Patricia Feenan - Holy Hell

Patricia Feenan

Words, once published, have a life of their own.

For my devout Catholic parents, Mollie and Jack, who mercifully didnt ever learn of this terrible story but whose determination and fairness, passed on to their three daughters, enabled me to write about it.

Copyright 2012 Patricia Feenan

Published by Fontaine Press
P.O. Box 948, Fremantle,
Western Australia 6959
www.fontainepress.com

EPUB Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9873565-5-0

This eBook is also available as a printed book,
please visit www.fontainepress.com/holyhell for details.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. The information, views, and opinions expressed in this publication are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

Contents

Foreword

H ow would you react if told by a member of your family they had been sexually abused? Imagine your brother, sister or one of your own children coming to you for help. Then consider what you would do when you learn the perpetrator of those vile acts was one of your closest friends, respected, a person whom you trusted and had taken into the very midst of your family, your Parish Priest. How would you feel? Shocked, betrayed, self-blaming are all appropriate descriptions but most of all hurt, that terrible hurt that originates deep inside, surfacing only to overwhelm you.

Fortunately they are questions most of us will never have to face, we pray not anyway. Patricia Feenan however, did have to face those questions. She was exposed to all those emotions and more. As a good mum she was intent on raising her boys in a loving atmosphere surrounded by her extended and helpful family.

The Catholic Church was a big part of that family. The church wasnt just something they visited each Sunday; it was an intricate part of how they lived their lives. So when Father James Fletcher brought them into his close circle of friends they felt humbled and honoured, welcoming him as a regular visitor for meals, family celebrations and sharing his confidence. To learn this man violated and destroyed the childhood of Patricias eldest son also destroyed her, irreparably damaging her faith in the church.

This book takes you on Patricia Feenans personal journey. It is raw, revealing her inner-most emotions and thoughts as she lays open the wounds for you the reader, taking you from the mysterious behavioural changes in her son, the horrifying revelation followed by the police investigation and trial. She also explains the betrayal and abandonment by her beloved church.

The story will shock and confront as it takes you through every parents worst nightmare. It is also a story of healing and hope for the future. Patricia Feenan wasnt just a good mum; she is an extraordinary woman who never gave up the struggle to rescue her family from the terrible abyss of despair created by a paedophile priest.

I suppose it is uncommon for a former detective who investigated the crime to introduce a book on the matter. If sharing her story helps others understand and comprehend the unimaginable then it will have achieved all that Patricia Feenan hoped. For that reason when asked to write this foreword I never hesitated.

Detective Chief Inspector Peter Fox

T here was a knock on the door of our small room. All eyes swivelled towards the door as the Judges Associate entered and said, the jury will now take a one-hour lunch break.

It was Monday the 6th of December 2004 and the people all precious to me had spent the previous two weeks sitting in East Maitland Courthouse during the Criminal Trial of Catholic priest, James Patrick Fletcher, who had been charged with the sexual abuse of my eldest son, Daniel, now aged twenty-eight years. At the time of the abuse he was just thirteen years old. My sons three brothers had stood shoulder to shoulder, protecting him, giving him strength and then willed the jury to find the priest guilty as charged.

Now we looked at one another and tried not to let the disappointment show. We had been sitting apprehensively since lunchtime on the previous Thursday when the jury retired to consider its verdict. I told myself that the longer a verdict took to be delivered must surely mean that the jury was really considering the whole picture. For us, the appalled family, close friends and supporters who had shared the most extraordinary emotions through the trial and whose indignation and anger, on learning of Daniels trauma, was palpable, it meant another uneasy meal break was looming. Another lunch, more brittle conversation and a strong sense of unreality faced us, but this time it would be different.

At the lunch break the three boys scattered in various directions to seek a respite from this abnormal and painful situation. We made a quick call to Canberra to give an update to Dominic, the anxious son who had returned to work there after spending two weeks with us. A permeating numbness had crept over our family and supporters as the trial and deliberation unfolded.

Throughout the trial, family and friends had provided lunch and we welcomed the normality of eating a sandwich in the green room which had been allocated to our family but which was only five steps from the courtroom itself. We didnt arrange lunch after the jury retired as we hoped that a decision would be reached quickly and we could leave that building forever. Optimistic or naive?

Five women, including myself, drove down to the local caf and tried to buy lunch. The caf was busy and we could not order quickly. I asked myself whether the waitresses and cooks sensed our trauma. Surely it was unusual for groups of people to sweep in, order a quick meal, huddle in conversation, consult watches every few minutes and then rush out. I was very uneasy at the delay and kept watching the clock as our hours meal break diminished and so asked at 1.40 if we could have our sandwiches wrapped to take with us. As the clock ticked the remainder of the lunchtime away, my friend Margaret rushed to get her truck to transport us back to the courthouse and we piled in clutching our wrapped lunches.

I felt strongly and strangely that something monumental was about to happen. Trust those instincts, Pat; I will never doubt my instincts again. As soon as we returned to our little room, and were about to unwrap our lunches, the sheriff appeared at the door and said that the jury was coming back in to the courtroom. No panic at that stage as this had happened a few times since the jury had retired at 11.00 am the Thursday before. Bernard, my youngest son, who hadnt left the Courthouse for lunch, rang Daniel and his next eldest brother, Luke, and told them the jury was coming back. He couldnt reach his father, John. My dear youngest son then put his arm round me and there it stayed as Detective Sergeant Peter Fox, the wonderful police officer who had managed the whole investigation and arrest of the priest, rushed down the hallway saying, Pat, they have reached a verdict! Then we panicked as we were missing some of the family, including the victim, my beloved son Daniel. The Crown Prosecutor hurried up the stairs and thankfully Daniel, his partner, Donna, and Luke arrived on the run.

We jostled into the courtroom. I was surrounded by a wall of believers. Supporters of the priest, James Fletcher, gathered as well and took front row seats. I wondered why. I couldnt speak and surely everyone present could hear my heart thundering. I was visually assaulted by the number of policemen, corrective service and sheriffs office personnel who then stood ringing the dock and courtroom in contrast to the two uniformed officers who had been present for the trial. I gulped, turned around and smiled at my beautiful eldest son, his partner and his next wonderful brother, Luke. I quickly touched Detective Foxs hand, and then held tightly to my dear youngest son who was sitting beside me. An old friend held me from the other side. We watched the jury file in and I searched their faces unsuccessfully for some indication of their decision. I realised that I had been waiting for this moment for a very, very long time.