“They made a serious mistake in giving me the codex in the first place. And all I’ve done is what I was told by them to do. The truth is there. I don’t need to prove it. But…I did not steal…KM-2, nor the ushabti figurines which were placed in my car.”
Alred looked at Porter as if she’d been hit with a blast of cold air. In a short moment of silence, as Porter took a breath, she saw him buckle slightly under the pressure of all the eyes on him. Why had no one told him to sit down? Why hadn’t the bailiffs grabbed him or someone gagged him? No one spoke with such clear words in a court, for what he said would affect everyone in the room.
Porter’s tone lowered and his voice slowed, but he remained on his feet. “As a judge, you know that lack of evidence is not proof. Those who cover up the facts in order to say they aren’t there don’t understand this. You’ve heard this case. I gain nothing by possessing Ulman’s artifacts if they are illegal. Does it further my education? Will the theft make my church seem more authentic in some way? If the finds are illegally held, the ecclesiastical authorities of my faith could never bring them forth as artifacts proving the truths I’ve explained because to do so would be to the detriment of the church.
“It is up to you to decide my motives for committing the crime the prosecutor suggests. All I know is, I won’t get a degree after doing the work assigned. Because KM-2 is gone, I have only my notes and my word as proof now. And that’s as good as fiction in the religious community of scholars.”
The air was spiced with Porter’s sweat, and Alred thought she smelled it cooking on the hot lights hidden in the ceiling. She lowered her head, shocked at the audacity of the preceding comments.
Surely everyone felt the pressure, the questions unasked, the weight of one man’s religion different from the world’s smashing like a flood of rainwater over the wall of a dam.
The judge removed his glasses as Porter slowly sat down. “John Porter…I am not prejudiced against you or your church. Do you understand me. You will not stand up and speak in that manner again in my courtroom.”
Porter nodded humbly.
Comer went to his assistant and whispered something which the younger fellow quickly scribbled. It could have been nothing; an attempt by the Prosecutor to look as if he had the case in his pocket.
“No more speaches are to be made. I want these questions settled fairly and succinctly. Mr. Prosecutor,” said the judge, focusing his spectacles with his fingertips, “your compound questioning will not continue in my presence. I’ve put up with you long enough and expect you to give time to each witness before proceeding with further inquiries, are my words simple enough for you?”
Alred’s eyes floated onto an old man approaching the barrier behind Porter’s chair. Dressed in fine tweed, he smiled and handed a small envelope to Porter’s attorney, which Sowerby opened. As the gentleman proceeded out of the courtroom, the defense lawyer withdrew a small sheet of paper, which he read and handed to Porter.
Comer started casually back for the witness stand and the judge.
Porter read the note. The color in his face turned to sleet, and his eyes focused on something beyond the courtroom walls. Then with tombstones in his gaze, Porter looked right at Alred and never removed his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
John Sowerby considered himself to be a good attorney, but couldn’t shake the feeling his client was lying to him. Porter so often ran away from direct questions, he looked guilty to everyone. But even Sowerby could say nothing after Porter’s bold spiel. He hadn’t dared to yank his client back into his seat—not that the poor student was paying for his services, but Porter had his own agenda and was intent on keeping his attorney in the dark. Whatever.
The words in the note had no meaning to John Sowerby. Porter looked down at the paper again, as Alred stood to leave the stand. Sowerby ran the words through his mind. What was it, a psalm from the Bible? He’d never gone to any form of Sunday school, but had really enjoyed the Bhagavad-Gita in junior college.
Mr. Porter,
“He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life…shall find it” (Matthew 11:39).
Your only friend,
—J. Smith.
Judge Panofsky spoke without looking up. “We will take a one hour recess, after which time, gentlemen, I hope you will prepare your final arguments.” The gavel came down with one crack and everyone stood to depart.
When Alred, studying the ground, came within earshot of Porter, the student called her over with a clearing of his throat.
Sowerby packed his briefcase as if he hadn’t noticed.
Before she could comment on anything said so far in the courthouse, Porter grabbed her by the elbow and drew her close.
He whispered into her ear.
Alred immediately pulled away as though she’d just been propositioned. She stared at Porter as if he’d already been shipped to the crazy house. Porter pulled her again and whispered into her left ear for a longer time.
Sowerby felt someone brush up behind him and stay. He turned to see a large African-American with hard eyes looking down at him. The man wore a dark gray suit and a green paisley tie which looked slightly out of date, and he held a file folder in his left hand against his chest.
“Who is that,” said Alred behind Sowerby. There was just enough seriousness in her voice to tell Sowerby that at least she cared about who was talking with Porter’s lawyer.
“Batman.” Porter spoke with the same gravity. “I hope.”
“Stan Clusser, FBI,” said the agent, raising his identification with his right hand. He gave Sowerby the folder without looking at his old missionary companion. “Call me to the stand and ask me these questions after the recess. Take the steps you need to reach this goal.”
“I’ll have to look them over first and meet with the Prosecuting Attorney,” said Sowerby, fighting to keep a hand on some semblance of dignity.
“You do whatever is necessary,” said Clusser. “Memorize the file.”
One eye shot to Porter and Alred, and the agent pushed into the small crowd behind him.
Sowerby huffed in indignation, then looked at his client.
Porter raised his eyebrows while tilting his mellow face downward. “I trust that man more than I trust you,” he said to Sowerby.
“Well…you’ve gotta have someone on your side.” Sowerby let his smile show the sarcastic bitterness.
Alred walked away shaking her head at both of them.
Staring at the empty judge’s seat, as Sowerby packed his black briefcase, Porter said, “You have a piece of paper?”
Sowerby handed a sheet to him and watched his client sit and scrawl out the date: May 7, 1997.
“What’s that, a journal entry?”
Porter looked at his attorney with obvious anger in his eyes. “Yeah.”
Sowerby lifted a hand, finished gathering his things, and turned to chase after Mr. Comer. But as he did so, he gazed over his client’s shoulder at Porter’s first written words:
I, John D. Porter, have done at last that which I thought I would never do.
Sowerby didn’t want to read anymore.
* * *
12:02 p.m. PST
The recess was not nearly long enough, and Porter still had a vast amount of questions. Sowerby was in a bad mood and didn’t seem to care about Porter at all anymore. Porter thought that even Sowerby wanted him to fry in the legal pan. But the truth came in the form of Clusser’s script. Questions filled the page, and Sowerby no doubt realized he would do little for this case; it was all in the care of the FBI now, though Sowerby would never understand how or why.
Porter watched the skinny attorney stand and call Agent Stan Clusser to testify. Mr. Comer had already been briefed and had no problem with a member of the FBI stepping forth.
Porter wondered what the Prosecuting Attorney intended to do after his verbal explosion. Well, Porter had said his peace. He felt good about it and would stand behind his words to the
end, while at the same time he wondered when that end would come.
The next act of the play had begun. A few preliminary questions: Tell the court who you are, what are your credentials etc.
Sowerby did his best to look like he’d invented the questions himself. “Agent Clusser, in your opinion as a field operative of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, has a crime been committed?”
Sitting tall in the leather chair, Clusser gave a powerful, “Yes.”
“Will you tell us what has happened?”
“I will. On the twenty-second of March, an object of archaeological significance, the property of Guatemala, illegally entered the United States.”
“You are referring to KM-2?” said the attorney.
Clusser’s brow lowered as he nodded, and Porter suspected the attorney wasn’t sticking to his lines. “That artifact was then passed to two graduate students attending Stratford University.”
“Who,” said Sowerby.
“John D. Porter and Erma Alred.”
“Do you suspect Porter and Alred knew they had an illegal object?” said Sowerby.
Porter bit the inside of his cheek as he saw Clusser tighten up. Sowerby didn’t want to play the game. Porter trusted his missionary companion, but he was quickly losing faith in his attorney who had helped him little so far. For a second, Porter even wondered if the lawyer had already been bought off by those who’d tried to kill him. But he couldn’t continue thinking that way, because the next question might be, who else in the courtroom had been swayed by the secret combination pushing for Porter’s destruction?
The FBI agent’s eyes darkened. Porter knew his companion wasn’t the best at hiding his feelings. That’s what made him a good missionary. Porter wondered how he could possibly be a good field operative for the government if he couldn’t lie well.
“Agent Clusser?” said the attorney.
“I do not know to what realization the students came concerning the legality of their work.”
“But you have sat in court since the beginning, haven’t you? Listening to the testimonies?” said the attorney.
“I have.”
“Did you hear the statements made by Ms. Alred and the accused that Stratford University assigned them both to the project?” said Sowerby.
Clusser nodded. “The research was directed by a man known to some of the faculty and the students as one Dr. Peter Arnott.”
Sowerby tilted his head. “Are you giving credibility to Dr. Kinnard’s testimony that there was a person named Peter Arnott? Dr. Masterson and Dr. Goldstien deny there even was such a man.”
“Of course,” said Clusser. “Peter Arnott does not exist.”
“Excuse me?” said Sowerby.
“If it will please the court,” said Agent Clusser, “I will point out that the FBI has a classified file on the man called Peter Arnott. We did not until recently. However, the man has been identified with one Gerard Jasper, a pseudonym for someone currently under investigation.”
Sowerby stopped breathing. Porter eyed his attorney closely, trying to discern his thoughts, his true motives, and whether or not he would continue with the outline in his hand.
Clusser didn’t wait for the Defense Attorney to speak. He turned to the judge. “Your honor, I have reason to believe this entire crime has been orchestrated by outsiders who may be involved in a number of illegal activities presently being studied by the FBI. I am not, however, able to reveal any more at this time in a public court. Nevertheless, I have brought an edited file on this ‘Peter Arnott’ which may evidence enough to show that the defendant has been caught in the crossfire of a highly organized criminal operation.
“A connection with Arnott may also implicate Stratford University or some of its colleagues to such a degree that I would assume Dr. Masterson and Dr. Goldstien might wish to…amend their testimonies based on clearer memories revived by photos of Mr. Arnott. And of course, Stratford will then have to reconsider the possibility that two of its students may have been…mistreated. I believe you will find there is not enough evidence to convict the defendant, but that crimes have been committed, and the perpetrators are still out there.”
“I…have no further questions,” said Sowerby, moving to his seat while glancing at the Prosecuting Attorney.
Judge Panofsky lifted his eyes to the Prosecution. “Mr. Comer, would you like to question the witness?”
Comer spoke with his assistant for a few seconds before standing. “Your honor, the State wishes to review the new information before deciding whether or not we have a case with which to continue.”
* * *
2:17 p.m. PST
Porter met Alred outside the courthouse, his eyes looking all about for the old man he knew only as Joseph Smith. He saw a newspaper salesman, bent with age and malnutrition, but dressed in a flashy orange vest so that both pedestrians and cars would spot him from far enough away to get their change ready. A woman with too much makeup and jewelry waited as her orange-brown chow sniffed a skinny fern held up by a wooden stick in a hole cut in the sidewalk. A quiet menagerie of folk passed the courthouse, people who had little else to do with their retired days.
“I got back as soon as I could,” she said, wiping her nose with her finger.
“It’s over, Alred,” said Porter with a sigh.
“Well, you’re on the outside, which is good. What did I miss?” The wind pushed at the back of her auburn hair.
Porter looked up at the long line of double doors on the granite building. Crows bellowed overhead. He thought he heard a child yelling somewhere, but hadn’t seen one. “Stratford made an official statement.”
“What.” Alred licked her lips.
“They admitted the responsibility for Ulman’s codex falling into our possession. They are willing to hear our dissertation arguments and give us our degrees based upon work accomplished.”
Alred nodded at the ground. “What about Dr. Kinnard? Will he be charged with—”
“No, the FBI is conducting a manhunt for Peter Arnott. All the blame has fallen on him.” He smiled a sigh, but knew things really hadn’t ended. There were too many loose strings. Would they still come after him? Would they kill him simply for the trouble he had become? Or would they run, hide for years before taking their revenge…just to be safe? They would get their doctoral credentials, but would they live free enough to use them?
“Porter…did we do the right thing?” she looked up at him with passion in her green eyes.
Porter beamed down at her. “I’ll tell you everything at Bruno’s. Meet me at five?”
She nodded, then reached into her pocket and handed him a small slip of paper as Clusser came up behind him.
As Alred marched down the concrete steps, the FBI agent sagged loudly, “You’re a lucky man, Porter!”
“Why didn’t you say anything about them?” Porter said with a bite in his voice.
“The court knows enough,” said Clusser, relaxed. “They’ve learned the FBI is searching and has reason to believe your case was only a fraction of the big game.”
“You let the whole issue skid by!” said Porter.
Clusser put his hand on Porter’s shoulder to steady him. “They will always exist, Porter. You know that. This little case wouldn’t touch them. If I gave the court too much information, it would only announce that one lone LDS man who works for the FBI has spotted them. Let me handle this.”
Porter threw his hands up. There was no more he could do about it. “What if the judge learns of our relationship.”
“He will,” Clusser said with a glow with no grin. “That will prove only that I had motivation to find you innocent. That’s not a crime, if the facts are present, and there are plenty.”
Clusser stuck out his right hand. “So long, John Porter, you’re a good man.”
Porter took his hand like a clamp, tears rising under his eyeslids. He hated partings. “Take care of that wife of yours. Easy come, easy go, they say!”
Cluss
er smiled. “You don’t know anything about the wiser sex.” He eyed Alred, almost around the corner of the office building beside the courthouse and into the parking lot.
“I still have time to learn,” said Porter, ignoring his gaze.
“Not by my standards!” said Clusser. As he strode down the steps in a different direction than Alred went, Porter had the terrible feeling their relationship would remain the same for years to come.
Porter realized he had no way to get home, and it was a long drive. But there was no worry. Porter started for the parking lot after Alred, who wouldn’t get to her car before he caught up. Nevertheless, he pushed his feet at high speed down the courthouse stairs while slipping his hands into his suit pockets.
“John Porter?” said a man with a microphone as Porter moved down the sidewalk, his eyes scanning ahead to make sure Alred’s car wasn’t pulling out of the lot too quickly.
Spinning to see the reporter, the student slammed into the old man selling newspapers.
“Mr. Porter, congratulations on your case! May we ask you a few questions?”
A cameraman appeared with a beautiful Japanese contraption hanging around his neck while his right shoulder was armed with a larger camera with a Channel 12 logo in blue and pink on the side.
Though slightly flattered, Porter asked forgiveness from the newspaper salesman, and looked back to the parking lot around the side of the building. “I’ve gotta get my ride,” said Porter as the news anchor started in with inquiries as to how he’d felt in the courtroom, and whether or not he truly believed the Mormons were right about the end of the world, and when exactly would that finale come, and—Porter really wasn’t listening.
The old man swore at them and moved away.
Porter kept walking as the jabbering reporter stepped in front of him, lowered the microphone as said, “Then one shot! Please, just a picture! Sandy, get over here!!!”
The cameraman came around in front of Porter and put the black machine up to his eye. The inquirer in a flashy yellow shirt stood beside Porter as the camera snapped three times.
The Kukulkan Manuscript Page 30