t about to go back for it after leaving like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. He’d have Ruth-Bell call.

He also didn’t bother to look for a cab. He started the walk back to his office, eager to get away from Gil Ramsey and Linda St. Claire, and equally eager to get away from Father Thomas Martin.

A pedophile priest.

What had he gotten himself into?

He’d let his ego get the better of him. The archbishop had let him off the hook. He’d hired Larry Carr. Donley could have simply said he understood the decision not to go with a twenty-eight-year-old, third-year lawyer. If he had, he’d be spending tomorrow with Kim and Benny, preparing for their annual Christmas Eve party. After the new year, he’d be in a downtown office with a view attorneys killed for, making enough money to move Kim and Benny to the peninsula. Instead, he would be up half the night preparing for an arraignment sure to be front-page news. Hell, he had only a vague idea from television shows what happened at an arraignment.

He trudged on, periodically looking to hail a cab, but it was a fleeting thought. Late in the afternoon before a holiday weekend, cab drivers would not want to get entangled in the surface-street mess south of Market. They’d be looking for larger fares to and from the airport. The rain started as a light mist, progressed to intermittent drops by the third block, became showers at block six, and culminated in a downpour the final block to the office. Knowing it would be a futile act, Donley didn’t bother to cover his head or dash for shelter. He didn’t wipe the water dripping into his eyes or try to avoid the puddles overwhelming the sewer system and flooding the intersections. He just kept walking.

Morton Salt,
he thought.
When it rains, it pours.

By the time he reached his office building, Donley looked and felt like he had stepped into a shower fully dressed, hair matted to his head, the collar of his suit jacket and shirt wringing wet. His Cole Haan leather shoes squished on the terrazzo tile as he made his way up the stairs. If they weren’t ruined, they were close to it. The office door was locked. Ruth-Bell had left for the hospital. Donley unlocked the deadbolt and stepped inside. Entering his office, he removed his coat, tie, and shirt and left them in a pile. He struggled to pull his wet T-shirt over his head, threw it onto the pile, and leaned against the desk, slipping off his shoes and suit pants. He retrieved his gym bag from beneath his desk, about to slip on sweatpants when a noise at the door surprised him. Ruth-Bell stood in his office doorway in her raincoat and scarf, holding a brown paper bag.

“Your hair is soaking wet,” she said, ever the master of the obvious.

“Can you give me a minute?”

She walked in anyway. “You’ve got nothing I want to see and haven’t seen before. Give me those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death of a cold. That’s just what I need—both you and your uncle in the hospital.”

She had obviously recovered her fire, if not yet the brimstone.

Donley pulled on his sweatpants and wrapped a towel around his shoulders like a prizefighter. “If I’m lucky, I’ll get the flu and not some twenty-four-hour bug. I need something that would last about a week. Hong Kong, King Kong, whatever they call it. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you’d gone to the hospital.”

She gathered his clothes as he struggled to pull a sweatshirt over his head. “This office doesn’t run on its own, you know.” She gestured to his desk, which was cluttered with open legal books and newspapers. “I pulled every article I could find from the library. I think I’m on information overload.”

“What are you talking about? What articles?”

“Articles on Father Martin and the shelter; they’re on your desk.”

Donley picked up a small stack of articles and thumbed the pages.

“They’re arranged in chronological order, most recent first,” she said. “Oh, and the arraignment is tomorrow morning. We received fax notice this afternoon.”

“I know.”

“They’re holding it in the ceremonial courtroom, Department Thirteen. Apparently, His Highness, Gil Ramsey, is expecting a large crowd and wants to play to the cameras, the pretentious shit.”

She found hangers behind Donley’s door and started to untangle his wet clothes. “They’re not doing you any favors. Milton Trimble and Lou sparred more than once during their careers. Keep your mouth shut, your temper under control, and speak only when spoken to. His courtroom is a tight ship.”

“How’s Lou?”

“Not much change, according to his doctors.” She hung his clothes from the window frame. A drop of water hissed when it hit the radiator, and the radiator emitted a small puff of steam. “If anyone at the hospital asks, Lou has a younger sister. That was the only way I could get in to see him. But I couldn’t stay. It made me jumpy seeing him lying there like that. Where did you go after your meeting with the archbishop? That should have been over hours ago.”

Donley sat and rested his elbows on his knees. “I had a pleasant chat with Mr. Ramsey himself.”

“Lucky you.”

“For laughs, he brought Linda St. Claire along.”

“Who?”

“You know, the blonde who’s always on the television commenting on those high-profile criminal cases.”

“Another pretentious shit.”

“Yeah, well, she’s been anointed to crucify Father Martin.”

“What did they want?”

Donley sat up. “According to the archbishop, they wanted to discuss the evidence against Father Martin. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was something Ramsey said; I think they’re looking for Father Martin to confess in exchange for a plea of life.”

“A plea?” Ruth-Bell said. “Where did you get that idea? The DA doesn’t plea murderers. I even know that.”

“Where were you an hour ago when I was making a fool of myself?” He shook his head. “It sure seemed like Ramsey was hinting at it, though.” He focused on a spot on the hardwood floor. “Why would he do that, Ruth-Bell?”

It was a question Donley had pondered the entire miserable walk back to his office. It was a question he wished he’d asked Gil Ramsey. It didn’t make any sense.

He continued. “If the case is as strong as they say, they could get a conviction and worry about the penalty phase after they’d soaked up the media attention. The trial will be high profile, which Ramsey should want with the upcoming election.”

“It could have something to do with these.” She picked up the articles from the desk and tossed them in his lap. “A year ago everyone was falling all over themselves to get on the Father Martin bandwagon, including Mr. Tough on Crime.”

Donley read through the first couple of headlines and opening sentences. He wasn’t convinced. “These people thrive on these types of high-profile crimes, and according to the archbishop, Ramsey is as slick as oil. I’m sure he could talk himself out of any perceived alliance with Father Martin’s shelter.”

“Then trust your instincts. That man doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. He’s just like his father.”

“The archbishop said something similar.” Donley dried his hair with the towel. “Whatever their motivation, they’ve managed to ruin my night. I’ll be preparing for an arraignment. I barely know what an arraignment is. I can’t believe I talked the archbishop into thinking I’m competent to handle this case.”

“Quit complaining.” She’d found the brimstone. Ruth-Bell was a pistol, but he also knew she could have been home, or holiday shopping, or otherwise taking advantage of the situation. Instead, she was at the office, working as hard as if not harder than Donley. “You’re in a hell of a lot better position than your uncle. Besides, I already pulled all the legal treatises. It doesn’t appear too difficult.”

Donley smiled. “Do you want to handle the arraignment?”

“I’ll need a substantial increase in pay, if I do.” She took his towel and rolled it into a tube, placing it on the window frame to catch the water dripping from his suit. “Just keep your mouth shut as far as I can tell, and ask for a continuance. Nothing happens at arraignments; they read the charges and you say, ‘We are not prepared to enter a plea at this time.’ Then you waive your right to a speedy trial to get as much time as possible to figure things out. What you don’t know, you fake.”

“In this instance, that will be a lot.”

Either his wish was coming true and Donley was coming down with the flu, or the stress was making his joints ache. The onset of a headache pulsed at his temples. Before he could say a word, Ruth-Bell walked out of his office and returned with a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. She shook out two capsules and handed them to him, then moved the brown bag across the desk.

“I bought you a sandwich and some chips. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten. Drink water. Coke will just make you edgy, and for God’s sake, stay far away from the coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“You can thank me with a Jackson. We’re low on petty cash, and I couldn’t get to the bank.”

Donley washed down the Advil and drained the glass, setting it on the desk. “They say he tortured that boy, Ruth-Bell. They say the priest is a pedophile.”

She crossed her arms. “Maybe he is,” she said. “Maybe he isn’t. That’s not your concern.”

“How can it not be my concern?”

She put on her raincoat, speaking as she wrapped the scarf around her hair and retrieved her umbrella. “Quite a few years ago, when I was still thin and Lou was about your age, we got a call from the public defender’s office to represent a twenty-year-old kid who had murdered four people, including two young boys. It made all the newspapers, just like this. The kid was guilty, but just the same, Lou fought like hell to save his life. I didn’t understand it. I’d find him here at his desk every night working late, preparing motions and cross-examinations, whatever it took. I hated to see him working so hard for a lost cause. ‘Why are you killing yourself for this kid?’ I asked one night.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘It’s my job, Ruth-Bell. It’s my job to defend my client to the best of my ability, regardless of his guilt or innocence. If I don’t do my job, then the system doesn’t work, and if the system doesn’t work, we all suffer for it.’”

“The seventh canon.”

“Come again?”

“‘A lawyer should represent a client zealously within the bounds of the law,’” Donley said, recalling what he could from the American Bar Association code.

“Something like that,” she said. “Some years later, with all his appeals exhausted, they put that man to death. I’ve never told anyone this, but I cried that day. Not for him. For Lou. I knew how hard he fought to save that man’s life.” She nodded to Donley. “You two are a lot alike. But he can’t do it anymore. We both know that. It’s your time now.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. I just hope two years from now, you’re not crying again because they put Father Thomas Martin to death.”

Chapter 9

In need of a break, Donley stood and massaged the kink he’d developed in his neck from being bent over the stack of legal treatise. He picked up the late edition of the
Examiner
. The afternoon articles included a photograph of Father Martin in his black shirt and clerical collar, smiling at the grand opening of the Tenderloin boys’ shelter. But for the shaved head and earring, the picture looked nothing like the man Donley had met in jail. The article repeated much of the information in the earlier editions, but a sidebar quoted members of the community using words like
tragedy
and
unbelievable
in response to the allegations. In fact, the overall tenor of the article was disbelief.

Donley wasn’t so disbelieving. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d discovered something about someone that he had never suspected. He drank. She gambled. He had an affair. He molested a patient. He beat his wife. But of course, that was the point. People got away with those things because they didn’t fit the stereotypes. Donley knew better. Everyone had a dark side. Everyone had skeletons in their closet, what the psychiatrist who treated him after his father’s death called hidden dragons. In hindsight, there were always signs; everyone just missed them, or chose to ignore them.

To others, his father had been just a hardworking mechanic, a blue-collar guy who liked to drink Jack Daniel’s at the Wishing Well in the Sunset District after work. He had even owned his own gas station for a few years. Jack Donley held down a job, and his son, Peter, was considered a well-adjusted kid who did OK in school and excelled on the football field. No one suspected Jack Donley beat his wife and son. There were signs, for sure—bruises and missing teeth—but nobody wanted to see them. If they did, they’d have to act. So they ignored them. And the beatings continued. Nobody wanted to get involved in other people’s business, especially their business behind closed doors.

Donley sat back. So, what were the signs Father Thomas Martin was a pedophile and a killer? For some, the fact that he was a priest was sufficient. As the archbishop had said, the press printed every indiscretion in the newspaper and broadcast it on television. People loved to bash the Roman Catholic Church as an archaic system that fostered homosexuality and pedophiles by forbidding grown men from satisfying their most primal biological urge.

Donley had his own beefs with religion, but intellectually, he knew every priest was no more a child molester than every lawyer was an unethical, ambulance-chasing scumbag. Archbishop Parnisi was right: You couldn’t condemn an entire institution because of the acts of indiscretion by a few. But the indiscretions made good news stories. Murder made front-page headlines.

He sat and adjusted his desk lamp, flipping through the series of articles Ruth-Bell had copied. The process of opening the shelter had been long and arduous for Father Martin. The politicians and police started out firmly opposed to the idea of using abandoned buildings to shelter teenage runaways and prostitutes—or the homeless, for that matter, which were becoming a major problem. In an election year, none of the candidates for mayor or city supervisor wanted to take a position on such a controversial subject. But Father Martin had been dogged in his efforts to open his shelter. He ignored his critics and lobbied the city’s politically powerful special-interest groups, including San Francisco’s large and active gay community, which was tired of being wrongly associated with the street prostitutes. The issue gave them a forum to educate the public about the clientele filtering into the Gulch and parking in the dark alleys, the seemingly heterosexual men from every walk of life preying on young boys. The sex trade was a lot like the drug trade; everyone wanted to raze the low-income housing where the drugs were sold but ignored the BMWs and Mercedes driving down the streets with $100 bills hanging out the windows.