by William Poe
The prosecution walked a thin line, but lost no opportunity to denigrate Father, characterizing him as a self-serving manipulator. The prosecutor even managed to introduce the prejudicial tale of the boating accident involving Hyo-jin and his friend, slipping in the reference during cross-examination of a character witness put on the stand by the defense.
By the third day of testimony, Maury began sketching out a plan. We met with Mitsui to discuss it.
“My office should prepare an amicus brief,” Maury explained. “We’ll bring up the issues that are being ignored, and maybe that will lay grounds for an appeal. There’s a chance the judge will accept the submission. If he doesn’t, we raise his rejection on appeal. I’ll cover the translation problems in the brief.”
Mitsui looked haggard from worry and self-recrimination. He had suspected the trial was not going well. Our description of the proceedings confirmed his fears.
“You have no doubt about the result of the trial?” Mitsui asked.
“None,” Maury said. “Left to these lawyers, you and Reverend Moon are headed to prison.”
Mitsui’s shenanigans were largely to blame for Father’s troubles. If only he had not forged the ledger in an attempt to explain the source of the money. That fraud made the jury suspicious of the claim that Reverend Moon’s bank account served a legitimate purpose.
“We need Simon to stay in Los Angeles,” Maury said to Mitsui. “He can help us explain in the brief why fundraising is a religious activity, why the money in Reverend Moon’s account should be considered church funds.”
Mitsui agreed. “Hurry to Los Angeles. There will not be much time to file your documents.”
Maury needed to submit the brief before the jury began deliberations. Keiko sent out transcripts of Father’s speeches going back ten years. Maury organized nearly all his staff around a project to study them for useful references. Only in a few, mostly after the World Day competition, did Father say much about the religious significance of fundraising or the meaning of money as a symbolic offering.
For the first time, I read Father’s words with skepticism, struck by the incoherent nature of his theological arguments, riddled as they were with glaring inconsistencies. The foundational complex of ideas tried to draw upon Plato’s theory of forms, incorporating something like a Taoist dualism. The mishmash of concepts, which strained allegorical interpretations of the Bible, simply made no sense. With a scientific eye, the explanation of various types of “energy” would have a first-year physicist screaming in laughter. Primarily, Father’s speeches served to arrogate to himself the role of God on earth. He came across as someone who abhorred personal freedom, whose main intent was to establish a theocratic Korean dynasty that would one day rule the world.
I had made myself an accomplice, accepting the group’s justification for my self-loathing and becoming party to the wasting of young minds, while limiting their personal liberties. It would be years before I stopped punishing myself for the role I played.
Sandra and Scott, along with the rest of the law firm, worked from early morning until late at night preparing the amicus brief. An ACLU lawyer in New York kept us informed about the trial’s progress. When we learned that closing arguments were to begin in two days, Maury and I flew to New York. Given the urgency, Maury hired a helicopter to fly us from the Newark airport to Midtown Manhattan. There, we hailed a taxi and headed to the district court building. We raced up the granite stairs, past the marble-columned entry hall, and made our way to the clerk’s office. We expected to get the brief filed even if the judge refused to consider it. But the clerk wouldn’t accept the filing. Maury was on the pay phone with the ACLU attorney, talking about alternative ways to get the papers into the judge’s hands, when Owen appeared on the scene.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Owen said. His pugnacious nature had always rubbed me the wrong way. Now it made me want to punch him. “We’re not allowing you to introduce extraneous issues,” he continued. “Our lawyers filed a motion in limine. You don’t have a chance.”
Before I could respond, Owen shot down the corridor and disappeared into the courtroom.
“What a prick,” I said.
Maury held my arm to stop me from chasing after him.
“It won’t help, Simon. We’ll find another way. The ACLU lawyer is contacting the National Council of Churches to have them file the brief in their name. The clerk won’t deny them, motion to exclude or not.”
“You’d think I belonged to a real religion,” I said.
“It is a real religion,” Maury countered.
“Which one? The American Church, the Japanese MFT, or Abbanim’s San Francisco group?”
“All of them. It’s a matter of self-definition.”
“It’s a load of crap,” I said.
Maury stopped trying to convince me.
During closing arguments, the prosecutor began by summarizing the tax laws governing the case. He changed tactics when he saw the jury beginning to doze, noticing that every time he said Reverend Moon’s name, they woke up. The jury wanted to punish Reverend Moon more for thinking he was the Second Coming of Christ than for violating tax laws.
In charging the jury, the judge specifically warned against taking into account “irrelevant issues” such as the defendants’ religion, which only served to drive home the accusations made by the prosecution. In an effort to protect the jury from undue publicity, the judge had them sequestered. Most observers thought justice would be swift, but two days passed without a verdict.
Maury returned to Los Angeles. He had work to accomplish for his clients in the psychic network. Mitsui and Reverend Moon stayed at their homes in Tarrytown. I contacted Masako. She told me not to worry about her, that protecting Father was more important than our spending time together. I was glad she didn’t suggest seeing me. Since the experience with Twenty-One-Year-Old Billy, I had dreaded our next visit.
Kawasaki planned a tour of the fundraising regions to prepare members for the worst. I wanted to see him before he went on the road, so I attended his speech to the New York MFT members. Kawasaki impressively wove together threads of guilt and hope, spurring the members to greater sacrifice. Even though I knew him well enough to be convinced of his sincerity when he spoke of building God’s kingdom, his words struck my new ears as a calculation to increase the coffers of a Korean industrialist, bent on establishing an empire based on a deceitful religious philosophy.
I had hoped that being around family members would rekindle some enthusiasm for remaining in the family, even if I chose for myself what I actually believed. It became apparent how difficult that would be to accomplish. These were no longer my brothers and sisters; they were pale reflections of who they might have become and what they might have contributed to society. What better goals might I have set in life had I continued studying anthropology and developed my art as a mature expression of mystical fantasies. Art might have provided the mystery, and science the logic, allowing the balance between the sacred and the profane that I had always craved.
Leaving Kawasaki’s speech without bothering to greet him, I began walking aimlessly around Times Square, feeling “lost in a lost world” to quote a Moody Blues song I had listened to not long before joining the family.
The theaters on 42nd Street, with their martial arts films and hard-core pornography, the pimps and pushers on every street corner, provided apt reminders that the world outside the family was even crazier than life within it.
Five days went by. The lawyers began to consider the possibility of a hung jury. Sequestered as they were, no one thought they’d make it through a weekend without reaching agreement. A win for Father and Mitsui would surely enhance my status. I was sure Mitsui would allow me to stay in New York to manage legal affairs. Perhaps I could attend law school at church expense.
A loss would mean the rise of the American Church with whatever devious alliance Bozeman had made with Abbanim and the San Francisco church. Would I have
an option other than leaving the family under a regime headed by that bunch?
A personal jury deliberated within my thoughts as I roamed Times Square one evening. I went to the Howard Johnson restaurant beneath the Lido Club where Twenty-One-Year-Old Billy danced. Downtown Tom and G.I. Jimmy sat across the table from much older men, negotiating in preparation for a rendezvous.
After a quick hamburger, I walked toward a dimly lit section of 53rd Street where I’d noticed other gay theaters. A bare light hanging over one of the doorways and illuminating a small sign caught my attention. The words read: private club, men only.
I went inside and paid a twenty-dollar membership fee. The man at the desk ushered me through a dingy curtain that partitioned the hallway from whatever lay beyond. I used my elbow to push the curtain aside. It looked rotten, like a shroud that might have covered plague victims.
A cavernous auditorium opened up as my eyes adjusted. Now decrepit, this had once been a silent movie theater. A stage covered the original organ pit. A pornographic movie played on a large screen. About the time I found a seat, the stage lights brightened and a strip show began. Ten naked men appeared. Backstage, they had worked up erections that bobbed as they walked onstage. The men lay on blankets and masturbated to disco music. The fellows in the audience unfastened their pants and hooted at the men as they jerked themselves. Because it was a private club, the restrictions imposed at the Lido Club didn’t apply. Men here were brazen.
Lights flashed across the audience from automated lamps mounted along the walls. I nearly panicked when, several rows from the stage, I spotted one of the lawyers who had been in the courtroom representing Reverend Moon. He had not seen me, but I had a good view of his row. The man pulled down his pants, then removed them completely. The tails of his white shirt fell on either side of his erection. He and the man sitting beside him touched each other like curious boys at a sleepover. The lawyer’s eyes scanned the room, trying to catch a view of other men engaged in similar pleasures.
The lawyer had never spoken to me during the trial, but he knew who I was. It amused me to consider what his reaction would be if he saw me, fully clothed, watching him. He’d think I had followed him inside to uncover his perversion and report him as someone unworthy to represent the church.
I moved to a row more directly in his line of sight. Soon enough, the lawyer spotted me. His eyes grew so large it looked as though two golf balls had hit him in the face. The visceral reaction made me worry that the poor man might have a heart attack. I knew from introductions at various meetings that he was married and that he had children. The lawyer wasn’t handsome, but he had a nice body. His black hair and mustache was salon perfect. I moved again, this time taking a seat even closer.
A new set of men, naked and unspent, emerged from behind curtains at the sides of the theater. They were younger and more attractive than the ones who had performed onstage. Each took a row and began moving down it, facing the patrons. A brown-haired fellow, thin to the point of emaciation, started to move along the row where the lawyer and I sat. The boys expected money to be slipped into their hands before allowing contact, usually amounting to a cursory blow job. How long they lingered depended on the amount. A five-dollar bill won about a minute. Men who shelled out a twenty got the full length of the boy’s flesh, but something short of full satisfaction. A dollar bill garnered little more than a quick touch.
I readied a five-dollar bill, keeping the horrified lawyer in my sights. The boy moving along our row squeezed past a cheapskate just down from me who tried to cop a feel without paying anything. As the performer maneuvered in front of me, I took him into my mouth, placing the money in his hand. The lawyer turned pale and covered his face. I left the theater before he regained his composure.
If I participated in the blessing, my life would be something like that lawyer’s, sneaking out at night for tawdry entertainment even as my children slept snug in their beds.
Well, if that lawyer could do it and still maintain his sanity, so could I. The lesson of the evening: don’t play where you might get caught.
The next day, Mitsui sent word that he wanted me to come to his office. Father had called a meeting.
I must have looked like the familiar Simon Powell, trusted commander and liaison to Father’s second-in-command. Inside, I had become a very different person. I laughed that once I had thought Father could read my inner thoughts. Norman’s decrepit ghosts were figments of his overheated imagination. The only real world was the one we perceived, because evolution gave us senses to do so. How could I have so easily set aside the Darwinism I had learned during two semesters of anthropology?
Mitsui and I went to Father’s penthouse suite. Before the jury returned its verdict, Father personally wanted to thank everyone involved in his defense. In the presence of outsiders, it was common not to prostrate ourselves, but instead to bow politely when entering Father’s presence. Mitsui led such a bow when we saw Father’s lawyers seated at the conference table.
Following a round of introductions, Father offered his appreciation for the diligence and integrity of the lawyers who represented him. Carol and Owen were there. So was Willard Bozeman. They each made speeches, professing the hard work performed by the lawyers. The attorney I’d seen in the private club received special praise. It was difficult to keep from making eye contact with him, but neither of us wanted to acknowledge the other.
Father, if not a prescient messiah, possessed an uncanny sense of timing. That very afternoon, the jury convicted Father on each count of tax evasion and conspiracy to defraud. They found Mitsui guilty on every count of perjury.
By late evening, special newspaper editions bore headlines announcing the news. People who otherwise might ask, “Reverend who?” found out quickly enough that a self-proclaimed messiah was going to jail for cheating on taxes. People passing each other on the street and reading the headlines joked, “Even God can’t beat the IRS.”
Over the next few days, deprogrammers ratcheted up their efforts, attending church services to renew their sales pitches concerning the dangers of cults. Connie and Derek, representing the Cult Education Network, appeared on Christian television shows. When I talked to Vivian about what to expect on the news programs, she didn’t know that Connie and Derek had already appeared on television. She had received phone calls from friends and relatives, though, and some suggested she and Lenny arrange, finally, to kidnap me if that was what it took.
“You know we’d never do that, Bubby,” Vivian promised. “But I don’t know what to tell people. It’s all so strange, son.”
“Tell them your son knows what he’s doing and that he can look out for himself.” It was as honest as I could be with her.
One evening, curious about media coverage, I stopped to watch television in a Times Square electronics store. From the reports, it appeared that Christians had gone into paroxysms of self-righteousness, shouting sermons from pulpits about the allure of false prophets. What an irony if Father’s conviction helped Christians reel in their backsliding membership.
I waited for instructions. Father and Mitsui would remain free on bail during the appeals process. The traitorous group—Bozeman, Owen, Carol, and their behind-the-scenes cohort, Abbanim—continued to assert control over legal representation. So far, they had been successful in their duplicity, but the endgame was far from over.
CHAPTER 36
Mitsui, with Father’s blessing, asked Maury to work on the appeal. As soon as a full copy of the trial transcripts became available, I took the boxes to Los Angeles. It would require weeks to comb through the proceedings for anything useful on appeal. We didn’t expect to find much that we didn’t already know, but Mitsui wanted to try anyway.
After renting a crimson Mustang, prepaying a six-month lease, and settling in at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Sandra had again made reservations, I called the office to make plans for the next day. I hoped to relax after the long trip, but within the hour, Sandra and Scott came knoc
king.
“Let’s put some mileage on that credit card,” Scott said, bursting into the room.
Sandra followed close behind, wrapping her arms around me before pouncing onto the bed.
“You two are acting as though we won the case,” I said.
Sandra feigned surprise at my statement. “Why, darling, it is a win for the firm. Think of all the money we’ll make because of the appeal.”
“You’re right,” I said. “There is cause for celebration. What was I thinking?”
Sandra went to the mirror to spruce up.
“You look radiant, Sandra,” I said, wondering how she expected to improve her appearance.
“Come on, Sandra,” Scott barked, impatient to get going. “Really, you look great.”
Sandra took my hand and led me to the door. “The night is young, my dear, and so are we.”
We piled into the Mustang and headed toward Hollywood. Sandra suggested we go to Cyrano’s Restaurant on the Sunset Strip.
“The maître d’ knows me,” Sandra said. And it was a good thing she did. Otherwise, we never would have been seated without a reservation.
Sandra’s maître d’ was a rigid woman wearing a dress that looked like a beige body sock. The only thing breaking the monotony of the fabric was a diamond pin fastened to a black choker.
“I know why you get special treatment from that woman,” I told Sandra.
“Who are you—Carnac the Magnificent?”
“Don’t have to be. She’s smitten with you.”
