Rome not only insisted on offering to repay the $1.5 million, but issued a strong indication that it was considering the posthumous excommunication of Sister Anne Braxton, also known as the criminal Chantal Louise Segretti.
That twist in the story was carried on news wires around the world and gave rise to protests that arose among the very street people that Sister Anne had comforted at the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter, at the fringe of Seattle’s Pioneer Square District.
Their opposition found support in cities across the United States and around the world when an online editorial compared Chantal Louise Segretti’s case to the story of The Good Thief, who acknowledged his crimes but asked Christ to remember him for good on Judgment Day.
At this time, Jason Wade received a call from Pincher Creek, Alberta. Sister Marie had located a series of letters Sister Anne had written to be opened in the event of her death. She faxed them to the Mirror for Jason to print. I could never confess to another human being the horrible things I did. As a young, confused woman I succumbed to drugs and joined a group of lost souls rushing down a road to damnation that culminated with the death of an innocent child. I wanted to end my own life, but realized that was a sinful, selfish act that would achieve nothing. I wanted to surrender, but I did not believe that it was the answer for me. I begged God to help me and after months of torture, while I was praying alone in a tiny church in Paris, He called me. I decided then that I was a failure, unworthy of forgiveness, but I would use every remaining breath of my sinful life to help others overcome their mistakes and find their way to Him. Later, I tried to convince Russell to search his heart and do the right thing himself. But he shut me out. Russell grew paranoid, fearing that Leon would betray us to police one day. So he lived in torment. I don’t believe he touched the money. Eventually, I tried to convince Leon to surrender to God, but prison had made him bitter and he was blind to the path of redemption that God was willing to light for him. As for me, I do not ask for forgiveness, for I am not worthy. I do not ask for understanding, for my actions were beyond comprehension. All I ask is that you know that God spoke to me, told me to dedicate myself to helping others overcome their human mistakes and turn to the Light.
Chantal Louise Segretti
The day the Mirror published Sister Anne’s lost letter, Grace met Jason at the Rusted Anchor.
“How’s your old man doing?”
“One day at a time.”
“How about you?”
Jason shrugged.
“Might take some time off, drive down the coast to Mexico, do some thinking. I got an offer to write a book.”
“It’s an unbelievable story,” Grace said, “when you look at all the people it touched, the impact, and what they carried with them all these years. People dealing with their mistakes, you know?”
“I know.”
“I mean, look at the nun. Look at Boland, afraid to spend the money, Rhonda and Brady, what they were facing, Sperbeck gave up twenty-five years for a payday. Then there’s your dad and you.”
Jason looked into his ginger ale.
“Yup.”
“Helluva toll.”
“Yup.”
“So, uhm, this drive to Mexico, you thinking it’ll be one of those solo soul-quest journeys, or what?”
He looked at her, at her smile and what it offered.
“I don’t know, Grace. Guess I’m open to ‘or what.’”
“Then we’ll talk about that.”
“We will.”
Later, Jason drove his Falcon to his old man’s house, south, between Highway 509 and the west bank of the Duwamish River, not far from the shipyards and Boeing Field. The house where his mother had read him bedtime stories, where he’d dreamed of being a writer.
Since Sperbeck had ended things, Jason’s dad wasn’t talking much. But Jason’s daily visits were like balm to him. Today, as steaks sizzled on the grill, they reflected on the Seahawks, Mariners, and the Sonics, which was their way of putting the broken pieces of their lives back together.
On this night, Jason noticed that his father had taken out an old family album and was looking at a picture of Jason’s mother, who’d walked out on them years ago.
“You ever think of looking for her, Dad?”
Henry Wade gazed out beyond his deck toward the sun setting over the ocean.
“Every day, son. Every day.”