by Jodi Picoult
Beside me, Shay sat in handcuffs and ankle cuffs, linked to a belly chain. "Thanks to the forefathers who crafted the Constitution, everyone in this country has the freedom to practice his own religion--even a prisoner on death row in New Hampshire. In fact, Congress went so far as to pass a law about it. The Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act guarantees an inmate the opportunity to worship whatever he likes as long as it doesn't impede the safety of others in the prison or affect the running of the prison. Yet Shay Bourne's constitutional right to practice his religion has been denied by the State of New Hampshire."
I looked up at the judge. "Shay Bourne is not a Muslim, or a Wiccan; he's not a secular humanist or a member of the Baha'i faith. In fact, his system of beliefs may not be familiar to any common world religion you can name off the top of your head. But they are a system of beliefs, and they include the fact that--to Shay--salvation depends on being able to donate his heart after his execution to the sister of his victim ... an outcome that's not possible if the state uses lethal injection as a method of execution."
I walked forward. "Shay Bourne has been convicted of possibly the most heinous crime in the history of this state. He has appealed that conviction, and those appeals have been denied--yet he is not contesting that decision. He knows he is going to die, Your Honor. All he asks is that, again, the laws of this country be upheld--in particular, the laws that say anyone has the right to practice their religion, wherever, whenever, however. If the state agrees to his execution by hanging, and provides for the subsequent donation of his organs, the safety of other inmates isn't impeded; the running of the prison isn't affected--but it would offer a very significant personal outcome for Shay Bourne: to save a little girl's life, and in the process, to save his own soul."
I sat back down and glanced at Shay. He had a legal pad in front of him. On it, he'd doodled a picture of a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder.
At the defense table, Gordon Greenleaf was seated beside the New Hampshire commissioner of corrections, a man with both hair and complexion the color of a potato. Greenleaf tapped his pencil twice on the desk. "Ms. Bloom brought up the founding fathers of this country. Thomas Jefferson, in fact, coined a phrase in a letter in 1789--'a wall of separation between church and state.' He was explaining the First Amendment--in particular the clauses about religion. And his words have been used by the Supreme Court many times--in fact, the Lemon test, which the high court has used since 1971, says that for a law to be constitutional, it must have a secular purpose, must neither advance nor inhibit religion, and must not result in excessive government entanglement with religion. That last part's an interesting bit--since Ms. Bloom is both crediting the forefathers of this nation with the noble division of church and state ... and yet simultaneously asking Your Honor to join them together."
He stood up, walking forward. "If you were to take her claim seriously," Greenleaf said, "you'd see that what she's really asking for is a legally binding sentence to be massaged, because of a loophole called religion. What's next? A convicted drug dealer asking that his sentence be overturned because heroin helps him reach nirvana? A murderer insisting that his cell door face Mecca?" Greenleaf shook his head. "The truth is, Judge, this petition has been filed by the ACLU not because it's a valid and troublesome concern--but because it will purposefully create a three-ring circus during the state's first execution in sixty-nine years." He waved his arm around the crowded gallery. "And all of you are proof that it's already working."
Greenleaf glanced at Shay. "Nobody takes the death penalty lightly, least of all the commissioner of corrections in the State of New Hampshire. The sentence in Shay Bourne's case was death by lethal injection. That's exactly what the state has prepared and intends to carry out--with dignity and respect for all parties involved.
"Let's look at the facts here. No matter what Ms. Bloom says, there is no organized religion that mandates organ donation after death as a means of reaching the afterlife. According to his records, Shay Bourne was raised in foster homes, so he can't claim that he was reared in one religious tradition that fostered organ donation. If he's converted to some religion that is now claiming that organ donation is part of its tenets, we submit to this court that it's pure bunk." Greenleaf spread his hands. "We know you'll listen carefully to the testimony, Your Honor, but the reality is that the Department of Corrections is not required to submit to the whim of every misguided prisoner that comes through its doors--especially one who has committed the monstrous torture and murders of two New Hampshire citizens, a child and a police officer. Don't let Ms. Bloom and the ACLU take a grave matter and turn it into a spectacle. Allow the state to impose the penalty that was set forth by the court, in as civilized and professional a manner as possible."
I glanced at Shay. On his legal pad, he'd added his initials, and the logo for the band AC/DC.
The judge pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at me. "Ms. Bloom," he said, "you may call your first witness."
MICHAEL
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As soon as I was asked to approach the witness stand, I locked my gaze on Shay's. He stared back at me, silent, blank. The clerk approached, holding a Bible. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
The leather cover of the book was finely grained and black, worn smooth by the palms of thousands who'd recited a vow just like this one. I thought of all the times I'd held a Bible for comfort, a religious man's security blanket. I used to think it contained all the answers; now I wondered whether the right questions had even been asked. So help me God, I thought.
Maggie's hands were clasped lightly in front of her. "Can you state your name and address for the record?"
"Michael Wright," I said, clearing my throat. "Thirty-four twenty-two High Street, in Concord."
"How are you employed?"
"I'm a priest at St. Catherine's."
"How does one become a priest?" Maggie asked.
"You go to seminary for a certain number of years, and then you become a member of the transitional deaconate ... learning the ropes under the guidance of a more experienced parish priest. Finally, you get ordained."
"How long ago did you take your vows, Father?"
"It's been two years," I said.
I could still remember the ordainment ceremony, my parents watching from the pews, their faces lit as if they had stars caught in their throats. I had been so certain, then, of my calling--of serving Jesus Christ, of who Jesus Christ was. Had I been wrong then? Or was it simply that there was more than one kind of right?
"As part of your duties at St. Catherine's, Father, have you been a spiritual advisor for an inmate named Shay Bourne?"
"Yes."
"And is Shay here in the courtroom today?"
"He is."
"In fact," Maggie said, "he's the plaintiff in this case who was sitting beside me at that table, isn't that correct?"
"Yes." I smiled at Shay, who looked down at the table.
"During the course of your training to become a priest, did you speak with parishioners about their religious beliefs?"
"Of course."
"Is it part of your duty as a priest to help others become familiar with God?"
"Yes."
"How about deepening their faith in God?"
"Absolutely."
She turned to the judge. "I'm going to offer up Father Michael as an expert on spiritual advice and religious beliefs, Your Honor."
The other attorney shot up. "Objection," he said. "With all due respect, is Father Michael an expert on Jewish beliefs? Methodist beliefs? Muslim ones?"
"Sustained," the judge said. "Father Michael may not testify as an expert on religious beliefs outside of the Catholic faith, except in his role as a spiritual advisor."
I had no idea what that meant, and from the looks on their faces, neither did either attorney. "What's the role of a spiritual advisor in the prison?" Maggie asked.
"How was it that you were chosen to become a spiritual advisor?"
"St. Catherine's--my parish--received a request from the state prison."
"Is Shay Catholic, Father?"
"One of his foster mothers had him baptized Catholic, so in the eyes of the Church, yes, he is. However, he does not consider himself a practicing Catholic."
"How does that work, then? If you're a priest and he's not Catholic, how are you able to be his spiritual advisor?"
"Because my job isn't to preach to him, but to listen."
"When was the first time you met with Shay?" Maggie asked.
"March eighth of this year," I said. "I've seen him once or twice a week since then."
"At some point, did Shay discuss his desire to donate his heart to Claire Nealon, the sister of one of his victims?"
"It was the very first conversation we had," I replied.
"How many times since have you discussed with Shay his feelings about this transplant?"
"Maybe twenty-five, thirty."
Maggie nodded. "There are people here today who think that Shay's desire to become an organ donor has everything to do with buying himself time, and nothing to do with religion. Do you agree with that?"
"Objection," the other attorney said. "Speculation."
The judge shook his head. "I'll allow it."
"He'd die today, if you let him donate his heart. It's not time he wants; it's the chance to be executed in a way that would allow for a transplant."
"Let me play devil's advocate," Maggie said. "We all know donating organs is selfless ... but where's the link between donation and salvation? Was there something that convinced you this wasn't just altruism on Shay's part ... but part of his faith?"
"Yes," I said. "When Shay told me what he wanted to do, he said it in a very striking way. It almost sounded like a weird riddle: 'If I bring forth what's inside me, what's inside me will save me. If I don't bring forth what's inside me, what's inside me will destroy me.' I found out later that Shay's statement wasn't original. He was quoting someone pretty important."
"Who, Father?"
I looked at the judge. "Jesus Christ."
"Nothing further," Maggie said, and she sat back down beside Shay.
Gordon Greenleaf frowned at me. "Forgive my ignorance, Father. Is that from the Old Testament or the New Testament?"
"Neither," I replied. "It's from the Gospel of Thomas."
This stopped the attorney in his tracks. "Aren't all gospels somewhere in the Bible?"
"Objection," Maggie called out. "Father Michael can't respond, because he's not a religious expert."
"You offered him up as one," Greenleaf said.
Maggie shrugged. "Then you shouldn't have objected to it."
"I'll rephrase," Greenleaf said. "So, Mr. Bourne quoted something that is not actually in the Bible, but you're claiming it's proof that he's motivated by religion?"
"Yes," I said. "Exactly."
"Well, then, what religion does Shay practice?" Greenleaf asked.
"He doesn't label it."
"You said he's not a practicing Catholic. Is he a practicing Jew, then?"
"No."
"A Muslim?"
"No."
"A Buddhist?"
"No," I said.
"Is Mr. Bourne practicing any type of organized religion that the court might be familiar with, Father?"
I hesitated. "He's practicing a religion, but it isn't formally organized."
"Like what? Bourneism?"
"Objection," Maggie interrupted. "If Shay can't name it, why do we have to?"
"Sustained," Judge Haig said.
"Let me clarify," Greenleaf said. "Shay Bourne is practicing a religion you can't name, and quoting from a gospel that's not in the Bible ... and yet somehow his desire to be an organ donor is grounded in the concept of religious salvation? Does that not strike you, Father, as the slightest bit convenient on Mr. Bourne's part?"
He turned, as if he hadn't really expected me to give an answer, but I wasn't going to let him off that easy. "Mr. Greenleaf," I said, "there are all sorts of experiences that we can't really put a name to."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The birth of a child, for one. Or the death of a parent. Falling in love. Words are like nets--we hope they'll cover what we mean, but we know they can't possibly hold that much joy, or grief, or wonder. Finding God is like that, too. If it's happened to you, you know what it feels like. But try to describe it to someone else--and language only takes you so far," I said. "Yes, it sounds convenient. And yes, he's the only member of his religion. And no, it doesn't have a name. But ... I believe him." I looked at Shay until he met my gaze. "I believe."
June
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When Claire was awake, which was less and less often, we did not talk about the heart that might be coming for her or whether or not she'd take it. She didn't want to; I was afraid to. Instead, we talked about things that didn't matter: who'd been voted off her favorite reality TV show; how the Internet actually worked; if I'd reminded Mrs. Walloughby to feed Dudley twice a day instead of three times, because he was on a diet. When Claire was asleep, I held her hand and told her about the future I dreamed of. I told her that we'd travel to Bali and live for a month in a hut perched over the ocean. I told her that I would learn to water-ski barefoot while she drove the boat, and then we'd swap places. How we would climb Mt. Katahdin, get our ears double pierced, learn how to make chocolate from scratch. I imagined her swimming up from the sandy bottom of unconsciousness, bursting through the surface, wading to where I was waiting onshore.
It was during one of Claire's afternoon drug-induced marathon naps that I began to learn about elephants. That morning, when I had gone down to the hospital cafeteria for a cup of coffee, I passed the same three retail establishments I'd passed every day for the past two weeks--a bank, a bookstore, a travel agency. Today, though, for the first time, I was magnetically drawn to a poster in the window. EXPERIENCE AFRICA, it said.
The bored college girl staffing the office was talking to her boyfriend on the phone when I walked inside, and was more than happy to send me on my way with a brochure, in lieu of actually telling me about the destination herself. "Where were we?" I heard her say as she picked up the phone again when I left the office, and then she giggled. "With your teeth?"
Upstairs in Claire's room, I pored over pictures of rooms with beds as wide as the sea, covered with crisp white linens and draped with a net of gauze. Of outside showers, exposed to the bush, so that you were as naked as the animals. Of Land Rovers and African rangers with phosphorescent smiles.
And oh, the animals--sleek leopards, with their Rorschach spots; a lioness with eyes like amber; the massive monolith of an elephant yanking a tree out of the ground.
Did you know, the brochure read, that elephants live in a society much like ours?
That they travel in matriarchal packs, and gestate for 22 months?
That they can communicate over a distance of 50 km?
Come track the amazing elephant in its natural habitat, the Tuli Block ...
"What are you reading?" Claire squinted at the brochure, her voice groggy.
"Something on safaris," I said. "I thought maybe you and I might go on one."
"I'm not taking that stupid heart," Claire said, and she rolled on her side, closing her eyes again.
I would tell Claire about the elephants when she woke up, I decided. About a country where mothers and daughters walked side by side for years with their aunts and sisters. About how elephants were either right-handed or left-handed. How they could find their way home years after they'd left.
Here is what I wouldn't tell Claire, ever: That elephants know when they're close to dying, and they make their way t
o a riverbed for nature to take its course. That elephants bury their dead, and grieve. That naturalists have seen a mother elephant carry a dead calf for miles, cradled in her trunk, unwilling and unable to let it go.
Maggie
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Nobody wanted Ian Fletcher to testify, including me.
When I'd called an emergency meeting with the judge days earlier, asking to add Fletcher to my witness list as an expert on the history of religion, I thought Gordon Greenleaf would burst a blood vessel in chambers. "Hello?" he said. "Rule 26(c)?"
He was talking about the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure, which said that witnesses had to be disclosed thirty days before a trial, unless otherwise directed by the court. I was banking on that last clause. "Judge," I said, "we've only had two weeks to prepare for this trial--neither of us disclosed any of our witnesses within thirty days."
"You don't get to sneak in an expert just because you happened to stumble over one," Greenleaf said.
Federal court judges were notorious for trying to keep their cases on the straight and narrow. If Judge Haig allowed Fletcher to testify, it opened up a whole can of worms--Greenleaf would need to prepare his cross, and would most likely want to hire a counterexpert, which would delay the trial ... and we all knew that couldn't happen, since we had a deadline in the strictest sense of the word. But--here was the crazy thing--Father Michael had been right. Ian Fletcher's book dovetailed so neatly with the hook I was using to drag Shay's case to a victory that it would have been a shame not to try. And even better--it provided the one element I'd been lacking in this case: a historical pre cedent.
I had fully convinced myself that Judge Haig would laugh in my face anyway when I tried to include a new witness at the last minute, but instead, he looked down at the name. "Fletcher," he said, testing the word in his mouth as if it were made of sharp stones. "Ian Fletcher?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Is he the one who used to have a television show?"
