The Mirror Apocalypse Read online

  “God’s creation,” he muttered under his breath. “All rushing to wrap up the business of the day.” He was glad that the thick glass window was designed to shut out much of the outside noise. All that he could hear from the hustle and bustle below was a muffled din. He turned and stared at the bed and the rumpled sheets, and wondered what the embarrassingly weird dream he had just had could portend. He was not born when Catholic Mass used to be in Latin. But they had Mass in Latin every Wednesday at the Seminary, though it was Mass of the 1973 Novus Ordo, not of the Tridentine brand. And, facing the wall! Why was he facing the wall instead of facing the people in the pews? The greatest puzzle of all was his utter nakedness at the altar. What was the meaning of it all? He knew that the Church taught that dreams fall among the categories of things that a good Catholic should not believe in. Though Joseph’s dream in the Old Testament is taught as having come true when his brothers bowed down to him in Egypt. And, another Joseph in the New Testament had a dream not to divorce the Mother of the Lord, which he believed and obeyed. “And it was credited to him as righteousness,” he muttered wryly, chuckled guiltily under his breath and shook himself out of his revelry to avoid being conflicted. This was not the time to get conflicted about Church doctrines. Maybe it’s only the Josephs who should deal with dreams. So, he decided to leave dreams to the Josephs of this world while occupying himself with matters of the moment. He wished, though, he could find his Joseph right then. Turning away from the window he sat down on the settee and picked up the phone to dial Stacy’s number at the Chancery.

  The phone was picked up from the other end on the second ring.

  “Chancery Legal Office. Donovan speaking,” came a woman’s voice.

  “Miss Donovan. Father Cletus,” he announced.

  “Oh, thank you, Father, for returning my call,” Stacy said, as though she was the one needing his favor. “I need to touch base with you to discuss a few things. The Cardinal told me he met with you this morning. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s correct,” Father McCarthy confirmed.

  “Okay, you already know what it’s all about,” she continued. “First, I want to assure you that it is nothing to worry about. We will soon get it fixed and everything will be alright. It’s a shame that some people would make a big deal out of such a minor thing. But that’s how it is and we must face it. It will be okay. I just need to ask you a few questions and get some papers prepared for the preliminary hearing.

  “I’m ready, Ms. Donovan,” Fr. McCarthy said, adjusting his weight on the settee to a more comfortable position.

  Just as Stacy Donovan had said, the questioning session was very brief. They had gone a little over ten minutes, and mostly about the background to the case, a little description of the Eshiets and their mindset, the relevance of the action of denying them Holy Communion to the specific canons in the Code of Canon Law, and the discussion process leading up to their action of choosing to use IVF. Fr. McCarthy was glad he could demonstrate his intellectual acumen in canon law, his pastoral knowledge of sacramental administration, and the deep theological reasoning behind his action. To his surprise, he discovered during the conversation that Stacy was not totally wet behind the ears as far as canon law was concerned. For instance, she asked to know whether the act of using IVF is an occult offense that could be treated in the internal forum or an offense that drew diriment impediment to the reception of the sacraments. She asked to know whether the penalty was ferende sententiae or latae sententiae, and whether he, Fr. McCarthy, had the proper authority to impose it within the community of worshippers that constituted his congregation. Did he warn the Eshiets of the consequences of their act if they chose to ignore his advice? Did he check to see that there was no other defaulter that was not similarly sanctioned? Fr. McCarthy was impressed by the thoroughness of Stacy’s inquiry. Stacy herself was all apologies for subjecting him to that kind of grilling.

  “These things are necessary for me to know to prepare my briefs for the preliminary hearing,” She had said. “I intend to make sure that this doesn’t go to trial. It is a minor thing that should be settled outside the court.”

  “I appreciate your invaluable help, Ms. Donovan,” Fr. McCarthy said.

  “You’re welcome, Father,” Stacy replied. “Don’t put too much on it. I’m only doing my job. I only wish this would be over in a short time so that you can relax and face your parish work in peace.”

  “Certainly, Ms. Donovan,” Fr. McCarthy said, amused at the unintended pun on the word ‘peace.’ “I’ll be glad once I can put this behind me.”

  “Good,” she replied. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions. Thank you for your time, Father.”

  “No, Ms. Donovan,” he replied. “I should be thanking you. Please, have a good afternoon.”

  “You, too.”

  The phone went dead on the other end.

  Fr. McCarthy continued holding the receiver for a few more seconds before setting it back in its cradle. For some reason, he felt thankfully relieved. The deep questions that Stacy asked and the professional way she did it while she kept assuring him at the same time gave him a lot of confidence and trust that she was going to handle everything. She was a doctor of jurisprudence in civil law, after all, and had a licentiate in Canon Law as well. He leaned back and looked at his watch. It was 4:51 p.m. He wondered whether he had any other engagement that evening. Heaving himself up, he crossed the room into his study for his desk diary. The only entry in pencil was a Hispanic couple that was scheduled for Confession at 4:30 p.m. His heart sank. They had probably come and waited for him till they got tired and decided to leave. He knew the couple very well. Sometimes they were so respectful to a fault. That might account for their not coming over to the rectory to ring the doorbell and inquire for him when they didn’t see him in the confessional, and he failed to show up. Feeling angry at himself, he buttoned up his shirt collar, pulled the white plastic strip into place and rushed out to the Church. To his great relief, he found them in the pews – man, wife, and three children – saying their prayers. He went over and apologized softly to them, beckoning them to come into the confessional. Once inside, he draped the purple stole over his neck, flipped on the green light switch to indicate that he was ready for the first penitent.

  The door to the penitent cubicle creaked open and shut with an annoying whine, and Fr. McCarthy made a mental note to ask the maintenance man to put some grease on the hinges.

  “Bless me, Padre, um…porque… um…soy un pecador…” a man’s voice said timidly from behind the screen, then went silent. After a couple of seconds, the voice came back, “hablas Espanol, Padre?”

  Fr. McCarthy had not prepared himself for a Spanish language penitent. He thought they spoke English as most of his Hispanic parishioners did. Feeling world-wearied he responded insipidly, “un poquito,” and regretted his response immediately.

  The man launched into rapid Spanish monologue, sometimes sobbing uncontrollably, at other times proceeding courageously, punctuating at intervals with, “lo siento, padre; lo siento mucho.” Fr. McCarthy’s Spanish wasn’t pitifully bad. He could understand a lot of it, but he was unable yet to keep pace with the owners of the language, especially when they rattled it off like nobody’s business. As he sat listening he tried but failed to figure out how he was going to advice his penitent. So, he picked up his usual prop card and resolved to just read the formula of absolution once the man would get done off-loading. ‘The good Lord is a polyglot. After all he created the many languages. So, he understands his penitent and will forgive him,’ Fr. McCarthy thought as he sat back waiting for the first sign from the man that he was done.

  Houston, Texas

  October 23, 2012

  STACY WAS IN COURT for the preliminary hearing. So, also, was Patrick Turner of the Turner and Stendhal Law Firm. They stood up as the judge came in and took her place on the bench.


  “Mr. Turner, your client is suing the Reverend gentleman, his pastor, for discrimination, stereotypical persecution, unwarranted public shaming, and emotional battery. Is that correct?” Judge Anieno Montgomery asked, primly, as judges tend to do when they are about to begin hearing a case.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Patrick Turner responded. He was bald and stocky in physique, and stood not more than five feet five. His baldness swept from one temple, over the top and crown of his head to the other temple, leaving a clump of severely thin hair atop his broad forehead, like a miniature island. The rest of the hair continued from behind one ear, across the back of his head, and terminated behind the other ear. It was primly cropped, well-oiled, and brushed into waves, as though to appease and dissuade it from completely disappearing and leaving a totally shorn pate in place. He wore a pin-striped designer suit and wreaked of a Giorgio Amani cologne, bearing with him all the aura of a successful and prosperous legal personage. Of course, Turner & Stendhal was a high-profile law firm, usually handling equally high-profile cases. And they made a fortune, too, on torts. Big pharmaceutical companies feared Turner & Stendhal. Healthcare systems reviewed their ethical policies frequently to avoid any lawsuit that might bring them face to face with Turner & Stendhal. Their prosecutorial tactics were ruthless. Stacy knew this, and she wondered why the firm should condescend to take such a minor case of a griping parishioner who was prevented from receiving Holy Communion. She found that odd, and became a little wary. From what Fr. McCarthy told her, she knew the Eshiets were highly successful as an obstetrician/gynecologist and a pediatrician. They probably made enough money to pay Turner & Stendhal in cash. She thought another reason might be because the suit named the Cardinal and the Archdiocese as co-defendants, the general, but unstated, opinion being that the Catholic Church had a lot of money. And, so, every lawyer would want to pounce on a suit that named a Catholic diocese. She watched with a tinge of disgust as Patrick Turner presented his case.

  “Would you please state your case fully, Mr. Turner?” Judge Montgomery prompted.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Patrick Turner replied. He cleared his throat and began. “Your Honor, on Sunday, May 17, 2012, my client, Dr. Edidiong Eshiet, a devout and well-meaning Catholic, a financial member in good standing with the Church, walked up to receive Holy Communion at a service in his Church. To the utter surprise and undeserved embarrassment of my client, he was publicly shamed and belittled….”

  “Objection!” Stacy called out, standing.

  “Hold, Mr. Turner,” Judge Montgomery ordered as she raised her hand to stop him. “What are you objecting to, Ms. Donovan?”

  “Your Honor, Counsel is trying to whip up your sentiments with his choice of words,” Stacy said, plaintively.

  “Let me be the judge of that, Ms. Donovan,” Judge Montgomery said, looking at Stacy with a very faint smile. “Also, there is no need to object to any of Mr. Turner’s statements since the case is not on trial yet. You will have the opportunity to present your own side, as well.” She continued, addressing Patrick Turner, “and may I state here that you do not impress me with how maudlin you sound, Mr. Turner. All that I need from you now are the bare facts of the case.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Patrick Turner demurred and continued. “My client, as I said, was denied Holy Communion in full view of the congregation, thereby subjecting him to humiliation and disgrace. As if that wasn’t enough, my client’s wife was subjected to the same public shaming by the Reverend Cletus McCarthy, in the same service. This act was mean, and constituted emotional battery of my client and his wife. Moreover, it was a glaringly arrogant act of discrimination against my client, as no other person in the same circumstances has ever been subjected to such treatment.” Stacy was almost half way up to protest before she remembered Judge Montgomery’s instruction and sat down again. Patrick Turner continued, “Accordingly, my client is asking for damages in the sum of five million dollars.

  “Five million dollars?!” Stacy shot up from her seat.

  “Sit down, Ms. Donovan,” Judge Montgomery ordered, mildly. “And may I remind you again that no interruption is necessary at this stage. You will have your turn to state your case. Is that clear, Ms. Donovan?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Stacy responded, grudgingly, and sat down again.

  “Mr. Turner, you may proceed,” Judge Montgomery said. “But, first, let me ask you a question: Are you serious about your client’s demand, or are you just kidding?”

  “Your Honor, at Turner & Stendhal, we don’t kid around,” Patrick Turner said, looking directly at Judge Montgomery, as if to let her know it was insulting to even think, let alone suggest, that he was kidding.

  “I didn’t think you do,” Judge Montgomery said, with a tinge of sternness. “And, hopefully, you’re not, because, considering the nature of the case, I do not see the reason behind your client’s bogus claim.”

  “Your Honor, this is a high-profile case, considering the personages involved. And the Catholic Archdiocese of Galveston-Houston is a highly powerful entity which….”

  “Counsel,” Judge Montgomery interrupted. “Save your lecture for the jury. I’m fully aware of the nature of the case and, though I am not Catholic, I know a lot about the Catholic Church. That is irrelevant to my concern, which is that your client is asking for a bogus amount which may not even be demanded in a homicide case.”

  “My client is a highly respectable…”

  “Mr. Turner, do you have any more facts to state?” Judge Montgomery sternly interrupted again.

  “Um…” Patrick Turner vacillated, then added, “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then you may assume your seat,” Judge Montgomery directed.

  Patrick Turner bowed sanctimoniously and took his seat, seemingly unruffled by the judge’s cutting remarks, but not looking too pleased, either. Judge Anieno Montgomery turned and nodded to Stacy, with that air of authority that said, ‘You may now proceed with my permission.’ Stacy stood up, buttoned and pulled down her jacket, and tugged at her skirt to straighten it. She jerked her head to one side and daintily pushed a lock of hair into place.

  “Your Honor,” she began in a matter-of-factly tone of voice. “I propose that you dismiss the suit brought against my client by Turner & Stendhal because it is a non-issue and, ipso facto, my client has no case to answer.” For a brief moment, Judge Montgomery looked somewhat perplexed at Stacy. Patrick Turner looked incredulous, too, shifting his gaze from Stacy to the judge and back to Stacy, and then back to the judge.

  “And what makes it a non-issue, Ms. Donovan?” Judge Montgomery asked, seemingly with a faint smile.

  “The Catholic Church, Your Honor, is an autonomous entity with its own rules and regulations to which members voluntarily commit themselves, agreeing to keep those rules, thereby implicitly accepting to be sanctioned accordingly, in case of a dereliction,” Stacy stated in one breath.

  “Objection!” Patrick Turner bolted upright in his seat.

  “Mr. Turner!’ Judge Montgomery called sternly, banging her gavel at the same time. “Only speak when you are permitted to do so. You had your turn, remember? If you have rebuttals or more facts to add, you will be given the chance to do so.”

  “But, Your Honor, the Catholic Church is not…,” he began, and was stopped abruptly by the loud cracking sound of the judge’s hammer smacking into the gavel. He took one look at Judge Montgomery’s visage and lowered himself slowly into his seat.

  “Miss Donovan, does that give the Catholic Church the privilege to discriminate?” Judge Montgomery asked.

  “No, Your Honor, it doesn’t,” Stacy responded, confidently.

  “Then why is the case a non-issue?” Judge Montgomery asked, more out of curiosity than for the need to get the facts.

  “Because membership in the Catholic Church is purely voluntary,” Stacy continued doggedly. “Once you consent to belong to the Church, y
ou also consent to be sanctioned if you break the rules.”

  “You are moving in circles, Ms. Donovan,” Judge Montgomery said, with faint impatience. “I fail to see where you are going with this argument.”

  “Your Honor, an analogy might help,” Stacy insisted.

  “Okay, let’s hear your analogy,” Judge Montgomery said, putting one elbow on the desk and resting her chin on her fist, slightly leaning to one side in the manner of a wise professor patiently waiting out an impertinent student who is trying to dispute a proven theory.

  “Take, for instance, the NFL,” Stacy warmed to the challenge. “The NFL is governed by rules and regulations that coaches, players, and referees are supposed to follow. If a player, coach, or referee breaks any of those rules, that person incurs appropriate penalties and sanctions. No one has ever sued the NFL for discrimination because he was sanctioned for breaking the rules because said rules and regulations are known to the defaulter beforehand. To litigate such penalties or sanctions would constitute a non-issue because the NFL would have no case to answer.”

  “Very impressive, Ms. Donovan,” Judge Montgomery said, nodding faintly in agreement. “I think I can grant you that.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Stacy said with a slight bow. “Based on the argument so advanced, I pray the court to dismiss the case as frivolous and lacking in merit.”

  “Your Honor!” Patrick Turner’s hand shot up in the air, like a town council voter.

  “You may speak, Mr. Turner,” Judge Montgomery obliged, graciously.

  He stood up, looking pleased for the first time, and even wearing a faint smile. “I agree perfectly with my learned opponent’s analogy. The unfortunate thing, however, is that she is laboring the obvious and, hence, her argument is beside the point.”