The Judgment (4 page)

“Did you feel that way about Father Chuck?”

“At first. I knew him because he’s very active in youth groups throughout the county. That alone was almost strike three. Anyway, the Evans kid, his name is Sam, said he attended a youth meeting at Our Lady of Sorrows in Hub City. The kid isn’t Catholic, but at age nineteen in that part of the county there aren’t many places a boy or girl can go to socialize with other kids. Anyway, he claimed that after the social, Father Chuck lured him into the rectory and groped him. His actual words were that the priest had grabbed his thing.

“Sam Evans is, I found out later, borderline retarded, and looks it. Tall, gawky, and strange, sort of staring all the time. His story didn’t sound right. He could never get beyond the groping, and he couldn’t describe how he got lured into the rectory by the priest.

“Then I checked and this wasn’t the first complaint the kid had made. He said a store owner in Hub City had grabbed his thing, too. The store owner had witnesses for the time the kid claimed it happened. Nobody touched him.

“Sam Evans was a Boy Scout for about a month. He said the scout leader got him off in a room and grabbed his thing. Later he admitted he lied. He was jealous that the scout leader was showing more attention to the other boys. Obviously, that case also was closed.”

Sue ordered another glass of wine, unusual for her. “I talked to the Evans kid about Father Chuck. Nicely, understand. He still couldn’t come up with any answers to key questions. Finally, he admitted he lied again. By the time he finished, he was trying to save himself by claiming the priest had made an indecent proposal. His parents were in my office and heard everything. They are as strange as their son. It turned out Sam is being treated for a severe personality disorder. They knew he was lying. I’m surprised they’re even talking about a lawsuit.”

“If I talk to them, can I use what you’ve told me?”

“Sure. Sam’s not a juvenile, except in intellect, so it’s not protected.”

“You sound like you like this Father Chuck.”

She grinned. “Jealous? Father Chuck is a great guy. It’s like he was born to be charming. If he wasn’t a priest, and if I weren’t entangled with a crooked lawyer, I could find myself strongly attracted.”

“Young guy?”

“Are you sure he’s your client?”

“I haven’t talked to him yet. I know nothing about him.”

“I remember his age exactly. It’s part of the interrogation form we fill out. Father Chuck is fifty-eight but he looks fifteen years younger. He’s about six feet. I would guess about two hundred pounds, sort of a rugged, outdoors type.”

“So you were mad for his chaste body?”

She shook her head. “Not the body. But I wouldn’t trust me around that smile of his. The man is all teeth. When he smiles it’s like seeing the lights on Broadway.”

“So I have a rival, do I?”

“If that will keep you on your toes, think what you will. By the way, I checked him out, just to be sure I wasn’t dazzled by the smile. I interviewed some of the townspeople and parishioners. No one had a bad word to say about him.”

“Do I hear a slight note of discord in your tone? A reservation perhaps about this paragon of virtue?”

“Part of the standard interrogation is to ask if a suspect has ever had psychiatric treatment.”

“Did he?”

“He said he has been hospitalized twice, both times for depression, but nothing in the past ten years.” She laughed. “He says he is now your standard garden-variety neurotic, nothing more. He makes a joke of it.”

“He doesn’t sound too outdoorsy to me.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

“Did you find out anything else about him?”

“Not a whole lot, really. His parishioners apparently think very highly of him. He’s a decent guy who obviously cares about people. But I’m told that sometimes he’s somewhat at odds with the Church authorities.”

“A liberal?”

“Actually, the opposite. He’d prefer to say Mass in Latin—the old way, as he calls it. Vatican II didn’t please him much, I guess. He says he misses the pomp and circumstance and the rituals of the Latin Mass. It sounded to me like he was much more of a conservative, really, rather than a liberal.”

“But you liked him?”

“Absolutely. You will, too. You know how it is when you meet some people for the first time? He’s just hard not to like.”

We had finished the meal. My side of the table was a
disaster of spilled tomato sauce. I was anxious to escape the scene of this particular crime.

“I have a splendid idea,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“We return to my place. We can play bad priest and naughty nun.”

“Which one will I be?”

“Sue, you really ought to think of getting another job. You’re beginning to sound a lot like your customers.”

The arrest and arraignment of Deputy Chief Mark Conroy turned out to be a cross between a Roman circus and a military rally. We walked from police headquarters to the court between files of silent uniformed policemen who stood at attention, each face a mask of grim outrage. In South America it would have marked the beginning of a coup. But here in Detroit, nothing followed the silent demonstration of support for Conroy.

The circus began at the press conference following the quick arraignment in court.

There were enough television lights to illuminate a night baseball game. The reporters had come out in platoons. Whether because of the early-morning hour or not, they seemed especially-unpleasant.

I wouldn’t allow Conroy to respond to any of the questions, most of which were insulting. He stood there, at the position of parade rest, his stern expression fixed as if sculpted.

Most of the questions didn’t merit an answer. They were shouted in unison, so I could pick and choose those I wanted to respond to. Then I made a quick statement that the chief was innocent, just a good cop doing his duty, nothing more, nothing less, and that all this would be shown at trial.

Then it was over. It was like the relief after getting a tooth pulled. I took a few minutes to instruct Conroy on how he should conduct himself, then I left the court building,
got my car, and headed back to Pickeral Point and peace.

What did Patrick Henry say, ‘Gentlemen may cry peace, peace, but there is no peace’? He was right.

When I got back to my office, Mrs. Fenton gave me a fistful of messages from various members of the Kalt family. Each begged me to come to the Anderson Funeral Home and as quickly as possible.

I remembered the Kalts. I had done the old man’s will, and his six grown children had attended the signing as though it were a major treaty between nations. I had arranged the old man’s estate—he was then well over eighty—so that probate could be avoided. He didn’t have much, so it had been no challenge. Everyone had been very nice and the old man seemed genuinely glad to be the center of attention.

“Did old man Kalt die?” I asked Mrs. Fenton.

“Yesterday,” she said. She knew almost everyone in Pickeral Point. “Heart attack. I sent the usual flowers. He’s laid out at Anderson’s.” I always sent flowers when clients died.

I drove to Anderson’s, the only funeral parlor in town. Lawyers become accustomed to funeral parlors. Often, they can be great sources of business.

I parked and walked in. The late Jeremiah Kalt, according to the board, was laid out in one of the prominent front rooms. In the viewing room Kalt was in a burnished coffin, surrounded by a lot of floral displays. He looked content.

There was no one there except his children. The rows of chairs were empty. His children, with assorted spouses, were standing in three separate clusters, looking like warring islands.

They came at me like sharks going for chum. I was suddenly in the middle of outraged middle-aged faces, and
mouths that were snarling in anger. Everyone was talking at once.

I held up a hand. “One at a time,” I said. “What seems to be the problem?”

“You made him executor of the will,” one of the daughters snapped. “And that’s the problem. He’s hogging everything for himself.” She pointed at her brother Amos Kalt, who glared back at her.

“I merely kept the picture for myself,” he said, his voice dignified but angry. “Everything else was divided without objection. I wanted the picture. I’m the oldest, and I’m entitled.”

“You’re a pig, Amos,” another daughter barked.

“Whoa,” I said. “Amos was made executor. As I recall, you all agreed. More important, your late father agreed. The will provides that the executor has absolute say in what happens to the personal property.” I didn’t remember the will, but all the wills I draw usually have that provision. It sounded to them as if I remembered every word. I could see some were definitely impressed.

“What about this picture? What are we talking about?”

“It’s in my father’s living room,” Amos said. “It was his favorite. It’s just a scene with water and boats. My father said it reminded him of his native village back in the old country.”

“My father said I could have the picture,” one of the daughters said, her voice shaking with hostility.

“Me,” another protested. “He promised it to me.”

Others chimed in. Apparently the old man had promised the picture to every one of them.

“What is it, this picture, an oil painting?” I asked.

For a moment there was silence, then Amos spoke. “No, it’s a photograph. Big, though, like a painting.”

I looked at each of them. “And that’s what this is all about, the picture, nothing else?”

“I was promised,” one daughter whined.

“I’m the oldest. I’m entitled to something,” Amos whined. The others grumbled about their rights.

“Look, this is nonsense. You are a happy family and you’re fighting over something symbolic. I’m sure your father would be mortified if he knew what was happening.”

They didn’t look any less hostile, or any more reasonable.

“If it’s a photograph,” I said, “why don’t you just take it to a place and have five identical copies made? There’s a place in Port Huron that does that. That way each of you has the picture.”

“What about the frame?” the daughter said.

“Get five frames that are close to the original.”

For a minute everything was silent again.

“I suppose that would be all right,” one of the sons said grudgingly. “That would be okay with me.”

They all turned and looked at the daughter who had protested the most. “I should have the original,” she insisted stubbornly.

Amos shrugged. “If it’s all right with the others, it’s all right with me.”

Several nodded.

“Is it agreed then?” I asked.

“I suppose so,” Amos said.

“Anybody object?” I asked.

They looked at each other, but no one spoke.

“Anything else I can help you with?” I asked.

“I guess not,” Amos said. “Thanks for coming over.”

The others, still grim faced, nodded and turned toward the guest of honor. I wondered if the Kalts would ever be one happy family again.

I started to leave. Amos followed me out to my car.

“I guess you must think we’re all pretty silly,” he said.

“Families are very touchy at times like this,” I said.

“What do we owe you?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. I was glad to help out.”

He took out his wallet and held it so I couldn’t see what was in it, then he extracted a bill and shoved it into my pocket.

“Thanks,” he said, then returned to the funeral home.

I started the car, then fished out the money.

Five bucks.

Apparently, the wisdom of Solomon was going pretty cheap lately. Well, I reasoned philosophically, it was five dollars more than I had when I got up that morning.

I made an appointment to see Father Chuck. On the phone he had sounded friendly, almost too friendly, like a salesman who wants to sell you some aluminum siding. But maybe I was biased because Sue seemed to like him so much.

I drove out to Hub City. Like a number of rural Michigan cities, it was a place that time and progress had passed by. Once the center of a thriving farming and manufacturing center, the small town had seen prosperous times. Then the manufacturing left for various reasons, leaving small deserted factories behind as monuments, like grave markers. The town itself looked neglected. Storefronts, those that were still open, needed painting. It wasn’t much of a place, but the supermarket was open, as was a large gas station. There was a drugstore and several other businesses still operating. Most of the retail stores were closed and boarded up. Those that could had moved to a large mall south of the town.

The redbrick Catholic church was the centerpiece of Hub City, built at the turn of the century by the rich German families who had come to the place and prospered. It was big, large enough to seat hundreds. Next door, built at the same time, was a three-story brick rectory. There had been a school, but it had been razed, leaving acres of open land behind the church and rectory.

There was a Lutheran church at the other end of town, but it was not nearly as grand as its rival. I parked in the church lot, which needed an infusion of gravel. There were many bare spots. The woodwork on the church and rectory badly needed paint. I walked up the steps to the front
door of the rectory and rang the bell, listening to it ring inside.

As I waited, I noticed the wind had picked up and it was becoming quite chilly. Low clouds scuttled across the sky. It had the look and feel of snow. I hoped it would hold off until I got back to Pickeral Point. At last the large wooden door opened and I was face-to-face with Ernest Hemingway, or at least his twin brother, or so it seemed.

“Father Albertus?”

The smile Sue had warned me about lit up his bearded face.

“Father Chuck,” he corrected me. “Mr. Sloan, I presume? Please come in.”

He was as Sue had described him. “Six feet or nearly, thick through the chest and shoulders, with large hands, one of which he extended to me. He had a strong and reassuring grip.

“Let’s pick a place where we can be comfortable.” I followed him as he walked through the old rectory. It brought back memories of my youth. The place had a permanent aroma of old wax, and the woodwork inside gleamed from a century of care. The furniture was all dark leather and heavy wood. The rooms we passed had the look of little cells, places where parishioners could come and unburden themselves of whatever troubles they had without distraction.