Miss Buddha (74 page)

Abbot White, at least in Ananda’s view, was
the most clear-headed about what Ruth would face in court. He had
been through a few harrowing cases in his day, knowing that issues
such as faith and spirituality were rarely, if ever, treated as
hard currency by judges and juries.

Clare Downes knew her mission, for she
really had only one assignment: to ensure that the trial will be
televised, live.

In these discussions, Melissa wore two hats:
that of Ruth’s mother and that of opinionated host.

Ruth asked Clare again, as she did every
time they got together, “How does it look?”

Clare, fresh from a meeting with her
producer, who as a former legal reporter still had a host of useful
court contacts, “Of course, nothing is absolutely certain, it is
still up to the judge, but no one can give me a reason why it
should not be televised live.”

Ruth smiled at the good news, then asked,
“Do we have any idea yet about the judge? Guesses?”

“It will, of course, be a federal judge,”
said Clare. “But that’s as close as anyone can come. No one will
know until the morning of the fifth, that’s just one of those facts
of life. It depends on which trials are brought to a close before
then, and on which judges are then available for assignment that
morning.”

Then she added, “Sorry.”

“Is there anyone we don’t want presiding?
Someone who might be allergic to televised trials?” Ruth
wondered.

“This is Los Angeles,” said Clare, to Roth’s
bobbing agreement. “No one is allergic to television.”

“This is true?” Ruth just wanted to make
sure.

“True,” confirmed Roth.

Melissa refilled tea cups all around,
pointing out what she hoped was the obvious as she poured, “So it
doesn’t really matter what judge we get, that’s what you’re saying,
right?”

“On paper, no.” Roth.

“And off paper?” said Melissa.

“Off paper?” said Ananda, conceding a smile
despite himself.

“Off paper, in the world of flesh and
blood,” said Roth. “Yes, it does matter who presides, though it
should have little bearing on whether the trial is televised or
not.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Melissa.

“Then you’re right,” said Roth.

Ruth turned to Abbot White. “Is there a
judge that we do want? Someone who might treat the spirit as hard
currency?”

Abbot White looked at Clare, then at Roth,
neither of whom said anything. Then he said, “I don’t know.”

“What more on what we can expect from the
prosecution?” she asked of Roth.

“Lots,” he said, then opened a manila folder
to reveal a sheaf of fresh statistics. “You do know that as far as
those who live and breathe the national economy are concerned, you
are the devil incarnate.”

“More so than yesterday?”

“New data,” said Roth, whose patterning told
him but one thing: “Alarming.”

They all waited for more. “No one, not even
the most liberal of pundits, can still ascribe the dramatic drop in
consumption to erratic market conditions,” he said.

They were all aware of the ongoing
debate.

“The link is clear?” said Ananda.

“The link is more than
clear, it is obvious,” said Roth. “And in this situation, this
is
not
good
news.”

“It’s definitely Ruth?” said Melissa.

“Beyond even the faintest doubt,” said
Roth.

“Public enemy number one?” said Ruth.

“Something like that.” Then Roth elaborated:
“They have a point, and their point is gathering strength daily. It
is that the economy of a consumer society—and we live in one,
there’s no mistaking that—is in fact based on consumption. When
that falls away, as it is doing now, the ‘fabric,’ as they call it,
of society is indeed threatened, and that plays directly into their
hands and their charges. If it isn’t causing civil unrest today, it
likely will in the future.”

“How future?” said Ruth and Ananda both,
nearly simultaneously.

Here Roth again consulted his patterning,
for he could sense the fabric he was speaking if, the
interconnectedness of all that give and take, that produce and
consume which were the twin pillars on which this land rested—and
he could sense it beginning to rupture already.

“Not long,” is what he answered.

“How long?” said Ananda.

“A month, two perhaps. Three at the
most.”

“So civil unrest could erupt before the
trial is over,” said the Abbot.

And that was precisely the
point Roth was reluctant to share, but he really had no choice.
“It
could
.”

“And it would be Ruth’s fault?” said
Melissa, a little incredulous.

“That’s not the word I’d use,” said Roth,
“but there is definite cause and effect.”

“Wouldn’t that influence a jury?” said
Ananda.

“Of course it would influence a jury,” said
Roth. “That’s our problem. That’s our almost impossible to overcome
problem.”

“Not impossible,” said Ruth.

“What do we do?” said Ananda.

“That was my question, too,” said the
Abbot.

“Just make sure, however we make sure,” said
Ruth, again looking at Clare, “and if at all possible, that the
trial is televised live.”

“What are you planning to say?” said Roth.
“Or do?”

Ruth took them all in, looking from one to
the other before she spoke. Then she said: “I am planning to tell
the truth. I am planning to really tell the truth.”

::
126 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

Monday the
5
^th
of
August saw a lingering heat wave with almost no clouds in the sky
at sunrise. The temperature at 8 a.m. was already flirting with
triple digits and one could almost hear the city groan under the
weight of high-pressure oven-air.

Trial was set to start at 10 a.m.

As promised, agent Roth accompanied Ruth and
Ananda to court. Clare Downes was with her station, waiting for
word which, if positive, would see her heading downtown with a crew
to cover the trial. Abbot White had other urgent matters to attend
to, not the least of which was his own diminishing flock. Besides,
he said, he wasn’t sure whether his old stomach was up to all the
excitement.

Melissa, taking Roth’s and
Clare’s word for it—the trial
would
be televised, for sure—opted to stay at home and
view things from that televised perspective. Someone, she said, had
to judge how Ruth came across, how things were going from the
viewer’s standpoint. Ruth, who at first insisted that Melissa join
her in court, then saw the wisdom of her mother’s view. Yes, we did
have to know how things looked to the viewing audience. It was that
appearance, more than anything else, that would shape public
opinion about Ruth and the trial.

There was also the matter of too much
excitement to stomach, though that remained a secret between
daughter and mother. “Don’t worry,” is what Ruth kept telling her.
“Really, mom, don’t worry.”

Earlier that morning, the court clerk had
called them to say that they were to appear in courtroom seven on
the second floor of the old district court building.

“Who’s room is that?” asked Roth, who took
the call.

“Michelle Moore’s,” answered the clerk.

“Michelle Moore,” said Roth.

“That’s right,” said the clerk. “Ten
o’clock.”

“Thanks,” said Agent Roth.

“Is that the judge?” said Ananda,
overhearing the conversation. “Michelle Moore?”

“Yes.”

“Is that good, or bad?”

“I don’t think we could have been assigned a
better judge,” said Roth.

“Who is Michelle Moore?” Ruth wanted to
know.

:

At least once every Christmas, Michelle
Moore, visiting her parents—who, both now in their eighties, still
live in San Francisco—asks them to tell her about the nineteen
sixties. About the hippies, about Berkeley at the time—then the
hotbed for true change in the country.

And always, whenever asked, they would
oblige. Still considering themselves hippies (her mother still wore
colorful, loose dresses and braided her long, gray hair every
day—and unbraided and combed it every night), they would look at
each other and then openly reminisce. About the love, about Donovan
visiting from distant England, about the hope of the world, about
Country Joe and the Fish—the Berkeley house band, about meeting and
not at all falling in love at first sight but growing to know each
other over the four semesters it took them to finally realize what
was written in their stars, about their wedding in Golden Gate Park
during a Grateful Dead concert (Jerry Garcia catered our music, is
how her mother liked to put it), about deciding that their first
child had to be conceived that decade, and going right ahead to
make sure.

“Spare me the details,” Michelle would say,
laughing. Loving the story.

They had raised her in the spirit of that
amazing decade, and Michelle Moore was very grateful to them that
they had. One day in her early thirties it had dawned on her with
the force of a stray comet that she would not be where she now
found herself—a sought after attorney, happily married, living what
she felt was a full, though still and to be childless, life—unless
she had gained the values her parents had instilled, or rather,
allowed her to absorb: love, trust, fairness, with a fair helping
of her father’s Ohio work ethic and her mother’s northern
Washington tribal nature mysticism. They had allowed her to
blossom, and even though it certainly had been she doing her own
blossoming, they had planted those seeds and she was forever
grateful.

Truth be told, she would much rather have
stayed put in the Bay Area, where she, until four years ago, had
been a senior partner in a small but very profitable firm. When the
call finally came from the Federal Bench (something she planned and
hoped for), however, it came not from San Francisco but from Los
Angeles.

After some brief (though intense)
soul-searching with her husband, they decided that the opportunity
was too great to pass up, and down to Los Angeles they moved. They
found a nice, ocean-viewing condominium in Redondo Beach, slip
included, and late in the summer of 2026 they sailed their 32-foot
schooner down the coast to their new home in the City of Angels
(the movers taking care of the rest).

:

“Let’s get what’s on everybody’s mind out of
the way,” said Judge Moore. “Should this trial be televised?”

“Your honor,” almost shouted Otto Jones,
standing up so abruptly he actually knocked his chair over.

“Mr. Jones,” said Moore.

“Your honor, I call your attention to our
motion to disallow television cameras which references several
cases on point…” which is where Moore cut him off.

“I’ve read and considered your motion, Mr.
Jones.” Then she turned to Ruth Marten, sitting alone at the
defendant’s table. Two empty chairs to her left. “And you Miss
Marten, what are your thoughts? I have not seen any motions from
you on this television matter.”

Ruth rose. “I have not filed any motions,
your honor, but I would like to have cameras present to broadcast
this trial live.”

“And why is that?”

“I stand accused on charges verging on
treason,” said Ruth. “If convicted I could spend the rest of my
life in jail. My only defense is the truth as I see it, and I pray
and hope that it will out in this trial. And as the truth about
what I have done, and what I stand accused of are not even vaguely
related…”

Here Judge Moore interrupted. “This is not
the time and place for your opening statement, Miss Marten.”

“I’m sorry, your honor. I realize that.”

“Just tell me why you want live television
in my court room.”

“I want this country, and the world, to see
and hear the truth for themselves, directly, not second- or
third-hand via pundits and reporters who more often than not have
their own agendas clouding or coloring the issues.”

“Fair enough,” said Moore.

Ruth sat down.

Judge Moore took a long look at Ruth, then
at the prosecution team, Jones, Matthews, and a young male
associate Moore did not recognize, apparently in charge of all the
paperwork. She then looked back at Ruth again. “And you, Miss
Marten, are absolutely sure that you don’t want to be represented
by counsel?”

Ruth rose again.

“It’s okay, you can answer me sitting
down.”

Ruth did. “I am, your honor.”

“Fair enough,” said Moore again. Then she
said:

“This trial will be televised live.”

Jones shot to his feet again, but before he
could speak, Moore pretty much ordered him: “Sit down, Mister
Jones.”

He did, while flushing into an
uncharacteristic shade of crimson.

“However,” she said. “This will not turn
into a carnival. We will have one network. Two cameras. That
network will share its feed with anyone who would like to carry it.
I will leave it up to the media to decide who does the live
coverage.

“We will take a thirty-minute recess while
the television people sort this all out and get set up. Be back
here, by,” she looked at her watch, “by eleven. We will begin jury
selection then.”

At this she banged her gavel, and with such
a snap that the little wood-on-wood explosion was much stronger
than anyone expected. Not a few in the room startled—most, in fact,
apart from her staff, and the court reporter, who were used it.

::
127 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

The selection of the Marten
trial jury took the better part of this first week. It was not
until mid-afternoon on Friday the 9
^th
of August that a jury was
finally seated.