He inspires fear in the church, hope for victims

Own experiences help drive a St. Paul lawyer in his high-profile quest to expose clergy abuse

BY KEVIN HARTER

Pioneer Press

Under glaring lights, television cameras focus on Jeff Anderson. TheSt. Paul lawyer has just jetted to Los Angeles to publicly accuse theCatholic Church of failing to protect children from a predator priest.

As he stands at a podium at the Omni Hotel in his pressed taupesuit, Anderson raises a notebook-size photo of the Rev. Nicolas Aguilarabove his head.

"We know now that this man, with the complicity and theparticipation of two cardinals, has shattered the lives of over 100youths," Anderson says to the crowd of reporters. He accuses the churchof shuttling Aguilar from California to Mexico, hiding him fromprosecution. It is a charge the cardinals and churches in Los Angelesand Mexico will later deny.

Before Anderson leaves the stage, he turns to his client JoaquinMendez, puts a hand on his shoulder and calls him a "courageoussurvivor." The cameras zoom in.

Anderson, 59, understands drama. And he knows how to get the public's attention.

He's a polished fighter who won't give up and who, as a result, haschanged the church and the world. He brought priest pedophilia out intothe open. And he has become increasingly successful at targeting theleaders who tried to hide it. That makes Anderson a man the churchshould either fear, or thank.

The son of a furniture salesman who grew up Lutheran in Edina,Anderson has built his law firm into one of the nation's leadingspecialists in clergy molestation cases. He has sued nearly everydenomination, winning "multimillions." The bulk of his cases, abouttwo-thirds, have targeted the Roman Catholic Church.

How people view him, Anderson says, isn't as important as how theytreat his clients. But through 24 years of waging an all-out waragainst the Catholic Church, he has come to learn public perception andmedia coverage are as crucial to his cause as legal filings anddepositions.

Yet the fighter the cameras caught during that Nov. 16 news conference is only part of Anderson.

On the same trip, Anderson and two of his attorneys sat for ameeting in the hotel's Presidential Suite with supposed victims ofclergy abuse. It starts with handshakes and hugs. It turns into anOprah-like support group that lasts into the night.

The mother of three grown sons dabs tears from her eyes and tellsAnderson her boys were abused by the family's trusted minister. Theyaren't willing or able to come forward.

Anderson leans in to hug her and thanks her for coming. He then doessomething that he rarely does in public. He talks about learning thathis own daughter was abused by a priest. He then vows to help themother, legally or otherwise.

'Y

ou are the scum maggot of this country," penned the anonymous letter writer to Anderson.

"My God lawyers have a horrible reputation for getting rich on humanmisery, but you carry the profession from the swamps to the cesspool,"wrote another.

The notes hang like badges of honor on the paneled walls of Anderson& Associates, alongside family photos and images of the Rev. MartinLuther King Jr. and Gandhi. In a foyer hangs a dark, brooding paintingtitled "Priest Cape," showing what appears to be a priest draped indarkness and shadow.

When you put yourself in front of the cameras and take on sacredinstitutions, it often turns personal. There are few who are asvilified or admired as Anderson.

"Jeff Anderson has probably done more to help the Catholic Church …than anyone I can think of, by forcing the church to be accountable andhonest," said the Rev. Tom Doyle, a Dominican priest and canon lawyerwho has had his own run-ins with the church. Doyle praises Anderson'slegal work, calling it precedent setting.

What drives Anderson is a chance to help victims who otherwise wouldhave been left to suffer, his supporters say. Anderson likens his workto a 21st-century Reformation: citizens taking on the church hierarchyto demand change.

"He has saved a lot of lives," said Eric Barragan, the Mexicodirector of Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests. "Not bypulling them out of a burning building, or taking them out of a burningcar, but hopefully because they won't commit suicide, parents won't besplitting up and communities won't be torn apart."

But ripping apart communities is exactly what Anderson is doing,detractors say. Congregations and dioceses are going bankrupt. Theloyalties of the faithful are questioned. And why? For money, criticssay.

"Jeff Anderson is not interested in reforming the church, but in thehuge cash settlements he will receive," said Joe Maher, founder of theDetroit-based Opus Bono Sacerdotii (which means "work for the good ofthe priesthood"), an organization that gives legal and financialsupport to clergy accused of abuse.

Maher uses words like "unscrupulous" to describe lawyers such asAnderson who take on the church. They "prey upon people with emotionaldisorders or unbalanced lives" with promises of huge payoffs, he said.

"Jeff Anderson has developed a money-making machine."

Several attorneys who have faced Anderson did not return phone callsrequesting comment, including Mark Chopko, general counsel for the U.S.Conference of Catholic Bishops. Previously, Chopko said conflictsshould be resolved between the church and supposed victims, and not bycourtroom lawyers.

Whether they think he is an angel or the devil, most agree Anderson has been effective.

Church leaders and their attorneys have come to fear Anderson,because he is tenacious, wins cases and collects millions, said JasonBerry, author of several books on priests and pedophilia, including"Lead Us Not Into Temptation."

"He has had a major impact and been a driving force," Berry said."There is now a lot of momentum behind him that wasn't there five yearsago.

"He waged an uphill battle and has prevailed."

A

nderson had a "happy and traditional" Beaver Cleaver suburbanchildhood. His father sold furniture at Dayton's while his mothermanaged their Edina household.

"I get my tenacity from my mom and dad," Anderson said. "My mom isstrong and my dad was a real humanitarian. He never said or didanything unkind. He was as gentle of a man as I have ever known."

Anderson came of age during the '60s, embracing the flourishingcivil rights and peace movements of the times. And he immersed himselfin his studies, including politics and philosophy.

When he was 18, he converted to Catholicism to appease his firstwife. While he respected the Catholic faithful and the church's longhistory of promoting social justice, education and health care, he didnot really subscribe to church doctrine.

Looking back, Anderson thinks he was an agnostic then. He soughtenlightenment from books, booze and chemicals as a student at theUniversity of Minnesota.

After graduating, Anderson took a job with an advertising agency,then as a shoe buyer, both considered good jobs, Anderson said.

"It was superficial. It was nonsense. There was a war going on (inVietnam). And the civil rights movement here. … I needed to findmeaning in my work. To be authentic."

Anderson enrolled in night classes at William Mitchell College ofLaw. It wasn't until his third year that a case ignited his legalpassion. He defended a homeless man who had been charged with indecentexposure for urinating in public. The judge dismissed the case.

"I could make a difference," he said. "It was transformational."

Retired Minnesota Supreme Court Justice RosalieWahl, a formerWilliam Mitchell law professor, remembers Anderson as a bright younglaw student.

"The thing that most impressed me then was he came alive when hehandled a real case," said Wahl, who taught Anderson criminal justice.

Decades later, she sees a graying, experienced attorney who hasretained his enthusiasm and vigor. He is able to keep focused throughthe praise and shake off the criticism.

"He's no saint," Wahl said. "But he really cares about people. It's not about the money."

Despite decades of success, Anderson continued to battle the viceshe picked up in college. Alcohol never got him into trouble ' legallyor professionally, he said. But it was a dark part of his life. Itwould consume him at night. It would tire him during the day.

But he made a point to get to work on time, to never have alcohol onhis breath. And to not let alcohol affect how he approached his cases.He likens it today to living a "double life."

Then he got drunk on his 50th birthday. Really drunk. There was noarrest, no DWI, no ultimatum from his family to sober up ' just arealization he needed to stop.

"It was the last straw. I called a friend. I said it was time,"Anderson said. With the pal's help, Anderson began treatment. He's beensober for nearly 10 years.

"I lived a lie for so many years. My recovery is a second chance at life," he said.

Coming clean and getting sober humbled him and changed his spiritual view, but not his tenacity.

"I no longer am agnostic," Anderson said. "Reflection and prayer arepart of my life. My spiritual life is vibrant. And it inspires me. Itis part of everything I do."

Anderson talks openly about his two marriages, his six children, hisformer devotion to the bottle and his dedication to his legal cause,but he prefers to focus on the latter.

It was after eight years of practicing run-of-the mill law that he"stumbled upon" the case that would push his career in a new direction.

A friend had told Anderson about the case of Greg Riedle, who hadbeen convicted of molesting a girl. The St. Paul Park man was saying hewas only doing what he learned from his parish priest, the Rev. ThomasPaul Adamson. Anderson took his issue to leaders with the Archdioceseof St. Paul and Minneapolis. While the criminal statute of limitationshad passed ' so Adamson was never tried ' a civil lawsuit could stillbe filed.

The church offered a $1 million-plus settlement in 1984, if Riedle kept quiet.

"I had an anxiety attack. I felt paralyzed," Anderson said. "Theywanted confidentiality, which would have made me as bad as them. But Ihad an obligation to take it to Greg."

Riedle turned down the offer and sued. The case made headlines. Thatis when, Anderson said, "the floodgates opened and I realized howenormous it was."

A

nderson is constantly in motion.

He works out at least once a day, often twice. He leaves hisStillwater home and arrives at his downtown St. Paul office hoursbefore most have gotten out of bed. His job takes him to several citiesacross the country each week. And his phones are constantly ringing.Conversations sway between gut-wrenching emotion with those who saythey were abused, to downright battles when he talks to an accusedcleric. He makes a point of calling each of the accused.

"They usually don't answer," Anderson said. "But if they don't,they'll see it on their caller ID, or get my message. And they'll knowI am on to them."

Part of why Anderson is so dogged is his multifaceted understanding of priest abuse.

It was the mid-1990s, about 10 years into his legal crusade, thatAnderson learned one of his own daughters had been abused by a priestwho was counseling the girl.

"It just gave me another layer of understanding," Anderson said. "Toknow this, feel this and blame myself … I understand it on a lot ofdifferent levels.

"I live it, feel it, and am close to it."

The priest was charged and convicted.

Eventually in the Adamson case, dozens of supposed victims cameforward and filed lawsuits against the Archdiocese of St. Paul andMinneapolis and the Diocese of Winona. In 1990, the victims wereawarded $3.5 million, including, for the first time, punitive damages.

In the years that followed, Anderson said he made nothing some yearsand millions others. His law firm, on the 10th floor of the FirstNational Bank Building, has grown to about 10 attorneys. It hasrepresented more than 2,000 clients in clergy abuse cases, and is inthe midst of an unprecedented legal maneuver: Lawsuits against eachCatholic diocese in the country on behalf of a Hudson, Wis., couplewhose son, mortician Dan O'Connell, was murdered in 2002, authoritiessay, by a predator priest.

"Few people in this country understand or have been so active intaking the steps to bring child molestation to an end," said TomO'Connell Jr. while explaining why his family turned to Anderson. Theyare seeking the names of all the priests who have been accused of abuseso the public can be made aware. That Anderson was willing to go afterthe names, and not the money, impressed the O'Connells.

Long after the cases are over, Anderson continues to track hisformer targets. Twenty-four years after learning about Adamson,Anderson heard last month that the retired priest was living acrossfrom a school in Altoona, Wis.

Anderson contacted police. And then he notified a victims group. The group spread Adamson's photograph among his neighbors.

"Today in some ways is no different than that first day," Andersonsaid. "That case is over, but the struggle continues. This is aninsular culture that has operated in secrecy and above the law for2,000 years. This is a problem that has been documented to the fourthcentury," he said. "Who am I to think I can make a difference?Originally, it may have been grandiosity, but now it is a mission, asearch for truth and hope."

Today, Anderson has enough wealth for him and his family to livewell, for him to fund the advocacy groups he supports and to continueto do battle in court.

"I've made enough money to match them," Anderson said. "They can'tout-resource me anymore. I can pursue them without limitation."

Kevin Harter can be reached at kharter@pioneerpress.com or 800-950-9080, ext. 2149.

"This is an insular culture that has operated in secrecy and abovethe law for 2,000 years. This is a problem that has been documented tothe fourth century. Who am I to think I can make a difference?Originally, it may have been grandiosity, but now it is a mission, asearch for truth and hope."

St. Paul lawyer Jeff Anderson, who works to expose abuse by the clergy