Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  “That should do it,” declared Jones.

  “We’re done?” said Fielding hopefully, checking his watch again.

  “We are,” confirmed Jones.

  “What, precisely,” deliberately using what she already thought of as one of Jones’ favorite words, “happens next?” said Amiri.

  Although Jones had been prepared for questions along those lines, the intensity of this one took him by surprise. “Two things,” he said. “First, we will issue a press release based on the two signed conference letters. Secondly, I will meet with representatives from the Justice Department to get the ball rolling.”

  “How?” said Amiri, almost adding precisely again.

  “How will I meet, or how will the ball get rolling?” said Jones, not as a flippant response, he truly didn’t know which she meant.

  “How are you going to get the ball rolling?”

  Jones was not prepared to answer this, for fear of admitting how choreographed this entire process indeed was. Instead he said, “It will roll, and soon at that.”

  Amiri was nothing if not perceptive, and she took this slight rebuke of her question as the sign that this much-shorter-than-she-had-expected meeting was indeed over.

  “Fair enough,” she said.

  “Any other questions?” said Jones. Which he followed with “Good” before entertaining any.

  The meeting was indeed over.

  :

  Ruth Marten was arrested by Federal Agents on the 2nd of May, 2030. It was a Thursday.

  :: 121 :: (New York)

  Another conference room. This one is also in New York, but about forty blocks north and three avenues west of the United Nations building.

  It is the 2nd of May, 2030. It is a Thursday.

  Three individuals: Otto Jones, who has resigned his thirty-day stint as counsel for The Church of Crystal Faith (now that his Faith Summit mission has been brought to a successful close) to now reapply himself to his main, and actual client: The Biotechnical Industry Association, along with its pecuniary interests.

  The second individual present is Andrew Callahan, FBI’s Los Angeles Bureau Chief, just arrived on a red-eye with marching orders to accommodate Jones and BIA any way he can. Career and future depending on it, or so he has been led to understand by those whose task it was to know and relay such things.

  The third person present is Meredith Simmons who is BIA’s in-house counsel and chairperson, and, as such, also Big Pharma’s point-person in this thornier-by-the-day and bottom-line disastrous Ruth Marten affair.

  “This just in,” said Jones with a smile. “Ruth Marten is in custody.”

  Meredith Simmons finished pouring her coffee, held up the coffee pitcher, “Anyone? A refill?”

  Jones and Callahan both indicated that they were fine, thank you.

  She sat down and took a long look at Jones. “In custody,” she said slowly, as if tasting the words. Nodded even slower. Then sipped her coffee, which she took black, no sugar. She then, carefully, placed the mug back on its coaster. “This is good news, Otto. And the initial indictment? What was the charge? As planned?”

  “Two charges,” said Callahan, fielding the question. He held up two fingers. “Inciting to civil unrest.” Folded one finger back, “And inciting to civil disobedience.”

  “No problem with the judge?”

  “None,” said Callahan. “He owes us. Well, owed us. From what I understand, this settles our score with him, whatever that score was. Besides, he apparently doesn’t care for our wunderkind.”

  “Who is the judge?” she wanted to know. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “You can ask,” said Callahan. “No matter. It’s Thomas Welles.”

  Otto Jones smiled and said, “Yes, Tom. We have met.” He didn’t care to elaborate. He did add, though, “Seems like we are in good hands.”

  “Is Welles going to preside at the trial?” asked Simmons.

  “No,” said Callahan. “No, that wouldn’t fly. And even if we could arrange that—which I’m not sure we can—that would look rather suspicious.” Then, after some reflection, he added, “And might invite a successful appeal.”

  “I can see that,” said Simmons. “When’s the post-indictment?”

  “Arraignment is tomorrow. Afternoon,” said Jones.

  “Welles?”

  “I assume so,” said Callahan.

  “Let’s not assume anything,” said Simmons. “Can you confirm.”

  “Will do.”

  “Is there any doubt that the charges will stick?” she said.

  “None,” said Jones. “Should be a formality.” Callahan nodded his agreement.

  “The preliminary?”

  “We will ask for a May 20 hearing,” said Jones. “I’ve confirmed with the clerk, that’s a good date.”

  “Welles?” said Simmons.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” said Callahan.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps it’s just me,” said Simmons, “but I would feel a lot more comfortable if Welles handled the preliminary.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Callahan. Then, remembering what had been said about career and future and full support, added, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That would be much appreciated,” said Simmons. Then she turned to Jones, “And you, you’ll be ready to try the case?”

  “That will not be a problem. We have a lot already, and I’m sure we’ll have two or three months to mobilize everything before the trial. Judging by the Los Angeles Federal docket, I don’t see a trial date until late July or early August.”

  “Who is handling the arraignment?” Simmons wanted to know. Addressing Callahan, but it was Jones who answered.

  “Lara Matthews. An associate of mine. I would have handled it, but, as you can see, I am here.”

  She did not smile at the joke. “And your associate…?”

  “She’s quite competent,” said Jones.

  “I hope so,” said Simmons. Then, apparently viewing an internal calendar, “May 20. That gives us less than three weeks. Is that enough time?” She sipped he coffee and regarded Jones over the rim.

  “Plenty.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  “I am very sure.”

  Simmons said nothing in response, just replaced her cup on the coaster—again, carefully.

  Then she said, “I’d like to second chair.”

  If this took Jones by surprise, he didn’t show it. “Good idea,” is what he said, without hesitation, and quite believably.

  She nodded in agreement. Then said, “What about her counsel? Do we know?”

  Callahan shook his head. “No. No word yet. But what I do know is that she represented herself at the initial arraignment—which just concluded as a matter of fact. Bail was not granted.”

  “Ah. So, she’s in custody?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Callahan.

  “And will remain in custody until the preliminary?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “Well, at least she’s off the streets,” said Simmons.

  Jones said nothing, but smiled at her observation. It would be hard to preach from a cell.

  :

  Very few papers and none of the television and radio stations had nothing to say about the Ruth Marten saga (a word some papers had now begun to use). Several stations hailed her arrest as something finally being done about this woman. Many of the papers, including the Washington Post and the New York Times, highlighted the dangers of millions of young people swallowing Ruth Marten’s message “book, line, and thinker” as one pundit put it, parading an impressive string of mental health professionals to warn the public about buying these “quick emotional fixes” which sometimes were worse even than illegal drugs, a few of them suggested. Parents had a duty to protect their kids from such dangers. “Finally,” one of them concluded, “our government has risen to its responsibility to protect the public.”

  The Los Angel
es Times, on the other hand—and as ever seeing conspiracy behind every bush—challenged the FBI to produce some actual evidence to sustain these absurd charges. The FBI, in a rare press release response, said that the time and place for “actual evidence, as the Los Angeles Times puts it” was at trial, and perhaps the editors and conspiracy seekers at that august institution could refrain from jumping to their usual conclusions until then.

  Many of the papers, and some of the stations, reviewed the New York Faith Summit, and published heavily annotated versions of the two conference letters signed by all attendees. These letters, in and of themselves, The New York Times maintained, constituted ample evidence that Miss Marten was indeed a threat to the internal peace of the nation.

  Most, if not all, media outlets made no secret that they were looking forward to an interesting trial.

  :

  The post-indictment arraignment took place the following day, Friday May 3rd. Again, Ruth Marten insisted on representing herself.

  She entered a plea of Not Guilty, and also requested that she be released on her own recognizance.

  Judge Welles, who again presided, agreed to release her, but ordered her to be placed under house arrest until the preliminary hearing, which was set for the 20th of May. He also stipulated no fewer than three guards at any one time to keep an eye on the Marten household, mainly for her own protection, he added.

  :

  Back at her house after a night in custody, Ruth, along with Melissa, Ananda, Clare Downes (who was taking very good notes about all that was happening, both for Ruth’s sake and for her editor’s—which Ruth was fine with) and Agent Roth (who Ruth said she could not do without) gathered around the kitchen table to take stock of things.

  True to Judge Welles’ word, three of Los Angeles’ finest were posted outside and in plain view, two of them already busy telling people (several of them reporters) to move on, nothing of interest here, and that means you, too. And no pictures.

  Inside, Ananda could not suppress the feeling that a gaping abyss was on the move and threatening to soon swallow the Tathagata and her mission into its oblivion. He tried, though not very successfully, to put up a brave face.

  Ruth noticed. “It’s not the end of the world, Ananda.”

  He looked up from his gnarly hands, clutching each other for bony comfort. “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure.”

  “Judge Welles may owe the FBI a favor or two,” said Roth, as if that was precisely on point. “But he cannot indict on meaningless charges.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Clare Downes.

  Everyone was now looking at Roth, waiting for his answer. “What I’m saying,” said Roth. “Is that they have evidence to back them up. The FBI is not resourceless, the charges may well stick. And a jury may just convict.”

  “That’s what I am afraid of,” said Ananda.

  “It’s Bruno all over again,” said Ruth, mainly to Ananda. Along with a smile.

  Ananda smiled, too, though not happily. More in appreciation of Ruth’s gesture.

  “Who’s Bruno,” said Clare and Roth with one voice.

  Ananda looked at Ruth who looked at Melissa. Who’s to explain?

  “Giordano Bruno,” said Ruth. “Burned at the stake for speaking the truth.”

  “There are parallels?” said Roth.

  “You could say that,” said Ruth.

  “One of Ruth’s earlier lives,” said Melissa.

  To Roth, that pattern harmonized. He nodded, yes, he understood. Clare, however, did not.

  “You were this Bruno?” she said.

  “I was,” said Ruth.

  “And this is Bruno all over again?” As if verifying a quote.

  “This is Bruno all over again. Tried for threatening the vested interests of his time,” said Ruth.

  “Yes,” said Clare—though still grappling with the notion. “I guess that is what you are doing, threatening the vested interests of your time.”

  “That is precisely what I am doing,” said Ruth.

  “That is precisely what you are doing,” echoed Ananda.

  Then—as if the outcome of Bruno’s threat to vested interest finally settled on their collective consciousness—no one said the next thing.

  Until Ananda, worried as always about the Tathagata, said:

  “We need to find the best lawyer we can afford.”

  “I am sure the station will help,” suggested Clare.

  Melissa agreed, she made that clear.

  “I can suggest one or two,” said Roth.

  “No,” said Ruth. Perhaps a little louder than she had intended, or perhaps precisely as loudly as she intended. “I am defending myself.”

  “An indictment is one thing,” began Ananda.

  Ruth looked at him with what could only be described as interest at what was going to come next. Ananda knew that look. Did not continue.

  Roth looked around for support. Was he hearing this correctly? “Are you serious?” is what he said.

  “Perfectly,” said Ruth.

  “No,” suggested Clare.

  “No,” demanded Melissa. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I can do this,” said Ruth to her mother. “Trust me, it’s the best way.”

  “I don’t care how old you are, or how many Brunos you’ve been, you need a real lawyer. I’m not risking you going to jail for the rest of your life.”

  “For the rest of her life?” Ananda almost cried out.

  “Actually,” said Roth. “She stands to do just that. These charges now fall under the anti-terrorist statues. They carry very long, to life, sentences.”

  “You need a lawyer,” said Clare, with a voice as kindly and as full of valuable advice as she could muster.

  “I appreciate your concern. You know I do,” said Ruth. “But what I need help with, truly,” and here she looked at Clare. “I want the trial televised.”

  “Oh, they’ll never agree to that,” said Roth, referring to the FBI.

  “You mean,” said Clare.

  “Yes, the bureau.”

  “It’s not up to the bureau, though,” said Clare. “Isn’t that up the judge.”

  “True,” said Roth. “But if the judge is Welles, there’s not a chance.”

  “Let’s hope then,” said Ruth, “that the judge is not Welles.” Then to Clare, “Do you think your station, and other stations, can put in the request, and exert whatever pressure is allowed in these situations?”

  “Sure,” said Clare.

  Ruth, nodded. “Good. Good.” Then, to all of them, “This is my chance to get my message across, live, to the world.”

  “It’s a gamble,” said Ananda.

  “It is a gamble,” agreed Ruth. “But a gamble I am willing to make, and one that I know will work.”

  “It’s not a gamble I am willing to make,” said Melissa. “And I am still your mother.”

  “I am of age, mother,” Ruth pointed out. Kindly.

  “True,” said Melissa. “But will I not have a say in this?”

  “No,” said Ruth. Again, kindly.

  :: 122 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

  Judge Thomas Welles entered court room 11B with his customary flourish. Then came his customary brief survey of the room from his dais of judicial power before he sat down.

  The clerk cleared her throat and read out the docket number and the parties to the case: The United States of America as plaintiff, and Ruth Marten as defendant.

  Over the next hour, Otto Jones, with the help of a too-detailed (for Judge Welles’ liking) complaint, outlined the case, and the reasons for going forward with it: Ruth Marten, by her New Age mumbo jumbo, was seducing near enough a whole young generation to her mystical ways. This was not only unhealthy—mentally, for sure, perhaps physically as well, too early to tell—for the generation concerned, but was also causing grave suffering for the many parents (and spouses) that were, in effect, losing their loved ones to this movement, to thi
s cult of personality.

  It was not, Jones continued, only a matter of a threat to the societal peace and well-being, for her actions, her speeches, her viral videos (which should be banned, according to the complaint) had in fact already caused damage, had already diverted (and perverted) youth from their normal and healthy ways by way of flagrant disobedience to tradition and culture, and, say of what else does our civil fabric consist?

  She was not only a threat, he went on to stress, she had already caused the civil unrest that our laws are in place to prevent.

  And on and on.

  Then the prosecutions co-counsel, Meredith Thomas, asked to be heard, and she spread on more of the same: the disruption of the fabric, and the not only threat, and on and on.

  Ruth’s turn.

  “Where is your attorney?” Welles wanted to know.

  “I represent myself,” Ruth, rising to address the court, replied. Then, as if just remembering the protocol, added, “Your honor.”

  “Do you consider that a wise thing, my dear?” said Welles.

  “Wise or not,” said Ruth. “That is my choice.”

  “Fair enough,” said Welles. “And what do you answer to the allegations presented by the prosecution?”

  “From where I stand,” said Ruth. “This is not so much a trial about faith and values, or about the social fabric, but a trial about money and lost revenue.”

  “How so?” wondered Welles.

  “Perhaps it is not common knowledge, though it should be, that opposing co-counsel, Miss Simmons, is not only the in-house counsel but also the chairperson of the Biotechnical Industry Association, the pharmaceutical association that, according to what I have managed to glean so far, is the association posting the worst sales figures of the many pharmaceutical associations these days.”

  Jones leaned toward Simmons and whispered something. He did not look pleased. She said nothing in return, but looked over at Ruth. Reassessing.

  Ruth met Simmons’ glance, then looked back at the judge and continued, “I believe this is why this matter is before you. I believe it is in order to restore a lessening revenue stream to its absurd normal that your honor is asked by the prosecution to let this go to a jury trial.”