M I C H A E L 2 страница

Fletcher nodded, as if this was the answer he'd been expecting. "I

think it's there to answer the really hard questions that arise when the

world doesn't work the way it's supposed to—like when your child dies

of leukemia, or you're fired after twenty years of hard work. When bad

things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people.

The really interesting thing, to me, is that somehow religion stopped

being about trying to find honest solutions... and started being about

ritual. Instead of everyone searching for understanding on their own,

orthodox religion came along and said, 'Do x, y, and z—and the world

will be a better place.'"

"Well, Catholicism's been around for thousands of years," I replied,

"so it must be doing something right."

"You have to admit, it's done a lot wrong, too," Fletcher said.

Anyone who'd had limited religious instruction or a thorough college

education knew about the Catholic Church and its role in politics

and history—not to mention the heresies that had been squelched over

the centuries. Even sixth graders studied the Inquisition. "It's a corporation,"

I said. "And sure, there have been times when it's been staffed

badly, with people who think ambition trumps faith. But that doesn't

mean you throw the baby out with the bathwater. No matter how

screwed up God's servants are in the Church, His message has managed

to get through."

Fletcher tilted his head. "What do you know about the birth of

Christianity?"

"Did you want me to start with the Holy Ghost visiting Mary, or skip

ahead to the star in the East..."

"That's the birth of Jesus," Fletcher said. "Two very different things.

Historically, after Jesus's death, his followers weren't exactly welcomed

with open arms. By the second century A.D., they were literally dying

for their beliefs. But even though they belonged to groups that called

themselves Christians, the groups weren't unified, because they were

an very different from one another. One of these groups was the socalled

Gnostics. To them, being Christian was a good first step, but to

truly reach enlightenment, you had to receive secret knowledge, or

gnosis. You started with faith, but you developed insight—and for these

people. Gnostics offered a second baptism. Ptolemy called it apolutrosis—

the same word used when slaves were legally freed."

"So how did people get this secret knowledge?"

"There's the rub," Fletcher said. "Unlike the church, you couldn't be

taught it. It had nothing to do with being told what to believe, and everything

to do with figuring it out on your own. You had to reach inside

yourself, understand human nature and its destiny, and at that moment

you'd know the secret—that there's divinity in you, if you're willing to

look for it. And the path would be different for everyone."

"That sounds more Buddhist than Christian."

"They called themselves Christians," Fletcher corrected. "But Irenaeus,

who was the bishop of Lyons at the time, disagreed. He saw

three huge differences between Orthodox Christianity and Gnosticism.

In Gnostic texts, the focus wasn't on sin and repentance, but instead on

illusion and enlightenment. Unlike in the Orthodox Church, you couldn't

be a member simply by joining—you had to show evidence of spiritual

maturity to be accepted. And—this was probably the biggest stumbling

block for the bishop—Gnostics didn't think Jesus's resurrection was literal.

To them, Jesus was never really human—he just appeared in

human form. But that was just a technicality to the Gnostics, because

unlike Orthodox Christians, they didn't see a gap between the human

and the divine. To them, Jesus wasn't a one-of-a-kind savior—he was a

guide, helping you find your individual spiritual potential. And when

you reached it, you weren't redeemed by Christ—you became a Christ.

Or in other words: you were equal to Jesus. Equal to God."

It was easy to see why, in seminary, this had been taught as

heresy: the basis of Christianity was that there was only one God, and

He was so different from man that the only way to reach Him was

through Jesus. "The biggest heresies are the ones that scare the Church

to death."

"Especially when the Church is going through its own identity

crisis," Fletcher said. "I'm sure you remember how Irenaeus decided to

unify the Orthodox Christian Church—by figuring out who was a true

believer, and who was faking. Who was speaking the word of God, and

who was speaking... well... just words?"

On a pad in front of him, Fletcher wrote GOD = WORD = JESUS,

then spun it around so I could see. "Irenaeus came up with this little

gem. He said that we can't be divine, because Jesus's life and death

were so different from that of any man—which became the very begin264

ning of Orthodox Christianity. What didn't fit this equation became

heretical—if you weren't worshipping the right way, you were out. It

was sort of the first reality show, if you want to think of it that way:

who had the purest form of Christianity? He condemned the folks who

got creative with faith, like Marcus and his followers, who spoke in

prophecies and had visions of a feminine divinity clothed in the letters

of the Greek alphabet. He condemned the groups that swore by only

one gospel—like the Ebionites, who were attached to Matthew; or the

Marcionites, who studied only Luke. Just as bad were the groups like

the Gnostics, who had too many texts. Instead, Irenaeus decided that

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John should be the four cornerstone gospels

of what to believe—"

"—because they all had a narrative of Christ's Passion in them...

which the Church needed, in order for the Eucharist to mean something."

"Exactly," Fletcher said. "Then Irenaeus appealed to all those people

who were trying to decide which Christian group was right for them.

Basically, he said: 'We know how hard it is to figure out what's true,

and what's not. So we're going to make it easy for you, and tell you

what to believe.' People who did that were true Christians. People who

didn't were not. And the things Irenaeus told people to believe became

the foundation for the Nicene Creed, years later."

Every priest knew that what we were taught in seminary had a

Catholic spin put on it—yet there was an incontrovertible truth behind

it. I had always believed that the Catholic Church was evidence of religious

survival of the fittest: the truest, most powerful ideas were the

ones that had prevailed over time. But Fletcher was saying that the

most powerful ideas had been subjugated... because they jeopardized

the existence of the Orthodox Church. That the reason they'd had to be

crushed was because—at one point—they'd been as or more popular

than Orthodox Christianity.

Or in other words, the reason the Church had survived and flour

ished was not because its ideas were the most valid, but because it had

been the world's first bully.

"Then the books of the New Testament were just an editorial decision

someone once had to make," I said.

Fletcher nodded. "But what were those decisions based on? The

gospels aren't the word of God. They're not even the apostles' firsthand

accounts of the word of God. They're simply the stories that best supported

the creed that the Orthodox Church wanted people to follow."

"But if Irenaeus hadn't done that," I argued, "chances are there

would be no Christianity. Irenaeus united a whole mass of fragmented

followers and their beliefs. When you're in Rome in A.D. 150 and you're

being arrested because you confess Christ as your savior, you want to

make sure that the people beside you aren't going to turn around at the

last minute and say they believe something different. In fact, it's still

important today to figure out who's a believer and who's just a

nutcase—read any paper and you'll see how anger, prejudice, or ego

are all routinely passed off as the Word of God, usually with a bomb

strapped to it."

"Orthodoxy takes the risk away," Fletcher agreed. "We tell you

what's real and what's not, so you don't have to worry about getting it

wrong. The problem is that the minute you do it, you start separating

people into groups. Some get favored, some don't. Some gospels get

picked, others get hidden away underground for thousands of years."

He looked at me. "Somewhere along the line, organized religion

stopped being about faith, and started being about who had the power

to keep that faith." Fletcher ripped off the sheet of paper with Irenaeus's

equation, leaving a clear, blank slate beneath. He crumpled the

paper, tossed it into his trash can. "You said that the purpose of religion

was to bring people together. But does it, really? Or does it—knowingly,

purposefully, and intentionally—break them apart?"

I took a deep breath. And then I told him everything I knew about

Shay Bourne.

Lucius

None of us were getting any sleep, but it wasn't for lack of trying.

Crowds have their own pH, and the remarkable thing is that they can

change in an instant. The people who had been camping out outside the

prison—who were featured in a countdown every night on the local news

(MR. MESSIAH: DAY 23)-had somehow gotten word that Shay had been

hospitalized for an injury. But now, in addition to the camp that was holding

a prayer vigil for Shay, there was a very vocal group of people who felt

that this was a sign, that the reason Shay had been hurt so badly was because

God decided he had it coming to him.

They got louder, for some reason, after dark. Insults were hurled, fights

were picked, punches were thrown. Someone sent the National Guard

down to patrol the perimeter of the prison and keep the peace, but no one

could shut them up. Shay's supporters would sing gospel to drown out the

chants of the disbelievers ("Jesus lives! Bourne dies!"). Even with headphones

on, I could still hear them, a headache that wouldn't go away.

Watching the eleven o'clock news that night was surreal. To see the

prison and hear the resonant shouts of the mob outside echoing the broadcast

on my television-well, it was like deja vu, except it was happening

now.

There's only one God, people shouted.

They carried signs: JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY-NOT SATAN.

LET HIM DIE FOR HIS SINS.

NO CROWN OF THORNS FOR SHAY BOURNE.

They were separated from the Shay loyalists by armed guards toting

guns, who walked the fault line of public opinion between them.

"As you can see," the reporter said, "sentiment in support of Shay

Bourne and his unprecedented case to donate his heart is waning in the

wake of his hospitalization. A recent poll done by WNRK news shows only

thirty-four percent of New Hampshire residents still convinced that the

courts should allow Bourne to be an organ donor; and even less than that—

sixteen percent—agree that his miracles are divinely inspired. Which means

that an overwhelming eighty-four percent of the state agrees with Reverend

Arbogath Justus, who's joining us again this evening. Reverend, you

and the members of your church have been here for nearly a week now

and have been instrumental in turning the tide of public opinion. What's

your take on the Bourne hospitalization?"

The Reverend Justus was still wearing that green suit. "Ninety-nine

percent of the state thinks you should burn that outfit," I said out loud.

"Janice," the reverend replied, "we at the Drive-ln Church of Christ in

God have of course been praying for Shay Bourne's speedy and full recovery

in the wake of the prison attack. However, when we pray, we pray to

the one and only Lord: Jesus Christ."

"Is there any message you have for those who still don't agree with

you?"

"Why, yes." He leaned closer to the camera. "I told you so."

The reporter took back the microphone. "We've been told that Bourne

will be released from the hospital in the next few hours, but doctors

haven't commented on his condition... " Suddenly, a roar went up from

both sides of the crowd, and the reporter covered her earpiece with one

hand. "This is unconfirmed," she said over the din, "but apparently an ambulance

has just driven into the rear entrance of the prison..."

On the screen, the camera swung past her to catch a man decking a

woman in a purple caftan. The armed guards stepped in, but by then other

fights had broken out between the camps. The line separating the two bled,

until the guards had to call in reinforcements. The cameras captured a

teenager being trampled, a man being smacked in the head by the butt of

a guard's rifle and collapsing.

"Lights-out," a CO said over the loudspeaker. Lights-out never really

meant lights-out—there was always some residual bulb shining somewhere

in the prison. But I pulled off my headphones, lay down on my bunk—and

listened to the riot going on outside the brick walls of the prison.

This is what it always comes down to, I realized. There are the ones

who believe, and the ones who don't, and caught in the space between

them are guns.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one being disturbed. Batman the Robin

began to squawk, in spite of Calloway's efforts to hush him.

"Shut that freaking bird up already!" Texas yelled.

"You shut up," Calloway said. "Fucking Bourne. Wish he'd never come

onto this fucking tier."

As if he'd been summoned, the door to I-tier opened, and in the halflight,

Shay moved toward his cell, escorted by a flock of six officers. He had

a bandage on his face, and two black eyes. Part of his scalp had been

shaved. He did not look at any of us as he passed. "Hey," I murmured as he

walked by my cell, but Shay didn't respond. He moved like a zombie, like

someone in a sci-fi film whose frontal lobe has been removed by the mad

scientist.

Five of the officers left. The sixth stood outside Shay's cell door, his

own personal security guard. The presence of the CO prevented me from

talking to Shay. In fact, the presence of the CO prevented any of us from

talking, period.

I guess we were all so focused on his return that it took us several moments

to realize that the quiet wasn't just a lack of conversation. Batman

the Robin had fallen asleep in Calloway's breast pocket. And outside, that

din—that god-awful din—had gone spectacularly, blissfully silent.

Maggie

America was founded on religious freedom, on the separation of church

and state, and yet I will be the first to tell you that we're not much better

off than those Puritans were in the 1770s over in England. Religion and

politics get into bed with each other all the time: the first thing we do in a

courtroom is swear on a Bible; public school classes begin with the Pledge

of Allegiance, which declares us one nation under God; even our currency

is stamped with the words In God We Trust. You'd think that of all people, a

lawyer like me from the ACLU would be violently opposed to this on principle,

but no. I had spent thirty minutes in the shower and another twenty

driving downtown to the federal courthouse trying to figure out the best

way to drag religion smack into the middle of a courtroom.

I was just determined to do it without offending the personal beliefs

of the judge.

In the parking lot, I called the ChutZpah and reached my mother on

the first try.

"What kind of name is Haig?"

"You mean like the general?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds German, maybe," she mused. "I don't know. Why?"

"I was talking religious affiliation."

"Is that what you think I do?" my mother said. "Judge people on their

last names?"

"Does everything have to be an accusation? I just need to know before

I go into chambers, so that I can tailor what I say to the justice sitting on

the case."

"I thought the whole point of being a judge was being impartial."

"Right. Just like the whole point of being crowned Miss America is to

promote world peace."

"I can't remember if Alexander Haig is Jewish. I know your father

liked him because he supported Israel..."

"Well, even if he is, that doesn't mean that my judge is. Haig isn't

quite as easy to figure out as someone named O'Malley or Hershkowitz."

"Your father once dated a Jewish girl named Barbara O'Malley, for

your information," my mother said.

"Hopefully before he married you..."

"Very funny. I'm just saying that your theory isn't airtight."

"Well, you don't meet many Jewish O'Malleys."

My mother hesitated. "I think her grandparents had their surname legally

changed from Meyer."

I rolled my eyes. "I've got to go. No matter what his religion is, no

judge likes a lawyer who's late."

I had received a call from my secretary when I was meeting with

Warden Coyne about Shay's protection in the prison—Judge Haig

wanted to see counsel in federal court the very next morning, a mere

four days after I'd filed my complaint there. I should have realized

things were going to move blisteringly fast. Shay already had an execution

date scheduled, so the court had put us on an expedited trial

calendar.

As I turned the corner, I saw the AAG from the appellate division,

Gordon Greenleaf, already waiting. I nodded at him, and then felt my cell

phone vibrating in my purse with a text message.

GOOGLED HAIG-ROM CATI1. XO MOM

I snapped the phone shut as the clerk arrived to lead us into Judge

Haig's chambers.

The judge had thinning gray hair and a distance-runner's body. I

peered at the collar of his shirt, but he was wearing a tie: for all I knew,

he might be wearing a crucifix, a star of David, or even a rope of garlic to

ward off vampires. "All right, boys and girls," he said, "who can tell us

why we're here today?"

"Your Honor," I answered, "I'm suing the commissioner of corrections

of the State of New Hampshire on behalf of my client, Shay

Bourne."

"Yes, thank you, Ms. Bloom, I already breathlessly read your complaint

from cover to cover. What I meant was that Mr. Bourne's impending

execution is already a zoo. Why is the ACLU turning it into a bigger

one?"

Gordon Greenleaf cleared his throat. He had always reminded me of

Bozo the Clown, with his tufted red hair and allergies that left his nose

red more often than not. "He's a death row inmate trying to delay the inevitable,

Your Honor."

"He's not trying to delay anything," I argued. "He's just trying to make

amends for his sins, and he believes this is the way he needs to die in

order to reach salvation. He'd be the first to tell you you can execute him

tomorrow, as long as it's by hanging."

"This is 2008, Ms. Bloom. We execute people by lethal injection.

We're not going back to a more archaic form of execution," Judge Haig

said.

I nodded. "But, Judge, with all due respect, if the Department of Corrections

finds lethal injection impractical, the sentence may be carried

out by hanging."

"The Department of Corrections doesn't have a problem with lethal

injection!" Greenleaf said.

"It does when Mr. Bournes First Amendment rights are being violated.

He has the right to practice his religious beliefs, even in a prison

setting—up to and including during the moment of his execution."

"What are you talking about?" Greenleaf exploded. "No religion insists

on organ donation. Just because one individual gets some crazy set

of rules into his head to live—or die—by, that doesn't qualify it as a religious

belief."

"Gee, Gordon," I said. "Who died and left you God?"

"Counselors, back to your corners," Judge Haig said. He pursed his

lips, deep in thought. "There are some factual issues here that need to be

fleshed out," he began, "but the first of these is, Mr. Greenleaf, whether

the state will agree to hang Mr. Bourne in lieu of giving him a lethal injection."

"Absolutely not, Judge. Preparations are already in place for the

method of execution that was specified at his sentencing."

Judge Haig nodded. "Then we'll set this down for trial. Given the

very real deadline we're working under, it will be an expedited hearing.

We're going to pretend that there's no such thing as federal discovery;

we're going to pretend that there's no such thing as summary judgment

motions—we don't have time for them. Instead, I want witness lists on

my desk in a week, and I want you prepared to go straight to trial in two

weeks."

Gordon and I gathered our belongings and stepped outside chambers.

"Do you have any idea how much money the taxpayers of New

Hampshire have spent on that death chamber?"

"Take it up with the governor, Gordon," I said. "If the rich towns in

New Hampshire have to pay for public education, maybe the poor towns

can cough up the funds for future death row inmates."

He folded his arms. "What's the ACLU's game here, Maggie? You can't

get the death penalty declared unconstitutional, so you use religion as a

fallback position?"

I smiled at him. "You do if it helps you get the death penalty declared

unconstitutional. See you in two weeks, Gordon," I said, and I walked

off, leaving him staring after me.

Three times, I picked up the phone and dialed. Three times, I hung up

just as the line connected.

I couldn't do this.

But I had to. I had two weeks to get the facts; and if I was going to

fight on Shay's behalf to donate his heart, I needed to understand exactly

how this was going to work—and be able to explain that in court.

When the hospital switchboard connected, I asked to speak to Dr.

Gallagher's office. I left my name and number with a secretary, fully anticipating

the fact that it would take some time before he returned my call,

during which I might actually develop the courage to speak to him. So

when the phone rang almost as soon as I put down the receiver, I was

shocked to hear his voice. "Ms. Bloom," he said. "What can I do for

you?"

"You weren't supposed to call back this fast," I blurted out.

"Ah, I'm sorry. I really should be less punctual with my patients."

"I'm not your patient."

"Right. You were only masquerading as one." He was silent, and then

said, "I believe you called me?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. I was wondering if you might be willing to meet with

me—professionally, of course—"

"Of course."

"—to talk about hanging and organ donation."

"If only I had a dime for every time I've been asked to do that," Dr.

Gallagher said. "I'd be delighted to meet with you. Professionally, of

course."

"Of course," I said, deflated. "The catch is, I have to meet you fairly

soon. My client's trial starts in two weeks."

"Well, then, Ms. Bloom, I'll pick you up at seven."

"Oh—you don't have to do that. I can meet you at the hospital."

"Yes, but I really prefer to not eat the cafeteria Jell-O on my days

off."

"It's your day off?" He called me back on his day off? "Well, we can do it

some other time..."

"Didn't you just tell me this was something that needed to be done

quickly?"

"Well," I said. "Yeah."

"Then seven o'clock it is."

"Excellent," I said in my finest courtroom voice. "I look forward to it."

"Ms. Bloom."

"Yes?"

I held my breath, waiting for him to lay down the parameters of this

meeting. Do not expect this to be any more than it is on the surface: two

professionals doing business. Do not forget that you could have asked

any number of doctors, even ones who don't have eyes the color of a

moonless night and an accent that tugs like a fishing hook. Do not delude

yourself into pretending this is a real date.

"I don't know where you live."

Whoever said that black makes you look thinner obviously did not have

the same clothes that were hanging in my closet. First I tried on my favorite

black pants, which were no longer my favorite because they only buttoned

if I stopped breathing and didn't intend to sit at all during the

meal. The black turtleneck that still had tags on it made me look like I

had a double chin, and the black crochet shrug that had looked so cute

in the catalog showed every inch of bra roll. Red, I thought. I'll be bold and

make a statement. I tried on a crimson silk camisole, but the only statement

I seemed to be sending was Frederick's of Hollywood. I sifted

through wraps and cardigans and shells and blazers, A-line skirts and

pleated ones and cocktail dresses, tossing them off one by one onto the

floor as Oliver hopped away in vain, trying not to get trapped underneath.

I tried on every single pair of trousers in my possession and decided

that my ass was well on its way to being declared one of Saturn's

moons. Then I marched myself to the bathroom mirror. "Here's the

thing," I said to myself. "You don't have to look like Jennifer Aniston to

discuss the best way to execute someone."

Although, I imagined, it probably helped.

Finally I decided on my favorite pair of jeans, and a flowing pale

green tunic that I'd found for five dollars at an Asian boutique, so I

always felt good about wearing it, even when I didn't look perfect. I

twisted my hair up and stabbed it with a hair stick, hoping it looked

artful and Grecian instead of just messy and out of time.

At exactly seven, the doorbell rang. I took one last look at myself in

the mirror—the outfit clearly said casual, together, not trying too hard—

and opened the door to find Dr. Gallagher wearing a coat and tie.

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