God's Not Dead 2 (25 page)

Beyond

A POST FOR
WAITING FOR GODOT

by Amy Ryan

Sometimes I think this world is like a premium outlet shopping mall full of windows and doors and invitations to come in and browse and shop. Store after store, with so many choices and options and wants and needs. Name brands we know and love and desire. So often
 
—too often
 
—we enter through the door and become lost. We get stuck in the aisles of clothing and merchandise. Maybe we can’t decide, so we stay put. Or we become overwhelmed, so we try to hide.

The mall’s owner is nowhere to be found at this shopping mall. There’s a one-lane back road with directions on how to find him, but you have to go past all those wonderful retail shops and so many temptations. It’s easy to become distracted or to get sidetracked or to simply forget.

I was lost, circling the stores just a year ago. Then someone came along and told me I wouldn’t be around to shop anymore. So the first thing I did was go searching for something else. I tried to find that one-lane road, to experience something more meaningful. And I did.

But it’s hard when the doors open again and you’re given a nice new credit card and more time to shop.

More time.

I’m only twenty-seven but I know that my time
 
—that all of our time
 
—on this earth is limited.

Today
 
—tonight
 
—I made a decision.

I don’t want to walk around the shops anymore. I don’t want to peer into the windows, contemplating. I don’t want to wonder if that back road does eventually lead to the store owner. I want to head down it and never look back.

I don’t need to buy anything more or browse or even do some wishful window-shopping. I need to go out beyond where people are busy browsing and buying. I need to walk among those on the outskirts, those unable or unwilling to find the road to the owner. I need to go help them in any way I can.

Twice now I’ve seen faith tested. Genuine faith that’s been attacked. This is the second time I’ve been standing there in the front row to watch.

Whatever happens tomorrow, I know something: It’s time for me to get on stage. To see the lights in my eyes and to feel the sweat on my forehead and to know I’m being watched. And then
 
—I’ll tell them to come along. Everybody watching or listening, I’ll invite them to take a walk with me. Just down this way. Just over this dirt road. This bumpy, muddy dirt road.

I’ll promise them that it leads to a better place.

Then as we walk together, side by side along this road, I’ll share the reasons I believe.

GOD, WHAT DO YOU WANT?
Do the negative figures and overdue accounts paint my worth?

I walk down a sidewalk several blocks away from my house. I got home after leaving Grace’s house but then felt cooped up and imprisoned sitting on a couch. So I took Ressie on a walk and just kept walking. Thinking. Wondering. Maybe, possibly, praying, if this is praying. If there’s a God to pray to.

Are you there? And have you followed me all my life?

And why here and why now am I suddenly having to speak for you?

Maybe I should withdraw the question. Rephrase it.

Why here and why now have you decided to speak to me?

I hear Ressie panting. She’s seriously out of shape. Maybe I should walk her more. Maybe I should pray more.

I turn down a street and see a glow in the distance. I squint and make out the sign of a church. It gives the church’s name and service times, but I suddenly think of Grace telling me about seeing that old sign with the one bulb hanging there, illuminating a single, haunting question.

“Who do you say that I am?”

I begin to head in a different direction because I don’t want an answer. But the question follows like a fearless child bolting through the dark.

Yet I know if I turned it wouldn’t be a child running after me but my father.

Tell me, Tom. Who am I? Who do you think I am?

I see his face and I hate him. I despise this man who’s made me feel minuscule my whole life. But the voice I’m hearing is not my father’s.

So why should I allow you to do the same? Tell me why
 
—
tell me
!

My skin crawls with goose bumps. I don’t know what that was, this feeling and those thoughts and this rumbling.

I listen but don’t hear a thing. At least not audibly.

But the silence doesn’t prove anything.

No.

The silence reminds me that this is not a conversation with my father. There’s nothing about this moment that has to do with dear old Dad.

He’s not here. If he were, he’d be arguing or judging or insinuating or saying something. But all I can hear is silence. A shadowy stillness blowing that same question over the back of my neck.

Who do you say that I am?

My heart aches. This isn’t a courtroom and there isn’t some
point to prove. There’s just this beating pain and this voice inside and I want it to go away.

“He brings opportunities and people who help.”

Opportunities . . .

People who help . . .

Grace. It’s not even a subtle sort of irony.

I sorta love this woman not because she’s the kind I’d love but because she’s the kind who can make me more lovable in life. And maybe she’s right
 
—maybe we were put together for a reason.

Is it for this? For this moment right now?

The arguments fill my head again. Shouting out. I hear all of them. They make me stand in place on the sidewalk.

“Please help me,” I ask God.

If I had to be honest
 
—completely honest
 
—I would say that there is a God and that I’ve known it all my life and it’s not because of my mother or my father but because of this quivering thing called grace boiling inside of me.

And yeah. A woman with the same name might have helped stir my simmering pot.

THE MORNING NUDGES
her gently, kissing her forehead, then telling her to get up and get going. Amy looks at the alarm clock and knows it’s way too early to wake up, but that doesn’t matter. She knows there’s no way she’ll get back to sleep.

After a morning jog
 
—an
actual
morning jog
 
—she makes coffee and showers and eats a breakfast consisting of an omelet with tomatoes and mushrooms and green peppers. She spends time on the computer, then more time reading the Bible, then eventually turns on the television to catch the morning news. She scans several channels and then sees a picture of Grace Wesley on one of them.

Wait
 
—what?

It’s Fox News. She might have changed her blog name and
her views, but she still hasn’t changed her news preferences, so it’s strange to be suddenly watching a channel she once openly despised. There’s no hate left inside, but there’s still some genuine apprehension.

The commentator is talking about Grace and the trial. Amy turns up the volume, still stunned a bit that it’s garnered this much national attention.

“She ought to have the right to answer a legitimate question, so long as she doesn’t descend into proselytizing,” the woman on the screen says. “Unfortunately, I’m guessing she loses. In the public schools? God’s already out the door
 
—and the progressive left will do
anything
to make sure it stays that way. But maybe I’m wrong; we’ll watch how this goes. I’m your host, Susan Stone. Plenty still ahead on the program.”

Amy turns off the TV. She doesn’t want or need to see any more.

I hope you’re wrong, Susan. I hope Grace proves everybody wrong.

She looks at the clock and knows she still has another hour before she needs to arrive at court. But it doesn’t matter. It’s time. She sips more coffee and prepares to leave.

Amy can watch more speculation on the screen or she can head to the place the decision will be made.

There’s no better place to sit and wait and pray.

Everyone is there waiting for the judge, just like all the other mornings. The jurors and Kane and his team and the Thawleys and everybody else. Grace is sitting at the table, looking classy in her suit jacket and skirt. Yet Grace is doing exactly what Amy is doing, looking around and staring back at the closed doors.

She’s surely wondering the same thing too.

Where’s Tom?

Of all the days to be late, this is pretty much the worst one.

Amy can see the look of worry and fear on the teacher’s face. And ever since talking with Tom that first night and studying and listening to him in this courtroom, she’s had the feeling he’s just one night away from heading down to Tijuana to escape or hide out.

Then she hears the bailiff’s voice call everybody to rise, and Amy feels a wave of panic flow through her. It only increases as Judge Stennis strides into the court and sits down, taking a quick scan of his courtroom.
His
courtroom and nobody else’s.

“Ms. Wesley, are we missing someone?” he asks her.

As if on cue, planned and perfectly executed, the door opens and in marches Tom like a Marine receiving some kind of medal for valor. Immediately Amy is thrown off guard. Her first thought is a bit terrifying.

Marc . . .

Tom looks like he’s gone out and gotten some professional to help dress him. Not only dress him but polish up every inch of him. Her mind reels off the items that Marc used to be so proud of.

The dark suit looks like an Armani. The gleaming black dress shoes look like Sutor Mantellassi. She spots gold cuff links and a watch that resembles a Bell & Ross timepiece. His red silk tie could be from Turnbull & Asser.

All items Marc used to brag about, all bought at the kind of shopping mall I blogged about last night.

It’s not just what Tom’s wearing but how he looks in it. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is freshly cut and he looks wide awake and alert and energized.

What’s happening here, and where’s the mutt we all knew and loved?

Tom steps past the railing and addresses the judge.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. My apologies to the court.”

The judge appears not to want to start the morning off with a verbal scolding. He only nods and waves off the apology.

Tom approaches his table, looking at Grace with a smile.

It’s not the confident sort of smile you might have when you know you’re about to win something.

It’s more the sort of grin you get when you’re about to do something crazy.

“DO YOU TRUST ME?”

That’s all I ask Grace. She looks perplexed, surely wondering why I’m late and why I decided to suddenly go
GQ
for the court today.

“Do you?” I whisper to her again.

Last night seems like both a month and mere minutes ago. Her expression is complete confusion. But she nods slowly, not saying anything, her worried face saying it all.

“Completely?” I ask her.

This time she only gives me a look of curiosity.

I hope this goes the way I imagine it might.

I turn to the judge. “Your Honor, I have one final witness to call: Grace Wesley.”

A few voices behind me in the crowd make some noise in
surprise chatter. I turn to Grace and see her complete bewilderment along with a flush that might be a combination of embarrassment and anger. Her eyes simply ask me what in the world I’m doing.

“Ms. Wesley?” Judge Stennis says. “Please approach the witness stand.”

“Do I have to?” she asks.

“I’m afraid so,” he says.

Such a lovely and demure woman, yet so feisty.

I love it.

Grace isn’t the only one in shock. The judge looks curious and Kane seems a bit alarmed. Grace still hasn’t left her seat.

Come on. You can do this, Tommy Boy.

“Your Honor,” I call out in the most authoritative voice I can. “Given the witness’s reluctance to testify, may I have the court’s permission to treat her as a hostile witness?”

I don’t even bother to look at Grace. From here on out, I have to focus on
one
thing and
one
thing only. Judge Stennis lowers his eyebrows and his gaze as if to try to see behind me to discern what’s happening. Yet I know what his answer has to be.

“You may.”
Proceed at your own peril.

Grace walks past me but I don’t look at her. I can hear the bailiff swearing her in, and as he does I go to the table and replay the questions in my head.

Don’t give in. Don’t back down. Just ask and go with the plan.

Soon I stroll back up to her and look at her the same way I did last night. Or at least I try to look the same way. I flash a smile.

“Grace, I want you to do something for me. Something for everyone in this courtroom. Do you think you could do that?”

Her gaze shows cautious amusement. She nods, still not having any idea what’s about to happen.

“I want you to apologize. I want you to tell them
 
—the Thawleys and the school board and everybody
 
—that you’re sorry. Tell them you made a mistake.”

“Tom . . . ?” her weak, stunned voice asks.

I don’t bother looking at the jury. I’m sure they’re a bit confused.

“Your Honor, what’s going on here?” Kane asks behind me.

“Go ahead, Grace,” I say. “Apologize.”

I’m not talking like someone encouraging a friend to do something she’s afraid of. I’m blasting her like a cop telling someone to stay in their car.

“Tom, I don’t get
 
—”

I cut her off. “You heard what I said, right?”

She’s pale and shocked.

“I would like you to apologize to this court and all the people in it.”

“I can’t do that,” she finally says.

Of course you can’t. You couldn’t do it in that first meeting we were in, could you?

“Why?” I ask. “Why can’t you do that, Grace?”

“Because
 
—I don’t believe I did anything wrong.”

So far she’s said exactly what I expected her to say.

“As your attorney, Ms. Wesley, I’m advising you to do it anyway. To at least
pretend
you’re sorry
 
—and throw yourself on the mercy of the court
 
—”

“That would be a lie,” she says, interrupting me.

I just shrug. “So what? Everyone lies.”

“Not everyone,” Grace says.

I have to build up courage to give her a cynical, doubting stare. But after being cynical and doubting for so long, I think I can pull off a convincing performance.

“Grace, are you looking to become a martyr?”

“Of course not,” she says.

I walk over to her without any emotion or goodwill or humor in my eyes. I’m trying to be a blank slate. “Then what is it you want, Grace? Tell me. Tell us what you want.”

“I want . . . ,” she begins, trailing off, her voice uncertain. “I want to be able to tell the truth.”

“The truth? Whose truth? What truth are you talking about?”

Because as we lawyers all know, you can’t handle the truth!

“Is there some truth that you know, that no one else knows?”

I know the strategy at the plaintiff’s table behind me centers around a conversation about all of this.

“No,” Grace says, more uncertain than she was even a minute ago.

“But wait,” I say. “Oh, that’s right. The other night, didn’t you tell me that Jesus
spoke
to you personally?”

Her whole body looks like someone punched her and she’s having to gasp for air. She shakes her head a bit, her eyes already asking me the question in her mind, the one coming out of her lips.

“Why are you doing this?” Her words are so faint that almost nobody but me can hear.

I clear my throat. “Ms. Wesley, I’m the one asking the questions. Did you or did you not tell me that Jesus spoke to you personally?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say to you?”

She’s quiet because she knows exactly what an answer like this will sound like.

“Okay, fine. I’ll make it easier,” I say. “Didn’t you tell me Jesus asked you a question?”

The face is a portrait of a wounded child. Tears hover at the corners of her eyes and she has to wipe them away. She keeps shaking her head in disbelief, her face still devoid of color.

“Tom
 
—that was personal. You weren’t supposed to
 
—”

“I don’t care. The other night, you told me Jesus asked you something.”

In the middle of the courtroom, between the jury box and Kane’s table and the judge and Grace, I face her and speak as clearly and loudly as I can. “What was the question he asked you, Grace? Tell me. Tell everyone. I think we all deserve to know.”

A clear streak spills down her cheek. A quick glance at the jury tells me they’re not feeling good about any of this either.

Grace speaks, but her voice is faint. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Answer the question,” I say.

She’s starting to sink in her seat. “They won’t believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you believe it. Tell us, Grace. Under penalty of perjury: What was the question that you believe God presented to you personally that night on campus?”

The sound of piano chords seems to crescendo in the otherwise-silent room. Grace doesn’t say anything and doesn’t look at me and doesn’t appear to even be here anymore. So I walk up to her and make sure she sees me.

“What was the question?” I ask.

She’s in tears, afraid, weak. “He asked me: ‘Who do you say that I am?’”

My skin and soul seem to burn but I keep going. I have to. “And what was your answer?”

Once again, the pause.

“Ms. Wesley, I think it’s obvious that
 
—”

“‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.’”

Now the silence serves to echo her statement. I wait to say anything more. Grace has said enough.

“Well, there you have it, members of the jury. Your Honor, I think we’ve all heard
quite
enough.”

The confusion train has already left the station. Grace is stunned in her seat. Kane appears not to be tracking. The judge himself realizes
something
is happening here.

“Mr. Endler . . . are you looking to change your client’s plea?” Judge Stennis asks.

“No, Your Honor,” I say in full bombast as if he insulted my only child. “I say she’s innocent of all wrongdoing, but I’m asking the jury to find against her anyway.”

Some gasps and muttering go off behind me. As expected.

“Let’s face it: Ms. Wesley has the
audacity
to believe not only that there is a God but that she has a personal relationship with him. Which colors everything she says and does. It’s time we stop pretending a person like that can be trusted to serve in a public capacity. In the name of tolerance and diversity, we need to destroy her. Then we can all go to our graves content, knowing that we stomped out the last spark of faith that was ever exhibited in the public square. I say we make an example of her.”

I’m no longer looking at Grace. I can’t. I’m simply facing the judge with the jurors to my right, watching like an observer to a train wreck.

“That’s enough, Mr. Endler,” Judge Stennis tells me.

He’s annoyed, but he also thinks I’ve made a witty one-off statement.

But I’ve just gotten started.
“Let’s set a new precedent that
employment by our federal government
mandates
you first must denounce any belief system you have.”

“Mr. Endler, that’s enough. You are out of order.”

The volume and tone are turned all the way up. He’s no longer annoyed. I’m hearing anger.

Keep going.

“And if someone happens to slip through the cracks and hide their beliefs, we arrest them and fine them. And if they don’t pay, we seize their property
 
—”

The gavel pounds and Judge Stennis shouts my name.

“And if they resist, well
 
—let’s not kid ourselves. Enforcement is always at the end of a gun.”

The hammering seems to be going off against my head. “Mr. Endler, you are out of order and hereby charged with contempt,” Stennis barks down at me.

Grace faces me, looking the way she might while watching a scary scene in a horror film. Those eyes, usually so confident, are wide and drowning in worry bordering on panic. Stennis is a shadow of vengeance, leaning toward me with arms crossed and fists surely tightened.

“I accept the charge, since I have nothing
but
contempt for these proceedings.”

I also have a heart rate of about 250.

“If we’re going to insist that a Christian’s right to believe is subordinate to all other rights, it isn’t a right at all. Somebody will always be offended.”

The judge calls out my name again, and again.

“Two thousand years of human history proves that. So I say we get it over with. Cite the law, charge the jury, and send them off for deliberation.”

Stennis’s jaw seems locked, his eyes loaded. He’s shaking his head in complete disbelief. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got out of his seat and came down to start punching me. Yet he simply looks over at the jury.

He’s agreeing with me.

“In light of Mr. Endler’s outburst and complete disrespect of these proceedings, we will bypass the usual closing arguments
 
—unless Mr. Kane finds the need to further address the jury?”

I glance back at Kane, who stands and no longer looks smug and in control.
Baffled
would be more the word I would use to describe him. “No, Your Honor. We can add nothing more.”

“Fine,” the judge says, still facing the jurors. “My instructions to you are simple: Uphold the law. Without unfairly prejudicing your decision or risking a mistrial on appeal, I believe I can safely say defendant’s counsel has dared you to convict his own client. The jury will now be dismissed for deliberation.”

The gavel unleashes a cloud of conversation and movement in the room, more than ever before. I’m back at my table, standing and collecting my notes. I’m trying to gain my composure and breathe and let the adrenaline stop pumping. I know Grace is still sitting in the witness chair, but I can’t look over at her. Not yet.

A wide grin rushes up to my side. Kane stands there with his team behind him.

“Remind me to send you a thank-you note,” he says, then walks out with the rest of the circus-goers.

I finally look up and see Grace approaching me. I breathe in, ready to explain everything and apologize and tell her exactly why
 
—

Her rigid palm cracks against the side of my face. Grace doesn’t even wait to see my reaction or to hear anything I might say. She stalks toward the door as I hold my jaw.

That hurt.

Not just the slap. Sure, that stung. The lady’s got some fire in her. But it’s not that. It’s the whole thing. It’s all of it. This morning’s testimony along with the rest of it. I hate that Grace had to endure any of this. And I hate that I had to surprise her with this last Hail Mary.

“I’m sorry, Grace,” I say out loud.

Nobody’s around to hear me.

I don’t really walk to the door of the courtroom. It’s more like I inch toward it. I’m not sure what I just did. Whether it was gutsy or just plain stupid. I do know, however, that I just torched whatever sort of thing I had started with this woman.

I guess I’m used to the contempt. Maybe I just can’t help bringing it on myself.