oman’s at best a contradiction still.

–Alexander Pope December 6, 1999 “That,” I sing, “was incredible!” Inside me, it feels as if small bubbles are rising,

which at any moment may burst into laughter. I embrace Joan tightly. “Where did you find Dr. Fitzgerald?”

“On the Internet,” she says, looking at me carefully.

Well, she could have found him under a rock for all I care. Not only has the psychiatrist laid the groundwork for an alternative explanation of Faith’s symptoms, he’s also stood toe-to-toe with Malcolm Metz and won.

“Thank you. You made such an issue about getting thrown this surprise on Friday–I didn’t think you’d be able to pull together such a good defense strategy this quickly.”

“I didn’t, so don’t thank me.”

I smile hesitantly. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t have the manpower or resources that Metz does, Mariah. Under ordinary circumstances, I couldn’t have pulled it off. I would have walked in here this morning and flown by the seat of my pants. But Ian Fletcher spent the entire weekend in my office, finding Dr.

Fitzgerald and corresponding with him on-line and ruminating over this particular defense.”

“Ian?”

“He did this for you,” Joan answers matter-of-factly. “He’d do anything for you.”

A witness stand is a tight spot. You are gated in on all sides. You are broadcast by microphone. You sit on a chair that is so uncomfortable you can’t help but straighten your spine and look the gallery in the eye. My heart begins to batter in my chest like a lightning bug trapped in a jar, and suddenly I understand why this is called a trial.

Joan’s heels click on the wooden floor. “Can you state your name for the record?”

I draw the swan neck of the microphone toward my lips. “Mariah White.”

“What is your relationship to Faith White?”

“I’m her mother.” The word is a balm; it slides from my lips to my throat to my belly.

“Can you tell us how you’re feeling today,

Mariah?”

At that, I smile. “Actually, I feel terrific.”

“How come?”

“My daughter’s out of the hospital.”

“I understand she was very ill over the weekend?”

Joan asks.

Of course Joan knows that Faith was sick;

she saw her several times. This formality, this rigamarole, seems ridiculous. Why wade through the theories and hypotheses when I could just high-step to the gallery, sweep Faith into my arms, and be done with this?

“Yes,” I answer instead. “She went into cardiac arrest twice, and she was comatose.”

“But she’s already out of the hospital?”

“She was discharged on Sunday afternoon, and she’s doing very well.” I glance at Faith, and even though it is against the rules, I wink.

“Mr. Metz is alleging that you are a perpetrator of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. Do you understand what that means?”

I swallow hard. “That I’m hurting her.

Making her sick.”

“Are you aware, Mariah, that two experts now have stated in this court that the best way to determine Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy is to keep the mother away from the child and look for improvement?”

“Yes.”

“Were you able to see Faith this weekend?”

“No,” I admit. “I was restrained by court order. I wasn’t allowed any contact with her.”

“What happened to Faith between Thursday and Sunday?”

“She got worse and worse. Around midnight on Saturday, the doctors said they didn’t know if she was going to live.”

Joan frowns. “How do you know, if you weren’t there?”

“People called me. My mother. And Kenzie van der Hoven. They were both with Faith for long periods of time.”

“So from Thursday night through Sunday morning,

Faith’s condition declined, to the point where she was comatose and near death. Yet she’s healthy and present today. Mariah, where were you from two A.m.

Sunday morning to four P.m. that same day?”

I look right at Joan, the way we’ve practiced. “I was at the hospital, with Faith.”

“Objection!” Metz stands and points at me.

“She’s in contempt of court!”

“Approach.”

I should not be able to hear their conversation, but they are angry enough to be shouting. “She’s in direct violation of a court order!” Metz says. “I want a hearing on this today!”

“Jesus, Malcolm. Her child was dying.”

Joan turns to the judge. “But then Mariah showed up, and she didn’t die, did she? Your Honor, this testimony proves my theory.”

The judge looks at me. “I want to hear where this is going,” he says quietly. “Ms.

Standish, you may proceed, and we’ll deal with the violation of the court order later.”

Joan addresses me. “What happened when you got to the hospital?”

I think of the moment I first saw Faith,

hooked up to machines and tubes. “I sat down next to her and I started to talk. The machine that was hooked up to her heart started to beep, and a nurse said she needed to page the doctor. When she left the room, Faith opened her eyes.” I envision the red flush of her cheeks while the tube was being drawn out of her throat, her voice like brittle leaves as she called for me. “The doctors started to run tests. Everything–her heart, her kidneys, even her hands–were all back to normal. It was …

well, it was amazing.”

“Was there a clinical explanation for this?”

“Objection,” Metz says. “When did she get her medical degree?”

“Overruled.”

“The doctors said sometimes the presence of a family member acts as a catalyst for comatose patients,” I answer. “But they also said they’ve only seen as dramatic a recovery as this once before.”

“When was that?”

“When my mother came back to life.”

Joan smiles. “Must run in the family.

Did anyone else witness this remarkable recovery?”

“Yes. There were two doctors, six nurses. Also my mother and the guardian ad litem.”

“All of whom are on my witness list, Your Honor, should Mr. Metz feel the need to speak with them.” But Joan has explained to me why he won’t. It won’t do his case any good to have eight people announce that a miracle happened.

“Mariah, there have been some things said about you in this courtroom, some things the judge might want to hear your explanation for as well. Let’s start with your hospitalization seven years ago. Can you tell us about that?”

Joan has coached me. We rehearsed these questions until the sun came up. I know what I am supposed to say, what she is trying to get across to the judge. In short, I am prepared for everything that is about to happen–except how I feel, telling my story in front of these people.

“I was very much in love with my husband,” I start, just as we’ve practiced. “And I caught him in bed with another woman. It broke my heart, but Colin decided that it was my head that needed fixing.”

I turn in the seat, so that I am looking at him. “It was clear that Colin didn’t want me. I became very depressed, and I believed that I couldn’t live without him. That I didn’t want to.” I draw a deep breath.

“When you’re depressed, you don’t pay a lot of attention to the world around you. You don’t want to see anyone. There are things you want to say–

real things, honest things–but they’re buried so deep inside it’s an effort to drag them to the surface.” My face softens. “I don’t think Colin was a tyrant for having me committed.

He was probably terrified. But I just wish he’d talked to me first. Maybe I still wouldn’t have been able to tell him what I wanted, but it would have been nice to know he was trying to listen.

“Then all of a sudden I was at Greenhaven,

and I was pregnant. I hadn’t told Colin yet, and it became my secret.” I look at the judge. “You probably don’t know what it’s like to be in a place where you belong to everybody else. People tell you what to eat and drink, when to get up and go to bed, they poke at you with needles and sit you in therapy sessions. They owned my body and my mind–but, for a little while, I owned this baby. Of course, eventually the pregnancy showed up on the blood tests, and the doctors told me that I still had to go on medication. They said a baby wouldn’t be much good if I killed myself before giving birth. So I let them pump me full of drugs, until I didn’t care about the risk to the baby. Until I didn’t care about anything at all.

“After I left Greenhaven, I began to panic about what I’d done to this baby just by trying to save myself. I made this little deal: It was all right if I wasn’t a perfect wife, just as long as I became a perfect mother.”

Joan catches my gaze. “Have you been a perfect mother?”

I know what I am supposed to say: Yes,

the best that I could be. It made us laugh, because it sounded like an old Army slogan, but neither Joan nor I could come up with a better response.

However, now that I am here, I find that the words will not come. I reach down, and the only thing that leaps to hand is the truth.

“No,” I whisper.

“What?”

I try to look away from Joan’s angry expression. “I said no. After I had Faith,

I used to go to playgrounds to watch other mothers. They could juggle the bottles and the stroller and the baby without breaking a sweat. But me, I’d forget her lunch when she went to school. Or I’d throw away a piece of paper with scribbles on it that was supposed to be a Valentine. Things every mother’s probably done, but that still made me feel like I’d screwed up.”

Joan interrupts me with a quiet question. “Why is it so important to you to be perfect?”

They say that there are moments that open up your life like a walnut cracked, that change your point of view so that you never look at things the same way again. As the answer forms in my mouth,

I realize that this is something I’ve always known, but never before understood. “Because I know what it’s like not to be good enough,” I say softly. “That’s why I lost Colin, and I don’t ever want to go through it again.” I twist my fingers together in my lap. “You see, if I’m the very best mother, Faith won’t wish she had someone else instead.”

Sensing that this is a place I need to get away from, and fast, Joan throws me a lifeline. “Can you tell us what happened on the afternoon of August tenth?”

“I was at my mother’s home with Faith,” I recite, grateful to be bogged down in the details. “She was going to ballet practice,

but realized she’d forgotten her leotard. So we detoured home and found Colin’s car in the driveway. He’d been on a business trip,

so we went in to say hello. Faith ran upstairs first, and found Colin in the bedroom,

getting ready to take a shower. I came in to tell Faith to get her leotard quickly, and then the bathroom door opened and … Jessica stepped out in a towel.”

“What did Colin say?”

“He ran after Faith. Later he told me he’d been seeing Jessica for a few months.”

“Then what happened?”

“He left. I called my mother. I was miserable, I was sinking fast, but this time I wasn’t alone. I knew she’d take care of Faith for me, while I tried to get sorted out.”

“So although you were upset, you were functioning well enough to provide for Faith?”

“Yes.” I smile fleetingly.

“What else did you do after Colin left?”

“Well, I talked to Dr.

Johansen. About getting a refill of Prozac.”

“I see,” Joan says. “Has your medication continued to keep you in control of your emotions?”

“Yes, absolutely. It certainly helped me cope.”

“How did Faith cope with this whole upheaval?”

“She was very distant. She wouldn’t talk. And then all of a sudden she developed an imaginary friend. I started to take her to Dr. Keller.”

“Did the imaginary friend concern you?”

“Yes. It wasn’t just some playmate.

Faith was suddenly saying things that made no sense. She was quoting Bible verses. She referred to a secret from my childhood that I’ve never spoken about. And then–crazy as it sounds–

she brought her grandmother back to life.”

At the plaintiff’s table, Malcolm Metz coughs.

“And then?”

“A few local newspaper articles appeared,” I say. “Ian Fletcher showed up,

along with a cult, and about ten network-affiliate TV reporters. After Faith healed an AIDS baby, more press arrived, and more people who wanted to touch Faith, or pray with her.”

“How did you feel about this?”

“Awful,” I say immediately. “Faith’s seven. She couldn’t go out to play without being harassed. She was being teased at school, so I pulled her out and began doing lessons at home.”

“Mariah, did you in any way encourage Faith to have hallucinations about God?”

“Me? Colin and I were a mixed-faith marriage. I don’t even own a Bible. I couldn’t have planted this idea in her mind; I don’t know half the things she’s come out with.”

“Did you ever harm your daughter in a way that would cause her to bleed from her hands and her side?”

“No. I never would.”

“What do you think would happen to Faith if she went to live with Colin?”

“Well,” I say slowly, “he loves her.

He hasn’t always had her interests at heart, but he loves her. It isn’t Colin I’m worried about … it’s Faith. She’d have to deal with a new sibling, and a mother that isn’t really hers, and right now I don’t think it’s fair to ask her to change her world again.” Glancing at Colin, I frown. “Faith’s performing miracles. Taking her away from me won’t change that. And it won’t change the fact that wherever she goes, people are going to follow her, or want a piece of her.”

I can feel my daughter’s eyes on me, like the sun that touches the crown of your head when you step outside. “I can’t tell you why Faith’s like this,” I say softly. “But she is. And I can’t tell you why I deserve to have her. But I do.”

Metz likes to call it his “snake in the jungle” approach. With a witness like Mariah White, he has two choices: He can go in there and batter away, preying on her confusion, or he can appear nice and question gently and then, when she least expects it, strike her fatally. The most important thing is to make Mariah doubt herself.

By her own admission, it’s her Achilles’

Heel. “You must be tired of talking about this depression from seven years ago.”

Mariah gives him a small, polite smile. “I guess.”

“Was that the first time in your life that you were so ill?”

“Yes.”

His voice is rich with pity. “You’ve had recurrent depression many times since then,

haven’t you?”

“No.”

“But you have been on medication,” Metz chides,

as if she’s given the wrong answer.

She looks puzzled for a moment, and inside,

he smiles. “Well, yes. But that’s what’s kept me from getting depressed again.”

“What medication are you on?”

“Prozac.”

“Was that specifically prescribed to alleviate the wild mood swings?”

“I don’t have wild mood swings. I suffer from depression.”

“Do you remember the night you tried to kill yourself, Mrs. White?”

“Not really. I was told at Greenhaven that I’d probably block it out of my mind.”

“Are you depressed right now?”

“No.”

“If you weren’t taking medication, you’d probably be very depressed.”

“I don’t know,” Mariah hedges.

“You know, I’ve read about these cases where people on Prozac have flipped out. Gone crazy,

tried to kill themselves. Don’t you worry it might happen to you?”

“No,” Mariah says, looking toward Joan a little nervously.

“Do you have any recollection of going crazy while on Prozac?”

“No.”

“How about harming someone while on Prozac?”

“No.”

“How about just having some violent reactions?”

“No.”

Metz raises his brows. “No? You consider yourself an emotionally stable person, then?”

Mariah nods firmly. “Yes.”

Metz walks toward the plaintiff’s table and picks up a small videocasette. “I’d like to introduce the following tape into evidence.”

Joan is out of her seat in an instant,

approaching the bench. “You can’t let him do this,

Your Honor. He’s springing this evidence on me. I have a right to discovery.”

“Your Honor,” Metz counters, “Ms.

Standish was the one who opened up the line of questioning during her direct examination, with regard to how stable Mrs. White is under the influence of Prozac.”

Judge Rothbottam takes the tape from Metz’s hand. “I’ll look at it in chambers and make my decision. Let’s take a short recess.”

The attorneys head back to their seats. On the witness stand, unsure of what is happening,

Mariah remains frozen, until Joan realizes her predicament and quietly approaches to help her step down.

“What’s on the tape, Mariah?” Joan asks as soon as we are sitting at the defense table.

“I don’t know. Honestly.” Although it is cold in the courtroom by anyone’s standards, sweat trickles between my breasts and down my back.

The judge enters from a side door, settles into his chair, and asks me to return to the witness stand. From the corner of my eye I see a bailiff wheeling in a TV/VCR combination. “Shit,” Joan mutters.

“I’m going to allow the tape to be entered into evidence,” Rothbottam says. Metz goes through the legal process, then says, “Mrs.

White, I’m going to play the following tape for you.”

As he hits the play button, I bite my lip. The small screen fills with an image of me lunging toward the camera so that my features spread and blur. I’m shouting so loud that the words don’t register, and after a moment my hand comes up, clearly aiming to strike whoever has been filming.

Then the camera swings wildly, panning in an arc of color to touch briefly upon Faith, cowered in a corner; on my mother in a hospital johnny; on Ian and his producer.

The tape from the stress test, the footage Ian said he would not use.

He’s lied to me again. I turn toward the gallery, my eyes scanning until I find him –sitting just as still and white-faced as I must be.

The only way this tape could have come into Metz’s hands is, somehow, via Ian. And yet to look at him, one would believe that he is as surprised to see it surface in court as I am.

Before I can consider this, Metz begins to speak.

“Mrs. White, do you remember this incident?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us about the day the video was taken?”

“My mother was having a stress test done after her resuscitation. Mr. Fletcher was being allowed to film it.”

“What happened?”

“He promised not to turn the camera on my daughter. When he did turn it on her, I just … reacted.”

“You just … reacted. Hmm. Is that something you do often?”

“I was trying to protect Faith and–“

“A simple yes or no will do, Mrs.

White.”

“No.” I swallow hard. “If anything, I usually think things through to death before I act on them.”

Metz crosses the courtroom. “Would you say this tape shows you being “an emotionally stable person”?”

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “It is not one of my finer moments,

Mr. Metz. But on the whole I am emotionally stable.”

“On the whole? What about during those other odd incidents of fury? Is that when you physically harm your daughter?”

“I do not harm Faith. I’ve never harmed Faith.”

“Mrs. White, you yourself said you’re an emotionally stable woman, and yet this videotape clearly disproves your claim. So you’ve lied to us under oath, haven’t you?”

“No–“

“Come on, now, Mrs. White …”

“Objection!” Joan calls out.

“Sustained. You’ve made your point,

Counselor.”

Metz smiles at me. “You say you’d never harm your daughter physically?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’d never harm her psychologically either,

right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman. You’ve followed the testimony in this courtroom.”

“Yes, I have.”

“So if you had Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, and I accused you of harming your daughter, what would you probably say?”

I stare at him, bile burning the back of my throat. “That I didn’t do it.”

“And you’d be lying–just like you lied about being emotionally stable. Just like you’ve lied about protecting Faith.”

“I don’t lie, Mr. Metz,” I say,

fighting for control. “I don’t. And I have protected Faith. That’s what you saw me doing on the video–primitively, maybe, but protecting her all the same. It’s why I took her out of school when other children began to tease her. It’s why I took her away, in secret,

before this hearing started.”

“Ah, yes. Going into hiding. Let’s talk about that. You disappeared the night after your husband informed you that he’d be filing for a change of custody, correct?”

“Yes, but–“

“Then you had the misfortune of discovering that your great escape wasn’t that great, after all. Ian Fletcher had managed to follow you.

We’ve already proven Mr. Fletcher to have been less than honest up on the witness stand, and now we’ve seen evidence of your own falsehoods.

Maybe you’d like to tell us–truthfully, for a change–what happened in Kansas City?”

What happened in Kansas City?

This, Ian knows, is the moment that Mariah will be able to exact revenge. First the McManus incident, then the video–regardless of the fact that he personally had nothing to do with the latter, it’s not going to soften Mariah’s heart toward him just now.

Plus, the simplest way for her to regain her credibility is to offer up as proof the evidence that Faith is truly a healer. The evidence that’s all tangled up in the story of Ian’s own brother.

An eye for an eye. At that, Ian almost laughs. It is downright ironic for him to be brought down by biblical justice. But just as he exploited Mariah’s privacy, she now has the opportunity to uncover his own.

Ian braces his hands on the wooden seat and prepares himself for Judgment Day.

What happened in Kansas City?

Malcolm Metz is standing right in front of me. To his right, I know that Joan is desperately trying to catch my attention so I will not say anything stupid. But the only person I can see is Ian, buried in the middle of the courtroom gallery.

I think of Dr. Fitzgerald and his testimony. Of Joan walking into her office to find Ian waiting for her, ready to play paralegal. Of the look on Ian’s face when Allen McManus walked up to the witness stand,

when that horrible videocassette began to play.

He isn’t perfect. But then again, neither am I.

I look at Ian, wondering if he can tell what I am thinking. Then I turn to Malcolm Metz. “Absolutely nothing,” I say.

The bitch is lying. It’s written on her face. Metz would bet his life savings that,

somehow, Fletcher’s arrival in Kansas City led to direct proof that all the mumbo jumbo surrounding Faith is just that, and that, consequently,

the miraculous hallucinations and physical trauma are actually being caused by Mariah. Fletcher’s been close-mouthed because he doesn’t want to give away his big story;

Mariah’s keeping quiet because it only ruins her credibility. But short of accusing her of fabricating testimony again, there’s very little he can do.

He takes a moment to compose himself. “You love your daughter, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’d do anything for your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Would you give up your life for her?”

He can practically see her imagining Faith in that pitiful hospital bed. “I would.”

“Would you give up custody of her?”

Mariah falters. “I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is this, Mrs. White: If it was proven to you by a series of experts that Colin was the better parent for Faith, would you want her to go?”

Mariah frowns, then looks at Colin. After a moment she faces the attorney again. “Yes.”

“Nothing further.”

Furious, Joan asks to redirect.

“Mariah,” she says, “first I want to address that clip of videotape. Can you tell us what happened prior to the outburst on that tape?”

“Ian Fletcher had sworn that he wouldn’t exploit Faith. It was the only way I agreed to allow him in to film my mother’s stress test. When I turned away for a minute, he had his cameraman pan over to Faith, and I jumped between her and the lens.”

“What was going through your mind at that moment?”

“That he not film Faith. The last thing I wanted was more media interest in her. She’s just a little girl; she ought to be allowed to live like one.”

“Do you think that you were emotionally unstable at that moment?”

“No. I was steady as a rock. I was completely focused on keeping Faith safe.”

“Thank you,” Joan says. “Now I want you to consider Mr. Metz’s final question. Under this scenario of his, Faith would be moved to a new environment. She’d be living with the woman she caught in a compromising position with her father.

She’s got a new sibling coming. She’s not in familiar surroundings. Not to mention the fact that her groupies from the front lawn will probably drive across town to take up residence at her new home. Does this sound like an accurate representation?”

“Yes,” Mariah says.

“Good. Now, during this trial, did Colin convince you that he was the better parent for Faith?”

“No,” Mariah answers, confused.

“Did Dr. Orlitz, the state-appointed psychiatrist, convince you that Colin was the better parent for Faith?”

“No,” she says, her voice a little stronger.

“Did Dr. DeSantis, the private psychiatrist for the plaintiff, convince you that Colin was the better parent for Faith?”

“No.”

“How about Allen McManus?”

“No.”

“Mr. Fletcher?”

“No.”

“What about Dr. Birch? Did he convince you that Colin is the better parent for Faith?”

Mariah smiles at Joan and pulls the microphone a little closer. Her voice is strong and steady. “No. He did not.”

After the defense rests, the judge calls a recess. I go to wait in the tiny conference room Joan and I have been using, and after a few minutes the door opens and Ian enters. “Joan told me I’d find you here,” he says quietly.

“I asked her to.”

He doesn’t seem to know how to respond.

“Thank you for finding Dr. Fitzgerald.”

Ian shrugs. “I sort of owed it to you.”

“You didn’t owe me anything.”

Pushing away from the table, I stand and walk toward him. His hands are deeply set in his pockets, as if he is afraid to touch me.

“Maybe I should thank you, too,” he murmurs. “For what you didn’t say.”

I shake my head. Sometimes there aren’t words.

The silence between us is flung wide as an ocean,

but I manage to reach across it, to wrap my arms around him.

His hands close over my back; his breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. He will be with me. Right now, that’s enough. “Mariah,” he whispers, “you may be my religion.”

The judge calls the guardian ad litem to the stand. “The attorneys and I have all read your report. Do you have anything you’d like to add at this point?”

Kenzie nods briskly. “I do. I think the court needs to know that I am the one who let Mariah White into the Medical Center at two A.m. on Sunday.”

At the plaintiff’s table, Metz’s jaw drops. Joan looks into her lap. The judge asks Kenzie to explain herself.

“Your Honor, I know that you can hold me in contempt of court and send me to jail. But before you do, I’d like you to hear me out, because I’ve become very attached to the child in this particular case, and I don’t want a mistake to be made.”

The judge eyes her warily. “Continue.”

“As you know, I’ve filed a report. I met with many people, and I originally concluded that if the child’s life was at all endangered, moving her out of that situation would be best. So in the paper you’re holding in your hand, I recommend that custody be granted to the father.”

Metz claps his client on the shoulder and grins.

“However,” Kenzie says, “I made a decision late Saturday night, after a doctor told Mrs. Epstein that Faith might be dying.

I didn’t think that the U.s. justice system had the right to keep a mother from saying good-bye. So I called Mrs. White and told her to come to the hospital. I thought, Your Honor, that I was simply being kind … and I would have expected my report to stand on its own.

“But then something happened.” Kenzie shakes her head. “I wish I could explain it, really.

All I know is that I saw, with my own eyes,

a child who was comatose and failing come back from the edge once her mother was at her side.” She hesitates. “The courtroom is no place for personal observation, Your Honor, but I want to share a story with you because it has relevance to my decision. My great-grandmother and great-grandfather were married for sixty-two years. When my great-grandfather died of a stroke, my great-grandma–

who was in perfect health–passed away two days later. In my family we’ve always said that Nana died of a broken heart. It may not be medically accurate … but then again,

doctors concentrate on people’s bodies, not their emotions. And if it is possible to die of grief, Judge Rothbottam, then why on earth can’t someone be healed by happiness?”

Kenzie leans forward. “Your Honor, I switched from being a lawyer to being a guardian ad litem ten years ago, and I have a fairly legal mind. I’ve tried to come at this from a rational viewpoint, and it just doesn’t work. I had people telling me about visions and crying statues and the passion agony of Christ. I had other people telling me about religious hoaxes. I heard about people who were very sick, then completely healthy after brushing Faith in the hospital elevator.

“I’ve witnessed a lot of inexplicable things lately, but none of them point to the fact that Mariah White is hurting Faith. In fact,

I think she saved her life. And it’s not going to help this little girl one whit to be moved away from her mother’s influence.” She clears her throat.

“So I’m sorry, Judge. But I’d like you to completely disregard my report.”

The courtroom erupts in confusion. Malcolm Metz furiously whispers to Colin. The judge rubs his hand over his face.

“Your Honor,” Metz says, getting to his feet, “I’d like to give a closing argument.”

“You know, Mr. Metz, I bet you would.”

Rothbottam sighs. “But you’re not the one I want to hear from. I’ve listened to you and Ms.

Standish, and to Ms. van der Hoven, and I don’t know what the heck to believe. I need a little lunch break–and I’d like to spend it with Faith.”

Mariah turns toward her daughter. Faith’s eyes are wide, confused.

“What do you say?” Judge Rothbottam asks. He comes out from behind the bench and walks toward the gallery. “Would you like to have lunch with me,

Faith?”

Faith glances at her mother, who nods imperceptibly. The judge holds out his hand.

Faith slides hers into it, and walks out of the courtroom beside him.

She likes his chair. It goes around and around,

faster than the one at her father’s office. And she likes the music he plays. Faith glances at the collection of compact discs on one shelf.

“Do you have Disney stuff?”

Judge Rothbottam plucks out a CD,

slides it into the player, and the strains of the Broadway-cast recording of The Lion King fill the room. As he shrugs out of his robes, Faith gasps.

“What is it?” he asks.

She looks down, feeling her cheeks heat the way they do when she’s caught stealing a brownie before dinner. “I didn’t know you had clothes on under there.”

At that, the judge laughs. “Last time I checked.” He sits down across from her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

She nods over the turkey sandwich he’s placed on the massive desk for her. “Me,

too.”

He draws a chair closer. “Faith, who do you want to live with?”

“I want them together,” she says. “But I can’t have that, right?”

“No.” Judge Rothbottam looks at her. “Does God talk to you, Faith?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you know that a lot of people are interested in you because of that?”

“Yes.”

The judge hesitates. “How do I know if you’re telling the truth?”

Faith lifts her face to his. “When you’re in court, how do you tell?”

“Well, people swear it. On a Bible.”

“If I’m not telling the truth … then wouldn’t they just be saying words over some book?”

He grins. So much for God not belonging in a courtroom; He’s already there.

But Faith’s God, according to the media, is a She. “People have pictured God as a man for many years,” he points out.

“My teacher in first grade said that long ago people used to believe all kinds of things, because they didn’t know any better. Like you shouldn’t take a bath, because it could make you sick. And then someone saw germs under a microscope and started to think different. You can believe something really hard,”

Faith says, “and still be wrong.”

Rothbottam stares at Faith, and wonders if maybe this girl isn’t a prophet after all.

Judge Rothbottam slides his half-glasses down his nose and glances out at the plaintiff, the defendant, and the tightly packed gallery of reporters. “I stood up several days ago and told you that in a trial, there’s only one God, and that’s the judge. A very wise young woman reminded me that’s not necessarily the case.” He holds up the Bible. “As Mr.

Fletcher pointed out so eloquently during his swearing-in, we do still rely on convention in a court, regardless of one’s religious tendencies.

“Now, I’m not here to talk about religious tendencies. I’m here to talk about Faith White. The two subjects are related, but not mutually exclusive. As I see it, we’ve raised two questions here: Is God talking to Faith White? And is Mariah White harming her child?”

He leans back in his chair, folds his hands over his stomach. “I’m going to start with the second question first. I can see why Faith’s father is concerned. I would be, too. I’ve heard astounding things from Mr. Metz and his succession of experts,

and from Ms. Standish and her experts, and even from the guardian ad litem assigned to this case. But I don’t believe that Mariah White is capable of intentionally or unintentionally harming her daughter.”

There is a gasp to the right of the gallery, and the judge clears his throat. “Now … for that first question. Everyone came into this courtroom–myself included–wondering if this kid was really some kind of miracle worker. But the job of this court isn’t to ask whether Faith’s visions and hand wounds are of divine origin. We shouldn’t ask if she’s Jewish or Christian or Muslim, if she’s the Messiah or the Antichrist. We shouldn’t ask whether God’s got something important to say to a seven-year-old girl. What this court must ask, and answer, is this: Who listened, when this particular seven-year-old girl had something important to say?”

Judge Rothbottam closes the legal file spread out in front of him. “Based on all the testimony I’ve heard, I think Mariah White’s ears are wide open.”