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mother. So even if Shay didn't acknowledge me in court, I would still

be there. I would bear witness for him.

For a long time, I sat on my bike in the parking lot, going nowhere.

In fairness, it wasn't like I wanted to spring this all on Maggie a few

days before the trial. The truth of the matter was that if Shay didn't

want me as his spiritual advisor anymore, I had no excuse for not telling

Maggie that I'd been on the jury that convicted him. I'd tried to

contact her several times over the past week, but she was either out of

her office, not at home, or not answering her cell. And then, out of the

blue, she called me. "Get your ass down here," she said. "You have

some explaining to do."

In twenty minutes, I was sitting in her ACLU office. "I had a meeting

with Shay today," Maggie said. "He said you'd lied to him."

I nodded. "Did he go into detail?"

"No. He said I deserved to hear it firsthand." She crossed her arms.

"He also said he didn't want you testifying on his behalf."

"Right," I mumbled. "I don't blame him."

"Are you really a priest?"

I blinked at her. "Of course I am—"

"Then I don't care what you're lying about," Maggie said. "You can

unburden your soul after we win Shay's case."

"It's not that simple..."

"Yes it is. Father. You are the only character witness we've got for

Shay; you're credible because you're wearing that collar. I don't care if

you and Shay had a fight; I don't care if you moonlight as a drag queen;

I don't care if you have enough secrets to last a lifetime. It's don't ask,

don't tell until the trial starts, okay? All I care about is that you wear

that collar, get on the stand, and make Shay sound like a saint. If you

walk, the whole case goes down the toilet. Is that simple enough for

you?"

If Maggie was right—if my testimony was the only thing that would

help Shay—then how could I tell her something now that would ruin

the case? A sin of omission could be understandable if you were helping

someone by holding back. I could not give Shay his life back, but I

could make sure his death was what he wanted.

Maybe it would be enough for him to forgive me.

"It's normal to be a little freaked out about going to court," Maggie

said, misreading my silence.

During my testimony, I was supposed to explain in layman's terms

how donating a heart to Claire Nealon was one of Shay's spiritual beliefs.

Having a priest say this was a stroke of genius on Maggie's part—

who wouldn't believe a member of the clergy when it came to

religion?

"You don't have to be worried about the cross-exam," Maggie continued.

"You tell the judge that while a Catholic would believe that salvation

comes solely through Jesus Christ, Shay believes organ

donation's necessary for redemption. That's perfectly true, and I can

promise you that lightning isn't going to crash through the ceiling

when you say it."

My head snapped up. "I can't tell the court that Shay will find

Jesus," I said. "I think he might be Jesus."

She blinked. "You think what?"

The words began to spill out of me, the way I always imagined it

felt to be speaking in tongues: truths that tumbled before you even realized

they'd left your mouth. "It makes perfect sense. The age, the profession.

The fact that he's on death row. The miracles. And the heart

donation—he's literally giving himself away for our sins, again. He's

giving the part that matters the least—the body—in order to become

whole in spirit."

"This is way worse than having cold feet," Maggie murmured.

"You're crazy."

"Maggie, he's been quoting a gospel that was written two hundred

years after Christ's death—a gospel that most people don't even know

exists. Word for word."

Tve listened to his words, and frankly, they're unintelligible. Do

you know what he was doing yesterday when I briefed him on his testimony?

Playing tic-tac-toe. With himself."

"You have to read between the lines."

"Yeah, right. And I bet when you listen to Britney Spears records

backward, you hear 'Sleep with me, I'm not too young.' For God's

sake—no pun intended—you're a Catholic priest. Whatever happened to

the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? I don't remember Shay being part of

the Trinity."

"What about everyone camped outside the prison? Are they all

crazy, too?"

"They want Shay to cure their kid's autism or reverse their husband's

Alzheimer's. They're in it for themselves," Maggie said. "The

only people who think Shay Bourne is the Messiah are so desperate

that they'd be able to find salvation beneath the lid of a two-liter bottle

of Pepsi."

"Or through a heart transplant?" I countered. "You've worked up a

whole legal theory based on individual religious beliefs. So how can

you tell me, categorically, that I'm wrong?"

"Because it's not a matter of right or wrong. It's life or death—

namely. Shay's. I'd say whatever I had to to win this case for him; it's

my job. And it was supposed to be yours, too. This isn't about some

revelation; it's not about who Shay might have been or might be in the

future. It's about who he is right now: a convicted murderer who's

going to be executed unless I can do something about it. It doesn't

matter to me if he's a vagrant or Queen Elizabeth or Jesus Christ—it just

matters that we win this case for him, so that he can die on his own

terms. That means that you will get on that damn stand and swear on

that Bible—which, for all I know, might not even be relevant to you

now that you've found Jesus on I-tier. And if you screw this up for Shay

by sounding like a nut job when I question you, I will make your life

miserable." By the time Maggie finished, she was red in the face and

breathless. This old gospel," she said. "Word for word?"

I nodded.

"How did you find out about it?"

"From your father," I said.

Maggie's brows rose. "I'm not putting a priest and a rabbi on the

stand. The judge will be waiting for a punch line."

I looked up at her. "I have an idea."

Maggie

In the client-attorney conference room outside I-tier, Shay climbed on

the chair and started talking to flies. "Go left," he urged as he craned his

neck toward the air vent. "Come on. You can do it."

I looked up from my notes for a moment. "Are they pets?"

"No," Shay said, stepping down from the chair. His hair was matted,

but only on the left side, which made him look absentminded at best and

mentally ill at worst. I wondered what I could say to convince him to let

me brush it before we went out in front of the judge tomorrow.

The flies were circling. "I have a pet rabbit," I said.

"Last week, before I was moved to I-tier, I had pets," Shay said, then

shook his head. "It wasn't last week. It was yesterday. I can't remember."

"It doesn't matter—"

"What's its name?"

"Sorry?"

"The rabbit."

"Oliver," I said, and took out of my pocket what I'd been holding for

Shay. "I brought you a gift."

He smiled at me, his eyes piercing and suddenly focused. "I hope it's

a key."

"Not quite." I passed him a Snack Pack butterscotch pudding. "I figured

you don't get the good stuff in prison."

He opened the foil top, licked it, and then carefully folded it into his

breast pocket. "Is there butter in it?"

"I don't know."

"What about Scotch?"

I smiled. "I truly doubt it."

"Too bad."

I watched him take the first bite. "Tomorrows going to be a big day,"

I said.

In the wake of Michael's crisis of faith, I had contacted the witness he

recommended—an academic named Ian Fletcher whom I vaguely remembered

from a television show he used to host, where he'd go around

debunking the claims of people who saw the Virgin Mary in their toast

burn pattern and things like that. At first, putting him on the stand

seemed to be a sure way to lose a case—but the guy had a PhD from the

Princeton Theological Seminary, and there had to be some merit in putting

a former atheist on the stand. If Fletcher could be convinced there

was a God—be it Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, Shay, or none of the above—then

surely any of us could.

Shay finished his pudding and handed the empty cup back to me. "I

need the foil, too," I said. The last thing I wanted was to find out a few

days from now that Shay had fashioned a shank out of the aluminum and

hurt himself or someone else. He took it out of his pocket meekly and

handed it back to me. "You do know what's happening tomorrow, right?"

"Don't you?"

"Well. About the trial," I began, "all you have to do is sit patiently

and listen. A lot of what you'll hear probably won't make sense to you."

He looked up. "Are you nervous?"

I was nervous, all right—and not just because this was a high-profile

death penalty case that might or might not have found a constitutional

loophole. I lived in a country where 85 percent of the residents called

themselves Christians and about half went regularly to some form of

church—religion was not about the individual to the average American;

it was about the community of believers, and my whole case was about to

turn that on its ear. "Shay," I said. "You understand that we might lose."

Shay nodded, dismissive. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

'The girl. The one who needs the heart."

"She's in the hospital."

"Then we have to hurry," he said.

I exhaled slowly. "Right. I'd better go get my game face on."

I stood up, summoning the CO to let me out of the conference room,

but Shay's voice called me back. "Don't forget to say you're sorry," he

said.

"To whom?"

By then, though, Shay was standing on the chair again, his attention

focused on something else. And as I watched, seven flies landed in quick

succession on the palm of his outstretched hand.

When I was five, all I wanted was a Christmas tree. My friends had them,

and the menorah we lit at night paled in comparison. My father pointed

out that we got eight presents, but my friends got even more than that, if

you added up what was sitting underneath their tree. One cold December

afternoon, my mother told my father we were heading to the movies, and

instead, she drove me to the mall. We waited in line with little girls who

had ribbons in their hair and fancy lace dresses, so that I could sit on Santa's

lap and tell him I wanted My Pretty Pony. Then, with a candy cane

fisted in my hand, we walked to the decoration display where there were

fifteen Christmas trees set up—white ones with glass balls, fake balsam

ones strung with red beads and bows, one that had Tinker Bell at the top

and all the Disney characters dotted as ornaments, "like this," my mother

said, and right in the middle of the department store we lay down at a

crossroads of the trees and gazed up at the blinking light displays. I thought

it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "I won't tell Daddy," I promised,

but she said that didn't matter. This wasn't about another religion, my

mother explained. These were just the trappings. You could admire the

wrapping, without ever taking out what was inside the box.

After I left Shay, I sat in my car and called my mother at the ChutZpah.

"Hi," I said when she answered. "What are you doing?"

There was a beat of silence. "Maggie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I felt like calling you."

"Did something happen? Did you get hurt?"

"Can't I call my mother just because I feel like it?"

"You can," she said, "but you don't."

Well. There was just no arguing with the truth. I took a deep breath

and forged ahead. "Do you remember the time you took me to see

Santa?"

"Please don't tell me you're converting. It'll kill your father."

"I'm not converting," I said, and my mother sighed with relief. "I just

was remembering it, that's all."

"So you called to tell me?"

"No," I said. "I called to say I'm sorry."

"For what?" My mother laughed. "You haven't done anything."

In that moment, I remembered us lying on the floor of the department

store, gazing at the lit trees, as a security guard loomed over us. Just

gLve her another jew minutes, my mother had begged. June Nealon's face

flashed before me. Maybe this was the job of a mother: to buy time for

her child, no matter what. Even if it meant doing something she'd rather

not; even if it left her flat on her back.

"Yes," I answered. "I know."

"Desiring religious freedom is nothing new," I said, standing up in front

of Judge Haig at the opening of Shay Bourne's trial. "One of the most

famous cases happened more than two hundred years ago, and it didn't

take place in our country—namely, because there was no country. A

group of people who dared to hold religious beliefs different from the

status quo found themselves being forced to adopt the policies of the

Church of England—and instead, they chose to strike off to an unknown

place across the ocean. But the Puritans liked religious freedom so much

they kept it all to themselves—often persecuting people who didn't believe

what they did. This is precisely why the founders of the new nation

of the United States decided to put an end to religious intolerance by

making religious freedom a cornerstone of this country"

This was a nonjury trial, which meant that the only person I had to

preach to was the judge; but the courtroom was still filled. There were reporters

there from four networks the judge had preapproved, there were

victims rights advocates, there were death penalty supporters and death

penalty opponents. The only party present in support of Shay—and my

first witness—was Father Michael, seated just behind the plaintiff's table.

Beside me, Shay sat in handcuffs and ankle cuffs, linked to a belly

chain. "Thanks to the forefathers who crafted the Constitution, everyone

in this country has the freedom to practice his own religion—even a prisoner

on death row in New Hampshire. In fact, Congress went so far as to

pass a law about it. The Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons

Act guarantees an inmate the opportunity to worship whatever he likes as

long as it doesn't impede the safety of others in the prison or affect the

running of the prison. Yet Shay Bourne's constitutional right to practice

his religion has been denied by the State of New Hampshire."

I looked up at the judge. "Shay Bourne is not a Muslim, or a Wiccan;

he's not a secular humanist or a member of the Baha'i faith. In fact, his

system of beliefs may not be familiar to any common world religion you

can name off the top of your head. But they are a system of beliefs, and

they include the fact that—to Shay—salvation depends on being able to

donate his heart after his execution to the sister of his victim... an outcome

that's not possible if the state uses lethal injection as a method of

execution."

I walked forward. "Shay Bourne has been convicted of possibly the

most heinous crime in the history of this state. He has appealed that conviction,

and those appeals have been denied—yet he is not contesting

that decision. He knows he is going to die, Your Honor. All he asks is

that, again, the laws of this country be upheld—in particular, the laws that

say anyone has the right to practice their religion, wherever, whenever,

however. If the state agrees to his execution by hanging, and provides for

the subsequent donation of his organs, the safety of other inmates isn't

impeded; the running of the prison isn't affected—but it would offer a

very significant personal outcome for Shay Bourne: to save a little girl's

life, and in the process, to save his own soul."

I sat back down and glanced at Shay. He had a legal pad in front of him.

On it, he'd doodled a picture of a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder.

At the defense table, Gordon Greenleaf was seated beside the New

Hampshire commissioner of corrections, a man with both hair and complexion

the color of a potato. Greenleaf tapped his pencil twice on the

desk. "Ms. Bloom brought up the founding fathers of this country.

Thomas Jefferson, in fact, coined a phrase in a letter in 1789—'a wall of

separation between church and state.' He was explaining the First

Amendment—in particular the clauses about religion. And his words

have been used by the Supreme Court many times—in fact, the Lemon

test, which the high court has used since 1971, says that for a law to be

constitutional, it must have a secular purpose, must neither advance nor

inhibit religion, and must not result in excessive government entanglement

with religion. That last part's an interesting bit—since Ms. Bloom is

both crediting the forefathers of this nation with the noble division of

church and state... and yet simultaneously asking Your Honor to join

them together."

He stood up, walking forward. "If you were to take her claim seriously,"

Greenleaf said, "you'd see that what she's really asking for is a legally

binding sentence to be massaged, because of a loophole called

religion. What's next? A convicted drug dealer asking that his sentence be

overturned because heroin helps him reach nirvana? A murderer insisting

that his cell door face Mecca?" Greenleaf shook his head. "The truth is,

Judge, this petition has been filed by the ACLU not because it's a valid

and troublesome concern—but because it will purposefully create a

three-ring circus during the state's first execution in sixty-nine years." He

waved his arm around the crowded gallery. "And all of you are proof that

it's already working."

Greenleaf glanced at Shay. "Nobody takes the death penalty lightly,

least of all the commissioner of corrections in the State of New Hampshire.

The sentence in Shay Bourne's case was death by lethal injection.

That's exactly what the state has prepared and intends to carry out—with

dignity and respect for all parties involved.

"Let's look at the facts here. No matter what Ms. Bloom says, there is

no organized religion that mandates organ donation after death as a

means of reaching the afterlife. According to his records, Shay Bourne

was raised in foster homes, so he can't claim that he was reared in one religious

tradition that fostered organ donation. If he's converted to some

religion that is now claiming that organ donation is part of its tenets, we

submit to this court that it's pure bunk." Greenleaf spread his hands. "We

know you'll listen carefully to the testimony, Your Honor, but the reality

is that the Department of Corrections is not required to submit to the

whim of every misguided prisoner that comes through its doors—

especially one who has committed the monstrous torture and murders of

two New Hampshire citizens, a child and a police officer. Don't let Ms.

Bloom and the ACLU take a grave matter and turn it into a spectacle.

Allow the state to impose the penalty that was set forth by the court, in as

civilized and professional a manner as possible."

I glanced at Shay. On his legal pad, he'd added his initials, and the

logo for the band AC/DC.

The judge pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at me. "Ms.

Bloom," he said, "you may call your first witness."

M I C HAEL

As soon as I was asked to approach the witness stand, I locked my gaze

on Shay's. He stared back at me, silent, blank. The clerk approached,

holding a Bible. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and

nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

The leather cover of the book was finely grained and black, worn

smooth by the palms of thousands who'd recited a vow just like this

one. I thought of all the times I'd held a Bible for comfort, a religious

man's security blanket. I used to think it contained all the answers;

now I wondered whether the right questions had even been asked. So

help me God, I thought.

Maggie's hands were clasped lightly in front of her. "Can you state

your name and address for the record?"

"Michael Wright," I said, clearing my throat. "Thirty-four twentytwo

High Street, in Concord."

"How are you employed?"

"I'm a priest at St. Catherine's."

"How does one become a priest?" Maggie asked.

"You go to seminary for a certain number of years, and then you

become a member of the transitional deaconate... learning the ropes

under the guidance of a more experienced parish priest. Finally, you

get ordained."

"How long ago did you take your vows. Father?"

"It's been two years," I said.

I could still remember the ordainment ceremony, my parents

watching from the pews, their faces lit as if they had stars caught in

their throats. I had been so certain, then, of my calling—of serving Jesus

Christ, of who Jesus Christ was. Had I been wrong then? Or was it

simply that there was more than one kind of right?

"As part of your duties at St. Catherine's, Father, have you been a

spiritual advisor for an inmate named Shay Bourne?"

"Yes."

"And is Shay here in the courtroom today?"

"He is."

"In fact," Maggie said, "he's the plaintiff in this case who was sitting

beside me at that table, isn't that correct?"

"Yes." I smiled at Shay, who looked down at the table.

"During the course of your training to become a priest, did you

speak with parishioners about their religious beliefs?"

"Of course."

"Is it part of your duty as a priest to help others become familiar

with God?"

"Yes."

"How about deepening their faith in God?"

"Absolutely."

She turned to the judge. "I'm going to offer up Father Michael as an

expert on spiritual advice and religious beliefs. Your Honor."

The other attorney shot up. "Objection," he said. "With all due respect,

is Father Michael an expert on Jewish beliefs? Methodist beliefs?

Muslim ones?"

"Sustained," the judge said. "Father Michael may not testify as an

expert on religious beliefs outside of the Catholic faith, except in his

role as a spiritual advisor."

I had no idea what that meant, and from the looks on their faces,

neither did either attorney. "What's the role of a spiritual advisor in the

prison?" Maggie asked.

"You meet with inmates who would like a friend to talk to, or a

voice to pray with," I explained. "You offer them counseling, direc306

tion, devotional materials. Basically, you're a priest making a house

call."

"How was it that you were chosen to become a spiritual advisor?"

"St. Catherine's—my parish—received a request from the state

prison."

"Is Shay Catholic, Father?"

"One of his foster mothers had him baptized Catholic, so in the eyes

of the Church, yes, he is. However, he does not consider himself a practicing

Catholic."

"How does that work, then? If you're a priest and he's not Catholic,

how are you able to be his spiritual advisor?"

"Because my job isn't to preach to him, but to listen."

"When was the first time you met with Shay?" Maggie asked.

"March eighth of this year," I said. "I've seen him once or twice a

week since then."

"At some point, did Shay discuss his desire to donate his heart to

Claire Nealon, the sister of one of his victims?"

"It was the very first conversation we had," I replied.

"How many times since have you discussed with Shay his feelings

about this transplant?"

"Maybe twenty-five, thirty."

Maggie nodded. "There are people here today who think that

Shay's desire to become an organ donor has everything to do with

buying himself time, and nothing to do with religion. Do you agree

with that?"

"Objection," the other attorney said. "Speculation."

The judge shook his head. Til allow it."

"He'd die today, if you let him donate his heart. It's not time he

wants; it's the chance to be executed in a way that would allow for a

transplant."

"Let me play devil's advocate," Maggie said. "We all know donating

organs is selfless... but Where's the link between donation and salva

tion? Was there something that convinced you this wasn't just altruism

on Shay's part... but part of his faith?"

"Yes," I said. "When Shay told me what he wanted to do, he said it

in a very striking way. It almost sounded like a weird riddle: 'If I bring

forth what's inside me, what's inside me will save me. If I don't bring

forth what's inside me, what's inside me will destroy me.' I found out

later that Shay's statement wasn't original. He was quoting someone

pretty important."

"Who, Father?"

I looked at the judge. "Jesus Christ."

"Nothing further," Maggie said, and she sat back down beside

Shay.

Gordon Greenleaf frowned at me. "Forgive my ignorance. Father. Is

that from the Old Testament or the New Testament?"

"Neither," I replied. "It's from the Gospel of Thomas."

This stopped the attorney in his tracks. "Aren't all gospels somewhere

in the Bible?"

"Objection," Maggie called out. "Father Michael can't respond, because

he's not a religious expert."

"You offered him up as one," Greenleaf said.

Maggie shrugged. "Then you shouldn't have objected to it."

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