Simple Simon

by William Poe

  By the time I made it to Belvedere, people were gathering in the training center. I recognized the heads of the British and German families, men whom I had met on travels in Europe with other leaders of the MFT. Elders from Japan and Korea were present, among them some of Father’s earliest disciples.

  Everyone knew about my witnessing center and that I was among the few Americans promoted to leadership within the MFT. While I was shaking hands with leaders I knew and introducing myself to others, Father appeared onstage, followed by Sergeant Choi and several of the church’s world leaders. Willard Bozeman approached the podium and tested the microphone with a loud tap. He motioned for everyone to stand and bow as Father came forward.

  Among the people onstage, I spotted Marshall Cummings, who had been the center director in St. Louis. He appeared thin and haggard, a pale reflection of the enthusiastic man who had explained the providential significance of fundraising to his members when I heard him speak on my way to the World Day competition. Marshall was now our missionary to the Gambia. The church was notorious for appointing people to foreign missions, then leaving them to their own devices. Given the disparity between the MFT and the American Church leaders, I wondered if Bozeman had managed to have Marshall exiled because he was supportive of the fundraising teams. I never saw Norman. Though, prior to entering the training center, I spotted Randall and Mary standing beside their recently arrived Korean spouses.

  Father conferred with Mitsui and then pulled Willard aside. After some animated discussion, Willard returned to the microphone.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he told the crowd.

  One could not help but notice the fine cut of Father’s Pierre Cardin suit. Willard’s three-piece suit, though pricey, hung on his body like suits purchased from a department store.

  “Before Father speaks to us,” Willard continued, “I want to make a few announcements. To begin, the church prepared a response to the Congressional report issued a few weeks ago. You’ll each get a copy before you leave.”

  A Congressional investigation had been under way for years. The final report uncovered nothing criminal in our activities. The report concluded that we were not purely a business enterprise, nor were we a front for the Korean CIA, as opponents had alleged.

  “Now we must prepare for a new test of faith,” Willard stated. “The attorney for the Southern District of New York is accusing Father of avoiding taxes on interest that accrued to a bank account set up in Father’s name before we incorporated the national church.”

  I was sure everyone felt as I did. As far as tax auditors were concerned, church members were indistinguishable from Trappist monks. We were exempt from paying taxes. How could the government bring charges of tax evasion against the leader of the whole movement?

  “Grand jury testimony is not going well,” Willard explained. “We fear that Father will be indicted.”

  Gasps rose from the assembly.

  “Father wanted you to hear this directly, not through the news media or by way of rumors.”

  Father came to the podium and playfully nudged Willard aside. He looked over the crowd. Father manifested a quality common to all charismatic figures—he seemed to speak to directly to each person.

  “I am Heaven’s Al Capone,” Father joked.

  At least, that was the way Sergeant Choi translated what Father had said. I never made out the name of the Chicago gangster in Father’s Korean. Perhaps he had referred to a Korean folk hero, and Sergeant Choi decided Americans would understand Al Capone, which may have been an unfortunate substitution, given that Capone represented someone who didn’t go to jail for his worst crimes, but instead for a relatively minor infraction. Was Father, in fact, more criminally liable than the prosecutor could prove?

  “Congress tried to stop us,” Father said. “Their investigations cost millions of dollars, but they failed. Now they believe that putting me on trial for a tax crime will destroy your faith. Will that happen?”

  “No!” we roared in response.

  Members exchanged glances as if they were at the Last Supper and had just heard that one of them would betray Christ before the night was out. As a practical matter, though, someone must have alerted the district attorney to the existence of the bank account in question. Only a handful of people, especially among American members, knew such intimate details about Father’s affairs.

  “You are my children,” Father continued, waving his hand toward the audience. “In the days that follow, will you remain loyal?”

  “Yes!” we affirmed

  Father led us in three cheers of Mansei! Mansei! Mansei! then God’s kingdom for a thousand years!

  “You will start your families soon,” Father said as the roar subsided. “But what if you have to wait? What if I go to jail?”

  “No!” we cried.

  As Father kneeled to pray, a reverent mood swept over the crowd. Father’s prayers, we knew, sought to comfort a lonely God estranged from his children. Upon their deaths, Father and Mother would become God’s True Companions, the first to fully understand His suffering heart and to offer consolation.

  After the prayer, Willard came to the microphone and explained that state leaders would gather for a meeting. Mitsui came next and asked the MFT leaders to meet at his house. Though now a witnessing center director organizationally, I continued as part of the MFT.

  As Mitsui’s people piled into vans, I remained behind and watched two of Bozeman’s lieutenants—a brother named Owen and a sister named Carol. They had recently come from the San Francisco church to head up legal affairs at headquarters. Everyone wondered about the arrangement. Bozeman wasn’t known to be supportive of Abbanim and the San Francisco family, but these were strange times. Various alliances formed as leaders sought to gain greater authority over various church factions and the business enterprises under their control.

  Outside the training center, Carol and Owen rendezvoused near a row of snow-laden rhododendron. They spoke for a few minutes and then headed toward a Lincoln Town Car parked at the opposite end of the building from the main entrance. The rear window, tinted pitch-black, lowered just enough for me to recognize Abbanim. He looked as imperious as other times I’d seen him. Never was he without a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Allegedly, this was because of his “spiritual sensitivity.” The claim was that the ugliness of most members’ “low spirit” caused him pain. I often wondered, if that were true, why Father and Mother were unaffected. Owen leaned close and spoke to Abbanim. A few moments later, the car drove down a little-used road that led off the estate. The car fishtailed on the ice as it moved along the narrow drive and disappeared behind a grove of maple trees.

  Owen and Carol, unaware of my spying, went into the training center through a side door. I sneaked a peak through a door on the other side of the building and saw Bozeman standing near the stage. Owen seemed to relay a message. The scene made me very uneasy.

  I hopped into one of the last vans leaving for Mitsui’s house. The estate was only a few blocks from Belvedere, but the drive was slow on the treacherous ice. Finally, having shaken the snow from our shoes before removing them inside and leaving our coats on a huge pile in the foyer, everyone gathered in Mitsui’s spacious parlor.

  “What was not said at the meeting,” Mitsui began, “is that I may be indicted along with Father. Your members are going to hear many things. The newspapers will report lies.”

  The Japanese commanders, who had barely listened to his English, bowed their heads as Mitsui explained the news in Japanese. I understood a spattering of what he said, catching words equivalent to “illegal” and “deception,” then something like “notebook” or “ledger” and a word meaning “cash” or “money.”

  Kawasaki, who sat toward the back of the group, tilted his heard toward the kitchen, indicating that I should join him there. He took a couple of soft drinks from the refrigerator and gave me one. Coats and briefcases from the commanders who had entered through the back d
oor covered the table and chairs, so we leaned against the counter.

  “Your San Francisco team is doing well?” Kawasaki asked. “No problems?”

  “Everyone is fine,” I said. “We have quite a few guests hearing lectures right now. And two people joined just last week.”

  Kawasaki picked up breadcrumbs that had fallen on the floor and tossed them in the trash. He was fastidious that way, but I also got the sense he wanted to delay whatever it was he had to say.

  “This is a difficult moment, Simon-san. Mitsui needs the support of an American. He needs you to be loyal.”

  I started to protest that I had always been loyal, but to Mitsui, anything short of absolute obedience was a sign of betrayal. Undeniably, I had challenged him on more than one occasion, not least of which was when I had taken Masako to meet my family—and the few subsequent times I had paid for a plane ticket so she could fly from New York to spend time with me in San Francisco. Mitsui probably viewed me as incorrigible rather than loyal.

  Kawasaki rarely displayed emotion, but standing there in the kitchen, he seemed on the verge of tears.

  “I have something to tell you,” Kawasaki said. “Joseph left the family.”

  “His faith was so solid, Kawasaki. This is hard to believe.” The news truly saddened me.

  The commanders depended on Joseph to coordinate MFT legal affairs. He worked well with Maury, as I had predicted he would, and received high praise from everyone. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to cause him to leave the family.

  “Maury called to tell us that Joseph was no longer part of the church. He was uncomfortable being the one to tell us, but Joseph asked him to call.”

  “That put Maury in a difficult position,” I said.

  “Do you think Maury will continue to help us?” Kawasaki asked.

  “He’s a lawyer, Kawasaki-san. We’ve become one of his main clients.”

  “Simon-san, other than Joseph, you are the only person who understands American law.” Kawasaki glanced into the front room to confirm that Mitsui was still speaking to the commanders. “Mitsui made mistakes by not understanding American law.”

  “What mistakes?” I saw no alternative but to dive headlong into this mess.

  “Mitsui wants you to work with Maury,” Kawasaki said, avoiding a direct answer. “We know you will not be tempted.”

  Tempted by what, I wondered. What had tempted Joseph?

  We finished our drinks about the time that Mitsui stopped speaking. As Kawasaki and I came into the room, Mitsui made the announcement.

  “Simon will receive a new mission,” he told everyone. “From now on, Simon is in charge of MFT legal affairs.”

  The commanders applauded politely, but without enthusiasm, as befitted the gravity of the situation.

  Giving up the mission in San Francisco was not going to be easy. Despite my personal struggles, the experience had been deeply rewarding. Leading new members, who looked up to me as an example of faithful membership, had given me renewed determination to live by the accords of the Divine Principle.

  As Mitsui continued to speak about my new mission, internally, I prayed: Not mine, but Thy will be done.

  After the close of the meeting at Mitsui’s, Kawasaki walked home, less than a block away. The other commanders braved the slippery roads into Manhattan. Mitsui and Kawasaki wanted me to accompany them to see Father the next morning, so I stayed on a hideaway bed that pulled out from Mitsui’s couch. Snow fell the entire night. I barely slept, thinking about Joseph. Several times, I got up to watch the Canadian geese huddling in the moonlight near Mitsui’s frozen pond. They never flew south because Mitsui fed them every day.

  Before dawn, I got up and fitted Mitsui’s car with chains that I found in the garage. By the time I was done, morning sunlight illuminated the snow, which sat like Styrofoam slabs on the spruce limbs. I heard Kawasaki crunching the talcum powder snow as he walked up the road. Mitsui, Kawasaki, and I ate a quick breakfast of seaweed paste with rice and a bowl of miso soup and made our way to Belvedere. I drove, hoping the chains would keep us out of a ditch. At the estate, a broad-shouldered brother wearing a parka and heavy boots allowed us to pass.

  “Someone told the district attorney about Father’s bank account,” Mitsui said as we headed up the drive.

  “You don’t have to tell me who it was,” I said. “Willard Bozeman.”

  Mitsui didn’t contradict me.

  When we neared the front of the house, Kawasaki asked me to stop for a moment.

  “We believe that Abbanim wants to set up a rival church,” Mitsui said. “Does that surprise you?”

  How could it surprise me? I already considered the San Francisco church as a separate part of the family. It had surprised me when they began sending members to the MFT. I continued to wonder what Father had negotiated with Abbanim.

  “Yesterday, Abbanim was at Belvedere,” I said. “He spoke to Owen. Then Owen and Carol met with Bozeman. I watched them after Father’s speech.”

  “Abbanim was at the training center?” Mitsui asked. “Father was not aware.”

  “I saw him in a Lincoln Town Car that came through the driveway. The glass was darkly tinted, but I saw his face when he lowered the back window to speak to Owen. The car drove down the gardener’s path.” I pointed in the direction of the back entrance.

  “That gate should have been locked,” Mitsui said. “No one can exit in that direction without special permission. Someone opened it for him, one of the guards.” Mitsui looked forlorn. “When Father invited the Japanese members to America, including your fiancée, Masako, each person brought cash into the country. The money was deposited into a bank account opened in Father’s name.”

  “Large amounts of cash?”

  Kawasaki jumped into the conversation. “Yes, Simon-san, large amounts. Father lived on that money when he first arrived.” Kawasaki turned toward Mitsui and said, “Simon needs to know.”

  Mitsui shifted in place, looking out the window before saying, “The district attorney sent auditors to investigate Father’s bank account. I told Keiko to put together a ledger. I wanted the auditors to conclude that the money in Father’s account came from fundraising.”

  “We never expected the district attorney to run tests on the paper,” Kawasaki helped explain. “The paper was created long after the ledger would have been started. We believe Bozeman suggested the test.”

  “What an evil thing to do,” I said. “But if Bozeman is in cahoots with Abbanim, I can believe it.”

  “Cahoots?” Mitsui asked.

  “It means a kind of partnership.”

  “It is difficult to know which one is Father’s biggest problem—Abbanim or Bozeman,” Mitsui said. “Abbanim is somehow working with Bozeman, and at the same time, in competition with him. We have not known which side Owen and Carol support since they came to New York. You saw them with Abbanim and then conferring with Bozeman, so were they passing on a message or playing both sides?”

  “Sounds complicated no matter how you look at it,” I said.

  “Bozeman wants to end the MFT and put the members back into state centers,” Mitsui asserted. “We think he may actually want Father in jail. Then, with Abbanim’s backing, he can take over the American mission.”

  Kawasaki looked pained at the suggestion that any member would want Father in jail. He moved the conversation in a different direction. “At the grand jury, Mitsui insisted that the ledger was authentic. That was before we understood that the prosecutor had arranged to have the paper tested.”

  “My mistake could put Father in jail,” Mitsui said. “The district attorney says that Father and I entered into a conspiracy to cheat the IRS.”

  “And you could go to jail for perjury,” I added. As many differences as I had with Mitsui and the way his Japanese subordinates treated MFT members, I didn’t want him to be incarcerated, and shuttered at the idea that Father could go to prison.

  Mitsui explained more.

 
“Owen and Carol set up an office at Bozeman’s headquarters in Manhattan. They are in charge of the defense team that Bozeman hired.”

  “Father is doomed,” I said. “I’ll bet that Bozeman hired tax attorneys, not lawyers who know the First Amendment.”

  “Maybe true,” Kawasaki said. “Even if Bozeman and Abbanim have trouble between them, they want to remove Father, stop the MFT, and restructure the church according to their own ideals.”

  “Such treachery,” I said. “Abbanim might even proclaim himself the True Messiah if Father is in jail. It’s diabolical.”

  “I thought creating the ledger was the right thing to do,” Mitsui admitted.

  “Figuring out the right thing to do can be difficult,” I offered sympathetically.

  Mitsui sinned on paper, literally. My crimes were of the flesh. I would do what I could to keep Father and Mitsui out of prison. The injustice of the situation appalled me.

  The room in Father’s mansion where we played billiards was now a war room. Grand jury transcripts lay in stacks on folding tables. Korean sisters busied themselves transcribing the documents into Hangul, the Korean alphabet, so Father could read them.

  Mitsui, Kawasaki, and I sat on the floor while Father conferred with trusted elders. The name Abbanim peppered their conversation.

  When Father said Abbanim’s given name, his lips curled with disdain. I’d never seen such an expression on Father’s face. My thoughts became clear in that moment: Sun Myung Moon is simply a mortal, someone struggling with feelings of resentment.

  Sergeant Choi motioned toward the three of us to approach a conference table where Father had taken a seat.

  “Can the MFT lawyer in Los Angeles help us?” Sergeant Choi asked. “What is the man’s name?”

  “Maurice Fender,” I replied. “He goes by Maury.”

  Father peered at me, but not with the ocean-deep eyes that I remembered from prior encounters. These were anxious eyes.