Jews made good terrorists once, against the British—at least that’s what the old men used to brag about. Stealing this wonderful boat and leaving Greek friends who’d opened their hearts to him in a time of need would be Levi’s first act of terrorism.
He frowned—frowned knowing terrorists left few friends in their wake; frowned, knowing how effective, but how unloved, a terrorist is.
CHAPTER 6
The hearing was in what locals called the New Courthouse building, which meant it was the half of Boston’s main courthouse that was built in 1938 rather than the half from 1893. In the eight decades since the two halves were mated, nobody bothered to change the room numbers, so those unfamiliar often got lost or went to the wrong half.
That probably explained why Ben Shapiro’s clients had not yet shown up for the hearing on the preliminary injunction he was seeking, a court order he hoped against hope would allow the passengers of the two ships to come ashore. Maybe they’re lost, he thought. Or maybe they took off.
The suit was titled John Doe, John Roe, and John Coe vs. Lawrence Quaid, President of the United States of America. Each man had to stand before a judge and admit he’d escaped from the ships. Without that admission, the case would be dismissed for lack of standing. Shapiro had prepared each client to make these admissions.
Normally, a case against the United States government would be brought in federal court, not state court. Shapiro realized, however, that this case did not stand a chance of winning in the federal court system, in which almost every judge right up to the Supreme Court had been appointed by increasingly conservative Republican presidents, Donald Trump being the standard bearer. Cutting-edge civil rights decisions these days came from state courts, interpreting state constitutions, often in a more liberal manner than their federal counterparts. Massachusetts had led the way by legalizing gay marriage, a decision based entirely on the Massachusetts constitution, a document predating the US Constitution. It was a creative but risky legal maneuver.
The instant Shapiro learned which judge had been assigned to the case, he realized his roll of the dice had come up with legal snake eyes—a loser.
Superior Court Justice Francis X. O’Sullivan, despite his ranting about cameras invading his courtroom, loved nothing better than to strut back and forth behind his desk and lock eyes with the cameras swiveling to remain centered on his startling white hair while he glowered down at an attorney. He had been called back from retirement to temporarily fill a vacancy on the bench. He enjoyed reminding young attorneys that he’d been wearing a black robe when they wore diapers.
Shapiro sighed with relief when his clients appeared at the end of the corridor. The three young men were dressed in nearly identical new navy-blue suits. He ushered them into the courtroom and sat them in the first row of wooden benches.
At precisely ten o’clock the court officer rapped his hand three times on the wall and read from the same wrinkled card he’d been reading from for ten years, “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. All persons having business before this Honorable Court come forth and you shall be heard. God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
Shapiro wondered, as he did nearly every time he heard those words read, why there was not a court officer in the Commonwealth who seemed capable of memorizing that short speech.
All five foot two inches of Judge O’Sullivan stood behind his chair, the famous, custom-made low-backed high-backed chair. After a glance at the cameras to assure himself there were no technical problems, he pointed his right arm, palm down, fingers outspread like a biblical prophet, and glared at Shapiro, completely ignoring the assistant attorney general representing the Commonwealth.
“Mr. Sha-pie-ro, Mr. Sha-pie-ro,” O’Sullivan boomed in a shockingly deep baritone. “I take it you were so enwrapped in your legal research that you did not have time to peruse this morning’s newspaper.”
The judge unfolded the Boston Herald and waved it back and forth in front of his chest, careful not to obscure his face from the cameras.
President Boots Jews covered the front page of the tabloid.
“Mr. Shapiro, you want me to disobey my commander in chief?” He threw the newspaper onto his desk. “You may not appreciate that I am a veteran, Mr. Shapiro.”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, my clients have constitutional rights that not even the president can take from them.”
“Who are your clients? Mr. Doe. Mr. Roe. Mr. Coe. Moe, Larry and Curley? I’ve read their affidavits. Oh, I have read them very carefully. Where are these men, these men who drop atom bombs on innocent Syrian children?”
The judge stood on his toes, scanned from side to side, his palm over his eyebrows, like Tonto searching for his kemosabe.
“Stand up if you are here. Stand up. Stand up.”
With a deep breath, Shapiro turned to the three men in the front row and motioned them to rise, noticing the cameras swivel toward them.
“For the record, Your Honor, my clients are before the court.”
O’Sullivan snatched his newspaper and held it at arm’s length in front of his mouth, as if it would somehow ward him against contact with the men.
“Are you the plaintiffs in this case? Did you sign those affidavits? Answer me. Answer me each of you one at a time. For the record. For the record.”
Again Shapiro nodded to them.
“Yes, Your Honor,” each man said clearly, one after the other. The men remained standing silently.
O’Sullivan took a step backward as if struck by a sudden gale-force wind.
“Mr. Court Officer,” he intoned. “Take these men into custody. I have already called the Coast Guard to escort them back where they came from. And for God’s sake, be careful, be careful. Don’t let them escape again.”
When O’Sullivan turned his back to the courtroom, the court officer looked at Shapiro and shrugged. The three men filed out of the courtroom, meekly following the court officer.
When they were gone, O’Sullivan turned again to face Shapiro. “I would no sooner prohibit the forces of our government from taking any step necessary to safeguard our homeland than I would order the Lord to stop the flowers from blooming.
“Mr. Shapiro, you yourself should ponder long and deep what you were about to ask this court to do and what it would have meant to you had I not taken this matter from your hands. Ponder, Mr. Shapiro. This is no time for your kind of fish to swim against the tide.”
The judge pivoted so quickly that his black robe swirled around him. He walked straight to his chamber door, leaving the courtroom in silence until the reporters surrounded Shapiro, asking if he would appeal the decision that was apparently made before he’d spoken a word in defense of his clients.
Ben Shapiro struggled to maintain his composure. He’d won cases and he’d lost cases and he accepted that was how the law worked. What Shapiro could not accept was when prejudice conquered reason, when the law became a cudgel for beating people down rather than a scalpel for excising what was wrong.
What did the tzadik, the righteous man he yearned to be, do when his hands were tied, Shapiro had begun to ask himself. Shapiro had not found an alternative to the legal system, but he reluctantly suspected that such an alternative existed.