number two, and the more common outcome is number one. Number one was always the desired one. I have with regret more bitter than you can imagine, come to hold that it is immoral to seek number one, that one has no right not to go for number two, if one is doing RSQA type stuff. There are now enough examples to form statistics, and the statistical rate of recidivism is just too high to justify pursuing number one, in my opinion. Now, this is a bummer. I mean to say, who wants to run around and set a goal like two over, and over? UEWW. RMC solves all that nicely. The recidivism rate is guaranteed zero which is of paramount importance, if the finality of number two is avoided, leaving options for happy endings all around.
When Jim Kopp sorted through his thoughts, he decided to reply, but on paper, by hand. He wrote a letter that he planned to send by regular mail:
“The descendents are the only ones in this blankety-blank town who will give me sacraments, knowing my background (good). But when the subject comes up they spend all their time trying to convince me I should never do it again (bad). And then in Passant they harp on the value of hidden penance to solve the world’s ills, (good) to the exclusion of Ronald Reagan in principle (bad). This is all beaucoup frustrating to me, but it’s also something of a moot point, since my efforts to get new papers have ground almost to a complete halt because I know not why. Is it due to a psychological lack of confidence on my part, a closet desire to retire, or because the papers are truly impossible to get? Some days I wake up and I want to go be a monk. Other reasons, but then I remember I can’t go anywhere. Also, to get new real papers is a risk beyond the status quo where I exist (uneasily) on the black gray market (with no record of any sort).
Through all of this, the threat of what you said before we parted company last haunts me. The thing about retirement. I know I’ve asked before, but could I ask you your thoughts on this? It was the retirement thing you said. I clearly see I am force-retired from any run of the mill effort in the cause so dear to us, but do you also mean permanent retirement from R-squared? Because if so, I might as well go be a monk. The only thing that sticks in my craw about that is that it would require foreswearing R-2 in principle, and in perpetuity. That strikes me as a moral impossibility, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s assume it is, for a moment. Practically this leaves me in a sort of limbo where I am prevented anything like a monastery, but also practically prevented any return to the field. Now, limbo I can deal with one day at a time, etc., but from time to time I begin to hope or wonder, will I ever return to the field? I guess my situation resembles that of an aging movie star who has lost his looks, but has a hard time imagining picking up a new trade. I don’t know the answer, but I’m sure your thoughts about retirement fit in somewhere. I hope to send hard copy as soon as possible, please don’t despair, meanwhile, notwithstanding computer situation, you’d enjoy reading all the drafts there.”
FBI agent Joel Mercer examined the phone numbers relayed to him by Michael Osborn. At least one of the numbers was in Ireland. Mercer contacted the FBI’s legal attache closest to Ireland, based in London, England. The London office put a call through to Dublin and the Garda SIoch·na, Extradition Section. The translation of the Gaelic title is “Guardians of the Peace.” Extradition works in great secrecy, dealing as it does with foreign governments on sensitive matters. The Gardai agreed to work with the FBI to track down James C. Kopp, if indeed he was still in the country.
An Irish agent examined the phone numbers provided by the FBI. One of the numbers—0874106124—was for a cell phone registered to a Sean O’Briain. Detectives began asking questions around Dublin, showing photos of James Kopp. As the Gardai worked the streets, names started coming, rumors, then contacts, people who knew of a man named Sean O’Briain who fit Kopp’s description. They learned that Sean O’Briain was an alias for Timothy Guttler. Word was that Guttler stayed at the Ivelagh Hostel. The Gardai paid a visit to Kevin Byrne, the manager. Timothy? He collected his mail. Went to work. Quiet man. Said hello now and again. That’s it. He’s gone now.
Chapter 17 ~ Partial Success
The special agent left the FBI office in lower Manhattan, drove down Broadway, left on Chambers Street, past the New York City County Courthouse and the municipal building with the grand archway and golden statue of justice on top. Right on Center Street, quick left to cross the Brooklyn Bridge over the East River, the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center just off to the right and behind the car. Osborne headed up Brooklyn Bridge Boulevard, left on Atlantic Avenue, the low-rise buildings, subway cars emerging from belowground to raised tracks, rattling loudly. Finally, Chestnut Street. Surveillance.
Later, an agent watched as Loretta Marra and Dennis Malvasi left their apartment. All clear. The agent entered the building, opened the door to apartment 2D, went inside, quickly planted the bug, and left. Earlier that same day, Eastern District judge Nina Gershon had signed an order authorizing the FBI to install a listening device. The bugs in the automobiles had so far turned up useful information, but not Kopp’s latest location or any hint of what his plans were. Osborn wanted ears in the apartment. The agents kept odd hours, sat on watch all through the night.
That evening, Loretta and Dennis talked about what they would say to other pro-lifers when trying to get assistance for Jim upon his return from Europe. “We should say, ‘Jim is looking for work again, and he’s willing to teach, train others.’”
Osborn listened. Kopp was planning to come back, and soon. And Marra and Malvasi planned to help him, and enlist others as well. The next day, Friday, New Jersey District judge Dennis M. Cavanaugh signed an order for another bug, this time for a red Ford Windstar and hotel rooms 1401 and 1402 at the Taj Mahal casino in Atlantic City. Saturday morning, Loretta logged on to a computer, opened her Yahoo! mail account, and typed in the user name.
Subject: all set
On Monday, she left a new message in the draft folder.
Subject: Thumb twiddling
She logged off the email and later surfed for information about weather conditions in Montreal. At 11 a.m. she opened the email again. “We have to get Jim’s money,” she told her husband.
“Why am I getting money for you?” Dennis said. “I’m the one who’s going to meet him.”
“True. You’re gonna meet Jim. Jim told me to give $1,000… for Amy. I’ll take care of that, and leave Jim a note about it.” Amy was Amy Boissonneault. Their pro-life friend had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Loretta phoned her brother, Nick, said she might come visit. When she got off the phone she told Dennis that he needed to keep checking the computer for new email while she was away. On Thursday, March 8, at 7:55 a.m., she left a new draft message in the folder.
Subject: Partial success
At 7:57 a.m. she left another.
Subject: Getting worried
What’s going on, anyhow? Haven’t heard from you in ages. Please let me know how you are.
Loretta left the apartment to visit a man named Richard Bruno. She had a letter to show him from Jim, and also a request. Bruno owned a chimney company and had employed Kopp for a time before he had gone missing. Bruno did not believe that Jim could ever hurt anyone—he was a prayerful, peaceful man. A holy man. Loretta
