God's Not Dead 2

by Travis Thrasher

  19

  THE TEXT COMES as a surprise. The good news for Amy is that it’s not another text from Marc asking her to call him or come see him. Nor is it someone contacting her about a medical bill.

  It’s Michael Tait of Newsboys, who doesn’t exactly have all the time in the world.

  Just finished a show in London and all the God’s Not Dead signs reminded me of that show in Hope Springs. A reminder to see how you’re doing.

  Amy stares at her phone, somewhere in the middle of freaking out and wanting to sob. She never was a big Newsboys fan, but now that she has this connection to the band, she knows she’s a bit starstruck.

  No, not starstruck—devoted.

  To have someone like Michael texting her to check up when her own mother neglects to do so is quite a feeling.

  A year ago, when Newsboys was in town for a big show at Citicorp Arena, Amy managed to get inside via a guy she knew running security. This allowed her to find her way backstage to the green room, where the four members of the group were getting ready for the concert. They wondered what she was doing there but for some reason didn’t object to her ambush of an interview. That’s what she thrived on doing back then for The New Left. She could never have predicted how the conversation would go.

  “So when you’re pressed, you cite a bunch of ancient scribblings and say, ‘Don’t worry; it’s all in here’?”

  She was so smug, so self-righteous. Yet none of them acted defensive at all. They spoke as if they were sharing a simple truth about how something works or giving directions someplace. Very matter-of-fact. Very it-is-what-it-is.

  Jeff, the keyboardist and bassist for the band, answered her cynical question and then asked one of his own. “They may be ancient, but they’re not ‘scribblings.’ God gave us an instruction manual. And it’s where we draw our strength. It’s where we find our hope. Tell me, where do you get your hope from?”

  That was all it took. Amy was walking wounded, trying to put on her best performance so nobody could see the fragile soul inside. She had just learned she had cancer, and everything she had been building with her career and her life with Marc had suddenly crumbled apart. She was ignoring the pain and putting up a nice contemptuous facade. Until that question.

  “Where do you get your hope from?”

  Amy knew there was no answer she could give.

  I have no hope. I don’t have a place to go in order to even try to find it. I’m not sure I even believe in this idea called hope.

  Amy broke down. And then she did the only thing she could do. She had to show there was a reason for these tears. She was tough and she wasn’t weak and she wanted them to know why she was crying. So she told them.

  “I’m dying.”

  She hoped that would make them back off, shake them off the holy thrones she believed they were sitting on, make them speechless. They certainly weren’t miracle workers.

  But a miracle would indeed happen in that back room in the arena next to a table full of sodas and waters and snacks and red and green Skittles.

  The response came from another band member named Duncan. It was gentle and heartfelt and exactly what Amy needed to hear.

  “You’re not really here to trash us, are you? I mean, maybe that’s what you would’ve done. . . . But you’re here sort of hoping that maybe this stuff is real, aren’t you?”

  It wasn’t true, of course. But then again, a part of her deep down suddenly wondered. Why was she here? Of all the places she could have gone and all the things she could have been doing—knowing she was dying and needing to focus on that and not her career mocking Christians—why had she gotten backstage to see the guys from Newsboys?

  In that moment, the four guys sitting across from her weren’t part of a band. They were just young men talking with her.

  “How do you know that?” she asked Duncan.

  “It just felt like God was putting it on my heart . . . and he wanted you to know it.”

  Amy babbled in disbelief but only got affirming smiles.

  “Yeah,” Jeff said. “And he’s just the drummer.”

  And then they prayed for her. And Amy’s war against God and his followers stopped. She heard the prayers of the band members and looked at each of them as they circled her with their heads down and their eyes closed.

  The prayers they gave weren’t words of condemnation. No. Her blog had enough of that for all of them. The haters and the online trolls . . . Amy had been one of them. She had relished that role. But there was something she finally witnessed in that green room that was truly breathtaking and beautiful.

  Love.

  “Lord,” Michael Tait prayed, “we don’t know what your plan is for Amy, but if it’s your will, we ask that you save her. That you heal her. But either way, we ask that you send your Holy Spirit upon her right now. Let her know that she is loved and that it’s you who loves her.”

  She felt like a child again, weeping but loved and cared for.

  She felt known.

  “Lord, let Amy know that you give her the strength to deal with the trials she’s facing . . . and that you’ll be with her every step of the way.”

  Almost a year later, Amy is still here. She’s still alive.

  One of the songs the guys sang that night is called “We Believe.”

  “Do you believe, Amy?”

  So in one sense, the text from Michael shouldn’t come as a surprise. Any more than the response the band gave her when she sneaked into their room before the concert.

  The real surprise is that God actually loves her and sent his Son to die for the mistakes of every single person in this world. Including her.

  Do I believe that?

  Amy thinks she does. And maybe that’s the most surprising thing of all.

  So how am I doing?

  She texts Michael back, telling him that she’s in remission and that God has answered the band’s prayers. She thanks him for asking how she’s doing, then thanks all of them for having prayed for her this past year.

  Before she wishes him well and says good-bye, she says one more thing.

  I’d love your continued prayers. Like everybody else, I can use them.

  Amy heard someone tell her in the last few months that the prayers of a righteous person are powerful and effective. So says the Bible. The Newsboys might not call themselves righteous, but in Amy’s eyes they certainly are.

  Don’t stop praying. I still need it, guys.

  20

  “DO YOU KNOW they used to hold slave auctions in this courthouse up to 1861?”

  I shake my head at Grace. “No. I do know I can trust your knowledge on these sorts of things.”

  We’ve just entered the historic Hope Springs Courthouse, built in . . . built a long time ago. We made it up the massive stone steps in the front that seem to go on forever, passed the pillars of authority, and got through the doors. Now we’re in a short line waiting to go through the metal detectors.

  “The court would end up selling the slaves after their owners passed away without a will or declared bankruptcy. It was a very common practice.”

  “Maybe I can use that piece of wisdom during the trial,” I say.

  “They started building the courthouse in 1855, stopped during construction of the Catholic church, and then resumed until the start of the Civil War in 1861.”

  I nod. “I didn’t know that.”

  “What part?” she asks.

  “All of it.”

  The two security guys look like college dropouts and appear about as bored as they would be if their job were asking people whether they want to supersize their meals. I nod at one of them since we recognize each other from my visits here.

  “This feels a bit like entering Martin Luther King High,” Grace tells me after we retrieve the valuables we’d put in the plastic bowl.

  We walk to the center of the courthouse, and she stops and looks up. The walls of the circular rotunda soar overhead, capped off by a colorful Renaissance-styl
e dome. “I love standing underneath this,” Grace says, staring upward.

  “Get sued a lot, do you?”

  “I try to bring a class here every year. I was waiting with this year’s class and wanted to try to come right before school gets out.”

  As she cranes her neck, her blonde locks brush over her shoulders. I notice for the first time the style seems different.

  “Did you do something new with your hair?”

  She quickly turns to face me and then touches the back of it as if embarrassed. “No—I just—well, yes, I got a haircut. Changed it up a little.”

  “It looks nice,” I tell her as I smile in a friendly, professional manner.

  We continue walking to the courtroom on the second floor. Grace has questions about what we’ll be doing this morning.

  “It’s called voir dire,” I say. “Means we have a chance to eliminate potential jurors we think will dislike you.”

  Her forehead crinkles as her eyebrows go up.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Couldn’t you just say ‘jury selection’?”

  “Well, yes, of course. But I want you feeling confident about the lawyer representing you.”

  “You expect me to feel confident when you still have the fuzzy patch underneath your lip?”

  I touch my chin. “It’s not fuzzy. It’s fashionable.”

  “For boy bands, maybe. Not lawyers.”

  “That hurts.”

  A group of suits and skirts pass us by. Grace studies them carefully.

  “I tease the more nervous I get,” she says.

  “That’s funny, ’cause I do it the more at ease I happen to be.”

  “Do you ever get nervous?”

  She so doesn’t know me. “Never,” I tell her. “I’m completely unflappable.”

  I plan for this to be the only lie I will tell her.

  When we learned earlier this week who would be representing the plaintiff in this case, I told Grace that I knew of him. He’s a senior partner in a prestigious firm and is certainly very capable at what he does.

  I didn’t tell Grace what I actually think of Peter Kane. I don’t think she’d appreciate the language I’d have used.

  The Harvard graduate barely looks at us when we arrive in the courtroom. Even lawyers who are complete jerks are usually professional enough to do simple things like greeting their opponents. But Kane is one of those guys who really give bad lawyers an even worse name.

  The charge Kane has led for the ACLU the past five years makes me think of Major General William Sherman’s famous march to the sea, the one that left a scorched trail of death and wreckage in its wake. Kane would of course howl at that comparison, but deep down he would also know it’s true.

  Kane looks like a wax museum version of himself. Nice suit and tie and plastic face. I’m sure it was a handsome mug back when it didn’t look like leather that’s spent a little too much time in the Bahamas. He’s just a few years away from hitting sixty. He has almost as many years of trial experience as I have life.

  Next to him on one side is Simon Boyle, looking barely half Kane’s size not because of actual body weight but because of his nerd-chic glasses and his beta-male demeanor. I’m not sure I’ve ever met Simon in person before; he’s the type of guy you might see a dozen times and still forget. I’ve heard he’s smart, however, and that’s the only reason he’s with Kane.

  On the other side is a stunner named Elizabeth Healy. She’s all work today in her dark, conservative suit that’s quite a contrast to the not-so-conservative outfits she wears on Saturday nights on the town. But regardless of what she looks like, I know Elizabeth is another star on an all-star team. Kane’s not working with anybody who won’t keep up with him.

  In the first row, right behind Kane’s team, sit Brooke Thawley’s parents, Rich and Katherine. Across from us, twelve potential jurors sit in the jury box, waiting to be interviewed. Another thirty wait in the gallery.

  The table Grace and I sit at seems far too big for only two people.

  “All rise for Judge Stennis.”

  I breathe in and hold my breath for as long as I can. There’s something else I haven’t told Grace. It’s that I know Judge Stennis quite well.

  And, oh yeah, he declared me in contempt of court.

  He’s a large presence with his six-foot-four or -five height and shoulders that make his robe look like a curtain. He’s got such a generous and gentle smile that I’m sure the distinguished-looking judge makes a wonderful grandfather. It’s just when His Honor gets perturbed—a word he actually used with me—he gets really quite perturbed indeed.

  “Come to order in the matter of Thawley v. Wesley. You may be seated.”

  As he taps his gavel, I see his gaze dart over to me. The expression on his square face doesn’t change a bit, but I can imagine what he might be thinking.

  Ahhhh. You again.

  Judge Stennis gives the potential jurors a brief summary about the case and instructs them to consider the civic importance of serving on a jury. He introduces us and goes over some rules, then asks them if they’ve heard of the case. Then he asks each juror specific questions from the cards they filled out about themselves. Soon the attorneys begin interviewing each person one by one, and I quickly realize the batch they’ve invited to this courtroom is really and truly something else.

  Sometimes I think there is a God above because I keep being put into these situations, and I honestly wonder if some kind of higher power is just messing with me. Seriously.

  The back-and-forth is a bit like Kane and me having a fun game of Sunday afternoon bowling, except that our goal is to knock certain pins down one at a time while keeping up the ones we want. And while looking at one another with nice glaring smiles of contempt.

  We tell the potential jurors just as the judge did that they need to be honest and that we’re looking for fair and impartial jury members. Of course, we also want those people we believe will be totally biased toward our case.

  The first person Kane talks to is named Crazy Cat Lady. Actually, that’s not her name, but I’ve missed her stated name because her hair looks like she was struck by lightning and her eyes appear ten times their natural size behind the thick lenses she’s wearing. All she’s missing are several cats sitting in her arms.

  “So it says here you’re a psychic,” Kane says as he walks in front of where she sits in the jury box.

  A mop of hair nods up and down. “Yes,” says a high-pitched voice that almost sounds like a child’s.

  “So then you must know who’s going to win this case?” Kane says. “Wait—don’t answer that. But do answer this, Ms. Chappest.”

  I think the last name sort of rhymes with catnip.

  “Do you know any reason you can’t be fair and impartial?” Kane asks.

  “No, not at all,” that strange voice says. Then she adds, “Not unless Wynona says otherwise.”

  Kane glances at me with genuine amusement and surprise. “And who might Wynona be?”

  “She’s the spirit of the witch who was hung on this land years ago.”

  “I see. We’d like to challenge this juror, Your Honor,” Kane says.

  “Do you have any objection, Mr. Endler?”

  “I do not, Your Honor.”

  Judge Stennis agrees on the challenge for cause by Kane. This is a no-brainer. It’s a legitimate challenge, which both of us can make at any time if we believe and can show that a potential juror is unfit. This can happen if they know the plaintiff or defendant or if they’ve been previously involved in a similar case or perhaps if they just sound seriously crazy like Cat Lady here.

  Kane and I also each have three peremptory challenges, where we don’t have to state the reason why we’re challenging. This was a comically easy beginning, but they will become tougher the longer time goes by.

  Next up is Tim, a big guy with tattoos filling both of his arms. It’s easy for me to see the reason why he certainly won’t work. “Five years ago you w
ere arrested for assaulting your son’s fifth-grade teacher; is that correct?” I ask him.

  He nods his giant head.

  “I’d like to challenge for cause, Your Honor.”

  An older woman named Norma is questioned by Kane. He asks her what she does for a living.

  “I’m a retired teacher.”

  “Ever have any disciplinary run-ins with the administration?”

  “Never.”

  Norma says this as if the very suggestion is an insult to her character. It’s like asking a librarian if she’d like to simply watch the movie version instead of reading the book.

  “Acceptable to the plaintiff, Your Honor.”

  I look over at Grace before saying, “And for the defense, Your Honor.”

  Hours have been spent in law school studying voir dire. But at the end of the day, it’s really all guesswork. There are no secret killer questions to ask. The key is to get them talking to you, to reveal the colors inside of them rather than the ones they’re wearing.

  The next scratch-off for Kane comes almost as easily as the Crazy Cat Lady. “Can I ask you what your favorite TV show is?” he asks the man, who might be in his midsixties.

  “Duck Dynasty.”

  “Peremptory challenge, Your Honor.”

  No surprise there. I look at Grace and can tell she’s disappointed to see him go.

  The young girl interviewed next has to be eighteen in order to have been summoned for jury duty but looks a couple years younger. The outfit she’s wearing isn’t appropriate for a courtroom. Actually, it’s really not appropriate anywhere in public.

  “Can I ask what your favorite show happens to be?” Kane asks.

  I look over at him and wonder if he’s just having fun today, amusing himself with questions like this.

  “Pretty Little Liars,” Miniskirt Girl says.

  This certainly works for Kane, but everything about this girl screams rebellion to me. I have to use one of my peremptory challenges.