He tries to ignore the sound of the door opening, but the creaking is phenomenally loud, and as a man of the cloth, he feels duty-bound to offer support to a grieving soul, if need be. He gets to his feet, wipes off the knees of his jeans, and turns around.
To his surprise, Rabbi Solomon is staring at the cross as if it were a rattlesnake poised to strike. "Interfaith, my foot."
"Rabbi," Father MacReady says.
They size each other up, never having met but aware through the grapevine that they are both here in support of Faith White.
Rabbi Solomon nods.
"Have you heard anything?"
"I went up to Pediatrics. They wouldn't let me into the room. Something's going on."
"Something good?"
The rabbi shakes his head. "I don't think so."
The two men stand in silence. "Don't Jews need a minimum number of people to pray?" MacReady asks after a moment.
Solomon grins. "It's not a minimum, really. It's a min-yan, ten men. It's the smallest group you can have if you want to say some particular prayers."
"Strength in numbers, eh?"
"Exactly," the rabbi says. And without saying another word, the rabbi and priest sit down side by side in the pew, and silently begin to pray together.
"This is the situation," a smooth-faced young doctor says to Millie. "Her renal system's gone into failure. If we don't put her on dialysis, she's likely to poison her whole bloodstream."
Millie stares at this man for a moment, uncomprehending. How can this boy, younger than Mariah even, be telling her what they have to do? For the past half hour Faith's room has been buzzing with nurses and doctors and aides ferrying in equipment that gleams bright and unfamiliar, setting hooks and tubes and masks on her granddaughter until she resembles nothing more than an astronaut preparing to journey to an unknown world.
Not for the first time, Millie wishes that it were her mind, and not her heart, that had been cleared and resurrected. She stares at Faith, willing her to open her eyes, to smile, to tell them it wasn't as serious as they all thought. Where, she wonders, is your God now?
Just an hour ago, Mariah had called from the courthouse, and Millie had been able to say that everything was just the way it had been when she left. How could so much have gone wrong so quickly? "I'm not the one you should be asking," Millie hedges. "Her mother..."
"Is not here. If you don't sign the consent form, this little girl will die."
Millie swipes her hand over her eyes, then picks up the pen that he extends like a peace pipe, and gives her permission.
Ian steps into the witness box, and there is a moment of levity when the clerk of the court approaches with the customary Bible. He laughs, then good-naturedly looks up at the ceiling. "Okay, y'all. Get ready for lightning to strike."
Metz swaggers toward his witness. "Please state your name and address for the record."
"Ian Fletcher, Brentwood, California."
"What do you do for a living, Mr. Fletcher?"
"As I do sincerely hope everyone knows, I'm a professional atheist. I currently coproduce and star in a television show that features my views. In addition, I'm the author of three New York Times nonfiction bestsellers. Come to think of it, I had a cameo in a film once, too."
"Can you explain to the court what your television show is like, for those who may not be familiar with it?"
"Well, my show's been described as the anti-Billy Graham. I have a TV pulpit, but I use it to prove God doesn't exist, through theory and scientific inquiry."
"Do you believe in God, Mr. Fletcher?"
"Kind of hard to when you're an atheist." There are snickers from the gallery.
"For the past two months, what alleged religious miracles have you been examining?"
Ian crosses one leg over the other. "A bleeding statue over in Massachusetts, a tree in Maine--and most lately, Faith White."
"Why were you following that particular case?"
Ian shrugs. "She supposedly was seeing God and performing miracles and exhibiting stigmata. I intended to prove she was a hoax."
Metz moves in for his kill. "Mr. Fletcher, can you tell us what you found?"
For a moment Ian looks at the attorney, replaying in his mind the testimony he'd practiced with Metz as recently as yesterday. A long, slow smile transforms his face. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Metz," he says, "not a hell of a lot."
Metz, ready to throw his next question like a dart, falters in his steps. "Pardon me?"
Ian leans closer to the microphone. "I said, 'not a hell of a lot.'" He nods at the stenographer. "Is that about right?"
The gallery begins buzzing and humming, picking up on the disconnection between the plaintiff's attorney and the famous witness. "What you're saying," Metz paraphrases, "is that you haven't seen a lot of these so-called miracles."
"Objection," Joan calls out. "Leading."
"Sustained."
"Actually, Mr. Metz," Ian answers, "what I'm saying is that I've found nothing to support the theory that Faith White is a charlatan."
Metz starts shaking; he wonders if it is visible to the judge or to Joan Standish. He remembers his first meeting with Fletcher, when Fletcher had expressly said there was something big about Faith White that he was keeping under wraps. He recalls Fletcher's deposition--how the man had pleaded the Fifth for every question. At the time Metz had found it amusing, for all it rattled Joan Standish. But now he sees that Ian pleaded the Fifth because he knew, all along, that he wasn't willing to perjure himself by refusing to give testimony sworn in a deposition. Whatever he promised Metz he'd say in the confines of the law office was a lie--and there is nothing at all Metz can do about it. Fletcher could get up here and sing "The Star-Spangled Banner" if he wanted, and as long as his deposition couldn't be called into question, it would not reflect badly on himself, but only on Metz, who had underestimated his own witness.
Although it made him uneasy, Metz had been willing to let Fletcher keep his big revelation about Faith White to himself, just so long as he was planning to offer up a few lesser ones for the court. But this flat refusal to cooperate--it just doesn't make any sense. "Surely you've dug up something."
"Counselor, you wouldn't be asking me to lie, now would you?"
Metz feels the vein in his temple throb. He tries some different questions, questions they've rehearsed, to see if Fletcher will fall back into line. "Did you ever see Faith White perform a miracle?"
Ian hesitates for a fraction of a second. "Not precisely," he says.
"Where were you on the evening of October thirteenth?"
"Parked on the White property."
"What happened that night, at about ten P.M.?"
"I ran into Faith. Literally. She was in the woods, after dark."
"Did her mother know she was outside?"
"No," Ian admits.
"What happened?"
"She was bleeding. She...passed out, and I carried her to the house. To her mother."
"Let me get this straight. The child was running around in the dark, bleeding and nearly unconscious, and her mother was unaware?"
Ian frowns. "Once I brought Faith to Mrs. White, she was extremely responsive. She took Faith to the hospital for immediate medical attention."
"Is it possible that Faith White was running away because her own mother had hurt her?"
"Objection!"
"Overruled," Judge Rothbottam says.
Ian shrugs. "I didn't see her mother do that."
"But it is possible?"
"I didn't see you hurt Faith that night either, Mr. Metz, but I guess it's possible that you did."
Metz hesitates. He cannot figure out Fletcher's game. They are on the same side--both of them needing to show that the child is a fake--even if they desire that proof for very different reasons. "Can you give us other examples of Mrs. White being an unfit parent?"
Ian furrows his brow, as if in deep concentration. Then his expression clears, and he smiles at Metz. "Nope. Ma
tter of fact, I've only seen evidence to the contrary. In all the time I've been trying to discredit Faith, Miz White has looked like she's doing a pretty good job."
Ian's gaze floats over the gallery, coming to rest on Mariah. You see? Then Ian turns his attention back to Metz, to the calculating gleam in the attorney's eyes.
"You say you spent two months investigating Faith, and her mother?"
"That's about right."
"Can you tell us about some of these investigations?"
Ian steeples his hands together. "At the moment, nothing specific comes to mind."
"How interesting," Metz says, "since you were both on the passenger list of a plane en route to Kansas City about a month ago." He enters into evidence a piece of paper, an airline's logo emblazoned on top.
Ian tries not to let his body betray him; there has always been the very real possibility of Metz's private investigators turning up a paper trail. However, knowing the fact that a trip is taken was a far cry from knowing why. The real question here is how much Metz has uncovered.
"Maybe you can tell us what you learned on that trip about Faith and Mariah White?"
Metz stares at Ian, willing him to tip his hand, to admit that he'd tracked them to Kansas City for investigation--and then to admit what he found out.
"Huh," Ian says, feigning surprise. "I didn't know they were on the flight. I was in first class...never even went into the back of the plane." He grins at Metz ingenuously. "Talk about coincidence."
"If you weren't on that flight specifically to investigate Faith White, yet you were, by your own admission, in the middle of an ongoing investigation of her miraculous claims, then what were you doing on that plane, Mr. Fletcher?"
Ian's face is schooled into a blank mask. "Visiting friends."
Metz is so close now that his words rain against Ian. "What friends?"
"Objection, Your Honor," Joan says. "I have no idea why, but Mr. Metz is badgering his own witness."
"Yes, Mr. Metz," the judge agrees. "Mr. Fletcher's answered your question."
Metz cannot glance at Fletcher again; he's not sure he can trust himself to keep from strangling the son of a bitch. "Nothing further," he grinds out, sitting down beside Colin White.
"What the fuck was that?" Colin whispers.
Metz watches Joan whisper furiously to her client. "That," he says, "was a sting."
"What the fuck was that?" Joan whispers.
Mariah says nothing, just pleats and unpleats the fabric of her skirt. For a moment, when Ian walked up to the witness stand, she could not breathe; she wondered if, in spite of what Ian had said to her these past few weeks, he'd been lying, if he were going to play her for a fool.
"You knew," the attorney breathes. "Jesus Christ."
"He wants to help me," Mariah says quietly. "He didn't think you should know beforehand."
Joan stares at her for a beat. "Then tell me now: How far is he willing to go?"
When Ian looks at Joan, a current passes between them, a bond forged of common purpose. "You say you spent some time investigating Mariah?" she asks.
"Yes."
"You've seen Mariah being a good mother."
"Yes."
"Can you tell me about that?"
Ian leans forward in the witness stand. "I have never seen a woman so protective of a child, ma'am. Miz White has done her best to shelter Faith from the media, from the religious zealots on the property, and even from me. As Mr. Metz just pointed out, she attempted to take her daughter away from the whole affair by apparently running off to Kansas City. When I accompanied her to the hospital with her daughter, the time Faith's hands started bleeding, she didn't leave that girl's side for a moment. I have to confess that when I came to New Canaan I was expecting to see some kind of harridan--a woman who was trying to get attention by setting her own kid up as some kind of religious miracle worker. But the facts just didn't add up. Miz White's a good woman, a good mother."
"Objection!" Metz shouts.
"Grounds?" the judge asks.
"Well...he's my witness!"
"Overruled." Rothbottam nods at Ian. "Please continue, Mr. Fletcher."
"I was just going to add that when I was growing up in Georgia, I was told never to come between a mama bear and her cub, because the mama would tear through anything--including you--to get to her baby. Course, even back then I didn't listen to what I was supposed to believe. Sure enough, when I was about eight years old I got 'tween a mama bear and her little one, and spent three hours in a tree until she lost interest in punishing me. But I've never forgotten the look in that animal's eyes--there was just something in them that made me realize I was a fool to cross her. And thirty years later, I've seen the same kind of conviction written all over the face of Mariah White."
Joan tries not to smile. First and foremost, Ian Fletcher is an actor. He knows how to sell a line. "Thank you, Mr. Fletcher." Then she grins. "And thank you, Mr. Metz. Nothing further."
At one thirty-five, Faith opens her eyes for the first time in twelve hours. The nurse's back is to her, so it takes a moment for the monitors to make her realize the girl is conscious. "Don't fight it, honey," she says, as Faith begins gulping for air. "You've got a tube down your throat." She pages Dr. Blumberg and the pediatric surgeon on call. "Just breathe," she instructs.
But Faith continues to round her mouth and flatten it, in what looks like a gasp for breath, but what is actually the word "Mom."
"Mr. Metz," the judge continues. "Your next witness?"
Metz lifts his head. "Your Honor, may I approach?" Joan walks beside him, gearing up for the fight she knows is about to happen--the battle over the expert Metz mentioned that morning. "I need to call a witness who isn't on the list."
"I've already stated my objection to this witness, Your Honor," Joan says immediately. "I had no knowledge of this alleged expert of Mr. Metz's, and I need time to research this ridiculous psychological syndrome he's found buried in the Encyclopaedia Britannica."
"I'm not talking about the Munchausen expert," Metz answers impatiently. "This is someone else. And as a matter of fact, he's not sequestered. He happens to be in the courtroom."
Joan's mouth drops open. "Why did you even bother giving me a witness list?"
"Look, Ian Fletcher was an unexpectedly hostile witness, and I didn't cover what I was supposed to during his testimony."
The judge turns to Joan. "How do you feel about this?"
"No way, Your Honor."
Metz smiles at her, silently mouthing, "Appeal issue."
Joan sets her jaw and shrugs. "Fine, then. Go ahead."
Metz walks away, satisfied. This next witness will paint Fletcher as a liar--putting into question his entire testimony and his inexplicable championing of Mariah. At the very least, after this, Metz will have negated whatever unexpected damage Fletcher's done to his case.
"The plaintiff would like to call Allen McManus to the stand."
There is a flurry of confusion in the gallery as the reporters shift to let one of their own move from his seat to the witness stand. McManus hesitantly walks toward the clerk of the court, clearly surprised, as he lets himself be led through the swearing-in.
Metz silently blesses Lacey Rodriguez for once again turning up more information than he'd expected to use--information that most people weren't even aware existed, such as long-distance service provider's logs of incoming and outgoing phone calls at office buildings.
"Could you state your name and address for the record?"
"Allen McManus," the witness says. "Two-four-seven-eight Massachusetts Avenue, Boston."
"Where do you work, Mr. McManus?"
"I'm an obituary editor for the Globe."
Metz clasps his hands behind his back. "How did you first hear about Faith White?"
"I, uh, was assigned to cover a psychiatric symposium in Boston. And a lady psychiatrist was talking about one of her cases, a little girl who was talking to God. At that time, though, I didn't know the litt
le girl was Faith White."
"How did you find out?"
"I was at the office, and I got this fax about a dead woman who'd come back to life after her granddaughter had worked a miracle. Turns out it happened in the same town where this lady psychiatrist practices. And then the phone rings, and it's this anonymous call telling me to think about who would benefit by having the kid be considered some kind of healer."
"What did you do after that call?"
McManus lifts his chin. "I've tucked a lot of years of investigative reporting under my belt, so I figured I'd dig into it. I did a little research on the kid's mother." He smiles widely. "I was the one who broke the story that Mariah White was institutionalized for four months."
"Was it unusual for you to receive that anonymous phone call?"
Allen tugs at the collar of his shirt. "Well, working obits, I don't get Deep Throat calls very often. At the Globe we have Caller ID, so I copied it down, just in case I needed to get back in touch."
"What was the number, Mr. McManus?"
"I can't reveal a source, sir."
The judge frowns, as the press corps in the gallery murmur their respect. "You can and you will, Mr. McManus, or I'll hold you in contempt of court."
Allen is quiet for a moment, considering his options. Then he digs into his pocket for a small notebook and flips through several pages. "Three-one-zero, two-eight-eight, three-three-six-six."
"Did you ever have it traced?"
"Yes."
Malcolm Metz walks in front of the defendant's bench and turns toward Mariah. "Mr. McManus, whose number was it?"
The judge clears his throat, a warning, but there is no need. By now McManus is staring at one man, his eyes narrowed as he remembers a past indignity. "It's a personal cell phone," he says. "Registered to Ian Fletcher."
The minute Allen McManus takes the stand, Ian feels himself rooted to his seat, unable to move and equally sure that staying is the worst possible thing he can do. How could he have underestimated Metz? Now Ian sits two rows behind Mariah, watching her shoulders stiffen as she discovers that Ian was responsible for the slanderous story published about her. I should have told her, he thinks. If I had told her, she would have forgiven me.
He wishes she would turn to him. He wishes he could see her face.