The Sixth Station, page 5
“Both?” Bagayoko asked, removing her glasses.
“Your Honor, it is much the same way that the English word read can be both present or past depending on the context.”
The courtroom was absolutely silent. Everyone was thinking the same racist thing: a terrorist who speaks ancient Aramaic and modern English? How many of us can do that?
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. You may return to your seat,” which the Palestinian did with a pleased expression on his face.
Then the chief judge addressed ben Yusef directly. “Your father, according to FBI documents, was named—” At this she keyed something into the built-in tablet in her bench and continued. “Yes, one Yusef Pantera, who was listed as a soldier of fortune. Killed in a plane crash in 1982.”
With controlled anger in her tone, she added, “Mister ben Yusef. It is your right not to answer, but that is the last time you will interrupt these proceedings with your manipulations.”
She asked him to stand, and when he refused, his lawyers on either side of him took hold of his elbows and gently persuaded him up, and then the chief judge began to read the Crimes against Humanity charges for which he stood accused.
They included twenty counts of conspiracy to commit murder, fifty counts of terrorism, one thousand counts of murder in violation of the law of war, attacking civilians and civilian objects, intentionally causing serious bodily injury, destruction of property in violation of the law of war, and providing material support for terrorism. The death count she estimated at “tens of thousands.”
“How do you plead, Mr. ben Yusef?” Silence.
Randall Mohammed stood. “Once more, Your Honor, on behalf of our client, we state to the court that there is no authority in this tribunal to pass judgment on our client.”
“Then let us proceed with or without your client’s consent,” and she called on the prosecution to give their opening statement.
The prosecution was represented by an international band of attorneys under the ICC banner but newly appointed for this tribunal.
“It’s the dream team of media whores,” I whispered to Dona, taking in the group who would have practically skinned themselves alive for a chance at this much exposure.
The lead prosecutor, Lawrence Finegold from Great Britain, gave as expected a rousing opening statement, which was capped by him holding up photos of each bombing for which ben Yusef stood accused.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the monster before you, Mr. Demiel ben Yusef,” he thundered as he held up photo after photo of carnage and heartache, “isn’t a man of the cloth. He is nothing but a psychopathic killer who claims”—he sneered in disgust at the defendant, who still hadn’t moved a muscle or shown any emotion whatsoever—“claims to be, yes, a man of God!
“A devil claiming to be a man of God, or maybe God Himself.” He laughed disgustedly. “Caligula claimed to be a god; Hitler thought he was a god, too. Shall I go on?
“Demiel ben Yusef is no god, nor even a man of God, despite his claims to some sort of dubious connection to early Christianity! This is enough to make any God-fearing Christian sick with disgust!
“Yet this mass murderer, who is responsible for every death, dismemberment, and ruined life you see before you, claims he’s doing”—again he paused and then pointed his finger directly at ben Yusef—“God’s work. God’s work?
“He of the shadowy life, who seems to have no history before he suddenly appeared a few years ago, on Web sites and, yes, YouTube. YouTube! If Jesus, Moses, Mohammed walked among us today, I promise you they wouldn’t be making videos on YouTube!”
The audience broke out in inappropriate chuckles as Dona and I exchanged knowing glances. “Damn, he’s playing us like a bunch of cheap fiddlers,” she whispered.
Finegold waited until the snickers stopped before continuing as though he’d never heard the snickering. “Now his latest ploy is to say he answers only to his father? Who is the father of Satan, or for that matter, the mother? We have some loose information that Mr. ben Yusef once had a father who died in a plane crash. And there is no mother of record. Astonishing, really, in this day and age when it is impossible to keep anything hidden. Yet this, this man just appeared and has no history?
“How is that possible? I’ll tell you how: Demiel ben Yusef has no history of record because intelligence leads us to believe that his birth, his schooling, his very life have never been recorded because he was born and reared to become an enigma—a way to make the deluded believe he somehow miraculously just appeared out of nowhere to save us all!
“Well, the truth is he is a thirty-three-year-old man reared by parents, or perhaps by others who took him in, inside a terrorist camp, somewhere, probably Afghanistan. Nothing glorious or mysterious about that, is there?
“So who could have even birthed such a soulless creature? We don’t know; that’s how terrorists operate, in back corners and filthy desert hovels. But I can tell you this: Whoever his parents are or were, they weren’t people of God. The devil, perhaps, but not God!”
At that the Reverend Bill Teddy Smythe pounded his fist and declared, “Amen, brother! Amen!” He did this knowing it would create a commotion and knowing that the judge would admonish him. But the good preacher didn’t get to where he was by missing his moment. Ever.
Bagayoko rapped her gavel, while Bill Teddy smugly looked unfazed and even quite righteous—or quite self-righteous, at any rate.
Finegold let the furor die down and continued as though he’d not been interrupted. “Again, no one seems to know precisely the who, what, where, and, for the love of God, why.
“What we know is that Demiel ben Yusef suddenly appeared out of the desert four years ago, with dubious claims and clichéd sermons about how we should all love one another, while masterminding terrorist attacks around the world. We know this, and we will prove this beyond any doubt—to this august body.
“Nonetheless, via cyberspace he has, as you’ve seen outside this hallowed assembly hall this very day, amassed a worldwide following of deluded believers.
“Why, you may ask, could, would anyone follow a man who preaches ‘love of every living thing’ and yet carries out a personal jihad against the innocent whom he thinks deserve death because they are not ‘true believers’?
“Believers of what? Of the endless suffering and death of the innocents? Are the thousands of children and adults who have been killed and maimed merely the detritus of war? What war? Demiel ben Yusef’s personal holy war?
“Why indeed would anyone call this monster a man of God?” He finished and held aloft a horrifying photo of a mother and dead child lying on the once-grand steps outside the Matriz Church in Manaus, Brazil, a city at the tip of the Amazon.
The photo showed the woman covered in the blood of her child, screaming while holding her dead five-year-old, whose legs had been blown off. They lay amid the rubble of the bombed-out steps, after an explosion that took the lives of 350 churchgoers that Sunday morning, including 120 Sunday-school kids.
He then turned to the judges and addressed them.
“Judge Bagayoko, assembled justices, if I may, I would like to bring in some of the children who will be called before this assembly.”
Since everyone in or near the courtroom had been cleared well ahead of time, the gesture was a mere courtesy. The dramatic move had most likely been approved beforehand by Bagayoko, who quickly consented and gestured for the chamber doors to open.
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.
