this envelope.”
Dubois made a mental note to remember to remove the thousands of dollars wrapped in tin foil in the bottom of his fish freezer in the utility room of the rectory, money borrowed from the collection plate.
“If you need anything, call me later this evening at myresidence. My private number is on the envelope. Never call the chancery.”
“I’ve got to tell some people in Amalie goodbye.”
“It’s not a good idea. Don’t call or write anyone in Amalie. Never go to Amalie again. The lawyers tell me there are people in Amalie who want to kill you. Maybe the ones who want to kill you are the same ones you think are your friends.”
“I have guns, Jean-Paul.”
“My God, Francis, just go in peace.”
They strolled back to the angel fountain and Moroux handed him the envelope. As Dubois started down the steps toward his car, Moroux called softly, “Francis, do you want to make a confession?”
“What?”
“Do you want me to hear your confession?”
Father Francis Dominick Dubois turned his back to Monsignor Moroux and headed for his car, twice quickening his pace as he went.
14
THE WAGES OF SIN
6:15 a.m., Friday October 21, 1983
Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, Diocese of Thiberville
Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux was hung-over as he walked unsteadily onto the altar of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral to celebrate 6 a.m. Mass. He knew each of the fourteen elderly people in the pews, most of whom spent the time in church praying the rosary. He set a land speed record for racing through the liturgy.
In the sacristy, Moroux normally removed and folded his altar clothes carefully, placing them in drawers beneath the high counter. This morning he merely tossed the liturgical vestments on the counter. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked a cabinet and placed the bottle of altar wine on one of its shelves. From the rear of the cabinet, he retrieved a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap and poured a shot into a chalice, which he drank in a single gulp, wiping his mouth on the embroidered stole he had worn during Mass.
This was not the first time Moroux had been confronted with accusations of sexual molestation of minors by one of his priests, not even the first time a complaint of this nature had been made against Father Francis Dubois. But it was the first time the children and their parents had employed attorneys. Moroux did not like being told what to do, but today he would follow orders. The entire matter relating to Father Francis Dominick Dubois sexually abusing young boys was now in the hands of a consortium of New Orleans insurance attorneys.
If the families had been paid off in the past, they were paid off with blessings, not money. Diocesan personnel had been assignedto pray with them, pay particular attention to them, give them special treatment, and they had been satisfied. In the past, the offending priest had been moved to a distant parish, and the idea of suing the diocese had never crossed the mind of his devout parishioners. It was always the children of devout parishioners who were the victims, because they were the ones who were encouraged to be altar boys and to get involved in parish youth activities.
This time the families had lawyers. The Church had lawyers. This time it was not about sins, prayers and faith. It was about money.
10:35 a.m.
Diocesan Chancery, Thiberville
Ricardo Ponce had shaved the few remaining strands of hair from his bald head. He fastidiously removed his suit coat, displaying a monogrammed starched shirt, leather braces and a hand-painted silk tie. Pulling a cobalt blue Mont Blanc pen and legal pad from his soft leather case, he purposely avoided shaking hands with Monsignor Moroux.
Ponce bought his clothes with a credit card that had recently been canceled, got his manners from old movies he watched on a cable channel that had been cut off, and was on the verge of having his small sailboat repossessed. An eviction notice had been served on him for
Dubois made a mental note to remember to remove the thousands of dollars wrapped in tin foil in the bottom of his fish freezer in the utility room of the rectory, money borrowed from the collection plate.
“If you need anything, call me later this evening at myresidence. My private number is on the envelope. Never call the chancery.”
“I’ve got to tell some people in Amalie goodbye.”
“It’s not a good idea. Don’t call or write anyone in Amalie. Never go to Amalie again. The lawyers tell me there are people in Amalie who want to kill you. Maybe the ones who want to kill you are the same ones you think are your friends.”
“I have guns, Jean-Paul.”
“My God, Francis, just go in peace.”
They strolled back to the angel fountain and Moroux handed him the envelope. As Dubois started down the steps toward his car, Moroux called softly, “Francis, do you want to make a confession?”
“What?”
“Do you want me to hear your confession?”
Father Francis Dominick Dubois turned his back to Monsignor Moroux and headed for his car, twice quickening his pace as he went.
14
THE WAGES OF SIN
6:15 a.m., Friday October 21, 1983
Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, Diocese of Thiberville
Monsignor Jean-Paul Moroux was hung-over as he walked unsteadily onto the altar of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral to celebrate 6 a.m. Mass. He knew each of the fourteen elderly people in the pews, most of whom spent the time in church praying the rosary. He set a land speed record for racing through the liturgy.
In the sacristy, Moroux normally removed and folded his altar clothes carefully, placing them in drawers beneath the high counter. This morning he merely tossed the liturgical vestments on the counter. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked a cabinet and placed the bottle of altar wine on one of its shelves. From the rear of the cabinet, he retrieved a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap and poured a shot into a chalice, which he drank in a single gulp, wiping his mouth on the embroidered stole he had worn during Mass.
This was not the first time Moroux had been confronted with accusations of sexual molestation of minors by one of his priests, not even the first time a complaint of this nature had been made against Father Francis Dubois. But it was the first time the children and their parents had employed attorneys. Moroux did not like being told what to do, but today he would follow orders. The entire matter relating to Father Francis Dominick Dubois sexually abusing young boys was now in the hands of a consortium of New Orleans insurance attorneys.
If the families had been paid off in the past, they were paid off with blessings, not money. Diocesan personnel had been assignedto pray with them, pay particular attention to them, give them special treatment, and they had been satisfied. In the past, the offending priest had been moved to a distant parish, and the idea of suing the diocese had never crossed the mind of his devout parishioners. It was always the children of devout parishioners who were the victims, because they were the ones who were encouraged to be altar boys and to get involved in parish youth activities.
This time the families had lawyers. The Church had lawyers. This time it was not about sins, prayers and faith. It was about money.
10:35 a.m.
Diocesan Chancery, Thiberville
Ricardo Ponce had shaved the few remaining strands of hair from his bald head. He fastidiously removed his suit coat, displaying a monogrammed starched shirt, leather braces and a hand-painted silk tie. Pulling a cobalt blue Mont Blanc pen and legal pad from his soft leather case, he purposely avoided shaking hands with Monsignor Moroux.
Ponce bought his clothes with a credit card that had recently been canceled, got his manners from old movies he watched on a cable channel that had been cut off, and was on the verge of having his small sailboat repossessed. An eviction notice had been served on him for
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