Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

“What about them? They don’t know a thing about the letter or Holy Name.”

“What about Alvarez?”

“She’l be our mouthpiece. We get the story out the way we want, when we want. And she gets her exclusive.”

“So you got that handled?”

“You worry about the cardinal, Kel y. Let me worry about Alvarez. Cal me when you get done.”

“Okay.”

“And, Kel y…”

“What?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

I cut the line and walked back up the cardinal’s path. This time I picked up the brass knocker just as the door swung open. On the other side was a nun, dressed entirely in white and looking at me like she knew better. Behind her were three more nuns, hands tucked into their starched sleeves, faces cast in perpetual shade. The nun at the front door stepped aside without a word, and I walked in. The head of Chicago’s two mil ion Catholics swept around a corner with a smile and a handshake.

“Mr. Kel y.”

Even at seventy-three years old, Giovanni Cardinal Gianni was stil a bit of a rock star. On his seventieth birthday, Newsweek had dubbed the sturdy dark Italian “America’s Own Pope.” I wasn’t sure how wel that went over in Rome, but Gianni was here, smiling and, best I could tel, stil in one piece. He ushered me into what I guessed to be a study and gestured to an armchair wrapped in velvet. “Please, sit down.”

Like most Chicagoans, I’d driven by the cardinal’s residence and wondered what the elegant pile of red brick and sandstone might look like inside. It was about what I’d thought. Floors of polished wood interrupted by hal ways of polished marble. Large rooms cluttered with furniture no one used and pictures of saints no one knew. Bunches of flowers, bloodred and bone white, lurking in distant corners and sucking al the air out of the place. To my left and right, wal s of books. Most of them, I was betting, Bibles.

“Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Kel y?”

“Thanks, Your Eminence. That would be nice.”

Gianni raised a finger without turning his head. Somewhere behind him I heard some movement. A nun, I guessed, in search of a cup of joe. “We’ve already served lunch. But if you’re hungry, I’m sure the sisters would be happy…”

“No thanks,” I said. Gianni nodded and waited, one leg crossed over the other, dark face loose and relaxed, entirely empty of any sort of clue.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?” I said.

Gianni spread his hands, palms up. “I spent most of the morning on the phone with the mayor and the FBI. They ask me to spend my afternoon with you, who am I to refuse?”

The cardinal’s stick-on smile mirrored my own. He got up and walked to a picture window that looked out over a half acre’s worth of bare trees and front lawn.

“So much for keeping things under wraps,” the cardinal said. I fol owed his gaze out the window. A TV truck had just pul ed up in front of the mansion. A camera crew scrambled out and began to shoot pictures. So much, also, for Rita Alvarez’s exclusive.

“You know this town, Your Eminence. There’s very little that remains secret for very long.”

“We’re not asking anyone to keep secrets, Mr. Kel y. Just a little discretion.”

Gianni had been a rugby player in his day. I could see the game in the heft of his shoulders and the smal, rough scars around his eyes when he scowled.

“So what happens next?” the cardinal said.

“We’re checking out Holy Name, as we speak. Depending on what we find there, we’l develop a plan to sweep the rest of your churches.”

“You know how many parishes there are in the archdiocese?”

I shook my head.

“Three hundred fifty-nine. You’re going to check them al?”

“I don’t know, Father. But we’l try to keep disruption to a minimum.”

Gianni’s laughter stopped just short of derision. “We’re not a business, Mr. Kel y. People look at their church as a sanctuary. A place where they feel safe.”

“Yeah.”

The cardinal circled away from the window. “Not a fan of the church?” His Eminence could smel the lapsed Catholic in me clear across the room.

“Al due respect, Father, how safe were the parishioners at Holy Name this week? How safe would they have been next week if we’d kept a lid on this thing?”

A moving statue of a nun emerged from the mists, carrying a silver service of coffee and momentarily saving me from eternal damnation. Gianni sat back down and poured us each a cup. The nun disappeared from whence she came.

“What is it I can help you with, Mr. Kel y?”

I took a deep breath and dug into it. “We’d like some information. About some of the sexual abuse claims from the past.”

Gianni ran a thumb across his lower lip. “Go ahead.”

“It’s a natural line of inquiry, Your Eminence. Someone takes their revenge on the church for a wrong that was done to them as a child.”

The cardinal looked past my shoulder, at his church’s version of original sin, a history for which there was no simple act of atonement. No easy way to erase the stain.

“I understand the logic behind your query. Al too wel. Do you have a suspect?”

“No.”

“Would you tel me if you did?”

“Maybe.”

“And you think this spate of violence might be specifical y tied to the abuse scandal?”

“At this point, Father, it’s just a theory.”

“I see.” The cardinal sat back and fixed up his coffee with cream and sugar. Then he took a sip and continued. “As you know, our policy is clear. None of the archdiocese files are to be made public, save that which has already been revealed pursuant to a court order or negotiated agreement. If we feel there’s an ongoing danger, we wil contact the authorities with information. If the police have an identified suspect, we wil also cooperate with respect to that specific person. Unfortunately, what you are suggesting is more like a fishing expedition. And, if I understand your request, might involve revealing the names of possible victims.”

“You asked if I was Catholic before. At least that’s what I got out of it.”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t wil ingly stepped foot inside a church for ten-plus years. Want to know why?”

The cardinal’s features tightened and the fingers of one hand rol ed against the rub on the arm of his chair.

“Certainly, Mr. Kel y.”

“I don’t believe in your church. What was once my church. I think it’s more an institution than a church. One that is out of touch with its people. One that likes to make up rules and hide behind them.”

“Those rules, as you cal them, are the bedrock upon which the church is founded. Without them, we would have no anchor to keep us steady, no foundation upon which to build. As the waters got deeper, the currents faster, as the ground beneath us began to shift its shape, we would find that, without those rules, we would have no faith at al.”

As Gianni spoke, I felt the familiar sting of childhood, the lash of Catholic arrogance. It was palpable in the soft flow of words and dismissive tone. This was not a discussion between equals. It was a lecture. One steeped in beneficence and understanding, but a lecture al the same. Except I wasn’t ten years old anymore, and I wasn’t in the mood.

“Al due respect, Your Eminence, but if those are the same rules that tel a woman she doesn’t have what it takes to be a priest, or asks men who have never been married to counsel a couple considering the same, I have a problem with that.”

“Those are doctrinal matters, Mr. Kel y.”

“And the inherent evils of the condom, Your Eminence?”

The cardinal started to get up. “I suspect we have taken this as far as is practical, Mr. Kel y.”