by Ulf Wolf
:: 127 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)
The selection of the Marten trial jury took the better part of this first week. It was not until mid-afternoon on Friday the 9th of August that a jury was finally seated.
One thing that had already set this trial apart was that, for a change, no one wanted out of jury duty, the reverse was true. Anyone excused, whether by a peremptory challenge or for cause, was obviously disappointed and seemed reluctant to leave the room. “Refreshing,” Judge Moore commented at one point.
They had each, Ruth and the prosecution, been given sixteen peremptory challenges, all of which were exercised. In addition, Jones and Matthews managed to excuse seven potential jurors for cause, mostly along liberal-religious lines. By contrast, Marten only challenged one juror for cause, once she discovered that the woman in question was absolutely convinced that there was no god of any sort, that we were all matter carbonized into life, and that there really was not meaning to anything. Judge Moore sided with Marten, and the juror was excused.
The twelve that would hear the case—Ruth Marten’s peers—comprised seven women ages twenty-two to seventy-six, and five men ages thirty to sixty-four.
Three of the jurors were black, one was of Japanese and one of Chinese descent, one was a naturalized citizen born and raised in India (someone Jones has unsuccessfully challenged), the remaining six were white and mostly middle class, except for the bow-tied sixty-four years old gentleman (who reminded most people, Judge Moore included, of Colonel Saunders of chicken fame) who seemed too well groomed to be anything but aristocracy. He was also—and this seemed a natural turn of events—voted by the other members to chair the jury.
Once seated, Judge Moore gave the jurors a brief overview of the case, just to make sure that everyone was on the same page, then announced that opening statements would begin Monday morning, August the 12th. Then she snapped her gavel again. Not so many jumped this time.
:
Perhaps it should have come as no surprise, but it nonetheless did, at least for many of the commentators: all stations that carried the jury selection—and more were climbing on board and subscribing to the feed every day (the feed was provided by NBC, the chosen crew, for free)—reported anywhere from excellent to hard-to-believe viewer numbers. The Marten trial was quickly becoming a national event; some pundits went so far as to label this the public event of the century.
After the first two days of almost alarming viewer numbers, networks in Europe and Asia, prompted by the American figures, also took an interest, and by the end of the week, the Marten trial had blossomed into an international event.
:: 128 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)
Otto Jones was in his element. He lived for this. The details of any case mattered far less to him than the setting and situation—the texture and the air—of the opening day of trial.
A case is a cause, is a jury, an audience, and—especially here—a stage, a performance: his moment.
He rose slowly, as if to underscore his rising, and replaced his chair just so. Now taking them in he approached the jury. Halfway there, he began speaking, loudly and emphatically:
“Ladies and gentlemen. I am willing to bet you just about anything that a month ago none of you suspected that you were soon to constitute a turning point in human history.”
He arrived, placed his hands on the polished rail separating him from the twelve pairs of eyes and now paused to make sure they all understood what he was saying. He saw that not all did. An odd stare from number four, equally blank and questioning from number seven. To rephrase then. Deep breath:
“It has fallen upon your shoulders, ladies and gentlemen, to decide—whether that decision will be made next week, or next month, or two months from now—whether the world as we know it should be allowed to carry on undisturbed by riot and catastrophe.”
This, he saw, did reach home. Touched nerves. Okay, all with him now.
Judge Moore shifted in her chair, and frowned slightly. Still, as a rule she gave counsel a very liberal opening rein, and so remained silent.
“The defendant,” said Jones, turning towards and looking at Ruth, thought briefly of pointing at her as well but decided that his look would suffice—still loudly, still emphatically, “a self-made prophet and new age guru, stands here accused of inciting to civil unrest and civil disobedience.”
A brief pause. Then: “Now, what does that actually mean?”
He paused again, to make sure of their undivided attention. In fact, he scanned all twelve faces, each long enough to make eye contact. Then he smiled his approval of their focus, all eyes on him now. Waiting.
Excellent.
“You may assume that inciting to civil unrest and disobedience takes a subversive agitator whipping up discontent and revolt among people. And you assume right, of course. That is one way to go about it. The more common and obvious of the two ways.
“The other approach, the equally if not more effective approach—just look at the result—was taken by Mahatma Gandhi when he wrested India out from under the English, not by active agitation, but by passive refusal to play by their rules.
“The defendant’s approach is even more subtle. For Gandhi did ask his people, his audience, to resist, to no longer play. Miss Marten,” and here he turned toward her again, to indicate that yes, he was talking about her, the defendant, “does nothing of the sort, but achieves the same result, only even more spectacularly, and faster. She could teach Gandhi a thing or two.”
Number four starts to blank out again. Jones realizes that she might not know who Gandhi was. Should he explain? No, that would be a little risky, no way to do that delicately. So he moves on.
“Miss Marten has not asked anyone to stop playing by the rules. She has not asked anyone to stop taking their medication, or to abandon their church of years and years, the church of their family and friends.
“Miss Marten has not demanded that her audience stop spending their money in ways that for the last century has built this nation to the power that it is. No, her approach is not as overt at that. But her effect upon this nation is the same as if she had.
“Patients, all of whom should and actually—when not interfered with—do know better, suddenly refuse their medicine. Millions of people from all walks of life suddenly refuse to fuel this country with their purses—our products, the heart of this country, are no longer good enough, it seems, and remain on the store shelves.
“A machine that has run just fine for close to a century is today slowly grinding to a halt for lack of fuel. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the well-documented effect of the defendant’s subversive actions.
“In this trial, not only will we show that the defendant’s actions are the direct cause of both this slowing of the economy and this endangerment of public health, we will also show that her actions are deliberate and self-serving. We will show that she is in fact inciting to both public unrest and disobedience, and that she is a grave threat to our nation.
“And we will show that if she is not stopped—we will show that if you, ladies and gentlemen, do not stop her—we may never again enjoy what we all have come to take for granted and love about our country, for it may not even exist a year from now.”
He paused, again to survey his audience of twelve. Partially for effect, partially to make sure he wasn’t losing anyone, especially four and seven. Then he picked up his tread.
“You may think that I am exaggerating the gravity of the situation. Rest assured that if anything I am understanding the serious nature of things. You will see this for yourself as we present evidence to substantiate, and as our witnesses testify to, this out and out attack on the foundations of our nation.”
His voice had by now almost risen to a shout. Definitely strong enough to blow through any cobwebs accumulating around numbers four and seven, both of whom look a little shell-shocked. The other ten looked a little stunned as well.
Perfect.
Quieter now: “She will clai
m, I am sure she will, that this widespread desertion of our nation and its health that she has brought about was not her intention at all. She will claim, and look you right in the eye as she does so, that her intentions were nothing but good, savory. She meant for nothing of this to happen. Oh, she will tell you this, I am sure. But here’s the thing: we do in fact intend the effects we cause. Psychologists have proven that we always, on some level, and never very far from the surface, and never so deep down that we are not aware of it were we honest enough with ourselves to take a look, they have proven that we do mean the results we bring about. Always.
“She,” and here he turned again to face Ruth Marten, just to make sure the jury remained clear about whom he was talking. “She will no doubt try to tell us she didn’t know the gun was loaded. But, please believe me ladies and gentlemen of the jury, she not only knew that the gun was loaded, she carefully prepared and loaded the ammunition herself.
“She means to bring this country to its knees, and she is succeeding.”
This was as much as he wanted to say. He surveyed the twelve faces, and, again, in particular faces number four and seven, and found that they were all wide awake, all looking straight at him, some mouths even slightly agape, waiting for more.
All right, one more spoonful: “I have no doubt—and neither will you once you have seen all the evidence and heard from all of our witnesses—that she did indeed carefully prepare and load the ammunition herself, that she took careful and steady aim, and that she then knowingly and willingly pulled the trigger.”
Done.
He turned, and walked back to his seat, his retreat followed by twelve pairs of eyes that then moved to linger briefly on Ruth Marten, enemy of the state.
:
I have to admit that Jones knows how to wind up and play a jury. They seemed to a man, and a woman, incapable of letting him go, eyes following him every step of the way back to his seat. Then, before returning to their seats, they landed on me, lingered there for a while, some in curious disgust, some in what struck me as fear. Jones’ had made his point very, very well. Hit the mark with it, driven it home into the hearts of these people: I was not to be trusted, look what I have done. And he would prove it way beyond a reasonable doubt.
He was not a man to take lightly.
Judge Moore looked at me, a question in her eyes: was I going to say something? The two television cameras swung to look at me as well, asking the same question.
So I rose. I looked over at these twelve men and women—the most important twelve men and women in my life, and, truly, in the life of the planet. Not all looked back. Some did. The old bow-tied gentleman did. The young black woman did, defiantly.
I looked down at my desk. Free of all things but a polished shine, standing in stark and naked contrast to Jones’ overburdened desk, straining under the weight of evidence against me.
I thought of approaching the jury, but then thought better of it. What I had to say, I could say from here.
“Tomorrow will show that I have done nothing but good for this nation, for this planet,” is what I said. Then I sat down and said no more.
:: 129 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)
Judge Moore sometimes counted the words said in a single sentence. When she did—and this happened perhaps once or twice a week—she was not aware of doing this until the deed was done, and she found herself nursing a number, an amount.
It was not always immediately apparent which sentence she had heard and word-counted, but she could always trace it. And, she knew this from experience, the count was always accurate.
This time, when she found the number sixteen hovering in her internal silence, there was no doubt about the sentence: it was the sentence Ruth Marten had chosen as her opening statement.
Sixteen words. The shortest opening statement she had ever heard. Said, though, with such confidence that they might just suffice. Still, she looked over at the undeniably beautiful thirty-year-old accused of such grave crimes against the state. Did Ruth Marten really know what she was doing?
As a judge she could stipulate—if she deemed the girl incapable of defending herself—that she must accept representation. She was in two very separate minds about this. On the one hand, the girl obviously had no real idea of judicial procedure and protocol, which could harm her defense—and so herself—irreparably by unforeseen blunders.
On the other hand, the quiet calm that she literally emanated spoke of almost magical competence.
She decided to let matters stand the way they stood. She would, however, do what she could to steer her along the proper course, judicially speaking. That was decidedly not taking sides, that was ensuring justice.
She knew that Marten had just said all she intended to say at the moment, still, a part of her was expecting more, and so—from what she could tell—did both jury and prosecution. Therefore, she spoke, to clarify things:
“That is all?”
“Yes, your honor, that is all,” answered Marten.
Judge Moore nodded. She then looked over at the jury to make sure they understood. They seemed to. “Fair enough,” she said. Then turned to Jones, “Call your first witness, Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, your honor. The prosecution calls the Reverend Blackburn Moses.”
:
The head of the Southern Baptist Convention stood six foot three and as he rose, his tall and massive frame seemed to grow like a large, unruly tree from the bench where he had sat. He sidled his way to the aisle, then lumbered his way to the witness stand.
Hand on the Bible he repeated the oath in his characteristic thunder of a voice. Jones had chosen his first witness very well. No one in the room did not know who he was and not a single pair of eyes were not resting firmly on the pastor.
Jones rose and approached.
“For the record,” he began. “What is your name, sir. And what do you do?”
“My name,” answered the pastor, “is Blackburn Moses. I am a servant of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
“You head up the Southern Baptist Convention, do you not?”
“I do,” confirmed the pastor.
“Are you at all familiar with the defendant, Ruth Marten?”
“I can’t say I know her personally,” he boomed. “But I’m sorry to say I know of her.”
“How is that?”
“Her name has come up in many a recent conversation.”
“Between whom?”
“The conversations?”
“Yes.”
“Between me and my lieutenants, and between me and my flock.”
“What were these conversations about?”
“We talked about the possible reasons why so many in our congregations were, and still are, abandoning their faith.”
“And did you establish some reason?”
“We did.”
“What reason was that?”
“Ruth Marten.”
“The defendant?”
“Yes.”
“How could she be the reason. I mean, why did you arrive at this conclusion?”
“I spoke to many a member personally, and to many a parent and grandparent to children who had abandoned the faith, and with each distraught such person I spoke to, only one name came up. Ruth Marten’s.”
“Came up, how?”
“Came up as the person who the straying member had decided to follow instead of our Lord and Savior.”
“Did they give a reason?”
“Yes. It was because of those Internet lectures. They had seen them and been ensnared by them.”
At this point Judge Moore looked over at Ruth. Would she not object? Ruth seemed to understand. Shook her head. Judge Moore nodded. Not in agreement, more in resignation.
“Did you ever speak to strayed members themselves, directly?”
“Oh, yes. Many a strayed member of the flock.”
“And what did they say?”
“They said that Ruth Marten had shown them a true way to a b
etter life.”
Again, Judge Moore looked over at Ruth, who again shook her head. The Judge then looked at the witness, “Please be more specific,” she said.
Moses looked up at the judge. “What do you mean?”
“They,” said Judge Moore. “Who were they?”
“Several of my flock.”
“And they all said precisely that?”
“Said what?”
“That Ruth Marten had shown them a true way to a better life?”
“Or words to that effect.”
“We don’t want words to that effect in this court. Please be specific. Who said what, precisely?”
“I don’t remember precisely.”
“Give it a try.”
“Oh, well. Okay. One young woman, still in college, told me that Ruth Marten had shown her how to see things more clearly.”
“Her words?” said Judge Moore.
“Her words.”
“Who else?”
“Sidebar, you honor?” said Otto Jones.
Judge Moore nodded, then looked over at Ruth Marten and waved her toward the podium. Ruth understood and approached along with Jones.
“Your honor,” said Jones. “Why are you examining the witness?”
“Because,” said Moore, “you invite and allow broad generalities into the record. Miss Marten seem to tolerate this lack of professionalism on your part, but I don’t.”
Jones swallowed, twice.
“Is that all?” said Moore.
“Yes, your honor.” Foregoing whatever other point he had wanted to raise with the Judge.
“Can you keep things specific?” said Moore. “Or do you need me to continue to do that for you?”
“I am quite capable,” began Jones.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Moore.
Ruth returned to her seat, and Jones faced Blackburn Moses again. “Who else did you speak to, Reverend?” Then with a brief glance at the Judge, “Specifically?”
“A young man was brought by his mother to see me. She was despairing about him wanting to meditate rather than listen to and follow the word of Christ.”