The Darker Side

I spread my hands. 'They can find God in prison too, Father. But at least in prison, they can't hurt anyone else.'

He chuckles. 'Fair enough, Agent Barrett. I won't press the point. I believe the truth of a person can be found in their actions. It may not be the party line for the church at the moment, but I care more about how you live your life than about how often you receive Communion.' His expression becomes more grave. 'I'm familiar with your story, and with some of the men you've put away. You're a force for good, I think.'

I laugh. I don't take offense at his use of a caveat; I can tell that he's teasing me.

'I appreciate that, Father.'

Alan and Atkins are sitting a few pews back. They're keeping quiet, remaining unobtrusive. This is an interview, not an interrogation. Intimacy is all.

'Tell me about Rosemary,' I prod.

'I've been the pastor here at the Redeemer for twenty years, Agent Barrett. As I think you know, Los Angeles is a temperamental city, full of contrasts. Within the surrounding five blocks you will find upstanding, middle class families, teenage prostitutes, honor roll students, gang members--all sharing the same pavement.'

'Yes.'

'When I was called by God, I always knew that He would want me to be a hands-on priest. My gifts don't lie in giving a Mass. I do the job, but I'm not a tremendous public speaker. God knew that what I had to offer was an ability to witness the evil in others without losing faith in the possibility of redemption.' He smiles a wry smile. 'He knew, of course, that I was also blessed with a big mouth and a questioning mind. Don't misunderstand, I stand behind my church with all my heart, but I lack political dexterity. If I think an ecclesiastical law should be reviewed, I'll say so.'

'I understand,' I reply, amused.

It's interesting to me to find that even within the confines of the church, there is a divide between the 'suits' and the men on the ground, between the officers and the sergeants.

'I was relegated to this tiny church because they had to put me somewhere. They knew it would be wrong to cloister me away--the church is not always blind, in spite of what some think--but they didn't want me in the limelight either.' He grins and I can almost see him twenty years ago, vibrant, a rebel. 'I was overjoyed. This was, and has always been, where I wanted to be.'

A question occurs to me. 'Father, if I can ask--what did you do before the priesthood?'

He nods in approval. 'Very germane, Agent Barrett. Before I was a priest, I was a troubled young man. I spent time in reform school for petty theft, I had careless affairs with women, I drank, and I engaged in casual violence.'

He says it all with such ease, without the slightest hint of shame. Not proud of his past, but not apologizing for it either.

'What changed?' I ask.

'I met a very tough old priest by the name of Father Montgomery. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and set me straight. He impressed me. Here was a man of God--a profession I'd always considered for suckers-- who didn't blink at the sight of blood, or turn up his nose at a young girl who came in to pray wearing her leather mini skirt and platform shoes. He'd give her Communion even though he knew she was going to walk out the door and sell her body afterward. He had a saying: 'Leave your knives at the door, and you're welcome here.' '

'Where was this?'

'Detroit.' He shrugs. 'He turned me around. I got the calling, and as I said, I knew that God wanted me to emulate Father Montgomery. Which I have tried to do.'

'Rosemary,' I prod again.

'Rosemary was a very troubled young woman. Her story wasn't exactly original. A difficult teen, she ended up doing drugs and selling her body. What made Rosemary different, more complex, was the component of addiction. She truly enjoyed the combination of drug use and depraved sex. I don't mean that she thought it was right or good. But it gave her great pleasure. She sought it out. Rosemary was not the innocent victim of a smooth- talking pimp. She had no family history of abuse.' He shakes his head, remembering something. 'She told me once, she was 'just born bad.' I was alerted to her arrival in the ER by a nurse who is a member of my congregation. That nurse's words, essentially: 'This girl has hit rock bottom, Father. She will either turn around or she will die.' '

'Had she? Hit rock bottom?'

'Oh yes. She had been beaten nearly to death by a john while she was high on cocaine, and she had chlamydia, syphilis, and gonorrhea raging through her--along with a touch of the flu.'

'Wow.'

'Yes. She'd escaped HIV infection, thank God, and the syphilis was recent. The Holy Spirit must have been watching over Rosemary.'

I think this is debatable, but I keep it to myself.

'Go on, please, Father.'

'I was there when she woke up. She couldn't stop crying. I asked her the question I always ask: Are you ready for my help? Rosemary said that she was. I arranged a place for her to stay, members of the church helped her get clean, we prayed together.' His eyes get sad.

'We prayed together a lot.' He looks at me. 'This was the thing about Rosemary that you have to understand to really care about her, Agent Barrett. Not every detail of her recovery, not even every detail of her sins. But that somehow, from somewhere, this hopeless girl found inside herself a tremendous strength. It never got easier for her. She told me she still thought about drugs and sex almost every day. The longing grew more distant, but it never disappeared. Still, she held on.' He clenches his hands in frustration. 'She had been living in God's grace for five years. No drugs, no reversions to former behaviors. I hate to use the word, but it applies here--Rosemary had been saved.'

'I see.' I am not convinced, but I'm willing to accept the possibility that Rosemary's change had taken. Father Yates is not operating with blinders on, after all.

'There was also the fact that . . .' He hesitates.

'What?'

'I take confession, of course. I can never tell you what she said, but I can tell you this: She trusted me with the worst parts of herself. She held nothing back.'

I am intrigued. Way more than curious. But I know this man will never give up Rosemary's confidence. I find an unexpected comfort in this certainty.

The roots of the Catholic tree run deep, I muse.

'Is there anything else you can tell me, Father? Anything you think might help?'

'I'm sorry, Agent Barrett. I'm afraid the only thing I can really provide is a memory of Rosemary at her worst and her best.'

I reach into my purse, pull out my card, and give it to him.

'Call me if you think of anything, Father.'

'I promise.' His gaze lingers on mine for a moment. 'And what do you think about prayer, Agent Barrett?'

I stare at him, caught by surprise. 'Personally, I've found it to be overrated and the results underwhelming.'

The words snap out, uncensored. I regret their vehemence. I shrug in apology.

'Sorry.'

'Not at all. If you're mad at God, that means you still believe He exists. I'll take that for now.'

I don't know what to say to this, so I just mumble, 'Thank you, Father,' like a six-year-old and head toward the front doors of the church. Alan and Atkins follow.

Damn those priest eyes. Sometimes the holy really do annoy me.

13

IT'S AFTER EIGHT-THIRTY. ALAN, ATKINS, AND I ARE SEATED in a booth at the back of a Denny's. It's a slow night and our waitress is tired. She manages a halfhearted smile as she tops off our coffee cups but doesn't try to chat us up. I guess she's used to serving cops. Vinyl and formica as far as the eye can see, I muse. Is there anything more American?