God's Not Dead 2 (13 page)

“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 trial 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.

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 minutes 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.”

“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.