Miss Buddha (75 page)

One thing that had already set this trial
apart was that, for a change, no one wanted out of jury duty, the
reverse was true. Anyone excused, whether by a peremptory challenge
or for cause, was obviously disappointed and seemed reluctant to
leave the room. “Refreshing,” Judge Moore commented at one
point.

They had each, Ruth and the prosecution,
been given sixteen peremptory challenges, all of which were
exercised. In addition, Jones and Matthews managed to excuse seven
potential jurors for cause, mostly along liberal-religious lines.
By contrast, Marten only challenged one juror for cause, once she
discovered that the woman in question was absolutely convinced that
there was no god of any sort, that we were all matter carbonized
into life, and that there really was not meaning to anything. Judge
Moore sided with Marten, and the juror was excused.

The twelve that would hear the case—Ruth
Marten’s peers—comprised seven women ages twenty-two to
seventy-six, and five men ages thirty to sixty-four.

Three of the jurors were black, one was of
Japanese and one of Chinese descent, one was a naturalized citizen
born and raised in India (someone Jones has unsuccessfully
challenged), the remaining six were white and mostly middle class,
except for the bow-tied sixty-four years old gentleman (who
reminded most people, Judge Moore included, of Colonel Saunders of
chicken fame) who seemed too well groomed to be anything but
aristocracy. He was also—and this seemed a natural turn of
events—voted by the other members to chair the jury.

Once seated, Judge Moore
gave the jurors a brief overview of the case, just to make sure
that everyone was on the same page, then announced that opening
statements would begin Monday morning, August the
12
^th
.
Then she snapped her gavel again. Not so many jumped this
time.

:

Perhaps it should have come as no surprise,
but it nonetheless did, at least for many of the commentators: all
stations that carried the jury selection—and more were climbing on
board and subscribing to the feed every day (the feed was provided
by NBC, the chosen crew, for free)—reported anywhere from excellent
to hard-to-believe viewer numbers. The Marten trial was quickly
becoming a national event; some pundits went so far as to label
this the public event of the century.

After the first two days of almost alarming
viewer numbers, networks in Europe and Asia, prompted by the
American figures, also took an interest, and by the end of the
week, the Marten trial had blossomed into an international
event.

::
128 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

Otto Jones was in his element. He lived for
this. The details of any case mattered far less to him than the
setting and situation—the texture and the air—of the opening day of
trial.

A case is a cause, is a jury, an audience,
and—especially here—a stage, a performance: his moment.

He rose slowly, as if to underscore his
rising, and replaced his chair just so. Now taking them in he
approached the jury. Halfway there, he began speaking, loudly and
emphatically:

“Ladies and gentlemen. I am willing to bet
you just about anything that a month ago none of you suspected that
you were soon to constitute a turning point in human history.”

He arrived, placed his hands on the polished
rail separating him from the twelve pairs of eyes and now paused to
make sure they all understood what he was saying. He saw that not
all did. An odd stare from number four, equally blank and
questioning from number seven. To rephrase then. Deep breath:

“It has fallen upon your shoulders, ladies
and gentlemen, to decide—whether that decision will be made next
week, or next month, or two months from now—whether the world as we
know it should be allowed to carry on undisturbed by riot and
catastrophe.”

This, he saw, did reach home. Touched
nerves. Okay, all with him now.

Judge Moore shifted in her chair, and
frowned slightly. Still, as a rule she gave counsel a very liberal
opening rein, and so remained silent.

“The defendant,” said Jones, turning towards
and looking at Ruth, thought briefly of pointing at her as well but
decided that his look would suffice—still loudly, still
emphatically, “a self-made prophet and new age guru, stands here
accused of inciting to civil unrest and civil disobedience.”

A brief pause. Then: “Now, what does that
actually mean?”

He paused again, to make sure of their
undivided attention. In fact, he scanned all twelve faces, each
long enough to make eye contact. Then he smiled his approval of
their focus, all eyes on him now. Waiting.

Excellent.

“You may assume that inciting to civil
unrest and disobedience takes a subversive agitator whipping up
discontent and revolt among people. And you assume right, of
course. That is one way to go about it. The more common and obvious
of the two ways.

“The other approach, the equally if not more
effective approach—just look at the result—was taken by Mahatma
Gandhi when he wrested India out from under the English, not by
active agitation, but by passive refusal to play by their
rules.

“The defendant’s approach is even more
subtle. For Gandhi did ask his people, his audience, to resist, to
no longer play. Miss Marten,” and here he turned toward her again,
to indicate that yes, he was talking about her, the defendant,
“does nothing of the sort, but achieves the same result, only even
more spectacularly, and faster. She could teach Gandhi a thing or
two.”

Number four starts to blank out again. Jones
realizes that she might not know who Gandhi was. Should he explain?
No, that would be a little risky, no way to do that delicately. So
he moves on.

“Miss Marten has not
asked
anyone to stop
playing by the rules. She has not
asked
anyone to stop taking their
medication, or to abandon their church of years and years, the
church of their family and friends.

“Miss Marten has not
demanded
that her
audience stop spending their money in ways that for the last
century has built this nation to the power that it is. No, her
approach is not as overt at that. But her effect upon this nation
is the same as if she had.

“Patients, all of whom should and
actually—when not interfered with—do know better, suddenly refuse
their medicine. Millions of people from all walks of life suddenly
refuse to fuel this country with their purses—our products, the
heart of this country, are no longer good enough, it seems, and
remain on the store shelves.

“A machine that has run just fine for close
to a century is today slowly grinding to a halt for lack of fuel.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the well-documented effect of the
defendant’s subversive actions.

“In this trial, not only
will we show that the defendant’s actions are the direct cause of
both this slowing of the economy and this endangerment of public
health, we will also show that her actions are deliberate and
self-serving. We will show that she is
in
fact
inciting to both public unrest and
disobedience, and that she is a grave threat to our
nation.

“And we will show that if she is not
stopped—we will show that if you, ladies and gentlemen, do not stop
her—we may never again enjoy what we all have come to take for
granted and love about our country, for it may not even exist a
year from now.”

He paused, again to survey his audience of
twelve. Partially for effect, partially to make sure he wasn’t
losing anyone, especially four and seven. Then he picked up his
tread.

“You may think that I am exaggerating the
gravity of the situation. Rest assured that if anything I am
understanding the serious nature of things. You will see this for
yourself as we present evidence to substantiate, and as our
witnesses testify to, this out and out attack on the foundations of
our nation.”

His voice had by now almost risen to a
shout. Definitely strong enough to blow through any cobwebs
accumulating around numbers four and seven, both of whom look a
little shell-shocked. The other ten looked a little stunned as
well.

Perfect.

Quieter now: “She will
claim, I am sure she will, that this widespread desertion of our
nation and its health that she has brought about was not her
intention at all. She will claim, and look you right in the eye as
she does so, that her intentions were nothing but good, savory. She
meant for nothing of this to happen. Oh, she will tell you this, I
am sure. But here’s the thing: we do in fact intend the effects we
cause. Psychologists have proven that we always, on some level, and
never very far from the surface, and
never
so deep down that we are not
aware of it were we honest enough with ourselves to take a look,
they have proven that we do mean the results we bring about.
Always.

“She,” and here he turned again to face Ruth
Marten, just to make sure the jury remained clear about whom he was
talking. “She will no doubt try to tell us she didn’t know the gun
was loaded. But, please believe me ladies and gentlemen of the
jury, she not only knew that the gun was loaded, she carefully
prepared and loaded the ammunition herself.

“She means to bring this country to its
knees, and she is succeeding.”

This was as much as he wanted to say. He
surveyed the twelve faces, and, again, in particular faces number
four and seven, and found that they were all wide awake, all
looking straight at him, some mouths even slightly agape, waiting
for more.

All right, one more spoonful: “I have no
doubt—and neither will you once you have seen all the evidence and
heard from all of our witnesses—that she did indeed carefully
prepare and load the ammunition herself, that she took careful and
steady aim, and that she then knowingly and willingly pulled the
trigger.”

Done.

He turned, and walked back to his seat, his
retreat followed by twelve pairs of eyes that then moved to linger
briefly on Ruth Marten, enemy of the state.

:

I have to admit that Jones knows how to wind
up and play a jury. They seemed to a man, and a woman, incapable of
letting him go, eyes following him every step of the way back to
his seat. Then, before returning to their seats, they landed on me,
lingered there for a while, some in curious disgust, some in what
struck me as fear. Jones’ had made his point very, very well. Hit
the mark with it, driven it home into the hearts of these people: I
was not to be trusted, look what I have done. And he would prove it
way beyond a reasonable doubt.

He was not a man to take lightly.

Judge Moore looked at me, a question in her
eyes: was I going to say something? The two television cameras
swung to look at me as well, asking the same question.

So I rose. I looked over at these twelve men
and women—the most important twelve men and women in my life, and,
truly, in the life of the planet. Not all looked back. Some did.
The old bow-tied gentleman did. The young black woman did,
defiantly.

I looked down at my desk. Free of all things
but a polished shine, standing in stark and naked contrast to
Jones’ overburdened desk, straining under the weight of evidence
against me.

I thought of approaching the jury, but then
thought better of it. What I had to say, I could say from here.

“Tomorrow will show that I have done nothing
but good for this nation, for this planet,” is what I said. Then I
sat down and said no more.

::
129 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

Judge Moore sometimes counted the words said
in a single sentence. When she did—and this happened perhaps once
or twice a week—she was not aware of doing this until the deed was
done, and she found herself nursing a number, an amount.

It was not always immediately apparent which
sentence she had heard and word-counted, but she could always trace
it. And, she knew this from experience, the count was always
accurate.

This time, when she found the number sixteen
hovering in her internal silence, there was no doubt about the
sentence: it was the sentence Ruth Marten had chosen as her opening
statement.

Sixteen words. The shortest opening
statement she had ever heard. Said, though, with such confidence
that they might just suffice. Still, she looked over at the
undeniably beautiful thirty-year-old accused of such grave crimes
against the state. Did Ruth Marten really know what she was
doing?

As a judge she could stipulate—if she deemed
the girl incapable of defending herself—that she must accept
representation. She was in two very separate minds about this. On
the one hand, the girl obviously had no real idea of judicial
procedure and protocol, which could harm her defense—and so
herself—irreparably by unforeseen blunders.

On the other hand, the quiet calm that she
literally emanated spoke of almost magical competence.

She decided to let matters stand the way
they stood. She would, however, do what she could to steer her
along the proper course, judicially speaking. That was decidedly
not taking sides, that was ensuring justice.

She knew that Marten had just said all she
intended to say at the moment, still, a part of her was expecting
more, and so—from what she could tell—did both jury and
prosecution. Therefore, she spoke, to clarify things:

“That is all?”

“Yes, your honor, that is all,” answered
Marten.

Judge Moore nodded. She then looked over at
the jury to make sure they understood. They seemed to. “Fair
enough,” she said. Then turned to Jones, “Call your first witness,
Mr. Jones.”