January 1996.
At the office, Burt sat at his desk, working on a human-interest assignment. He had just finished reading an article about the O. J. Simpson trial, which had begun one year ago. The nation was bitterly divided by the verdict last October, and the news media was still printing the people’s opinions. He read some Letters to the Editor.
Most people seem to think Simpson got away with murder, he mused.
With the encouragement of his grandfather, Burt’s career had begun in the mailroom of the Chicago Tribune, during summer vacations from high school.
After returning from college, the Tribune hired him again. The paper promoted him twice, but when he turned thirty, he had gotten a strong urge to venture west.
He never regretted his decision to move to Phoenix because he liked the people at The Phoenix Times, and he loved his work.
His new assignment was about the Jarvis family. Robyn’s case was still unsolved. He remembered stopping at the crime scene while driving home, and deciding that was his premonition.
Since then, he had reviewed the police report and various articles. He had also talked with the neighbor who first described Darwin, “white, about five-foot-ten, maybe forty-five, and built stocky, with dark wavy hair and long sideburns.”
He had to coax the memory out of the man, but he had finally gotten the same description found on the police report.
Burt wasn’t looking forward to talking to Robyn’s parents. As if to get away from the tragic scene, he recalled a troubling statement that he had read in November—“the probability of nuclear war is over.”
How wrong can experts be, he thought, to accept such a pipe dream. Sure, the holocaust might be prevented, but not by sweeping the unpleasant thought under the rug.
He resisted taking out the large clasp envelope locked in his bottom desk drawer, but he still brooded about it. He remembered a sentence in the third paragraph of the note that puzzled him.
What does this guy mean, he thought, when the Angel of Death delivers my calling card? Suppose there was such a messenger. Who is he delivering the card to, and where? But maybe the article is just another “end of the world” scare.
The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he said, and then listened. “No sir, that wasn’t our paper. You want the Mesa Tribune.” He gave the caller the number, and then hung up.
He recalled some end of the world reports by the Times. One had been his assignment. He had interviewed a minister who was predicting global doom. The preacher said that whoever was baptized by him would be immortal, here and now, on Earth.
Remembering the reverend’s words, Burt chuckled.
“You’ll never die,” the preacher said. Burt had declined the preacher’s offer to be baptized.
When the reverend asked why, Burt couldn’t resist. “Well, hell, preacher—it’s not worth it.”
His thoughts returned to the unusual package. No one knows about this but me, and there isn’t any harm in keeping it in the drawer.
Sunday night, 8:30 p.m.
In the Jarvis home Jimmy was in bed, and Ed and Beth were sitting on the sofa. They were trying to talk without mentioning Robyn.
They tried to watch television sitcoms, but they couldn’t watch Robyn’s favorite comedies. Whenever they laughed, they felt guilty and started crying.
They had finally taken down the Christmas tree, but putting away the decorations had been wrenching. It was a family tradition that had delighted Robyn. Her unopened Christmas gifts were still lying in the corner of the living room.
Jimmy wouldn’t play in the schoolyard anymore, and he never went near the park. He spent much time alone in his bedroom. Ed was considering taking him to a psychiatrist.
Ed looked at his wife. “It’s been over four months, Beth, and they still haven’t caught him. Whenever I go to the police station they always say they’re working on the case.” He sighed.
Beth listlessly nodded, smoothed back her long blonde hair, and put her hand to the hollow of her neck. She had lost weight since Robyn’s murder. Set back in her gaunt face, her green eyes were vacant. The floodwater of tears was dammed up for the moment, but the night wasn’t over.
Ed stood up and stretched his tall slim body. “I’m going for a walk, Honey.”
He had been a track star in high school, and he was in good shape. Now, instead of running, he used walking to relieve stress. He took a light jacket out of the coat closet. Going over to Beth, he caressed her face.
She took hold of his hand. “Don’t be gone long, Ed.” She looked at Robyn’s picture on the mantel, remembering countless times when she had combed her hair. “I feel so alone when you’re not here.” The pain in her voice was wretched and it touched everything near her.
Ed was reluctant to leave her alone, but he had to clear his mind. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. Beth let go of his hand.
Whenever he stepped outside the door, Robyn’s school was painfully in sight, and the tormenting vision always came. He would see Robyn in her yellow dress running toward home, waving at him.
‘Hi, Daddy!’
He recalled his last words to her. “Stay with Jimmy, Robyn. Don’t leave the schoolyard without him.” He had put the burden for his little girl’s safety on her own frail shoulders, and now he felt that he had failed to protect her.
The streetlight revealed the anguish on his face.
He crossed the street and walked by the school. He had looked for Robyn’s killer on long walks before, and he intended to broaden his search. He knew that it was a long shot, but he had to look.
His soul would never rest until Robyn’s murderer was in his grave.
Twenty minutes later, he found himself in a decaying neighborhood, looking for the man he had only seen once but would never forget. He had done this before, but not in such a bleak area.
Maybe this is where I’ll find the cowardly bastard, he thought.
Many houses were empty and some commercial buildings were boarded up. Tattered pieces of yellowed newspapers, telling of yesterday’s tragedies, lay scattered along the sidewalk.
The gutter was overflowing with broken bottles, crushed tin cans, and shattered dreams. Tall palm trees elegantly lined both sides of the street, now out of place, mementos of better days.
Ed wouldn’t have been there even in the daytime normally, but he had no control. He was obsessed with finding Robyn’s killer.
“Tell me another story, Daddy, please?” He could hear Robyn giggling when she pulled her bedspread up to her chin. “You’re getting too big for stories,” he would say.
He remembered tucking her in, and looking back from her bedroom doorway. He saw her scrubbed clean face, the freckles around her blue eyes, and her innocent smile.
I can’t stand the pain, he thought. He leaned against a light pole and sobbed. “Robyn, please forgive me.” He tried to compose himself, then he continued walking along the dingy street.
Coming to a place where some streetlights were out, he stopped, wondering if he dared go any farther. The lights had been victims of flying rocks, or maybe bullets. At the bottom of the poles, jagged pieces of glass littered the sidewalk. Small piles of trash were scattered nearby.
The wasted street was dark and there was no traffic, only an eerie quietness. Ed was concerned, and he decided that he would only go another block. Hearing a shrill cry, he flinched.
Two alley cats ran screeching across the street, gone as quickly as their quarrel had begun.
I guess the son of bitch wouldn’t still be in the area, he thought, but there’s always a chance.
Ed’s heart overflowed with hatred as he thought of getting his hands on the killer.
He had a thirty-eight handgun, put away for years, but he had cleaned it yesterday. He put his hand in his jacket pocket.
“Oh, God,” he mumbled, “I forgot to bring it.” He was too deep in thought when he left the house. Without the gun, he began to feel uneasy. Turning around, he hurried toward home, glancing back from time to time.
Entering the house, he saw Beth in the kitchen. He went into the bedroom and felt behind a box on the top shelf of the closet. After he brought out the gun, he checked it over.
I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. I swear it! He put the gun back.
Across the street from the Jarvis home a broken tree branch lay in the shadows near the school sidewalk. A dust devil swirled around the schoolyard, and sand and debris blew into the air. But the little branch remained in place, as if hiding something.
A strong gust of wind blew low to the ground and blasted the stubborn branch aside.
Now, the streetlight revealed a message scrawled in the dirt—THE JUDGE IS COMING!
* * * * * * * *
Late in the afternoon Burt was sitting at his desk in the Times building. Several times he had determined to read the article in the large envelope, but there was a mystical aura about it. Every time he took the article out, he felt uneasy. It was a feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge because it seemed foolish.
He thought of the statement in the note that made him feel like an intruder. You will not read it until it is to be published. He was bothered by the article’s control over him, but he knew it had captivated him because of his strong psychic experience.
Burt couldn’t make himself read the article, nor throw it away.
Maybe I’ll just shred the damned thing. It’s probably from a religious nut.
The phone rang. “Burt Stephens.” He briefly listened. “Okay, I’ll get back to you.”
Unable to resist, Burt unlocked the drawer and took out the package. He removed the article, and then looked at the colorful imprint at the top of the attached note.
“Burt,” a man loudly said.
Burt flinched at the sound of his name, then he covered the note.
A reporter walked over. “I need some coffee,” he said. “You want to go?”
“No thanks, Dave,” Burt replied.
When Dave went on, Burt uncovered the note. How many times have I looked at this thing. I don’t know, but there can’t be anything to it. Yet there’s that damn familiar feeling.
He thought about the distressful premonition he’d had when he was a child. It had come upon him only an hour before his parents were killed.
He had sadly felt that something was about to harm his mother and father. As a ten-year-old boy, all he could do was cry.
That sensation of dread and certainty was the same emotion that he felt now, but he didn’t care how accurate the premonitions were. He just wished they’d go away.
He gazed at the imprint of the dark angel, and then looked at the top of the note.
The calling card never quits impressing, he grudgingly admitted. I wonder when it’ll be delivered. He caught himself. No, I’m not believing it, but it doesn’t matter because no one knows about this but me.
He glanced at his watch. Better get a few things done and then go home.
There wouldn’t be anybody waiting at home because Burt was single. In his last romance he came close to getting married, but he had backed out at the last moment.
It was not her fault; she was intelligent, attractive, and a good lover. But two months after he “postponed” the marriage, she had ended the relationship.
Burt liked children, but he wasn’t sure that marriage was for him.
February, Monday, 8:00 a.m.
Phil Gaines was in his office. “Okay, we’ll talk later,” he said.
He hung up the phone.
The top part of his front wall was all windows, so he stood up to look over the office.
Burt’s desk sat apart from the others, and was across the room from Phil. When Phil saw Burt standing at his desk, he sat down and called him.
Burt answered his phone. “Burt here.”
“Burt, come over as soon as you can.”
“Okay, Phil.” Burt picked up his coffee cup and dropped a file folder on the desk. Must be important, he thought, he usually yells from the door.
Making his way through the desks, he greeted some coworkers. He glanced at the window of Phil’s open door, Executive Editor. He went into the office and started to sit down.
“Shut the door first, Burt.”
Phil was sixty-four, five-eleven and 180 pounds, with thinning brown hair. He was nurturing a bushy mustache.
His round face had friendly brown eyes, and whenever he smiled, dimples formed in his cheeks.
Burt shut the door and sat down. “What’s up, Phil?”
Phil spoke into his intercom, telling his secretary to hold his calls. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his head.
“The Times is going to start an investigation of congress and the administration,” he said. “At Friday’s editorial meeting we agreed that Washington had to make a much better effort to stop worldwide nuclear thefts.”
“Isn’t that what Larry’s working on?” Burt sipped his coffee.
“At a lesser level, yes, but I don’t think he’s got the balls to turn the screws when the going gets tough.”
“I don’t know about that, Phil. I talked with him recently and he seemed to be doing fine.”
Phil sat up. “Burt, I know how it is. He’s a colleague, and a friend, but business is business, and you know that.”
Burt didn’t reply.
“You’re a hard-hitting investigative reporter, Burt, yet you’ve never crossed the line. And you’re my guy. I need you on this. So clear your desk.”
Burt smiled. “I’ll get ready, Phil, but I’ve got some things to put away, and a column to finish.”
The phone rang and Phil answered. “Okay, just a minute.” He looked at Burt. “That’s all right. Finish whatever you have, Burt, and we’ll wrap this up when you’re ready.”
“Okay, Phil.” Burt left and went back to his desk, pondering the coming investigation.
4. AN INDICTMENT OF WORLD LEADERS
March 1996.
In the Times offices, Burt hung up the phone and continued working on a column entitled, “Unconscionable Commerce.”
The article was a follow-up about junk bond schemes that had decimated the savings of hundreds of investors and led some to suicide.
The report centered on Newton Mercer, the “king of takeovers.” It was rumored that Mercer referred to those who had lost their jobs as “necessary sacrifices.”
How would he feel if somebody thought it was necessary to sacrifice him, Burt thought.
“Burt,” Phil yelled. He was standing in the doorway of his office. “If you can get that second junk bonds article shaped up by two o’clock, I can take a look at it for tomorrow.”
Burt glanced at his watch. “I think I can do that, Phil.” He grinned. “I’ve just got a few more items about Newton Mercer to plant in the piece.”
Phil chuckled. “And I’m sure you’ll plant Mister Mercer with great care.” He stepped into his office.
Burt worked for another half hour and finished the article. He thought about the package again. He’d had a talk with his grandfather about it, and asked his advice.
“Meditate about it, Burt, and listen to your inner voice,” the elder Stephens had counseled, “but use reason too. After that, go by your gut feeling.”
Burt always felt better after he discussed a problem with his grandfather.
Does the article mention the millennium, he wondered.
Again, he resolved to leave the perplexing package lying in his drawer. I should throw it away, but I’ll wait a little longer, then I’ll read it.
Monday morning.
Burt was sitting in Phil’s office, and the door was closed. They were going over ideas concerning Washington’s lack of a plan to stop nuclear thefts. They had been talking for about a half hour.
“You’ll still be writing your column, Burt, and handling other issues, but your main investigative thrust will concern what congress and the administration are doing to stop nuclear thefts.”
“I’ve been turning over some ideas since you told me about this last month.” Burt sipped his coffee.
“That’s good, and after you get some information, you can start prodding the administration and congress in your columns.” Phil paused. “I know they’re concerned, but I just don’t think they’re doing enough.”
“Yeah,” Burt said, “and that theft arrest in April gives me something to start off with.”
“Right, seven guys arrested in Slovakia and charged with illegal possession of radioactive material.” Phil took a bite from a chocolate donut.
“They were transporting uranium from Ukraine,” Burt said, “to some unknown place in Hungary.”
Phil smiled. “You’ve done your homework, Burt.” He glanced at the clock. “We’ll confer on this on a weekly basis, and any time you have something. Any more questions?”
“Not now, Phil.” Burt stood up, and started to leave.
“Oh, one more thing,” Phil said. “Don’t be bothered because of Larry. I think he’d like to get back to domestic reports. He won’t miss the nuclear bit.”
“Okay, Phil.”
“Go do it, Burt.”
“Will do.”
Later that day Burt brought out the package from his desk drawer. He put the article aside and flattened the note on his desktop.
If this isn’t a prank, he thought, it could be from a radical religious group. He tried to think of some cults who might have mailed the package, but he dismissed most of them as not being that inventive.
The phone rang. He briefly talked and hung up. When he reached for a pen, he accidentally brushed the note off of his desk.
It glided to the floor. Oh hell, he thought, as he got up.
A Metro Desk reporter was walking by and stepped over to pick up the note.
Burt moved quickly. “That’s okay, Greg, I got it.” He reached down for the note. “Thanks anyway, Greg.”
Greg smiled and walked on, then oddly glanced back.
Jesus, I’ve got to be careful, Burt thought. I don’t want anyone to know I’m interested in this thing. He briefly reflected. Grampa’s been a big help whenever we discuss this, but maybe I should talk to someone here too. Maybe Larry. The problem is, what if it got back to the editors?
“Hi Burt, how’s it going?”
Burt hadn’t seen Larry approaching, and in view of recent changes in assignments, he immediately felt uneasy.
“Good, Larry, how about you?”
“I’m glad to be back at my old job.” Larry paused. “And I think you’ll do great with the nuclear thefts investigation.” He was married, and he had two little girls who called Burt “Uncle”. They had blue eyes like their father.
Burt felt relieved. “It wasn’t my idea, Larry.”
“I know you, Burt, and that’s why I knew it wasn’t your idea.”
As Burt listened to Larry talking about an upcoming article, he considered confiding in him about the bothersome package.
I know I can trust him. But he kept delaying, and then Larry had to leave.
Friday morning.
In the office Burt was sitting at his desk, musing about the puzzling package that he had received in November. No one had followed up on it, yet he still wondered if it was a prank.
He hadn’t told anyone in the office about it, but he had come close to telling Larry. He didn’t like the fact that the package was locked in his bottom desk drawer.
He unlocked the drawer and picked up the large envelope. Pulling out the article, he unclipped the note from the first page. He had read the bewitching note more than once, but he wanted to go over it again, one paragraph at a time.
Clearing a spot, he flattened the note on his desktop. Still annoyed by his continuing interest, he began to read the first paragraph.
Judgment for all the heads of Earth will come soon, Mister Stephens, for I have charged . . .
The phone rang. The caller was an upset reader who disagreed with one of Burt’s columns.
“Okay,” Burt replied, “I’m listening.” He listened, and then told the caller that he was glad that he had read the column. “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate your call.”
The caller calmed down, and at last thanked Burt for listening. After the caller hung up, Burt immediately focused on the note.
Judgment for all the heads of Earth will come soon, Mister Stephens, for I have charged responsibility for the ravaging of Earth to the selfish ambitions of world leaders.
I have charged, Burt thought. Whoever he is, he sounds like he means business. But is he talking about political leaders or all leaders, social, industrial, religious?
The selfish ambitions of the people in charge? Yeah, that certainly explains Earth’s sorry condition. He began reading the second paragraph.
From your devastated environment to your depleted ozone, from your rampant drug addiction to your lost youth, from your violent crimes to your endless wars, your leaders are making a dreadful wasteland of what was once a beautiful and bountiful world.
He hit the nail on the head, Burt thought, in one short paragraph. Whoever this guy is he’s right about leaders. Who else could be responsible? Wonder what he thinks about President Archer chasing interns in the White House.
“Linda,” Burt heard an editor yell. “We gotta Political Insider meeting in ten minutes. Bring your item on Senator McCain.”
Burt looked at the next paragraph.
You will know when the time has come to publish the indictment that I have sent to you. When the Angel of Death delivers my calling card, you will take to your editor my proclamation to the world—-and not before.
And this is the part that gets me. This is really rich. So, I just sit here and wait till I hear from the Angel of Death, huh? Now suppose that really happened.
Then I’m going to march up to the editor’s door—-he looked at the article—-and give him this proclamation with a straight face?
He chuckled, sipped his coffee, and glanced at the last sentence.
You will not read it until it is to be published.
Burt saw Phil approaching his desk. He slid a folder over the note.
“Burt, you’re still getting mail on the ‘Unconscionable Commerce’ articles. I think it was a half dozen letters. You should have them in a half hour. Keep up the good work.”
“Did the king write one?”
“The king?” Phil said.
Burt grinned. “Newton Mercer, the king of takeovers.”
Phil chuckled. “I don’t think so, Burt, but if you keep at it, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear from Mister Mercer.” He patted Burt on the shoulder, and left.
Burt looked at the note, then he focused on the signature.
I am the Judge.
I have to admit that the signature’s intriguing, but why do I get the feeling that I’ve seen it before? Dammit, there isn’t anything to this. It’ll never be published. And how many people have claimed to have a message from The Judge, hundreds, maybe thousands?
He shook his head in wonder and glanced around the busy office. In the ten years that Burt had been with the paper, he had received many crazy leads for stories, which had enhanced his sense of humor.
Yeah, there’ve been some crazy stories all right—-he tapped the note with his finger-—but this is the craziest of all.
Burt attached the note to the first page of the article and started to put the article in the envelope. But he stopped when the colorful imprint of the calling card caught his eye once more. It was at the top of the note.
Man, is that ever stunning, he thought, and once you’ve seen it, it’s in your mind for good.
The brilliant card had a glowing blue border and was twice the size of a playing card. In the center of the pristine white card an intricately drawn image of a powerful dark angel radiated a gray mist.
The angel had piercing eyes, and across his wide chest, he held a broad sword, slightly pointing up and dripping with blood.
A logo was in each corner of the card, in lustrous scarlet letters—THE JUDGE.
That’s one scary angel. You definitely wouldn’t want to provoke him. No wings on this big guy, and I’ll bet that calling card gets full attention when he delivers it. The note has the ring of authority too. He briefly reflected. Naw, no way. It’s just a prank. Glancing across the aisle, he scratched his head.
His eyes wandered back to the imprint of the dazzling calling card. Yet, it seems too solemn to be a joke.
He set his coffee down, unclipped the note again, and began flipping through the article. It had the same remarkable typeface as the note.
It could be about the millennium, he thought, that’d be interesting. He turned to the first page, but he was reminded of the admonition.
You will not read it until it is to be published.
Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe, and maybe not. He began to read the indictment, TO A WORLD OF . . .
“Burt,” a reporter yelled, “I need to talk to you for a minute.” He headed for Burt’s desk.
Burt hastily slipped the article into the large envelope. Then he dropped the envelope in his bottom desk drawer and locked it.
But little did he know that the extraordinary message in his desk drawer would soon start the world on the most perilous journey in Earth’s history.
WORLD LEADERS ASK CITIZENS TO SACRIFICE, BUT THEY THEMSELVES DON'T
August 1998, Monday morning in Dallas.
As Burt was pondering his latest psychic episode, two Texas retirees were enjoying their coffee and doughnuts. They were sitting at a table in a downtown Dunkin’ Doughnuts shop. Jake and Hank were both near seventy and were old friends of many years.
Jake was reading the Dallas Morning Herald, dressed in blue jeans, a long-sleeved tan sport shirt, and brown suspenders.
“Hank, what do you think about The Judge?” Jake brushed his crew-cut white hair with his hand. “I mean those proclamations of his.” Hank didn’t respond. “Hank!”
Hank looked up, blue eyes perplexed, mouth open as if about to take another bite of his chocolate doughnut. “What?” He had on neatly pressed gray slacks and a short-sleeved white dress shirt without a tie. His short brown hair, streaked with gray, was neatly combed back. “Did you say The Judge?”
“Yeah, The Judge. Did I wake you?”
“I was workin’ a crossword puzzle, Jake.” Hank sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. It beats all I’ve ever seen, but I think he was right about the children, and also the press and the government.”
“Me too,” Jake said. “Have you seen those schools in the inner cities?” He scratched the white stubble on his ruddy face. Jake shaved every other day. “I don’t see how those kids learn anything at all.”
“Yeah, I know, with all the drugs and guns, but The Judge nailed congress and the president, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he did. He called them all liars.” Jake’s brown eyes glistened. “And I believe he’s right.” He drank his coffee.
“But he said there was a few good men.” Hank smiled at Jake. “He must’ve meant the congressmen from Texas, don’t you think, Jake?”
“Well, of course, who else?” Jake chuckled. “But seriously, I hope to hell The Judge is for real, ‘cause I been waitin’ a long time for somebody to read the riot act to those fuckers in Washington.”
“I know what you mean, Jake.”
“And speakin’ of the devil, did you see the second section?” Jake asked. “It says here that the annual salary of congress is a hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars.”
“Really? I bet they make over two hundred thousand a year with all their perks.”
“Yeah, Hank, and that don’t count the bribes and kickbacks, and the fat fees they get for speaking to their fellow citizens.”
Hank said, “I wish I could get some of that money.”
“Well, it was our damn money in the first place,” Jake replied. “And look at this, Hank. It says that their retirement is vested after only five years.”
“Five years!”
“Yeah, and they can begin collecting the whole amount at age fifty.”
“Man, is that something, Jake. Nobody else’s got anything like that.” Hank pushed aside his puzzle magazine and sipped his coffee.
“And that ain’t all, Hank. It says here that their retirement pay is as high as eighty percent of their final year’s pay.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what it says, Hank.”
Hank took out his pocket calculator, and glanced at Jake. “Are you sure?” He put on his glasses and started calculating.
“Goddammit, Hank, I’m readin’ it right here.” Jake thrust the paper in front of Hank’s face.
“I see it. I see it.” Hank pushed the paper away and looked at his calculator. “That’s over a hundred thousand dollars a year for retirement.”
“I told you, Hank. They’re thieves, every damn one of ‘em. Their retirement pay is three times what most people’s regular pay is.” Jake shook his head in disgust. “And they got the best health care in the world, and with no premiums to pay.”
Hank nodded in agreement. “And the only way a citizen can get that kinda care is to be shot by the Secret Service near the White House . . . and then taken to that, a . . . Washington, a . . . George Washington University Hospital.”
“You got it, Hank. You got it.”
Hank glanced out the window at the rush hour traffic. “And our kinfolk thought they got rid of all of the kings when they came over here from the Old World.”
“Yeah, but some of the royal pricks stowed away with them,” Jake said.
“And now we got American royalty,” Hank said.
“And didn’t Burt Stephens write something about that, Hank?”
“Yes, he did, and it proved that many in congress are not our servants at all, but royal kings and queens.”
Jake looked at the article. “And they have the gall to say that they serve the people. Well, it’s bad enough when they fuck us, Hank, but when they fuck us and lie about servin’ us, that’s too damn much!”
“Comes the revolution,” Hank declared, patting Jake on the shoulder.
Jake picked up another section of the paper. “Yeah, and I can hardly wait.” The waitress came by. “More coffee?” she asked.
Hank smiled at her and she filled their cups. He dunked a chocolate doughnut in his coffee and took a bite, briefly reflecting. “You know, Jake, I think I had a hell of a good idea about our government a couple of years ago.”
“What kinda idea?” Jake asked, as he scanned the paper.
“And I sent it to several newspaper editors all over the country, but nobody would publish it.”
“Isn’t that the way it is,” Jake replied. “The reporters who could do something, won’t, and the guy who has something can’t get anywhere with it.” He peered at Hank over the top of the paper. “What was your idea, Hank?”
Hank looked at Jake. “Well, every time our country has a crisis the cry goes out in Washington that we all gotta tighten our belts and sacrifice.”
“Yeah, I know, and those motherfuckers must choke on their own words when they say we all have to.”
“And that’s just it, Jake, there’s one group who never ever has to sacrifice. Their pay is never affected by any recession.” Hank paused, expecting a reaction.
Jake put the paper down. “Oh, let me guess. It couldn’t be the same bums who ask us to sacrifice, could it?”
“I think you’re psychic, Jake. Yeah, its the president and our ever lovin’ congress.” Hank chuckled. “Our servants are the only . . . I wrote it in my letter like this, ‘the only economically-unaffected group in the country in a recession, ‘cause nothing ever hurts their pocketbook.’”
Jake looked at Hank. “And you wrote this down and sent it to all those editors?” He took a bite of his glazed doughnut and chewed hard, testing his new dentures.
“I sure did, but there’s more to it.”
Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go ahead, I’m listenin’.”
Hank sipped his coffee and went on. “I told them that America should have what I called a . . . lemme see now, a political . . . a, political leadership . . . economic incentive program. Whew, I didn’t know if I could get that all out.”
Jake laughed. “That’s pretty damn good, Hank.” He poked Hank in the ribs.
Hank flinched and flapped his elbow down, protecting himself from another poke. “I wrote that there should be a law that whenever our economy fell below certain economic indicators, the president and congress, and all of our top-level officials, and even their staff, should have to take a large pay cut until the economy rises to a certain level again.”
Jake whistled. “Goddamnit, Hank, that’s a hell of a good idea. What was wrong with the damn editors? Why didn’t they publish it?”
“That’s the way it is, Jake, like you said. For a long time we thought it was just our government killing us, but I believe the press is in bed with them.”
“Yeah, that’s what The Judge said, and their all corn holin’ the hell out of each other.”
Hank laughed. “I told them editors in my letter that the first cut should be twenty-five percent, and if the economy fell to a lower level, the cut would be fifty percent.”
“Holy shit!” Jake wiped his mouth and grinned. “We need to get The Judge in on this thing, Hank.”
“Maybe he could do something,” Hank agreed. “And I said it had to be a big pay cut because people who make that kind of dough would never miss a few bucks. And I told them that it was only human nature that you work a hell of a lot harder if your own money is at stake.”
“Oh yeah, let’s get The Judge in on this, Hank.” Jake sipped his coffee.
Hank continued. “I wrote that that’s why congress never gets anything done because they aren’t personally affected and they don’t feel any emergency need.”
Jake’s eyes lit up. “Let’s get ‘em infected, Hank.”
Hank laughed, but he didn’t correct his old buddy. “No matter how bad things get, Jake, congress gets the same pay anyway, never a pay cut. And I said you had to get hold of a man’s wallet before you got his full attention.”
Jake grinned. “Yeah, that’s like grabbing his balls.” He looked at Hank. “Goddamn, such a great idea. Do you think you could still get it published?”
“I doubt it, Jake.” Hank took a bite of his doughnut.
“But Hank, if we could get a thousand people to write to all the big city papers, we could draw attention to your idea. We could bring those high-assed sons of bitches down!”
“I know, but I even sent it to the president, and they just sent a form letter back.” Hank laughed. “I told them editors that if my idea was the law, those guys in congress would be running their asses off. They’d be trying to get things done in a hurry, so they could get their full pay back again.”
“I hope to hell there is a Judgment Day, Hank, so they can pay for how they’ve lied, cheated, and robbed from the people they’re suppose to serve. People are dyin’ without food and medicine while our royal assholes is livin’ high on the hog. They’re as bad as all those Wall Street lawyers, sellin’ those junk bonds and causing all those old people to lose their life savings.”
“You’re right, Jake. They’re two pigs in a poke.”
“Yeah, they are.” Jake smiled and glanced around the doughnut shop. “Come on, Judge!”
Hank continued. “And I told them that if this was a law, you’d never hear of gridlock in congress again. And I said that any partisan should be hanged on the White House lawn for even thinking about a filibustering a good law.”
Jake said, “And I’d tie the damn noose. Yeah, I sure hope there’s a Judgment Day.”
Hank briefly reflected, then he looked at Jake. “You know, Jake, now that you mention that, have you ever seen that tall, thin street preacher dressed all in black, about a mile north of here?”
“Naw, what about him?”
“That’s what he was preachin’, Jake, Judgment Day, and it seems like he’s standin’ on that corner everyday. I happened to hear him one day, and he said that it was really gonna be bad for the leaders of the world on Judgment Day.”
Jake chuckled and said, “Really? God bless that preacher. And isn’t that what The Judge said in one of his proclamations?”
“Yeah, he did.”
Jake shook his fist. “Go, Judge!”
Hank glanced at his crossword puzzle, then he looked at Jake. “Jake, what’s a ten-letter word for politician?”
Jake thought a moment. “That’s easy, Hank—pickpocket!”
Copyright 2008 Lee Herald
“YOU'RE EXACTLY RIGHT!”
This self-exalting statement is spoken daily by political analysts to one another.
* * * * * * *
REVIEWS -- PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD - Previously titled An Indictment of World Leaders
(C) 2005 Lee Herald
PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD. . . Thriller
Many world leaders thought the possibility of nuclear war was over, but the danger became even more ominous when a brilliant Stanford University mathematician dismissed mere possibility.
PROFESSOR HELLMAN spoke of something far more serious—probability. He shocked the world with the headline conclusion of his theory—NUCLEAR WAR IS INEVITABLE.
But BURT STEPHENS, an investigative reporter, discovered the only way to prevent nuclear holocaust. Yet his astonishing solution would be so difficult to apply that the world might not beat the “Apocalyptic Deadline.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In 2001, Time Warner developed iPublish, an eBook website for unpublished writers. Ten writers of that site wrote the following reviews of Prelude To A Mushroom Cloud – Part One. Some of the reviewers went by their user names.
I did not know any of these people personally. --Lee Herald
Dana Joan, 5-14-01 – I would definitely keep reading. The character of Burt is well introduced. The general impression of Burt is that he is an “ordinary” person with extraordinary abilities and a lot of personal confusion. He is very realistic.
The introduction of the mysterious character in the alley is also well done, leading me to wonder if he is the messenger or the catalyst of the holocaust Burt must stop.
Lorren, 5-15-01 – Wow. This is very good. Not only is the story compelling and interesting, but you write it in a professional manner that is better than some published books that I’ve seen. I was very impressed by the pacing, and the writing style is excellent. And who is the spray painter at the end of the first chapter? I am left wondering.
From what I have seen so far, I can tell that the plot to this book will be exciting. I have got to say that I am impressed. If you are not published yet, I am sure you soon will be.
Murzban F. Shroff, 5-15-01 – Lh1984, bless his numerical i.d., is deeply and offensively talented. A plot which virtually explodes onto your senses and invites you to read through with maniacal greed. I loved the setting, the pace and the concept.
We must ask this shy genius to disclose himself and unveil his talent and more of his book pronto. I strongly feel that iPublish should take this up not only as an ebook, but also a potential film idea, and engage this guy/gal to become a regular columnist on the site.
Bravo, friend, your breed is rare. Go right ahead and let your talents roar – resoundingly!
Child Angyl, 5-15-01 – This story is good. VERY good. My attention was captured quickly and held all the way through.
Hemedinger, 5-15-01 – You have a good command of the English language and displayed the ability to express yourself accordingly. I liked the descriptive nature of this writing. I can relate to the actions because they are believable.
Hanawriter, 5-16-01 – This is my kind of story! You do a great job of getting the reader involved and feed just enough suspense to keep the pages turning. I got caught up in the young boy’s trauma early on, liked the way you jumped to the present, and felt you did a credible job of keeping the pace exciting.
G. B. Pool, 5-24-01 – This story has a lot of trepidation in it. From the title to the psychic readings to the mysterious note and the graffiti on the wall. Scary. The pacing is taut just because the set-up is so good. You know somewhere something big might go BANG.
John Luton, 6-3-01 – This extremely well-written piece engages the reader from the very first! I especially liked the descriptions of the setting on the night Burt’s parents didn’t come home. You maintained the tension in several skillful ways. I liked the way you left the outcome unstated and then referred back to it later.
The idea of Burt’s mind acting on unconscious dilemmas while he is sleeping is absolutely fascinating and thoroughly original! This is a great read!
Riverogue, 6-4-01 – Okay, I am truly hooked. Wonderful build-up of suspense, truly masterful. This is certainly the kind of book I would read when I’m craving quick pacing, an intriguing plot and the whiff of a suitably mysterious thriller. I would humbly suggest that you have the makings of a bestseller here (yes as in BLOCKBUSTER). I’ve read enough of them to recognize the signs. Consider this a premonition.
K. J. Burke, 6-8-01 – I am very impressed with this book. The writing style is excellent and it is filled with intrigue and mystery with an at-the-edge-of-your-seat feel. This work definitely gives the reader a what’s-going-to-happen-next feel and the psychic phenomenon flavorings add extra spice. I also liked the intro part about Burt as a child (could feel his fear) and then changing the setting to a 30-year-later scenario. Good luck to you! You seem to have a winner here!
___________________________________________________
A winner? I thought so too, but Time Warner iPublish sank after only eight months on the Internet. We (participating writers) were all looking for lifeboats.
--Lee Herald
___________________________________________________
From AuthorsDen
Reader Reviews for PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD.
12/31/2001 -- Reviewed by Ellen
I really, really, REALLY enjoyed the first four chapters of Prelude!
I was sucked right into Burt’s world, and I’m very interested in his psychic abilities. Fascinating! I kind of wonder how he handled them in his teenage years, and how in the world he was able to date. (Would he know ahead of time if he was going to get to, say, third base?)
I’m also very interested in the direction Burt’s investigation into the nuclear thefts is going to take. Does this mean a trip to Germany or Russia?
I had a bit of a problem with Darwin. I think it’s just that his problems are so frankly stated, like he goes after little girls because he can’t get what he wants from women. Will he be explored later? I think the study of a child molester would be fascinating! I must say, though, that whole scene was downright heart-wrenching. I was wincing through most of it. Very brutal, and very real.
I sure hope a publisher “discovers” your stories, Lee.
2/27/2002 -- Reviewed by C. J. Risner
Intriguing, encompassing, and absorbing. I “fell” into the story line and my attention was riveted.
9/14/2002 -- Reviewed by Debbie Edmiaston
Exciting, thrilling, frightening etc. You’ve covered it all. I read part of this on iPublish and really liked it. It continues to intrigue me. Great as usual!
PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD ... Molly's Reviews
By m j hollingshead Sunday, September 07, 2003
Title: Prelude To Mushroom Cloud / Author: Lee Herald / eBook Formats
Interesting read, recommended … 4 stars
The Review:
Burt Stephens awakens on a stormy December night in Chicago with a feeling of unrest. His baby sitter hastens to reassure the worried little boy.
It is 1965, just before Christmas and Stephens’ parents have just been killed. From that point the orphaned youngster is raised by his grandfather. He does not understand the psychic encounters he begins to experience.
By 1990 a grown up Burt begins recording his varied and various psychic experiences.
About the same time a pedophile strikes and strikes again until finally he kills a little 8 year old girl and leaves her mangled body and that of the family pup where her father will find her.
Burt’s psychic urges continue to increase. In 1995 we find he is a well known, admired, journalist working for The Phoenix Times.
When Burt receives a most peculiar card from The Judge, the angel of death he doesn’t know quite what to make of it.
The pedophile Darwin is undergoing his own disconcerting thoughts, decides he should leave Arizona, hitchhikes to New Mexico, and is found decapitated with a card from The Judge, the angel of death, taped to his body.
All media suddenly tunes to channel 10 and nothing can be done to change the radio or TV views.
The time has come to choose a world leader. Burt is caught up right in the middle of all of the diverse investigations, side stories and mystery.
Writer Herald has produced a chilling thriller in Prelude To A Mushroom Cloud that seizes the reader by the throat from the opening lines and holds interest fast through a roller coaster of misadventures, agitation, extraordinary situations and worrisome mishaps.
The interwoven account of Darwin produces a antithesis to the ongoing narrative surrounding Burt Stephens and his assorted and numerous peculiar psychic experiences.
Prelude To A Mushroom Cloud is a manifold tale filled with ingeniously interwoven suspense filled story line, potent motivations and paradoxical contention set against a backdrop of well developed settings that leaves the reader gasping, troubled and perhaps even terrified to sleep in the dark for a while.
Hair raising action, pleasantly puzzling incertitude, excellently wrought, well fleshed characters abound. Dialogue is energetic, hard hitting and at times filled with poignancy.
This fast paced, action packed work is an excellent choice for a quiet afternoon, don’t read Prelude To A Mushroom Cloud on a dark and stormy night!
And keep the lights turned on just in case.
Good exciting read, happy to recommend. Reviewed by: molly martin
http://www.AuthorsDen.com/mjhollingshead
TWO WORDS YOUR CHILD WILL NEVER FORGET
Copyright 2000 Lee Herald
MAYBE LATER
THE ALBERT EINSTEIN DEFENSE
Copyright 2004 Lee Herald
August 13, 2007
Super Agency, Inc.
100 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10003
Dear Ms. Super Agent:
Albert Einstein would’ve been a brilliant defense attorney. Why? Because he believed in determinism—which would be The Albert Einstein Defense.
A breathless gallery would excitedly wait, then the great scientist would open with the following statement:
A God who rewards and punishes is inconceivable . . . for the simple reason that a man’s actions are determined by necessity, external and internal, so that in God’s eyes he cannot be responsible, any more than an inanimate object is responsible for the motions it undergoes.
ALBERT EINSTEIN Religion and Science. New York Times Magazine, November 9, 1930. The Great Quotations, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by Pocket Books, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
What caused Einstein to say this?
The principle of cause and effect prompted him. It is the most well-known scientific principle in the world and it is recognized by scientists and global citizens alike.
This universal principle doesn’t just rule the birds and the bees, the mountains and the rivers, and the stars and the planets. It is in firm control of all life, including human beings. This is why Einstein said—“he cannot be responsible.”
The Colorado Springs Gazette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B1
CRIMINALS COULD SOON PLEAD ‘MY GENES MADE ME DO IT.’ (From The Toledo Blade, Bar Harbor, Maine)
Growing evidence that a person’s genes influence behavior may create serious dilemmas for law enforcement . . . a noted geneticist said . . . “Genes do appear to influence behavior,” said Dr. Leroy Hood, chairman of the department of molecular biotechnology at the University of Washington in Seattle.
“Since our system of law is based on free will and individual responsibility, could a future criminal argue extenuating circumstances because his genes made him commit the criminal act?”
If Albert lived in our time he would make use of my novel, Why Does The Lion Roar
Attorney Einstein would’ve salivated over the link below. One article concerns people whose “unconscious minds had already caused them to push the button before they had consciously decided to do so”.
http://FarOutTopics.blogspot.com/
Dig right in, Professor Einstein, help yourself.
OFFEND GOD?
The Fundamentalists, and many others, often speak of the peril of offending God. For decades they have discussed this, built sermons around it, and tried to scare people with it.
Now imagine a supreme being that fills the entire universe, had no beginning, has no ending, and is creator of all.
Can we really believe that an all-powerful, incredible, supernatural, mind-boggling being could be offended by a mere mortal?
Psalm 119:165 - Great peace have they which love thy law: and nothing shall offend them.
If nothing can offend the followers of God, then how can God be offended?
Is She weaker than Her followers?
Lee Herald
THE ILLUSION
September 6, 1986.
It was a hot Saturday night in Tempe. The Galvin Playhouse seated 500 people, and it was full. A buzz of conversations flowed throughout the audience. Members of Reverend Austin Freeman’s church were limited to 100 seats. They excitedly chatted while waiting to hear their leader, but those who couldn’t attend were disappointed.
Arizona State students were allotted 100 seats. The rest of the seats were open to the public, and Steve and Robby sat in the third row. Supporters of both sides were present, but free will had more. If the discussion turned out to be stimulating, it would be replayed on PBS stations around the country. That would be a publicity break for David because his novel would be in bookstores at the end of the month.
7:20 p.m.
On the stage, Reverend Freeman and David sat at a conference table facing the audience. Briefcases, legal pads, pencils, and a pitcher of ice water lay on the table. The three microphones were for the moderator and the debaters.
Reverend Freeman was sixty, five-foot-ten, and a bit bulky. His neatly combed, brown hair had streaks of gray. Dressed in an expensive black suit, he had hazel eyes and a craggy face. A pleasant smile and fashion glasses were part of his distinguished look. His timeworn Bible lay on the table, and just now, he drew comfort from touching the cover.
David had on his favorite suit, the old double-knit burgundy Continental that wouldn’t wear out. He wore a white dress shirt and a black tie. He had gotten his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed. It fell over his forehead and partly covered his ears, touching his collar in the back. His tanned face was sculpted with high cheekbones that enhanced a distinctive look. Below arching eyebrows, his blue eyes were intense.
He looked cool, but he was nervous. Amazed that he was seated on the platform, he had a worried look on his face. He restlessly shifted his 160-pound body in his chair.
You never know about life’s detours, he thought, but I guess I’ve burned my bridges on free will now. Robby smiled at him and he smiled back.
7:30 p.m.
The cameras focused on the announcer at the podium.
“We welcome our audience and viewers,” he said. He made a brief program introduction, and glanced at the program manager. “And now our program manager, Ms. Colette Martel. She will be the moderator of this ninety-minute debate.”
A shorthaired brunette, Colette Martel was tall and slim, about five-foot-nine. She was forty, but she looked much younger. Tanned and shapely, she stood straight as an arrow at the podium. She had on a pastel green dress, and a thin multicolored leather necklace. Full lips, a slim nose, large green eyes, and high cheekbones graced her smooth face. Naturally beautiful, she had no need for makeup.
She smiled at the audience, revealing her exquisite white teeth, and spoke of David’s novel. “Why Does The Lion Roar will be in bookstores soon,” she said. She introduced Reverend Freeman and David.
David was smitten by her striking look. Sometimes a woman is as great as she sounds on the phone, he thought. He wanted to see if she had a wedding ring.
As she clarified the debate, Ms. Martel’s voice rang strong, yet feminine. “Mister Malcom declares that one of the principles of logic confirms fatalism, a theory that denies free will.” She smiled at David.
“Mister Malcom is not a convert to Christianity, but he asserts that the Bible also teaches fatalism. He states that to believe in both God and free will is logically incompatible. Therefore, all believers in God should believe in fatalism. He will attempt to prove this theory, which is called theological fatalism. Mister Malcom wants the audience to know that when he speaks of God, he speaks of a universal God, but when he speaks of Jehovah, he refers to the Biblical God.”
Ms. Martel smiled at the reverend. “Simply put, Reverend Freeman asserts that Mister Malcom’s theories are completely outdated, and that he will refute all of them.”
She looked at the two men. “You have three minutes for opening statements and”—she glanced at her notes—“you are first, Reverend Freeman.”
Ms. Martel walked over to the table and sat down between the two men. David got a whiff of her alluring perfume. She crossed her long lithe legs and smoothed her dress over her knees.
Keep your mind on your work, David thought. You’re already nervous.
Reverend Freeman went to the podium and placed his open Bible on it. He nodded at Ms. Martel and David, surveyed the audience, and smiled broadly.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Our criminal justice system is being challenged by Mister Malcom’s speculation. For if a man has no free will, he’s not responsible, and he can do whatever his evil heart desires. He can murder, rob, or rape with no punishment because, according to Mister Malcom, he’s not responsible for his actions.”
David was listening, but he was also mindful of Ms. Martel.
“If there is no free will, then man is a puppet of God,” the reverend forcefully said, “a leaf blowing in the wind, threatened by every circumstance but controlling none. Now pursuing, now pursued, but having no idea of where he’s going.” He adjusted his glasses.
“This is a sorry picture of one made in the image of God, but thank God, this delusion is not true”—his voice rose—“not now, nor ever.”
He spoke of the long history of belief in free will. He said the greatest use of man’s free will was the ability to choose Jesus Christ as his savior. David jotted a note on his pad.
“This entire issue confronts the gospel of Jesus Christ,” the reverend went on. “It challenges our assertion that everyone has an equal chance to come to Jesus, and tonight I will demonstrate that Mister Malcom has been gravely misled.
Thank you.”
Reverend Freeman came back to the table and sat down to loud applause.
Ms. Martel waited for the applause to die. She smiled at David. “Mister Malcom.”
David went to the podium. Take it easy, he thought, and go slow.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly let it out. After he greeted the audience, he glanced around the auditorium.
“Reverend Freeman speaks of a- - an unrestrained fatalist released on society, but this scare tactic proves nothing.” David glanced at the reverend, and tried to calm down. “The reverend says we- - we all have an equal chance, yet the most apparent thing about life is inequality. Being rich, or poor, clearly reveals inequality. Smart and dumb, healthy and sick, these conditions teach us that life is not fair.”
A painful scene flashed through his mind. Davey was in a straitjacket, locked in a padded cell, worn out and asleep from self-injurious behavior.
“When we see refugees on- - on television fleeing war-torn countries, it should tell us something about fate.” He began to feel better. “It should tell us that we were lucky to be born in America instead of being slaves in a third world dictatorship, but this was not by choice.”
“All men are not created equal, for the chief characteristic of the universe is diversity. We do have the equal right to pursue happiness, but even that can be prohibited if we live in a totalitarian country. Yes, we have the right to pursue happiness, but we must do so on unequal terms, because there’s always someone taller and someone shorter, someone brighter and someone dimmer, someone faster and someone slower.” Applause rang out.
“As for the criminal justice system, there’s nothing infallible about it. Fallible human beings manage it. Everything within the system is a judgment call. A human being must say the fingerprints match, or the DNA matches, but in both cases there have been errors.”
David looked over the audience, and spoke with a clear forceful resonance.
“If life is all free choice, why would anyone choose to be an alcoholic, or a starving child, or a newborn baby addicted to cocaine? These poor souls certainly didn’t have an equal chance in life. But of course, we didn’t choose our parents, our country, or our culture. Yet, birth was the most important event of our lives, because it set the pattern for all that follows.” He paused.
“Many of the most important things have already been decided for us—the time and place of our birth, the character of our parents, our temperament, size, height, race and color of eyes, whether man or woman—in short, everything that affects our future.” He glanced at his notes. “And how much value is there in a free will after all these important factors were chosen for us? To those who are burdened at birth with certain limitations, a freedom given later is not free will at all.”
“There are three theories that refute free will, but we are interested in only two tonight, fatalism and theological fatalism. Fatalism states that whatever happens is, and always was, unavoidable. Weighing in favor of fatalism are the laws of thought, which are taught in the logic classes of all our great universities. And theological fatalism teaches that if you believe in God, you are logically committed to a belief in fatalism. Weighing in favor of theological fatalism is the omniscience of God who knows what we call the future.” He paused for effect.
“But for free will there is no favorable weight, for no formulated theory for free will exists.” He emphasized this. “There is no scientific basis for free will, only the longing and the misty wish that the idea were true.” He paused. “If free will existed, if we could just will this or that, the world would be full of healthy, wealthy, beautiful people. Thank you.”
David went back to the table and sat down to respectable applause.
Ms. Martel looked at David as if he was quite eloquent and had studied his subject at great length. Reverend Freeman was also surprised at David’s eloquence, but this didn’t deter him.
“Mister Malcom, you must feel very lonely attempting to persuade people that they are robots,” the reverend said, “for very few believe in your negative philosophy.” He smiled at the audience. “Everyone believes that their struggles aren’t in vain, that they can change for the better.” He looked at David. “But if they believed you, they would become couch potatoes, lolling around daydreaming, their spirit destroyed by your fatalistic foolishness.” The audience applauded.
Ms. Martel was about four feet from David, and he had to look past her to see the reverend. “Truth doesn’t depend on how many people believe it, Reverend,” he replied, “and I didn’t say that people should sit around doing nothing.”
“Yet you don’t believe your own theory,” Freeman said. “You ask the audience to change their minds, but without free will, how can they?”
David looked at the audience.
“We don’t know the future, so I speak as if some might be fated to change their minds, and to see the evidence more- -”
“I doubt that any will change,” Freeman said, jutting his chin out.
Applause broke out, and a loud, “Amen!”
David continued. “Fatalism doesn’t require that we all lie down and quit. We’ll continue to experiment to see what we can- -”
“How can it mean anything but that,” Freeman interjected.
“Because we don’t know what we can or can’t do,” David replied. “Whether we believe in free will, or fatalism, we only discover what we can do by trying.”
“But if a fatalist tries to act free, why bother with your theory?”
“To demonstrate that people shouldn’t be condemned for doing what genetics has programmed them to do.”
Loud groans indicated how disagreeable David’s message was.
“That’s plain foolishness,” Freeman exclaimed, fingering his tie.
Ms. Martel looked at David. “Mister Malcom, tell us about the laws of thought.”
“I will be happy to do that.” David looked at the audience.
He explained that just as a body of truth about the past existed, so a body of truth about the future existed, known or unknown. And just as you can’t change the history of the past, neither can you change the history of the future. He spoke of three laws of thought in logic, but only one would be examined tonight. That would be The Principle of Excluded Middle, which declared that every statement was either true or false. And there was no middle ground.
He looked at Freeman. “So, of Reverend Freeman we can make the statement that he is alive, and that statement is either true or false.”
Freeman flattened his hand on his Bible. “And I am glad to report that I am quite alive.” The audience laughed loudly.
Ms. Martel smiled. “And what’s the importance of this Principle of Excluded Middle, Mister Malcom?”
“It can be used to prove fatalism,” David said.
“I doubt that very much,” the reverend said, “but tell us how it’s suppose to work.”
“Okay. Let’s suppose that a statement made yesterday said that I would be here tonight.” Freeman, Ms. Martel, and the audience listened closely.
“Now, this statement was either true or false. And if the statement was false, it was impossible for me to be here, but if the statement was true, it was impossible for me not to be here.”
“Meaning you had no choice?” Ms. Martel asked.
“Exactly,” David replied. He took a sip of water.
Ms. Martel looked at Freeman. “Reverend Freeman, what about that?”
“Thank you, Ms. Martel,” he said. “Mister Malcom, I’m sure you are aware that Steven Cahn’s book, Fate, Logic, and Time, repudiates the accepted form of The Principle of Excluded Middle.”
David said, “As your words indicate, the form is accepted by everyone but Mr. Cahn, so he hasn’t repudiated anything if others don’t accept his view.”
“But Mister Cahn spoke of Aristotle’s contingency theory which- -”
“And he also said that if the Principle of Excluded Middle is true, then fatalism is true,” David interjected.
Freeman shifted in his chair, “Mister Cahn spoke of Aristotle’s contingency theory,” he said, “which states that if a future event is contingent, then a statement declaring that the event will occur is neither true nor false.”
“But contingency would mean events happen by chance,” David said, “without cause.”
“Some events are uncertain until their occurrence, and are not- -”
“Some events,” David said. “You’re trying to concoct a universal principle that works only once in a while. And I guess you’d say that the ‘some events’ all involve human choice. How convenient, a fatalism for everything but man.”
Freeman said, “It is clear that Aristotle’s theory is a sound one and it is also- -”
“It is clear that the Principle of Excluded Middle would have to be renamed,” David said, “for there would be all kinds of ifs, ands, and buts.”
Freeman said, “Aristotle’s theory leaves man with a free will, yet does not confute the principles of thought.” He took a drink of water.
David looked at the audience. “And what would you call it, Aristotle’s Principle of Included Middle?” Laughter erupted. “But let’s think about something else.” He paused. “Every time we make a decision, we are influenced by hundreds of experiences of the past, by dozens of aspects of the present, and by scores of hopes for the future. We are so totally coerced by these factors that there is no room left for choice.”
“No choice at all?” Ms. Martel said.
“There is no uncoerced choice,” David said.
He looked at the reverend. “Reverend Freeman, let’s talk about theological fatalism.” Before the reverend could reply, David asked, “Do you believe that God knows everything that is true?”
“Of course, Mister Malcom.”
“Let’s assume that God knew yesterday that it was true that you would be here tonight.” Ms. Martel toyed with her hair and intently looked at David.
“That’s easy enough,” Freeman said.
David had the rapt attention of the audience. “And you believe that you’re free, and that you didn’t have to be here tonight, correct?”
Freeman hesitated. “Yes- - I- - I didn’t have to be here, but what are you getting at.” He looked uneasy answering these questions.
“Bear with me,” David said. Now he spoke deliberately. “Reverend, if God knew yesterday that it was true that you would be here tonight.”
Ms. Martel’s pulse quickened when she saw the jaws of the steel trap that David had opened wide.
“And, if you changed your mind and stayed home,” David said.
Now she watched him place it in the reverend’s path.
“That would mean that God’s knowledge was false, and it would mean that you contradicted the knowledge of God.”
“Uh oh,” someone in the audience loudly said.
David emphasized his words. “And that, Reverend, would mean that you made God a liar.”
Gasps came from the reverend’s followers, and “oohs” and “aahs” from other people.
Freeman was stunned. “A- - a liar, I don’t see- -” He stared at David. “I don’t see how- -” He hesitated.
“I know you don’t see, Reverend,” David said, “but God and fatalism go hand in hand.”
Freeman struggled to recover. “You’re, a- - you’re merely, a- -”
“Do you see now that you had no choice,” David said, “that what God knows to be true, no man can make untrue?”
Nervous coughing began while Reverend Freeman’s followers waited for his answer.
“You’re playing semantics, Mister Malcom,” Freeman weakly said, “because I know that I’m- -”
“No, I’m not playing. I’m talking about the principles of logic taught in universities throughout the world, and I’m talking about the nature of God.”
Ms. Martel slightly smiled, taking care not to offend the reverend. Steve smiled at David and lifted a power fist.
“No matter your logic, Mister Malcom,” Freeman said, “I know that God is- - is all-powerful and I know that I have free will.” He poured a glass of water and took a long drink.
David asked Freeman if he believed in prophecy. When he said yes, David said that free will and prophecy were incompatible. He said that if a prophecy was true, the people involved in the prophecy had to do whatever was foreseen in the prophecy, and that meant that they had no choice. He said in order to achieve his divine plan, God would have to intervene in individual lives and direct them toward his goal.
Freeman looked perplexed again. “You have a unique way of misusing the Bible,” he said.
Ms. Martel scratched a note on her pad.
David leaned forward. “You seem to be unaware that many scriptures teach fatalism, Reverend.”
“The Bible doesn’t teach fatalism,” Freeman replied.
“There are over a dozen scriptures,” David said, “that teach that Jehovah does everything and that the believer chooses nothing.” David placed his old Bible on the table. “Hollywood has used the most familiar scripture as the setting of more than one movie.”
“Hollywood can’t be trusted with the Bible,” Freeman said, feeling better.
A few amens came from the crowd.
David continued. “Everyone remembers Moses freeing his people from Egypt. In Exodus four, Jehovah spoke about Pharaoh and said, but I will harden his heart, that he shall not let the people go.” He looked at the audience. “Now here’s a king who had no choice, for Jehovah hardened Pharaoh’s heart to make him do exactly what he wanted him to do.”
Freeman looked at the audience. “Mister Malcom misuses scriptures,” he said as a neurotransmitter in his brain connected with a neuron that aroused him. “Pharaoh’s heart was hardened to God and he stood against- -”
“It doesn’t say that Pharaoh did the hardening,” David said, “it says—I will harden. And that’s Jehovah speaking, the Hebrew God.”
“But of course, God is the author of all things,” Freeman hastily said, “and he does whatever- -”
“Exactly my point, but let’s see who does the choosing.” David opened his Bible to a prepared place.
“The psalmist declared in Psalm thirty-three, Blessed is the nation whose God is the LORD; and the people whom he hath chosen for his own inheritance.”
He looked at Freeman. “It says here that Jehovah chose those who would be his people.” He glanced down at his Bible. “And in Second Thessalonians, The Apostle Paul said, God hath from the beginning chosen you to salvation. It is clear in both scriptures that Jehovah is doing the choosing and that man has nothing to do with it.”
Freeman shifted in his chair. “It’s true that God’s people are chosen,” he said, “but they must do something to assure that their salvation is- -”
“Do,” David said, “the word chosen leaves no room for doing.”
“But the believer must do his part by coming to Jesus and he must do- -”
“You’re adding your words to the Bible,” David said.
“But every Bible scholar knows that Jesus expected his followers to- -”
“Yes, let’s hear what Jesus said.” David quoted from memory. “Jesus declared, in John six, No man can come to me, except the Father which hath sent me draw him. And again, in John fifteen, Jesus said, Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you.”
David looked at the audience. “Ye have not chosen me.” He paused. “Can the truth be any clearer?”
“You have not chosen me?” Ms. Martel softly said. She was astonished by the absolute clarity of the last scripture David quoted.
“Reverend, I’m not sure that you know the teachings of Jesus,” David said.
Help me, dear God, Freeman silently prayed. This man has the silver tongue of Satan.
“You’re twisting the gospel of Christ”—he took his glasses off—“and as an unbeliever, you’re not qualified to understand the scriptures.”
A voice yelled, “Amen!” Freeman put his glasses on.
“Not qualified?” David said. “Since you’re unable to disprove me, you challenge my qualifications?”
“Gentlemen,” Ms. Martel spoke up, “you’re straying from the discussion.” She smiled. “Let’s stick to the issues.”
“Those scriptures are not what they seem to be,” Freeman said.
“An ironic choice of words for a literalist such as yourself, Reverend.”
“You can’t pluck scriptures out of context and get the truth.”
“Out of context is a favorite cop-out of the Fundamentalist,” David said.
Ms. Martel said, “You do believe in the concept of context, don’t you, Mister Malcom?”
David looked at her. “Yes, I do, but some statements convey the same truth, in or out of context.” He looked at the audience. “When Judas hung himself it made no difference if one passage was read or the whole chapter was read. Judas was a very dead man.”
Laughter, applause, and some admiring “oohs” and “aahs” were heard.
“Very clever, Mister Malcom,” the reverend said.
David continued. “And The Apostle Paul spoke of his own lack of free will. In Romans seven, Paul said- -”
“And I’m sure you have misconstrued a scripture to back that up.”
“As a matter of fact”—David turned to a prepared place in his Bible—“in Romans seven, Paul said, For what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I. This sounds like a man who was destined to do things that he didn’t want to do.”
“Paul was speaking of his battles with the flesh,” Freeman said.
“Yes, he was, but it doesn’t matter what the problem was,” David said. “It’s clear that the man didn’t have free will.” He flipped the pages to another place.
“In Romans nine, Paul makes things clearer. He spoke of Jehovah and said, Therefore hath he mercy on whom he will have mercy, and whom he will he hardeneth.”
David looked at the audience. “And this is exactly how Jehovah treated Pharaoh. Pharaoh wasn’t chosen for mercy, and Jehovah fashioned him to have a hard heart.”
“You still don’t appreciate the love of God, Mister Malcom.” Freeman shifted in his chair, shaking his head.
“What about verse twenty-one, Reverend?” David asked. “Paul challenges you by asking this question, Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour? Jehovah fashions two people out of the same lump of clay, programming one for honor and the other for dishonor.”
Murmurs rustled throughout the audience.
“Paul asked a question,” Freeman said. “He didn’t say that God does that.” He loosened his tie.
David shook his head. “That’s weak, Reverend. Paul asked a rhetorical question in order to point out the truth. Paul believed that Jehovah made people exactly what they were, sinners or saints.”
Ms. Martel wondered how the reverend could reply to such clear statements from the Bible.
Freeman cleared his throat. “Paul’s words are difficult to comprehend, Mister Malcom, even for learned theologians, and you certainly are not- -”
“Yes, in many places Paul’s words are hard to grasp, but they’re clear here.”
“That’s your interpretation, Mister Malcom,” Freeman said. He took a sip of water.
“Interpretation, like context, is a pretext that has been dishonestly used by the Fundamentalists for centuries, as though there were several interpretations just waiting to suit our taste.”
Ms. Martel smiled. “But then too, Mister Malcom, if Reverend Freeman doesn’t agree, he can’t help it, right?” The audience laughed loudly and applauded.
David chuckled. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “We argue for the sake of debate, but both of us are what God made us.”
“But we’re not puppets,” Freeman said, adjusting his glasses. He looked at the audience and shook his head affirmatively. “
Amen,” a voice shouted.
David said, “The Bible makes it clear that Jehovah did everything himself, and for himself.”
“You make God sound like a selfish puppeteer,” Freeman said.
“Well, if that’s how you want to describe Jehovah, I won’t object.” David turned to another place. “It’s very plain in Proverbs sixteen, Reverend, The LORD hath made all things for himself: yea, even the wicked for the day of evil.”
David looked at the audience. “Jehovah made everything for himself, and even programmed the wicked to be wicked.” He paused for emphasis.
“According to this scripture, Jehovah didn’t give the wicked a choice. Where is free will here?”
Shortly afterward, the dispute ended, and the audience demonstrated their enjoyment by loudly applauding both men.
The Arizona Republic . . Monday, September 8, 1986
Tempe Man Convincing in Free Will Debate
By Martin Schoen, The Arizona Republic
The week after the debate, David was looking in his Britannica 1984 yearbook. He found something about schizophrenia that he missed.
It was in the Health and Disease section, under “Mental Health,” page 416.
Encouraging progress was made toward understanding the nature of schizophrenia, including the accumulation of further evidence that the disorder has its basis in organic and biochemical abnormalities in the brains of sufferers and is not the response of an anatomically and functionally normal organ to insupportable psychological and emotional pressures.
Here’s further evidence, David thought, that schizophrenia “has its basis in organic and biochemical abnormalities.” That schizophrenics are not normal is nothing new, but that it’s not their fault is new. And surely, what fits one mental disorder, logically, fits all mental disorders.
If one disorder is not the response of a “functionally normal organ,” none are.
They’re all biochemically-caused through “molecular disturbances” as the scientific community has already said. And everyday the evidence grows stronger that man isn’t responsible for his actions, and neither is Johnny Stone.
Why does the lion roar? he mused. The lion reacts, for the same reason that Johnny reacts to his circumstances. Johnny and the lion have evolved to react in a certain manner. They were created to do just what they do, and there has never been any choice in the matter.
I finally fully believe this, but it will be hard to convince other people. And I don’t like the disgust I’m going to get from the victim’s rights people, but I can empathize with their feelings.
The Arizona Republic . . Saturday, September 27, 1986
David Malcom in news again – First novel published
Free will argument is focus of story
By Martin Schoen, The Arizona Republic
David read the article for the third time. It was short, but it was one of the greatest thrills of his life. The piece mentioned the debate, and said that many letters to the editor spoke of the exciting atmosphere.
I suppose any first time published writer would be carried away, David thought, just as I am. But if it weren’t for the debate, this article would’ve been buried in the back regions of the paper. Now it made the front page of the second section.
David saved the article in a scrapbook, and instead of taking Steve and Robby to dinner, it would be Christmas in July.
CONTINUED on FAR OUT TOPICS 3
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