Sing You Home (44 page)

This morning Liddy cooked a big breakfast as a send-off, and I ate it, and promptly threw up. That’s how nervous I am. But before I can tell this to Pastor Clive, Wade leans toward us. “Turn to the left.”

I do, and that’s when I see the cameras. “Let’s pray,” Pastor Clive says.

We bridge the two lines of people, forming a horseshoe that blocks the entrance to the courthouse. Wade holds my right hand; Pastor Clive holds my left. As reporters shout out questions, Pastor Clive’s voice is loud and steady. “Father, in the name of Jesus, it is written in Your Word to call on You and You will answer and show us great and mighty things. Today, we ask You to keep Max and his legal counsel steadfast, and to guarantee their triumph. Hide Max from those tongues that would seek to disparage him and from the false witnesses who spill lies. Because of You, Max will not be nervous. He knows, and we know, that the Holy Spirit will move him to say what must be said.”

“Beep beep,” I hear, and my eyes pop open. Angela Moretti, the lawyer who’s representing Zoe, stands a few feet away, trapped by the barrier of our prayer circle. “I hate to interrupt your Billy Graham moment, but my client and I would really like to get into the courthouse.”

“Ms. Moretti,” Wade says, “surely you wouldn’t be trying to take away the First Amendment rights of all these fine people—”

“Why, no, Mr. Preston. That would go against my grain. Just like, for example, a grandstanding attorney who summons the media in advance, knowing that there’s going to be some kind of forced confrontation between his party and the opposing one.”

Zoe waits behind Angela Moretti, with her mother and Vanessa.

For a minute I wonder which side is going to blink first. And then, Liddy does something I am totally not expecting. She steps forward and hugs Zoe, then smiles at her. “Jesus loves you, you know,” she says.

“We’re praying for you, Zoe,” someone else adds.

That is all it takes to break the dam, and suddenly everyone is murmuring some message of faith and hope to Zoe. It makes me think of catching flies with honey, of killing with kindness.

And it works. Caught off guard, Angela Moretti grabs Zoe’s arm and barrels her toward the doors of the courthouse. Wade lets go of my hand so that she can push between us. As she does, Zoe catches my eye.

For a moment the whole world stands still. “God forgives you,” I tell her.

Zoe’s eyes are clear, wide, the color of a thunderstorm. “God should know there’s nothing to forgive,” she says.

It’s different this time.

I have been to court a bunch of times now, thanks to all those motions Wade filed, and the procedure is the same: we walk down the aisle of the courtroom and take our place at the plaintiff’s table; Wade’s lackey stacks a dozen books in front of him that he never actually opens; the sheriff tells us to rise and Judge O’Neill blusters in.

But this time, we are not the only ones in the courtroom. There are reporters and sketch artists. There is a delegation from Fred Phelps’s Westboro Baptist Church, wearing yellow T-shirts with block letters:
GOD HATES FAGS, GOD HATES AMERICA, FAG = SIN, YOU’RE GOING TO HELL.
I’ve seen pictures of them protesting at soldiers’ funerals—they believe God is killing the U.S. military to punish America for all its homosexuals—and it makes me wonder just how far Wade’s media effort really has gone. Is this trial,
my
trial, really on their radar?

But the Westboro folks aren’t the only ones who’ve come to watch. Members of my church are there, too, which relaxes me a little.

And then there are the others. Men who sit with other men, holding hands. A pair of women taking turns holding a baby. Friends of Zoe’s, maybe. Or of her dyke lawyer.

Judge O’Neill sits down on the bench. “Showtime,” Wade murmurs.

“Before we begin,” the judge says, “I want to caution everyone present—including counsel, parties, media, and observers—that in this courtroom,
I
am God. If anybody disrupts the orderly process of this court, he or she will be removed. Which is why all of you folks in the yellow T-shirts will either take them off or turn them inside out or be escorted outside immediately. And before you go off at the mouth about freedom of expression, Mr. Preston, let me reiterate that anything disruptive does not make Judge O’Neill a happy camper.”

The group from Westboro Baptist puts on sweatshirts. I get the feeling they’ve done this before.

“Are there any preliminary matters?” the judge asks, and Angela Moretti stands.

“Your Honor, I have a motion I’d like to make before we begin—to sequester the witnesses.”

“Who are your witnesses, Attorney Preston?” the judge asks. Wade offers up a list, and then so does Angela Moretti. O’Neill nods. “Any of you people listed as witnesses, leave the courtroom.”

“What?” Liddy cries out behind me. “But then how will I get to—”

“I want to be here for you,” Vanessa says to Zoe.

Judge O’Neill looks at both women. “Dis . . . rup . . .
tive,”
he says flatly.

Reluctantly, Vanessa and Reid and Liddy prepare to exit. “You hang in there, bro,” Reid says, clapping me on the shoulder before he puts his arm around Liddy’s waist and leads her out of the courtroom. I wonder where they will go. What they will do.

“Do we have opening arguments today?” Judge O’Neill asks. When both lawyers nod, he looks at Wade. “Attorney Preston, you may begin.”

Although this is family court and it’s the judge who will be deciding this case instead of a whole jury, Wade treats the entire courtroom as his audience. He stands up, smooths his emerald tie, and turns to the gallery with a little smile. “We are gathered together today to mourn the loss of something near and dear to us all: the traditional family. Surely you remember it, before its untimely death: a husband and a wife, two kids. White picket fence. A minivan. Maybe even a dog. A family that went to church on Sundays and that loved Jesus. A mom who baked homemade Toll House cookies and was a Boy Scout den mother. A dad who played catch, who walked his daughter down the aisle at her wedding. It’s been a long time since this was the norm in society, but we told ourselves that surely an institution as strong as the traditional family could survive anything. And yet, by taking it for granted, we have virtually guaranteed its demise.” Wade folds his hand over his heart. “Rest in peace.

“This is not just a custody case, Your Honor. This is a wake-up call to keep alive the cornerstone of our society—the traditional Christian family. Because research and basic common sense say that kids need both male and female role models and that the absence of this can have dire consequences, from academic struggles to poverty to high-risk behaviors. Because when traditional family values fall apart, the casualties tend to be children. Max Baxter, my client, knows that, Your Honor. And that’s why he is here today, to protect the three pre-born children conceived while he was married to the defendant, Zoe Baxter. All my client is asking the court to do today is to allow him to complete the original intent of these two parties—namely, to allow those children to be parented by a heterosexual, married couple. To let them thrive, Your Honor, in a traditional Christian family.”

Wade points a finger, bulleting that phrase as he repeats it. “A traditional family. That’s what Max and Zoe envisioned, when they took advantage of the science that is available to create these blessings, these pre-born children. Now, unfortunately, Max and Zoe’s marriage is no longer intact. And Max is not at a point in his life where he has remarried. But Max recognizes that he owes his pre-born children a debt, and so he is making a decision in the best interests of the children, instead of the best interests of himself. He’s identified his brother, Reid—a fine, upstanding man you will hear from—and his wife, Liddy—a paragon of Christian virtue in this community—as future parents for his pre-born children.”

“Amen,” someone says behind me.

“Your Honor, you’ve made it clear to the parties and counsel in this matter that this is the final case you will be handling after your long and distinguished career on the bench. It’s fit and proper that you be put in the position of protecting the traditional family here in Rhode Island—a state that was founded by Roger Williams, who fled to the colonies for religious freedom. Rhode Island, one of the last bastions in New England—a state holding true to Christian family values. But just to play devil’s advocate, let’s look at the alternative. Although Max has nothing against his ex-wife, Zoe is now living in sin with her lesbian lover—”

“Objection,” Angela Moretti says.

“Sit down, Counselor,” the judge replies. “You’ll have your chance.”

“These two women had to get married in the state of Massachusetts, because this one—their
home state
—does not legally recognize their same-sex union. Neither the government nor God sees their marriage as valid. Now, let’s imagine that these pre-born children wind up in that household, Your Honor. Imagine a young boy with two mommies, exposed to a homosexual lifestyle. What’s going to happen to him when he goes to school and is teased for having two mothers? What’s going to happen when, as studies show, he winds up gay himself because of the way he was raised? Judge, you grew up with a father. And you yourself have
been
a father. You know what these roles have meant to you. I beg you, on behalf of Max Baxter’s pre-born children, don’t let your decision today deny them the same opportunity.” He turns to the gallery. “Once we drive that final nail into the coffin of traditional family values,” Wade says, “we’ll never be able to resurrect them.”

He sits back down, and Angela Moretti stands up.

“If it looks like a family, talks like a family, acts like a family, and functions like a family,” she says, “then it’s a family. The relationship between my client, Zoe Baxter, and Vanessa Shaw is not housemates or roommates but life partners. Spouses. They love each other, they are committed to each other, and they function as a unit, not just as individuals. The last time I checked, that was a valid definition of a family.

“Mr. Preston would like to seduce you with talk of the demise of the traditional family. He raised the fact that Rhode Island is a state that was founded on religious freedom, and we could not agree more. We also know, however, that not every resident in the state of Rhode Island believes what Mr. Preston and his client do.” She turns to the gallery. “Moreover, Rhode Island
does
recognize the relationship between Zoe and Vanessa. For fifteen years, the state has offered limited legal rights to same-sex domestic partnerships. This very court routinely grants second-parent adoptions for gay and lesbian families. And, in fact, Rhode Island was one of the first states in the country to have a gender-neutral birth certificate that lists not
mother
and
father
but rather
parent
and
parent.

“Unlike Mr. Preston, however, I don’t think this case is about general family values. I think it’s about one particular family.” She glances at Zoe. “The embryos in question today were created during the marriage of Zoe and her ex-husband, Max Baxter. These embryos are property that was not divided in the divorce settlement. There are two biological progenitors of these embryos—the plaintiff and the defendant, and they have equal rights to the embryos. The difference here, though, is that Max Baxter no longer wants to have a baby. He’s using biology as a trump card to gain an advantage, to take the embryos away from an intended parent and her legal spouse. If Your Honor rules in my client’s favor, we would make every effort to include the other biological progenitor of the embryos—Max—as part of this family. We believe there can’t be too many people to love a child. However, if Your Honor rules against my client, Zoe—the mother of these embryos—will be prevented from raising her biological children.”

She gestures at Zoe. “You’ll hear testimony, Your Honor, about medical complications that have left Zoe unable to gestate her own embryos. At this point in her life, she doesn’t have the time left in her reproductive cycle to go through additional in vitro procedures to harvest more eggs. Zoe, who so desperately wants to have a baby, is being robbed of that opportunity by her ex-husband—who doesn’t even want a child. He isn’t fighting for the right to be a parent. He’s fighting to make sure that Zoe
isn’t
one.”

Angela Moretti looks at the judge. “Mr. Baxter’s attorney has raised a lot of questions about God and what God wants and what God intends a family to be. But Max Baxter is not asking for God’s blessing here, to be a parent. He’s not asking God what the best situation for these embryos is.”

She faces me, and, in that moment, I can barely breathe. “Max Baxter is asking you to play God instead,” she says.

Being on the witness stand, Pastor Clive says, is like testifying at church. You just get up there and tell your story. It doesn’t matter if it’s humiliating or hard to relive. What’s important is that you’re a hundred percent honest, because that’s how people become convinced.

Pastor Clive is one of the witnesses out there waiting in whatever limbo they’ve been sent to, and I sorely wish that wasn’t the case. I could use his strength right now, just so that I have someone to focus on while I’m on the witness stand. As it is, I have to keep wiping my palms on my pants, because I’m sweating so much.

What calms me down, actually, is the sheriff coming at me with a Bible. At first I think he’s going to ask me to read a passage, and then of course I remember how every trial starts.
Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?
I rest my hand on the worn leather cover. Immediately, my heart stops its jackhammering.
You’re not alone up there,
Pastor Clive had said, and sure enough, he’s right.

Wade and I have rehearsed my part a dozen times. I know the questions he’s going to ask, so I’m not worried about that. What’s getting me all tied up in knots is what happens when he’s done, when Angela Moretti has her turn to rip me apart.