The Kukulkan Manuscript (35 page)

On the way to the Federal courthouse, the two agents seemed overly intent on eyeing the mini-bus and wrecked cop car on the left side of the freeway where vehicles were causing a traffic jam. Porter thought he saw the agents stare at each other with deep telepathic eyes at that time. If it wasn’t for the rear view mirror, Clusser, who was driving, never would have told Porter there had been a phone call the night before—an “unrecorded” threat on Porter’s life. The more peculiar part of the experience was the way Clusser smiled into the mirror with that same fake expression he’d always given Porter when they served together in Japan. The unfeeling grin had one meaning: his last words were lies. In Japan, he’d used the performance in jest. But Porter knew Clusser was telling him the call wasn’t real or had been fabricated by
someone
to save his life.

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

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

A microphone stared at Porter from the table before him.

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

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

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

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

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

The best lawyer would always—

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

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

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

Answer this question.

What about this?

How do you explain that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Determined,” said Porter.

Comer smiled. “To lie?”

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

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

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

Comer grinned again. “What’s that.”

“I’ve been set up for a fall.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who then?”

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

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

Porter looked at the man typing each word with what looked like a very old calculator the size of a shoe box. They still used those in the computer age? Porter gazed into the audience, but wouldn’t lock eyes with the red head. He found Clusser’s patient gaze. The missionary companion from years ago simply nodded as if to say,
“The truth man! Tell him.”

“Erma Alred.”

Comer’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure of that?” The attorney was calm and drew himself up with a quiet breath. Porter wondered if Comer thought the defendant was resorting to fictionalization.

“I was furious about it!” Porter said. It was emotion. But logic was fleeing fast. He tried to buckle down but would only know how well he’d battened the hatches when next he had to speak, which was immediately.

The attorney scratched his low forehead. “Is that an affirmative answer?”

Porter breathed. “Of course.”

“Ms. Alred did not return it at
your
behest?” said Comer, looking in Alred’s direction.

“No.”

With his narrow nose, Comer pointed at Porter while putting his hands in his pockets. “You wanted to keep it. Didn’t you Mr. Porter. Be honest.”

Silence. The inset lights hidden in the high ceiling shined an almost orange light down on the menagerie of words. It was a trap of army ants, brawling with little movement, biting with their voices, all ready to jump in Porter’s direction and maul him to death. Clusser stood against the dark wood wall in the rear of the courtroom. An American flag hung limply on a pole between him and the two doors with an exit sign glowing red letters of escape. And yet Porter knew he wouldn’t make it much farther than the high wall around him and the platform elevating him near Judge Panofsky’s seat. The floor, a black marble mirror, reflected the lights above. Porter felt it all close in around him, tighter, smothering him. He had to speak. Everyone was listening and the judge would only move faster away from thinking Porter was anything more than another crooked man in his court. “I wanted to keep KM-2, but that doesn’t mean—”

The prosecutor spoke over Porter’s words. “If you had a choice, you would keep it. Let me ask you again, Mr. Porter, are you sure Alred gave the document to the University? Were you there at the time? Do you
know
for certain that the hand-off occurred?”

With eyes looking earnestly into the seated crowd for help, Porter at last let them settle on Alred. She sat in a business suit, gray from the shoulder pads to the edge of the knee-high skirt. Her mouth was small and red, but her eyes said nothing for or against his answer. She would expect the truth in this case. And yet
she
still had KM-3 and really should be as guilty as ever they might find Porter.

When Porter opened his mouth…he said nothing.

“Mr. Porter,” said Judge Panofsky, his voice deep and somehow refreshingly cool, but also as chilled as the icy metal of a stabbing knife. “Answer the question please.”

Like a robot on automatic, the words came from Porter’s mouth in a near mono-tone. “Alred gave KM-2 back to Stratford University.” His white face laced with a thin layer of liquid glaze, his thin lips quivering, all his visible emotions shouted the ghastly reality. Alred would sense it. Clusser would notice. The jury…the judge…the Prosecuting Attorney….

Porter had no idea what had
really
happened to KM-2.

*  *  *

3:56 p.m. PST

“Ms. Alred, allow me first to acknowledge that no charges are being brought upon you. However, you are under oath to tell the absolute truth. To do otherwise will result in grievous consequences.”

“Do you expect me to lie, Mr. Prosecutor?” Alred said with raised eyebrows and a strong face. She looked relaxed in her gray suit but sat with statue-like posture, looking over the courtroom from the witness stand for the second time. She could smell the judge’s Afta lotion.

Comer smiled at the ground and waited as if reconsidering his approach. “Ms. Alred…how long have you worked with John D. Porter.”

“Approximately one month.”

“And you both used the foreign document termed KM-2.”

Alred lifted her chin. “Correct,” she said, though Porter had dominated the handling of the manuscript from the beginning.

“How would you describe Porter’s attachment to the document,” said Comer.

Alred took a long breath through her petite nose. Her green eyes shimmered without emotion. “Porter has been…highly intrigued with KM-2. Perhaps—”

“Obsessive?” said the attorney.

With a sharp gaze, Alred answered his question, while silently making it clear that she would not allow herself to be cut off again. Her voice picked up in volume, but not in pitch. “Anyone who knows Porter’s eccentric attitude toward his studies might deem him obsessive about anything in which he involves himself.”

Turning away, Comer said the words in a calm voice, “Intrigued! Eccentric! Obsessive!” so they would be noted and run through the judge’s mind again.

“He had good reason for excessive enthusiasm concerning KM-2,” said Alred.

Comer looked up with fake intrigue emanating from his face. “Tell us why.”

“Stratford University offered Porter an ultimatum: Complete a doctoral dissertation by May 21 or fail out of the University. Only a few weeks ago, the aforementioned deadline was moved to May 5; today. Obsessive, yes. Porter has worked as hard as I have, if not more so, in order to make the due date. Now, because of this legal run-around, neither of us will get our Ph.D’s. All the work for nothing. When we could have proven to be Stratford’s best doct—”