Your Grace.”
“Hepatitis. Denys suffered from hepatitis, which required a lengthy period of hospitalization and recovery.”
“And did you ever hear, Bishop Deegan, that Father Koslawski—before suffering this medical setback—had invited a teenage boy to his room in the rectory and engaged him in oral sex?”
“No, I certainly did not.”
“And would you agree with me, sir, that such conduct would not only be ‘improvident,’ to borrow a phrase from you, but that it would also be illegal?”
He closed his eyes and answered, “Yes.”
“Are you aware of where Mr. Koslawski went when he left this diocese?”
“In hospital, as I recall. Out of state.”
“Isn’t it a fact that he was transferred first to another diocese in the Midwest?”
Deegan seemed to look for the answer in the light fixture high above his head. “I don’t remember that.”
“Do you recall that one of your colleagues asked him to sign a document requesting laicization?”
“No.”
“But if that were a fact—if such a document existed—it would be in the secret archives of the New York diocese, would it not?”
“Slow down, Ms. Cooper,” Judge Keets interjected, lifting his fountain pen from his notebook to refill it. “For the record, Your Grace, why don’t you tell us what laicization is?”
“Certainly. It is the act of reducing a priest to the lay state, Your Honor. Relieving him of his duties.”
“And that would be within your power to do?” Keets asked.
“Indeed it would. There are certain authorities in the Catholic faith that a priest has—to preach, to minister the sacraments, to say Mass, and so on. I’m able to suspend him from those acts.”
“And are you aware that one of your colleagues performed that suspension in regard to Denys Koslawski?” I asked.
“I ... was . . . not.” Deegan shifted in his chair as he spoke a firm answer.
“Did you ever correspond with Father Koslawski while he was in New Mexico?”
“I did not.”
“Did you know he stayed for a period of time at the Via Coeli in that state?”
“I don’t recall.”
I fingered a piece of paper—a copy of a letter Koslawski had written to the bishop many years ago.
“What is Via Coeli?” Keets asked. “Do you mind letting me in on this?”
“A church-run facility,” the bishop answered, responding more politely to the judge than to me.
“I see,” Keets went on. “For medical treatment, for his hepatitis?”
“No, Your Honor,” Deegan had lowered his head. “It’s a monastery.”
“A monastery of sorts, wouldn’t you say?” I asked. “Bishop Deegan, is it more accurate to describe Via Coeli as a facility to which priests accused of sexual abuse—priests whose deeds were recorded in secret archives, or in the deep recesses of your brain—were sent?”
“Yes.” The bishop gave me another quiet yes. “They were transferred there for a good reason, Ms. Cooper. For rehabilitation.”
“Are you aware, Bishop Deegan, that most professionals in the therapeutic community don’t believe that there is any kind of rehabilitation that is effective for sexual predators, most especially for child molesters?”
“Objection,” Sheila Enright said. “Your Honor, this is a hearing. It’s not a bully pulpit for Ms. Cooper’s views on sex offenders.”
“Sustained. That objection is sustained. Move on, Ms. Cooper. I’ve given you plenty of latitude.”
“Yes, sir. Well, if you didn’t correspond with Denys, Bishop Deegan, do you recall receiving any mail from him?” I said, raising my copy of the old letter.
The heavy doors creaked open again. I leaned against the railing at the jury box and looked back to see Pat McKinney, the chief of the trial division and my archnemesis in the bureaucratic structure of the office. Although he wasn’t one of my regular supporters, he made his way to the front of the room and seated himself behind me, on the bride’s side.
“No, I don’t.” Deegan’s eyes narrowed and he glanced from the first visitor, dragging his line of sight like the cursor on a computer across the aisle to McKinney.
“Your Honor, I’ve had this exhibit pre-marked as People’s eighteen. I have a copy for the defense and for you,” I said, passing them to the court officer to deliver to each party. “I’d like to offer it in evidence.”
“Any objection, Ms. Enright?”
“I need a minute to read it,” Sheila said, accepting the document and slumping in her chair, tilting her head to talk with her client.
“Psssst.” It was Pat McKinney, trying too hard to get my attention.
“Mr. McKinney,” Keets said. “Always nice to have you in my courtroom. Do you need Alexandra? She seems to be oblivious to you.”
“Just for a minute, Judge, while Ms. Enright examines the exhibit.”
I