been his responsibility-the position had never been filled by a woman-to handle high-visibility cases. Kleimer lusted after that position. The present prosecutor had strong convictions that there should be, if the case warranted, a top female assistant prosecutor a top black assistant prosecutor, a top white assistant prosecutor, and so on.
This case involved a white and a Hispanic. So it could have fallen under either heading. But since the alleged perpetrator was white, in all probability it would be given to a top white assistant prosecutor.
Under that category, Kleimer was qualified.
And if Kleimer had not fit the appropriate niche, Ferris had been prepared to refuse him steadfastly.
Lately there had been a considerable intrusion by Kleimer into, for him, marginal categories. In his own obtrusive way, he had begun to insinuate himself into cases more suitable for others. In effect, Kleimer was trying to refashion the function of the office of chief trial attorney and fill it himself. Along the way, he was alienating a lot of fellow attorneys and making not a few enemies.
Whatever, the Carleson-Diego case was now his.
Ferris was torn. On the one hand, he wished Kleimer good fortune. After all, the business of this office was to get convictions. On the other hand, Ferris quietly hoped that this case would prove to be Kleimer’s launching pad to fame and would get him the hell out of the prosecuting attorney’s office.
Ferris was about to extinguish his office lights and finally head for home when one final question came to mind.
He dialed Homicide and got his answer: The priest would spend at least this night in a holding cell. Ferris was surprised. Locking up a priest before arraignment! Was nothing sacred any longer?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Don Carleson sat on the edge of his cot. He was the sole occupant of the cell. Probably, he thought, a special favor arranged by the officer in charge. He must be a Catholic; he had “Fathered” Carleson to pieces.
Favor or not, he was grateful. He’d had some little experience in like surroundings. This was not Father Carleson’s first time being locked up.
But it had been so long ago.
Noisy. His small space was invaded by the sounds of men in other cells. Some were angry, some crying, some hallucinating. Some were trying to climb the walls in search of some substance that would open for them a door to blessed oblivion.
It hadn’t been like this the other time, the first time.
Carleson lay down on the cot and freed his mind to return to that other time.
It had been warm. Hot. Not cold and damp, as it was now.
Many years ago. In Nicaragua. In a tiny village called Sandego near the banks of the Rio Coco on the border of Honduras.
The village was so insignificant and remote that he had actually felt insulted when he first laid eyes on it. What must his superiors in Maryknoll think of him to send him to such a godforsaken spot?
Then he began to learn that his little town actually was the antithesis of a place abandoned by God.
The inhabitants were Catholic … Catholics with simple, childlike faith. They had been promised that a priest was being sent to them. So they had pooled their meager resources and put together a makeshift but practical chapel.
On his arrival, the entire village turned out to greet him. All were wearing their very best rags. In all his time with them, he never discovered how they knew when he would arrive. It was their happy secret.
Happy was the appropriate word for these people. In the face of their constant lighthearted effervescence, he began to believe he’d been given the best assignment Maryknoll had. He found himself pitying priests missioned in major cities like Managua or, save the mark, Chicago or New York. Such priests were reduced to inventing games to attract people to the Church. Helpful too was the threat of hellfire for absence from Church services.
Here in Sandego, he just rang a bell when it was time for services and everybody came with incandescent smiles.
In a word, the spirit was contagious. In no time, Father Carleson was one with his villagers, his congregation, his people.
He had brought with him not only Mass vestments, missal, and an initial supply of bread and wine, he also carried basic medications that would make life at least less painful for the people.
Of all his earliest accomplishments, Carleson was perhaps most proud of the well. Each evening, he would read from the do-it-yourself manual for finding a water supply and digging a well.
The villagers pitched in enthusiastically if blindly. They had no real concept of what he was attempting. They just sensed that the poor man wanted to dig a hole and he needed help. So they pitched in, smiling and throwing dirt. The hole became so deep that they had to pass the dirt up in baskets. And they were forced to help each other up and down the sides of the hole.
And then, a miracle.
Water. Cool, refreshing, and pure. And available.
It didn’t take long for them to realize that they no longer had to carry water from the river. Or fear the diseases river water often brought.
Now the water was right in their midst. They had access to it anytime. There didn’t even have to be a special need or necessity. It was theirs and it was pure.
It was a miracle. And Padre Don was the miracle worker.
In time, Carleson almost forgot there was a world beyond Sandego. He forgot he was living in greater poverty than he had ever experienced or imagined. Sandego and the lovely people he served completely fulfilled him.
There was a cloud on the distant horizon. It lay just beneath the consciousness of the inhabitants of Sandego.
It was a band, a group, an army called the Contras. The Contras were at war with the revolutionary Sandinista government of Nicaragua. Later, it would sicken Carleson to learn that the U.S. government had overtly and covertly subsidized the Contras.
It had been more than a year since the Contras’ previous visit to Sandego. But that visit had been so savage that the inhabitants had not been able to forget it.
Carleson of course knew of the Contras, but gave them no more than passing thought. He was certain they would never inflict themselves on the sleepy hamlet of Sandego. It would be like bombing a small town in the Louisiana bayous. Why?
They arrived one night as the stars were fading. As soundlessly as a stalking jungle cat. With the dawn, men armed to the teeth roughly awakened the villagers-including their priest.
The villagers-even the children-were ordered, pushed, clubbed into a single line and forced to remain motionless and silent while the officers toured the village. After their investigation, they reviewed the assembly. They noted with special interest the Yankee priest.
As far as Carleson could tell, everyone-captives and captors-was Catholic. All spoke Spanish. And that meant nothing.
He was only slightly fearful-not at all for himself. He viewed the invaders as a form of purgatory. No matter how nasty things got, it would be over and done with eventually. The Contras would have to move on sometime.
A man with the insignia of a colonel appeared to be the ranking officer. He addressed the assembled villagers. It was mostly badly memorized propaganda. After the canned lecture, he got down to reality. They would not stay long. They needed supplies. They would take whatever fitted their needs. During their stay, the villagers would be required to work for the Contras and not themselves. Their degree of cooperation would dictate the longevity of this occupation.
With that, the soldiers took over. The villagers were forced to begin gathering up everything this little town had.
The colonel, along with another officer with the insignia of major, took Carleson to the well. They showed
