"I let you know in the last letter about a little mixup with Father Floozie," my mother writes. "I promised you a hot scandal -- so sit down, relax, and read -- this news is smoking!"
During my Winter term in Germany, my mother had gotten into the habit of writing entertaining letters to me, but this particular one was particularly record-setting. My eyes bulged a bit at the newspaper clippings she sent. "Sex suit stuns church," "Pastor accused of sexual misconduct" and "Priest resigns in wake of lawsuit," leapt up from the pages. Upon closer examination, it appeared that the priest in question was the pastor of my home parish in Pompano Beach, Fla., Father Thomas Foudy. Having been sent through twelve somewhat-rigorous years of Catholic school, it was hard for me and for my classmates to picture any priest as anything but asexual. However, in her seeming aspirations to anchor Hard Copy, my mother shed new light on the subject, as I sifted through leaves of newsprint peppered with her comments in ballpoint pen.
My memory of the jovial St. Coleman's pastor was simply the spitting image of the old Irish stock clergyman, the kind that twists the congregation's arms for cash with one hand while reaching for whisky bottle with the other. Apparently, between the autumns of 1995 and 1996 these hands were also busy seducing a member of the church choir, known simply in court records as Jane Doe. "Father Floozie" allegedly promised to leave the collar for her, or so it is according to Doe's lawyer. Foudy denies the allegations. No need to call out the press just yet. Okay, I ponder to myself, this sounds like something that would happen in some other, bigger city, but not in my own hometown! This stuff just doesn't happen in my little, unexciting world.
But happen it did. My mother, the music teacher at the St. Coleman elementary school and always game for a good Foudy roast, wrote further, sending even more lurid details as the story unfolded. The woman was suing the Archdiocese of Miami for emotional distress and making her accusations under a veil of anonymity. Father Foudy denied all again, then wrote sweet-talking letters to his parish, from whom he was sent away in December (the Archdiocese was slapped with the $200K lawsuit and decided Foudy ought best to jump ship). A man by the name of Walter Shaw soon surfaced, stating that Doe had made arrangements with him on January 25 to sell her life story to Hollywood. It was further revealed that Doe was currently working on a novel entitled The Passionate Priest, a semi-autobiographical and rather explicit piece of literature (no need to quote from it). Doe maintained that she was under the influence of medications when she signed the agreement with Shaw. Shaw, a convicted felon and once-notorious cat burglar in the Fort Lauderdale area, was determined to sell the story anyway and take all or more of his agreed-upon 20 percent share of any profit. The tale was beginning to sound as if Geraldo might have a bit of trouble covering the whole issue in one episode.
The story becomes juicier. I was treated to later developments, such as the rallies held by the angry parishioners, all screaming that Father Foudy should be forgiven and permitted to return as pastor of St. Coleman's; the discovery of an erotic novel titled Foreign Affairs Doe published through a vanity press in the 1980s, in which the main character seduces several men and then takes revenge upon them, once even describing a particular outdoor romp as "deliciously sinful, as if she were seducing a priest;" the revelation on Feb. 27 that Jane Doe is really Alinka Pawlowska Sullivan, 54, part-time model and in deep trouble with the IRS -- $40,000 deep; the demonstrations staged by the television media that had reached fever pitch by March 2. Television cameras and reporters swarmed the church before and after Masses and invaded the grounds of the parish school. My 17-year-old brother Matthew, in one shining moment, told a television camera that the priest was probably guilty and he didn't care to see him come back, either. I had to take several long breaks in between each article, naturally, because I simply couldn't equate this Inside Edition-type trash with reality, especially reality in my own hometown.
One thing that bothered me was the manner in which the archbishop decided to handle the situation. The parish was told that Foudy was ill and would return in the indefinite future, as the archdiocese prepared to pay off "the lunatic," as my family calls her now. That wonderful smokescreen the Catholic Church has become famous for in recent court cases had reared its ugly head. It took a disgruntled parishioner who happened to be editor of a small paper and his wife who happened to have access to civil records to uncover the real location of our beloved pastor. Later, on March 16, Foudy was present for the Confirmation service with the archbishop present at St. Coleman's. He received a standing ovation upon entering the church. And the Archdiocese of Miami is now behind Foudy "110 percent." (Actually, the parishioners, who were prepared to sue the archbishop unless Foudy returned, had withheld donations to the annual charity drive, spurring this sudden change in policy).
The most salient point I gleaned from the glitzy garbage, though, was that Sullivan was permitted for so long to remain anonymous in all of the legal proceedings. Is it fair, or even morally right, to make such claims under the protection of anonymity? Most of the parishioners were prepared to lynch the woman, I was told. They thought that she had pulled a dirty trick -- she had taken advantage of a legal loophole in order to cash in on melodramatic misfortune. I find this a travesty of our own system of justice, and I agree completely with the hollering maniacs holding signs on U.S. Highway 1. A possibly innocent man is condemned publicly as the plaintiff is allowed to keep hidden beneath a shroud of mystery. Sneaky? Yes. Wrong? Of course. And it almost worked.
As my mother walked into work the day after the "conquering hero's homecoming welcome," she stole a smoke outside the teacher's lounge with one of the third grade teachers and discussed the whole circus.
"I found it appalling, the way he marched in so humbly," she said. "As if he were arriving in Jerusalem amid bending palm branches and riding an ass."
"Funny thing," replied the other. "I thought that was what got him and all of us into this mess in the first place."
