Deliver Us From Evil (18 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I’m an architectural draftsman. I work for an architectural firm in Beverly Hills.”

Berkoff paused. “May I ask, Mr. Stiles, what is your association with the defendant in this case?”

“I knew Father Reiniger when he was the pastor at Queen of Angels parish, in Los Angeles.”

“How many years ago are we talking about?”

“About ten. I was sixteen-years-old at the time.”

“Did you consider yourself an active parishioner at that time?”

“Yes. I was an altar boy. I went to parochial school, I was an usher, I worked in the rectory. I was very active in church affairs.”

Berkoff turned toward the jury. “For the record, I want to make it clear that Mr. Stiles was
not
subpoenaed as a witness. He came to this courtroom today on his own volition. Why is that, Mr. Stiles?”

“When I heard about what had happened to Danny Novak, and that Father Reiniger had been arrested on suspicion of murder, I decided I’d do everything I could, to see him convicted.”

There was a slight rumble throughout the courtroom. Judge Baylor lightly tapped his bench gavel. “Quiet in the courtroom, please!”

Suddenly, Ramsey spoke up. “Objection, Your Honor! It calls for speculation.”

“I’ll allow it. You may continue, Mr. Berkoff.”

Once again, the prosecutor turned to face Stiles. “I take it then, Mr. Stiles, you knew Father Reiniger quite well?”

“Yes. I did. And after hearing some of the testimony given here in this courtroom, I can see that Father Reiniger hasn’t changed. He’s still doing the same things he was doing at Queen of Angels, ten years ago.”

Berkoff’s look was grim, tight-lipped. “A leopard never loses its spots, as it were. Would you care to elaborate on that, Mr. Stiles?”

“I found myself in exactly the same position as young Mark Novak was in. I was an altar boy too. Father Reiniger insisted I serve the early Mass. The 7:00 o’clock Mass, because I served it alone, I suppose. After the service was over, Father and I would go immediately into the sacristy, the room directly behind the altar, where the vestments, et cetera, were kept.”

“And what happened in the sacristy?”

Stiles was slightly hesitant. “He would grab me, he would fondle me. He’d press his body up against mine. I was shocked, I was embarrassed, I was confused. I didn’t know what to do.” He paused. “He warned me never to say anything about it.”

“Uh-huh. Tell us about the trip to Santa Barbara, Mr. Stiles,” Berkoff said, eyeing the jury carefully.

Again, slightly hesitant. “Father would very often organize out-of-town trips. Usually, overnight trips. He would often take two or three boys on camping trips, or a trip to the San Diego Zoo, Mt. Palomar, wherever. This particular weeked he took two other boys and myself on a trip to the Santa Barbara Mission. He thought it was very important that we be exposed to Father Serra, and the string of missions he’s built, along the California coast. We got a late start on our trip to Santa Barbara and Father insisted we stay the night in a motel.”

“Yes. Go on, Mr. Stiles.”

“Father explained that because the other two boys were older than me, they would share a bed. That meant Father Reiniger and I would sleep together in the other bed.” He paused. “Before we even went to bed, Father pulled an electic vibrator out of his suitcase. He said he wanted to give us a massage.”

“And did he give you a massage, Mr. Stiles?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What were you boys wearing at this point?”

“He insisted we strip down to our shorts, our underwear.”

“What was your reaction to
that,
Mr. Stiles?”

“I didn’t think much about it at first. No big deal. So Father was giving us a back massage. But then, I got a little nervous. All of a sudden, he was massaging my buttocks, my butt.”

“I see.” Berkoff paused briefly. “And, as I understand it, you eventually went to bed. The two older boys sharing one bed, you and Father Reiniger sharing the other. What happened then?”

“He waited for about a half-hour, thinking the other boys were asleep, I suppose. Then, he reached for my groin. He began to fondle me, he began to masturbate me. I remember his fingernails were very long. I was embarrassed, but I was also angry. I grabbed his hand and pushed it away. I said, ‘Keep your hands
off
me, Father!’”

“And
did
he keep his hands off you?”

“I fell asleep, and about three o’clock in the morning, I suddenly woke up again. Father was lying behind me. He had pulled my shorts down; his penis was up between my legs. He was trying to sodomize me.”

“What happened then, Mr. Stiles?”

“I panicked. I jumped out of the bed and went into the bathroom. Before I could even lock the door, Father was right in there behind me. He was very angry. He was threatening. He led me to believe it was all
my
fault. He warned me not to say anything about it to anyone. He said, ‘If you tell anybody about this, Robert, God will punish you!’ He said, ‘They won’t believe you anyhow, so don’t tell them!’ I spend the rest of that night, sleeping in a chair. All I could think of, was, how ashamed of myself, I was. I felt I was no good. I really began to believe it
was
my fault! And, most of all, I thought of how much I loved Father Reiniger, how much I admired him, and how much I
trusted
him!” He paused. “And, now I felt alone, betrayed. Father Reiniger had betrayed that trust! He’d let me down. I was demolished!”

There was a long pause, as Berkoff slowly walked away from Stiles. He crossed to the jury. He was quick to notice the look of shock and bewilderment on their faces. He then turned back to face Stiles. “Mr. Stiles, would it be correct for me to say, that you are
no longer
a practicing Catholic?”

“Yes, sir. That is true. I was an altar boy, I sang in the choir, I enjoyed Mass very much, I enjoyed helping out whenever I could. But, after I was sexually abused, I
gave up
on the church. I still believe in God, but the church doesn’t exist for me anymore.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stiles. I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

The Judge glanced abruptly at Ramsey. “Your witness, Mr. Ramsey.”

“I have no questions at this time, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Berkoff?”

“Your Honor, the Prosecution rests.”

There was a slight pause as Judge Baylor quickly surveyed the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, as it is close to 12:00 noon, we will take an early lunch break, and reconvene at one-thirty. At that time, we will hear from the first witness for the Defense.” He rapped his gavel. “Court is now adjourned!”

Lunch for the jury and the two alternates was usually catered; food was sent over from the California Hotel, or a nearby restaurant. The principals in the trial, i.e., the Judge, the A.D.A., the defense attorney, the witnesses, chose to exit the courthouse through a rear door, leading to the parking lot. They did this for good reason; they wanted to avoid the television reporters and the newsmen who hovered around the main entrance, like a horde of hungry vultures.

David Berkoff was apparently on a high. He was on an ego-trip. He’d felt the morning’s session with Robert Stiles had gone extremely well, and he wanted to capitalize on that fact. He’d decided to meet with the press. He felt: a little positive publicity, why not? He’d even had his secretary apply a touch of makeup; he wanted to look good for the cameras. As anticipated, the moment he had emerged from inside the courthouse, he was surrounded by the mob of reporters. Sharon Enright, a brassy and ballsy, blonde reporter from UBS-TV News, shoved a microphone into his face. “Mr Berkoff!” she yelled, “What’s your gut feeling? You think the prosecution’s case is going well?”

“Yes,” he answered. “As well as can be expected. Yes.”

“Word around the courthouse,” Enright continued, “is that you’ve never lost a case for the D.A.’s office. True, Mr. Berkoff?”

“True.”

“And you think you’ll win
this
case?”

“No doubt in my mind. Of course, I’ll win this case.”

“And, if you lose?”

He forced a smile. “No,” he said, “I’ll
win
this case!”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself!”

Berkoff was getting slightly pissed. “Next question!”

Another reporter, this time a male from the
Los Angeles Star-Tribune,
edged his way in front of Enright. “Mr. Berkoff? According to the testimony given so far, you can’t actually place the defendant at the crime scene. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No. Not at all. We believe the defendant assaulted the Novak boy, and common sense tells me he had to silence him. By killing him. I’m sure the jury will see it the same way.”

Sharon Enright was not about to be upstaged by anyone. Shoving the male reporter aside, she moved in closer to Berkoff. “Mr. Berkoff, you stated that Robert Stiles came to you on his own volition. That he wasn’t subpoenaed. Is that true, or is it just another one of your sleazy courtroom ploys?”

“Number one, I resent that remark, Ms. Enright. And Number two, Mr. Stiles
did
approach our office, voluntarily.”

“Okay, I believe you.” Enright paused for a microsecond. “What’s the deal on Richard Ramsey?”

“What do you mean, Ms. Enright?”

“A simple question, Mr. Berkoff. What’s your impression of Mr. Ramsey?”

“He’s a very good attorney. A very capable adversary, if you will.”

Enright’s face turned sour. “Oh, come on, Mr. Berkoff! Let’s drop the façade. What’s he
really
like?”

“What are you getting at, Ms. Enright?”

“Everybody’s got a few skeletons rattling around in their closet somewhere. What about Ramsey?”

The prosecutor was suddenly affronted. “Ms. Enright, I don’t think your questions are entirely appropriate. I really don’t think”

“Rumors are,” she said, cutting him off, “Ramsey is a recovering alcoholic. True, Mr. Berkoff?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Sharon Enright moved in closer. Now, she and Berkoff were face-to-face. “Come off it, Mr. Berkoff,” she yelled, “You’re evading the issue!”

“I have no comment.”

“You’re playing us! You’re stonewalling! Is Ramsey an ex-drunk, or not?” she screamed.

Berkoff’s eyes flashed. He glared at Enright. “What is it about,
No Comment,
you don’t understand, Ms. Enright?”

Enright’s face turned stony. “Come on, Mr. Berkoff,” she pleaded, “throw me a bone! I need a story. My editor is on my ass! I
need
a good story!”

Berkoff stared at Enright with narrowed eyes. He said nothing. All at once, as if on cue, a gleaming, black Cadillac limousine eased up to the curb. “Excuse me,” Berkoff said as he brushed past Enright and moved quickly down the courthouse steps. The chauffeur had already opened the rear door. Berkoff slid inside the car. His face was pale, ashen. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, Morgan,” he whispered. In a few brief moments, the limo had disappeared from view.

--15--

The Defense calls Mrs. Carolyn Novak!”