James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

So why had the bus looked so much like the one Porter was to have boarded, but only had been taken to and from? Porter suspected that the bus, the call, and his private trip to the courthouse in the back of an FBI-mobile had all been instigated by Clusser to save Porter’s life.

It had been a long ride with no more words. But Porter wished he were back in the car now.

A microphone stared at Porter from the table before him.

The jury, sitting like lost statues watching a funeral, didn’t matter at all.

Sitting up in his high-backed chair, the Honorable Judge Carole Panofsky, a heavyset man with a Jewish/New York accent, gazed repeatedly at Porter as though the student were little more than another file in his briefcase. The judge’s opinion was irrelevant also.

How many times had Porter testified to individuals concerning the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and the restored church of Jesus Christ and they would not hear? The truth wasn’t in question today.

How often had Porter seen the inside of a courtroom with all its holy proceedings? In movies, hundreds. On TV, thousands…probably more.

It was all a game, like most things in life. Play your pieces right and…

The best lawyer would always Porter pinched away his swelling pessimism, squeezing his eyes shut. It had been a rough semester-to say the least. Graduation was an issue he might as well never ponder again… But that pain refused to wander.

In this corner, representing the United States Government, stood the Prosecuting Attorney, Ed Comer. Six foot, six inches, Comer smiled with the flat gaze of death. His motions went smoothly, and his voice hardly rippled, even when Porter gave him the run-around.

Well, what else was Porter to do! Tell them he’d found The Book of Mormon written in the original text?!? Unless they translated it no one would be able to tell otherwise! And everyone knew that translators argued endlessly as to the correct meanings in ancient documents. Frankly, Porter didn’t know what he had anymore. KM-3 wasn’t the issue, and no one seemed to know a thing about it. The trial dealt primarily with Porter’s apparent theft of other stolen artifacts, possession of archaeological objects owned rightfully by the government of Guatemala. Porter didn’t believe the Central American country had anything to do with this investigation, but they really were leaving him in the dark.

Answer this question.

What about this?

How do you explain that?

That’s how it went. It was confusing and there was little more so far. No one wanted to know the real facts behind all the commotion. Porter wished they’d just let him talk!

Weighing in at a frightening 112 pounds, dressed in a well-pressed Ralph Lauren Polo suit and never letting go of his Gucci pen, which incidentally was gold-plated, Porter’s Attorney continued to nod and grin at his client, telling him with badly hidden lies that everything was going exactly in the direction he wanted it. John Sowerby was his designation, and he buddied up quickly with the Mormon because of their first names. Bottom line: Porter knew Sowerby would get his pay whether Porter won or lost.

The weight of the trial rested on the words of those called to the stand.

The room stunk worse than when Porter had entered hours ago…before the recesses. But only Porter noticed.

Judge Panofsky, who probably didn’t want this trial to last too long, mumbled to his over-weight court clerk and wrote him words Porter would never read.

Comer, the Prosecuting Attorney, leaned in. “Once again. John D. Porter, did you or did you not put-”

“I haven’t even seen that figurine before. And why isn’t my lawyer defending me here?! I told you! I don’t know how it got into my car, but I sure would be interested in getting my hands on those obviously Egyptian objects now,” Porter said.

Comer pulled his slicked head back, a relaxed-almost tired-expression on his face, and looked at the jury and then to the judge. “Interested enough to steal it?”

“I don’t think I have to answer that question. Of course I wouldn’t steal it.”

Comer went to his desk and picked up yet another file as someone coughed like a choking boar in the small audience. Porter was surprised more press hadn’t arrived. Normally they loved to point out crimes committed by members of the LDS church. Maybe the thought that a Mormon might have found and stolen proof that his church really was true had been too unsettling to print; too much like “ National Enquirer ”, lacking credibility.

“What does the D stand for, Mr. Porter…in your name?” said Comer, perhaps attempting to pull the case into a more comfortable arena.

“Determined,” said Porter.

Comer smiled. “To lie?”

“Are we joking around here? If so, I have a few things I’d like to say.”

The Prosecuting attorney shrugged audibly, glanced at the judge, at the jury, then back at Porter as if everyone could see how ridiculous this trial really was. He tightened his blue eyes. “Your simple unwillingness to cooperate will drown you in this court, Mr. Porter.”

“I’m following legal advice, saying nothing that might sound incriminatory,” said Porter. “Besides, if I told what I really know, it would only make everyone angry.”

Comer grinned again. “What’s that.”

“I’ve been set up for a fall.”

“You’re wrong, Mr. Porter… That only makes us laugh.”

Porter smiled. There was nowhere to go. He would be fried here, in this chair, and Porter knew it. He could put up a fight, but it would only lead to further pain and humiliation before the end. Yet he couldn’t simply sit and take the blows. Not after all that had happened. Without moving, he could feel the simple pulse of his heart in his stomach wound. He listened to the throbbing as his eyes glazed over. Were the doctors sure he was ready to handle a courtroom? Maybe they wanted suspected criminals out of their hospital as much as the jail wanted new prisoners. Clusser was right, Porter didn’t know anything about the legal system.

Walking up to the witness stand with his eyes on the ground, Comer put his hands in his pockets. He had an easy job, and Porter realized the man needed to finish this. Attorneys are paid by the case, Porter thought, which meant that if this trial ended, both Comer and Sowerby could move onto another.

“Mr. Porter,” Comer said, looking up. He examined the student with honesty in his drying eyes. “Do you have KM-2.”

“You asked me that before,” said Porter without enthusiasm. He hated lying, but he didn’t have to do so with this question. Of course he didn’t have KM-2. He didn’t even have KM-3, really. But that should have been the question. Why hadn’t anyone brought up the latter document? Didn’t they know? Someone did! Kinnard had personally held photos of Porter looking at the third codex just after KM-2 was no more.

“For the record,” Comer said, lifting his hand.

Another odd thing: How had Alred fallen between the cracks. She’d been little more than a witness so far. Why had all the blame fallen to Porter? Someone was trying desperately to bury him, one way or… Actually, Porter didn’t want Alred involved. She’d had enough of this tribulation already. “KM-2 was returned to Stratford University on the twenty-ninth of April.”

“Did you return the document,” said Comer, walking closer to the jury.

“No-we’ve gone over this,” said Porter. He knew that if the Prosecuting Attorney pushed further, Alred would get involved. Porter didn’t want to drag her down with him anymore.

“Who then?”

Porter froze. Direct question. No way to dodge it. Porter’s brain went numb. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have my pardon! But not the judge’s yet. Who returned the artifact to Stratford University? Be consistent Mr. Porter, your words are being recorded.”