“Have you ever seen me look angry?” she asks.
“No. And I doubt you have the same sort of angry face someone like my father can have. But there are various ways anger or frustration can display themselves in someone’s expression.”
“I understand. But I also don’t want to look like a figure in a wax museum.”
“No, no,” I say. “They want to see your personality. They need to see it. I know—I don’t need to say these things to you. Just like you don’t need to ask why I’m only wearing a tweed sports coat.”
“No. I do need to ask you that. I’m still questioning that.”
I laugh as we walk past a restroom. “Look, you go on ahead. I’ll catch up to you.”
She nods and heads to the staircase. I walk inside the large bathroom and find myself alone, staring in the mirror at a guy who used to be some hotshot lawyer.
I sigh. I’m not really studying my reflection but rather seeing the shadow that seems to be hovering over it. I know I look tired—a bit hungover to be honest, though I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who could recognize it. But definitely tired. And when I’m not using that smirk to my advantage, I bet I look just plain scared.
The cold water feels good as I splash it over my face. I glance down and watch the drips fall. Then I get a few paper towels and dab them over my forehead and cheeks. I might as well use the arm of my sports coat. It would at least rinse away some of the dust on it.
I look up again and ask this guy a question.
So, are you going to do this?
He knows what I mean. Not getting up in front of people and doing my job. Not fighting for the rights of a good teacher and hopefully winning.
Are you going to make her proud?
I have more belief that Mom is watching over me right now than God. And perhaps more than ever before, this is the chance I seemed to be wanting and looking for.
I slowly let out a sigh, then head through the bathroom door and up the stairs to the courtroom.
Unfortunately, near the top of the grand staircase, I have the bad timing to walk past a figure resting high on a chair along the wall and getting his shoes shined. Peter Kane looks like some king from ancient times sitting on his throne, watching his minions strolling by. He folds his newspaper and gives that smile that makes me think of a delirious horse with those shiny teeth.
“You can’t win,” Kane tells me.
I glance at his black leather dress shoes that probably cost a thousand bucks. Maybe per shoe. I don’t quite know that world; I wouldn’t be able to even recognize some fancy brand if I heard it. I just know that earlier this morning I made the mistake of inspecting the soles of my own dress shoes and saw that they look like I just ran a marathon in them. They were expensive enough when I bought them five years ago.
“Thank you, Peter. I appreciate that and certainly take it under advisement.”
His skin seems to have the same texture as his shoes. He speaks as if we’re the only two in this building. Or more as if he’s the only one here.
“You know I’m right. So why do it? Why go through the exercise?”
Maybe to try to save some other poor lawyer from having to deal with someone like you.
Of course, I just remain silent and wait for him to finish.
“I looked at your history. You’re better than this. Top of your class at Stanford Law. Clerked for a judge on the Ninth Circuit. Why are you slumming like this?”
It’s an interesting question but one I know he wouldn’t want to hear the answer to. For a second I get the strange idea he’s going to make me an offer I can’t refuse to join him on the dark side.
I say, “Maybe I believe that people who don’t do anything wrong shouldn’t have to suffer at the hands of the law.”
He shrugs as if he just heard a news clip about what’s happening in an orphanage over in India, then puts down his newspaper and adjusts in his seat. The older man working on his shoes has to adjust too.
“Do you know what hate is?” Kane asks. “I’m not talking about the fairy-tale stuff. I mean real hate? I hate what people like your client stand for and what they’re doing to our society. So does Judge Stennis, even if he won’t admit it.”
“The jury doesn’t hate her.”
Kane steps up before the shoe-shine guy is finished. He drops a twenty down at him and then steps off the platform.
“Well, that’s the secret, Tom. They don’t need to hate her. They just need to see a tiny flaw in her. A half-truth. One small inconsistency. Just a little bit of doubt. And when they do, they’ll find against her.”
The horse teeth appear again. His lifeless eyes glance down for a moment.
“Nice shoes,” he says before walking away.
The shoe-shine guy looks at me and doesn’t say anything. He knows my answer without even asking.
I meet up with Grace, who’s waiting for me near the solid oak door of the courtroom.
“I thought you got the jitters and ditched me.”
“No jitters. Just a nice chat with the opposition,” I say.
“He passed without a greeting. Those shoes of his were practically glowing.”
“Yes, they were. So . . . you ready?”
Grace nods and looks away. I turn my head to catch her glance again, then make a funny face at her as if I’m studying her to be sure. I squint my eyes and finally nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I like the amusement that fills her face. It’s always a good place to start a day. Even if I can’t muster up the same look myself.
25
“OYEZ, OYEZ, OYEZ! The court now sitting within and for the Sixth Federal District is now in session, the Honorable Robert Stennis presiding. Anyone having business here, draw near and you shall be heard. God save the United States and this honorable court!”
The barking bailiff takes his job very seriously. It’s almost like he’s announcing the president of the United States. Amy watches Judge Stennis stroll in and sit in his chair in a manner that says he’s done this way too many times before.
The irony of the moment is unmistakable. Here they’re about to try a case against a teacher for mentioning the name of Jesus in class, and to kick things off, the bailiff is invoking the name of God.
“Be seated,” the judge intones. His voice is authoritative without even trying.
Judge Stennis pauses a moment, surveying the gallery. Then he says, “The First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States: ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.’”
He pauses again, his dark and expressive eyes seemingly scanning every single face in the courtroom.
“The first half of this passage is known as the establishment clause, and the second half is the free exercise clause. There’s been an ongoing debate about what government policy should be, because in practice these two provisions are often in conflict. Which is what brings us here today. In the matter of Thawley v. Wesley, is the plaintiff prepared to make an opening statement?”
“We are, Your Honor,” Kane says.
Amy is sitting in the gallery, watching while taking notes on her legal pad. She glances down for a moment and sees the first thing she wrote.
What is really on trial here?
With Mr. Big-Time Lawyer standing and his wingman and eye candy sitting at attention, Amy gets ready to perhaps hear one answer to her question. Peter Kane walks, or more like struts, over to the jury box. He stands there for a moment, both hands gripping the railing as he looks at each of the jurors in turn. His demeanor resembles more of a father figure than an attack-dog lawyer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in a jury of this size, I’m imagining your ranks include a few Christians. Hopefully practicing ones. And that’s fine—because Christianity isn’t on trial here. Even if my opponent tries to convince you it is. In fact, that is the very last thing the plaintiffs want to do, the very last thing I would advise anybody to do. Faith is not on tria
l either. It is only Ms. Wesley who’s on trial.”
Amy scribbles some thoughts.
Definitely trying to intimidate with his look/stance/glare at Grace.
“Ask any fourth grader, and they’re probably familiar with the phrase ‘separation of church and state.’ It’s a phrase heard often. Perhaps too often.”
Kane begins to stroll as if having an afternoon chat along the lakefront with a student.
“It’s a guarantee, under our laws, that we erect an impenetrable barrier between our private faith and government endorsement of a particular faith. Any faith at all.”
They already believe he knows twice as much as Tom. Who wouldn’t?
Kane stands facing the center of the jury box and once again it appears he’s making sure to meet each gaze individually.
“The plaintiffs, whom I represent, are the aggrieved parents of a student in Ms. Wesley’s class. A student who was subjected to hearing the teachings of Jesus Christ being favorably compared to those of Mahatma Gandhi as though they were both equally true. Apples to apples, as it were. Gandhi says this; Jesus says that. Both equally true; both equally valid. But to parents who are trying to raise their daughter to be a freethinker, outside any established religious tradition, this was highly offensive.”
Amy jots those last two words down on the paper.
A lot of things in life are highly offensive. A man groping me on the Amtrak train. Finding something inedible in my Subway sandwich. A teacher messing around with a student. But this??
“We all know that Jesus belongs to one particular religious tradition. And reciting words alleged to be attributable to this religious figure, who allegedly existed some two thousand years ago—not to mention Ms. Wesley’s rote memorization of not only the words of Scripture but the exact citation of them—constitutes a clear and compelling indication of what she believes, what she supports, and what she endorses.”
Jurors all totally in. Captivated. Maybe by the hairspray holding Kane’s ’do perfectly still.
“Ms. Wesley’s attorney will claim that’s not true. But his claim doesn’t pass what we lawyers call the ‘sniff test.’ Meaning it stinks.”
Amy’s sure it’s not accidental for Kane to be mentioning Tom in the same breath as the word stinks.
“Think of it this way—meaning no offense to anyone here who may be a Muslim, nor any slight to the prophet of Islam,” Kane says, hands working now along with his carefully constructed opening words. “If you were to ask me a question concerning the Koran—the holy text of Islam—and if I could not only respond to the question but do so with speed and accuracy, if I could cite the correct sura, or chapter and verse, and if I could also quote the entire passage from memory and comment on the relevant teaching . . . if I could do all those things, you would be reasonable to infer that I was not only a follower of Islam but that I considered it superior to other forms of religion. That I endorsed it.”
Amy glances at Grace and can see her sitting erect and staring as if she’s not even breathing. Tom, however, is more relaxed, leaning to one side, elbow on the arm of his chair, his chin propped up, an attitude of almost boredom covering him.
Is Tom trying to appear confident? Unconcerned? Or is he just a terrible trial lawyer?
Amy is pretty certain the answer to that last question is no. There’s more to Tom’s appearance than he’s letting on.
“Now if I did those things and gave that impression in a house of worship, that would be fine. But if I did it in an eleventh-grade classroom? Of a public school? Then that would be preaching. Preaching, not teaching. And that’s what Ms. Wesley did.”
Grace leans over as if wanting to say something or even stand up, but Tom just puts his hand on her arm and whispers something to her. Amy writes down what she sees. While she will remember all of this, she wants to have her initial reactions and gut responses on paper. Those seeds will later end up sprouting in the form of posts on her blog.
“Do you know who else knows that this is considered preaching?” Kane asks, turning to face Grace with his square mug of self-righteousness. “The defendant’s lawyer.”
Kane really wants Grace to say something. He’s inviting her to say something, anything.
“So why are we here today? Because Ms. Wesley refused to apologize. If it wasn’t her intention to breach the establishment clause—the separation of church and state—she would have taken the opportunity afforded to her by the school district to apologize and make this whole mess go away. But she didn’t. And this shows that her true motivation in that moment in her classroom was to turn an innocent question into an opportunity to preach rather than teach.”
For a brief moment during another very deliberate pause, Amy scans as many people as she can see from the third row behind the lawyers and their clients. It’s interesting; despite Kane’s friendly demeanor, there’s not one smile to be found except on the face of the man speaking.
The only one smiling here is the guy trying to get this teacher convicted.
“If we grant Ms. Wesley—and, by extension, everyone else—the right to violate the law based solely on her beliefs, our society will collapse. I implore you, as part of your sworn duty to our country, please do not set this precedent. The future of our republic depends on it.”
As Kane sits down, Amy writes a few final notes.
“Society will collapse.” “Future of our republic.” “Sworn duty to our country.”
Kane = serious and smug
Obvious they want this to be big. Major spotlights. Major battle. Major precedent.
Sitting on the hard wooden bench in the courtroom, Amy is reminded of another self-righteous soul who had command of a room and spoke with authority and knowledge and power.
His name was Professor Jeffrey Radisson. A man who died a year ago.
She still remembers the dinner date she and Marc shared with Jeffrey and Mina. That first time she ever met Mina’s boyfriend. Amy had been a bit enthralled by the handsome and articulate professor spouting off about faith and comparing it to cancer.
Kane sounds a lot like Radisson did.
The only difference now is how troubled the lawyer’s words leave her.
26
I SPOT THE TELEVISION news crew right before Grace does. We can see them through the windows facing the main steps and front of the courthouse.
“Are they here for me?”
“Probably.” I give her my leather briefcase. “Here. Carry this, follow two feet behind me, and walk fast. Don’t say anything to anyone. Some might not be quick enough to know it’s you.”
Once outside, I dart to the right of the crowd while making sure Grace is shadowing me. We both jog down the stairs, and I have this terrible thought of tripping and falling and ending up having to defend this case while riding around in a scooter with two broken legs. Thankfully, we make it down safely.
“Keep walking,” I say as we head toward the plaza.
It takes us a couple of minutes to get there. A fountain stands in the middle along with a leisurely lunch crowd that seems content walking with the same motion as the birds picking bits off the concrete.
“It won’t be as easy next time,” I tell Grace. “So come on—your lawyer’s taking you to lunch.”
“Do I get a say in where we go?” she asks.
“Nope. I am your counsel and that includes making all the motions including restaurant choices.”
“Are you sure you studied law?”
I smile at her sarcasm. “Are you sure you told me everything you said in that classroom? Did you go all Billy Graham on them and have an altar call?”
“You actually know who Billy Graham is,” Grace says. “Impressive.”
“He’s a pretty popular figure. I’m not daft. I mean—I do know my history.”
“You sound like Kane.”
I laugh. “No. I will never sound like Kane. Please. Don’t mention that name again. I don’t want to ruin a good meal.”
Ten min
utes later, Grace is questioning my use of the term “good meal” as we stand at the counter of The Doghouse and she looks at the menu, trying to decide between a meal that’s merely bad for you and one that’s completely awful for you.
“Waffle fries with cheddar cheese?” she reads. “And that’s just a side? Wow.”
“Every now and then you need some really awesome grease in your system.”
She looks up at me with eyes that I really notice for the first time in the sunlight streaking through the wall of windows. They don’t just look blue; they sparkle like topaz. I realize imagining sparkling-blue topaz eyes might sound romantic, but I’m more interested in the two loaded hot dogs I just ordered, complemented by the onion rings.
“I’m really debating ordering the Cardiac Arrest,” Grace says.
An Italian sausage surrounded with Italian beef and loaded with hot peppers. Oh, and then covered with some melted cheese.
“No arrest for you,” I say. “You’re already in enough trouble as it is.”
She laughs as she orders a plain chicken sandwich and a small fries. We sit down at a booth that feels like a slip-and-slide, probably due to the floating grease from the nearby grill.
As she settles in and looks at my lunch, Grace can only shake her head. “You really know how to treat a girl.”
I hold up one of my hot dogs in my hand before taking a bite. “Only the ones I’m trying to impress.”
I’ve already polished off one of the kielbasas with mustard when I tell myself to slow down. Grace is picking at her sandwich. I know it’s not the quality making her lackadaisical about eating. “So how are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m certainly not feeling as normal as you are.”
I nod as she wipes the corner of her mouth for no reason; then I realize I must have mustard on mine. I use a napkin quickly.
“I’m not sure I ever feel ‘normal,’ Grace. It’s just—I’ve been here before. The worst thing I’ve ever done is freak out in front of someone I’m representing.”
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