The confessional was dark. Dark, like the lost souls who come to me with their innermost secrets and torments. Men and women with guilts piled high against their consciences, like swollen bags of garbage heaped against a rusty mailbox. But when a city has no conscience, its citizens turn to men like me to unburden their hearts.

That's my job.

I'm a priest.

It was a Saturday afternoon in July. The air conditioning was fighting a losing battle against the humidity that clung ...