Miss Buddha (80 page)

“It’s not a joke,” said Melissa from the
door.

“Not meant as one,” said Ruth.

“Inciting to civil unrest, especially on
this scale,” began Roth, in a new attempt to reason with Ruth.

“I know, George. I know. Believe me I
know.”

“What then,” said the abbot, “is your
strategy?”

“If any,” added Melissa, and not so
kindly.

“I will tell my side of the story.”

“That’s what you keep saying,” said Melissa,
unimpressed.

“You know my side of the story, you all do,”
said Ruth, for the first time with a trace of the defensive.

“The prosecution is making a very strong
case against you. Very,” said Roth. “Jones keep piling it on.”

“Nicely put,” said Melissa.

“Well, he is,” said Roth.

“I know,” said Ruth.

“Even the Judge seems at a loss as to why
you’re not asking any questions of the prosecution witnesses,” said
the Abbot.

“Offering you every opportunity to,” Melissa
pointed out.

“I know,” said Ruth.

“So why not?” said the Abbot. “I must
confess that I don’t quite understand.”

“I told you,” said Ruth. “Everything they
say is true. Their stories hold water. There’s nothing to pry apart
or that I can make them say that will benefit me. The only thing
that will do any good at all is my side of the story.”

“And the jury will listen to that and
understand?” said Melissa.

“Oh, they’ll listen. They have to,” said
Ruth. “And I’ll make sure they understand.”

“How?” said Ananda, alarmed.

“Don’t worry, old friend,” said the
Tathagata, “I will not do anything that you would considered
untoward.”

Even Melissa smiled at this.

::
133 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

The following morning, Jones took a different
tack. His new angle was clearly designed to strike as strong a
chord as possible with the jury.

Bill Black, a plumber clearly enjoying the
spotlight, performed the legal rudiments without a hitch, and
through a smile he had trouble controlling. Then he sat down.

“Mister Black,” said Jones. “Do you know why
you are here?”

“To answer your questions, sir.”

“That is correct, and would be correct of
any witness. But why you, in particular?”

“Because I’m just an average Joe, or Bill,
actually” said Black. This brought a soft, snicker of a wind from
the room. “That’s what you told me, sir. I’m the man in the
street.”

“Precisely,” said Jones. Then Jones turned
to the judge. “Permission to address the jury, your honor.”

“Sidebar,” said Judge Moore.

Since Ruth made no move to rise, Moore said
it again, directly at Ruth, “Sidebar. You’re required.”

“Oh. Sorry, your honor,” said Ruth, and
approached.

“This is rather unorthodox, Mister Jones,”
said Judge Moore. “Why do you want to address the jury?”

“I want to give them the background of the
next two witnesses. How they were selected. Why we’ve brought
them.”

“Miss Marten?” asked the judge.

“Fine with me,” said Ruth.

“All right then. But any hint of a closing
argument, and you won’t take another step, Mister Jones. Is that
clear?”

“Clear as can be, your honor,” said
Jones.

Ruth returned to her seat and Jones turned
to the jury. “Mister Black, here, was chosen, by lot, from a pool
of one thousand absolutely average persons from around the country.
This was done to allow us, the prosecution, to tell you, the jury,
the story from street level so to speak.”

Satisfied that all the members of the jury
understood, he smiled in their direction and turned to the
witness.

“Mister Black, where are you from?”

“Columbus, Ohio. Sir.”

“And what do you do in Columbus, Ohio?”

“I am a plumber.”

“By trade or necessity?” said Jones

“What?”

“Professionally or as needed?” clarified
Jones, realizing this his attempted joke was misfiring badly.

“That’s my job, if that’s what you’re
asking,” said Brown. Still smiling, but no longer quite sure why.
Another one who was smiling was juror number one, who was also a
plumber by trade. Jones knew, of course, and noticed, and smiled
back. Then asked of Black:

“And how’s business?”

“Could be better.”

“Have you noticed any changed over the last
several months?”

“In business?”

“Yes.”

“Well, funny you should ask. I was just
talking with my partner about this the other day. Many of the calls
we get these days are from people who have tried to fix things
themselves, and dug themselves a hole a little too deep for them,
if you know what I mean?”

“And this is different from what?”

“Well, usually people call us when there is
a plumbing problem. They don’t try to fix it themselves first, they
just call.”

“I see. And how about the volume? Of calls,
I mean.”

“Well, they’re fewer. A lot less. About half
I’d say. Although, we sort of like the calls where they’ve really
made a mess of it by now. Takes longer to fix, and costs them
more.”

“So you’re making out better or worse?”

“Oh, worse. I was just telling my partner
the other day that there was no way of telling how many people
actually fixed it by themselves now, and so never called.”

“I see. So income is down.”

“Yes, it is. Definitely.”

“And why do you think people are trying to
fix things themselves these days rather than call you, a
professional?”

“Well, I was just talking with my partner
about this the other day. His guess is that with all the hoopla
about more mindfulness and taking more responsibility for your life
and surroundings, which is what Ruth Marten here is preaching, a
lot of people seem to be taking her advice and taking on these
problems themselves.”

“Instead of calling you?”

“Precisely.”

“Have you noticed anything else in Columbus,
Ohio, that you feel is the result of Ruth Marten’s
suggestions?”

Judge Moore looked very pointedly at Ruth,
imploring her to object. Ruth chose not to. Just smiled and shook
her head.

“Shortages,” said Bill Black.

“What kind of shortages?”

“Medicine.”

“Medicine?”

“My wife’s got asthma, needs her
medication.”

“And she can’t get it anymore?”

“Not at our regular pharmacy.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s gone out of business?”

“So where do you go now? To get your wife’s
medicine?”

“To one of those grocery store chains, you
know. They’re not liable to go out of business. Not quite yet.”

“Well you never know,” offered Jones.

“Not the way things are going, I agree,”
said Black.

“Are you worried, Mister Black? About the
future.”

“Funny you should ask,” he
said, and then looked straight at the camera nearest him. “I was
just talking to my wife the other night. Calming her down,
actually. She was worried we wouldn’t be able to get her medication
at all, and then where would she be? I tried to tell her that her
medication would always be available but she came back at me with
some story about her friend Liesel who just the day before had been
unable to find the bread she normally buys, and had to settle for
some other brand. ‘Things,’ my wife was almost crying now, heck
she
was
crying
now, ‘are vanishing from the shelves, Bill,’ she said. ‘Things are
vanishing.’ And I saw what she meant and, yes, I was worried then
as well. I’m worried now.”

Jones looked over at the jury and was
pleased with what he saw: all taken in by Bill Black’s lament.

“No further questions, your honor,” said
Jones.

Judge Moore knew by now that any invitation
sent Ruth’s way to cross-examine the witness would be fruitless,
still she had to. She looked over at the defendant, raised
eyebrows, cocked head.

Ruth shook hers in response, and Judge Moore
drew one of many deep sighs at the young girl’s naiveté.

:

Rhonda Love was thirty-six
years old, had died her hair an ashy blond, and sold car insurance
for a living. She lived in Seattle, Washington. She was recently
divorced and made a point to tell Jones to address her as
Miss
.

“Miss Love,” said Jones. “You were the
second person, out of a thousand, who drew the lucky number.”

“That’s what they tell me,” she answered
with a voice that bespoke of a long-term smoking habit.

“And they tell you the truth,” said Jones.
Then, “You’re from Seattle, are you not?”

Miss Love, clearly self-conscious about
being on camera and on such an important trial, made an effort to
not look the camera’s way as she answered. She was successful, but
the effort was evident. “Yes, sir. Born and raised.”

“And you sell car insurance?”

“Yes to that, too.”

“How’s business?”

“Not good.”

“How not good?”

“Very not good. This month, so far, we’re
running at half the pace of last year, same time.”

“As in fifty percent?”

“Yes. Half.”

“And how is this affecting you, Miss
Love?”

“I work on commission. Well, I have a base
salary, but that salary pays no bills, barely covers rent. I live
on my commissions. At this rate, I’ll hardly have any at all by the
end of the month.”

“Do you have any idea why this might be
happening?”

“I do have an idea. People are unregistering
their cars.”

“Define people,” said Jones.

“Eighteen instances so far this month.
That’s unheard of.”

“What happens, precisely?”

“People get it into their heads that they
don’t need their cars anymore and they call the Department of Motor
Vehicles and unregister them. Then they call us to cancel their
insurance, for they’re not going to drive their vehicles
anymore.”

“So how do they get around?” wondered
Jones.

“They walk, or bicycle. That’s what those
I’ve spoken to told me.”

“Do you get dinged for canceled
policies.”

“No, sir. I don’t. It’s not my fault if they
don’t keep their insurance, that’s the company’s fault.”

“I see. But this is a worrying trend, for
you?”

“Of course it’s a worrying trend. If this
keeps up I’ll not only don’t make any commissions at the end of the
month, I’ll soon be out of a job.”

“Do you think it’s that bad?”

“Do I
think
? I
know
it’s that bad. Two sales people
have already been laid off at our company.”

“Why?”

“Due to the slowdown in sales.”

“I see. And you fear you might be next?”

“No, not next, they’re letting us go in
order of seniority, you know in reverse order of employment.”

“I understand.”

“There’s one other woman that’s been there a
little less than me. But after her, it’s me. I’m gone.”

“Not such good news, is what you’re
saying.”

“Terrible news, is what I’m saying.”

“And, Miss Love. Do you have any ideas as to
why this is happening? Why you stand to lose your job if this keeps
up?”

“Sure do, sir. It’s this Ruth Marten
thing.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“People are listening to her and taking her
advice.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, and this is what one lady told me,
you don’t need a car to drive two blocks to the grocery store. Why
don’t you walk instead and listen to the birds? And why on earth do
you need two, three, four cars? Those are the kinds of questions
Ruth Marten is asking all over the Internet, and people listen.
That’s the problem. They listen to her and they agree, and they
unregister their only, or second, or third cars, and then cancel
their insurance.”

“Do you know if it’s the same at other car
insurance companies?”

“I do. I have a friend who works at one of
our competitors. They’ve recently let four people go.”

“Four?”

“Yes, and more are in jeopardy.”

“Not a cheerful future, is it?”

“No, it’s terrible, sir. Terrible,” now so
caught up in the terribleness of it all that she forgot she was on
camera. All emotion and indignation. Jones could not have been
happier.

“No further questions, your honor.”

Ruth had no questions.

:

Jones’ strategy was nothing if not well
planned. The testimony of his recent witnesses had raised this
question in many a mind: Why did people listen to Ruth Marten? Why
did they take her to heart and act on her suggestions? Were we that
impressionable, were we that easily conned? He had, astutely
indeed, anticipated this question and had lined up a witness to
answer it.

August Brent was made the chair of UCLA’s
Psychology Department in 2012. In 2021 he received the Nobel Prize
in medicine for his research in and applications of cognitive
science in helping the mentally disturbed or, as he preferred to
call it, mentally unfortunate.

In some circles he was as well known for
refusing to wear anything but jeans and a t-shirt—including at the
Nobel Prize presentation—as for his research and practice.

He was also unique in his field in that
nobody disliked him. Even his professional rivals agreed that he
deserved the Prize, and many of them vied for any open slot in his
department, putting aside differences in opinion for the
opportunity to work with, and learn from, the “August” Brent, as he
was often known. Or just “August.”

Sporting a very white t-shirt, and washed
out jeans, long gray hair in a ponytail, August Brent sauntered up
to the witness stand with what can only be described as grace. He
stood a thin five foot eleven (testimony to his vegan ways), and as
he promised to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, his
voice seemed to fill the room like some magic liquid.