The Sixth Station (7 page)

None of us, even the most hardened, was prepared for what came next. A line of ten parents entered, wheeling children with every manner of horrific injury. Some were burned, some scarred without mouths, some blind, some quadriplegic, some clearly horribly brain damaged. “These children, once whole, now destroyed, are the handiwork of one man, a monster who in a few short years callously killed, callously destroyed at his whim. Why? Only God knows, but clearly the so-called man of God,” he mocked, “knows no God.”

Leaving the packed room totally silent, save for the sobs that could be heard coming from dignitaries and press alike, Finegold rested.

Even Bagayoko was holding back tears. “Please, Mr. Finegold, take the children to the private dining room and make sure they have a good, hearty United Nations feast.” She then called for a one-hour lunch break.

As the crowd started to file out, I stayed seated, knowing that I’d be swarmed by media, but also feeling that I really needed some time to take in what had happened to me—and that it was all caused by the man who had committed the horrific acts against those children.

“Pee for me,” I said to Dona, trying to sound as tough as I like to think I am, when she got up and made her way out of the chamber. The second she opened the door, I saw the media rush her, yelling, “Dona! Over here! Did he say anything…?”

Grateful when the guards closed the doors and locked them, I found myself alone for the first time that day. I stood up and walked around the grand room. I was spent. I mean, sure, we’d all been prepared for the monstrous experience of seeing ben Yusef’s alleged crimes displayed in living color. But I personally somehow wasn’t prepared to see those children. The suffering of those little kids simply overwhelmed me, and I started to sob. I sat in that big room and tried to comprehend what I’d seen and what had happened that day.

In an hour the court doors opened again, but it took another two whole hours for press and spectators to get scanned and file back in.

When everyone was finally seated and the dignitaries had finished giving their boilerplate statements to the media, Bagayoko called for opening statements from the defense.

Edmonds got up and walked to the front of the chamber.

“If I may, Your Honors,” she began, “on behalf of our client, we state once more to the court that there is no authority in this tribunal to pass judgment on our client.”

“Noted,” said the chief justice and glared at her, expecting something further, which was not just forthcoming but about to rock the room.

Edmonds thanked the judge and then continued, saying, “That being said, I want to explain that we took on this case not because other attorneys would not represent this man who has been labeled ‘terrorist,’ ‘monster,’ and ‘mass murderer,’ but because Mr. Demiel ben Yusef is completely innocent of every heinous crime of which he has been unjustly accused.

“Demiel ben Yusef is an innocent man. He is a man of God—yes—but also a man who opposes what organized religion has done in the
name
of God. And because his writings, sermons, and philosophy have turned people away from the bonds of organized religions, he has amassed millions of followers. Not thousands, but millions worldwide. Is every one of these followers wrong to believe he is a man of peace who wants to set them free from the fear of God and replace that fear with the love of God?

“Mr. ben Yusef has never killed, maimed, nor committed acts of terrorism and violence in the name of God nor of any organization, for that matter.

“What he has done is heal hundreds of fatally ill people—and we will prove that. He has fed thousands of starving people, and we will prove that.

“We will also prove that in those cases—such as feeding the anti–Wall Street demonstrators in New York City and Oakland, California, in 2011—he
did
perform a modern-day miracle, the miracle of getting past bureaucracy to get food to the demonstrators.

“And he did it again when he got relief supplies to thousands of starving survivors of last year’s devastating earthquakes in the Middle East.

“His miracle was that he found a way to avoid red tape and get donated food into the mouths of the stranded and starving. And we will prove that.

“Further”—and at this she smiled—“Demiel ben Yusef was not, unlike conspiracy theorists claim, hatched, spontaneously generated, or created as a clone from some mysterious donor’s DNA. We can’t prove that—but really, how do you prove conception?

“Even in this day and age of spying eyes and built-in cameras, luckily we are still allowed to
procreate
in private. And surveillance cameras were certainly not even a question in 1982.” She paused, looked at each judge in turn, and then said sardonically, “So, no, we cannot prove that Mr. ben Yusef is human or was conceived by humans!”

As Demiel sat without moving a muscle or blinking his eyes, even the most august of visitors began to giggle, causing Bagayoko to slam her gavel for quiet, with the admonition that she would clear the courtroom if any further disruptions occurred.

Edmonds, unfazed, continued. “But then again, how would I show
anyone’s
moment of conception in this entire courtroom? The very idea is so absurd I am left helpless to even comment further, other than to ask whether this is 2015 or the twelfth century.

“What next? Magic spells, witches, and devils?

“Yes, Mr. ben Yusef had actual flesh-and-blood parents—dead now. His father, Yusef Pantera, as Her Honor mentioned, died in a plane crash; his beloved mother, Meryemana Pantera, as has not been reported, was, we believe, killed last year in the Mumbai terrorist attack. Yes—the very one that ironically enough was credited to”—she paused here for dramatic effect—“the Al Okhowa Al Hamima terrorist organization, which Mr. ben Yusef has been accused of
heading.
”

The courtroom once again broke out in murmurs of shock.

Edmonds continued through the murmuring. “And the names of the real killers will shake the very foundations of this United Nations! And we will prove this as well.”

At that moment, Demiel ben Yusef, as though he were the judge, raised his hand slightly. Immediately the courtroom became as silent as a tomb, while Bagayoko raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Edmonds walked to the defense table, leaned in as ben Yusef whispered something to her, turned back toward the judge, and simply said, “On instructions from my client, Your Honors, I have concluded my opening statement.”

“You have the right to cut short or not even give an opening statement,” Bagayoko scolded, leaning forward in her chair, “but you will be expected—required—to mount a defense for your client in lieu of a plea, whether he wants one or not. Is that understood?” Then, turning toward ben Yusef, who again sat as though in a trance: “Mr. ben Yusef, do you understand?”

When he didn’t answer or even acknowledge her, she again slammed down her gavel and said, exasperated, “Under the circumstances, the chamber determines that the best course is to adjourn the proceedings until nine tomorrow morning. I will confer with my esteemed colleagues on how we will proceed tomorrow.” She glared at the defendant. “I will not have this courtroom turned into a circus—media or otherwise. I will order the gates closed—no exceptions—by seven forty-five. Court dismissed. Mr. Mohammed, Ms. Edmonds, please meet me in the justice’s chambers in one hour.”

Her gavel slammed. “All rise,” commanded the court officer, as Chief Justice Bagayoko stood and exited, trailed by the other world-famous jurists, who followed her out like ducklings after their mother.

“Early to bed,” Dona said as we began gathering up our equipment.

“At least it gives me a whole hour to file my column,” I answered, happy for the luxury of what I thought foolishly would be sixty uninterrupted minutes to write before the bosses started calling me, screaming. For reasons that still escape me, I hadn’t filed one word about the kiss. I guess that had been my fugue time.

What
was
I thinking?

“This is going to be the column of your life, honey,” Dona reminded me, “so you deserve the hour. But then, you know I get your exclusive interview.…”

“Interview?” I asked.

Dona looked up. “Du-uhhh! The Chosen One—remember?”

Meantime, the assembled heads of states—many of whom had simply come for opening day just to have history record the fact that they were there, were probably ready to be important elsewhere.

As the General Assembly emptied of dignitaries, the security teams made sure everyone else was kept back, making it impossible for any press to get to any of the world leaders.

Finally the agents assigned to Demiel spoke briefly to his attorneys and led him out, followed by his lawyers and the prosecutors. As Dona and I watched and recorded his movements, Demiel ben Yusef abruptly stopped in front of us again and again moved in closer than he should have been allowed to. He carefully mouthed, inches from my face, what sounded like
“Ani oneh rak le-Elohi,”
then, “Go forth for I am six,” before he was roughly shoved away by one of the security men.

“What? What did you say?” I called out.

“Oh, shit…” Dona said, turning around at the sound of rushing feet behind us. The press horde was descending like a crazed beast. Security rushed to meet them up the rows, guns drawn.

So much for passive resistance inside the United Nations, home of peace.

I, however, still in a kind of semishock, looked at my friend, trying to figure out not just what
“Ani oneh rak le-Elohi,”
and “Go forth for I am six,” could mean, but also what “Oh, shit!” meant.

“Honey, we gotta blow this joint,” Dona said, grabbing up her stuff and my leather satchel too.

“What?” I asked.

“C’mon, Ali, snap out of it! We’ve got to get out of here. They’re coming for us. Or for you, at any rate!”

I looked back and saw people I’d known all my professional life, folks I thought of as friends and colleagues, scuffling with UN security to get to me, like vigilantes after a child molester.

The agents who’d led us inside were headed our way again. “Here comes Brunhilda,” Dona said. “Thank God!”

They grabbed onto our arms and, with the assistance of four more of their uniformed colleagues, surrounded us and walked us to the front doors, out the cleared driveway, and to the gates, where the crowds seemed to have grown since we’d entered earlier in the day.

“Kid killer,” the crowds closest to the gates yelled, behind police barricades manned by cops standing in front, heels to the curb.

“Save our Savior!” screamed an overweight middle-aged woman whom we could see was being dragged away to one of at least fifty NYPD prisoner vans lined up on the street in front of us. “Save Him! Save Him, Jesus!”

“She wants Jesus to save the terrorist!” I screeched mockingly over the din to Dona.

“I guess we won’t be filing back in the UN office,” Dona cracked.

“Let’s get to my place and file from there,” I said. We looked at our captors for permission. The bruiser said, “Ladies, it’s not safe out here for you. We’ll escort you wherever you need to go.”

We made our way, full contingent intact, out the gates and along the outside of Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza, hugging the curb, where more barricades had been erected.

As we approached the Japan Society, a crazed TV reporter who’d been monitoring the events from his mobile unit, attempted to reach us, microphone out, cameraman shadowing.

“Ali! Ali,” he cried, using the name that was not on my byline but the one used by my friends.

“Do you know him?” the bruiser asked.

“No, she doesn’t,” answered Dona. “The nerve.” Protecting her turf, I knew.

The crowd noticed the commotion, and it moved toward us.

“Oh, shit,” I moaned, more scared than I’d ever been in my life.

As we approached the Church of the Holy Family, almost at a run, the steel gate of Mary’s Garden swung open and a young priest, holding a key, looking as frantic as we felt, said, “Hurry up, get inside!”

We all ducked inside quickly. As Bruiser and company watched our backs, the young priest said to Dona and me, “Man has much more to fear from the passions of his fellow creatures than from the convulsions of the elements.”

“Is that from scripture?” I asked, shaking his hand to thank him.

“Edward Gibbon, eighteenth-century historian,” he answered. Then, “I’m Gene. Eugene Sadowski, Father Sadowski, Father Eugene, whatever. Come on in and take a load off.…”

“You have Internet access?” I asked. I didn’t know if this was one of those old-fashioned churches that talked directly to God or needed outside assistance.

“High-speed, wireless, holograph—you name it.”

“Is this heaven?” Dona asked.

“No. Forty-seventh Street,” one of the cops answered. Then into his two-way: “We got a situation. Church of the Holy Family.”

Father Eugene led us into the rectory kitchen, and it smelled—I swear!—like fresh-baked bread and wine.

A woman and what I assumed was her adolescent son stuck their heads in the kitchen’s swinging door. The kid was holding a dry-cleaning bag with his altar-boy black-and-white robes. “Need anything before we take off, Father?” she asked.

“We’re good, Laurie, thanks.”

In half a second the bruiser was all over the pair like a bad smell. “ID, please, ma’am.”

The thirty-something-year-old mother in her too-tight jeans and too-blond hair looked at Sadowski.

“Mrs. Braunthauler works for me,” the priest said to the cops. “It’s all right. I can vouch for her.”

That’s a church lady?

“ID, ma’am,” the second cop repeated, as though Sadowski had said nothing.

Mrs. Braunthauler reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet and showed her driver’s license. “Take it out, please,” the bruiser said.

Mrs. Braunthauler complied, and the cop wrote down the information.

“Is that necessary?” I asked, putting my two cents in where they didn’t belong.

“Yes,” was all Bruiser said, and I swear she sounded pissed off. “In case you don’t understand, you are in danger, Ms. Russo.”