Wrestling With God

By Don Hanley

While working within the penal system to advocate prison reform, Jerry Haloran discovers through an inmate that a priest who is about to be elevated in the ranks of the diocese has a disturbing past. Jerry and his journalist wife Rebecca must act swiftly and decisively before more harm can be inflicted upon those least able to defend themselves: the children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Top Reads Publishing, LLC
• Release date: May 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780998683898

Don Hanley

Don Hanley entered the seminary to study to be a Catholic priest and was ordained in l964. He later left the priesthood to marry, and went on to earn several degrees, including a degree in Psychology. As a psychotherapist, graduate school professor, and counseling supervisor, he limited his writing to professional articles and booklets. He later wrote two novels and is currently working on third. Don has lived a very full 85 years in the western United States. He is a ‘child of the depression,’ born in Nebraska, and now lives in Southern California.

Book preview

Chapter 1

REBECCA

It was 12 o'clock, noon as I drove onto the grounds of Missouri State Correctional Institution, Booneville, Missouri. It was a rather bleak place with cold, plain gray one-story buildings that seemed to stretch on forever. The gravel driveway and parking and nearby buildings were surrounded by brown shrubs. I wondered if they had just lost their green because it was November, or because no one was watering them. The chill in the air and an overcast sky hinted at rain or, possibly, snow. The chill matched my feelings.

I was nervous. I was taking a leap in the dark. I had never visited a prison before and never even had met the friend whom I was about to visit. As I got out of my Prius, I shook out my coat and straightened my back. Glancing at my gray pants, I remembered the admonition to dress down and not look provocative in any way. Before leaving home, I asked my husband if I had succeeded. He responded as I expected, No, but then you'd look sexy in a gunny sack. The first time he had said that, I had asked what a gunny sack was.

Before me stood a flat-roofed building with the word VISITORS in foot-high letters and I followed an elderly couple toward the door. The reporter in me wondered what their story was that weighed down their every step. Visiting a son? The fifty-yard walk allowed me to shake off some of my nervousness and focus. A woman with three children looking to be elementary school age followed me. Looking around, I felt sure that the cluster of buildings contained a thousand stories—all sad.

I followed the couple up to a low counter. I handed my visitor approval letter to a young woman in a guard's uniform and a holstered gun at her waist. I had expected a gorilla-looking guy, and so I was surprised by the attractive young woman. She smiled and that helped me to relax a bit. I guessed her to be about ten years younger than me, so she'd be in her mid-twenties. I wondered how she got along in this very male environment. At that age, I wouldn't have lasted a day. I had been raped by a step-father, so I ended up marrying the safest man I had ever met in my life. He was a Catholic priest only a few years older than me and fortunately for me, seemingly had never noticed that he was a very handsome dude, with a personality to match.

I had the good fortune to have visited him in his parish in a dinky little town where he had been exiled after saving an abortion doctor in Aberdeen, Kansas. The doctor was about to be shot by an anti-abortion female picketer when the priest, Jerry Haloran, stepped in and grabbed her gun. Jerry got shot in the leg for his trouble. The experience did something to him, for he later gave a sermon condemning his Church's entire catalog of teachings on sexuality. I was assigned to interview him for my magazine, Women Today. Now, three years later, I am his wife and have been assigned to interview an inmate at this Missouri State Prison.

The young woman guard gave me back my letter approving my visit to the prison inmate, Jack Carroll. She directed me to a row of metal chairs backed up against a dull gray-green wall in need of fresh paint. The overhead fluorescent light was equally dismal; this was not the waiting room in your doctor's office. The older couple seemed huddled together as if warding off the cold, and the young mother did her best to rein in her kids. I was told I would be called in a few minutes.

I had time to visit the ladies' room, and while there I examined the toilet tissue as Jerry had suggested. It definitely was single ply, as he guessed it would be, and he told me how I could use it in my interview. It sounded stupid to me, but I promised to go along.

I sat down beside the elderly couple and smiled to myself that I was just about as nervous as I had been that day I first met my future husband, the Catholic priest. He was re-setting a wooden cross, felled by a mild Kansas tornado, atop the steeple, and peered down upon me, as if from heaven. Looking like a carpenter, instead of a priest, helped me see at least part of his human side, but his response to my request for an interview was far from positive. I said, I'd like to talk to you.

His response was, Get lost! I hate to admit it, but I think that my so-called, 'good looks,' was helpful in getting to stay and talk with him and spend time with him - even get to ride a horse for the first time in my life. I had come to the little village in fear and trepidation and left on a high because of the energy I found in the two women and the priest. I don't know what I was expecting with the priest, but Jerry Haloran wasn't it. I left Paris wondering if the priest—maybe—could see me as a true friend, or, damn it, maybe even as a lover. Did priests ever have those kind of thoughts?

When I returned to St. Louis, our relationship seemed to have been reduced to an occasional phone call. I contented myself with an occasional date with Larry Skutter, a fairly wealthy stockbroker who was as exciting as mud, even though he took me to places and events I could never have afforded. Three months after my Kansas weekend, my Father Wonderful called me at 3:00 in the morning. His message was not wonderful. Jerry had told me about a girl at his Aberdeen parish who had been raped and impregnated by her step-father and when Jerry wouldn't help her get an abortion, she committed suicide. Well, the step-father had attempted to rape her sister and the mother, Angela Kurtz, and the sister, Julie ran from the bastard and now was in Jerry's house in Paris, Kansas. The rapist threatened to kill both mother and daughter, if he caught them. Jerry remembered that she, Rebecca, had a friend who worked with run-away girls and women and could probably find them a place in St. Louis. I told him that I was sure I could find a place, and I did.

Everyone, including Father Jerry, Alice, and Marge, was impressed with my article and told me so. Jerry was called into the bishop's office and the bishop told him that he must give a sermon and write an article retracting all that he had said in the first sermon and what he was quoted in the article. The bishop condemned Jerry as a Free Thinker. That tickled Jerry, and he and the bishop got in an ongoing feud over it. I hoped it would help push the big dummy out of that awful celibate life of his. By this time, we were in rather constant phone and twitter contact with one another, but, irritatingly, not any closer to consummating—Jerry's word—our relationship. Jerry did manage to say he wanted to, though.

Anyway, that was over three years ago, the happiest years of my life, with more of the same ahead of me - with Jerry.

I awoke from my reverie when the mother and three children came out of the restroom and sat down in my row of chairs. The youngest, a girl, asked, Are you visiting your husband or boyfriend?

Neither, just a friend. I shook my head and found that my nervousness returned as I thought about why I was here. I had read the invitation letter from Jack Carroll, the inmate who had invited me, so many times, I knew it almost by heart.

My Dear Friend, Rebecca,

I hope that you remember me, Rebecca. We met many years ago when we both were much younger. I have been reading issues of Women Today magazines that a fellow inmate receives from his sister. I particularly like the articles you have written—especially those of afew years ago about Father Jerry Haloran. I understand that he is now your husband.

Besides possibly renewing our friendship, the purpose of this letter is to ask for your help in exposing a rather important person whose position in his organization is hurting many people, especially children. I have chosen you because, after reading your articles in the magazine, I believe you are the kind of person who will understand why and how to expose him. Also, the article about your own life, and your marriage, indicates that you have the courage to help me with this project.

I am sure that you have noticed that I am an inmate at the Missouri State Correctional Institution (aka, prison or penitentiary), at Booneville, MO. I cannot go into detail about the project in this letter because it must be kept very confidential. I know this must sound very fishy to you but suffice it to say that it involves Haloran'sprevious institution. Not him, personally, but his previous employment.

Please feel free to talk this over with Mr. Haloran and with the hope that you will help me, I am enclosing an application for permission to visit the facility in Booneville. Where it says Relationship, write Friend. I hope that you are well and that our friendship will blossom.

At the bottom was the address for the Visitors' Room and Jack's own address and inmate number. Sitting there in the waiting room, I again smiled as I recalled his signing the letter, Your Eternal Friend, Jack. I assumed that he did not want whoever stamped the red letters over the page MISSOURI STATE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS to think he did not know me from John Grissom.

Through a lawyer friend of ours, I found out that Carroll had confessed that when he was young, he killed his drunken father who had been beating his mother. This, of course, brought up a lot of issues with Jerry, that maybe even time and love will never heal. Jerry had accidently killed his father when he was fourteen. His father, too, had been beating his mother. The memory had been haunting him all his life. Our love helped him but not completely, but we're working on it. Jerry's killing did not result in an arrest, but Carroll was convicted of second-degree murder and given a prison term of thirty years.

Jerry and I had mulled over the letter for several days. At first both of us were of a mind to just ignore it. But then, I had not had what I considered an important article since I went back to work six months after our daughter, now two and a half, was born. That and the idea that I might help stop some kind of abuse of children compelled me to start pushing to make the trip to Booneville. Jerry and I both finally decided that I had nothing to lose by visiting Jack Carroll. Gayle Mathews, my editor, also, encouraged me to look into it. (I had redeemed myself in her eyes because of the article I penned about Jerry.) It took three weeks to set the date and get a letter approving my visit.

A voice blared over the loud speaker, Rebecca Brady?

I approached the counter near the young woman with the gun. I was building a name for myself as a journalist, and the name was Brady. Having defied convention already by leaving the priesthood, Jerry did not protest when I insisted on keeping my name after we got married. I went through the airport-like screening and into another waiting room. I again waited for a few minutes and then was summoned to join the little group to go to a small white bus that looked like a school bus. We were taken through a gate in the tall, concertina wire-topped chain-link fence and driven about four or five blocks to another building. It looked like it was connected to the larger buildings that contained the prisoners' cells.

It was 1:00 p.m. when we were asked to show our approval form and ID to a female guard and entered a door marked Sallyport. I wondered what Sally had to do with the door's name. The mother with her three children, the elderly couple, and I stood in a wide hall about twelve feet long. The Sallyport closed and before I could feel too boxed in, another one of Sally's doors opened at the other end. A guard looked at our forms and directed the family and the couple to two separate doors and when they left, the guard said to me, Glad to see Doc get another visitor—you're the first in a few years.

I was as puzzled by his remark as I had about Jack's saying he had met me before, but went along and said, Yes, I have been neglecting him. It will be good to see him again. I had glimpsed into the space the other two visitors had gone through and one had a table and the other a smaller space with a window, but no table. I was happy when I saw that the room that was opened for me was larger than either of the other two and had a table and two chairs—all bolted to the floor. I supposed they were afraid some visitors, or maybe an inmate, might use a chair as a weapon.

I sat down and waited only a minute before the side door opened and a handsome man, looking to be in his early forties with salt and pepper, short cropped hair, and a welcoming smile, entered, holding out his hand. He reminded me of George Clooney. When I reached out to shake his hand, he took my hand in both of his and softly said, Thank you, Rebecca, for accepting my invitation and joining me. Thank you very, very much. It means a lot to me. Surprisingly, he had relaxed and twinkling blue eyes. I thought I had seen him, or a picture of him, before, but wasn't sure.

I couldn't help but smile. His greeting seemed to be so genuine and open. His manner was more like a country squire, welcoming a long-time friend, than a prisoner greeting someone he didn't know. I surprised myself by saying, Well, right now, I am happy to be here. Your smile helps. Visiting you isn't quite like running down to the local café, or even seeing you in the hospital. Obviously, they don't let just anyone through that ugly gate.

I'm sorry about that. I do hope that you will be rewarded by the information I will provide that will result in a good story—or two or three. And I'm looking forward to meeting your husband. He sounds like an interesting fellow.

Yes, he is. At least I think so. That last guard said he was glad to see 'Doc' get a visitor. I wonder why he called you 'Doc,' and why you haven't had visitors.

I've somehow gotten the moniker 'Doc' because I've managed to get a couple of degrees since I've been here. In this place that's like being a reincarnation of Einstein or something. The warden has asked me to teach some classes on personal understanding. I enjoy it and do some advising. And so, the name Doc. About the visitors, my mother visited regularly up until about three years ago when she transitioned to another world.

'Transitioned.' That sounds like something the Native Americans say rather than saying a person died. I like it and I'm guessing you like it too. Oh! I was asked to question you about why the prison buys John Wayne toilet paper?

Jack smiled and almost yelled, What in hell is John Wayne toilet paper?

Single-ply paper that is rough, tough, and don't take no shit off nobody, I grinned.

Jack almost fell off his chair laughing. Who would ask you to ask me about that? And why?

My husband Jerry. And he said I had a pretty good 'bullshit meter' about telling whether or not a person is telling the truth, and the question about John Wayne toilet paper would tell me whether you would have a sense of humor. If you didn't laugh, working with you would be a real drag. So, I think you passed.

He chuckled and said, Well, I'm glad I passed. And now I'm even more interested in meeting your Jerry.

So, tell me more about this project of yours. I looked at my watch and we only had forty-five more minutes left for our visit.

Well, this 'project,'—Jack used the two-fingers on each hand gesture for quotes—is this: I just learned that a priest who has been molesting children has been named a bishop. I want to see him exposed because as a bishop, he will be in a position to harm even more children.

This was an alarming piece of information. I looked around the little room, at the corners, the ceiling and anywhere else where a microphone could be hidden. After bending down and looking under the chairs and table, Jack said, I am almost certain that there are no mikes in this room. It's policy. Occasionally we have the right to privacy. And, yes, this is a big damn deal.

I had learned from Jerry that bishops in the Catholic Church had a great deal of power over other priests, nuns, and lay people. Exposing one would definitely be a big deal, and a big legal deal, so I asked, Where did you learn of this, Jack? And has this been fairly recent when this all came down?

I learned of this from one of my fellow inmates. He was convicted of a crime and sent here about eight months ago. He told me in August and I've spent some time attempting to make sure he was not making it all up. Now, I am sure he is telling the truth.

What kind of evidence have you found? After all, you can't run around like a private investigator. You are rather limited ... I looked around our room, larger than the others but beginning to feel cramped ... being stuck in this place.

This fellow, my informant, was molested by this priest when he was a boy, and he gave me the names of two others who were also raped. Because of my teaching and counseling, I have a few privileges, like a telephone in the counseling room.

Why is your informant now in prison?

Jack gritted his teeth, made a fist, and snarled, Because he beat the shit out of a priest who molested his ten-year-old sister.

Involuntarily, I put my hand over my mouth and worked to take a deep breath. Is that the same priest who is set to be a bishop?

No, another one in a different parish—a different diocese, even.

So what's the name of the designated bishop?

Joseph Carson. Jack snarled again.

"I think I saw a picture of him recently in the National Catholic Reporter. Jerry gets copies of that paper. I thought you looked a bit familiar when you came through that door. You sort of look like him. Are you related?"

My answer is off the record—at least for now. I think it is important at this time for you to know, but it is off the record, okay? Jack looked at me questioningly, but earnestly.

Yes. Off the record.

He looks like me ... Jack took a deep breath, exhaled, and added, He changed his name, but he is my identical twin brother.

Chapter 2

REBECCA

It took us two weeks to get our admissions slips so Jerry and I could visit Jack Carroll and his informant, Richard Quinn. We were heading west from St. Louis in my Prius and Jerry was driving. We had decided to compartmentalize our time working on Jack's project and not talk about it too much. Compartmentalizing was Jerry's idea because he said the damn thing would take over our lives because it was so emotional and complex. I secretly think he thinks I like Jack too much and is tired of hearing about him. Anyway, I agreed. I think he is better at compartmentalizing than I am; it is a man-thing.

It felt good to take a trip with just me and Jerry. We hadn't done that since right after our honeymoon. Julie, now seventeen, was still living with me when we got married and it just seemed natural to adopt her, which we did. April, our two-and-a-half year old, was conceived on our honeymoon in Paris, France. I say France because the town where Jerry, then Father Jerry, was a priest was named Paris, Kansas, population 900+. We talked about the girls, especially Julie's basketball. As a freshman, she had been the starting point-guard at an inner city high school. That team made it to the Missouri State tournament. She switched to St. Louis University High School, and, again, was the starting point-guard. That team made it to the State semi-finals but lost. Last year, they won the State Championship, and were on track to repeat this year. Julie had received over two dozen offers for scholarships from all over the country. With all that, she was also an honor roll student academically.

A few miles from St. Louis, I said, Well, Jer, what did you find out about Jack's twin?

"My seminary classmate, Max, who works in Joe Carson-Carroll's diocese, said he had a reputation as a real law-and-order guy. More importantly, he said he knew of some rumors about Carson possibly molesting some children. I asked if he had proof or if anything had been reported and he said 'No.' He knew that Joe had been discussed as a candidate for bishop, but he didn't think it was official yet. He knew of the article in the St. Louis paper but was sure it was premature. He even ventured a guess that Joe had sent it to the Post-Dispatch to hurry up his promotion. Max doesn't like Joe at all. Joe is the chancellor of the diocese and acts like he is the head honcho in a king's court.

Max asked how I liked married life and after joking around a bit, I said, 'I really love being married. I found the most wonderful and beautiful woman in the world. And we have two daughters, one adopted and in high school, and one natural daughter who is two-and-a-half. I don't know how I lived without them all these years.' Then I told him he ought to try it. Then he reminded me that he is gay and I said, 'That shouldn't stop you from finding a mate and having a family.' He replied, 'Well, someday come to Illinois and I'll tell you about my family.'

And you really told him I was wonderful and beautiful? I hate to admit I felt relieved when he said 'Yes.' He never could believe me when I told him that I really never graduated too far from thinking I'm the homely and awkward teenager I thought I was in high school.

I was glad he changed the subject when he asked, Now, tell me about the Innocent Project.

It's at St. Louis University and is headed by a Jesuit. I'm surprised you didn't know that. All I really found out is that there are several dozen cases they have ahead of us, but if we can wait—or if Jack can wait—they may be able to help.

We discussed the case until we pulled into the parking area at Booneville. We went through the whole rigmarole and when we entered the Sallyport, Jerry seemed more bothered by the clang of the metal-on-metal door locks than I had been. Dan McGuire, the same guard who had called Jack 'Doc,' led us into the visiting area and pointed Jerry toward the same room in which I had seen Jack before. I entered a smaller adjacent room with an even smaller bolted-down table.

I sat down and, again, looked around for a hidden mike but didn't find one. Silly, I know. Soon a door clanged open and I had another surprise. A scrawny young man, looking to be in his mid to late twenties, hesitantly crept into the room. He was as timid and withdrawn as Jack had been confident and outgoing. I stood, and he was a bit shorter than me and probably weighed the same. I held out my hand and said, Good afternoon. I'm Rebecca Brady, and you must be Richard Quinn. I am happy to meet you.

Quinn allowed me to touch his hand, but I wouldn't call it a handshake. Most folks call me Richy. You can call me that, if you like.

I sat down at the table and Richy sat at the opposite corner, as far away as possible but still only about four feet away. I'm glad that you are willing to talk to me, Richy. With your help, we may be able to help some children.

Richy took a quick nervous breath and said, Hope so. What do you want me to tell you?

First, do you want to know something about me?

Doc already told me you were a writer and that you may write something about child molestation and maybe help get a priest into prison. He showed me an article you wrote in a women's magazine. You're a good writer. He never made eye contact with me and stared at the wall behind me the whole time.

"Thank you, Richy. First, tell me a little about yourself—like, what it was like living with your family as you were growing up.

We didn't have much of a family. I never knew my dad. My mom called him my sperm donor. Mom got cancer when I was about three and we moved in with my grandma. Mom died some years later. I don't remember her hardly at all. Grandma and me, that was the family. Grandma was a very strict but loving person, I guess. She died about ten years ago, when I was in high school. I never finished high school.

To help him feel more at ease, I told him about my growing up in New York with just a mother and a series of stepfathers. I didn't tell him that the last stepfather I knew tried to rape me and that I ran away. I thought that maybe I would share that with him sometime in the future. I ended by saying, I lived with an old couple the last two years of high school. Richy didn't seem interested, so I asked, Where did you live after your grandma died?

Here and there. Sometimes in jail, sometimes with friends, sometimes on the street. He spoke in a monotone, as if everything and everyone were exactly the same—nothing was more important or exciting than anything or anyone else.

Doc told me that you knew Father Joe Carson quite well when you were young. What can you tell me about him?

For the first time, Richy looked at me and the look was a puzzling mixture of anger, sadness, questioning, and something I couldn't figure out. His voice definitely had more feeling, as he said, Yeah, I knew the bastard. Do you really want to hear about him?

Yes, I would, Richy. After all, he's the one we want to get, right?

He almost shouted, "Yeah, we want to nail the bastard ... a big goddamn nail clear