I MUST have hesitated at the entrance to the rectory.
“It’s safe, Brigid,” he said, opening the door for me. “I’m a pedophile, remember?”
He turned on the lights, scooped some magazines off the sofa, and put some food in a bowl for an orange tabby kitten he called Birdie.
He excused himself, leaving me alone in his living quarters. I liked the look of his clutter. I checked out his bookshelves and found books on a wide range of subjects ranging from ancient history to modern poetry. I was studying a primitive painting of Jesus carrying a lamb over his shoulders when James returned to the living room with an armload of books.
“Please have a seat,” he said.
I sat down on the worn, blue sofa, and he sat next to me. He took a photo album off the top of the stack and put the rest of the books on the floor.
The cover page inside the photo album was inscribed with the name Jennifer, and inside were photos of a very young woman in a hospital bed holding her baby, grinning her face off, her dark hair forming long, damp ringlets.
She had just given birth.
“This is my sister, Cassandra. And this,” he said, touching the picture of the baby, “this is Jenny. My niece and goddaughter.
“The point is,” he said, “the worst thing about this phony scandal is that I don’t want Sandy and especially Jenny to think that I’m the kind of person who would rape, touch, or mess with anyone, boy, girl, or anyone.”
He showed me more family pictures, and then he picked up a Mount St. Joseph yearbook. He held the book in his lap and flipped to the pages that were signed by students who had penned notes to him when he taught there.
Dear Fr. Aubrey, I’m headed to Northwestern! Thanks for all your help. I’ll always be grateful.
Yo, Father A. Thx for what I know about WWII and JC.
James opened a yearbook from two years earlier and found a picture of a boy with brown hair and a crooked nose. He said to me, “This is Wallace Brent, my accuser and a pretty convincing liar.”
The page was signed, Father Aubrey, Thanks for all your help. Anyway. Best of luck, Wally.
James said, “Wally flunked out the next year.” He clapped the book shut and paused to catch his breath.
“I did my best to help him, and now he’s determined to destroy my life.”
Chapter 74
I CALLED Karl’s attorney at midnight my time, and he called me back in the morning with good news. He had contacted Kyle Richardson, one of the top criminal-defense attorneys in Boston.
Herr Schmidt said, “Brigid, he’s interested in James’s case. Are you quite sure you want to get involved? This type of case is media candy. The fallout could be messy.”
I thanked Herr Schmidt for his help and concern. And I took his advice seriously. But I was having a gut instinct that I couldn’t explain. I had just met Father Aubrey, but I had faith in him. I found him truthful and authentic, and he needed a friend. In the strongest possible way, I felt that I was that friend.
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.”