Blameless in Abaddon (43 page)

Martin left the prosecution table gripping his binder and swathed in self-confidence, his ears ringing with the husky voices of Lot's daughters trashing the disciplinary defense and the enraged bleatings of Gordon the ram savaging its eschatological counterpart.

“I'd like us to climb down from Heaven for a moment and talk about the present vale of tears,” he informed Swann as he limped toward the exhibits.

“As you wish.”

He retrieved the Ziploc bag containing Mrs. Lot's right ear, approached the stand, and, disclosing the relic's identity, asked Swann whether she regarded the salinization of Lot's wife as a good example of the disciplinary defense in action.

“It's a puissant little parable.” Swann examined the ear with an expression that alternated between curiosity and revulsion. “As I interpret it, the woman lacked moral fiber—otherwise she wouldn't have looked back on Sodom.”

“She needed to be taught a lesson?”

“Right.”

“So along comes Professor Lovett's cosmic surgeon, inflicting an instructive variety of suffering on the disobedient woman?”

“Yes.”

Taking the ear from the witness's grasp, Martin hobbled up to the lectern. “Dr. Swann, are you familiar with the dictum, ‘Let the punishment fit the crime'?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you believe Mrs. Lot's punishment fit her crime?”

“Objection,” said Lovett.

“Overruled,” said Torvald.

Swann swallowed hard. Martin hoped the judges were studying their monitors closely. “Well, no,” she said cautiously, “but I imagine it fit in
God's
eyes.”

“The hidden harmony defense was yesterday. This morning we're doing the disciplinary defense.” Martin opened his binder atop the lectern. “Would you like to know what Lot's daughters think of it? They told me, quote, ‘If you'll take a minute to consider the quantity of pointless pain in this universe, you'll see that the cosmic surgeon has acted more like a vivisectionist.'”

Swann winced. “I am sure Lot's daughters possess many virtues, but they are not trained theologians.”

“Have
you
ever taken a minute to consider the quantity of pointless pain in this universe?”

“That's a loaded question.”

“Then give me a loaded answer.”

“Objection,” said Lovett.

“Sustained,” said Torvald.

“Withdrawn,” said Martin, slamming the binder shut. Got her on the run, he thought. “Would it be accurate to say the disciplinary defense traces to the old ideal of retributive justice?”

“I suppose it does . . . yes,” said Swann guardedly.

“All those serious thinkers you cited—Augustine, Nazianzenus, Luther—wouldn't they argue that suffering represents well-deserved retribution for sin?”

“Fair enough.”

“If these theologians came back today, they'd probably interpret the AIDS epidemic as God's punishment for the sin of homosexuality, true?”

“I don't believe homosexuality is a sin.”

“I didn't ask you that. I asked you whether Augustine and company would interpret AIDS as divine punishment.”

“Objection,” said Lovett. “The question calls for speculation.”

“Overruled,” said Torvald.

“They might interpret AIDS as divine punishment, yes,” said Swann.

“Now . . . suppose Augustine noticed that people sometimes get AIDS for reasons other than controversial sexual activities,” said Martin. “Last month the tribunal heard from the widow of an adolescent named Billy Jenkins. What would Augustine say to a hemophiliac like Billy whose AIDS bears no relationship to his conduct?”

“I don't know.”

“Use your imagination. What would he say?”

“I'm not here to defend Saint Augustine.”

“All right—what would
God
say to a hemophiliac who got AIDS?”

“I don't know that either.”

“‘Ooops'?”

“I cannot presume to speak for God.”

“‘Sorry, Billy, guess you got hit by some friendly fire.'”

A peal of quavering laughter issued from the gallery.

“In instances where the victim appears to be innocent, one does best turning to eschatology,” said Swann, inhaling through clenched teeth. “God permits suffering in this world so we might be perfect in the next.”

As Martin approached the exhibit table, he experienced two concurrent crab spasms, one in his left pubic bone, the other in his right shoulder. He slipped a Roxanol between his lips and, reaching out, obtained Isaac's leather bindings. Limping to the stand, he dangled the bindings in front of Swann like a mischievous boy attempting to frighten his little sister with earthworms.

“Can you tell me what these are?”

“Thongs?”

“The very thongs with which Abraham bound Isaac's wrists together.” Returning to the lectern, Martin set down the thongs and rubbed his palm across them, as if molding a pair of clay snakes. “No doubt you're familiar with the case. It's an eschatological classic. Yahweh demands a blood sacrifice, and Abraham goes ahead and builds an altar, lays Isaac on top, and picks up the knife. At the last minute, Yahweh calls it off. Question, Dr. Swann: what do you think of a God who would put His creatures through an experience like that? Is He benevolent?”

“Objection,” said Lovett.

“Overruled,” said Torvald.

“Among other interpretations, the story of Abraham and Isaac can be taken to mean that suffering is a temporary condition,” said Swann. “In the fullness of time, the substitutional ram will appear and justice will prevail.”

“All's well that ends well?” said Martin.

“Right.”

“Jam tomorrow?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Life is Hell, but then you go to Heaven?”

“That's one way to put it.”

Martin pointedly encircled his wrist with a thong, then pulled the binding taut. “Despite different philosophical outlooks, the various players on Mount Moriah all agree that the problem of evil cannot be solved through appeals to a Christian afterlife. In the ram's words, ‘A father doesn't have the right to sexually molest his children throughout the winter simply because he intends to take them to Disneyland in the spring.'”

“Christianity teaches that people suffer because they're born into a fallen world.” Swann's elegant fingers writhed around each other in a Laocoönian tangle. If the Court TV director knew his stuff, Martin decided, he was ordering the videographer to zoom in. “God is not the culprit. God is our salvation.”

“Have you ever heard the maxim, ‘Justice delayed is justice denied'?”

“Everybody's heard that maxim.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe that justice delayed is justice denied?”

“I imagine I do . . . yes.”

“Would you mind repeating that for the record? You believe that justice delayed . . .”

“Objection,” said Lovett. “Leading the witness.”

“Withdrawn,” said Martin tartly. “No further questions. Thank you, Dr. Swann.”

He sauntered back to the prosecution table, grinning so prodigiously his face was starting to ache.

“You ate her for breakfast,” said Randall.

“Three down and two to go,” said Martin.

 

Eighteen hours later Lovett stood before the bench, speaking glibly and smiling seraphically, as if the case for the defense were still as sturdy as the dikes holding back the North Sea.

“It is one thing—I'm sure Your Honors will agree—to understand how the great theodicies operate on an abstract plane, and quite another to see them touching people's lives. No solution to the problem of evil can ease a victim's pain in the telling alone, but only when coupled to the grace of God. The defense calls Amos Brady.”

“Who the fuck is Amos Brady?” whispered Randall.

“I don't know, but I think Lovett's about to unleash his secret weapon,” said Martin, defiantly opening his binder to a blank page.

The witness, a stooped and wizened man in a frayed cardigan sweater, entered the courtroom with the sort of sauntering gait the elderly commonly affect by way of denying their inveterate exhaustion. His saintliness, though palpable, was of a decidedly earthly sort: a Francis of Assisi who preached the Gospel not just to the birds in the trees but also to the grubs in the ground. As the interview got under way, the tribunal learned that Brady was an eighty-year-old retired aluminum-siding salesman who lived with his wife and sister-in-law in Minatare, Nebraska.

“Do you consider yourself a religious man, Mr. Brady?”

“When I was a boy, my parents kept dragging me to Lutheran Sunday school. I liked the music. It wasn't until my son was born, though, that God appeared in my life as well. I actually saw Louis enter the world—this was 1963, when they were just starting to let fathers in the delivery room.”

“Did Louis seem all right to you?”

“He was purple as a grape and all tangled up in the umbilicus. But the part that's etched in my mind forever happened when the nurse turned to the obstetrician and said, ‘He looks Downsy around the eyes.'”

“‘Downsy'? What did the nurse mean?”

“She meant Louis had Down's syndrome. She meant he was a ‘mongoloid idiot,' as they called those kids back then.”

“Did you and your wife speak with a pediatrician that day?”

“We did. He said Louis would be severely retarded and susceptible to all sorts of infectious diseases. Our boy would never be able to dress himself, use the toilet, or know who me and Charlotte were. It'd be best all around if we put Louis in a state mental hospital and pretended he'd died at birth.”

“What did you say to the pediatrician?”

“We told him, ‘Excuse us, Doc, but we have to give Louis his first bath.'”

For the next ninety minutes Amos Brady catalogued the enervating realities of raising a Down's syndrome child. The uncomprehending relatives and the unsympathetic bill collectors. The beshitted underwear and the chronic earaches. By the time he was nine, Louis could tie his shoes, speak in complete sentences, and read
Pat the Bunny
all by himself. In his adolescence he became an expert at finding the nests of baby rabbits whose mothers had been preyed upon, then raising the bunnies to adulthood and selling them to pet stores. Throughout his twenties Louis held down a job mopping the floor at Emilio's Pizzeria in Gering.

“What you're describing sounds like a miracle,” said Lovett.

“Charlotte and I had help.”

“Whose help?”

“Objection!” cried Martin.

“Overruled,” said Torvald.

“We had the good Lord's help,” said Amos.

“Aren't you mad at the Defendant for burdening you with a Down's child?” asked Lovett.

“Louis was a blessing, not a burden.” Amos absently tore a pill from the cuff of his sweater. “Sure, there were times when we wanted to give up, but it made us better human beings . . . slower to pass judgment—know what I mean?—more understanding of the other person's faults.”

Lovett stared directly into the witness's luminous eyes. “Is your son still alive, Mr. Brady?”

“These days, the typical Down's kid can expect to live anywhere between thirty-five and fifty years. Louis wasn't as lucky as some. He died last October, at age thirty-seven.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

A solitary tear slid down Amos's cheek. “We miss him a lot.”

“I imagine your faith sustains you.”

“The last time Charlotte and me visited Louis's grave . . . he's buried at Clearview Cemetery in Scottsbluff, and the last time we visited—I swear this is true—a rabbit came hopping onto the grass in front of the tombstone, a little brown bunny like the ones Louis used to raise. It started nibbling the clover.”

“You took this as a sign?”

“Louis was using the bunny to tell us he's doing just fine up in Heaven.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brady. The witness is yours, Mr. Candle.”

Martin rose stiffly from the prosecution table and muttered, “I feel like I'm about to kick a puppy.”

“Or a little brown bunny,” said Esther.

Forcing a self-assured smile, Martin limped to the lectern, set down his cane, glanced at his notes, and said, “Hello, sir.”

“Good morning.”

“Down's syndrome is a genetic anomaly, correct? Your son was conceived with three twenty-first chromosomes, whereas most children have only two.”

“That's right.”

“Why do you suppose the Defendant failed to engineer the human germ cell so it would always divide normally?”

“I thought you'd ask me something like that. You want to hear my answer? I'll tell you. There's never been a time in history when Down's kids weren't with us. It happens once every seven hundred births, which means you could go out right now and find about ten million cases worldwide. The way I figure it, anything so common must be around for a reason.”

“And what is the reason?”

“I believe God sends Down's kids to Earth to teach us about love and gentleness and joy.”

“Okay, but let's focus on the children themselves for a moment. Isn't it wrong that they should go through life feeling inadequate and defective?”

“Louis was a happy boy. He looked a little funny, sure, with his thick tongue and crinkled ears—his Downsy eyes—but I'll tell you a true fact: he was the kindest person I ever knew.”

“Suppose scientists one day figure out how to correct Down's syndrome in the womb . . . would that be a good thing, Mr. Brady?”

“I guess so. A good thing? Sure.”

“So given the choice between the status quo and a universe without Down's syndrome, you'd opt for the latter, correct?”

“Uh-huh.”