"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
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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-In 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 half-light, 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
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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 CATH. 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. Bourne's 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.
"I can change," I said quickly. "I didn't know we were going somewhere nice. Not that I wouldn't expect you to take me somewhere nice. Or that you're taking me. I mean, I'm taking myself. And you're taking you. We're just going in the same car."
"You look lovely," he said. "This is how I dress all the time."
"On your day off?"
"Well, I am British," he replied, an explanation; but he hooked his finger in his collar and slipped the tie from his shirt. He draped it over the inside knob of the front door.
"When I was in college and someone did that it meant--" I broke off, remembering what it did mean: don't enter, because your roommate is getting lucky. "It meant that, um, you were busy studying for a test."