Louise Milligan - Cardinal: The Rise and Fall of George Pell

This is in part a story of a notable Prince of the Church, a staunch defender of Vatican authority. It is also a heartbreaking tribute to the children abused within his circle, and both before and during his time of authorityknowledge of which he denies, as is his legal right. But above all, Cardinal introduces new evidence indicating that as engrossing as this account may be, George Pells career has not yet taken its final direction.

Tom Keneally

CARDINAL

THE RISE AND FALL OF GEORGE PELL

LOUISE MILLIGAN

MELBOURNE UNIVERSITY PRESS

An imprint of Melbourne University Publishing Limited

Level 1, 715 Swanston Street, Carlton, Victoria 3053, Australia

www.mup.com.au

First published 2017

Text Louise Milligan, 2017

Design and typography Melbourne University Publishing Limited, 2017

This book is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 and subsequent amendments, no part may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means or process whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publishers.

Every attempt has been made to locate the copyright holders for material quoted in this book. Any person or organisation that may have been overlooked or misattributed may contact the publisher.

Thanks to Tim Minchin for permission to reproduce lyrics from Come Home (Cardinal Pell) on .

Text design and typesetting by Megan Ellis

Cover design by Philip Campbell Design

Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

Cataloguing-in-Publications details are held at the National Library of Australia

If the content of this book brings up issues for readers, for help or information call:

Lifeline: 131 114

Broken Rites: (03) 9457 4999

beyondblue: 1300 224 636

Centres Against Sexual Assault: 1800 806 292

For my Dad, a fine man and a believer

CONTENTS

AUTHORS NOTE

All references to the Royal Commission indicate the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Abuse.

All references to the Victorian parliamentary inquiry indicate the Inquiry into the Handling of Child Abuse by Religious and Other Organisations by the Victorian Parliaments Family and Community Development Committee.

THE KID

I first meet The Kid at a local RSL. An unprepossessing place, of mission-brown bricks, set back on a treeless lawn from a grimy street. Inside, its lit with a green fluorescent glare. Grey carpet, slightly sticky red vinyl chairs, walls adorned with military crests, fighting guns and lists of the dead. A television blares sport in the corner. And, in the middle of the ceiling, among it all, glitters a single, incongruous disco ball.

The Kid loves this place. Hes working the bar. Hes of medium build, not tall, with big chocolate-drop eyes framed with curling lashes. He has PTSD eyes, although he does his level best to hide them with humour. Ive seen them before and Ill see them again and again before this thing endsbrown, green, blue, big, small, smiling, bloodshot. PTSD eyes somehow have the look of a dog thats been left alone outside for weeks in a yard thats been concreted over. PTSD are quick to tears.

The ageing locals who have come to dance twostep out the back of the RSL club all know him by name. He knows what everyone drinks. As his hand flick-flick-flicks the beer tap, gold and beaded with condensation, filling a pot, he looks at me, part bashful, part sceptical.

Hes working there for a few shifts to fill in while hes doing his university exams. He says hes got one tomorrow and I feel sick, apologising for the timing. Hes nervous and were both conscious of the weirdness of the situation. We strike up an immediate rapport, but hes deeply wary. Every time he opens up, he shrinks back again. At times he talks in riddles. I dont take notes as a gesture of goodwill. He wants to know how I found him, who is my source?

If I told you who my sources were, you wouldnt trust me with what you tell me. I need people to know that I wont burn them and I wont give away their names to anyone else.

The thing is, Ive got trust issues. I would trust you more if you just told the truth, he says.

I tell him Im sorry and that an investigative reporter wouldnt last long in this game if she started doing that.

He looks at me and says, I know you are an investigative journalistI know the work you do, I watch your show every night and I think you are excellent at what you do. If I was going to talk to anyone, it would be you, but I just cant. Dont you understand? This is really serious.

This is about me and its about him. Thats all I can say. And by him I dont mean Pell.

Are you saying that George Pell wasnt your abuser?

No. Im not saying that. Im not saying anything at all. Just that its about me and its about him. That its important. You have to understand, I have a good life, I love my community, Im the good guy, the guy that everyone can count on. But my mental health is hanging on by an absolute thread. He pinches his finger and thumb together. The only thing that is keeping me together is the idea of his head on a platter. But Im not saying any more. Now you know Im the guy. Okay? Im the guy. Im the guy. Ive given you that. Thats more than anyone else knows. No-one else has found me. But thats it. Thats all Im saying. Thats more than Ill tell anyone else, but Im not saying any more.

His mum and her partner turn up. My stomach hits the floor. Shes going to tell me off for hassling her boy. I imagine myself as a mother in that situation. But they go into a back room and he follows them. I sit and wait, hes in there for a while. Reassuring them. I dont see them again.

What do you know about me anyway? he asks when he returns. I exhale deeply. I tell him that I know that there was another boy with him, but thats about itI dont know any of his circumstances. He blanches at this. So you know? Fuuccck. He presses down on the bar with his hands. He shakes his head. How do you know this? You need to tell me.

I know hes not living any more, I gingerly admit. His eyes fix on me with a hard look for a second, then dart off to the side. And Im really, really sorry, I say softly.

He nods vigorously, the trauma now apparent, his jaw clenched, the snap of the beer tap now deliberate. He flick-flick-flicks and pours himself another schooner.

I sit there for a while and hope hell fill the silence.

Okay. You know that. Well, youll know why this is so important to me. I cant fuck this up for some journalist, dont you understand that? As much as I like what you do and I respect you and I can see that I like you, I cant fuck that up for anything. Its too important.

I understand, I tell him. I really do. Do you think that hell ever come back? Theres no extradition treaty with the Vatican. Hes already said he has a heart condition. Im just not sure its ever going to happen. I want to say more, but I cant snap this thread.

That may well be true, I hope its not, he continues. But youve got to understand how important this is to me. Im traumatised. I know I seem like Im a happy-go-lucky guy, but it is a facade. This is the mask I wear every day and Im really good at wearing it. But until the Taskforce comes and tells me that its not a goer, Im not talking to anyone. But if they tell me its not happening, Ill come straight to your door.

I tell him I am so sorry to put him through this. I say its for a good cause. I tell him loosely what information I know, which to be frank, at that point, is scant. I say that I feel sad that the very thought of me may be triggering because I am now inextricably linked with the story of his childhood. I say I have been in that situation with others before and it saddens me because hes clearly such a decent guy.