by Randy Singer
“Mr. Finney?”
“Sorry, Your Honor. Jesus said to love your enemies, not to seek revenge. So I would say an individual should never take the life of another except in self-defense. But sometimes the state must do so through its citizens, including Christian citizens, in order to punish wrongdoers or defend its national interests.”
Judge Javitts showed no reaction. “Okay, then, let me ask you this: Is it ever permissible for a Christian to take his or her own life?”
The judge had his pen poised over his legal pad, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to ask these questions and take a few notes. But Finney hadn’t said a thing about suicide during his entire opening statement. Where are these questions coming from?
“No, Your Honor. Most Christians believe that doing so would usurp the prerogative of God. And we also believe that life is always worth living—that God gives grace sufficient for even the most drastic circumstances. Committing suicide is wrong, but it doesn’t somehow negate a person’s faith. A Christian who commits suicide is still a Christian.”
“I see,” Javitts said. “Thank you, Judge Finney.”
15
Hadji was next. What he lacked in courtroom experience, he more than made up for with enthusiasm. “Man, that dude is smart,” he said, shaking his head and embarrassing Judge Finney. “How do you follow an act like that?”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. If he had been a lawyer in Finney’s court, he would have spent the night in jail for wearing jeans and a blue blazer to court, but this was TV.
“I’ve got no problem with the Resurrection,” he said casually.
The admission floored Finney. He scribbled a note, hoping the jury was paying attention.
“I mean, I wasn’t there and neither was Judge O, so we’ll probably never know, but a truly advanced yogi could do something like that.”
Finney blinked. The Swami had a way of just conversationally saying mind-blowing stuff, and the jury looked like they were swallowing every word of it. “In fact,” he continued, “some Hindus believe that Christianity is just modified Hinduism and that Jesus lived in India between the ages of thirteen and thirty-one.”
The Swami shrugged. “I don’t know about all that. But let me tell you a few things I do know about.”
For the next several minutes, the Swami painted an appealing picture of Hinduism, explaining the concept of Brahmin, the supreme god, the ultimate reality, the world soul. He talked about karma, and Finney had to admit that this kid had more than his share of good karma. And then, in his ever-so-casual way, the Swami moved on to the issue of samsara.
“Did you ever wonder why bad things happen to good people—or why good things happen to bad people, for that matter?”
A few of the jurors actually nodded.
“Did you ever think that you must be missing something? Well, turns out you are.
“You’re just looking at one snapshot in time,” the Swami said, “and so life sometimes seems unfair. But all souls experience samsara, or transmigration, a long-lasting cycle of births and rebirths. When you look at someone and judge what’s happening to them based only on this life, you’re missing a big part of the motion picture of their soul’s migration.”
The jurors looked a little confused, and the Swami must have noticed. “If that’s hard for you to understand, it’s okay. You’ll figure it out in your next life.”
It did Finney good to see the Swami’s jokes bomb too. And Letterman thought he had tough crowds.
“Have you ever experienced a sense of déjà vu? I’ve been here before. I’ve done this before. But you know for certain that this is the first time it’s happened in this life. Where do you think that sense of déjà vu comes from?”
Next to Finney, Kareem was grunting his disapproval. “Are we having fun yet?” Finney asked.
“You smell like smoke,” Kareem said.
The Swami decided it was time for show-and-tell. He walked behind his counsel table and emerged with a small carved image. To Finney, it looked like an Asian monk, sitting yoga style, with multiple arms and multiple heads.
The Swami placed the idol on the rail of the witness stand. “People say that Hindus worship hundreds of gods, thousands even. Gods like this one—Vishnu.”
Kareem shot to his feet. “I object, Your Honor.” Finney didn’t even know you could object. What were the rules for game show trials?
“On what grounds?” Javitts asked.
“Idol worship,” Kareem insisted, as if the rules for trials prohibited such a thing. “There is no god but Allah. This man—” he pointed an accusatory finger at Hadji—“should not be allowed to subject the rest of us to the worship of one of his thousands of gods.”
“Overruled,” Javitts said. “You’ll have your turn.”
Kareem didn’t try to hide his displeasure.
Hadji turned to face his adversary. If Kareem was trying to throw Hadji off stride with his objection, it didn’t appear to be working. “It’s not idol worship when I just place Vishnu on this rail,” Hadji explained calmly. “I’ll let you know when we start the actual worship.” Kareem glared at the man. “And we don’t actually believe in thousands of gods, Mr. Hasaan. There is only one transcendent force—Brahmin—but this supreme being manifests himself in an infinite number of ways. Think of it as a billion snapshots of one supreme god rather than a billion different gods.”
Hadji then walked to his counsel table, ignoring the simmering Kareem. He paused for a drink of water.
“Four minutes,” Javitts said.
“I cannot drink this water directly; I need a vessel to help lift it to my lips. So it is with Brahmin and our idols. The mind sometimes needs a tangible thing to help direct our adoration of an intangible supreme being. Other religions do the same thing, with a cross or a temple or a prayer rug.”
“Objection!” Kareem shouted, on his feet again. “Now this man accuses me of idol worship!”
“Mr. Hasaan, sit down!” Javitts ordered.
Kareem remained standing.
“Mr. Hasaan.”
“Your Honor, it is one thing to argue for your religion. It is quite another to do so by denigrating and mischaracterizing the religions of others. With all due respect, if the court’s not going to say something about it, then I must.”
Finney watched the lines on Javitts’s face tighten. This was a direct challenge to the court’s authority, and all the alpha males in the courtroom knew it. Finney had dealt with this type of thing himself many times as a judge. Some litigants, like Kareem, turned every minor skirmish into World War III. It really came down to this: who will run the courtroom—the judge or the lawyers?
“Overruled, Mr. Hasaan. Sit . . . down!”
When Kareem still didn’t move, Finney knew that the man’s anger was just a strategy. The issue that had caused the objection was merely an excuse for an early showdown. Hadji’s case had been effectively interrupted, and the Muslim had made his point—if you mess with the advocate for Muhammad, you’d better be ready for a fight.
“You’re risking contempt,” Javitts warned.
“I don’t recall a prison on the Paradise Island tour,” Kareem said. Finney saw a flash of panic from a judge whose bluff had been exposed. Then Javitts’s face flushed in anger, and Kareem, totally in control, slowly pulled out his chair and took his seat.
Round one, Finney thought, for Kareem.
Once Kareem had made his point, Hadji completed his opening without further incident. Afterward, Kareem delivered his own thunderous opening, extolling the merits of Islam while being careful not to malign the other religions. When he concluded, Judge Javitts posed the same two questions he had asked Finney and Hadji.
“In your faith, is it permissible for a Muslim to kill another human being, Mr. Hasaan?”
Kareem smiled thinly, then scowled. “That is, of course, the question Americans have been asking me since 9/11. What is a jihad? Do Muslims believe that the hija
ckers were justified?”
Kareem zeroed in on Javitts, his face taut. “I condemn those actions in no uncertain terms, as do all true Muslims. Ours is a peaceful religion. The 9/11 terrorists hijacked our religion as surely as they did those airplanes. Nothing in the teachings of Muhammad legitimizes the killing of civilians.”
Kareem took a deep breath and continued. “But with that said, the answer to your question is an emphatic yes—killing for the right cause can be just. Do you need me to cite the Koran verses? ‘Fight those who do not believe in Allah, nor in the latter day.’ That’s Sura 9:29. Or how about ‘Surely Allah loves those who fight in His way in ranks as if they were a firm and compact wall’? That’s Sura 61:4.
“And then there are the promises that Allah will grant special favors for those who die in a holy war. We do not shirk from these teachings, Judge Javitts.”
Kareem let the silence linger to emphasize his point. He presented an imposing figure as he stood there unblinking in front of the judge.
“But to judge my religion on the basis of the hijackers is to judge Christianity on the basis of David Koresh or the Ku Klux Klan.
“Do not the other religions represented here talk about ‘just wars’ as well? Judge Finney cleverly disguised the issue, saying that Christians are not allowed to kill as individuals but may be called on as part of an army to defend national security. That is nothing more than a polite way of saying that people of Judge Finney’s religion are killing people of my religion every single day. And they’re doing so for political reasons and to protect oil reserves—all in the name of justice.”
Kareem motioned to the other counsel table. “And then, of course, there is Dr. Ando’s religion, considered by many to be a religion of peace. Did not the Zen priests during World War II train the Japanese kamikaze pilots? Did they not tell them that they would gain improved karma for the next life by their suicide missions?”
He turned back to Javitts. “We all have our suicide bombers, Your Honor. But that doesn’t change the fact that Islam is a religion of peace that only justifies killing in the context of a just and holy war and never justifies the intentional killing of civilians.”
“What about suicide?” Javitts asked. “Is it ever permissible for a Muslim to take his or her own life?”
“Only in the context of sacrificing one’s own life to save the lives of others or to advance the cause of Allah. In times of war, we call that heroism.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hasaan.”
Kareem’s argument was followed by a smooth presentation from Dr. Kline. After another break, so that the production crew could discuss camera angles and lighting, Judge Javitts gaveled the proceedings to order and called the name of Dr. Hokoji Ando.
The Buddhist advocate rose slowly and limped to the jury box. He stood there stiffly in front of them, his hands folded together. “Pardon my slowness,” he said, “but I have fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, commonly referred to as FOP. It is a rare and incurable disease that causes bone to form in my muscles, in my tendons, and in my ligaments. There is nothing the doctors can do except monitor the spread of the disease. My body is literally forming a second skeleton, a bone-shaped prison of its own making.”
Ando spoke so softly that Finney had to lean forward to hear him. It occurred to Finney that everybody had stopped fidgeting, taking a cue from the unmoving advocate in front of them.
“The average life span of a person with FOP is forty-five years. I have cheated that number by nearly two decades. People with this disease literally turn into living statues—their bodies welded into position like a plastic doll. We suffocate because the bone growth restricts our breathing, literally strangling us.”
He paused, letting the full weight of his condition sink in. Finney noticed no sadness in the man’s eyes, just a stoic resignation to his lot in life. “What explains this?” Ando asked. “Is it the Christian God of love who saddled me with this condition even before I was born? Or was it Allah, the god of perfect justice, who decided to punish me before I even drew my first breath?”
“Objection!”
Finney couldn’t believe that Kareem had the audacity to object at this moment. Didn’t he understand anything about sympathy? Didn’t he know anything about the subtleties of trying a case? Staking out your turf early was one thing, but this was just plain stupid.
“Overruled,” Javitts said without even glancing in Kareem’s direction.
Finney leaned over to Kareem. “You’re not helping yourself with all these objections,” he whispered.
“You try your case; I’ll try mine.”
And look like a jerk in the process, Finney thought.
“Does science explain it?” Ando continued. “Am I just another mutation in the endless march of the human race to evolve into a higher form? Look at me—am I a higher form? Are two skeletons better than one?”
He stared evenly at the jury, oblivious to the other contestants, the words falling softly from his lips like the hiss of incoming missiles.
“Who explains this? Only Buddha explains this. Only Buddha makes sense of a world steeped in suffering.
“‘Life is suffering,’ Buddha said. ‘Suffering is caused by our attachments to the world. We can end suffering by developing nonattachment and following the Eightfold Path.’
“What is the body, really? What more is it than a skin bag filled with bones, flesh, muscle, organs, and fluid? Free yourself from the body. Settle the mind. I will show you how even an old man with FOP can find enlightenment. I will invite you to follow me there.”
Ando concluded less than four minutes later and turned to the judge. Javitts had asked each of the contestants, except Dr. Kline, the same two questions he had sprung on Finney earlier in the day. Ando didn’t wait. “The answers are no and no, Your Honor.” Then he limped back to the counsel table and took his seat.
I have underestimated my Buddhist friend, Finney realized. The little man’s dignity filled the courtroom.
Part 3
Cross-Examination
The first to state his case seems right until another comes and cross-examines him.
—Proverbs 18:17
Witness: You want answers?
Lawyer: I want the truth!
Witness: You can’t handle the truth!
—From the film A Few Good Men
16
Finney felt like a common criminal. The room was sparse and undignified, an ancillary space in the back of the Paradise Courthouse building. Because Finney had given his opening statement first, he was also the first contestant Javitts sent to the “cross-examination room.”
The room felt cramped and musty. A worn hardwood floor had so many layers of varnish on it that the wood appeared almost black, except in the middle of the room, where the harsh spotlight turned the floor a yellowish white. Three of the walls consisted of yellowed and blistered Sheetrock, with no windows. The fourth wall was a bank of mirrors, meaning that Finney had spectators on the other side. A fan rotated slowly overhead. The room seemed to be shut off from the building’s air-conditioning circulation.
Finney had been instructed to sit in the black wooden chair directly under the spotlight in the middle of the room. He removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of the chair. Between the spotlight and the heat, Finney wondered how long it would take before he sweat straight through his T-shirt and white dress shirt. He took a seat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, loosening his tie. He coughed. A man who introduced himself as Dr. Armond Zirconni, a polygraph expert, took his place next to Finney and hooked up the polygraph machine.
“There’s a reason they don’t allow these things in a court of law,” Finney said.
Zirconni saw no humor in the comment. He gave the usual instructions and started right in.
“Is your name Oliver Gradison Finney?”
“Yes.”
“Do you serve as a judge in Norfolk Circuit Court?”
“Yes.”
“Do you smoke
cigars?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever had any impure thoughts toward your law clerk, Nikki Moreno?”
Finney hesitated. Zirconni glanced at Finney over the top of his glasses.
“I refuse to answer that question.”
Zirconni sighed and placed his pencil on the table. “You can’t refuse to answer questions.”
“I just did.”
“Look, Judge Finney. I’m just trying to get a baseline of responses. None of these questions will be shown on the air.”
“Choose another question,” Finney said. “Nikki’s like a daughter to me, not some kind of sex object. So the answer to your question is this: it’s none of your business.”
On the other side of the one-way mirror, Murphy chuckled. “Finney’s a little feisty today,” he said.
Bryce McCormack didn’t respond.
“I can’t wait to see how Kareem Hasaan reacts to the baseline questions we throw at him,” Murphy mused.
“Shh,” McCormack said, focusing intently on the scene before him.
Finney and Zirconni eventually worked through the baseline questions, though Finney held his ground on the question about Nikki. Just because he signed up for a reality show didn’t mean they could insult him.
“Did you just deliver an opening statement in the Paradise Courthouse defending the Christian faith?” Zirconni asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you familiar with the concept of proof beyond a reasonable doubt?”
“Yes.”
“Did you listen to the opening statements of the other faith advocates?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Judge Finney, I’m going to focus your attention on the opening statements of each of those other advocates. I want you to tell me whether listening to them created any reasonable doubt in your mind whatsoever, no matter how small, about whether your faith is the correct one. Do you understand what I’m asking?”
“Yes.” The spotlight glared in Finney’s eyes, causing him to squint. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. His shirt undoubtedly had rings under the arms already.