“ARE YOU THE Second Coming of Jesus, the Son of God?”
“I prefer to be called the Child of God.”
“Yes or no.”
“I am.”
“Yes or no, José!”
“Yes.”
“I draw the court’s attention to the defendant’s frequent claim: I am the Second Coming of Jesus, Son of God.”
Jay was sitting in a DefSMod (Defendant Security Module), a large transparent bell-shaped pod, made of hyper-glass, airtight and soundproof. He could hear what was being said in court, unless someone—prosecutor, defense counsel, or judge—imposed a security blackout. Then he could hear nothing that was being said or decided about him.
During questioning, the court could hear him, as now in the prosecution’s final summation, but his voice came out tinny and hollow. A glass pod was talking, not Jay.
All defendants tried by the military for capital crimes—99 percent of them terror suspects—were held in these for security reasons. But the real purpose of the module was to criminalize the guy inside. The very slim chance he or she had of being acquitted became anorexic. The pod said, This prisoner is dangerous, violent, and guilty.
From where I was sitting in a separated observation bay back of the hearing room, Jay was a shadowy figure behind two walls of glass, each one thick enough to be rocket-proof. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but he looked slumped and lifeless. That morning it was sometimes hard to remember that it was flesh-and-blood Jay I was seeing, a real man—my friend—whose life was in the balance.
If balance is the word. The military prosecutor, a sharp-nosed young officer with a West Texas twang, had a Risen Lamb pin in his lapel. Two of the three judges, air force majors both, were of the same persuasion—as was, even more amazingly, Jay’s own military-appointed defense counsel. They’d been ordered by higher-ups not to sport their pins during the tribunal, to ensure their objectivity.
The trial had been moved away from McGuire to a bigger, newer air force base, Fort Oswald, Texas, probably because Christians could be more easily mobilized there than in New Jersey. Several legions of them had been outside the gate that morning, baying for the false messiah’s blood, praying for the tribunal to “Execute him! Execute him!”
I might have made a nice graf or two out of a man named Kennedy being tried at a base named for one of the newest Christian saints, but I was still agonizing over what I’d agreed to do. How could I report this trial without conveying that it was a miserable sham?
“José, you have frequently repeated the statement: The Day of Judgment is at hand for Christianity. The Day of Judgment is normally interpreted as the return of our Sav—of Jesus to destroy his enemies with overwhelming force. Do you advocate the violent overthrow of Christianity?”
“No.”
“Do you advocate the overthrow of Christianity?”
“No.”
“Yet you’ve also said, I come not to destroy Christianity but to fulfill it. That’s a deliberate parallelism of the words of Jesus, who said, ‘I come not to destroy the law (of Moses) but to fulfill it.’ To do that he launched an entirely new religion called Christianity.”
With each question the prosecutor’s head lunged forward at the shadowy figure in the DefSMod, his nose like the tip of a broadsword. Another useless irony: Jay was being prodded toward almost certain death for advocating the supreme sanctity of life.
“Do you intend to launch an entirely new religion?”
“Yes.”
“Called Christianity?”
“That’s not up to me. That’s up to those who launch it.”
“What will it be called, Neo-Christianity? Christianity the Sequel? Christianity Two? Joséanity?”
“I have no idea.”
“But it will replace Christianity?”
“As we know it, yes.”
“So you do advocate the overthrow of Christianity?”
“If that’s how you define overthrow, yes.”
The prosecution’s witnesses had provided a ton of evidence. Aided and abetted by defense counsel’s cross-examination of them, which bordered on narcoleptic, their lies and innuendos were spectacularly damning.
There was Deion, who looked as if he had been expertly worked over for a night shift or two, his big face puffy and his speech slurred. He sullenly testified that, yes, he was now convinced that Jay had paid people to spike the drinks at his wedding and make it look like a miracle.
There was the chant-leading geek from the Garden, who turned out to be an undercover Risen Lamb operative. He confirmed the hideous blasphemies Jay had voiced before an audience of millions, in particular that God Almighty was a woman. His appearance shocked me for a second, a testament to my idiotic delusion that a Tribeca lisp and rimless Vuitton glasses indicated someone on the side of the angels. But no, they’re everywhere, Satan’s little helpers.
There was a goateed expert witness from a Pepperdine-affiliated research outfit called the Christian Science Institute. “No relation of Mrs. Eddy,” he joked. CSI concentrated on faith-based scientific research; the bearded one being a specialist in miracles and debunking them, especially miracles attributed to Catholic saints. He gave testimony about exceptional individuals with alpha waves outside the normal range of 7.5 to 13 cycles per second, who could learn to harness them to induce the temporary alleviation of symptoms of serious illness. I confess I found some of his testimony persuasive. Example: that Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions could be made to vanish for a time.
There was a cavalcade of informers and undercover types who swore up and down that Jay advocated group sex, gay sex, underage sex, socialism, Satanism, animal rights, snuff porn, abolition of golf, and other unspeakable crimes.
Crowning my shame was the most damning evidence of all: Kevin’s transcript of Jay’s preachments at McGuire, which had been confiscated from me when I was arrested. A Republican Guard intoned the juicier parts for the benefit of the court in suitably horrified tones, as if he were reading The Story of O to an audience of Carmelite nuns.
Finally there was the Reverend himself, who in a masterfully understated appearance was summoned as an expert witness on the deleterious physical and mental effects of blasphemy. Using his soft-spoken, carefully considered persona, he gave testimony directly relating to outrages the court had just heard. He concentrated on the inflammatory appeal of blasphemy, what he called the Three-F effect (for Forbidden Fruit Factor). The egregiousness of Jay’s theological errors could easily mislead young and untutored enlisted persons into capital crimes (like those Jay was on trial for). The Reverend was key to the prosecution’s strategy of conflating outrages to Christianity (blasphemy) with outrages to the state (treason). I had to admit, in my objective witness role, he did a compelling job.
The contrast between his mastery of the court and the hunched silent Jay was testimony in itself. Behold moral values triumphant: patriot versus traitor, Christ versus Antichrist, winner versus . . . loser.
To hold back the avalanche of negative evidence, defense pleaded insanity, calling one expert witness, a professor of clinical psychiatry at Rice with a specialty in religious delusion. He testified that the incidence of delusional messiahs was rising; Jay exhibited all the symptoms, quoth the Prof. He kept the court in stitches with examples of messianic weirdness, including one on the Inquiring Mind’s Nut Log, a Jesus who walked around with tenpenny nails in his hands and feet.
To wrap up his denunciatory summation, prosecuting counsel led Jay through his McGuire preachments, insisting that he answer only “I did” or “I did not.” The effect was almost ritual, a litany of self-condemnation.
“Did you say, There are no just wars?”
“I did.”
“Did you say, War is a mutual murder-suicide pact between family members?”
“I did.”
“Did you say, Cowards are heroes to God?”
“I did.”
“Did you say, Killing for your country is murder?”
“I did.”
“Did you say, Whether it’s from thirty thousand feet or three, it is still murder?”
“I did.”
“Did you say, It is murder to murder one who has murdered?”
“I did.”
“Did you say, I (meaning God) am not on America’s side?”
“I did.”
“The prosecution rests.”
Defense counsel waived the right to summation, and the prisoner was asked to stand for the verdict. He did. The president of the tribunal, a bespectacled air force colonel with silver hair, probably nearing his half century, who’d said almost nothing during the proceedings, asked the defendant if, in the absence of defense summation, he had anything further to say.
Jay looked at him for a long moment and bowed his head, shaking it slowly. Behind that lying glass, the thick barrier of hardened silica that sucked all the humanity out of him, it looked like a final utter admission of guilt.
The president asked the major to his left for his verdict. The major barked, without a beat, “Guilty on all charges!”
He asked the major on his right, who quietly, with great compassion in his voice, said, “Guilty on all charges. May God save his soul.”
Then the president said, “Gentlemen, fellow officers, I’m an American with old-fashioned American values. I’m none too sure how American these newfangled values we hear so much about are. In my America there is no God or Christ or Yahweh or Muhammad or any other religious leader, except in the privacy of a citizen’s soul. I am, I hope, a moral if imperfect man. But my beliefs are as irrelevant to the functioning of this tribunal as they are to the functioning of our great nation. To paraphrase the words of a great Christian—she was head of the Church of England when she said them—‘We do not make windows into our citizens’ souls.’
“It’s clear to me that this case is really a battle between two radically different interpretations of the laws and traditions of Christianity. I doubt this tribunal is the proper venue for such a battle. I don’t underestimate my respected fellow officers’ conclusion that the prisoner is guilty as charged of treason, subversion of troops during time of war, incitement to sabotage, desertion, insubordination and abandonment of weapons, giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and accusing commanding officers in time of war of capital crimes. Nor do I disrespect in any way their verdict that he should pay the price for these offenses, which is, in our jurisdiction, summary execution.
“But in my view, the only offense against the U.S. Air Force the prisoner has committed beyond reasonable doubt is to trespass on its property. For this, ironically, he is not charged. He did, however, trespass for the purpose, hallowed in our old-fashioned American traditions, of expressing his opinion. Now we can recharge him, find him guilty, and toss him in the brig for a few months to show him what happens to trespassers. But as to the other charges, I see nothing substantive in the evidence. Prosecution has failed to convince me that blasphemy as defined by the Church is treason as defined by the State.
“Obnoxious though I find his views, he simply preached what he believed was the truth. In what way is his right to preach his truth less than that of the Reverend Sabbath? Does the Reverend Sabbath or anyone else in this court have a monopoly on truth? What is truth, if we cannot all contribute to its totality? In my opinion, this man has done no wrong. I cannot condemn him.
“Since the crimes he is charged with carry the death penalty, the verdict of this tribunal must be unanimous. It is also required, in the absence of unanimity, that the tribunal duly reflect, on the gravity of the charges and of the sentence, before a second vote is taken. This tribunal is adjourned until nine A.M. tomorrow.”
I was driven back to my motel. María had arrived the evening before to keep vigil along with her friend Amarys, who was now with her 24-7, deeply worried about what would become of her should the worst happen. It felt good to be able to bear a little good news for once, my having been the cause of so much bad.
It wasn’t Amarys who came to the door of the room but Bobbi. She’d received a very minor charge; she figured it was to sow dissension within the Posse, since Angela and Kevin were still up for the same capital charges as Jay was. Her parents had bailed her out, and she’d just arrived to keep vigil with the other two women.
Jay’s mother seemed to get smaller and more defenseless every time I saw her. I wanted to hug her the way Jay would, but I knew it was out of the question. Her heart may have forgiven me, but her body was still thinking about it. So it was a joy—not a familiar feeling to me, I must confess—to be able to tell her the good news. Her face lit up like a full moon peeping over dark woods. The two younger women were ecstatic.
I enlarged. The trial could hardly have gone worse—the evidence, the witnesses, the spinelessness of the defense—but the colonel stood up for his principles in the face of everyone. So long as he stuck to his guns the next day, and there was every indication from his words that he would, the tribunal would be hung again and Jay would go free.
There was a knock at the door. It was my Guard driver. My services were needed. Immediately, please. That Christlike Guards courtesy. I got in the car, and an apparatus like oversize goggles was placed on my face, obscuring my vision, hearing, and all sense of direction.
The torture was under way. I was in a small room with a large oneway mirror through which I could see into the chamber. There was a Guard with me to explain procedures.
Jay was in a long hospital gown cut low on his chest and tied at the back, so that his back and lower end could be exposed. He was hooded. His hands were cuffed behind his back. There was a long white plastic table and a chair. He was slumped over the chair, groaning. In the chamber with him were two Guards in fatigues.
The softening-up stage was over, my Guard told me, simple beating with rubber-covered chains on the soles of the feet, the kidneys, the testicles. Internal damage might have been done in the latter two areas, but nothing would be fatal or visible. These guys, he said, were real pros.
The persuasion stage began. A cylindrical metal helmet was placed over Jay’s hood. My pal explained this was so his screams would be amplified back into his own skull. He was pushed onto the table on his back. One Guard held him down by the throat; the other took a pair of pliers and—with a sadism as ancient as malice—began twisting Jay’s nipples with them.
Even deadened by the helmet, Jay’s screams were like an animal being butchered. I turned away, groping for the audio to turn down the sound. My Guard restrained me. “Take notes, please.”
The twisting went on for about a minute, Jay writhing in agony. Then the restraining Guard leaned down to Jay’s helmet and said, “Recant. Say you’re a false messiah.”
The helmet shook slightly. So it began again; and again it stopped and again they repeated the same quiet message. Again the helmet shook. And again it began.
When the helmet shook again, my Guard explained that Jay was becoming acclimated to the pain so now they were going to increase it. The Guard with the pliers began pulling Jay’s chest hair out in tiny tufts, excruciatingly slowly, stretching the skin upward, until the hairs tore free. Dozens of tiny blood blisters appeared where each tuft was pulled out. Some burst. The animal screams were worse than before. Revulsion rose in my throat; I gagged.
The Guard offered me a sickness bag from a handy pile. He smiled. “Happens all the time.”
After a while, to my horror, my horror lessened. It became routine, my hatred of the torturers intellectual rather than visceral. Was I becoming acclimated to Jay’s pain?
No. Because then they started the electroshock.
At first I thought they were done. They took Jay’s helmet off and seemed to be soothing him. They were standing between me and him so I couldn’t see. But when they went out of the room, Jay was lying in restraints on the table, one clip on his tongue in the hood’s mouth hole, another under the gown on his genitals. Wires ran down to a heavy-duty outlet in the floor.
The angry spasms the current flung Jay’s body into, were impossible to watch: an arm-flailing, leg-jerking dance of death. I thought, This is the closest you’ll ever be to incarnation, kid, to God in the flesh. The fundamental force of the universe shaking you like a rag doll.
The dance of death stopped. The Guards came back in and sat Jay up. All his motor skills were gone, head and limbs lolling uselessly. They whispered in his ear, “Recant. Say you’re a false messiah.” He had no response. He was inert. A terrible fear rose in my throat like reflux.
My Guard shook his head in disgust. “Passed out,” he said.
I tried something. “Y’know, I think I got all I need. Thanks.” To my surprise, he smiled OK and let me stand up. I said, “You guys are something, man. This was intense!”
We high-fived and went to the door.
“Know what?” He grinned. “Before the night’s out we’ll break him.”
But know what? They didn’t.
We rose early. The dawn was like scraps of last night’s porterhouse, alternate black and blood-colored streaks of cirrus scarring the salmony pink of the eastern sky.
Red sky at morning, shepherd’s warning.
By the time we left the motel to go to the base, a bilious cloud cover was settling in and the tips of summer thunderheads were already visible over the horizon, like silver-haired giants coming to the rescue.
The idea was to get on the base early enough to beat the demonstrators, but they were ahead of us. There were thousands of them this morning. Fundamentalists having little to do in the way of evening entertainment, they’d spent much of the night drawing signs of visceral fury.
There were dozens of variants on the red “forbidden” circle: a J, Jay’s face, or Satan’s face with a red line through it; DEATH TO, KILL, or INJECT coupled with same in every conceivable combo; long-haired Christs weeping; one enormous brightly colored tableau held by four men, showing Christ hacking Jay’s head off; another where Christ was injecting Jay in the arm with an enormous syringe marked POISON.
The din was immense and María was terrified. If the decision to acquit came down, as I was pretty certain it would, the righteous would be ready to lynch someone, preferably Jay but, failing him, some other nearby Hispanics. They’d never release Jay through the base’s main gate. There was no point in waiting there. I left the women in a diner two miles down the highway and headed back for the Big Moment.
They brought Jay out, shackled hand and foot. His face was unmarked if puffy. The careful custodians of the night knew their job. But he moved with enormous difficulty, stooped, head bowed, eyes closed, breathing shortly, as if his strong young body was one enormous throbbing bruise.
They put him in the module and made the usual show of locking and sealing it. Prosecution and defense were already in place. In came the tribunal, the two majors side by side, followed by the colonel. There was a spring in his step as if someone had offered him his own TV show during the night. I thought, There’s a man who knows his mind, who’s looking forward to doing some good today.
They took their places. The colonel rose briskly, greeting the court almost jauntily and getting down to business. He said the court had considered whether any review of evidence was needed and decided no. Without further ado, he asked his colleagues if they’d carefully considered their verdicts, which they had. He polled them: The barking major had not changed his opinion, nor had the compassionate major. Guilty as charged on all counts.
The colonel then said, “I too have carefully considered my verdict. I have taken into account all the evidence presented here yesterday and weighed issues such as our national security, the morale of our brave air force men and women, the right of Americans to speak out in time of war. But America is a nation of individuals, and their freedom is the most precious possession we have. I look upon this individual, what he said and to whom he has said it, and I see—an enemy of my country. Guilty as charged on all counts.”
The sentence was effective immediately: death by lethal injection. It would be carried out at an adjacent correctional facility at 1200 hours.
Because there’s no public at a military trial and a lot of discipline, there’s little drama. The tribunal stood and saluted defense and prosecution, and they all exited in order of rank. Jay was released from the module and led off to his death.
And that was that.
Later in the day, at a rowdy on-base reception, the colonel announced some good news. Due to the elevated likelihood of hostile action abroad, he had been promoted the night before, by special order of the commander in chief, to the rank of one-star general.