Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  If she were that incompetent, suggested others, how can she possibly be believed.

  Also, according to the majority of media opinion, the outcome of the trial had become a foregone conclusion: the evidence was unequivocal. Surely, this young lady was guilty as charged. Only The Guardian reserved judgment until the case had been fully tried, which would obviously include Miss Marten’s defense as well, which was, the paper reminded its readers, yet to come.

  :: 131 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

  The following morning saw a second coup from the prosecution. Otto Jones—by what arm-twisting, or calling in by what favors, is hard to imagine—called to the stand Roscoe Flynn, the seventy-two-year-old yet still strikingly handsome—and he knew it, too—Treasury Secretary of the United States of America.

  “Sir,” Jones began. “You are familiar with the testimony of Mister Anderson?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Flynn, partly to Jones and partly to one of the cameras.

  “Have you had the time to study and digest the figures?”

  “I have been thoroughly briefed.”

  “How do you view these reports? What do they tell you?”

  “How do I view them? There is only one way to view them. This economy is headed for disaster.”

  “Is that not too strong a word?”

  “Is disaster too strong a word, is that the question?” Asked, one would assume, for effect, the good Secretary playing to a world-wide audience.

  “Yes.”

  “Strong or not, that’s the correct word. That’s the word you use when the legs are cut off from under you and you no longer have a way of moving forward. Disaster.”

  “And the cause?”

  “Sitting right there,” said Flynn, first glancing at, then pointing to, Ruth Marten.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am sure.”

  “And what, if anything, can be done about this? Can this disaster be averted?”

  “It can. And the remedy is simple.”

  “What is that remedy?”

  “People need to wake up. Pure and simple. They are being sung to by this little siren, and they’re all taken in by her inglorious promises. People need to smell the coffee and wake the hell up.”

  “Mister Flynn,” said Judge Moore. “Not in my court room.”

  “Sorry, your honor,” said Flynn.

  “Why is it,” said Jones. “Please explain to the jury, if you would, why is it that this radical drop in consumption has such an impact on our economy?”

  “Well, that’s just plain common sense,” said Flynn. “The health of any economy is measured by how much it produces. Production. Manufacturing. Goods and services. Now, if no one is buying what you make or the services you offer, you’ll soon go broke. Simple as that. Don’t you see?”

  “Yes, I see,” said Jones.

  “When you stop consuming, you stop buying. And when you stop buying, we’ll stop producing. And if we stop producing, well, we will soon all starve to death.”

  “How soon?” asked Jones

  “A handful of years,” said the Treasury Secretary.

  “A handful of years,” said Jones, holding up his right hand, fingers splayed. “As in five?”

  “As good a number as any.”

  “And there’s an actual risk of that happening?” said Jones.

  “There’s a real risk of that happening,” said Treasury Secretary Flynn directly into the camera.

  “No further questions,” said Jones.

  Judge Moore looked over at Ruth, who softly shook her head.

  Moore looked back at Jones. “Call your next witness,” she said.

  :

  Katherine O’Connor was once voted the most beautiful woman on Earth over forty. “Some compliment,” had been her reaction to what she had considered a dubious honor. Nonetheless, there was no doubt that she was still, today at sixty-two, an amazingly beautiful woman, who obviously never ceased working out and never deviated from her vegan regimen, or never for long, at any rate.

  She had never held political aspirations, but in 2024, out of sheer frustration with the incompetence in Washington she decided to run for one of the California Senate seats then up for election. To everybody’s, including her own, surprise, she won and have served her state and country ever since in such a commonsensical way that she had by now earned the respect not only from her own republican party by also from the democratic opposition across the aisle. She was re-elected in 2028.

  Jones (who seemed to know everybody, literally) knew her personally, and so did not have to call in any particular favors to have her testify. And he had found O’Connor on the same page as the Treasury Secretary: it was nowhere near rocket science: if no one buys your products or services, you’ll soon be out of business and on the street, cap in hand.

  Judge Moore winced internally when she saw O’Connor rise and stride forward to the witness stand. Jones was putting on a very impressive show, and she was afraid that with witnesses like this, all telling a similar story, and all of these stories televised live with some of the best ratings ever, what chances, really, did Ruth Marten have? Her sense was that this trial somehow was not fair, but she could not for the life of her pinpoint any one factor that did not accord with the law. Justice was being served, but somehow it was being served unfairly.

  O’Connor put her hand on the proffered Bible and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. The clerk, Bible in hand, returned to her seat.

  Jones smiled as he rose and approached the stand.

  “Miss O’Connor, how often are you briefed on the financial health of your state?”

  “As of late, almost hourly,” she answered. Then added, “By the Governor.”

  “And what is your understanding of the situation?”

  “My understanding, as you put it, is that California sales tax revenue has dropped well over thirty percent over the last two months, a trend that shows no signs of slowing, much less stopping.”

  “Thirty percent?” said Jones, stress on thirty.

  “Thirty percent,” confirmed O’Connor.

  “Will California run out of money?” asked Jones.

  “It’s not a question of will,” said O’Connor. “California has run out of money.”

  “What?” said Jones, genuinely surprised.

  “As of this morning, actually,” said O’Connor.

  “Are you telling this court,” interrupted Judge Moore, “that the State is bankrupt?”

  “No, your honor. The state has other sources of money, if not revenue. Short term loans have already been negotiated, and new lines of credit are in place anticipating an end to this revenue shortfall at end of trial.”

  “Isn’t that a little presumptuous?” said Moore.

  “Your honor,” objected Jones.

  “Fair enough,” said Moore.

  “No,” answered O’Connor. “I doubt there is a person alive, much less a Californian, that, by end of trial, will not clearly see what is going on and what needs to be done.”

  “And what?” Jones broke in opportunistically—the Judge herself had opened this door, and could not now well shut it. “What is clearly going on and what needs to be done?”

  “The State, and the country, is having crisis of the spirit,” said O’Connor. “An epidemic of the soul.” Then she paused and looked squarely at Ruth Martin: hard, beautiful gray eyes meeting curious blue. “This little siren,” she said. “I’m not sure precisely how she’s doing it, but she has managed to delude a population into believing that heaven is at hand, that paradise is here for the taking. All we have to do is let go. All we have to do is stop spending. All we have to do is stop living. People, especially young people, swallow this stuff hook and line and sinker. Don’t even chew.”

  “You are talking about the defendant?” clarified Jones unnecessarily, but for the record.

  “Who else?” said O’Connor.

  “Answer the question,” said
Judge Moore, a little annoyed by now.

  “Yes, your honor. I am talking about the defendant.”

  “And what knowledge do you have to link her with the alarming drop in State revenue?” said Jones.

  “As I mentioned,” said O’Connor. “I’m being briefed almost hourly these days, and the parallel is all to plain: our drop in sales tax revenue is a near mirror image of the number of online viewings of Miss Marten’s lectures: as it rises the revue drops. A reflection on a mirrored surface.”

  “There could be no other reason for this?” said Jones, knowing—as any good attorney would—the answer to the question, or he would not have asked it.

  “No. This is unprecedented. Never before in the history of our state. And all indications point in her direction.”

  “The defendant’s direction?” said Jones.

  “Yes, in Miss Marten’s direction.”

  “So, what should be done?” asked Jones

  “In my opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  “As a Senator of the State of California I see it as my official duty to ensure that these false promises cease and that Miss Marten pay for her crimes.”

  Judge Moore was too stunned by this answer to intervene immediately, but then spoke into the silence of the court: “The defendant has not been found guilty of anything, Miss O’Connor. I’d appreciate it if you return the Jury Hat to the Jury and leave it be.”

  “Yes, your honor,” said O’Connor.

  “And you, Jones, please rein in your witness,” said Moore.

  “Yes, your honor,” said Jones. Smiling though. The effect had already been created. No stuffing this genie back into any bottle.

  Another silence. Moore asked Jones, “Do you have any further questions for your witness?”

  Jones seemed to deliberate for a moment, then made up his mind: “No, your honor.”

  “And you, Miss Marten?” said the Judge.

  “No questions, your honor,” said Ruth Marten.

  :

  The first headlines hit the online editions at about the same time that Judge Moore’s gavel hit wood for the day: “Open and Shut” was the gist of most of them. As for television, “Get this woman a lawyer,” was the most repeated suggestion by the many pundits now busy analyzing the court events of the day.

  Among the major outlets, only The Guardian still opted to reserve judgment until the trial was actually over, taking a few none-too-subtle swipes at its competitors. Even so, The Guardian did suggest that Miss Marten had made the mistake of her life when she chose to represent herself. Jones, the reporters and editors maintained, was walking all over her, and her rights to a fair trial.

  Why was Judge Moore allowing this? asked the pundits. Well, came the learned replies, there was nothing she could do when the defense never objected. And the defense never did. In effect, there was no defense.

  One reporter at the Cleveland Plain Dealer drew an apt comparison between this trial and the fifty-six years ago heavyweight rumble in the jungle between Mohammed Ali and George Foreman. Ruth Marten was on the ropes simply taking a near-fatal beating, and doing nothing, nothing to defend herself. At least Ali had held up his arms to ward off Foreman’s blows. In trial, Miss Marten was doing nothing, nothing to defend herself. Not even ducking.

  The outcome, opinioned the Plain Dealer, was clear: Open and Shut.

  The only real question asked by the media this evening was the sentence. The law held that if found guilty, and if the effects of her acts were found severe enough, she could in fact face execution for treason. It was a long shot, obviously—at least according to most.

  Not such a long shot at all, according to the more incendiary talk-show hosts. Not at all. Look at the country, it teetered on the verge of collapse.

  Not entirely true, but it made for excellent entertainment.

  :: 132 :: (Pasadena)

  In the car back from trial Ananda tried to recall if he had ever before feared for the Buddha’s life. Yes, there had been this once. Devadatta’s near-successful attempt on the Buddha’s life all those many years ago. Yes, he had feared for his teacher’s life then.

  Now he feared for her life again.

  Once gathered in the living room (Melissa refusing to turn on the television, and no one objecting), Ananda, Abbot White, and George Roth all seemed to look for things to say. Melissa said something about tea and soon busied herself in the kitchen. Ruth leaned back and closed her eyes. If she was anxious about things, she didn’t show it, and as far as Ananda could tell, there wasn’t even a trace of concern on her features. Things, apparently, were going according to plan.

  Ananda spoke first, “Ruth,” he said.

  Ruth opened her eyes, and looked at her long-time friend. “Yes.”

  “Are you aware, truly aware, of the risk you’re taking?”

  “My thought precisely,” said Abbot White.

  “And you?” said Ruth, looking over at George Roth.

  “What about me?” said Roth.

  “Am I being foolhardy in your eyes, too?”

  “In the extreme,” said Roth.

  “Okay,” said Ruth. “We have been over this ground, and more than once.”

  “But you have yet to ask a single question. Well, there was the one, or the two,” said Ananda, with thinly veiled (or not veiled at all) despair.

  “Everything his witnesses say is true,” said Ruth. “There’s nothing there to challenge.”

  “Do you realize,” said Roth, and not for the first time since it had become clear to him that she would more than likely be found guilty, “that the death penalty might be sought, and sentenced, if you’re found guilty?”

  “Shades of Bruno,” said Ruth.

  “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 ar
e 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: