I hang on his next words. The Rota is the second-highest court of Catholicism.
“They’re empaneling a tribunal,” he says. Then he continues in Greek, to prevent Peter from understanding. “To try Ugo’s killer.”
“Who did they arrest?”
Simon looks at me impatiently. “No one. They’re making it a canonical trial.”
Canon law. The code of the Church. But the Rota spends most of its time ruling on requests for marriage annulments. It never handles murders.
“That’s impossible,” I say. “Who decided that?”
The Vatican has a separate civil law. We can convict criminals and send them to Italian prisons. That’s how Ugo’s murder should be prosecuted. Not under Church law.
“I don’t know,” Simon whispers. “But Lucio has a friend coming over with more news tonight. I think you should be there.”
I tug at my beard. Our criminal court is run by a layman, but our canonical courts are run by priests. Somewhere in this I hear an echo of Michael Black’s warning. Someone in a collar has a hand in this and won’t give up until he has what he wants.
“Okay,” I tell Simon. “I’ll be there.”
But my brother’s focus has been distracted by something else. The rear door to the museum is open. Standing at the threshold are Don Diego and Agent Martelli.
I raise a hand in the air and call out, “We’re okay. I just need a minute with my brother.”
But Diego says, “Father Simon, the curators need you.”
So my brother puts Peter down and kneels to hug him. To me he murmurs, “Stay safe. I’ll see you both in a few hours.”
* * *
THE CASA HAS A small library for guests. When Peter and I arrive back at the hotel, I borrow the law book that applies to all Roman Catholics—Codex Iuris Canonici, the Code of Canon Law—and we go straight to our room.
The code and its built-in legal commentary are immense. They make the Bible look like beach reading. Here in my hands is the combined wisdom of two thousand years of solving the Church’s day-to-day problems. How much can a priest be paid for performing a funeral? Is it okay to marry a Protestant? Can the pope retire? Canon law dictates who can teach at a Catholic school, or sell Church property, or lift an excommunication. But Ugo’s case will revolve around canon 1397: A person who commits a homicide or who kidnaps, detains, mutilates, or gravely wounds a person by force or fraud is to be punished. Nowhere in the list of punishments, though, is there any mention of prison. This is the most obvious problem with trying Ugo’s murder under Church law: the killer won’t spend a day behind bars, because prison isn’t a punishment under canon law. If the killer is a priest, though, a more harrowing punishment looms—dismissal from the clerical state.
It’s hard for a layman to understand the gravity of being laicized. Saying that a priest is no longer a priest is paradoxical, like saying a mother is childless or a person is inhuman. What God gives a man at his ordination, no human power can remove. So while a laicized priest can still validly celebrate the sacraments, he’s forbidden to. Any Mass he celebrates must be shunned by the Catholic laity. He may not give a homily or hear a confession except on a deathbed. He may not even work at a seminary or teach theology at any school, Catholic or not. This is what gives the sentence such power: it turns us into ghosts. It obligates the world to deny our existence. No secular court has this power over laymen. It’s a verdict that pushes many priests to suicide. As I think about it now, this may be a clue to what’s happening in Ugo’s trial. Trying the case in a canonical court isn’t just a way to let priests control the outcome. It’s a peculiarly awful way to threaten a priest as well.