The Fifth Gospel(69)

            “Peter,” I say, “can you get my pack of index cards from the suitcase?”

            “Why?”

            “There’s something I need to figure out.”

            He groans. Though he’s too young to know the meaning of these legal terms, he knows what it means when Babbo needs to figure something out. Bookwork.

            At first, it’s painstaking. The gaps in my education seem chasmic. Every priest takes a basic class on canon law in seminary, but nothing serious until fourth year, when men choose between theology and canon law for their graduate work. My choice of theology has never seemed so inconvenient.

            “Write down this number,” I tell Peter. “One-four-two-zero.”

            Canon 1420: Each diocesan bishop is bound to appoint a judicial vicar . . . distinct from the vicar general.

            I know how a canonical trial starts. In theory, a bishop investigates an accusation. If it has merit, he summons a tribunal. But the reality is different. A bishop is a busy man, so his work is done by assistants. This is especially true of John Paul, who oversees not only the diocese of Rome but the universal Church. So which of John Paul’s underlings is making this decision? The answer is in this canon: the special assistant in charge of legal matters, a priest known as the judicial vicar. Now that I know his title, I can use the Vatican yearbook to hunt down his name.

            “Next,” I say, “write one-four-two-five. And then a little squiggle with the number three.”

            Peter frowns. “Which way does three go again?”

            I tousle his hair. “Like B, without the line.”

            Canon 1425 §3 says the judicial vicar also assigns the judges. The whole trial now seems to lie in the hands of this one man, whoever he is. It leaves me curious about who these judges will be. But I came here looking for something more: a back-door way to find out who stands accused of Ugo’s murder.

            Church trials are secretive. A parish may never find out that a crime was committed in its backyard, let alone that a Church court has rendered a verdict. Knowing the name of the judicial vicar will be helpful, but it isn’t as if I can call his office and ask about his investigation. Fortunately, in our Church there is always—always—a paper trail. And canon law tells me what to look for.

            “One-seven-two-one,” I tell Peter. “Then add a star. And below it, one-five-zero-seven.”

            I repeat each number to him, digit by digit. The code, like the Bible, jumps forward and backward, each line referencing others hundreds of pages away. Canon 1721 says that when the bishop decides there’s enough evidence for a trial, he asks a Church prosecutor to write a formal accusation, called the libellus, which includes the name and address of the accused. This invokes 1507, which says the libellus must be sent to all parties of the trial. In other words, the libellus is how word of the trial seeps beyond the bishop and his immediate contacts. If Lucio is receiving a visit from a friend with information about the trial, then I infer the libellus is in circulation. And if that’s true, then I know where one copy of it must’ve been sent. The Holy Father’s safety requires that the Swiss Guard be notified about any dangerous persons on Vatican soil.

            “Peter,” I say, “put a rubber band around those cards. I think we’re done.”

            I’m already dialing the phone number.

            “Alex?” Leo answers. “Is everything okay?”

            I explain the situation. “Have you seen anything about a name?”

            “No. Nothing.”

            “But did they tell you to keep an eye out for anyone?”