The Trial of Fallen Angels

by James Kimmel, Jr.

  “Am I being forced to represent them?” I asked. “I mean, what if I refuse?”

  “Forced?” Luas said. “Certainly not. The choice is yours, but it’s a choice you have already made. That’s why you’re here. You will represent them because, like all lawyers, justice is what you crave most and you won’t rest until you have it.”

  “There’s no justice here,” I said flatly. “At least not the kind I crave.”

  Luas smiled condescendingly. “Perhaps you will introduce it to us then,” he said.

  I thought about this for a moment and, for the first time, considered the possibility that I just might be able to help these poor souls, that this might be the reason why I was brought to Shemaya, to fix a broken judicial system. Lawyers had a long and proud tradition of bringing about reform and restoring justice to the world. I had always dreamed of doing something truly significant and grand.

  “Perhaps I will,” I said. “Perhaps I will.” Then I looked down and realized I was still wearing my pajamas from what was supposed to be a relaxing evening at home, watching a movie and eating popcorn.

  “You needn’t worry about your clothes,” Luas said, noticing my embarrassment. “The postulants can’t see us. But if you’d feel more comfortable, you may change into these.” From a desk drawer he produced the black silk suit, blouse, and shoes I’d been wearing since I arrived in Shemaya—the ones I’d discarded at the mall during my shopping spree.

  “How did you get these?” I asked, confused.

  “I didn’t get them,” he said. “You did. Go ahead, put them on. I’ll step outside.”

  By telling me I got the clothes, Luas was trying to remind me that I was making all of this up—my physical appearance and his, that is, not Shemaya itself, which seemed to exist quite independently of me. Even so, I took the opportunity to dress in proper attire, out of respect for my profession if nothing else.

  Luas returned to the office and seated himself beside me behind the desk, surrounded by darkness. The dim candles gave his face a dull orange color.

  “Before I invite the postulant in,” he said, “I must warn you that there is a grave danger in this meeting, one for which I have been trying to prepare you. More than Mr. Bowles, more than your parents, your husband, or even your own child, will you come to know the postulant we are about to meet. Only slightly better will you know yourself. To avoid losing your identity forever, you must employ the tactics I showed you earlier. No matter how difficult it might seem, you must continue to remind yourself of the circumstances of your disfigurement. Try to recall the smallest details: the smell of the air above the manure in the spreader, the sound of the flies buzzing over the heap, the puzzled look of the cows as they watched you and your grandfather spreading their excrement across the fields. The way the heavy, wet dung, produced by the first alfalfa of the season, clotted in the bin like plaster, jamming the tines.

  “Your parents had told you they were taking you to your grandparents’ farm to enjoy some time in the country, but you had heard the viciousness of their argument when your father revealed the arrangements, against your mother’s wishes, to admit her into a treatment center for alcoholics and your mother retorted that he had been having an affair. All that held them together was you, and you were convinced that only a crisis would hold you all together now. You considered running away, but this would only separate you from them. You had already tried modulating your grades, but the good marks only gave them confidence of your adjustment and the bad just another source for blame. Behaving and misbehaving had the same weak effect, and crying worked only temporarily and could not be sustained. You had even contrived illnesses, but doctors confirmed your health and the proper functioning of your organs.”

  I could no longer bear the pain of hearing all this. “Enough!” I said. “Please, stop.”

  Luas ignored my pleas. “You did not plan what to do next,” he continued. “Your grandfather had warned you to stand clear as he worked his pitchfork through the pile. After finishing, he climbed down from the bin and back up onto the tractor, but he left the guard off the conveyor chain. You watched the chain hesitate for a moment under the load and then break free with a bang, whirring through the gears and cogs as the tractor engine roared and the manure flew. The thought struck you in that very moment, before he could disengage the power and replace the guard. You ran up and thrust your hand into the gears. You thought you’d only cut your finger or perhaps break it. But feeling no more than the return of a firm handshake at first, you watched in astonishment and disbelief as your forearm was ripped from your elbow and was hurled along the conveyor like a toy on an assembly line. You stood frozen for a moment, the way one does upon first seeing one’s own reflection, watching yourself watch yourself, but not fully recognizing the image. In the moment before you lost consciousness, your body tingled—not with pain but with the brief exaltation that you had finally succeeded in reuniting your parents and all would soon be well.”

  “No more, Luas,” I begged, sobbing. “Please, stop.”

  “But there is more,” Luas said callously. “So much more. This is the only way to separate yourself from the powerful memories of the postulants you will meet, and this is what must be done. Two years later, Brek, after your parents had divorced and the right sleeves of your clothes had been sewn shut, you took the witness stand in the Huntingdon County Courthouse, where you would one day practice law, and a young attorney named Bill Gwynne asked you to show the jury the mangled stump of your arm and tell them what happened. It was the most critical testimony in the case, to establish the liability of the manufacturer of the manure spreader and bestow upon you and your family a small fortune in recompense. The courtroom was silent, every moist eye focused on you. You had practiced your testimony so often with Mr. Gwynne that you actually believed what you were about to say. He had promised you justice. You faced the jury, and do you remember what you said?”

  “Yes, yes,” I cried, traumatized and ashamed. “I remember. There’s no need for you to repeat it.”

  “Oh, but I must,” Luas said. “‘I was standing on my toes,’ you told the jury, ‘trying to see what my grandfather was doing. I slipped on the wet grass and fell against the guard. I didn’t hit it very hard, but the guard gave way and my arm got caught in the gears—’ You became too emotional to go on. The memory of what happened next was too painful.”

  Luas’s relentless recounting of the story was having the desired effect. He had me so deeply engrossed in the shame of my own memories that I couldn’t possibly confuse my life with that of the postulant I was about to meet. I could see myself there on the witness stand, a ten-year-old girl again. The judge, robed in black, glares down at me from the bench, old and terrifying like God. The pinch-faced stenographer yawns as she taps her keys. My grandfather, pale with guilt and remorse, nervously fondles his pipe, aching for a smoke. My grandmother waves a roll of Life Savers at me for encouragement. My mother sits all by herself on the other side of the courtroom with her “I told you so” face, snarling at my father and grandparents. My father sucks on a Life Saver my grandmother insisted he take, and checks his watch. The defense lawyer from Pittsburgh, too slick and condescending for Huntingdon County, whispers to the vice president of the equipment manufacturer, a Texan who crosses his legs and strokes the brown suede of his cowboy boots.

  To my right sits the jury who will decide the case: three farmers, a hairdresser, a housewife, and a truck mechanic. The farmers tug uncomfortably at the collars of their white dress shirts; the hairdresser, wearing too much makeup, cracks her gum; the housewife, wearing too little makeup, fusses with her hair; the truck mechanic bites his dirty fingernails, stealing glances at the hairdresser.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Mr. Gwynne says. I know he’s here to protect me, my knight in shining armor, gallant and handsome. I have a secret crush on him. “Take a moment to blow your nose; I know it’s difficult with one hand, Brek. I’m sorry we have to do this, but the makers of t
he manure spreader here want their day in court, and they’re entitled to it. Just a few more questions, okay? We need you to be brave now and tell the truth. Are you certain the guard was in place? I’m talking about the metal shield over the chain.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Gwynne, I’m certain.”

  “And you slipped and bumped into it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it gave way?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your arm got caught in the chain.”

  “Yes. Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Gwynne. I’m awfully sorry for all this. I should have been more careful.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, Brek,” he reassures me. “We’re the ones who are sorry for what happened to you. You’ve been very brave for us today, and we appreciate it.”

  In less than an hour, the jury returned a verdict against the manufacturer for $450,000. An expert hired by Mr. Gwynne testified that if the spreader had been designed properly, there would have been no need to remove the guard to fix the problem in the first place, meaning that my lie might not have made the difference after all. But that did not change the fact that I had lied, I had committed perjury.

  One-third of the money went to Mr. Gwynne for his efforts; another third put me through an expensive Quaker boarding school, four years at a private liberal arts college, and three years at an Ivy League law school; the rest paid my medical bills with some left over for other expenses, including a semester abroad in Europe. Only my grandfather knew for certain I had lied about the guard, but we never spoke about it to each other. He testified that he couldn’t remember whether he left it on or off, which made his testimony seem like only half a lie. I guess he was able to live with that.

  But Luas wasn’t finished with me yet: “Nobody in the courtroom that day knew,” he said, “not your parents, not Bill Gwynne, not even your grandfather, that you deliberately put your hand into the machine. You told only one person, Karen Busfield, and that was twenty years after the trial. Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I remember.”

  I couldn’t help but remember. Karen Busfield, my best friend from my childhood, who was so gentle that she couldn’t bring herself to punish boys who murdered crayfish, who went on to become an Episcopal priest, asked me to defend her in a criminal case for which she could receive the death penalty.

  14

  Karen Busfield’s criminal case came back to me in Luas’s office as if I were seeing a portion of my own life being replayed by Haissem in the Courtroom.

  It’s late at night; Bo and I have put Sarah to bed and fallen asleep ourselves. The telephone rings, startling me awake. My heart pounds as I fumble for the receiver, trying to comprehend what’s happening, and fearing the worst because of the late hour.

  “Yes? Hello?” I say groggily.

  “Brek? Hi, it’s me, Karen.”

  “Karen?” I say, trying to regain my bearings. I can’t see the clock. “My God, what time is it? Are you okay?”

  “It’s two a.m.,” she says. “I’m really sorry for calling you so late, but I’m in trouble. I need a lawyer.”

  The familiar sounds of a jail echo in the background, rough voices, the slamming of heavy steel doors.

  “Where are you?”

  “Fort Leavenworth,” Karen replies.

  “Leavenworth? What are you doing there, counseling inmates?”

  “No,” she says. “I am an inmate.”

  I can tell she isn’t joking.

  Bo rolls over. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  I cover the phone. “It’s Karen,” I whisper. “I think she’s been arrested.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a military chaplain,” I say to Karen. “What could you have possibly done?”

  “I can’t talk about that right now,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say, understanding that the call is being monitored. “Can you at least tell me what they’re charging you with?”

  “Assault, criminal trespass, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Treason and espionage.”

  “Treason and espionage? Are you serious?” Bo’s eyes widen.

  “Yes, I’m serious.”

  I sit on the bed, dumbfounded.

  “Brek, are you there?” Karen asks.

  “Are you sure they said treason?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Karen replies.

  “Okay, I’m coming,” I say. “And I’m bringing Bill Gwynne with me.”

  “No, just you,” Karen says.

  “Treason is a big deal, Karen,” I warn her. “I don’t want to scare you, but it carries the death penalty. I’m bringing Bill with me—and maybe twenty other lawyers. Let me call the airlines. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  “Just you, Brek, okay?” she pleads. I can tell she’s on the verge of breaking down. “Please?”

  “Okay, honey,” I say. “Okay, I’ll do whatever you want. For now. We can talk about it when I get there.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “Don’t rush. Take care of Sarah first. I’ll be fine. I’m really sorry about this. How’s she doing?”

  “Sarah’s okay,” I say. “It’s you who I’m worried about.”

  “I’m really sorry—”

  “It’s not a problem,” I say. “This is what I do. Let me pack a bag. Do you need anything?”

  “Just you,” Karen says. She starts crying. I can hear a woman’s voice giving her orders in the background. “They’re saying I’ve got to hang up now,” she sniffles.

  “Everything will be all right,” I assure her. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay strong. And, Karen, no matter what you do, don’t answer any questions, okay? Tell them you’re invoking your right to remain silent until you’ve spoken with your attorney.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Brek,” she says. “I’ve got to go now. Bye.”

  I hang up the phone.

  Bo is fully awake and sitting up. “They’re charging an Air Force chaplain with treason and espionage?” he says. “You’ve got to be kidding. I hope you realize this is going to be front-page national news.”

  “I know,” I say bleakly. “But you can’t be the one to break the story. Karen called me as her lawyer. My conversation with her was confidential attorney-client communication. The fact that you happened to be sleeping beside me doesn’t change that.”

  “But—”

  “Promise me, Bo,” I say. “This is serious. I understand why you’d want to be the first on a story like this, but there’s no way you can report it or tip anybody else about it. I can’t be Karen’s lawyer if I have to worry that everything I say in my own home might wind up on the wires the next day.”

  “Okay,” he says, disappointed. “But get ready. You’re going to be facing a lot of other reporters—guys who won’t be as nice as me. You’ll be on television every day—maybe even more than I am.”

  “Great,” I say. “Maybe I’ll replace the weather girl.”

  “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “Can you take care of Sarah while I’m gone?”

  “Sure, we’ll manage. I’ll call in a few favors.”

  I kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m going to need your help to get through this.”

  “You’ve got it, whatever you need.” He kisses me on the forehead, then looks me in the eyes and grins. “Kick some U.S. attorney’s butt and make us proud.”

  I hug him and head for the shower.

  —

  LATER THAT MORNING, I fly to Kansas City, rent a car, and drive the rest of the way to Fort Leavenworth, arriving late in the afternoon. Two female guards escort Karen, dressed in orange prison coveralls and wearing handcuffs, into the small room with a table and two chairs reserved for attorney visits. Karen looks terrible—pale and gaunt with dark circles under puffy, red eyes, as though she hasn’t slept or eaten in days. She takes the chair across from me and flashes me a weak smile. The guards leave the room and close and lock the door behind them so
our conversation will be confidential, but they continue monitoring us through a window.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I say, fighting back tears and reaching out to touch her hand. One of the guards raps on the window and gestures toward a sign in the room that reads “No Physical Contact Permitted.” Karen scowls at the guard, but I obey, putting my hand in my lap. We look at each other silently.

  “I’m really sorry I dragged you all the way here,” she says. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine,” I say, “no problems. How are you holding up? Are they treating you okay?”

  She looks down and tugs on her coveralls. “They took my clerical collar.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, “we’ll get it back. I’m meeting with the U.S. attorney later this afternoon to see if I can get this cleared up, or at least negotiate a low bail. You’re a priest with no criminal history; you’re obviously not much of a threat or a flight risk.” I glance at my watch. “We only have forty-five minutes. Tell me what happened.”

  Karen yawns and rubs her eyes. “They’ve been questioning me for two days. I haven’t gotten any sleep.”

  “What?” I say, alarmed. “Questioning you for two days? Didn’t they tell you that you had the right to a lawyer?”

  “Yes,” she says, “but I told them I didn’t think I needed one.”

  “You didn’t think you needed one!” I snap, more than a little cranky myself from having been awakened in the middle of the night to travel from Pennsylvania to Kansas. “They’re charging you with treason and espionage and you didn’t think you needed a lawyer? Why did you bother calling me, then?”

  “Please don’t yell at me,” Karen says.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that it makes it so much harder to defend you if you’ve been talking to them for two days already. Did you confess to anything?”

  “Of course not . . . at least not that I’m aware of.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” I say. “Two days with no sleep, who knows what they had you saying. No more talking, okay?”