I sucked in my breath. "I believe so."
"I'll be damned," the judge said. He said this in a voice that wasn't wish-I-had-his-autograph, but more he-was-like-a-train-wreck-I-couldn't-turn-away-from.
The good news was, I was allowed to bring in my expert witness. The bad news was that Judge Haig didn't like him very much--and had in the forefront of his mind my witness's former incarnation as an atheist showboat, when I really wanted him to be seen as a grave and credible historian. Greenleaf was furious that he'd only had days to figure out what tune Fletcher was singing these days; the judge regarded him as a curiosity, and me--well, I was just praying that my whole case didn't self-destruct in the next ten minutes.
"Before we begin, Ms. Bloom," the judge said, "I have a few questions for Dr. Fletcher."
He nodded. "Shoot, Judge."
"How does a man who was an atheist a decade ago convince a court that he's an expert on religion now?"
"Your Honor," I interjected. "I'm planning on going through Dr. Fletcher's credentials ..."
"I didn't ask you, Ms. Bloom," he said.
But Ian Fletcher wasn't rattled. "You know what they say, Your Honor. Sinners make the best reformed saints." He grinned, a slow and lazy smile that reminded me of a cat in the sunlight. "I guess finding God is like seeing a ghost--you can be a skeptic until you come face-to-face with what you said doesn't exist."
"So you're a religious man now?" the judge asked.
"I'm a spiritual man," Fletcher corrected. "And I do think there's a difference. But being spiritual doesn't pay the rent, which is why I have degrees from Princeton and Harvard, three New York Times bestselling nonfiction books, forty-two published articles on the origins of world religions, and positions on six interfaith councils, including one that advises the current administration."
The judge nodded, making notes; and Greenleaf stipulated to the list of Fletcher's credentials. "I might as well start with where Judge Haig left off," I said, beginning the direct examination. "It's pretty rare for an atheist to get interested in religion. Did you just sort of wake up one day and find Jesus?"
"It's not like you're vacuuming under the sofa cushions and bingo, there he is. My interest grew more from a historical standpoint, because these days, people act like faith grows in a vacuum. When you break down religions and look politically and economically and socially at what was going on during their births, it changes the way you think."
"Dr. Fletcher, do you have to be part of a group to be part of a religion?"
"Not only can religion be individualized--it has been, in the past. In 1945, a discovery was made in Egypt: fifty-two texts that were labeled gospels--and that weren't part of the Bible. Some of them were full of sayings that would be familiar to anyone who's gone to Sunday school ... and some of them, to be honest, were really bizarre. They were scientifically dated from the second century, roughly thirty to eighty years younger than the gospels in the New Testament. And they belonged to a group called Gnostic Christians--a splinter group from Orthodox Christianity, who believed that true religious enlightenment meant undertaking a very personal, individual quest to know yourself, not by your socioeconomic status or profession, but at a deeper core."
"Hang on," I said. "After Jesus's death, there was more than one kind of Christian?"
"Oh, there were dozens."
"And they had their own Bibles?"
"They had their own gospels," Fletcher corrected. "The New Testament--in particular, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John--were the ones that the orthodoxy chose to uphold. The Gnostic Christians preferred texts like the Gospel of Thomas, and the Gospel of Truth, and the Gospel of Mary Magdalene."
"Did those gospels talk about Jesus, too?"
"Yes, except the Jesus they describe isn't the one you'd recognize from the Bible. That Jesus is very different from the humans he's come here to save. But the Gospel of Thomas--my personal favorite from Nag Hammadi--says Jesus is a guide to help you figure out all you have in common with God. So if you were a Gnostic Christian, you would have expected the road to salvation to be different for everyone."
"Like donating your heart to someone who needs it ... ?"
"Exactly," Fletcher said.
"Wow," I said, playing dumb. "How come this stuff isn't taught in Sunday school?"
"Because the Orthodox Christian Church felt threatened by the Gnostics. They called their gospels heresy, and the Nag Hammadi texts were hidden for two thousand years."
"Father Wright said that Shay Bourne quoted from the Gospel of Thomas. Do you have any idea where he would have stumbled over that text?"
"Maybe he read my book," Fletcher said, smiling widely, and the people in the gallery laughed.
"In your opinion, Doctor, could a religion that only one person believes and follows still be valid?"
"An individual can have a religion," he said. "He can't have a religious institution. But it seems to me that Shay Bourne is standing in a tradition similar to the ones the Gnostic Christians did nearly two thousand years ago. He's not the first to say that he can't name his faith. He's not the first to find a path to salvation that is different from others you've heard about. And he's certainly not the first to mistrust the body--to literally want to give it away, as a means to finding divinity inside oneself. But just because he doesn't have a church with a white steeple over his head, or a temple with a six-pointed star surrounding him, doesn't mean that his beliefs are any less worthy."
I beamed at him. Fletcher was easy to listen to, interesting, and he didn't sound like a left-wing nutcase. Or so I thought, until I heard Judge Haig exhale heavily and say court was recessed until the next day.
Lucius
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I was painting when Shay returned from his first day of trial, huddled and withdrawn, as going to court made most of us. I'd been working on the portrait all day, and I was quite pleased with the way it was turning out. I glanced up when Shay was escorted past my cell, but didn't speak to him. Better to let him come back to us on his own time.
Not twenty minutes afterward, a long, low keen filled the tier. At first I thought Shay was crying, letting the stress of the day bleed from him, but then I realized that the sound was coming from Calloway Reece's cell. "Come on," he moaned. He started smacking his fists against the door of his cell. "Bourne," he called out. "Bourne, I need your help."
"Leave me alone," Shay said.
"It's the bird, man. I can't get him to wake up."
The fact that Batman the Robin had survived inside I-tier for several weeks on crusts of toast and bits of oatmeal was a wonder in its own right, not to mention the fact that he'd cheated death once before.
"Give him CPR," Joey Kunz suggested.
"You can't do fucking CPR on a bird," Calloway snapped. "They got beaks."
I put down the makeshift brush I was using to paint--a rolled wad of toilet paper--and angled my mirror-shank out my door so that I could see. In his enormous palm, Calloway cradled the bird, which lay on its side, unmoving.
"Shay," he begged, "please."
There was no response from Shay's cell. "Fish him to me," I said, and crouched down with my line. I was worried that the bird had grown too big to make it through the little slit at the bottom, but Calloway wrapped him in a handkerchief, roped the top, and sent the slight weight in a wide arc across the floor of the catwalk. I knotted my string with Calloway's and gently drew the bird toward me.
I couldn't resist unwrapping the kerchief to peek. Batman's eyelid was purple and creased, his tail feathers spread like a fan. The tiny hooks on the ends of his claws were as sharp as pins. When I touched them, the bird did not even twitch. I placed my forefinger beneath the wing--did birds have hearts where we did?--and felt nothing.
"Shay," I said quietly. "I know you're tired. And I know you've got your own stuff going on. But please. Just take a look."
Five whole minutes passed, long enough for me to give up. I wrapped the bird in the cloth again and
tied him to the end of my fishing line, cast him onto the catwalk for Calloway to retrieve. But before his line could tangle with mine, another whizzed out, and Shay intercepted the bird.
In my mirror, I watched Shay take Batman from the kerchief, hold him in his hand. He stroked the head with his finger; he gingerly covered the body with his other hand, as if he had caught a star between his palms. I held my breath, watching for that flutter or feather or the faintest cheep, but after a few moments Shay just wrapped the bird up again.
"Hey!" Calloway had been watching, too. "You didn't do anything!"
"Leave me alone," Shay repeated. The air had gone bitter as almonds; I could barely stand to breathe it. I watched him fish back that dead bird, and all of our hopes along with it.
Maggie
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When Gordon Greenleaf stood up, his knees creaked. "You've studied comparative world religions in the course of your research?" he asked Fletcher.
"Yes."
"Do different religions take a stand on organ donation?"
"Yes," Fletcher said. "Catholics believe only in transplants done after death--you can't risk killing the donor, for example, during the donation. They fully support organ donation, as do Jews and Muslims. Buddhists and Hindus believe organ donation is a matter of individual conscience, and they put high value on acts of compassion."
"Do any of those religions require you to donate organs as a means to salvation?"
"No," Fletcher said.
"Are there Gnostic Christians practicing today?"
"No," Fletcher said. "The religion died out."
"How come?"
"When you have a belief system that says you shouldn't listen to the clergy, and that you should continually ask questions, instead of accepting doctrine, it's hard to form a community. On the other hand, the Orthodox Christians were delineating the steps to being card-carrying members of the group--confess the creed, accept baptism, worship, obey the priests. Plus, their Jesus was someone the average Joe could relate to--someone who'd been born, had an overprotective mom, suffered, and died. That was a much easier sell than the Gnostic Jesus--who was never even human. The rest of the Gnostics' decline," Fletcher said, "was political. In A.D. 312, Constantine, the Roman emperor, saw a crucifix in the sky and converted to Christianity. The Catholic Church became part of the Holy Roman Empire ... and having Gnostic texts and beliefs were punishable by death."
"So, it's fair to say no one's practiced Gnostic Christianity for fifteen hundred years?" Greenleaf said.
"Not formally. But there are elements of Gnostic belief in other religions that have survived. For example, Gnostics recognized the difference between the reality of God, which was impossible to describe with language, and the image of God as we knew it. This sounds a lot like Jewish mysticism, where you find God being described as streams of energy, male and female, which pool together into a divine source; or God as the source of all sounds at once. And Buddhist enlightenment is very much like the Gnostic idea that we live in a land of oblivion, but can waken spiritually right here while we're still part of this world."
"But Shay Bourne can't be a follower of a religion that no longer exists, isn't that true?"
He hesitated. "From what I understand, donating his heart is Shay Bourne's attempt to learn who he is, who he wants to be, how he is connected to others. And in that very basic sense, the Gnostics would agree that he's found the part of him that comes closest to being divine." Fletcher looked up. "A Gnostic Christian would tell you that a man on death row is more like us than unlike us. And that--as Mr. Bourne seems to be trying to suggest--he still has something to offer the world."
"Yeah. Whatever." Greenleaf raised a brow. "Have you ever even met Shay Bourne?"
"Actually," Fletcher said, "no."
"So for all you know, he doesn't have any religious beliefs at all. This could all be some grand plan to delay his execution, couldn't it?"
"I've spoken with his spiritual advisor."
The lawyer scoffed. "You've got a guy practicing a religion by himself that seems to hearken back to a religious sect that died out thousands of years ago. Isn't it possible that this is a bit too ... easy? That Shay Bourne could just be making it all up as he goes along?"
Fletcher smiled. "A lot of people thought that about Jesus."
"Dr. Fletcher," Greenleaf said, "are you telling this court that Shay Bourne is a messiah?"
Fletcher shook his head. "Your words, not mine."
"Then how about your stepdaughter's words?" Greenleaf asked. "Or is this some kind of family trait you all have, running into God in state prisons and elementary schools and Laundromats?"
"Objection," I said. "My witness isn't on trial here."
Greenleaf shrugged. "His ability to discuss the history of Christianity is--"
"Overruled," Judge Haig said.
Fletcher narrowed his eyes. "What my daughter did or didn't see has no bearing on Shay Bourne's request to donate his heart."
"Did you believe she was a fake when you first met her?"
"The more I spoke with her, the more I--"
"When you first met her," Greenleaf interrupted, "did you believe she was a fake?"
"Yes," Fletcher admitted.
"And yet, with no personal contact, you were willing to testify in a court of law that Mr. Bourne's request to donate his organs could be massaged to fit your loose definition of a religion." Greenleaf glanced at him. "I guess, in your case, old habits die fairly easy."
"Objection!"
"Withdrawn." Greenleaf started back to his seat, but then turned. "Just one more question, Dr. Fletcher--this daughter of yours. She was seven years old when she found herself at the center of a religious media circus not unlike this one, correct?"
"Yes."
"Are you aware that's the same age of the little girl Shay Bourne murdered?"
A muscle in Fletcher's jaw twitched. "No. I wasn't."
"How do you think you'd feel about God if your stepdaughter was the one who'd been killed?"
I shot to my feet. "Objection!"
"I'll allow it," the judge answered.
Fletcher paused. "I think that kind of tragedy would test anyone's faith."
Gordon Greenleaf folded his arms. "Then it's not faith," he said. "It's being a chameleon."
MICHAEL
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During the lunch recess, I went to see Shay in his holding cell. He was sitting on the floor, near the bars, while a U.S. marshal sat outside on a stool. Shay held a pencil and scrap of paper, as if he were conducting an interview.
"H," the marshal said, and Shay shook his head. "M?"
Shay scribbled something on the paper. "I'm down to your last toe, dude."
The marshal sucked in his breath. "K."
Shay grinned. "I win." He scrawled something else on the page and passed it through the bars--only then did I notice that it had been a game of hangman, and that this time around, Shay was the executioner.
Scowling, the marshal stared down at the paper. "Szygszyg isn't a real word."
"You didn't say that it had to be real when we started playing," Shay replied, and then he noticed me standing at the threshold of the door.
"I'm Shay's spiritual advisor," I told the marshal. "Can we have a minute?"
"No problem. I have to take a whiz." He stood up, offering me the stool he was vacating, and headed out of the room.
"How are you doing?" I said quietly.
Shay walked to the back of the cell, where he lay down on the metal bunk and faced the wall.
"I want to talk to you, Shay."
"Just because you want to talk doesn't mean I want to listen."
I sank down on the stool. "I was the last one on your jury to vote for the death penalty," I said. "I was the reason we deliberated so long. And even after I'd been convinced by the rest of the jury that this was the best sentence, I didn't feel good about it. I kept having panic attacks. One day, during on
e, I stumbled into a cathedral and started to pray. The more I did it, the fewer panic attacks I had." I clasped my hands between my knees. "I thought that was a sign from God."
Still with his back to me, Shay snorted.
"I still think it's a sign from God, because it's brought me back into your life."
Shay rolled onto his back and flung one arm over his eyes. "Don't kid yourself," he said. "It's brought you back into my death."
Ian Fletcher was already standing at a urinal when I ran into the men's room. I had been hoping it would be empty. Shay's comment--the bald truth--had made me so sick to my stomach that I'd rushed out of the holding cell without explanation. I pushed into a stall, fell to my knees, and got violently ill.
No matter how much I wanted to fool myself--no matter what I said about atoning for my past sins--the bottom line was that for the second time in my life, my actions were going to result in the death of Shay Bourne.
Fletcher pushed the door of the stall open and put his hand on my shoulder. "Father? You all right?"
I wiped my mouth, slowly got to my feet. "I'm fine," I said, then shook my head. "No, actually, I'm awful."
I walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed water on my face as Fletcher watched. "Do you need to sit down or something?"
I dried my face with a paper towel he passed me. And suddenly, I wanted someone else to bear this burden. Ian Fletcher was a man who'd unraveled secrets from two thousand years ago; surely he could keep one of mine. "I was on his jury," I murmured into the recycled brown paper.
"I'm sorry?"
No, I am, I thought. I met Fletcher's gaze. "I was on the jury that sentenced Shay Bourne to death. Before I joined the priesthood."
Fletcher let out a long, low whistle. "Does he know?"
"I told him a few days ago."
"And his lawyer?"
I shook my head. "I keep thinking that this must be how Judas felt after turning Jesus in."
Fletcher's mouth turned up at the corners. "Actually, there's a recently discovered Gnostic gospel--the Gospel of Judas--and there's very little in there about betrayal. In fact, this gospel paints Judas as Jesus's confidant--the only one he trusted to make what needed to happen, happen."
"Even if it was an assisted suicide," I said, "I'm sure Judas felt like crap about it afterward. I mean, he killed himself."