“We will also prove that in those cases—such as feeding the anti–Wall Street demonstrators in New York City and Oakland, California, in 2011—he did perform a modern-day miracle, the miracle of getting past bureaucracy to get food to the demonstrators.
“And he did it again when he got relief supplies to thousands of starving survivors of last year’s devastating earthquakes in the Middle East.
“His miracle was that he found a way to avoid red tape and get donated food into the mouths of the stranded and starving. And we will prove that.
“Further”—and at this she smiled—“Demiel ben Yusef was not, unlike conspiracy theorists claim, hatched, spontaneously generated, or created as a clone from some mysterious donor’s DNA. We can’t prove that—but really, how do you prove conception?
“Even in this day and age of spying eyes and built-in cameras, luckily we are still allowed to procreate in private. And surveillance cameras were certainly not even a question in 1982.” She paused, looked at each judge in turn, and then said sardonically, “So, no, we cannot prove that Mr. ben Yusef is human or was conceived by humans!”
As Demiel sat without moving a muscle or blinking his eyes, even the most august of visitors began to giggle, causing Bagayoko to slam her gavel for quiet, with the admonition that she would clear the courtroom if any further disruptions occurred.
Edmonds, unfazed, continued. “But then again, how would I show anyone’s moment of conception in this entire courtroom? The very idea is so absurd I am left helpless to even comment further, other than to ask whether this is 2015 or the twelfth century.
“What next? Magic spells, witches, and devils?
“Yes, Mr. ben Yusef had actual flesh-and-blood parents—dead now. His father, Yusef Pantera, as Her Honor mentioned, died in a plane crash; his beloved mother, Meryemana Pantera, as has not been reported, was, we believe, killed last year in the Mumbai terrorist attack. Yes—the very one that ironically enough was credited to”—she paused here for dramatic effect—“the Al Okhowa Al Hamima terrorist organization, which Mr. ben Yusef has been accused of heading.”
The courtroom once again broke out in murmurs of shock.
Edmonds continued through the murmuring. “And the names of the real killers will shake the very foundations of this United Nations! And we will prove this as well.”
At that moment, Demiel ben Yusef, as though he were the judge, raised his hand slightly. Immediately the courtroom became as silent as a tomb, while Bagayoko raised her eyebrows in surprise.
Edmonds walked to the defense table, leaned in as ben Yusef whispered something to her, turned back toward the judge, and simply said, “On instructions from my client, Your Honors, I have concluded my opening statement.”
“You have the right to cut short or not even give an opening statement,” Bagayoko scolded, leaning forward in her chair, “but you will be expected—required—to mount a defense for your client in lieu of a plea, whether he wants one or not. Is that understood?” Then, turning toward ben Yusef, who again sat as though in a trance: “Mr. ben Yusef, do you understand?”
When he didn’t answer or even acknowledge her, she again slammed down her gavel and said, exasperated, “Under the circumstances, the chamber determines that the best course is to adjourn the proceedings until nine tomorrow morning. I will confer with my esteemed colleagues on how we will proceed tomorrow.” She glared at the defendant. “I will not have this courtroom turned into a circus—media or otherwise. I will order the gates closed—no exceptions—by seven forty-five. Court dismissed. Mr. Mohammed, Ms. Edmonds, please meet me in the justice’s chambers in one hour.”
Her gavel slammed. “All rise,” commanded the court officer, as Chief Justice Bagayoko stood and exited, trailed by the other world-famous jurists, who followed her out like ducklings after their mother.
“Early to bed,” Dona said as we began gathering up our equipment.
“At least it gives me a whole hour to file my column,” I answered, happy for the luxury of what I thought foolishly would be sixty uninterrupted minutes to write before the bosses started calling me, screaming. For reasons that still escape me, I hadn’t filed one word about the kiss. I guess that had been my fugue time.
What was I thinking?
“This is going to be the column of your life, honey,” Dona reminded me, “so you deserve the hour. But then, you know I get your exclusive interview.…”
“Interview?” I asked.
Dona looked up. “Du-uhhh! The Chosen One—remember?”