Wounded Souls

By Renny W. Hodgskin

When Monsignor Patrick Nixon assumes the role of bishop for his California diocese in May 2006, he also accepts responsibility for resolving 161 lawsuits alleging despicable acts of Clerical Sexual Abuse. Unable to rely upon the former bishop’s insight, knowledge, and experience - for he now lies in a coma after suffering a major stroke surely prompted by the stress of the misconduct litigation - acting bishop Nixon prays for strength and guidance as he tries to understand the myriad financial, legal, and insurance issues. His hope to resolve the claims and compensate the legitimately injured victims is frustrated by a powerful personal injury litigator whose true objective appears to be the destruction of the diocese, an unfriendly judicial system that penalizes apology and a hard-nosed insurance executive who has denied all coverage and liability for the abuse claims. Assisting the acting bishop, however, is the newly hired diocesan risk manager, Bethany Griffin, a spiritually challenged former insurance executive. With jury trials looming and time to settle rapidly running out, it seems only a miracle can save the diocese from devastating verdicts - and a miracle is what’s also required if Bethany is to overcome a tragic past that defies comprehension and have her faith in God restored.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728338446

Renny W. Hodgskin

Renny Hodgskin is a semi-retired insurance / reinsurance claim executive with extensive experience in long tail casualty claims. Hodgskin has been married to his high school sweetheart for forty-nine years, is the father of six, the grandfather of nine and resides in the bucolic ‘rolling hills and horse country’ of northwestern New Jersey. Recently he earned a Certificate in Catholic Evangelization and is currently the Evangelization Coordinator for his parish. Wounded Souls is his first book.

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© 2020 Renny W. Hodgskin. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/16/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3845-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3846-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3844-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

To my wife, Pam, who

begins every day, especially since 2010, by refusing to think a thought or move a muscle until she is satisfied all my needs are taken care of—living proof that an ordeal is not an ordeal unless it is endured alone. When no one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong, you give me hope and consolation, you give me strength to carry on; and you’re always there to lend a hand in everything I do, that’s the wonder, the wonder of you.

And to Cordelia, your tutelage of my spiritual development has been immeasurable. Our friendship was far too brief, but your inspiration continues on. I hope you’re pleased with what I’ve done.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Part I The Diocese

Chapter 1 Monsignor Patrick R. Nixon

Chapter 2 The Interview

Chapter 3 Kevin Nave, Esquire

Chapter 4 The CSA Litigation

Chapter 5 Michael J. Williams, CFO

Chapter 6 Thomas D. Touchdown Blair

Chapter 7 Man and Woman

Part II Bethany

Chapter 8 Risk Management

Chapter 9 Rudy Kos

Chapter 10 Julie

Chapter 11 The Allister Superfund Site

Chapter 12 Corcoran State Prison

Part III The Liability

Chapter 13 Conflicting Strategies

Chapter 14 CSA Task Force

Chapter 15 Appealing Melanie H.

Chapter 16 Superfund Liability

Part IV The Defense

Chapter 17 Bread and Fish

Chapter 18 Can’t Settle—Must Defend

Chapter 19 The Defense

Chapter 20 Bethany’s Rant

Chapter 21 Liability Escalates—Hope Wanes

Part V The Insurance

Chapter 22 John Marshall, URICO EVP

Chapter 23 The Scratchboard Settlement

Chapter 24 URICO Meeting

Chapter 25 URICO’S Offer

Chapter 26 Salvation

Chapter 27 Forgiveness

Chapter 28 Policy Limits

Chapter 29 Counteroffer

Part VI The Plan

Chapter 30 Disclosure

Chapter 31 Insurance Bad Faith

Chapter 32 The Uninsured Exposure

Chapter 33 Bethany’s Plan

Chapter 34 Perfection

Part VII Hardball

Chapter 35 Financial Pressure

Chapter 36 Property Ownership

Chapter 37 The Deal

Chapter 38 Mandatory Settlement Conference

Chapter 39 Inflexibility

Part VIII Feeding the Multitudes

Chapter 40 Joint and Several Liability

Chapter 41 Strange Vacation

Chapter 42 Emergency Settlement Conference

Chapter 43 Money Isn’t Everything

Chapter 44 Reconciliation

Chapter 45 Abundance

About the Author

PROLOGUE

The Accident

J ames W. Cowley stared at the liquor bottles stacked high in front of the huge mirror and behind the bottles, the reflection of him sitting at the gleaming mahogany counter of O’Donnell’s Bar & Grill. After catching the barmaid’s eye—a middle-aged, dark-haired woman wearing a short-sleeve, too-tight pullover T-shirt—he nudged his shot glass toward the center of the bar and tried hard to maintain a clear voice. He mumbled, ’Nother please.

The woman smiled, filled the shot glass with the cheap house scotch, and removed a few bills from the stack on the bar. Cowley looked down at the glass, then up to the woman’s face, and then down to her substantial breasts pressing against the thin material of her T-shirt. Her nipples were prominently outlined, and with a nod of appreciation, the twenty-four-year-old former US Marine downed his third scotch and chased the burning liquid with several gulps of cold draft beer. As he waited for the alcohol to work its magic, Cowley’s thoughts returned to the events that brought him to this troubling point, a point in a life he had thought—until a few weeks ago—was pretty damn good.

Following his high school graduation in 1996, Jim Cowley accepted a football scholarship to the local university, but after two years of limited playing time, he became frustrated and quit both football and college. Jim Cowley craved action, and regardless of how enjoyable the action might be visually, the spectator role could never satisfy him. Sitting on a bench, watching others work and sweat, gave him a rash. So, following his sophomore year, he enlisted in the USMC.

By his fourth year of active service, he had achieved the rank of sergeant, pay grade E-5, a notable accomplishment in such a brief period. Cowley had impressed all his US Marine Corps superiors since boot camp, and as his July 29, 2002, expiration of active service (EAS) date approached, Cowley decided he wanted to stay in. Four years just weren’t enough, and the terrorist attacks committed against the United States the year before had sharpened his interest. He loved being a US Marine, and his unit—the First Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF)—was slated to lead the imminent invasion of Iraq. He desperately wanted to be part of it. Unfortunately, his fiancée of one year held a contrary view.

That was an understatement, reflected Cowley bitterly as he casually watched the barmaid serve and flirt with other customers at the crowded bar. It was a late summer Saturday evening, and the air-conditioned tavern was busy. A dining room with a dozen occupied tables and booths was on the other side of the bar, and two waitresses vied for the barmaid’s attention. As Cowley watched her fill an order left by one of the servers, she glanced over at him. He pointed to his empty—again—shot glass and beer mug. With a profile-enhancing arch of the back and what Cowley was sure was intended to be a sexy smile, she nodded in return.

For two months prior to Cowley’s EAS, his sergeant major had been trying to persuade him to reenlist. Cowley wasn’t the one who needed persuading, however. His fiancée, Jennifer Scott, wouldn’t consider being the wife of a career marine, going so far as to tell Cowley the engagement was off if he reenlisted. Essentially, Cowley had to choose between his fiancée and the Marine Corps. Her adamancy, Cowley was obligated to acknowledge, was not without merit, considering the daily headlines of the previous few months.

By April 2002, everyone knew the United States and her allies in the war on terror were preparing to invade Iraq and disarm Saddam Hussein. According to published reports, a consensus had emerged among senior administration and military officials that there was little chance for a military coup to unseat Hussein from within, and plans had therefore focused on a ground invasion, perhaps in the fall after the summer heat had passed.

In early July 2002, a highly classified military planning document was published by the New York Times reporting the ground invasion would consist of as many as 250,000 American marines and soldiers attacking Iraq from three directions and multiple countries. According to the Times article, the First MEF was already engaged in mock assault drills in the desert outside Camp Pendleton. Cowley, of course, could confirm that part of the news report because the exercises had begun before his July 29, 2002, USMC discharge. But Jennifer’s ultimatum had been nonnegotiable. Cowley had served his country, she argued, fulfilled his obligation, and done his duty! Why risk death or injury, to say nothing about a lengthy separation, by doing more when it wasn’t required? Cowley had no good answer to Jennifer’s argument other than that was precisely why he wanted to stay a marine—to risk death or injury for a chance to be part of a military invasion force that would topple the most notorious dictator the world had seen in half a century and—following the terrorist attack of 9/11—a recognized threat to the security of the United States.

Big Tits brought over a cold mug of beer and the bottle of scotch. She refilled Cowley’s shot glass, and misinterpreting his body language, leaned forward, and said, Don’t cry over spilt milk, sweetie. A good-looking guy like you shouldn’t have a problem finding someone else.

Cowley looked at her. She smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. However, she was prettier than when he first entered the bar and, smiling to himself, thought that—with another couple of scotches—she’d be a babe. He grinned at her. Thash’ not my prob’em, gorgeous. But if it becomes one, where d’ya s’pose I should look?

Big Tits straightened, and with a wink, she said, Let’s discuss that when you decide to look, shall we?

Cowley nodded absently and returned to his ruminations. He had listened to Jennifer and acquiesced to her wishes. With a heart heavier than he had ever experienced, he ended his active service as a marine on July 29, less than a month ago. Then, suddenly, Jennifer broke off the engagement anyway. Cowley was stunned and confused. The breakup was completely unexpected, and he couldn’t understand it. He begged Jennifer for an explanation, promised to finish college and get a good paying job. He promised her everything he thought she wanted, but something was different. Something had changed, and he had no idea what it was or how to get it back. Cowley emitted a low groan, lifted the freshly filled shot glass to his lips, and poured another scotch down his throat.

Fuckin’ bitch, he slurred aloud.

Excuse me? Big Tits looked back at Cowley with raised eyebrows.

Nothin’. I was … wasn’t talkin’ to you.

It didn’t take Cowley long to realize he was free to rejoin the Corps, proving the old adage, he thought ruefully, that every cloud had a silver lining. In fact, as the excitement began to build at the prospect of returning to his old unit, the pain and confusion of the broken engagement abated. He convinced himself that his destiny lay in the sands of Iraq, not the erratic arms of an unpredictable woman. But then came the devastating news received just that afternoon—he couldn’t return in time to participate in the invasion. Cowley was distraught. He had spoken to his sergeant major who told him the First Marine Expeditionary Force would apparently be deployed to the gulf within days in preparation for a fall invasion. Cowley could never complete the six-week reenlistment process in time to rejoin his unit before they deployed, and if he couldn’t serve with his unit, he would be a spectator for the invasion of Iraq, the defeat of the Iraqi military machine, and the removal of Saddam Hussein. True, he thought, there were some indications the invasion could be postponed until the following spring, but as Cowley knew—by God, as the whole world knew—this president was damn serious about disarming Saddam Hussein. If he didn’t have to wait another half year, he wouldn’t. In fact, just two months earlier, in a speech delivered at West Point, President Bush had said, If we wait for threats to fully materialize, we will have waited too long. Damn! Maybe he’d reenlist in the Army. Yeah, that was it! He’d call tomorrow and look into that. Would they waive boot camp? He didn’t know, but it damn sure was worth looking into. He just had to be part of this invasion!

***

Two hours later, a little after nine o’clock, Cowley fumbled with his keys, finally getting the right one into the ignition of his 1995, dark green Ford pickup truck. He burped loudly and allowed his head to fall against the top of the steering wheel. Damn, he was tired. But the ache in his chest had diminished somewhat. His mission had been successful. He had drowned his sorrow, dulled his anger, and devised a plan. Heartache and disappointment had been replaced with hope and anticipation.

He looked up, and with his head leaning to one side, he tried to stop the outside world from spinning around him. He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, burped again, and fired up the truck’s powerful engine.

He drove away from the parking lot of O’Donnell’s Bar & Grill to the entrance ramp of the interstate that would take him to his home, a short two exits away. On the interstate, as he accelerated up to cruising speed, he realized he was in the left lane. Strange, he thought, a little confused. The entrance ramp accessed the interstate in the right lane, not the left. What the hell? While he tried to figure out the mystery, he moved over to his right. He didn’t want to exceed the speed limit and was quite content to travel in the slow lane the short distance to his destination.

As he entered the right lane, his confusion deepened as he became aware of additional traffic to his right. Through eyes that for some reason refused to focus, he peered across a narrow expanse and noticed several cars traveling in the same direction as he was. How could that be? Traffic to his right when he was in the slow lane? Something wasn’t right. In fact, something was terribly wrong. He returned his gaze forward and directly in front of him, rapidly bearing down on him, were a pair of headlights. Not taillights—headlights!

The realization of what he had done struggled to penetrate his alcohol-impaired brain, finally hitting him a split second before the vehicle hurtling toward him did. His final thought in that split second, the last thought he would have before his life—and the lives of so many others—would forever so catastrophically change was, Shit, that wasn’t the entrance ramp—it was the exit ramp.

***

The devastating accident occurred on Saturday August 24, 2002. A little less than three months later, on November 12, 2002, the day after Veteran’s Day, twenty-four-year-old former US Marine James W. Cowley appeared in the County Criminal Courthouse. With his head hung low, he pleaded no contest to five counts of aggravated vehicular homicide and one count of aggravated vehicular assault. He was found guilty of driving the wrong way on the interstate and causing the crash that killed a father and his four children—ages seven, five, three, and seven months—and seriously injuring their mother. Cowley had a blood-alcohol level of .254, more than three times the state’s legal driving limit of .08. The thirty-six-year-old wife, mother, and lone survivor in the automobile Cowley struck, still recovering from her injuries and unable to appear at the indictment, was present at the sentencing three weeks later. She had prepared a victim impact statement that was read before a hushed court. Her description of the horror her life had become left not a dry eye in the courthouse, including those of the judge.

She then concluded with Psalm 88:

My soul is filled with troubles. You plunge me into the bottom of the pit, into the darkness of the abyss. Why do you reject my soul, LORD, and hide your face from me? I have borne your terrors and I am made numb. Your wrath has swept over me; your terrors have destroyed me. All day they surge round like a flood; from every side, they encircle me. Because of you my only friend is darkness.

Cowley also made a statement in which he apologized and begged the woman to forgive him. In his statement, addressing her, he said, In my mind and spirit, I will be serving a life sentence for the pain I have caused. I am so sorry for what I have done. I beg of you, please forgive me. The woman never looked at him and never indicated any willingness to forgive. In fact, in her victim impact statement, she had included a plea for the judge to impose the maximum sentence allowed by law. And he did.

For each of the five counts of aggravated vehicular homicide, James W. Cowley was sentenced to seven years in maximum-security state prison and four years for the one count of aggravated vehicular assault. Calling Cowley a dangerous man, the judge ordered the sentences to be served consecutively and without opportunity for parole—a total of thirty-nine years in prison. Cowley would not be a free man until he was sixty-three.

One week after the sentencing, the owners of O’Donnell’s Bar & Grill were cited by the state’s investigative unit for selling intoxicating liquor to an intoxicated person, improper advertising, and encouraging excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages. The liquor license was revoked, and the bar was closed. Three months later, the owner declared bankruptcy.

And the anticipated fall 2002 invasion of Iraq, which the young James Crowley was so troubled would occur without him, never transpired. It was postponed by President Bush until March 2003. Needing only six weeks, Cowley could have had six months.

PART I

THE DIOCESE

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CHAPTER 1

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Monsignor Patrick R. Nixon

M onsignor Patrick R. Nixon, the new vicar general and moderator of the curia for the Roman Catholic Diocese of Renawalla County, California, frowned at the thick brown folder on his desk. In all his years, in all his challenges, in all his confrontations, he had never felt so lost. When Bishop Joseph Menusa asked him to accept the assignment, it was with the understanding that he was to assist the bishop and give the diocese a new public face as it tried to conclude the most vexing malevolence it had ever confronted. The youthful monsignor had anticipated the legal and financial challenges, but was completely unprepared for the emotional turmoil factual intimacy with this crisis would inflict.

The clergy sexual abuse (CSA) litigation had monopolized the bishop’s time for four years. By early 2006, the constant drumbeat of negative publicity and deteriorating public opinion finally convinced him to delegate the CSA responsibility to someone else. Bishop Menusa had become a polarizing figure, and his involvement tended to inflame anger rather than narrow differences. The CSA nightmare, on the surface no different in the Diocese of Renawalla County than in many others throughout the country, was exacerbated by the California state legislature, an unsympathetic judge, and the bishop’s own style of hardball litigation tactics.

Monsignor Patrick Nixon was forty-two years old, rather young for a monsignor but near record-setting young for a vicar general and moderator of the curia for such a vibrant and growing Roman Catholic diocese. The monsignor was tall, slender, and athletic, and he was generally referred to by the female faithful as Father What-a-Waste.

At the time of his diocesan appointment, the monsignor had been the beloved pastor at the parish community of Saint Monica, taking that position after resolving a difficult issue threatening turmoil and disruption five years earlier. Monsignor Nixon’s predecessor at Saint Monica’s had stolen $1.4 million from the parish, giving it away to whoever asked for it. With extraordinary brilliance and compassion, the reverend successfully resolved the matter without an embarrassing criminal prosecution or undue publicity. The achievement earned him the diocesan recognition and gratitude that ultimately resulted in his current appointment by Bishop Menusa. He also was named an honorary prelate to His Holiness, Pope John Paul II, and granted the title monsignor.

The diocesan gain, however, was clearly the parish’s loss, at least so believed the parishioners of Saint Monica, whose love and loyalty Monsignor Nixon had so thoroughly captured. Parishioners would regularly call the parish office to find out which of the six weekend Masses the popular priest would celebrate and then fill that mass to capacity. His homilies were inspiring and always humorous. His manner charmed the congregation, not merely the adults but equally important, probably more so, the impressionable teenagers. He was always available, always visible, and always smiling. He hated to leave the parish, and the parish was devastated to see him go. But with the diocese on the precipice of financial catastrophe, its embattled bishop vilified in the mainstream media on almost a daily basis, and both staff and community emotionally distraught from the unending trauma of the clergy misconduct litigation—the preferred nomenclature employed by the bishop—Monsignor Nixon concluded he had no choice but to respond to the bishop’s entreaty to oversee a solution and assist in ushering in a desperately needed spiritual renaissance.

With uncharacteristic alacrity, the bishop expedited all arrangements, and on the last day of April 2006, the third Sunday of Easter in the Roman Catholic Church’s liturgical calendar, Monsignor Nixon said goodbye to the parishioners of Saint Monica and assumed his new diocesan responsibilities. As the second-highest official in the diocese, with all division heads reporting to him and with the specific mandate from the bishop to restore trust and tranquility throughout the diocese, on Monday, May 1, 2006, Vicar General Monsignor Patrick R. Nixon, praying for strength and guidance, began the task of concluding the most miserable chapter in diocesan history. But he would not, as it turned out, do it with the benefit of the bishop’s insight, knowledge, and experience.

On the afternoon of May 26, fewer than four weeks after the monsignor’s arrival at the diocese, Bishop Menusa suffered a stroke and lay comatose in the Renawalla County Medical Center. The weight and worry of the misconduct litigation against the diocese had taken an unprecedented toll on the bishop. On April 17, the US Supreme Court refused to consider a case he had fought for nearly four years. The case involved confidential counseling and personnel records kept by the diocese on two defrocked priests facing criminal trials for molesting children. Forcing the disclosure of such confidential records, the so-called C Files, he argued, violated the separation of church and state, allowing excessive government entanglement in the affairs of the church.

In September 2004, a California trial court judge decided against Bishop Menusa on the issue of formation privilege, but he adamantly continued with his refusal to release the documents and defiantly filed an appeal. In July 2005, the California Supreme Court agreed with the trial court; again, Bishop Menusa was ordered to produce the records. In the decision, the court said that, as important as religious freedom was, there had to be an accommodation for the rules of civil society, particularly in the protection of children. Angry at the unsettling implication that only the government was concerned about protecting children, Bishop Menusa again appealed, this time to the US Supreme Court. For the Diocese of Renawalla County, the bruising, highly public, four-year campaign to prevent the disclosure of the personnel records finally came to end when the nation’s highest court decided not to hear the bishop’s appeal, leaving in place the California Supreme Court’s 2005 ruling that the subpoenaed records had to be released.

Because of the April Supreme Court decision, a skeptical and openly hostile media began accusing him of stonewalling and a cover-up.

There must be consequences, one editorial proclaimed, for culpable prelates as well as for abusive priests. But the straw that broke the camel’s back—or perhaps more precisely, the bursting blood vessel that broke the bishop’s brain—occurred when the news organizations suggested those consequences should include criminal prosecution. The Renawalla County district attorney accused Bishop Menusa of engaging in a pattern of obstruction, and when respected public opinion polls reported overwhelming belief that the bishop protected child molesters and knowingly helped them evade justice, it just became too much for the seventy-four-year-old, soft-spoken, and now heartbroken vicar of Christ. The small explosion occurring deep within the bishop’s brain on May 26 forever relieved him of further involvement and provided eternal protection from recrimination, guilt, and regret. Officially, the prognosis was uncertain. However, Monsignor Nixon labored under no illusions, knowing that even if the bishop were to survive, and even assuming survival would miraculously include the retention of all faculties, recuperation would extend well into the bishop’s retirement years. A return to active diocesan leadership simply could not be expected.

By May’s end, Monsignor Nixon knew he faced the tragic CSA litigation alone.

With a deep sigh, the young monsignor and now acting bishop for the Catholic Diocese of Renawalla County removed two manila files from the thick accordion folder on his desk. One contained a statistical overview of the crisis, and the other, the diocese’s most recent financial report. Both were marked with his handwritten notations. As he read yet again the statistical overview, the sordid story of sin and transgression broke his heart and turned his stomach anew: 161 victims of clergy sexual abuse were accusing fifty-five diocesan priests of molestation dating from the 1960s and continuing through the mid-1980s. The heartbreaking stories told of priests who befriended the families of their victims, visited their homes, and became dinner guests. Parents who were pleased by the attention given to their children—priests who were nice guys, pillars of the Catholic community, respected and admired by all. Children who were raised never to question the clergy’s authority, and when the abuse began, became victims who were trapped and unable to break free, emotionally subject to the power of the priest.

Monsignor Nixon angrily shook his head, closed the file, and directed his attention to another document. He requested the diocesan financial report for 2005 from the diocese’s chief financial officer, Michael J. Williams. The monsignor anticipated greater detail describing the investment portfolio and the properties owned by the diocese, but nowhere in the twelve-page report were those specifics elaborated on or itemized.

Given the threat represented by the CSA litigation against the diocese, fully understanding the financial situation was crucially important. Insurance should ordinarily be responsible for all or most of any settlement, thought the monsignor ruefully. But the insurer for the diocese, the Urban and Rural Insurance Company (URICO), the only insurer the diocese had from its founding shortly after World War II until the mid-1980s, had unconscionably walked away from its obligations. Abandoned the diocese in its greatest time of need!

As the thick file Bishop Menusa had amassed covering his meetings and correspondence with the insurance company made excruciatingly clear, URICO had refused to acknowledge coverage or agree to the indemnification of the Diocese of Renawalla County with respect to any of the liabilities it faced from the misconduct litigation. The conclusion, both painful and obvious, was equally clear: any settlement made by the diocese would have to be self-funded. And as difficult as that would be, well, the crisis had to end. It is as simple as that, thought the vicar general and acting bishop. The terrible scandal had to be relegated to history and eliminated from the future. But where could the diocese get the money? More important, how much would it cost? Five million? Ten million? More?

The financial report raised a number of questions in the monsignor’s mind. He was anxious to discuss them with the diocesan CFO. He looked at his watch; it was 9:15 a.m. He was scheduled to meet with Kevin Nave, the attorney representing the diocese in the CSA litigation, at 10:30 a.m. and then Michael Williams for lunch in the diocesan dining room at 1:00 p.m. But first was yet another interview with a candidate applying for the newly created staff position of diocesan director of risk management and insurance services. This was the fourth candidate Monsignor Nixon would interview, and he promised himself it would be the last. The previous three applicants were all qualified, and he would force himself to choose one.

Monsignor Nixon, normally a decisive person with well-honed personnel skills, hung his head, irritated he was having so much difficulty deciding this issue. As in many—if not most—dioceses, the Diocese of Renawalla County had not been particularly proactive when it came to providing the tools and resources necessary for a parish to have state-of-the-art protection against the perils of nature and the accidents of man. Monsignor Nixon didn’t know exactly what his newly established centralized insurance office would look like. He wanted the successful candidate, who would report directly to him and not to Mike Williams, who as CFO had previously been responsible for all diocesan insurance services, to tell him what he needed and then proceed to build it.

Monsignor Nixon realized his intention to create the Office of Risk Management and Insurance Services and staff it with a director reporting directly to him was, in no small part, due to his discomfort with the litigation strategy directed by Kevin Nave in the CSA litigation. Attorneys, trained and experienced in the ways of confrontational litigation, recommended tactics that were oftentimes inappropriate for a church. Monsignor Nixon was convinced the DoRC needed someone with a fresh perspective, unchained to the decisions and strategies of the past.

However, the monsignor’s need for a centralized insurance office and discomfort with the CSA litigation strategy didn’t fully explain his difficulty in selecting a qualified candidate. He was deliberately withholding final judgment on Nave until he met with him and acquired a deeper understanding of all the legal technicalities. But it was more than that. With the bishop unavailable now, and for the foreseeable future, perhaps forever, he needed someone he could trust without question and someone who could face strong personalities without collapse. Monsignor Nixon also had come to believe the business practices in the Diocese of Renawalla County needed to be shaken up, which, he knew, would not be easily or readily accepted by the status quo, especially Mike Williams. The successful applicant to this new position had to be administratively qualified and able to withstand the predictably volatile repercussions. The previous three candidates were close, but none had sufficiently inspired the monsignor’s confidence.

Monsignor Nixon checked his watch again. He had fifteen minutes before the final applicant would arrive. Looking out the window, he took the time to pray the Rosary and briefly reflected on the priesthood and the words of the greatest Catholic pulpit orator of the nineteenth century, Fr. Jean Baptiste Lacordaire, who described being a priest thusly:

To live in the midst of the world without wishing its pleasures; to be a member of each family, yet belonging to none, to share all sufferings; to penetrate all secrets; to heal all wounds; to go from men to God and offer Him their prayers; to return from God to men to bring pardon and hope; to have a heart of fire for charity and a heart of bronze for chastity; to teach and to pardon, console and bless always—what a glorious life!

CHAPTER 2

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The Interview

"I am curious about something you said earlier, something about misgivings . What did you mean by that?"

Oh, nothing really, the monsignor’s visitor replied slowly. I just never thought I would be working for the Catholic Church. Practical financial issues seem, well, incompatible with spirituality. I suppose I am just wary about how to combine the two.

Monsignor Nixon smiled. The applicant he had been interviewing since she was ushered into his office thirty minutes earlier by Michael Williams was an attractive woman in her late thirties or very early forties, whose impressive appearance reflected color and seriousness. The color came from an unblemished Southern California complexion, framed by chestnut shoulder-length hair and brightened by startlingly clear blue eyes and perfect lips. The seriousness, thought the monsignor, perhaps more akin to mystery or sadness, came from her dark and decisive eyebrows, a steady and unblinking gaze, and an infrequent but striking smile that revealed straight, even white teeth. Her name was Bethany Griffin. Her résumé, which the monsignor held in front of him, said she possessed an undergraduate degree in business administration, a master’s degree in finance and until four years earlier, she had been an assistant underwriter in the Corporate Risk Department of Essential Insurance Company, a large multi-line California-based insurer. Prior to that, she had held positions in claim administration and financial accounting.

The résumé was silent as to any employment subsequent to 2002, and the acting bishop had noted the multiyear gap with a red question mark. However, considering the modest salary the diocese was able to offer, her education and experience placed her well above the vicar general’s most optimistic expectations and well ahead of the other three applicants. But it was her appearance, especially those captivating blue eyes and deliberate demeanor, that told the monsignor this woman was special.

Most everyone else around here has a problem with that too, replied the vicar general, still smiling. He and the applicant were sitting in two heavily cushioned armchairs in front of the vicar general’s large mahogany desk. Monsignor Nixon had turned them both slightly so that the applicant and he were half facing each other. Between them was a small table on which rested several recent editions of the diocesan weekly newspaper. Also on the table were the monsignor’s water bottle and a glass of unsweetened iced tea the applicant had accepted. It’s a little like doctors worrying about money when everyone wants to believe their only concern should be the patient’s health. But doctors must pay the rent and buy tongue depressors, right? Jesus tells us to sell everything, give the proceeds to the poor, and then follow him. Unfortunately, though, like the doctors, the churches ability to do his work depends on our ability to pay the bills.

Monsignor Nixon paused, looked down at the file on his lap and was about to probe the four-year gap in Bethany’s employment history when she interrupted his thought. But Jesus also said no one could serve two masters without hating one and despising the other, didn’t he? You cannot serve both God and money, right?

The monsignor looked up, hesitated for a brief moment, and chuckled, Indeed. And he threw the moneychangers out of his Father’s house. But he also said, ‘Give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’ He stared at the attractive, trying to determine whether the look in her eyes reflected challenge or curiosity. He couldn’t decide, but he again marveled at their brilliance of blue and unwavering steadiness. Slightly distracted, but still smiling, he continued, So, other than the separation of church and mammon, there’s nothing else that causes you concern?

Bethany hesitated a moment before replying, No.

Good, replied the monsignor, refocusing on the issue before him. This diocese needs to strengthen its risk-management capabilities, and we need to do it quickly. It would appear your experience is, um, well, just what the doctor ordered. Monsignor Nixon paused, hoping in futility for a smile, even a slight one. After a moment, he leaned forward slightly and in a slightly lower voice said, But it would be best to hire someone who supported the church and her mission. Wouldn’t you agree?

Of course, Bethany replied evenly, returning the vicar general’s steady gaze with her own. As I said earlier, I grew up a Catholic, and I come from a devout Catholic family. I attended and graduated from a Catholic elementary school, a Catholic high school, and a Catholic university.

I see you live quite close to the chancery. Is this your parish?

No, replied Bethany.

Which parish do you attend?

Monsignor, she replied after a moment, I haven’t been attending Mass regularly. I used to belong to Sacred Heart, but I haven’t been there in years.

Why?

It’s complicated, Monsignor.

Well, let’s see if we can simplify it a little. Is your lack of attendance time related?

Time related?

"Yes. Are you too busy to