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FeedGod, Incorporated
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ANDREA LEAVITT’S stylish downtown office is in Emerald Plaza, blocks from San Diego’s bankruptcy court. She strikes you as a pleasant woman who can be a lioness in court. Leavitt has 14 clients who allege abuse at the hands of the clergy. That caseload includes eight victims with claims against Reverend Franz Robier. Now deceased, Robier is on the list made public by Bishop Brom of “Priests of Dioceses of San Diego and San Bernardino with Credible Allegations Against Them.” (This is the list Dianna Williams’ alleged perpetrator has been left off.)
San Bernardino was part of the San Diego Diocese until 1978. A large majority of the abuse connected with these claims occurred in the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s.
In the 1990s, Leavitt worked on a committee to change the state’s civil statute on how and when victims could report childhood sexual abuse. “The age limit was 18, and then it was raised to 21,” she says. “In 1997, we got that statute amended. Now it’s 26—or within three years [of the time] you realize you were psychologically harmed by sexual abuse.”
A lot of victims don’t realize what has happened to them, says Leavitt. “They know they’ve been raped, or . . . forced to orally copulate someone . . . but they don’t realize they’ve been damaged psychologically,” she says. “They turn to alcohol, or they just can’t deal with it. It takes so much energy to keep trying not to think of it. But it haunts them. They have nightmares. Flashbacks.
“One of my clients is a darling, cute lady and bright as a tack. She doesn’t ever want to get married. Her perpetrator psychologically sterilized her. She was molested at a young age. She doesn’t want children, because she doesn’t think she could ever protect them—be with them 24/7—and she couldn’t ever live with herself if that child had to go through what she did.
“We are essentially representing children who had nobody to represent them while they were being brutally raped. They may be in adult bodies now. But when you do these cases, you hear the screams and the anguish and the tears of the children.”
Leavitt explains it wasn’t until January 1, 2003, that third parties could be included in childhood sexual abuse lawsuits. That’s when California’s statute was broadened— and the statute of limitations was waived for one year. That’s why there are so many cases all being brought at the same time against the San Diego Diocese.
You’re wondering how it’s possible to put a monetary value on the pain at issue here. This part feels surreal. The plaintiffs’ attorneys believe each victim’s case should be valued between $1.1 and $1.6 million. The diocese settlement offer of $95 million calls for payments ranging from $10,000 to $800,000.
“In California law, a rape constitutes penetration of any orifice—any,” says Leavitt. “Not just with a penis—it can be with a finger [digital penetration] or with an object. And there are other factors to consider: The age of the victim. How many times abuse occurred. Over what length of time. Was the victim threatened? The fragility of the child—was the father away at war, or had he just died? And proximity to the child—when a child is molested, they live in fear of the next time. The angst of seeing the perpetrator creates so much horror. It’s like waiting for the next bomb to go off in a war. It’s like waiting for the boogie man to come. It’s a living hell on earth.”
You try your best to imagine the pain and suffering, and you shudder. But wait. Aren’t some of the plaintiffs’ lawyers going to pocket 40 percent of the settlement? Is paying lawyer fees a good reason to disrupt the charitable works of the San Diego Diocese?
“Lawyers on this case have been working around the clock for five years with no pay,” says Leavitt. “Forty percent is in line with a contingency fee. We may never recover anything. We’ve had no compensation—some of us have dipped into our own savings on this. When you hear that the lawyers are greedy in this case, that’s propaganda driven by the defendants and their insurance company. How come you never hear about a frivolous defense fund?
“But stop and think about it and answer this question: Would you accept $1.5 million for being raped for two years—as a child—and living in a state of fear where you never know when it’s going to happen again? Not to mention that it will affect you for the rest of your life. Is that a fair exchange?”
BEFORE THE START of the emotional 341 hearing, several lawyers and alleged victims had met to prepare in boardrooms at Leavitt’s office. One victim, who asks that his real name not be used, consents to talk. “Don” is 47 years old, with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache. His black sports jacket is loose, and the white shirt under it is neatly pressed. Don has smiling blue eyes. He doesn’t appear to be troubled or hurting.
“I try to keep my personal emotions intact,” he says. “I want to be respectful to the 10-year-old child inside me—to give that child a voice. It’s something each person deals with in a different manner.”
Don isn’t going to speak at the hearing. He’ll cede his time to his lawyer. But he needs to be there. “The bishop has to understand there is a face behind each creditor, and a voice for each creditor—who was a child who was a sexual abuse victim,” he says. “Even though many of us are adults now, we’re still the voice of that unsettled child.”
When the diocese declared bankruptcy, Don felt victimized all over again. “On a personal level, it felt like another tactic of hiding the truth,” he says. “We were going into the state court system, and now they’ve chosen another venue—the federal court system. All the victims, all we’ve ever wanted is to get the truth heard. It’s a search for truth and justice for us.”
Now a nonpracticing Roman Catholic, Don says he lost his faith long ago. “There’s just a distinct level of mistrust with the diocese,” he says. “They talk incessantly about transparency, but actions speak louder than words . . . I was really interested to see how connected the bishop would be to the financial situations of his company. I wanted to see how in tune he is with the conditions of his company.”
And that brings you back to creditor Dianna Williams. Her attorney has a letter from Monsignor Steve Callahan, vicar general for the diocese and victim assistance coordinator. The letter states the diocese’s position on therapy—it says 52 weeks is the limit.
“Diana clearly needs more therapy,” says attorney Zalkin. “But you heard them in the hearing say this letter—that says 52 weeks was the limit—was a ‘misstatement of policy,’ right?”
Indeed, that is what Callahan comes around to say at the 341 hearing. Brom also states: “We’ve taken every request for counseling very seriously.”
Creditor Dianna Williams is quite anxious to get word about reinstating her therapy. While the Chapter 11 proceedings drag on, she continues to wait. And you can’t help wonder why, in God’s name, it has to be this way.
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