Future Americas

by John Helfers

  ‘‘It seems to me,’’ Scalia said softly, ‘‘that we may have a problem with these thirty-five year olds being natural-born American citizens. How were they born—surrogate human flesh or artificial wombs? How?’’

  Ginsburg smiled, knowing that the distinction would come into play only if the decision was taken to let the Jesus Gang run.

  ‘‘Anything,’’ she said, ‘‘that is born in our universe is natural born, of course, including all Americans. My colleague has the list of states in which they were born. He should consult it.’’

  Scalia looked disappointed. In one dramatic stroke the case might have become moot, and I wondered whether he might now speculate that the clones were alien inseminations from another solar system, if not from heaven. As the record finally showed, each clone had been born of a different surrogate mother, virgins all, of course, because it could not have been otherwise.

  Only two hours had passed according to the large digital display above the bench, in what would stretch into a month-long casemaking, even as the world struggled with much greater problems of life and death.

  We waited in silence for the case to continue, but in the next minute the schedule was changed to resume on the next day.

  The court was in no hurry to dispose of the case, given that it had so much at stake, both from a long continuance and possible outcomes. Whatever the result, I was sure that the justices wanted to benefit the court’s future more than their individual ways to glory. I and many others found this selflessness admirable, and hoped that the example being set would remain on display for a longer time.

  But Chief Justice Roberts seemed to threaten an early end when he said, ‘‘Can we be given an indication of what kinds of evidence you will be offering beyond argumentation of a metaphysical nature which seems only to demand self-evident acceptance or proof by self-reference?’’

  Not bad for a believer trying to sound fair-minded, I noted, even if it was all smoke. Still, it was almost as good as what might have been expected from a hostile skeptic like Hitchens—the ancient one, not the reclusive monk who now spoke to God every day and embarrassed even the faithful with wild visions and overly exact prophecies.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Jesus One said. ‘‘We will raise the dead right here before you.’’

  Souter said, ‘‘Resuscitation is well known . . .’’

  ‘‘Not the recently dead,’’ One said, ‘‘but the long dead.’’

  Thomas opened his eyes in delight. At last, he seemed to think, the final vindication had come! He had been waiting for it all his life, and he had been right to wait patiently into his extended life.

  ‘‘It would follow, then,’’ Roberts said as if speaking for the twelve, ‘‘that if you prove by this miracle that you are not frauds, you will therefore be eligible to run for the presidency.’’

  ‘‘Exactly, Chief Justice,’’ Jesus One said. ‘‘May I proceed?’’

  Roberts nodded, but he seemed unsure of where he had arrived or whether he had fully meant to paint himself into a corner, if it was one. It all depended on whether he had ever witnessed a miracle, or was content to rule on the evidence of a magician’s trick. His thinking was as obvious as that of a clock open to show its works.

  At that moment a man in a black business suit stood up in the gallery and announced:

  ‘‘I, Judas Iscariot, am called here by my Master to warn of these twelve frauds who are in cahoots . . . they are conniving to distribute the cabinet and various executive positions among themselves, and seek to found a dynasty . . .’’

  Roberts shook his head as the guards came, as if his clockwork had jammed and he no longer knew which way to jump to gain something from the moment. Thomas seemed puzzled, but the other justices showed a head shaking solidarity with their Chief.

  ‘‘I never died!’’ Judas cried out in a voice suddenly muffled by his forced exit into the gallery passageway.

  As the chamber quieted, an empty hospital stretcher was wheeled in. The justices leaned forward, except for Thomas, to gaze at the empty, sheet-covered conveyance, and I recalled my law school days, so long ago now, before the many changes made to my body, when ‘‘conveyance’’ meant a transfer of title to property, the document that accomplishes the transfer, and I wondered who it was that remembered and sat here now. Were my memories my own, or was there a higher power working through me to shape my thoughts and feelings? Whoever, whatever I was today, was where these memories now lived. Who knew then, who knows now, what was coming? Here I am, conveyed from the past. Get over it, get on with it, I told myself with a deepening hope.

  The stretcher.

  Big wheels.

  White sheets.

  There was no doubt that it was empty. That much must be understood, before anything else that followed can make sense. I saw its emptiness.

  Jesus One pointed to the empty conveyance and said, ‘‘Here we have the body of great President Ronald Reagan.’’

  The chamber was silent, its people expecting the body to appear. No one dared to shout out that the stretcher was empty. That seemed to be the given, and of no consequence. Wait and see, because it was inconceivable that Jesus One, or anyone, would lie so blatantly in such a place and expect to be believed.

  The eleven stood up and chanted, ‘‘He-breathes-before-us, to-prove-that-we-are-the-world’s-savior-come-again-as-twelve-but-one-in-Heaven.’’

  ‘‘We see him!’’ a group chanted in the gallery. ‘‘Let Jesus run, let him run, his proof has come.’’

  Justice Thomas rose to his feet and cried, ‘‘I see him, Great Reagan come to help us again. I see him, may the Lord be praised!’’

  And I, too, expected the empty stretcher to be suddenly occupied, as my brain limped along to catch up with my besieged faith; but the conveyance remained insistently empty, even unwilling, a defiant betrayer of belief, an obstacle to the proof that was so dearly needed before the road to salvation would be opened.

  Was I one of those who would be left behind, blind and damned? Fear shook me, but my mind said no, I would go forward to the destiny prepared for me. A tree would not fall on me.

  Thomas raised his hands heavenward, and stood waiting, as rigid as a sculpture. Roberts stared at him in disbelief, a man of faith embarrassed by one of his own. Ginsburg had covered her face with her hands. Souter sat back, smiling at the charade. Scalia’s eyes were wild with expectation. Kennedy was stone-faced. Stevens was weeping. Breyer sat with his eyes closed. Samuel Alito sat shifty-eyed, as if afraid to make a choice.

  And suddenly I prayed to see Reagan rise and greet his summoners, the Twelve, and his nation. And for an instant I did see him, as the name and broad smile vibrated in my mind, and the tall, stout body formed around the grin . . . and I thought that they should have brought him a white horse to mount. . . .

  But I was wrenched back from the part offered to me by this theater of delusion, as some distant part of me realized that this kind of acceptance was unworthy of the body and brain given to me by the science that had extended my life to this very day, to this shameful day that would have to be repudiated because it played fast and loose with divinity, with God’s own plan for man.

  But would the charade be rejected? Was that how things were going? Or would it be confirmed as true? Waves of faith had spilled from our human depths, and we could conjure up whatever we wanted until stopped by what could not be wished, by the unmade reality around us that was deaf to all pleading. I almost prayed to Aristotle’s rational god, to Spinoza’s all-encompassing universe, to Teilhard de Chardin’s emergent God at the end of time, t
o the best in us when all else fails. . . .

  The hall erupted into violence. People were thrown down from the gallery. Soldiers marched in and stood as a barrier before the great bench of the court. I cowered in my seat at the rail, waiting for the return of order, which would come when it would or not at all.

  It came—and we all stared at the empty stretcher, our faith brutalized.

  ‘‘He’s gone!’’ someone shouted.

  ‘‘They stole the body,’’ another voice added.

  ‘‘Kidnapped!’’ a boy shouted.

  ‘‘He’s escaped!’’ a woman cried. ‘‘Thank God!’’

  ‘‘We don’t deserve him!’’ a man wailed.

  ‘‘He’s gone into hiding,’’ said another in the returning silence that crept in around our doubts and crushed out hopes.

  ‘‘He’ll be back,’’ said a pleading voice. ‘‘They won’t kill him this time.’’

  ‘‘He wasn’t killed,’’ another said. ‘‘He got old and forgot everything!’’

  ‘‘Oh, yeah?’’

  As I sought desperately within myself how to say yes to whichever would be the winning side, Justice Thomas collapsed back into his seat. His head slumped forward as if it would fall off, I sensed that he had died, but it went unnoticed. Stupidly, I realized that he hadn’t noticed either. He sat there much too long to be revived.

  ‘‘Pray!’’ a voice shouted, ‘‘for a decision from the one great court.’’

  ‘‘Yes!’’ another shouted. ‘‘And pray that the magnetic field does not reverse and the Sun’s wrath fry us!’’ Clearly a man of faith and science, holding fast to both.

  ‘‘Pray!’’ massed voices cried, as if launching a ship of songful harmony into the heavens. But it was not that. Strange dissonances shook the building, cracking floors and ceilings, rattling chandeliers, exploding toilets and bursting water pipes, and people fled out into the street as if hell itself was erupting through the foundations of the building.

  When finally the great chamber was quiet, the stretcher of resurrection still stood empty. Men in white coats came and rolled it out. The judges were the last to leave. They got up, abandoning Thomas in place, and departed as if from a tomb.

  The decision of the court that would declare the Twelve frauds who should be denied a run for the presidency, or not, was long enough in coming to give the clones time to travel and proclaim that the court would find in their favor and America would be saved once and forever, while their new-found lawyers argued that the delay was unfairly handicapping their run and would only become even more of an injustice if the decision to let them run came too late.

  Reagan sightings became common. In western states he was seen on a beautiful white horse, sometimes driving a twenty-mule-team wagon across a desert horizon. Silhouette shots of him and his team were offered as proof of these sightings. In southern states he was seen in the company of Elvis. The raising of Reagan had been a success, if not exactly a miracle.

  Justice Thomas’ seat remained unfilled. Few wanted to suggest anyone to fill it during an upcoming election. No side dared guess what the court would decide. Would it cut a Gordian Knot, unbake the pretzel, and raise itself up into a new life of wise guidance?

  The justices’ opinions came many weeks later but earlier than expected:

  John Paul Stevens, although he sympathized with the religious contribution to ethics and laws, could not see how these clones could possibly have the authority of God beyond that of the common mankind from whom their DNA was drawn. Lacking proof of that clear authority, if there could even be such, meant that their claims had to be regarded as doubtful if not fraudulent, and so they could not run for office.

  Antonin Scalia simply said that they were not who they said they were and that ended the case for him, even though he insisted that it was possible for him to be wrong.

  Anthony M. Kennedy expressed his view that superstitious belief and fallacious argument and complete lack of evidence clearly denied these twelve men the legitimacy they wanted from the court.

  David Souter simply voted against granting the claim.

  Ruth Ginsburg stated that the American people deserved a rational decision based on common human values. Faith-based ideas were to be tolerated, but they could not be permitted to rule in a country of diverse views.

  Stephen Breyer voted against the claim of the twelve with no comment.

  Samuel Alito extolled the need for religiously based values, but made no decision about the identity of the twelve.

  Chief Justice John G. Roberts, Jr., also praised the legitimate need for religious values and a belief in God, but dismissed the twelve as imposters, although perhaps well-meaning ones. He also claimed that Justice Thomas, before his death, had expressed a faithful belief in the true identity of the twelve, and said that he had been granted a proof of this during the attempted resurrection of Ronald Reagan, but that this revelation was unfortunately unavailable to the Court and could not be verified. However, was this not what faith was all about—that we should believe in the absenceof proof? Any fool could believe with proof, but that would be no test at all. Roberts regretted that Reagan had not been raised, ‘‘because the nation might have drunk of his vitality again and been morally refreshed.’’

  Ginsburg added a postscript, saying that ‘‘Chief Justice Roberts had very neatly had it both ways, avoiding the fact that because faith spoke in tautologies that were true by arbitrary definition, it could be accepted or exempted from reason. Every schoolchild knows it’s wrong when a parent insists that something is so simply because the parent says so, and all parents know that it’s not so simply because they say it, so they lie. Youth knows that tautologies are false. Grownups should not speak in tautologies.’’ Her last statement had echoed the words of a great scientist, Erwin Chargaff, who had contributed greatly to discovering the structure of DNA.

  To this Roberts replied that the Twelve were to be commended for their traditional ‘‘imitation of Christ,’’ and referred Ginsburg to De imitatione Christi by Thomas à Kempis, circa 1418, an instructional work that sought to guide the soul in Christian perfection with Christ as the Divine Model, and pointed out that it was the most widely read spiritual work next to the Bible.

  Ginsburg made no further comment.

  But the fact of a great victory could not be denied, that the court had rejected the claim of these twelve resurrectionists on rational grounds. Faith further lost its sway and reason had returned to America at last, some argued in triumph.

  But it was irony and hypocrisy that prevailed, I thought as I again looked forward, thinking back to my own strange days at the century’s start, when my accounts were seized as my patron, the once doubted and now proven fraudulent president, finally left office and I fled to Mexico, where the World Court sought me out because I was easier to find, when the longer-livedclasses began to take over the planet and the short-lived underclasses perished, when the very earth and sky threatened us and we managed to escape the wrath of a godless universe by diverting an Extinction Event asteroid, at a cost that had finally bankrupted the last of the Fossil Fuel Family fortunes, intent as they had been on burning the last lump of coal, the last therm of gas and the last drop of oil, and being paid for it. . . .

  Strange days indeed, as ‘‘truth and reconciliation commissions’’ took hold in the human family, which finally sought to shake off the past. Strange days indeed, when people valued a public airing and admission of the truth above so much else that still needed to be done. . . .

  When President Jeb Prescott was sworn in aft
er the three-party elections of 2084, he appointed me to replace Judge Thomas, and I was confirmed by the Senate’s mercy, along with Harriet Miers, newly rejuvenated with only a small loss of memory to replace the recently committed John Paul Stevens. I then spoke these grateful words:

  ‘‘I, Alberto Gonzales, tried and rehabilitated by the Hague Tribunal, and newly recommitted to our Constitution and to International Law, now take office as Associate Justice of the Supreme Court.’’

  This, of course, was where I needed to be, but not as an Associate Justice. Briefly angered, I know now that a rational Providence had only prepared a more careful way for me to my rightful place.

  My time as a criminal, when I was Attorney General in the first decade of the twenty-first century, remains a great lesson to me—to go with whomever or whatever gets you there. That was my way from the time George W. Bush made me his general counsel in the mid-1990s, then appointed me Secretary of State in Texas in the late ’90s, and then gave me a place on the Texas Supreme Court until 2000, before making me his White House Counsel and finally Attorney General of the United States in 2005.

  It is from this last service that I most regret my actions. What was I thinking? What was he, my previous self, thinking? I am not the man I was decades ago, the man who needlessly, as it turned out, supported torture and termed the Geneva Conventions ‘‘quaint’’ and ‘‘obsolete,’’ who denied the intent of habeas corpus in our very own Constitution, who agreed to warrantless domestic wiretapping of Americans, who wrote capital punishment briefs for Bush when he was governor of Texas that made it impossible for the future planetary boy king, as he was called by his critics, to pardon anyone on death row. I was the one who smiled into the television cameras in such a sickly way that millions of Americans developed an unkindly hatred of me. As a Roman Catholic I regret that most of all, that my face brought out so much hatred in my fellow Americans. Hatred is not good.