The Sixth Station(12)

Next to last came the secretary to the Dalai Lama, and finally, like the star of the show, the Reverend Bill Teddy Smythe, celebrity preacher, founder and former head of the chain of American megachurches, the Light of God Tabernacle, wheeled in, thick silver hair shining atop his massive head like a halo.

The whole show, so far, essentially verified the Internet rumor about a secret conclave earlier in the month, in which every cleric present this day had supposedly participated.

Indeed, as I later found out, it had actually taken place. It was unprecedented but it had been necessary, apparently, if they were to keep their followers from joining forces against them. Paranoid? Sure. But in light of what later happened, perhaps not.

The goal of the powerful, or so it went in the blogosphere, was the destruction of the man the “mainstream media” called “raggedy false prophet-cum-terrorist,” but who actually was the true Son of God; this, they claimed, had been “proven” by the fact that he had amassed millions of followers in a very short period of time. So had Hitler, Stalin, Saddam Hussein, Idi Amin, and Fidel Castro, to name just a few, but the bloggers forgot to mention any of them.

The governments and the world’s great religious leaders, even those with thousands of years of bad blood between them, had allied this one time in order to capture Demiel and bring him to justice. He must, they in turn proclaimed united, be made to pay for his unprecedented acts of terrorism and be exposed for the fraud they knew him to be. There were not just the preposterous claims of cures and “miracles” he’d supposedly performed, but, most important, the heinous and very dangerous claim his followers perpetrated about just who he was supposed to be.

And so here we all were together, along with presidents, prime ministers, and dictators—all to see a thirty-three-year-old skinny, badly dressed man of dubious origins attempt to defend himself against all the power in the world.

How had it come to this? That was the question on everyone’s mind.

And it was the question that was still burning on my lips as the court officer appeared in front of the door through which the magistrates would enter.





4



New York, United Nations General Assembly, War Crimes Tribunal of Suspected Terrorist Leader Demiel ben Yusef

“All rise,” the officer announced, and in a scene worthy of a TV courtroom drama, introduced the until-then secret ad hoc panel of international judges—their anonymity deemed a necessary safety precaution.

Even though the function of the World Court (officially the International Court of Justice) is to resolve disputes between sovereign states, this case of international terrorism involved so many of the member countries that it was declared a matter for the World Court, albeit with a specially appointed panel of judges. Although the United States withdrew from the court in 1984, we still keep a standing, permanent judge on the panel. I know, it makes no sense.

The first judge entered. He was the chairman of the Supreme Court of Sweden, dressed in a black robe with a red stole that went around the neck, falling onto the chest.

“Appropriate,” I whispered to Dona, noting the duds. “Inquisitionists! They should be dressed like monks!”

Dona shot me a surprised glance, whispering, “Hello? I thought you were ready to see the bastard fry—no?”

“Yes, of course. I’m just saying…” I muttered, embarrassed.

“Man, one kiss and you’re acting like a fat girl without a date for the prom.”

The rest followed: chairwoman of the Corte constituzionale della Repubblica Italiana, the chief justice of the Saikō Saibansho of Japan, and the newest appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court, fifty-four-year-old scholar and right-wing-leaning Harvard Law School grad Alberto Sant’Angelo.

“You knew they’d choose that charmer,” I whispered sarcastically.

Finally, amid much flourish, the chair of the tribunal entered—this would be the person presiding, the one who would have the final say if there was a tie vote—the one everyone had been speculating about for months.

“Oh, my God! I can’t believe it,” Dona exclaimed under her breath as the officer announced, “The Honorable Judge Fatoumata Bagayoko, president of the United Nations’ Special International Criminal Court, presiding.”

The chief judge entered sporting what looked like a crown of braids atop her head. She carried herself with the haughtiness of a star—which she was within the international judicial system. This was going to be the tribunal that would make her name live forever. It was the most important public tribunal since the Nuremberg Trials.

“I told you it would be her,” I whispered back.