Jodi Picoult - Sing You Home

“Amen,” someone calls out.

The pastor’s voice rises. “Who will come up here and pray with me?”

A dozen folks rise from their seats and walk to the stage. They lay their hands on me as Pastor Clive’s voice beats like the wings of a hundred crows. “Lord, may You be sitting beside Max in that courtroom. May You help his ex-wife learn that her sin is no greater than my sin or Your sin, and that she is still welcome in the kingdom of God. May You help Max Baxter’s children find their way to You.”

Streams of people rise to the stage to pray over me, to touch me. Their fingers feel like butterflies that land for just a second before moving on. I can hear the whisper of their words going up to God. For anyone who doesn’t believe in the healing power of prayer, I dare you: come to a church like mine, and feel the electricity of a crowd that’s rooting for you to win.

The Kent County Courthouse has a long walkway that goes from the parking lot into the building, and it’s packed with members of the Eternal Glory Church. Although there are a couple of police officers milling around to make sure that the peace is being kept, the protest is far from disruptive. Pastor Clive’s got everyone lined up on both sides of the walkway, singing a hymn. I mean, you can’t arrest someone for singing, can you?

As soon as we arrive-and by we, I mean me, flanked by Wade and Ben, and Reid and Liddy, who are just behind us-Pastor Clive breaks rank and struts right down the middle of the walkway. He is wearing a white linen suit with a pink shirt and a striped tie; he certainly stands out, but then again, he probably would if he were wearing a potato sack. “Max,” he says, embracing me. “How are you holding up?”

This morning Liddy cooked a big breakfast as a send-off, and I ate it, and promptly threw up. That’s how nervous I am. But before I can tell this to Pastor Clive, Wade leans toward us. “Turn to the left.”

I do, and that’s when I see the cameras. “Let’s pray,” Pastor Clive says.

We bridge the two lines of people, forming a horseshoe that blocks the entrance to the courthouse. Wade holds my right hand; Pastor Clive holds my left. As reporters shout out questions, Pastor Clive’s voice is loud and steady. “Father, in the name of Jesus, it is written in Your Word to call on You and You will answer and show us great and mighty things. Today, we ask You to keep Max and his legal counsel steadfast, and to guarantee their triumph. Hide Max from those tongues that would seek to disparage him and from the false witnesses who spill lies. Because of You, Max will not be nervous. He knows, and we know, that the Holy Spirit will move him to say what must be said.”

“Beep beep,” I hear, and my eyes pop open. Angela Moretti, the lawyer who’s representing Zoe, stands a few feet away, trapped by the barrier of our prayer circle. “I hate to interrupt your Billy Graham moment, but my client and I would really like to get into the courthouse.”

“Ms. Moretti,” Wade says, “surely you wouldn’t be trying to take away the First Amendment rights of all these fine people-”

“Why, no, Mr. Preston. That would go against my grain. Just like, for example, a grandstanding attorney who summons the media in advance, knowing that there’s going to be some kind of forced confrontation between his party and the opposing one.”

Zoe waits behind Angela Moretti, with her mother and Vanessa.

For a minute I wonder which side is going to blink first. And then, Liddy does something I am totally not expecting. She steps forward and hugs Zoe, then smiles at her. “Jesus loves you, you know,” she says.

“We’re praying for you, Zoe,” someone else adds.

That is all it takes to break the dam, and suddenly everyone is murmuring some message of faith and hope to Zoe. It makes me think of catching flies with honey, of killing with kindness.

And it works. Caught off guard, Angela Moretti grabs Zoe’s arm and barrels her toward the doors of the courthouse. Wade lets go of my hand so that she can push between us. As she does, Zoe catches my eye.

For a moment the whole world stands still. “God forgives you,” I tell her.

Zoe’s eyes are clear, wide, the color of a thunderstorm. “God should know there’s nothing to forgive,” she says.

It’s different this time.

I have been to court a bunch of times now, thanks to all those motions Wade filed, and the procedure is the same: we walk down the aisle of the courtroom and take our place at the plaintiff’s table; Wade’s lackey stacks a dozen books in front of him that he never actually opens; the sheriff tells us to rise and Judge O’Neill blusters in.

But this time, we are not the only ones in the courtroom. There are reporters and sketch artists. There is a delegation from Fred Phelps’s Westboro Baptist Church, wearing yellow T-shirts with block letters: GOD HATES FAGS, GOD HATES AMERICA, FAG = SIN, YOU’RE GOING TO HELL. I’ve seen pictures of them protesting at soldiers’ funerals-they believe God is killing the U.S. military to punish America for all its homosexuals-and it makes me wonder just how far Wade’s media effort really has gone. Is this trial, my trial, really on their radar?

But the Westboro folks aren’t the only ones who’ve come to watch. Members of my church are there, too, which relaxes me a little.

And then there are the others. Men who sit with other men, holding hands. A pair of women taking turns holding a baby. Friends of Zoe’s, maybe. Or of her dyke lawyer.

Judge O’Neill sits down on the bench. “Showtime,” Wade murmurs.

“Before we begin,” the judge says, “I want to caution everyone present-including counsel, parties, media, and observers-that in this courtroom, I am God. If anybody disrupts the orderly process of this court, he or she will be removed. Which is why all of you folks in the yellow T-shirts will either take them off or turn them inside out or be escorted outside immediately. And before you go off at the mouth about freedom of expression, Mr. Preston, let me reiterate that anything disruptive does not make Judge O’Neill a happy camper.”

The group from Westboro Baptist puts on sweatshirts. I get the feeling they’ve done this before.

“Are there any preliminary matters?” the judge asks, and Angela Moretti stands.

“Your Honor, I have a motion I’d like to make before we begin-to sequester the witnesses.”

“Who are your witnesses, Attorney Preston?” the judge asks. Wade offers up a list, and then so does Angela Moretti. O’Neill nods. “Any of you people listed as witnesses, leave the courtroom.”

“What?” Liddy cries out behind me. “But then how will I get to-”

“I want to be here for you,” Vanessa says to Zoe.

Judge O’Neill looks at both women. “Dis… rup… tive,” he says flatly.

Reluctantly, Vanessa and Reid and Liddy prepare to exit. “You hang in there, bro,” Reid says, clapping me on the shoulder before he puts his arm around Liddy’s waist and leads her out of the courtroom. I wonder where they will go. What they will do.

“Do we have opening arguments today?” Judge O’Neill asks. When both lawyers nod, he looks at Wade. “Attorney Preston, you may begin.”

Although this is family court and it’s the judge who will be deciding this case instead of a whole jury, Wade treats the entire courtroom as his audience. He stands up, smooths his emerald tie, and turns to the gallery with a little smile. “We are gathered together today to mourn the loss of something near and dear to us all: the traditional family. Surely you remember it, before its untimely death: a husband and a wife, two kids. White picket fence. A minivan. Maybe even a dog. A family that went to church on Sundays and that loved Jesus. A mom who baked homemade Toll House cookies and was a Boy Scout den mother. A dad who played catch, who walked his daughter down the aisle at her wedding. It’s been a long time since this was the norm in society, but we told ourselves that surely an institution as strong as the traditional family could survive anything. And yet, by taking it for granted, we have virtually guaranteed its demise.” Wade folds his hand over his heart. “Rest in peace.