“Yes . . . absolutely.”
I’m not liking this. Kane knows something here.
Amy suddenly wants Brooke to get off that stand. Now.
“And do you think Ms. Wesley likes you?”
Tom stands and objects to the question. “Speculative,” he says.
“Your Honor, the question speaks to the state of mind of the witness, if not Ms. Wesley herself.”
Judge Stennis nods and wrinkles his mouth like some kind of thinking frog might. “I’m going to allow it. Overruled. You may answer the question.”
Brooke looks at the judge and nods. “Yes . . . I think she likes me.”
“Do you think there’s any possibility that in answering your question, Ms. Wesley might have been looking to share her ideas about her faith— a faith she holds most dear?”
“No, not at that moment,” Brooke answers.
A sudden ding sort of look appears on Brooke’s face.
Not at that moment?
Amy knows that if she’s seeing that look, so is Kane. She hears him slowly clear his throat.
“Not at that moment? Do you mean that there were other moments in which Ms. Wesley did share with you about her faith?”
The young woman suddenly doesn’t seem so excited to talk. Her eyes glance down. Amy can only imagine what Tom might be thinking.
“Miss Thawley?” Kane says, sounding the most menacing he has since the start of the trial.
The combination of age and experience and couldn’t-care-less attitude and hair gel is absolutely too much for Brooke. She seems to sink in her seat, looking at the judge for some way out but obviously not finding one.
“You must answer the question, Miss Thawley,” Stennis tells her.
Amy knows that’s his way of saying, How dare you interrupt my courtroom, you youngster you.
Brooke looks over at Grace and Tom with a sense of regret.
“Yes . . . but it was outside of school . . . and it was only one time.”
“Move to strike,” Tom calls out after standing. “Your Honor, this is irrelevant. No actions off the school campus are at issue here.”
“Denied. Mr. Kane seems to have found a loose thread. I’m inclined to let him pull it and see what unravels.”
Amy can only think of two words. It’s a song she remembers from when she was young by a band called Garbage.
“Stupid Girl.”
And yes, this is garbage. This girl has acted stupid and has suddenly changed the entire story line of the case.
Amy sees Tom leaning into Grace, but this time he doesn’t seem to be asking her a question but rather talking. They both must be wondering what in the world is happening.
The poor teenager on the stand looks like she might cry. Kane does something smart. Instead of continuing to attack, he seems to back off with a kinder tone and demeanor, like he’s some friendly adviser.
“Brooke, it’s very important that you tell the truth here. You understand that, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Kane says like a kindergarten teacher. “Now can you explain what you meant when you said you talked about faith outside of school?”
“My brother died in an accident six months ago. Ms. Wesley noticed I wasn’t doing so well and asked me if everything was all right after class. I told her I was fine, but then I went and found her at the coffee shop later on.”
Amy knows where this is going. Exactly where it’s going.
“And did Ms. Wesley refer you for psychological counseling?”
Brooke seems surprised by the question. “No.”
The lawyer moves closer. “Did she suggest that maybe she wasn’t the right person to be discussing this with you?”
“No. She was nice. We talked for a long time. I could tell she really cared. I asked her how she kept everything together so well, and she said Jesus helped her.”
Kane nods carefully, then leans toward her to ensure she focuses on him.
“So she’s the one who brought up Jesus. Did her endorsement of Jesus lead you to exploring Christianity?”
Brooke looks around, first to her parents and then to Grace and Tom.
“Yes, at first. But when the Salvation Army came to pick up my brother’s things just the other day, one of the workers found his Bible and gave it to me.”
This must have just happened.
Amy can see Brooke’s parents looking at each other as if it’s news to them, too.
“So did you talk to Ms. Wesley about this Bible?”
“No,” Brooke says. “This was after everything happened. I mean—I didn’t even know Carter had one. I just know that I started reading, and once I did, I realized I didn’t want to stop. The things Ms. Wesley had been talking about just made me curious.”
Kane nods and then walks over to the jurors, perhaps to get their attention or make any bored ones wake up. Amy can tell that not a single one appears to be bored in any way.
“So, Miss Thawley, if I’m understanding you correctly, without Ms. Wesley’s direct influence, you never would have asked the question that put us all here in the first place, would you?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that—like I said, I found my brother’s Bible and started to read—”
“And based on your readings, would you now consider yourself a believer?”
Brooke looks nervous but doesn’t hesitate in answering. “Yes.”
“Maybe even consider yourself a Christian?”
The resounding yes seems to hover around the room for a moment. Once again, Amy is impressed with the strength of this young woman.
“So, Brooke—at the risk of seeming redundant: Is it likely that any of this—your question about Jesus in class, your Bible reading, or your newfound commitment to Christianity—is it likely that any of this would have come about without Ms. Wesley’s direct involvement?”
Brooke can only shake her head. She has to tell the truth, more now than ever before. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” Kane says. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Amy feels uncomfortable in her wooden seat. The primping from Kane as he sits down . . . the muffled “No, Your Honor,” from Tom after being asked if he wants to redirect . . . the quiet hush in the courtroom . . . the pale look of shame on Brooke’s face . . .
Amy closes her eyes and wants to slip out of this room. But she knows she needs to talk to Brooke. To ask her some questions. And maybe, possibly, encourage her.
Her parents certainly won’t.
46
MOMENTS AFTER BROOKE makes her confession to Kane, Grace looks at the jury and then leans over to me.
“Why do they look so angry?”
If I didn’t have to hide my expression, I’d be looking exactly like them. “They think we lied to them,” I whisper.
“But we didn’t,” she tells me.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Truth is overrated in the courtroom. Perception, on the other hand, is everything.
Everybody files out of the courtroom before I move to start picking up my folders to put into my briefcase. Grace is just waiting for me to say or do something.
“I have to prepare you, Grace. We’re going to lose this case.”
She just nods. “I know. You were right. I’m going to lose everything.”
I want to say something, to say the right thing, to not be sarcastic or cavalier about this, so in searching for the words I end up saying nothing. I just hear her sigh. A long and exhausted and frustrated sigh.
“At the end of the day, maybe it wasn’t worth it after all,” Grace says.
But it was. It has to be. I know it was the right thing to do. “No—listen, Grace. What I said before—I was wrong. It is worth it.”
Confusion fills her face. She stands up before I can say anything more. “Then maybe you should just ask the jury to convict me and get it over with.”
I hear the tapping of her pumps as she leaves. I st
and up and think about chasing her but realize she doesn’t want that and nobody needs to see that.
But whatever she’s thinking right now—she’s got it all wrong. I replay what I said.
“It is worth it.”
I try to think what she might have thought I meant by this. Did she think I was being condescending, as if I were saying, “Good try, kiddo!” Or maybe she thought I was hitting on her? “This gave us the chance to meet one another.” Or did she just think I was saying something like every other male out there, trying to fix something that can’t be repaired?
This room suddenly feels cavernous. For some strange reason, I think of Jonah. Stuck in the belly of a whale. That little fable has always made me laugh. It’s always made me think of the beginning of The Empire Strikes Back when Han Solo has to put a wounded Luke Skywalker in the belly of a dead tauntaun in order to survive the subzero temperatures.
This is my problem in a nutshell. I hear a story from the Bible and then start thinking of Star Wars or something like that.
But what if the stories about Jonah and Noah and Moses are indeed true?
What if all the stories—including the ones about Jesus Christ—are true? Not just the being born part and the preaching part and the coming-to-Jerusalem-on-a-donkey part. Not just being hung on a cross to die.
What if Jesus really did rise from the dead the way the Bible says he did?
I’d be pretty excited if I actually could believe something like that.
Something like that would mean . . . it would mean everything. It would change everything. The air would feel different and the mirror I sometimes glance at in the morning would look different and the sky above would resemble something else completely.
It’s like the black-and-white world would suddenly change into some kind of Matisse painting.
If I could believe . . .
I start heading to the exit, knowing the world isn’t black-and-white but full of gray. The color tries to fill in the cracks and the broken spots, but it never seems able to. At least not with me.
I wanted to believe we were going to win. For a short time, I think I even did.
Now, as I walk down the hallway toward the stairs of the courthouse, I realize that believing is a foolish thing. Whether it’s believing in your parents or in a job or in the love of your life or in the hopes that maybe life is going to change for the better.
Belief is a dangerous thing because it takes just one reality check to make it all disappear exactly like it did moments ago.
47
IT’S TIME.
In this world full of immediacy, it’s a shame so many people still procrastinate about matters of faith. The connections and the instant everything perhaps make the situation even worse.
Amy knows she’s been stalling for too long. She’s pressed the pause button on this song far too many times.
This evening it’s time to act. To go and do and say and believe.
The voice of the pastor speaking in the Kenyan accent echoes in her mind.
“It’s time to stop floating, Amy. It’s time to stop waiting for God to blow you back to shore. I think it’s time you start paddling to find dry land yourself.”
In the dim light of her Prius, Amy sees the screen of her phone light up. The name Brooke Thawley appears. She picks it up and answers it.
“How are you doing, Brooke?” she asks.
She didn’t expect to hear from her so soon. Brooke disappeared before Amy could find her at the courthouse.
“I ruined everything, didn’t I?”
There’s a pause since, yes, in some ways, the girl did ruin everything. Or at least most everything. But Amy isn’t about to say any of this.
“It’s okay,” Brooke says. “You don’t have to answer. I know I did.”
“You were being honest,” Amy says. “That’s admirable. That’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m not even allowed to talk to her. How do I let Ms. Wesley know I’m sorry without making things worse?”
Amy used to love being in the middle, playing one side off the other, going back and forth like someone running on a teeter-totter. But now she no longer likes that. She no longer wants to run and bounce off anyone.
She wants to be strong and solid, set in place.
“Brooke, I’m sort of walking a tightrope here. Ethically—as a journalist—I’m supposed to cover the story, not become part of it.”
“So don’t answer as a journalist,” Brooke says. “Answer as Amy.”
“I can’t tell you what to do,” she says into the phone. “But whatever it is, just let her know that you care.”
Brooke doesn’t say anything, so Amy feels she needs to explain more. “Listen—you know what I saw in that court today? I saw a girl who’s—what, sixteen, right?”
Brooke utters a weak and soft yes.
“You know what I was doing when I was your age? I was angry at God and at the only parent I had in my life. A single mother trying her best to raise a rebellious girl who only gave her grief and heartache. My mother was trying to set an example for me, and I didn’t want any of it. Because—well, you want to know why? Ultimately why I rebelled? Why I hated my mother so long?”
“Why?” Brooke asks.
“Because I was angry. I was angry at God for my parents divorcing and my father disappearing and my mother being so inconsistent and ill-prepared to be a mother. The anger came from being wounded and feeling like I couldn’t do anything about it. Feeling completely helpless. And that only made the anger grow.”
“I’m sorry,” the voice on the phone tells Amy.
“Brooke, listen to me. Today I saw a young woman go up on the stand—demand to go up there to give her testimony—and speak the truth.”
“I shouldn’t have done it,” she says.
“Maybe not. Maybe it was the worst decision you could have made. But it was inspiring to watch, Brooke. We need more people like you in this country. Teenagers asking the right questions and searching and finally finding faith and speaking out for it.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“No, Brooke. I know. I know. God gave me so many chances with my mother. I ignored them all. Then I thought it was too late. But today in the court—watching you—I realized it’s never too late. Never.”
“Why?” the teen asks. “I mean—why did you think that?”
“The story you told me about your brother. Remember when I asked you if he had faith and you didn’t know? You weren’t sure. And then I hear about you finding this Bible and there’s hope. I could hear it in your voice. Your faith. The same faith that I found a year ago but then suddenly began to doubt.”
Brooke lets out a sad sort of laugh. “I’m the one calling you because I probably lost the case for Ms. Wesley.”
“Do not for one second think you did anything today other than standing up for your Lord,” Amy says. “A pastor told me this yesterday: ‘God delights in using us in ways we never dreamed of . . . and in giving us things we never even knew we wanted.’ I didn’t believe him yesterday when he said that. But I do now, thanks to you.”
Brooke utters an unsure thank-you.
“I’ll share this with Ms. Wesley the next time I see her. Stay strong. And pray that things will work out well tomorrow. Get others to pray too.”
“Okay, thanks,” Brooke says. “You sound like you’re driving.”
“Yeah, I’m in the car.”
“Where are you going?” Brooke asks.
“Somewhere I’ve needed to go for a long time.”
48
I KNOCK ON THE DOOR, this time carrying a bag of subs and chips. Grace opens the door and doesn’t seem as excited to see me as she was the other evening.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
She looks comfortable in her jeans and a light and loose-fitting striped blouse with the sleeves rolled up.
“I scored big points the other night with the surprise Chinese food, so I figured I’d try my l
uck again.”
“More Chinese?”
“No—I have subs. Six different kinds, actually. I figured you and your grandfather could choose.”
“We already had dinner,” Grace says.
“But it’s like—it’s not even six o’clock.”
“He’s eighty-two.”
I nod. “Okay. Well, I’ll be eating subs for a while.”
Grace looks to the side of the doorway and rubs her neck.
“So did the birthday party start yet?” I ask.
The comment gets her attention and seems to relieve her a bit. “No. Not yet. The cupcakes are cooling.”
I nod. “I notice you said cupcakes. As in plural.”
“I could be talking about two of them.”
I smile.
“But—I’m not,” she says. “Would you like to join us for some birthday treats?”
“Am I welcome?”
She acts like she’s thinking about it, then turns for me to follow her inside. I greet Walter, who is in the family room watching news so loud I can barely speak over it.
“Happy birthday,” I announce more than say.
He says something that I imagine is a thank-you. I follow Grace into the kitchen, where we won’t end up deaf.
“We usually eat at five and then he spends the next hour listening to how bad our world happens to be. Here—let me get you a plate.”
She hands me a dish along with a napkin.
“It’s okay—I don’t have to—”
“Did you already have a sandwich?” Grace asks.
“No.”
“Then eat. You probably didn’t have much for lunch.”
She’s right. I put the bag of subs down on the kitchen island and then grab one marked Italian. This has a heart attack’s worth of meats and cheeses on it along with a side of bad-breath onions. The perfect sandwich not to have on a date.
Not that this resembles any sort of date.
“I’m sorry about what happened today,” I tell her.
Grace nods and opens the refrigerator door, her ponytail whipping to one side. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Soda. Anything with caffeine.”
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