First senior US Catholic official found guilty of covering up sexual abuse

Former cardinal’s aide tasked with investigating abuse claims faces up to seven years in prison for endangering children.

A Roman Catholic priest in Philadelphia has become the highest-ranking US church official to be found guilty of covering up child sex abuse claims.

Monsignor William Lynn, who supervised hundreds of priests and was an adviser to the Archbishop of Philadelphia, was convicted of endangering children by a jury. He was acquitted of a second count of endangerment and conspiracy, but could still face up to seven years in jail. It is likely that he will appeal the verdict.

This is another landmark in the ongoing efforts by prosecutors and victims’ groups to secure convictions in religious abuse cases, not just because of Lynn’s seniority in the church, but because he has been found guilty of endangering children through failings in his administrative and investigative duties, rather than because he had any direct contact with abuse.

Lynn was in charge of around 800 priests in the US’s sixth-largest, and was, as Al Jazeera reports, accused of covering up abuse scandals by “transferring priests to unsuspecting parishes”. He was also in charge of investigating sex abuse claims in the archdiocese betwenn 1992 and 2004.

As I wrote earlier this week in relation to the $28m settlement awarded to an abuse victim in a case involving US Jehovah’s Witnesses, these kind of cases and convictions, horrible as the details are, are to be welcomed. Lyon’s case is particularly important because it demonstrates that even an organisation as big as the Catholic church will be held accountable, and that individuals who try and use an instition to conceal wrongdoing will be discovered.

Catholic Monsignor William Lynn (r) entering the court in Philadelphia. Photograph: Getty Images

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

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For the Ukip press officer I slept with, the European Union was Daddy

My Ukip lover just wanted to kick against authority. I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit.

I was a journalist for a progressive newspaper.

He was the press officer for the UK Independence Party.

He was smoking a cigarette on the pavement outside the Ukip conference in Bristol.

I sat beside him. It was a scene from a terrible film. 

He wore a tweed Sherlock Holmes coat. The general impression was of a seedy-posh bat who had learned to talk like Shere Khan. He was a construct: a press officer so ridiculous that, by comparison, Ukip supporters seemed almost normal. He could have impersonated the Queen Mother, or a morris dancer, or a British bulldog. It was all bravado and I loved him for that.

He slept in my hotel room, and the next day we held hands in the public gallery while people wearing Union Jack badges ranted about the pound. This was before I learned not to choose men with my neurosis alone. If I was literally embedded in Ukip, I was oblivious, and I was no kinder to the party in print than I would have been had I not slept with its bat-like press officer. How could I be? On the last day of the conference, a young, black, female supporter was introduced to the audience with the words – after a white male had rubbed the skin on her hand – “It doesn’t come off.” Another announcement was: “The Ukip Mondeo is about to be towed away.” I didn’t take these people seriously. He laughed at me for that.

After conference, I moved into his seedy-posh 18th-century house in Totnes, which is the counterculture capital of Devon. It was filled with crystal healers and water diviners. I suspect now that his dedication to Ukip was part of his desire to thwart authority, although this may be my denial about lusting after a Brexiteer who dressed like Sherlock Holmes. But I prefer to believe that, for him, the European Union was Daddy, and this compulsion leaked into his work for Ukip – the nearest form of authority and the smaller Daddy.

He used to telephone someone called Roger from in front of a computer with a screen saver of two naked women kissing, lying about what he had done to promote Ukip. He also told me, a journalist, disgusting stories about Nigel Farage that I cannot publish because they are libellous.

When I complained about the pornographic screen saver and said it was damaging to his small son, he apologised with damp eyes and replaced it with a photo of a topless woman with her hand down her pants.

It was sex, not politics, that broke us. I arrived on Christmas Eve to find a photograph of a woman lying on our bed, on sheets I had bought for him. That was my Christmas present. He died last year and I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit, of Daddy dying, too – for what would be left to desire?

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era