Until Judgment Day by Christine McGuire Page A

“Keefe’s order is valid unless a higher court vacates it.”
    â€œI told him that before he testified,” Scalisi said. “He only just now told me he refused to answer your questions concerning Reverends Thompson and Benedetti.”
    Davidson shook his head resolutely. “Neither of you realizes the terrible, unnecessary can of worms you’d open by dredging up those priests’ past.”
    â€œSo they were part of the gambling problem?” Mackay asked.
    â€œI would not answer your questions before the Grand Jury, Ms. Mackay,” Davidson said with a sigh, “and I’ll not answer them here in the hall.”
    Mackay barged ahead as if he hadn’t spoken. “Has your Diocese received complaints of sexual misconduct against Thompson, Benedetti, or Duvoir?”
    â€œI can see you aren’t one to take ‘no’ for an answer.” Davidson glared, and sat quietly thinking for a moment. “All right, Ms. Mackay, I shall make an exception and answer that one question directly. The—”
    â€œBishop, I advise you—” Scalisi interrupted, but was silenced by a quick shake of the Bishop’s head.
    Davidson kept his eyes riveted on Mackay even as he spoke softly to his lawyer. “Gerald, there can be no harm in my answering that question honestly. Perhaps if I do, Ms. Mackay will be satisfied and drop her witch hunt.”
    Davidson crossed himself. “Ms. Mackay, I give you my sacred word as a Christian and Bishop that neither I nor the Monterey Diocese of the American Catholic Church has ever received a complaint alleging sexual misconduct on the part of Fathers Thompson, Benedetti, or Duvoir.”
    â€œI believe you,” Mackay said softly, “but I’m still convinced that they have something in common, and if we don’t figure out what it is soon, there’ll be more dead priests. Are you willing to risk their lives?”
    â€œIf necessary.”
    â€œYou’ll go to jail until you decide to cooperate, no matter how long that takes,” Mackay promised. “Jail’s not a nice place.”
    Davidson smiled benevolently. “As a divinity student in the sixties, I marched with Martin Luther King and spent a month in a Mississippi jail cell eating cockroaches and hominy grits—I don’t know which was worse. In the seventies,” he continued with a wry smile, “I boycotted the grape fields beside Cesar Chavez. Valley jails are nicer than Mississippi’s but they’re no picnic.
    â€œIn the eighties, I was arrested a dozen times outside abortion clinics from San Francisco to San Diego. In the nineties, it was Bosnia. I’ve spent more nights in jail than many felons, and a few more won’t hurt me.”
    Mackay shook her head. “If I recess the Grand Jury now, they’ll take off for the New Year’s holiday and won’t reconvene before next Monday—maybe later.”
    â€œI understand,” Davidson answered.
    â€œAre you always so stubborn?”
    â€œYes, he is,” Scalisi interjected. “In fact, he’s being cooperative today.”
    â€œI’ll arrange for Sheriff Granz to put you in Q,” Mackay said, then explained, “Q is the security unit where a high-risk inmate can be isolated and protected from the jail’s general population.”
    â€œI don’t want to be isolated or protected.”
    â€œOur jail’s full of criminals who’ll slit your throat for the gold in your cross and ring, not to mention gangbangers—there are members of the Hispanic Norteños and Sureños gangs in custody all the time. You might not live till next Monday.”
    â€œHispanic gang members are Catholics, Ms. Mackay. They won’t harm a Catholic Bishop, and they’ll see to it that no one else hurts me, either. I’ll be safer in jail than walking from my rectory to my church.”
    â€œSee what I mean?”