BishopAccountability.org
	Helping Danny The Garden of Roses: Stories of Abuse and Healing December 1, 2009 http://web.me.com/virginiajones/Compsassionate_Gathering/The_Garden_of_Roses/Entries/2009/12/1_Helping_Danny.html STATJA--Danny's lawyer grasped my hand and said, "Thank you for bringing Danny into court today. Can you bring him in tomorrow?" "I'll try," I said, "I have young children; I can't guarantee that I will make it." "Can you give him a call to help him get going if you can't bring him in?" the lawyer asked. "No problem," I said, "I'll call him twice. Danny had missed an earlier court date. The charge was criminal mischief. He was angry at the Catholic Church for being so slow to settle his clergy abuse lawsuit, and he took his anger out on someone else's property. So I offered to bring Danny to court to prevent him from missing another court date. We arrived late. I could not leave my own home earlier as my children did not have anyone else to care for them before school. When I got to Danny's house, he hadn't finished dressing. He spent fifteen minutes wandering around his house looking for his shoes and jacket while his mother criticized him. The judge, expecting another no- show from Danny, had already issued a warrant for his arrest. She rescinded it when he managed to arrive -- albeit twenty minutes late. After court, Danny and I walked through the Park Blocks in downtown Portland to the garage where I parked my car. I drove him home. On the way, he showed me his photo album. I tried glancing over as I drove up I-5. The photos showed his mother's First Communion, his sister's First Communion, his own First Communion, his great aunt, the nun, his mother hugging a priest.... When I parked in front of his parents' rundown bungalow, he pulled out a second and third album -- photos documenting a very Catholic childhood. I needed to go. Before getting out of my car Danny turned to me, "Thank you very much; it has been a very long time since anyone has done so much for me." The next morning I called Danny twice -- once to wake him up and a second time just before leaving -- with hopes of avoiding any delays. This time Danny couldn't find his Xanax. He was afraid that he would break down on the stand. He never found the Xanax. Time was drawing short. 'We've got to go, Danny," I said. Danny's hands and legs shook visibly as we drove to downtown Portland. "I'm going through a panic attack," he said. I dropped him off by the courthouse to look for parking. I didn't want him to be late. Danny didn't know the room number of his courtroom. His lawyer was planning to meet him at the top of the stairs to the third floor of the building. "I will find you, " I said to Danny, "I won't abandon you." I found him huddled with his defense lawyer and the prosecutor outside his courtroom. I sat at a distance and read my newspaper. The prosecutor was offering Danny some options. Danny didn't want any of them. The prosecutor decided to give Danny two weeks to think. Afterwards the prosecutor shook my hand too, "Thank you for bringing Danny in." There may be glory in prosecuting a murderer or a rapist or a robber. There is no glory in prosecuting a hurt and angry clergy abuse survivor for a minor property crime. I had been mentoring Danny for five months. When he was up, he would call me two or three times a week. When he was down, he was too depressed to call so I called him. His father, himself a sex abuse survivor and former drug addict, was drinking himself to death. His mother, exhausted by the drugged out, dysfunctional men in her life, coped by actively expressing her pain and anger at them. Danny was always on edge. He talked of leaving his parents' home but where could he go? He hadn't held a job in five years. I urged him to seek therapy, but there were roadblocks I couldn't persuade him to get around. I didn't judge or criticize Danny. I just accepted him. I could only offer myself, my ear, my heart, my own experiences coping with my own childhood sex abuse. Danny told me about his journey of coming to terms with his abuse and realizing that he had been harmed. He believed that angels guided him. But he said, "I am mad at God. How could God let children be abused by priests?" Danny also described his fights with his mother and sister and problems with his father, who would pass out on the floor after drinking whisky instead of eating. The night after I took Danny to court for the first time, I called to make sure he was on track to go to court the next day. "I've had it with my mother," Danny said, "She's been mean to me all day. I'm leaving. I can't stay in the house with her anymore. I'm going for a walk." The January night was cold and rainy. "Pray for me, Virginia," Danny said. Those words meant more to me than all the thanks that he and his lawyer had given me that day.
Any original material on these pages is copyright © BishopAccountability.org 2004. Reproduce freely with attribution.