God's Not Dead 2

by Travis Thrasher

  “But gluttony is allowed?”

  I laugh. “Absolutely.”

  “The things Kane was saying? I just wanted to punch him.”

  She keeps looking stronger and stronger. Ms. Good and Cute Teacher of the Year has some bite to her.

  “Okay, maybe not punch him. But just . . .”

  “No, I think you really did want to punch him. I don’t know many people he comes across who don’t want to do that. But were you expecting him to say, ‘Yes, Ms. Wesley, you’re right; it’s just a misunderstanding. Members of the jury, it’s all been a mistake. Let’s just drop the charges and we all go home’?”

  “No,” she says. “But it’s not fair.”

  Ah, that wonderful word. Oh how I hate it. “‘Fare’ is something you pay a cabdriver.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  I finish another hot dog. “Grace, you’re looking for validation of your feelings. I’m looking to win the case. You have the luxury of indulging your emotions. I don’t.”

  “And you have the luxury of indulging your appetite. I don’t have the figure that allows it.”

  I laugh. “Good one. But yes, you do.”

  “Where do you think Kane and his ‘people’ happen to be?”

  “Probably dining at the same restaurant that Judge Stennis likes to eat lunch at. Larson’s Steakhouse. A nice lunch might cost fifty bucks. Ridiculous.”

  “You really think they’re there?” she asks.

  “Of course. Kane is deliberate about everything. The two lawyers he has—come on. Each one is doing their part.”

  “Their part?” she asks.

  “Sure. Simon, he looks like he just switched jobs from working at Apple. He brings credibility and a cool, hipster factor. Not that I think hipsters are cool, ’cause I don’t. And Elizabeth. Well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  She pretends not to get the obvious.

  “Didn’t you see a couple of the jurors just staring at her? Seriously. Kane is not stupid. Every choice he makes—from what he wears and whom he’s with to the moments he pauses—I mean, did you hear him? He looked and sounded like he was auditioning for some Shakespeare play. Ah, the gravitas.”

  “That word does fit him,” Grace says. “So then do you mind letting me in on your strategy?”

  I reach over to have a few of the fries she’s offered.

  “We don’t have one,” I say before stuffing my mouth.

  She’s surely thinking my strategy right now is filling up on as much Doghouse grub as I can.

  “Look—we don’t have a specific plan of action, if that’s what you mean,” I say. “Kane had a great opening argument, and the jury was right with him. We have to wait till he makes a mistake, and since I don’t have a crystal ball, I have no idea what mistake he’s going to make.”

  She looks more offended by my response than by the thought of eating a Cardiac Arrest. “So that’s your plan?”

  “You got a better one?” I ask.

  I don’t have to hide things like hunger or nonchalance or annoyance. I used to do that a lot more back when I tried having fancy shoes to match a fancier smile. I’d hide any form of being me. Of being honest and real.

  She sure doesn’t seem to like the idea of honest and real.

  “Listen, Grace, you insisted on litigation. So congratulations, here we are.”

  I’m assuming this will put a period on our conversation. And a nice space between paragraphs. But she has the look of someone not even close to being finished talking.

  “Do you know the one thing I love most about history?”

  “The costumes?” I joke, realizing after it comes out how it sounds.

  She only shakes her head. “Please. Don’t let there be sexist lawyers on both sides of this case.”

  “I was only kidding,” I say.

  “It was the strategies of the great commanders in war.”

  For a second I really don’t believe I heard what she said.

  “Every major war I’ve studied, I’ve come across these men who carefully planned out how to win key battles. Their strategies were brilliant.”

  I shouldn’t be shocked, but coming from the mouth of this cute and somewhat-reserved woman, the statement still surprises.

  Obviously she can see my reaction. “What? Is it that crazy for a history teacher to enjoy these sorts of things?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “But it’s still funny because you don’t fit the picture of someone who loves great war strategists.”

  “Do you know the Germans didn’t refer to General Patton’s Third Army by number? They called it Patton’s Army. Everybody knew what that meant. If things had worked out right for him, he would have taken Germany himself.”

  “I imagine someone like Kane liking General Patton a lot more than you do,” I say.

  “I love the mind of someone who can look at the field of battle and survey it and make the most of something absolutely barbaric. It doesn’t mean they’re that way. They’re simply trying to lessen the chaos and bloodshed.”

  This makes me look at the ketchup in my basket, then feel like a complete idiot for making everything about the food.

  “I love studying people like Stonewall Jackson. Do you know he only lost one battle? One.”

  I nod. “Well, maybe you can call me Stonewall then.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve only ever lost one case.”

  This is the way I brag about myself. By already admitting defeat.

  It’s a true talent.

  27

  AMY WATCHES Tom walk toward the jury box, carrying papers in both hands. He doesn’t have the same kind of swagger and stature that Kane displayed earlier. But he does have something more important. A genuine smile. That’s something Kane will probably never manage to obtain.

  Tom raises his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I have, here in my hands, a copy of the Constitution of the United States of America and the Bill of Rights. Arguably the two most important documents in the history of our great nation. These documents contain a list of our rights and duties, our freedoms and obligations as citizens.”

  He walks down the row and shows each juror the documents he’s holding.

  Amy writes a note on a fresh page of her notepad.

  Visual aids always help.

  “Rights . . . freedoms . . . duties. They define our citizenship. But despite Mr. Kane’s impassioned rhetoric, you know what you won’t find in here? No matter how hard you look? The phrase ‘separation of church and state.’”

  Tom pauses and allows them to hear his words echoing in their heads.

  “That’s right. That phrase is not in here, and it never has been. Because that phrase comes not from the Constitution but from a letter by Thomas Jefferson. Ironically, Jefferson was writing to a Baptist congregation, assuring them that they would always have the right to believe as they wished, free of government interference.”

  Thomas Jefferson letter??

  This is the first time Amy’s ever heard that.

  “But lately, that phrase—taken out of context—has often been twisted and contorted to mean exactly the opposite. Just as Mr. Kane is looking to do. But the same Thomas Jefferson once asked, ‘Can the liberties of a nation be secure when we have removed a conviction that these liberties are the gift of God?’ Well, today, here in this courtroom, we are charged with answering that question.”

  Tom walks back to the defense table and puts down the documents. Then he moves in front of Grace, who faces him without moving.

  Wonder what she’s thinking?

  Amy can only see the teacher’s back, but she still seems so stern and erect sitting there. Tom offers that smile to her, then faces the jury box again.

  “One morning earlier this year, my client—Ms. Wesley—woke up as usual. She made breakfast for her dependent grandfather, then drove to work at her job as a teacher at Martin Luther King High School, a place where she was teacher of the y
ear. Or at least she was until the incident which brings us all here today.”

  The expressions on the jurors’ faces differ a bit from when they were listening to Kane.

  Are they unconvinced? Already decided? Are they in a food coma?

  “Ms. Wesley’s lesson plan for fourth-period AP History that morning didn’t contain any mention of God or Jesus or any other faith-related terms. She didn’t have a Bible on her desk in plain view. She didn’t write about Jesus on the board or call up his picture in her PowerPoint presentation. She wasn’t looking to preach or proselytize. She didn’t start the class with a blessing or lead the students in prayer. No . . .”

  Tom walks back up to the men and women of the jury and puts a cupped hand over his mouth and under his nose, as if he’s deep in thought.

  “What do teachers do? Do you know? What do teachers want out of their students, and what are they paid to do?”

  He waits as if someone is supposed to answer him.

  “They answer questions. They want students to ask questions, right? And they are paid to educate those kids. Questions indicate learning. And regardless of what the lesson plan might be, teaching has never been and will never be scripted. So teachers are trusted and put into classrooms and occasionally, if they’re good teachers and if their students are good learners, they end up answering questions. Right? So what did Ms. Wesley—by all accounts a good teacher, teacher of the year, teaching an advanced class of good students—do?”

  Another pause. The only sound heard is someone covering a slight cough.

  “She answered a question. Honestly and to the best of her knowledge and ability. Because that’s what she gets paid to do: answer questions. And for this, she’s being made an example of.”

  Good logical points. Grace only answering a question. That’s all. So why here???

  “From the very beginning, since hearing about this case, I find myself asking: Is this the America we want to live in? Mr. Kane and his fine team, for whom I have the utmost respect, will insist loudly and often that faith isn’t on trial here. But that’s exactly what’s on trial. The most basic human right of all: the right to believe.”

  Amy can hear the sarcasm in Tom’s tone as he expresses his respect for Kane and his team. That’s a message sent to them. She begins to write more notes.

  He’s telling them he’s not intimidated. And he certainly acts like he’s completely confident he’ll win the case.

  “So, members of the jury, are we now in the business of making people deny their faith? Mr. Kane thinks so. He and his staff have traveled a long way to be here today. Not one of them lives within a thousand miles of here. But they’ve come to make sure that they put a final nail in the coffin of faith in the public square. They want to ensure that any question that even brushes up against faith can never be answered. That it shouldn’t be addressed except to say, ‘We can’t talk about that.’ But Mr. Kane’s afraid. He’s afraid that you, the jury—the touchstone of common sense—might not agree with his tortured interpretation of the Constitution. That you might understand that my client has rights . . . rights that trump his agenda.”

  Rights and Agenda-Tom says those two words twice as loud as everything else.

  “Since you surely realize that Ms. Wesley has certain rights—certain constitutional rights—you won’t be swayed by the well-articulated and extremely well-polished prose from Mr. Kane. I’m confident that you will wonder why you are here as well. What I hope you come to realize is that my client is guilty of no wrongdoing and innocent of any and all claims against her. Thank you.”

  Tom walks back over to his table and glances at Kane. Amy doesn’t think it’s a take-that sort of look but more of an Okay, let’s go, buddy.

  Her mind is racing, thinking of the commentary she’ll be able to share about this case on her blog. If this had been a year ago, she would already be poking fun at Ms. Prim and Proper Christian Teacher and her nice-guys-finish-last lawyer. Cynicism used to fuel her more than caffeine. It would have caused her to race to judgment even before the opening arguments were finished.

  But that’s then, and this is very much now.

  28

  “MR. KANE, you may call your first witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I’d like to call Richard Thawley, aggrieved father of Brooke Thawley.”

  I want to shake my head.

  Aggrieved.

  This is the word for someone wronged and persecuted and distressed. I think the word Kane really should use sounds similar.

  Egregious.

  That’s what I think of this father going up on the stand and the man about to interrogate him.

  Richard Thawley actually looks proud to be up there. He reminds me of that climbing-the-corporate-ladder sort who will say yes while heading up and then gleefully stare down at the others below. Everything I know about him says he’s trying to make his mark on life by trying to wipe out another’s.

  “Now, Mr. Thawley, would you introduce yourself to the jury?” Kane starts out, ready to ask some basic questions before getting into the lawsuit.

  I’ve spent my whole life listening to prosecutors. The opening arguments and the probing questions and the accusations and the intimidation. Until I went to college, all of this fell under one roof and came from one man.

  My father is the reason I went into law. I wanted to be a defense attorney. Maybe to protect people from someone like him. Maybe simply to spite him.

  Dad loathed defense lawyers. Loathed them.

  I still remember the look on his face when I told him I was going to be one.

  I haven’t had many victories with Dad over the years, but that moment was certainly one of them.

  “So, Mr. Thawley. Take me through that day.”

  “It started like any other,” he begins to say.

  It’s not like we’re talking about the JFK assassination. Both of these morons need to stop wasting everybody’s time. Seriously.

  Like a pro volleyball server, Kane lobs one up for his client. “What did it feel like when you found out that your daughter had been exposed to faith-based teachings in class?”

  “It felt like we’d been violated. This was supposed to be history class, not Sunday school. My wife and I are freethinkers and rationalists. We believe in a nontheistic worldview, and that’s how we’re trying to raise our daughter.”

  The tone in Thawley’s voice comes across as the ordinary guy who loves his family and is trying to provide for them. Such an earnest, humble, middle-class father. He might as well be wearing a shirt that says Bless America. Not God bless because, of course, that would be truly offensive.

  “Did you discuss this incident with your daughter?” Kane asks.

  “I tried . . . but it’s hard discussing anything with kids that age.”

  The father then turns to face the jury.

  Oh boy, here we go.

  I can virtually see him standing on the box marked SOAP in black capital letters before he continues.

  “Brooke—she’s sixteen. You all know what it’s like to be a junior in high school. You begin to form your own opinions and worldviews and thoughts about life. And of course, you feel like you truly know pretty much everything. Sometimes—many times—you believe you certainly know more than your father and mother.”

  There are some chuckles in the room, some even among the older jurors.

  “So—those of you who have kids know this—it’s hard enough trying to maintain credibility as a parent when it comes to talking to your children about matters of politics and faith and big issues. But when a teacher jumps in and argues against your position? In a place where she should be teaching your child the facts?”

  Mr. Earnest has suddenly turned to Mr. Encroached. His simple and peaceful family living in a hut has been run over by Attila the Hun. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed Attila the Hun.

  Thawley continues. “We trust the school not to overstep its bounds in terms of what is and isn’t appropriate. Is that
too much to ask?”

  There’s no doubt he believes the words he’s saying, but there’s also no doubt he’s probably rehearsed them in his mind a hundred times. Kane surely went over the words he would say and the way he would express them.

  “Thank you, Mr. Thawley,” Kane says.

  I don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling at me.

  “Your witness, Mr. Endler.”

  I nod and look down at the open file in front of me. There are about a hundred pages in this file, and about ninety of them have absolutely nothing to do with this case. If I suddenly dropped them all on the waterfall of steps outside the courthouse and they scattered everywhere, people would have a good time reading about mock cases I studied in Stanford or seeing notes I took for the judge I worked for years ago. I think I even have the first twenty pages of that sci-fi novel I started.

  The sheet I’m looking at now pretty much has nothing to study. But I want to appear like I have so much going through my head and so many details on this case that I have to just soak them in one more time.

  “No questions, Your Honor.”

  There’s no way I’m allowing Thawley any additional time to have the jurors fall for his protective-father bit more than they might have already.

  The judge asks Thawley to step down and then tells Mr. Kane to call his next witness.

  “Plaintiff calls Mrs. Antoinette Rizzo.”

  I do have a sheet on Rizzo, and I turn to it. They’re scribbled notes I made after talking to Grace about her.

  Almost retired

  Burnt-out, get-me-out-of-here mentality

  Good-bye and good riddance

  Liberal, pro-choice, pro-women’s movement, anti-gun, pro-if-it’s-right-wing-it’s-wrong

  But always nice to Grace and likes to crack jokes

  Stays away from talking about politics and religion with Grace

  It’s pretty obvious where someone like Rizzo stands on all this.

  Kane once again allows the woman on the stand to paint a picture of herself for the jury. Rizzo is a hardworking teacher who has dedicated her life to serving children. She’s also been a good friend to Grace.