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Zachary Blake spent the rest of the week in his office, researching the law and preparing his trial brief. He constructed proposed jury instructions and voir dire (questions asked of proposed jurors to determine whether they were suitable to serve on the jury). He went over the proposed testimony with the Tracey family and Dr. Rothenberg. The boys still found it difficult to talk about their ordeal, but Rothenberg had done a marvelous job. In sample video testimony, the boys were articulate, direct, and sympathetic. Jennifer was compelling, describing shock and pain upon discovering the repulsive betrayal of faith and the severe emotional and physical harm done to her children.
Rothenberg was strong and professional. He was, with Zack’s expert testimonial coaching support, able to describe the family’s trauma understandably and humanly, without resorting to complicated medical terminology. Zack gave each of them copies of their depositions and instructed them to review the transcript so their testimony would be consistent with the depos.
Zack spent hours on the phone with Walsh, faxing proposed jury instructions, back and forth, in an effort to focus the areas of disagreement. The trial judge would appreciate the effort but would expect no less. The more trial lawyers agreed upon, the easier the judge’s job. Zack did not want to try his case before a pissed-off judge.
Trial would begin the following day. Zack and Jennifer had just finished eating takeout dinner. He was working on the most crucial phase of the trial, his opening statement. Zack believed trials could be won and lost on opening remarks. Jennifer was scrolling through her phone.
Zack had difficulty with the opening. An opening statement is a promise of proof. The attorney informs the jury what the evidence will show. Make promises during the opening; keep those promises during the trial. He wanted to be able to prove everything he promised.
He could prove Bartholomew molested the boys and sought to cover up his acts. He could prove Bartholomew molested other children and covered up those acts as well. He could prove the abuse had a devastating and traumatic impact on the boys’ lives and the life of their mother.
Zack could not directly prove, however, the church’s knowledge of the predator priest’s vile propensities prior to the boys’ molestation. He had evidence to suggest knowledge and cover-up, but no smoking gun. The church would argue Bartholomew duped them, the same way he duped victims’ families. Officials would claim as soon as Bartholomew’s behavior was brought to their attention, they suspended him and offered treatment to his victims, performed brilliantly by the church’s own doctor, Dr. Rothenberg.
It was a compelling argument. After all, who’d care to believe the church would sanction and cover up such abhorrent behavior? What direct proof did Zachary have to support his contentions? If he couldn’t prove them, should he offer to do so in his opening? Hence, his dilemma, but what real choice did Zach have? He had to provide proof of the church’s direct involvement. There would be no chance of a verdict against the church unless he made the offer of proof and figured out a way to prove it.
Concern about substance morphed into concern about style. Blake bought a full-length mirror and attached it to the back of his office door. He hadn’t tried a jury case in years, and even when he was trying them successfully, he was never the great orator. The only way to overcome that problem was to rehearse, so he stood in front of the mirror, notes in his hand, uncomfortable with how he looked in his own eyes.
“This is the first of two opportunities I will have to address you directly, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. Is it too obvious a way to open? Don’t the jurors already know that? “This presentation is called the opening statement.”
He saw Jennifer in the reflection. She’d stopped looking at her phone and was watching him. Their eyes met, and then she looked away, seeking something else to occupy herself. She settled on the remnants of dinner.
“It’s my opportunity as the plaintiff’s lawyer to tell you what I intend to prove,” Zack continued. No, he thought, that’s using opportunity too much. “Its purpose is for the lawyers to tell you what they intend to prove.” That’s better. “This is very important because the second—”
Jennifer dropped a paper cup, and ice spilled across the floor. “Sorry,” she apologized.
Zack, distracted, tried not to break stride. “The second time I address you will be when we’re all done here.” No, that’s not right. Sounds too casual . . . “will be at the end of the trial. That address is called the closing argument.”
The ruckus of ice being dumped into the bathroom sink interrupted him a second time. “Sorry again,” Jennifer squeaked, embarrassed, returning to the room. She crumpled up papers and bags from the table.
“At that time, I will summarize the evidence submitted in proof of the case. Why is this important? Because, and listen—”
He glanced at Jennifer, standing behind him, looking at him in the mirror. “Can I get by you for a second? I need to take out the trash.”
It took every ounce of patience Zack could muster not to toss his notes into the air in frustration. “Listen,” he sighed, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt, “maybe you should head home for the night. I’m going to be at this for a while, and I need some quiet time.”
“Oh . . .” she sputtered. “Oh . . . okay. I get it. I’ll drop this by the dumpster on my way out.”
She backtracked, gathered her purse and coat, and gave Zack a peck on the cheek. “Sounds good so far,” she encouraged. “I’m sure you’re going to do great.”
After Jennifer left, Zack worked his way back into the proper frame of mind. When trying a case to a jury, He preferred to stand at a podium, pages of notes on its surface, politely shifting his gaze back and forth from the jury to his notes. Zack has no idea what Walsh’s style was, but he wanted desperately to speak from the heart to this jury, in this trial. He spent hours fine-tuning the statement, pacing the room, talking to his invisible jury, critiquing his own performance. He was dissatisfied. Worse, he couldn’t complete his masterpiece unless he could prove the church’s involvement. As he was completing a final draft, the telephone rang. Blake picked up the receiver.
“Zachary Blake.”
“Mr. Blake?”
“Who’s this?” Blake queried, suspicious.
“A friend,” a male voice whispered; young perhaps, late twenties, early thirties.
“What can I do for you, friend?”
“More a matter of what I can do for you, Mr. Blake.” The stranger offered an olive branch.
“Okay. What can you do for me?” Blake was cautiously intrigued.
“Within the church hierarchy, there’s an organization known as ‘the Coalition.’ It operates in secret and handles matters that may embarrass the church. Its primary function is to prevent scandal so the church may continue to work to better society.”
“Go on,” Blake encouraged.
“Over the past several years, a disturbing trend began to surface among the clergy. We discovered an alarming number of priests worldwide had been sexually abusing young male parishioners. While the number is relatively small, the trend is disturbing. The ratio for our clergy is higher than that of abusers to normal men in other occupations.”
“Gerry Bartholomew is one of those priests,” Blake concluded.
“I’m afraid he is. His tendencies were known as far back as the seminary. After he received extensive treatment and our psychiatrists pronounced him fit for parish placement.”
“Incredible,” Blake exclaimed. “According to my research for this case, pedophilia is a treatable, but incurable condition. The worst place for a pedophile is a church.”
“Probably true, Mr. Blake, but with a frightening shortage of priests and a forgiving platform, our natural tendency is to forgive, attempt treatment, and permit these men to resume their calling. Psychiatrists assured us, with treatment, these men learn to control their urges. We determined it was the human thing to do.”
“When it endangers innocent, unsuspecting children and their families? Lives are being ruined,” Blake grumbled.
“As I indicated, few placements were made, and only after treatment was declared successful. In many cases, offending priests graduate from the seminary without anyone knowing they are pedophiles. The church only discovers these predators after an incident occurs, the more common occurrence. In fact, Father Gerry is the only case I’m aware of where extensive treatment failed, and child sexual abuse resulted.”
“Even giving the church the benefit of the doubt, Bartholomew should have been defrocked after the O’Connell and MacLean boys were abused,” Blake stated the obvious.
“The Farmington placement was a horrible mistake in assignment. His placement was at a monastery. Somehow two assignments were accidentally switched. The results, of course, have been devastating.”
“You think? Tell this to Jennifer Tracey! Talk to her sons,” Blake snarled. “So, you guys screwed this up. Why not come clean, admit the mistake, and offer a fair resolution and an apology. That’s all Jennifer ever wanted. Instead, we have two missing families, a dead janitor, a fucked-up priest, and a very angry Jennifer Tracey.”
“The janitor is . . . is . . . dead? Are you sure?” The caller stuttered.
“Absolutely. You mean you didn’t know?” Blake gasped.
“We were told he was taken care of. ”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it. Where are the O’Connell and MacLean families? I need them in court tomorrow,” he demanded.
“I have no idea. The Coalition was consulted and voted to ensure silence. Two of us dissented to this and other clandestine practices regarding this case. I argued the church should do as you have suggested—‘come clean,’ as you say, apologize, provide treatment, remove Bartholomew from the priesthood, and generously compensate the victims. After all, we are all church members, equals in the eyes of God. The vote was to ensure silence. If these people have disappeared, it may be the work of our leader. I can’t be positive.”
“This is all very interesting. It would make for excellent testimony at the trial and assure the ‘generous compensation’ you mentioned.”
“I’ve called you at great personal risk, Mr. Blake. I’m not sure I can testify, but I’ll contemplate it. Meanwhile, you’ve subpoenaed our leader, and you could pose these questions to him.”
Of course! Blake remembered. The old priest at the first meeting and the plea bargain! He’d almost forgotten. How could he forget that smug face? The judge’s research clerk served him at the plea hearing. What was his name?
“He won’t be forthcoming,” Blake opined.
“Let’s see what develops. If I’m needed, I’ll make myself known and testify.”
“Sounds fair. How do I reach you?”
“I’ll reach you, Mr. Blake. Goodnight . . . and good luck.”
The caller hung up before Blake could thank him. Did this call move the case from the edge of defeat? If Blake couldn’t get the old man to crack, this young priest—Blake assumed he was a priest—might testify to the church’s clandestine placement and cover-up operations. These guys handled and bungled this entire thing. Incredible!
Blake finished writing his opening statement. He continued to recite to the mirror, repeatedly, pacing around a make-believe courtroom well into the night. He couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow was the biggest day of his life. He was ready, he decided. Tomorrow, Zachary Blake and the Tracey family would begin the end of their quest for justice. Blake turned back to the mirror.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Zachary Blake, and I represent the plaintiffs . . .”
