Miss Buddha (72 page)

“You
need
a lawyer,” said Clare, with a
voice as kindly and as full of valuable advice as she could
muster.

“I appreciate your concern. You know I do,”
said Ruth. “But what I need help with, truly,” and here she looked
at Clare. “I want the trial televised.”

“Oh, they’ll never agree to that,” said
Roth, referring to the FBI.

“You mean,” said Clare.

“Yes, the bureau.”

“It’s not up to the bureau, though,” said
Clare. “Isn’t that up the judge.”

“True,” said Roth. “But if the judge is
Welles, there’s not a chance.”

“Let’s hope then,” said Ruth, “that the
judge is not Welles.” Then to Clare, “Do you think your station,
and other stations, can put in the request, and exert whatever
pressure is allowed in these situations?”

“Sure,” said Clare.

Ruth, nodded. “Good. Good.” Then, to all of
them, “This is my chance to get my message across, live, to the
world.”

“It’s a gamble,” said Ananda.

“It is a gamble,” agreed Ruth. “But a gamble
I am willing to make, and one that I know will work.”

“It’s not a gamble
I
am willing to make,”
said Melissa. “And I am still your mother.”

“I am of age, mother,” Ruth pointed out.
Kindly.

“True,” said Melissa. “But will I not have a
say in this?”

“No,” said Ruth. Again, kindly.

::
122 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

Judge Thomas Welles entered court room 11B
with his customary flourish. Then came his customary brief survey
of the room from his dais of judicial power before he sat down.

The clerk cleared her throat and read out
the docket number and the parties to the case: The United States of
America as plaintiff, and Ruth Marten as defendant.

Over the next hour, Otto Jones, with the
help of a too-detailed (for Judge Welles’ liking) complaint,
outlined the case, and the reasons for going forward with it: Ruth
Marten, by her New Age mumbo jumbo, was seducing near enough a
whole young generation to her mystical ways. This was not only
unhealthy—mentally, for sure, perhaps physically as well, too early
to tell—for the generation concerned, but was also causing grave
suffering for the many parents (and spouses) that were, in effect,
losing their loved ones to this movement, to this cult of
personality.

It was not, Jones
continued, only a matter of a
threat
to the societal peace and
well-being, for her actions, her speeches, her viral videos (which
should be banned, according to the complaint) had in fact already
caused damage, had already diverted (and perverted) youth from
their normal and healthy ways by way of flagrant disobedience to
tradition and culture, and, say of what else does our civil fabric
consist?

She was not only a threat, he went on to
stress, she had already caused the civil unrest that our laws are
in place to prevent.

And on and on.

Then the prosecutions
co-counsel, Meredith Thomas, asked to be heard, and she spread on
more of the same: the disruption of the fabric, and the not
only
threat
, and
on and on.

Ruth’s turn.

“Where is your attorney?” Welles wanted to
know.

“I represent myself,” Ruth, rising to
address the court, replied. Then, as if just remembering the
protocol, added, “Your honor.”

“Do you consider that a wise thing, my
dear?” said Welles.

“Wise or not,” said Ruth. “That is my
choice.”

“Fair enough,” said Welles. “And what do you
answer to the allegations presented by the prosecution?”

“From where I stand,” said Ruth. “This is
not so much a trial about faith and values, or about the social
fabric, but a trial about money and lost revenue.”

“How so?” wondered Welles.

“Perhaps it is not common knowledge, though
it should be, that opposing co-counsel, Miss Simmons, is not only
the in-house counsel but also the chairperson of the Biotechnical
Industry Association, the pharmaceutical association that,
according to what I have managed to glean so far, is the
association posting the worst sales figures of the many
pharmaceutical associations these days.”

Jones leaned toward Simmons and whispered
something. He did not look pleased. She said nothing in return, but
looked over at Ruth. Reassessing.

Ruth met Simmons’ glance, then looked back
at the judge and continued, “I believe this is why this matter is
before you. I believe it is in order to restore a lessening revenue
stream to its absurd normal that your honor is asked by the
prosecution to let this go to a jury trial.”

“And you, I take it, oppose that motion?”
said Welles.

“Oh, no. Not at all. I would like this to go
to trial as well,” said Ruth.

“You do?” Welles wanted to make quite sure
he had heard her correctly. From across the aisle, Jones and
Simmons turned to Ruth as one to make sure that ears were not
deceiving.

“Yes, I do,” said Ruth in a clear voice,
impossible to misinterpret.

“Well,” said Welles, a
little relieved. “We’re all in agreement then.” He briefly
consulted a docket printout: “Trial is set for August the
5
^th
.”

“Your honor,” said Ruth.

“Yes.”

“I have a request.”

“What is it?”

“I request that the trial be publicly
televised, live.”

Jones and Simmons, again in unison, rose in
protest. “Your honor.”

Welles looked over at them.

“We object,” said Simmons. “That’s an absurd
request.”

“I concur,” said Jones.

“Absurd or not,” said Welles. Then turning
to Ruth, “That’s not up to me, my dear. That’s up to the trial
judge.”

With that Welles wielded his gavel and
smacked an end to the proceedings.

:

On their way back to Jones’ LA office, he
put it as nicely as he could. “I want Matthews to co-chair.”

Simmons, who was as surprised as Jones at
Ruth Marten’s intelligence, could only agree: remaining on the case
was not an option, the media would have a field day with that. She
had given it thought, though not a second one. Her BIA
affiliations, though a matter of record, had not been publicly
known. Now they were.

“I agree,” is all she said.

::
123 :: (Pasadena)

If Meredith Simmons and Otto Jones and their
increasingly nervous employers had hoped that the successful
indictment of Ruth Marten would temper the spread of her lectures
on the Internet—which was indeed their hope—they had miscalculated
to a ridiculous degree, for if anything, the much publicized
indictment, as well as the now much anticipated upcoming trial, did
nothing but fuel this fire.

Many liberal media parallels were drawn
between Ruth Marten and a host of past martyrs who had all been
persecuted or prosecuted (the modern version of persecution some
opined) for their beliefs. Much was now also being made in several
quarters of Ruth Marten’s doctoral thesis on the convergence of
science, philosophy, and religion, voicing the view that hers was a
message whose time had indeed come (which was cause for further
hand-wringing concern among the powers that be—with a close eye on
the now oft-reviewed consumer statistics).

On the other side of that aisle, the more
conservative outlets (those more closely allied to Big Pharma and
now also the Medical and other consumer-dependent establishments)
were calling for Washington to enact new, and more precise laws
that would directly address the threat caused by this renegade New
Age phenomenon. It was felt that inciting to civil unrest and
disobedience, as charges, were too vague and too loosely applied to
stop this outrage in its tracks. However, those charges were the
cards the prosecution had dealt themselves, and they would now not
only have to live with them but to succeed with them.

Many outlets had also begun a countdown to
the August 5 trial date.

::
124 :: (Pasadena)

It was not in Ananda’s nature to worry
unduly, but in this case “unduly” seemed nowhere in sight.

Despite many attempts, he could not persuade
Ruth to retain professional counsel, despite the fact that money
was no longer an object—both KCRI, Clare Downes’ station, and Abbot
White’s diocese had offered financial as well as legal help, which
she refused on all counts.

Kristina Medina had also called and offered
“whatever she needed” to launch the best defense possible. She and
her husband would provide any funds needed.

Again, Ruth declined, telling her that all
she needed was a televised trial.

Even Julian Lawson, who had not spoken to
Ruth for a while, called to see how he could help. Did she need any
funds? A good lawyer? No, she told him. She was set. Thanks though.
She really appreciated it.

What she did want help with, however, was to
mobilize sufficient pressure from the media and other sources to
convince the trial judge (who was still to be named among rampant
media speculation as to who it might be) to let the cameras in.

“Don’t go overboard, though,” she warned
Clare. “No one likes to be cornered.”

Clare understood—she, and her producer, had
been around this block a time or two. Abbot White also promised to
exert what pressure he could, though he was not sure how much good
that would do. Was there anything else he could do to help? No,
Ruth told him on more than one occasion, the important thing was
that the trial be televised live. Given that, she knew what to do
and how to do it.

It would all work out, don’t worry.

But he worried, Ananda did, as did Melissa,
who stood to see her daughter jailed for the rest of her life
should she be convicted.

Of course Ananda trusted Ruth, he always
had, but had the Tathagata ever been in such trouble? Yes, as
Giordano Bruno, surely, but at that time not as much had been at
stake. Nowhere near as much. Today, she was being heard, millions
were listening and taking her advice, her mission gaining true
traction. That was what was at stake, so much more than simply a
life, as was the case with Bruno.

Was there a way to plea bargain her way out
of this? The thought had barely taken root before she virtually
roared inside his head, no way. Absolutely no way.

Well, of course that was not an option, he
realized that. Of course. But how could he help but worry?

How could he help but worry when the
prosecution seemed so utterly unworried, for while Otto Jones could
not discuss the case—and the prosecution lead attorney was very
clear about that—he seemed to be interviewed daily on some station
or other, always with the confidence of a man who has unlimited
funds and resources behind him. Was there even the smallest shadow
of a doubt that he, and his team—which is how he spoke of the
prosecution—would win this case? No, there was not. Of course not.
He wouldn’t go so far as to call it a formality, but he certainly
implied that it was.

And so, fresh from another Jones interview,
he would try again to dissuade her, but she refused to even listen.
“Ananda,” she would answer. “Let it go.”

And he tried to let it go, to leave it all
with Ruth, as she asked him to, but he failed. Instead he sought
Clare’s advice. Was there anything else KCRI could do? Or any
station? Some sort of campaign?

No, she told him. And believe me, I have
tried to work an angle, but this was now a matter for the court.
Ruth was, don’t forget, under house arrest. She could not talk
about the case to any media. And the best Clare could do, she told
him, was to muster as much media demand as possible to have the
trial televised.

And that was the good news—well, that’s how
Ruth saw it anyway, though Ananda was very much in two minds about
it—that even those stations that sided with Jones and the
prosecution, all wanted to provide live coverage, so as the trial
date approached, the call for cameras in the court room was almost
unanimous among U.S.—as well as world-wide—television.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said
to her as he finally managed to let go any notion to do other than
to trust and watch.

“I do,” she answered.

:

“I guess,” said Jones, “that there is no way
to pull these lectures from the Internet?” It was a statement more
than a question, and a rather ridiculous one at that, for he knew
as well as anyone that the genie was out, had been for some time,
and that there was no way for anyone to coax her back into the
bottle.

Lara Matthews answered anyway, “There
isn’t.”

Simmons, equipped with new sales
figures—collected weekly now from her association members—looked
out the window at the nearby mountains, as if suspecting the
answers may lie somewhere among them. Then she looked back at the
three folders on the table in front of her, and passing one to each
of Jones and Matthews said, “It’s worse than we, or anyone, had
expected.”

She opened her folder, and
waited for Jones and Matthews to open theirs. “As you can see,” she
said. “It is obviously not only our members that are being hit by
this meditation hysteria. Bayer, Merck, Pfizer, Eli Lily, they all
are staring at not only declining but
crashing
sales. Pharmacies are not
running out so the wholesalers are not running out, so there’s no
new orders and no need to manufacture so much. This,” and she
points at the graph of combined association sales for the last
three weeks, “is not only disturbing. This is a catastrophe in the
making.”

Jones cleared his throat as if he was going
to say something, but didn’t. Instead he looked at that graph for a
while, then turned a page and began examining another
statistic.