who will care enough to exert the same amount of concern and total dedication to proving him innocent that Dick would do for himself if he were able.
“Father Koesler, I don’t know where he’s going to find such a person—other than you. You are about the closest person—the only person—he has to be such a friend. You at least know your way around in a situation like this. But I suppose it is silly of me to put those two qualifications together and come up with someone who would work as hard to clear Dick’s name as Dick himself would, were he able.”
It was, Koesler thought, an eloquent plea. In its face, all he could do was to try to reassure her that he would do all he could, and that, with all the prayers that would be said, God surely would not let any permanent harm come to Dick Kramer. Maybe, Koesler told Therese, as he bade goodbye, this would prove to be a beneficial experience for Dick and for all of them.
The words were lame. Koesler knew it and he was aware that Therese knew it. One of those things, he thought. What could anyone do at a time like this?
Removing cassock and collar, he was once again in pajamas, over which he drew his robe.
His routine had been destroyed, utterly destroyed. He checked his ever-present watch. After 1:00 A.M. He wasn’t the least bit sleepy now—but it would be one more time when the faithful few who attended daily morning Mass would have to excuse an overly tired priest without even knowing why they were excusing him.
At this hour, he dared not return to his highball. He made a cup of instant decaffeinated coffee. As he sipped the steaming brew, which seemed perfectly fine to him, he wondered why it was that no one else seemed to appreciate his coffee.
As he sat in the silent living room, trying to slow everything down toward sleep, he could not help but reflect on his conversation with Sister Therese.
He realized that his rejection of her final argument was totally a reflex action. He was not in any way involved in this matter. For a change, he would have the luxury of sitting on the sidelines and rooting for the good guys. All that he had told her about the difference between this situation and the cases he had been connected with in the past—it was all true.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
He felt compelled, for some reason, to consider her words absent his automatic dismissal.
He imagined himself imprisoned for a crime, a capital crime. In this invention, he had been condemned to death. He had a month to live, at the end of which he would be hanged.
This was not, by any means, getting him closer to sleep. Nevertheless, having begun, he had to press on to whatever end might follow.
Of course he was innocent of the crime for which he had been condemned. But what could he do? He was locked away with but one short month of life remaining. There was no possible way he could clear himself. Of course if he had been able to leave his jail cell, he would devote his every moment to proving his innocence. He would not eat or sleep, except as absolutely required for life and strength. If he were to lose this battle to clear himself, he would lose life itself. Nothing that had ever happened to him or would ever happen to him was as crucial as this quest.
But, in this daydream, he could not leave his cell.
The scenario had become so real to Koesler that he actually began to feel the confinement of prison as well as the helplessness of his situation.
His one chance, his only chance, was to find someone on the outside who would act for him. This person, whoever it might be, would have to become as totally and thoroughly involved as Koesler, the jailed man, himself. This alter ego would have to at very least take a leave of absence from work—from family and everything else, for that matter—and devote every hour of every day for that final month as if his own life depended on it.
That was it! That was what would distinguish this alter ego from every other conceivable friend. This person, alone among everyone the accused knew, would be the only one who would work to prove innocence as if his own life depended on it.
Koesler, in all his many flights of fancy, had never before invented a conundrum like this. He became fascinated with the prospect. If he himself were to actually be in a situation such as this, whom could he call on? Who could be depended upon to abandon all else and work on this case as if his very own life depended on it?
One by one, he considered all those who came to mind, beginning with all his priest friends. One by one, quite reluctantly, but quite realistically, he dismissed one after another. Oh, they would be distressed, no doubt about that. They would offer prayers. They would express genuine concern. But, he realized, each would beg off— just as he had done only a few minutes ago when Sister Therese had pleaded with him for help.
Devote your time, energies, concentration, persona to the cause as if your own life depended on it. . . . Was there anyone?
Finally, Koesler focused on the one person who might do it. A friend he had made many years earlier. A married man with three children now grown and on their own. A man who had worked up from the assembly line to a white-collar position at Ford Motor Company. Yes, Chuck would do it. The one and only friend of all the many people Koesler had known who would give all.
If this man was so outstanding, why, Koesler wondered, had he not thought of him sooner? He had not come to mind earlier, Koesler concluded, because they were not really that close. Then why could Koesler suppose Chuck might do it? Why could he be depended upon to work as if his very own life depended on it?
It wasn’t the friendship that turned the scale, Koesler decided; it was, indeed, the man himself. A Christian —that rare individual who actually put the Gospel teachings into practice in his life. A Christian. Would only a Christian do it? No. Certainly not. How parochial! But it would have to be someone correspondingly selfless. In his context, in his work, such a person would probably be a Christian. And one of the very highest order.
Koesler felt shame. What sort of Christian was he? What sort of Christian was he trying to be? Sister Therese had handed him a challenge to his Christianity—an opportunity—and he had handed it back to her with appropriate bureaucratic gobbledygook. He was not involved. Of course he would pray. But he could not get involved. He had never before been involved in quite that way.
He knew what he must do. He looked up Sister Therese’s phone number and dialed. “Sister, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Father Koesler?” Her tone revealed surprise. “No . . . no; sleep is not high on my agenda.”
“I just wanted to apologize. And to tell you that I’m going to get into this thing. I don’t know exactly how I’m going to get into it or what I’m going to do after I’m in. But I’m going to do everything I can to clear Dick Kramer.”
“You mean it?” In a split second she went from one of the low points of her life to an exhilarating high. “You’ve made me so happy. Thank you. Oh, thank you!”
“No thank
“I didn’t . . .”
“You did. Good night.”
He was sure she would sleep well now.
His coffee? Only a small lukewarm amount remained. He didn’t need it. He was ready for sleep There was something very satisfying as well as relaxing in having settled on a course of action. He felt very good.
He was all wrapped up in the abstract. He was going to get into the case of the State of Michigan vs. Father Richard Kramer. And Koesler would exonerate his brother priest.
Fortunately, he could drift into a peaceful sleep without for a moment considering the concrete, real questions: How was he going to clear Kramer? What obstacles might he have to face? How strong was the case against Kramer?
If these questions had occurred to Koesler, he would have had to confess that he hadn’t the slightest clue as to their answers. Not only did he not know the answers, fortunately he was not even aware of the questions. Neither was Sister Therese. So, in their separate bungalows, each had a very good night’s sleep.
26
Some Detroiters were fond of complaining that Michigan did not know how to have a winter. During an average season, the elements came at Detroit from every imaginable direction.
Ordinarily, future weather marched in a stately line from west to east—at least most people supposed that was nature’s plan. So one was accustomed to watch high and lower pressure systems enter the continent in
