by Bill Myers
Eli held Conrad’s gaze a long moment, as if making sure the words were planted deep. Then he turned to Keith. As he did, Conrad lowered his eyes to the rattling table, partly in anger, partly in thought. Eli was doing it to him again. Once again, he was being corrected and challenged.
He stared at the yellow legal pad with the notes he’d jot-ted down from yesterday’s phone calls. It had taken him three days and a dozen calls to finally convince the people at the Cathedral of God to consider allowing Eli to speak. Located in Aurora, Colorado, the Cathedral was one of the fastest-growing fellowships in America. It had an estimated membership of twelve thousand and a Sunday morning, coast-to-coast TV
and radio audience with the potential to reach over fifty million homes. It had taken hours on the phone to spin Eli’s statements to their liking, to insist he was a victim of the press who were taking quotes out of context.
The fact that the founder and senior pastor, Reverend Frederick Snyder, was a fierce rival of Dr. Kerston had made Conrad’s work a little easier. After all, it was Dr. Kerston who had on national TV invited Eli to come down and visit his facility in Georgia opening day. And the only possible way for Snyder to top that was to bring Eli to his congregation first.
It was dueling egos with Eli in the middle—a publicist’s dream come true. Eli could talk about God not playing the odds all he wanted, but the three days Conrad had spent nudging those odds in Eli’s favor certainly hadn’t hurt.
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include—and this was where Conrad had called in all of his favors and then some—swinging up to Chicago and appearing on Oprah. If Conrad’s math was correct, the number of people reached in one appearance on her television show equaled the same as a hundred thousand appearances in those smaller congregations. Not bad for a single event—an event that Conrad was virtually one or, at the most, two phone calls away from securing.
And Keith’s observations were also correct. Since the media hadn’t yet quite figured out how to label Eli, he had to be extremely careful. Some had focused upon his attacks on established religion, others highlighted his miracles, and some, unfortunately, were zeroing in on his self-proclama-tions. Of course, Dr. Kerston had gotten into the act there as well. Although his news organization never officially branded Eli a huckster or madman (after all, Eli was gaining a large following, and large followings could mean large voting blocks), Conrad had found a disturbing amount of disinformation being released to other groups through Kerston’s organization.
Finally, there was the rising interest of the tabloids. The most outrageous suggested that Eli was the offspring of an extraterrestrial father and an earthling mother. Another wondered if he was the spawn of the devil. And what rumor mill would be complete without suggesting that he might be a direct descendant of Elvis?
“Stop the van.”
Conrad looked up, startled. “What?”
Eli rose and called out to the driver. “Jake, pull over.”
“What, here?” the big man asked.
“Yes, here. Right here.”
Jake nodded and reached for the CB to alert the rest of the convoy—a group of anywhere from eight to fifteen vehicles, depending on the number of press and curious onlookers.
Lately, they had started announcing each day’s destination ahead of time so that the various groups could travel at their hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 108
108 own leisure, arriving whenever they wished. But Eli was not known to be a slave to timetables. “I’ve come to serve the people,” he would say, “not their schedules.” From time to time, he would alter their course or bring it to a momentary halt. This looked like it might be one of those times.
Conrad looked out the dusty side window as the RV
slowed. They were just outside Salome, Arizona, passing a small cemetery. Up on the ridge, under a navy blue canopy to stave off the hot desert sun, a funeral was getting under-way. “What’s up?” he asked.
Eli turned to him. Instead of the trademark sparkle, his eyes were filled with gentle sorrow. “I want everybody to stay by the vehicles,” he said. “I don’t want this to be a circus.
She’s been through enough already.”
“Who?”
Eli motioned toward the ridge. “The mother.”
Conrad nodded. He caught Keith’s attention and motioned toward the video camera on the seat cushion beside him. Part of his agreement in taking a leave of absence from Up Front was to tape anything that proved newsworthy. Nothing hard-core professional, just a home video camera in case something came up. Of course that meant saying goodbye to his videog-rapher, Ned Burton, but Keith, with his overabundance of ambition, was only too happy to fill in.
The van had barely stopped when Eli threw open the door and stepped outside. Once again he instructed Conrad, calling over his shoulder, “Keep the people back.”
“We’ve got some reporters with us today,” Conrad shouted from the open doorway.
“You know how to deal with them,” Eli replied. He was already a dozen yards away. “I want her to have her privacy.”
Without another word, he continued up the ridge.
Conrad ducked his head back into the RV. “Jake . . .”
“I heard, I heard,” the big man grumbled as he reached for the CB mike. He keyed it and spoke, “Will, get the guys out.
We got media with us today, and Eli don’t want ’em in his hair.”
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“Ten–four,” came the reply.
Conrad almost smiled as he stepped out of the van. He didn’t know how many news people were with them this morning. But he’d seen Will, Robert, and some of the guys in action a couple of times earlier. When Eli didn’t want to be disturbed or videotaped, he was not disturbed or videotaped.
He looked down the road behind them. Other campers, vans, and cars were easing to a stop—about a dozen, their dust catching up and rolling over them. But it was the last vehicle that caught his attention. A gray, late-model Taurus.
It slowed with the others, but instead of stopping, it pulled back out onto the road and continued past. Conrad stepped back from the RV to get a better look. As it sped by, he saw the driver and passenger, both wearing suits. Instinctively his eyes dropped to the license plate. Just as he suspected. Federal agents. Yes sir, everyone was beginning to keep an eye on Eli.
Car and camper doors opened. He turned to see Will, Hector, and some of the larger men emerging from their rigs. They glanced about, spotted the white news van near the back of the convoy, and quickly headed for it. As the big fellows approached, the van’s occupants were no doubt having second thoughts about getting out. Eli never condoned violence, and to date there had not been any. But, as Conrad had seen before, there could certainly be a fair share of intimidating body language.
He turned back to the ridge. Eli arrived at the top as the last of the mourners stepped from their cars. Most had already seated themselves under the canopy in front of the grave.
Keith stepped from the RV, camera in hand. “Here, let me have that,” Conrad said as he reached for it. He popped off the lens cap, raised the camera to his eye, and pressed the record button. He zoomed in as tightly as possible until Eli practically filled the frame. He was kneeling down beside a woman seated in the front row, dead center. Conrad guessed her to be the mother. Others on both sides appeared surprised, hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 110
110 then alarmed as Eli continued speaking to her. But she didn’t seem upset. Instead, she listened carefully, occasionally dabbing her nose with a white handkerchief.
When Eli had finished speaking, he waited patiently for a reply. The woman nodded, almost imperceptibly. He quietly smiled and rose. People on both sides of the mother shook their heads. One was reaching out to
her arm, but Conrad kept the camera trained on Eli. He followed him as he took four or five steps to the casket, which rested above the grave on a shiny brass catafalque. A short man with a clerical collar moved to intercept him. They spoke a few words, then turned back toward the mother. Conrad was too tight on Eli to see her response, but it disturbed the cleric enough for him to leave Eli’s side and join her. As he did, Eli turned back to the coffin, reached out his hand, and rested it on top.
“What’s he doing, Connie?” It was Suzanne’s voice.
Conrad glanced up from the viewfinder. The morning sun shown directly behind her, making her hair glow radiantly.
“Hang on.” He smiled. “I’ll know in a second.”
By the time he returned to the viewfinder, two of the funeral’s guests were on their feet confronting Eli. No doubt they were insisting that he step away from the casket, asking him to leave.
And, true to form, Eli did not resist. Instead, he slowly removed his hand from the coffin. Then, giving the slightest nod to the mother, he turned and started back down the hill.
“What happened?” Suzanne repeated. “What did he do?”
Conrad shook his head. “Nothing.” He followed Eli a few more steps down the ridge, then pushed the record button to off and pulled his eye away from the viewfinder.
“Nothing?” she repeated.
“He went up to the graveside, talked to a woman there, and then he just—”
They were interrupted by a cry and turned back to the ridge. There was some sort of commotion. The mother had risen to her feet, people were scrambling. Conrad brought the camera back up and zoomed in for a better look.
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To his astonishment, the casket lid had opened. And inside, a young man, in his late teens, was sitting up! The boy looked around, confused, disoriented. Many of the guests were stepping back. Others, more brave, stood their ground.
A moment later two or three began to approach. The young man reached out to them, speaking something. They moved closer. He continued reaching out until slowly, cautiously, they arrived at his side. Finally they began to help him out of the casket.
Conrad zoomed out wider to include the mother. A handful of people had helped her rise to her feet. They supported her as she took a tentative, unsteady step toward her son.
Then another. Both groups approached each other now, those helping the mother, those with the son—until, at last, the two met. Finally mother and son fell into each other’s arms . . .
weeping, crying, separating to look at each other, then falling back into one another and crying some more.
“Connie . . .” Suzanne’s voice was full of awe and disbelief. “Did he just do what I think he did?”
Refusing to miss the slightest detail, Conrad kept his eye to the viewfinder. “Yes,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“This is unbelievable.” Suzanne could hardly contain her excitement. “He always said he had authority over death . . .
but this? This is incredible; no one will believe it.”
“Oh, they’ll believe it, kiddo,” Conrad spoke confidently.
“They’ve got to. We’ve got it all on tape.”
“Yes, but—”
“One look at this footage and they’ll have to believe it.”
“But, Connie?”
His mind raced with possibilities. Eli could say all he wanted about not selling to the masses, about fame and popularity, but this would skyrocket him to the top.
“Connie?”
He turned to her smiling, his face flush with victory.
“Yeah?”
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“When you record, isn’t that red light on the front supposed to be on?”
His smile froze. His eyes shot to the light. It was unlit. He quickly brought the camera back to his face, checking for the
“REC” display in the bottom of the viewfinder. It was not on.
A sinking feeling filled his stomach. In his haste, he’d forgotten to re-press the record button. His footage only continued up to the point where Eli was escorted away from the casket. The rest, the opening lid, the rising boy, the mother and child reunion . . . all were left unrecorded.
And as the sinking feeling spread through the rest of his body, Conrad realized another important fact. Eli’s wishes had been followed. “And who is interested in being sold . . . ” And what had he said about the mother? “I want her to have her privacy.” As he looked up from the viewfinder and saw Eli approach, grinning from ear to ear, he realized that once again it had happened. Once again Eli’s wishes had been followed.
To the letter.
v
“Look at the odds,” the younger of the two lawyers said as he paced back and forth in the ICU lobby. “Of patients entering the best trauma centers in our country and who register an eight or lower on the Glasgow Coma Scale, only sixty percent survive. Your father registered a three. A three!”
Julia had no answer as she watched the lawyer pace, his dark hair falling casually into his eyes. He was Julia’s age, perhaps a year or two younger, with a studied GQ look. A sophis-ticated ambulance chaser. One she would normally have shredded to pieces, if she just wasn’t so tired, if the client in the other room was not her father, if—No, those were excuses, and Julia Davis-Preston did not make excuses.
To her left sat the older lawyer, a distinguished, balding gentleman with a kind, fatherly expression.
It was the good cop, bad cop scenario. She recognized it immediately. The younger one would come off tough and ruthless. The older one would step in and be her friend, the sym-hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 113
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pathetic ear, the calm voice of reason. Julia was almost offended at the obvious tactic. But then, considering their level on the legal food chain, and looking across the room at who they represented, maybe this was a new strategy for them.
Brushing the hair from his eyes, the younger one continued. “Another study conducted showed that after six months, there was only a 14.3 percent survival rate of patients in a persistent vegetative state.”
“That’s still fourteen out of a hundred,” Julia argued.
The young man came to a stop. “Yes, but are you aware of what persistent vegetative state, what ‘pvs’ really is?”
Julia didn’t answer, figuring she’d find out soon enough.
“It means they’re alive, but not alive. Their organs may function; they may breathe, even open their eyes. But their minds are gone. They lack any ability to think, to feel, any ability to ever interact with another.”
“But it’s still life,” she countered.
“Is it? A recent poll of Americans showed that ninety percent would rather die than live such a life.”
“And the cost,” Ernesto interjected from across the room.
“Explain to her the cost.”
Julia turned to him, marveling at how transparent the man had become in so few hours.
“Here, see for yourself.” The lawyer crossed to his brief satchel, pulled out a paper, and handed it to her. She was too exhausted to focus on the numbers but pretended to look as he continued. “Acute care hospitals such as this can run between $1,000 and $2,000 a day. It’s not unusual for those suffering severe injures, such as your father, to remain several months. After that, should he miraculously survive, there comes post-acute care which, as you can see, runs between $350 and $1,000 a day. And finally there will come the nurs-ing facilities, unless of course you plan to take care of him yourself. For the brain-damaged, they will run between $7,500 and $18,000 per month. I’ll save you the math, Ms.
Preston. Bottom line is it will cost 4.6 million dollars to keep hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 114
114 alive a man who will never be able to think, feel, or communicate. Over four million dollars simply to keep the organs of a dead man’s body functioning!”
“Norman,
” the older gentleman admonished.
The young lawyer turned on him, his voice impassioned.
“That’s what we’re talking about here. With so much brain missing, her father will always be in pvs. Even if he survives, he’ll be a vegetable—no more alive than some radish or cucumber or—”
“Norman, please.”
Even though she’d seen it coming, the blow left Julia weakened.
The older gentleman stepped in, right on cue. “Listen, Julia. May I call you Julia?” He didn’t wait for her answer.
“All these numbers, these statistics . . . we know they are not your father. Your father was a vital, living human being. A great man. To reduce him to percentages, to dollars and cents, is an insult. That’s not how his life should be measured.”
Julia turned to him, grateful in spite of herself.
“His life was about living . . . about living without com-promise.”
The words were soothing, comforting, and for the most part true.
“He was a man of honesty and integrity who insisted upon exposing falseness in our society . . . at least that’s who I saw on TV. Am I right about this?”
He had her. There was nothing she could do but nod.
“Honesty was his life’s creed. And now we have to ask ourselves, is this how he would want to continue? A life that isn’t life . . . living that really isn’t living . . . something that is in essence masquerading itself as a lie? Wouldn’t we be forcing him to live the very falseness that he’d spent a lifetime fighting?”
He was good. Better than she’d anticipated. Already she could feel her eyes burning with moisture.
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“And finally”—he let out a sigh—“there’s the matter of his advance directive.” She looked on numbly as the young lawyer reached into his satchel and pulled out the papers.