by Ulf Wolf
“It is not just happening,” said Jones. “I don’t care whether she’s telling them to ditch their prescriptions or not, she is the root cause. It’s Marten’s meditation mumbo-jumbo. We know that.”
“Yeah, of course, you’re right,” said Simmons. Then added, “Speaking of which, one of our senators has just introduced a bill that will outlaw meditation as a practice. A federal crime, five years mandatory.”
Jones nodded, he’d heard. To Matthews, on the other hand, this was news. “Outlaw meditation?”
“As a practice, yes.”
“How could they, possibly?”
“It poses a threat to the national economy,” said Simmons. “Take a look at the figures. It’s not just pharmaceuticals that are suffering. It’s medical, too. And consumer goods, fast foods, coffee, entertainment. You name it. Sales are down, and heading further down. Aren’t you keeping up on the stock market?”
Matthews nodded, she was, yes. But that was not entirely true.
“Well, that should tell you something,” said Simmons.
“We’re only two weeks away,” Jones. “Two weeks. Do you think the world can manage to stay afloat another two weeks?”
“Of course,” said Simmons, who wasn’t sure whether Jones was kidding or not.
“The trial will put an end to this,” said Jones.
“I sure hope so,” said Simmons. “The woman really is a threat to the nation.”
Neither Jones nor Matthews answered. No disagreements there.
:
As the media began putting two and two together and link the Ruth Marten phenomenon to the near devastating drop in sales nationwide, especially in the Big Pharma and fast food sectors, every pundit in the country seemed to weigh in with what needed doing to fix this.
Opinions ranged from the all-out conservative view that Ruth Marten ought to be shot without cigarette and blindfold for her obviously non-American activities, to the other side of the spectrum where the New Age Liberals (or NALs as they were soon to be called by their critics) lauded the freeing of the country’s chemical slaves and the return to a life of love and harmony.
For the conservative outlets, the Marten trial needed to happen now, not in a week or two or three while the drop in consumption continued to wreak havoc with the nation’s economy. Whether intended or not (which was considered irrelevant at this point) Ruth Marten’s actions were obviously inciting to civil unrest and disobedience. She was—look at the effect, for crying out loud—clearly guilty. The trial would only confirm the obvious and set things to right.
Look, clamored the New Age Liberals in response, how can a message of loving-kindness and still reflection incite to unrest? These were sheer contradictions in terms. The trial would prove her innocent and confirm the country’s return to spiritual health.
However, no matter how vocal (and hopeful), the NALs were outgunned by at least two to one in every state of the Union, and by now, a popular vote would probably have Ruth Marten banished for life, if not executed on the spot.
:
By this time, Ananda—who insisted on following the story developments more closely than was good for anyone’s health—was beyond worry. In fact, he had by this time entered the stillness of the inevitable where the state of affairs was neither benevolent nor malevolent. They were just that, the current state of affairs.
He had resigned himself to the fact that his beloved Tathagata was not going to seek representation by counsel, no matter how dire the news and the economy; that she was indeed going to speak for herself, insisting that this was the way out, the way to stir the sleeper and steer the seeker, as she put it, and often.
Ananda could not see it that way, but in the prevailing stillness this was just another fact, neither good nor bad. Ruth’s mind was made up, and would so remain. State of affairs.
Of course, the Tathagata had no intention of flying blind, and with two weeks and a weekend to go before the trial, they had again gathered in Melissa’s house, the war council—as Ananda thought of it: Ruth, Ananda, Roth, Abbot White, Clare Downes, and Melissa.
Ananda did his utmost to appear composed, though neither Ruth nor Melissa were fooled by his mask of stillness and easily saw through to the worry beneath.
Ruth, on the other hand, was as calm as always, almost jovial, which stoked Ananda’s concern even further, lest she would overlook things in her unexplainable buoyancy.
Agent Roth—the most practical of the lot—spent virtually every waking hour gathering what intelligence he could, from what sources he still trusted, to gauge the lay of both the political and legal land.
Abbot White, at least in Ananda’s view, was the most clear-headed about what Ruth would face in court. He had been through a few harrowing cases in his day, knowing that issues such as faith and spirituality were rarely, if ever, treated as hard currency by judges and juries.
Clare Downes knew her mission, for she really had only one assignment: to ensure that the trial will be televised, live.
In these discussions, Melissa wore two hats: that of Ruth’s mother and that of opinionated host.
Ruth asked Clare again, as she did every time they got together, “How does it look?”
Clare, fresh from a meeting with her producer, who as a former legal reporter still had a host of useful court contacts, “Of course, nothing is absolutely certain, it is still up to the judge, but no one can give me a reason why it should not be televised live.”
Ruth smiled at the good news, then asked, “Do we have any idea yet about the judge? Guesses?”
“It will, of course, be a federal judge,” said Clare. “But that’s as close as anyone can come. No one will know until the morning of the fifth, that’s just one of those facts of life. It depends on which trials are brought to a close before then, and on which judges are then available for assignment that morning.”
Then she added, “Sorry.”
“Is there anyone we don’t want presiding? Someone who might be allergic to televised trials?” Ruth wondered.
“This is Los Angeles,” said Clare, to Roth’s bobbing agreement. “No one is allergic to television.”
“This is true?” Ruth just wanted to make sure.
“True,” confirmed Roth.
Melissa refilled tea cups all around, pointing out what she hoped was the obvious as she poured, “So it doesn’t really matter what judge we get, that’s what you’re saying, right?”
“On paper, no.” Roth.
“And off paper?” said Melissa.
“Off paper?” said Ananda, conceding a smile despite himself.
“Off paper, in the world of flesh and blood,” said Roth. “Yes, it does matter who presides, though it should have little bearing on whether the trial is televised or not.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Melissa.
“Then you’re right,” said Roth.
Ruth turned to Abbot White. “Is there a judge that we do want? Someone who might treat the spirit as hard currency?”
Abbot White looked at Clare, then at Roth, neither of whom said anything. Then he said, “I don’t know.”
“What more on what we can expect from the prosecution?” she asked of Roth.
“Lots,” he said, then opened a manila folder to reveal a sheaf of fresh statistics. “You do know that as far as those who live and breathe the national economy are concerned, you are the devil incarnate.”
“More so than yesterday?”
“New data,” said Roth, whose patterning told him but one thing: “Alarming.”
They all waited for more. “No one, not even the most liberal of pundits, can still ascribe the dramatic drop in consumption to erratic market conditions,” he said.
They were all aware of the ongoing debate.
“The link is clear?” said Ananda.
“The link is more than clear, it is obvious,” said Roth. “And in this situation, this is not good news.”
“It’s definitely Ruth?” said Melissa.
“Beyond even the faintest doubt,” said Roth.
“Public enemy number one?” said Ruth.
“Something like that.” Then Roth elaborated: “They have a point, and their point is gathering strength daily. It is that the economy of a consumer society—and we live in one, there’s no mistaking that—is in fact based on consumption. When that falls away, as it is doing now, the ‘fabric,’ as they call it, of society is indeed threatened, and that plays directly into their hands and their charges. If it isn’t causing civil unrest today, it likely will in the future.”
“How future?” said Ruth and Ananda both, nearly simultaneously.
Here Roth again consulted his patterning, for he could sense the fabric he was speaking if, the interconnectedness of all that give and take, that produce and consume which were the twin pillars on which this land rested—and he could sense it beginning to rupture already.
“Not long,” is what he answered.
“How long?” said Ananda.
“A month, two perhaps. Three at the most.”
“So civil unrest could erupt before the trial is over,” said the Abbot.
And that was precisely the point Roth was reluctant to share, but he really had no choice. “It could.”
“And it would be Ruth’s fault?” said Melissa, a little incredulous.
“That’s not the word I’d use,” said Roth, “but there is definite cause and effect.”
“Wouldn’t that influence a jury?” said Ananda.
“Of course it would influence a jury,” said Roth. “That’s our problem. That’s our almost impossible to overcome problem.”
“Not impossible,” said Ruth.
“What do we do?” said Ananda.
“That was my question, too,” said the Abbot.
“Just make sure, however we make sure,” said Ruth, again looking at Clare, “and if at all possible, that the trial is televised live.”
“What are you planning to say?” said Roth. “Or do?”
Ruth took them all in, looking from one to the other before she spoke. Then she said: “I am planning to tell the truth. I am planning to really tell the truth.”
:: 126 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)
Monday the 5th of August saw a lingering heat wave with almost no clouds in the sky at sunrise. The temperature at 8 a.m. was already flirting with triple digits and one could almost hear the city groan under the weight of high-pressure oven-air.
Trial was set to start at 10 a.m.
As promised, agent Roth accompanied Ruth and Ananda to court. Clare Downes was with her station, waiting for word which, if positive, would see her heading downtown with a crew to cover the trial. Abbot White had other urgent matters to attend to, not the least of which was his own diminishing flock. Besides, he said, he wasn’t sure whether his old stomach was up to all the excitement.
Melissa, taking Roth’s and Clare’s word for it—the trial would be televised, for sure—opted to stay at home and view things from that televised perspective. Someone, she said, had to judge how Ruth came across, how things were going from the viewer’s standpoint. Ruth, who at first insisted that Melissa join her in court, then saw the wisdom of her mother’s view. Yes, we did have to know how things looked to the viewing audience. It was that appearance, more than anything else, that would shape public opinion about Ruth and the trial.
There was also the matter of too much excitement to stomach, though that remained a secret between daughter and mother. “Don’t worry,” is what Ruth kept telling her. “Really, mom, don’t worry.”
Earlier that morning, the court clerk had called them to say that they were to appear in courtroom seven on the second floor of the old district court building.
“Who’s room is that?” asked Roth, who took the call.
“Michelle Moore’s,” answered the clerk.
“Michelle Moore,” said Roth.
“That’s right,” said the clerk. “Ten o’clock.”
“Thanks,” said Agent Roth.
“Is that the judge?” said Ananda, overhearing the conversation. “Michelle Moore?”
“Yes.”
“Is that good, or bad?”
“I don’t think we could have been assigned a better judge,” said Roth.
“Who is Michelle Moore?” Ruth wanted to know.
:
At least once every Christmas, Michelle Moore, visiting her parents—who, both now in their eighties, still live in San Francisco—asks them to tell her about the nineteen sixties. About the hippies, about Berkeley at the time—then the hotbed for true change in the country.
And always, whenever asked, they would oblige. Still considering themselves hippies (her mother still wore colorful, loose dresses and braided her long, gray hair every day—and unbraided and combed it every night), they would look at each other and then openly reminisce. About the love, about Donovan visiting from distant England, about the hope of the world, about Country Joe and the Fish—the Berkeley house band, about meeting and not at all falling in love at first sight but growing to know each other over the four semesters it took them to finally realize what was written in their stars, about their wedding in Golden Gate Park during a Grateful Dead concert (Jerry Garcia catered our music, is how her mother liked to put it), about deciding that their first child had to be conceived that decade, and going right ahead to make sure.
“Spare me the details,” Michelle would say, laughing. Loving the story.
They had raised her in the spirit of that amazing decade, and Michelle Moore was very grateful to them that they had. One day in her early thirties it had dawned on her with the force of a stray comet that she would not be where she now found herself—a sought after attorney, happily married, living what she felt was a full, though still and to be childless, life—unless she had gained the values her parents had instilled, or rather, allowed her to absorb: love, trust, fairness, with a fair helping of her father’s Ohio work ethic and her mother’s northern Washington tribal nature mysticism. They had allowed her to blossom, and even though it certainly had been she doing her own blossoming, they had planted those seeds and she was forever grateful.
Truth be told, she would much rather have stayed put in the Bay Area, where she, until four years ago, had been a senior partner in a small but very profitable firm. When the call finally came from the Federal Bench (something she planned and hoped for), however, it came not from San Francisco but from Los Angeles.
After some brief (though intense) soul-searching with her husband, they decided that the opportunity was too great to pass up, and down to Los Angeles they moved. They found a nice, ocean-viewing condominium in Redondo Beach, slip included, and late in the summer of 2026 they sailed their 32-foot schooner down the coast to their new home in the City of Angels (the movers taking care of the rest).
:
“Let’s get what’s on everybody’s mind out of the way,” said Judge Moore. “Should this trial be televised?”
“Your honor,” almost shouted Otto Jones, standing up so abruptly he actually knocked his chair over.
“Mr. Jones,” said Moore.
“Your honor, I call your attention to our motion to disallow television cameras which references several cases on point…” which is where Moore cut him off.
“I’ve read and considered your motion, Mr. Jones.” Then she turned to Ruth Marten, sitting alone at the defendant’s table. Two empty chairs to her left. “And you Miss Marten, what are your thoughts? I have not seen any motions from you on this television matter.”
Ruth rose. “I have not filed any motions, your honor, but I would like to have cameras present to broadcast this trial live.”
“And why is that?”
“I stand accused on charges verging on treason,” said Ruth. “If convicted I could spend the rest of my life in jail. My only defense is the truth as I see it, and I pray and hope that it will out in this trial. And as the truth about what I have done, and what I stand accused of ar
e not even vaguely related…”
Here Judge Moore interrupted. “This is not the time and place for your opening statement, Miss Marten.”
“I’m sorry, your honor. I realize that.”
“Just tell me why you want live television in my court room.”
“I want this country, and the world, to see and hear the truth for themselves, directly, not second- or third-hand via pundits and reporters who more often than not have their own agendas clouding or coloring the issues.”
“Fair enough,” said Moore.
Ruth sat down.
Judge Moore took a long look at Ruth, then at the prosecution team, Jones, Matthews, and a young male associate Moore did not recognize, apparently in charge of all the paperwork. She then looked back at Ruth again. “And you, Miss Marten, are absolutely sure that you don’t want to be represented by counsel?”
Ruth rose again.
“It’s okay, you can answer me sitting down.”
Ruth did. “I am, your honor.”
“Fair enough,” said Moore again. Then she said:
“This trial will be televised live.”
Jones shot to his feet again, but before he could speak, Moore pretty much ordered him: “Sit down, Mister Jones.”
He did, while flushing into an uncharacteristic shade of crimson.
“However,” she said. “This will not turn into a carnival. We will have one network. Two cameras. That network will share its feed with anyone who would like to carry it. I will leave it up to the media to decide who does the live coverage.
“We will take a thirty-minute recess while the television people sort this all out and get set up. Be back here, by,” she looked at her watch, “by eleven. We will begin jury selection then.”
At this she banged her gavel, and with such a snap that the little wood-on-wood explosion was much stronger than anyone expected. Not a few in the room startled—most, in fact, apart from her staff, and the court reporter, who were used it.