Title: The Conscience of a Priest

Author: Birgitt Schuknecht

Fandom: due South

Rating: PG

Pairing: none

Category: drama

Disclaimer: The characters used in the following story are not mine. I do not make any money out of this. It's written for fun and for the fans of the show.

Spoilers: inspired by "The Deal" (sequel to "Conscience of a King")

By Birgitt Schuknecht.

I'm fully aware of the fact that I am not normal. After all, I am a priest. In the Catholic church I should add. People treat me as such. They see me as a priest, not as a man.

My parish is St. Michael's in Chicago. It's an Italo-American neighbourhood. Loud and boisterous, full of life and love, full of heat and energy. People help each other, they care for their families and for their friends and neighbours. And they do it in a natural, easy-going way. That makes it all the harder for me to accept that they treat me different.

When people meet their friends on the streets of the parish they hug and kiss each other, smiling radiantly. If they are cross with each other this will be settled in a lively argument, maybe even with a little of a fight (men and women and children alike, there's no difference here). But all their arguments start and end like lightning.

When people meet their priest, Father Behan, that's me, they hold back their temper, to say the least. They are polite and nice to me, even smile at me. Still it's different from their normal behaviour. If I were their cousin or the neighbour's son women would hug me and kiss me on both cheeks, the men would do the same. Italians. Children would hug my legs or cling to my arms, depending on their height. I feel far too young to be treated with serious respect. Sometimes I wonder if I appear to them as an invalid, to be treated carefully. Some of the parish members even whisper when they speak to me and I have to strain my ears in order to understand what they are talking about. On those occasions I want to look back over my shoulder just to check that the Angel of Death is not standing behind me.

Inviting friends to dinner is a very appreciated pastime in this neighbourhood, practised and cherished by all. No wonder the dining rooms are the centre of family life, despite television as the major threat to social life in American households. To dine with the family is still the major event of the day. And the custom to invite friends and relatives as well is part of their Italian heritage of hospitality. Of course this hospitality does extend to the affairs of the church and I cannot complain about a lack of invitations. But my presence on those occasions seems to change the atmosphere completely. Adults and children dress up for the occasion, feeling uncomfortable during the meal. Children are told to be silent and are only allowed to speak if they're asked something. The men seem to get strangled by their ties and collars and the women sweat over their plates, fearing that their delicacies might displease me. Even if they did, I would never say a thing beside that everything was perfect, delicious, wonderful - you get the picture. I do know the pains those people are taking when inviting me for dinner. Playing along is the least I can do for them.

But it does not come as a surprise that the relationship between the parish members and me is somewhat strained. I still - after five years working here - feel like a visitor who is as glad as his hosts when he gets out of the door. Sometimes I can hear the sigh of relief on the other side of the door when I leave a house after another tedious invitation. And all I can do is suppress a sigh myself. Normally I turn it into a prayer to my God.

Apart from the special treatment I get from the parish members there exists another reason to turn to God, praying for guidance. And this second reason is a far more serious, even a bitter one. That shows in the tone of my prayers quite clearly. Complaining about one of the parish woman eyeing me with eyes like a lioness while I taste her quite unyielding dessert is definitely of a good-humoured nature. After all such experiences turn out to be quite funny. On that special occasion I finally managed to get down the slice of chocolate cake, complimented Mrs. Narelli about it in enthusiastic tones, relieved that I survived the dinner. In consequence I ended up with the rest of the cake, wrapped up for me by the beaming woman. The cake survived for about three months in the compost of the cemetery, after I tried to feed it to the birds in the backyard of my little house, driving them from the scenery for a whole week. No, no, in comparison to my other problem events like that are just a... piece of cake.

You won't believe it when you observe the normal life in the neighbourhood, that there is a darker side to it. On the surface everything is perfect and like heaven on earth, a small paradise in the middle of a big town like Chicago. People call it the windy city, but that wind is nothing against the cold and bitter storms you find beneath the surface of the parish of St. Michael's. And when I pray to God to sustain me in those storms I feel alone and desperate.

I can sum up the reason for my bitter feelings in one word, or even better still, in one name. Zuko. Alfredo Zuko is a wealthy and influential business man, respected by the whole Chicagoan society. He is generous to the church, a trustful partner for his business associates, a good friend and neighbour for the people in his neighbourhood and a loving father for his two children. People have a problem - they will turn to Alfredo Zuko for solutions. And they will get solutions. Not always those they'd hoped for, but then - nobody is perfect. Not even Alfredo Zuko. Besides being the loving father, the good friend and neighbour, the trustful business partner he is - above all - the head of a powerful crime organisation. Everyone knows about it, everyone acts upon it - everyone. And that includes myself. I accept it as an unchangeable fact. I try to help his victims, discreetly, not wishing to anger the powerful man who would be able to destroy everything what St. Michael's means to this parish, a man who would not hesitate to use his power.

It was the first lesson that my predecessor, Father Antonio, taught me when I came to the parish. Alfredo Zuko, like his father before him - sets the rules and the church tries to operate as best it can in those boundaries. I was young and inexperienced five years ago, but I am a swift learner. And Alfredo Zuko made sure that I got enough examples to learn from. To learn about his power, his connections he had in Chicago and the parish, and his determination when it came to what he thought to be his rights. I had to make up my mind in this matter. There were two alternatives I could chose from. First, I could leave, ask the bishop for a relocation to another parish. Second, I could stay, accepting Zuko's rules and trying to do my best to be a priest as good as possible for the people here. Father Antonio had been the priest for over fifty years and we talked long hours about my decision. His courage and persistence impressed me, despite his 85 years he was still a fighter, tired but not defeated. Not by life, nor by the Zukos. Manipulated, threatened, beaten, but not defeated. I was proud that he had the faith in me that I could possibly follow in his footsteps or even replace him. The pride won over the fear and I chose to stay.

The most frightening aspect of the Zuko empire is how easy it is for me to live with its existence. If you follow the rules you simply are not aware of the influence it has on everyday life. All the people in the parish seem to feel the same. In consequence life in the parish is indeed enjoyable, although everybody knows about the implicit threat we are living with. Taking this into account you may not be surprised when I tell you that I was totally caught unaware by the development of the past days.

It all began on Tuesday evening, less than two days ago. And I heard about it only yesterday and was devastated by the news. A member of my parish, an eleven year old boy called Marco Mitrani, became the victim of a vicious attack. The most disturbing fact was that the only suspect for the attack seemed to be his best friend, Ray Vecchio. I know Marco and Ray very well, they were two of the few people in the parish that treated me like a normal human being after they got to know me a little better. Especially Ray was dear to my heart, the poor boy has such a fighting spirit despite all the hardship that he had already endured in his young life. Everyone seems to know that he is beaten regularly by his violent father, but no one acts to stop it. I tried once, informed the authorities about it. They checked on the Vecchios, reporting afterwards to me that they couldn't do anything as long as mother and son covered up for Ernesto Vecchio. The family never knew that I was the man who informed the authorities, otherwise I could have packed my things the next day.

I did the only thing I could do. I prayed for the boy's soul and had an watchful eye over his body. Which was no easy task since Ray is a very determined little person, with a great concern for his own privacy. I did not press on him in any way, knowing all too well what the suspicion of being too interested in his little charges could do to a priest's reputation.

And my fears for him subsided as I saw him grow up, turning from a shy, isolated little boy, pale faced and a little overweight, the apple of his mother's loving eye, to a strong-willed teenager, lean and tall, with a healthy look and sparkling green eyes that captured all those around him. I do not know if he was still beaten by his father, but if so, it didn't break the boy's spirit. On the contrary, together with his best friend Marco, he took on the son of Alfredo Zuko, Frankie. They were rivals in and off school, especially if they played their favourite sport, basketball. Certainly that fact strengthened the impression Ray and Marco made on me. They seemed to be oblivious of the fact that they went against the son of the most powerful man in the neighbourhood. And Frankie is a dangerous youth. In the years past he learned that he was special, that he could do things others could and would not do. He is spoiled and cruel. And he acts like it. I wondered often why Ray and Marco did not accept the superiority of their opponent and settled for a kind of truce. But my tentative questions in that direction were cut short by careless laughter and telling me of the daring adventures they planned to have in the future. Seeing the two boys in that temper made me ask myself if I was ever as young and courageous and stupid.

I always envied Ray's and Marco's friendship and wish in my most lonely hours to have such a friend myself. How important the two are for each other. I spoke once with their teachers at school and one of them, Miss Cassini, told me in a somewhat conspiratorial tone that Ray once stood up against Frankie Zuko and his friends to help Marco and that Marco encouraged Ray in school so that he turned from being the last in class into a fairly good student. The two boys are inseparable and I believe that Ray found in the Mitrani family some kind of a safe haven when his life at home becomes unbearable from time to time. The Mitranis are fine people despite the fact that Umberto Mitrani, Marco's father, is a business associate of Alfredo Zuko. But that - as I said before - is a fact you just have to accept and respect in this neighbourhood. Apart from that the Mitranis are a normal, happy family. Umberto and Claudia love their only child unconditionally and they extended their fondness to Ray which relieved my heart immensely. Ray deserves some happiness.

The Vecchios are a totally different kind of story. I rarely see or speak to Ernesto Vecchio. He hangs out most of his time with his friends at a place called Finelli's playing pool and drinking heavily. I sometimes marvel how the family manages to survive, but I never found out. Ernesto's wife, Anita, is an endearing person, but totally dominated by her violent husband. She confesses from time to time that she regrets to be a bad mother for her three children, Maria, the eldest, Ray and her youngest daughter Francesca. Especially for Raimondo, as she calls her only son. When she speaks of him her voice takes on a different tone, it's like she's singing his name and I fear for Ernesto Vecchio's life in case that Anita will someday act on the great love she holds in her heart for her son.

My friendship with Raimondo began about two years ago. I was in church, on a especially cold winter night, preparing the venue for the early mass on the next day. It was a Saturday and I interrupted my chores when I heard a whimpering in one of the last rows of the benches. I found Ray Vecchio, curled up into a tight ball, trying to hold back his tears and nearly choking on them. He was shivering, wearing only a t-shirt and no coat. I tried to touch him, but he evaded my hands. Sighing I simply sat down beside him, murmuring a prayer in a soft and low voice. I cannot remember what or for whom I prayed that night, but the words seemed to quieten the boy, who finally sat up, brushing his tears away.

"Thank you, Father Behan." He looked at me bleary-eyed, but nonetheless I could see the marvellous colour of his eyes shining through and his mouth formed a small but genuine smile. I thought my heart would stop. This is real bravado, this boy can smile standing at the edge of his own, personal hell. "What for, Raimondo?" I cannot tell why I called him that, but he didn't seem to mind and I called him so ever since. Perhaps I just wanted to remind him of his dear mother. Raimondo's smile intensified some more. "For just being there... for not... touching me when I would not have it." He was gone in the next moment. And that night I decided to give up my whining about my petty problems. God knows that I failed repeatedly on that decision - and would most certainly do so again in the future. But whenever I think of myself as the most miserable person in the whole world the image of Raimondo from that Saturday night forms in my mind, giving me the strength to go on a little further.

Two days after that night Raimondo brought me a message from his mother, inviting me to dinner. I smirked a little when he gave me her regards, the experience with Mrs. Narelli's cake still clear in my mind. It's been two weeks now and the cake still refused to wither away in the compost. The boy standing before me grinned at my expression. Could he read my thoughts? It seemed so, his next words being, "Mia mama is the best cook in the whole town, maybe even in the whole world. You'll wait and see, Father. And we'll have chocolate cake for dessert. So make sure that you're really hungry. Mama gets pissed if we don't eat up. And I don't think her respect for the church is great enough to stand a chance against the pride she takes into her cooking." Off he ran, leaving behind in helpless laughter. What an eloquence in a nine year old.

Evening came and I prepared for the inevitable. Another night in stiff conversation and Raimondo's remarks about his mother's cooking did not assure me a bit. I remember the stuff I liked as a boy and that thought did nothing to quieten my nervous stomach. Thanks to Mrs. Narelli the word chocolate cake alone was enough to cause indigestion. What did Raimondo say? "Wait and see, Father." I couldn't do much else. Perhaps I could light a candle in favour of a saint. But I had no idea which saint would be the authority for chocolate cake. And then I remembered my decision to forget about my petty complaints and went off with a little fear in my heart and a hand pressed on my stomach.

Oh God - sorry, as a priest I should not use the Lord's name in vain, but I do think it's not a sacrilege here - there was no need for fear at all. That woman can cook. I dare to call it divine. Everything was made to perfection. The selfmade pasta was a joy to the tongue and those smells of herbs and spices still make my mouth water when I just think about it. And the dessert - no earthly words could describe the taste of that chocolate cake. Moist and rich, but not heavy. Sweet, but still aromatic. Soft, but not chewy. I better stop here, or I lose myself again in the memory of it.

And the delicious meal was only a part of the marvel I saw in the Vecchio home. I dreaded to see Ernesto, because I knew I would have had difficulties to hold back my anger about the abuse of his only son. But Raimondo's father wasn't there. I was given no explanation and I had no inclination to ask for him. So it was only Anita and her three children. No dressing up either. All sat down in their usual attire. And the atmosphere was light and easygoing. A normal, happy family. The kids talked constantly, all at the same time, and Mrs. Vecchio looked after her guest of honour. I blushed a little when she addressed me as such when I entered the house. But afterwards she called me Father Behan and her only concern was that I got enough of the delicacies she placed before us. How she could fear that anyone would stand up from the table still hungry I have no idea. It looked like she expected an army for dinner. My stomach quietened in minutes after tasting the first bite and I ate as heartily as the kids.

It didn't take long to loosen up. Food and wine let me relax and I enjoyed the bickering of the three Vecchio siblings. Maria tried to save her dignity as a teenager, to distinguish herself from her younger brother and sister but gave up on it after about ten minutes. Mrs. Vecchio told me the latest gossip, something I stored away for future reference. As I said other people treated me like a visitor, keeping all interesting information away from me. I thrived on the food and the entertainment and when I finally decided to go home it was shortly before midnight. The kids had gone to bed about ten, leaving their mother and me in the living room. She served me some cappuccino and I hoped she would confide in me. But she didn't, not really. She told me about her life, but never spoke about her husband. I decided to respect her privacy. In that moment she reminded me very much of her son. I told her so, and she beamed at me. "Father Behan, Raimondo is a good kid. Whatever is going to happen, keep this in mind." That ended the evening and with an effort I did not poke into her cryptic remark. "Wait and see, Father, wait and see."

In the following years every invitation to the Vecchio home was a welcome change for me. I never met Ernesto on those occasions. Not that I regrett that. I think I do not have the courage to confront the man, not even for Raimondo's sake. Most of the time that is not a problem, since Raimondo does not speak about his father at all. But he has his moods and to his dismay they seem to overcome him suddenly and unexpectedly. He is at a loss for words then, tries desperately not to cry. When Marco is with him he just takes Raimondo in his arms and waits silently till Raimondo gets over it. There were two times I was alone with Raimondo when he got into that temper and I did not dare to touch him then. "Wait and see, Father" has become something like a motto for me when it came to Raimondo Vecchio.

When the family doctor of the Mitranis called me yesterday, Wednesday morning at about eight, it seemed that the time of waiting was over. The Mitranis were in the hospital, to check on their son. Marco had been brought there by an ambulance on Tuesday evening. He had been attacked with a basketball, someone had bashed his face into a bloody lump. And the investigating officers had only one suspect, Raymond Vecchio, who was found at the scene of crime, with the weapon still in his hands. Everything I know about this boy, about his character, about his family tells me that it is impossible for Raimondo to attack his best friend or any other person in such a cruel and violent way. I wasn't able to go to the hospital, to support Marco's parents or to see the victim. And I couldn't contact the Vecchios, either. I was to shocked and desperate about the news to form any coherent thought at all. I cancelled morning mass, I didn't care what people might think. I kind of barricaded myself in the little parish house, sending my housekeeper, Mrs. Donatelli, home. She gave me an astonished look, but I didn't give her any explanation. The rest of the day and the following night I martyred my brain, if I could have done anything to prevent this terrible nightmare. I never thought it possible that Raimondo was capable of such a deed. Nonetheless, when he was in one of his mood swings I wasn't able to look into his eyes. Normally being of a deep green colour they seem to be a window to his very soul. And I always liked what I saw there - normally. But when his dark mood was upon him, those expressive eyes became pitch dark and I feared to think about his soul at those times.

Could it be that Marco did something - accidentally of course, because the boy would never have done anything to hurt his best friend - to provoke Raimondo to attack him like a madman? And if so, where did that place me? Did I overlook a latent danger in Raimondo Vecchio? Was he a monster in the disguise of an amiable boy? I shuddered at the image of him hurting his best friend in a frenzy. No, that image did not fit, not at all. I remembered Mrs. Vecchio, saying her boy was a good kid, whatever was going to happen! Did she fear something like this? Why didn't she confide in me? Why didn't I press on the matter? Why didn't I try to confront his father? Why did I let that cruel man beat up his son again and again? The answer to all those questions is easy but hard to accept. I am a coward and a failure as a priest. And I see it as the inevitable outcome of my behaviour in this parish. It had started with accepting the Zuko rules and it ended on a Tuesday summer night with the beating of Marco Mitrani.

When Wednesday evening came I was exhausted and felt totally drained. I hadn't eaten the whole day, but I did not wish to eat anything. I stumbled from the living room I had spent the whole day, slumped on the couch clutching a pillow in my arms. In my bedroom I got undressed, leaving my stuff in a pile on the floor, let myself fall on the bed. Although it was still early and light outside and still too warm to use the blankets I crawled under them, just to feel safe and comforted. Again I tried to sort out my thoughts. Again I came to no conclusions. My mind told me that it was possible, that the boy maybe stepped over the edge, losing control, beating the life out of Marco, without really knowing what he was doing. But my heart cried no at such a thought. I thought of Raimondo's laughter and his sometimes disrespectful behaviour towards me. He'd never meant a harm with his words. He had just played with the dragon, trying to find his limitations, testing how far he could go. Even when he was in his dark mood he'd let Marco comfort him. I had never feared for Marco's well-being when he'd been with Raimondo.

After several hours I gave it up to find some reason in all this. I let myself float, trying to think of nothing. I must have fallen asleep, finally, after what seemed to be ages of tossing and turning. But the hope that everything was only a bad dream dissipated when I woke up two hours ago. The bright sunshine streaming into my bedroom - I hadn't even had the energy to draw the curtains last night - hurt in my eyes, swollen from holding back too many tears. But I had to do something. There were people outside who needed me. I didn't want to think about who exactly needed my help. I decided to deal with that later. It was only six, but I wasn't sleepy anymore, just kind of exhausted. But it wasn't an exhaustion of the body. I got up, shaved, took a cold shower and got dressed. Again I cancelled morning mass by placing a note on the church doors. Then I went back into my house. Since I had to eat something I forced myself to prepare something for breakfast. Sitting down at the kitchen table I had some porridge - lumpy style, I'm a terrible cook. I put it aside, reaching for the toast and butter I'd placed on the table before me. Without enthusiasm I chewed on the slice, until I lost interest completely and put it down on the plate, shoving it away from me with disgust. Instead I stood and poured myself some coffee, again settling down at the table. I still had an hour before my housekeeper would turn up and I had still to decide what I would do in this... matter.

***

Two hours later I still sit here and try to come up with something of a plan or a strategy. Mrs. Donatelli has arrived and she rummages in the kitchen now, determined to fix me a decent breakfast. She had inspected the sorry remains of my self-made meal with dismay and went to work. I cannot concentrate in her presence and I answer her concerned questions in a flat and uninterested tone. I think it's better for me and her to leave now and find myself another place to brood.

I pick up my empty mug, fill it with the coffee freshly made by my invaluable housekeeper. Mrs. Donatelli concerned voice reaches my ear just before I leave the kitchen. "Breakfast will be ready in no time, Father." I nod, without looking back. My throat feels raw when I manage to get out: "I'll be back shortly. My thanks, Mrs. Donatelli." I flee into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I put down the mug on the board under the mirror. I switch on the lights attached to the mirror, there are no windows in here, the only light coming in through the milk glass in the top of the door.

In the cold bathroom light I examine my face. Am I a different person now, a man different from the man I was before I heard about Marco and Ray? I cannot say, but I definitely look different. My clean shaven face is pale, my normally dark eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Each morning I try to brush back the hair from my forehead, but there's a lock that seems to have a mind of its own, ever falling back into its natural place. Normally it gives me the appearance of a man looking much younger than his years, but today is different. I'm barely thirty, but now I look like forty, at least. And I feel tired and spent. I blink repeatedly in the harsh light. Turning on the tap I hold my hands under the stream and splash cold water into my. After some minutes I turn off the tap again, snatch a towel and rub my face and my hands dry. I go about this task very thoroughly. I realise I try to win some time before... Before what?

A sudden thought startles me. I haven't prayed for a second during the last day. Since I got the news I haven't spoken to God at all. A fear grips at my heart. What is it about my faith in God, if it's shattered so easily. Stop, stop this, Michael... Don't you panic now. With an effort I calm myself and try to straighten my thinking. I stare at myself in the mirror. I realise that the last day I was in a kind of a trance or shock. I'll be fine now, I have to. For Marco's sake, for Ray's sake, for all the families like the Vecchios and the Mitranis in the neighbourhood. And for my own sake...

I decide to skip breakfast - making a mental note to apologise to Mrs. Donatelli later for causing her so much trouble - and go into the church. As I hoped it's empty, all early visitors seemingly turned away by the announcement that there will be no mass today. I kneel down before the altar, concentrating on the body of Christ nailed on the cross. The carver did a great job on the figure's face, he captured pain and determination in it, both emotions showing in equal parts on the distorted face. For the first time I acknowledge his work fully. What a precious possession for our little parish. And I haven't even asked who created this fine piece of art. There's a lot I do not know about my parish. I start thinking that I have been a poor priest for this neighbourhood. And now I know what I have to pray for. And it has almost nothing to do with Marco and Raimondo, it is about myself. I am the key to my soul's salvation and to my heart's content. I have to find the essence of my own existence before I will be able to help others. Why have I wasted so much time, so many years... I realise that I'm doing it again, whining about petty business, about milk already spilled. I concentrate on the task that lies ahead of me. It's nothing more and nothing less than finding out who I am and who I want to be...

***

I am in deep meditation and the opening of the church door in my back nearly makes me jump. Looking up my eyes fall on the altar and then on the cross on the wall behind it. I smile up to it, knowing I found the way back to my roots. I haven't worked it all out yet, there's still much to think about. Considering the fact that I neglected my calling more and more in the last years that comes not as a surprise. But I will go on trying, and in the moment I'm certain that I will succeed in finding my destination. And I will not be alone until then. There are people who need me. And helping them will help me to find myself. I am ready for the world.

Steps sound behind me, coming slowly nearer. It's a single visitor and I struggle to my feet. Hours of meditation take their toll and carefully I stretch my cramped limps. I am aware that it must look kind of awkward from behind, but that could not be helped. People should start to see the man inside the priest. Finally I turn around. And step back in amazement. The man facing me is Alfredo Zuko.

Alfredo Zuko comes to church regularly on Sundays. He attends mass with his children and his closest employee, Charlie. At first I wondered about Charlie's lack of a surname, but soon realised that he is a man who has no need for another name. Speak of Charlie and everyone in the neighbourhood knows who's meant. He is like a shadow for Alfredo Zuko, accompanying him on every occasion. Even to church when Alfredo Zuko comes for the obligatory confessions. He then waits in a bench near the entrance, seemingly lost in thought. But I am sure this man won't miss a single move in the building, ever ready to assist his employer in any aspect.

So it's quite a surprise that Alfredo Zuko is all by himself now. I have difficulties to find my voice. The man standing before me bows his head slightly. "Good day, Father Behan. Do I disturb you or have you some time to spare?" I could never complain over Zuko's manners. That and his agreeable appearance make it so easy to deal with him on a polite or even friendly basis. I force myself to think of the man's dark background to manage the cold tone to answer him. "Mr. Zuko, I have important matters on my mind right now. So if it's not too urgent, I would be happy to give you an appointment for tomorrow..."

Zuko freezes. That is clearly not he answer he expected. Now, that couldn't be helped. I have already spent too much time in the past years humouring him. Nonetheless, Alfredo Zuko is not a man who is intimidated by the priest of a small parish. "Father Behan, the fact alone that I am here should be proof enough for you that it is urgent that I speak to you. I fear that your other business has to wait." Inwardly I sigh. Better to get over with this. After all I am curious about what he wants to talk to me.

"Very well, Mr. Zuko. What can I do for you?" He nods in the direction of the confessional. "I want to make my confession." I'm so surprised by this that I exclaim rather loudly, "Now? What is that supposed to mean?" Mr. Zuko chuckles, but his eyes are showing no amusement. "That is not the reaction I would expect from a priest, Father." I feel myself flushing. "I'm sorry, it's kind of... extraordinary, I guess." His chuckle turns into an equally humourless grin. "And I'm an extraordinary man, wouldn't you agree, Father?" I have to agree, of course, but I would rather die than tell him so. Instead I make an inviting gesture in the direction of the confessional and let my visitor lead the way.

***

Half an hour later I have the feeling my world has turned upside down again. I barely had recovered from the shock I endured yesterday. Now I am at a loss again. Alfredo Zuko is a clever and cruel man. What he confessed to me, makes me shiver and I just want to close myself up in my house and never come out again. Zuko has left about five minutes ago. I sit on the church floor, my back turned to the altar and the cross. My knees are drawn up to my chest and I embrace my legs with both arms. Resting my chin on my knees I let tears slide down my face. Yes, Alfredo Zuko is a clever and cruel man. He loaded the burden of his deed on my shoulders, knowing that there's no way I can tell anyone about the sinister plot he has in mind for poor Raimondo. Thinking of the boy makes me nauseous.

And then there's Marco. When Zuko came in I was determined to visit him and his parents in the hospital. Now I've just learned that the boy will suffer a life long from the vicious attack Frankie afflicted on him. I know I will have to do it, but how can I give comfort to Marco's parents when I find no comfort in my own heart?

No, that won't do. It's happening again. I drown in self-pity, blocking out everything else. Don't let that man get away so easily. He walked away almost happily. It must have been a great relief for his conscience to talk to a priest. Even Alfredo Zuko is a prisoner of his heritage, raised as an Italian Catholic. And he was fully aware what he did to me by confessing his actions and plans. And he didn't care about it at all.

So which options leaves that to me? I am determined to be as reckless as Zuko himself. He deserves no mercy, no spiritual support, no prayer. Forgiveness? No, not for this man, not in this matter. But what can I do? Of course I could make a testimony, violating the holy sacrament of confession. That would mean I'd give up the life I was leading up till now, declaring it a lie. I can't do that, it would mean to live on as a mere shell, without a soul, without a past and a future.

No, I can't tell anyone what I know about Alfredo and Frankie Zuko. But I can act upon it. I have to try and interfere with Zuko's plans. And I have to pray for help in this. I can't do this on my own. I need help. The help of an expert. A priest can't do much in matters of the worldly law. But a lawyer can... And I do know a lawyer. I struggle to my feet and as fast as I can I run to my house, nearly knocking over Mrs. Donatelli when I enter the office. I send her out rather rudely and call the operator. Minutes later I have Brian Dawson's office number. He has an office in Chicago. I cannot belief my luck. I check with the watch. It's half two. He should be working right now. Brian and I became friends years ago, studying at the same university. He owes me, since I helped him through some of his exams. He told me than, if I ever should need legal advice...

Call it luck or fate or a miracle. Brian Dawson, expert for violent crime cases, has just closed a case and has planned some vacation time. So when I ask for an appointment he promises to be at St. Michael's in half an hour. "I told you, Michael, if you ever need me, I'll be there in a flash. It's only because of you, that I'm one of Chicago's top crime lawyers. It's about time that I can pay you back. But you can call yourself lucky that I wanted to take leave from work for the next three weeks. Kind of a celebration of the fact that I just ended a tedious murder case I've been working on for over eighteen months."

Still I can't believe it. "And you can really come? I'm not stopping you from going to the Bahamas or something like that?" I remember his laughter when I hear it through the phone. Like his voice it hadn't changed a bit in the last ten years. "Oh, Michael, don't you worry. Even if I had booked something, I wouldn't have hesitated to cancel it. After all, I still regard you as a friend. Although I have to admit that ten years is a long time... High time to make up for the last years, don't you think, Micky?"

It's good to heart the old nickname. "Yes I do, Brain." Another laugh from Brian. "So you remember? I still have the student ID card with that name on it. It's kinda cute. Brain Dawson. And all because of the typo of a very young and nervous secretary who couldn't keep her eyes from a gorgeous Irishman while filling out my papers. By the way, Micky, did you ever date her? You wouldn't tell me back then." I feel myself blush a little. The incident at the registration office of our university had been quite embarrassing for me, but Brian and I became fast friends afterwards. "Brain, I'd like to chat on, but I haven't got the time. Just come here as soon as possible. I'm sorry I can't give you any information over the phone, but the matter for which I need your advice is kind of complicated, maybe even hopeless."

The answer I get sounds very confident. "Micky, you forget who you are talking to. Nomen est omen, Micky, and I still have to prove that to you. And I will do so! See you in half an hour, Micky!" The phone goes dead and I hang up. Shuddering with relief I sit down at my desk. I have been to nervous to do so while speaking to Brian. His enthusiasm about meeting me again gives me some confidence. He was ever a practical man, not an idealist, with a clear eye for reality. If he sees a chance to help Raimondo, it will be a fair chance, and not just wishful thinking. Before I can discuss the matter with Brian I have some calls to do in order to confirm the information I got from Zuko's confession. I couldn't and wouldn't discuss that confession with Brian. So I have to check on the facts. Twenty minutes later I have what I need. Both the hospital and the precinct have been more than generous with their information. That fuels my fear for Raimondo even more. It seems that everyone is convinced how things are going to turn out, so everything connected to this matter is distributed as common knowledge. By tomorrow the latest the case will hit the news. And if the media pick up the mood of the hospital and police staff little Raimondo would appear to be guilty even before the trial could begin.

There's a knock at my office and I call, "Come in, please." The door opens and Mrs. Donatelli shoves a rather startled man into my office. I should have warned Brian about how my housekeeper handles things - and people. "You have a visitor, Father. When I asked what he wanted he said he had an appointment. And he handed me his card. May I keep it, Father? It's looks nice." I cannot avoid laughing at that. "Of course Mrs. Donatelli, I know the man. You can leave us alone now." In the next moment she's gone, closing the door behind her. I grin at the stunned expression in Brian's face. The lawyer in his perfect exterior would even have fitted in a royal court, but thanks to Mrs. Donatelli he is at a loss in my small office. Somehow that encourages me. It puts life back into perspective.

Finally Brian manages a stutter. "Wha... What was th.. that about?" I stand up and go over to greet him. "Mrs. Donatelli? Why yes, she's quite a character. You will come to like her. Don't let her boss you around. But look who's talking. My predecessor, Father Antonio, told me the same when I started working here. I still try to find out how to avoid that. Despite her bossing she's an angel. And sometimes I think I need to be bossed around a bit." I stretch out my right to Brian. He hesitates a moment, puts down his briefcase he has been holding under his right arm and then he pulls me into a short hug. "Ah, Micky, it's good to see you again. You haven't changed a bit. Well, you attire has. But I think the man hasn't. I'm still sorry that I couldn't attend your ordination."

I shrug my shoulders. "I know that was impossible. Your studies in Europe kept you busy, I understood that completely. But who would have thought that we both end up in Chicago? We shouldn't have let so much time go by..." He nods solemnly. "In the moment I got your call I realised how much I missed you. But if someone isn't part of everyday life..." It's my turn to nod. "Exactly. But now we have the chance to renew our friendship. If you like to, that is." Another hug follows. "Of course I like that. Very much."

We both sit down. "Brain, I don't think we have much time. My problem is rather pressing. Would you mind discussing that first? Than we could turn to our private life. I hope you have some time..." He interrupts me midsentence. "I told you already on the phone that I'm free for the next three weeks. Plenty of time to solve your problem and to catch up on the olden golden times, don't you think? And go ahead, Micky, tell me about the matter you need my help in. I must say you that I'm curious. Fill me in!"

***

Brian has all the facts now. I can see it in his eyes that he is not happy with them. Whenever he was troubled his eye colour changed from a radiant blue to almost black. With a sigh he runs his hands through his jet black hair. I decide to help him as best I can. "Look, Brain, that's all I can tell you. The bare facts. You should be able to tell me chances the boy has. But before you tell me, maybe you ask some of the questions that trouble you. I can see there is something on your mind."

He smirks a little. "Well, maybe ten years is not so long a time as I guessed. You are right, I have some questions. Let me recapitulate what we know. On Tuesday evening Marco Mitrani is attacked viciously, his face smashed to a bloody lump with a basketball. He suffered permanent brain damage and will not be able to testify. The only suspect is his best friend Raymond Vecchio who was found with the weapon still in his hands. And there's no evidence whatsoever that there had been anyone else on the crime scene, the basketball court on the school-yard. Law enforcement is pressing charges against Raymond Vecchio full force now. The suspect is still in hospital unable to remember the incident. His parents have agreed to follow the advice of Alfedo Zuko, an influential businessman in this neighbourhood. Raymond is going to plead guilty, hoping the courts will go for reduced liability. Zuko provided his own lawyer, Varese, to defend the Vecchio boy in court. Is that correct so far?" I nod.

"I take it that Varese will try to convince the jury that Ray and Marco were having an argument, that Ray lost control somehow and hurt his friend, not knowing anymore what he was doing to him. Is there anything that could trigger off such an attack?" I wish that to be a rhetorical question, but it isn't one. Brian needs any information that I can give him. "Raimondo is being abused by his father for several years. As long as I know him the boy he's beaten on a regular basis." Brian whistles softly. "And you knew about it, Micky?" he asks in a low voice. I cannot detect any accusation in it. Brian just wants to know the truth in order to get a clear picture of this whole mess. I wonder when all this chaos broke lose. I let my head drop on my chest.

"I tried to stop it once, not successfully, as you might guess. I despise myself for my failure and there's no excuse for it." I feel Brian's hand on my arm and lift my head again. His eyes are full of sympathy, giving me the strength to go on. "Knowing about Raimondo's let me think that he could be guilty. Although I wouldn't have it I thought it possible that he did hurt Marco."

Brian's voice sounds hectic now. "You thought him to be guilty? What changed your mind?" I sighed deeply. "I cannot tell you. The way certain information came to me forbids me to speak about it." I think I already said too much. Brian thinks about it. His nickname is fitting. Brian is a clever man. He will figure it out. And he does.

"Micky, I thought you believed the boy innocent because you know him, his character, his friendship with Marco. But that's not right, is it?" I shake my head, waiting for his next step. "I see. So there's some information you have about all this, but you cannot tell me about it. Right?" This time I nod. "Micky, I am not firm in matters of faith, but I do know that if someone would confess something to you, you wouldn't be allowed to tell anyone about it. That is correct?" I only look at Brian. "Mmmmh. I see. There is only one person who does not fit in here. Who is that Zuko guy? Why is he taking such an interest in this case? I know, I know, you cannot tell me, Micky. But that is not important."

Brian looks quite content now. That encourages me to ask, "Do you think Raimondo has a chance in this?" He gives me one of his radiant smiles I remember so well. "I think he does. But it is a dangerous game, and the boy's life is at stake. You should remember that when we plan our next steps."

I know Brian's answer to my next question before I ask it: "We? Are you in it, Brain?" My friend stretches out his right hand. "If you want me to, it's a deal." My prayers have been heard. I found help. Gratefully I take his hand. "Want you on this case! It's more than I ever expected to get." I let go of his hand.

Brian jumps up, unable to hide his enthusiasm any longer. "This is going to be a hell of a case, something I ever dreamed of. You know, Mickey, I would have even followed you if you had only your belief in this boy's innocence. But you know that he's not guilty, you just can't prove it. But since he is innocent there has to be evidence. And we will find it."

I have been right when I remembered Brian as a very practical man. His line of thought proves this. "So, what is the next step?" Brian sits down again: "Well, we must find a way to get Ray Vecchio another lawyer. We have to get rid of Varese and replace him. You don't happen to know a young, intelligent, dashing lawyer who has the courage to take on such a challenge?" For the first time in the last two days I can breathe without difficulty.

The end

of this story