Sing You Home

MAX

Nothing makes a church look better than a crisis situation. Give them a dying relative, a child having surgery, a cancer diagnosis-and suddenly everyone pitches in. You will find casseroles at your door, you will find your name on a prayer list in the bulletin. Ladies will show up at your house to clean, or watch your kids. You will know that whatever corner of Hell you are walking through, you’re not alone.

For weeks now, I have been the subject of prayer for the Eternal Glory Church, so that by the time I go to court God will have gotten an earful from nearly a hundred parishioners. Today, I am sitting in the school auditorium as Pastor Clive begins his sermon.

The children of the congregation are down the hall in the art room, gluing pictures of animals into a Xeroxed copy of an ark. I know this because, last night, I helped Liddy draw the giraffes and hippos and squirrels and aardvarks for the kids to color and cut out during Sunday School. And it’s a good thing they’re not here, because today Pastor Clive is talking about sex.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ,” he says, “I have a question for you. You know how some things just seem to go together? You can’t say one without automatically thinking of its other natural half. Like salt and pepper. Peanut butter and jelly. Rock and roll. Hugs and kisses. If you only have one of the two, it feels like a wobbly stool, doesn’t it? Incomplete. Unfinished. And if you hear another word-like if I said cats and parrots, instead of cats and dogs, it sounds just plain wrong, doesn’t it? For example, if I say mother, you’d say…?”

“Father,” I murmur, along with everyone else.

“Husband?”

“Wife!”

Pastor Clive nods. “You’ll notice I did not say mother and mother. I did not say husband and husband, or wife and wife. I did not say those things because when we hear them, we just know deep inside they are wrong. I believe this is especially true when it comes to understanding why God’s plan does not include a homosexual lifestyle.”

He looks at the congregation. “There are those who will tell you the Bible has nothing to say about homosexuality-but that is not true. Romans 1:26-27, Because of this God gave them over to shameless lusts. Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion. Some naysayers-the ones who tell us God has nothing to say about homosexuality-will tell you that Paul is talking about what went on at pagan temples in Greece. These naysayers will tell you we are missing the big picture. I say, my friends, that we do see the big picture.” He pauses, making eye contact with all of us. “God hates homosexuality,” he says.

Pastor Clive reads aloud the verse that’s written in the bulletin today. It’s from 1 Corinthians 6:9-10: “Neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor male prostitutes, nor homosexual offenders, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor slanderers, nor swindlers, will inherit the kingdom of God. I ask you, friends. Could God have been any clearer? There is no eternal life for those who are deviant. Now, those naysayers, they’ll tell you that the problem is the translation of the Bible. That the word homosexual doesn’t really mean ‘homosexual’ in this passage; that it’s Greek for ‘effeminate call boy.’ They will tell you it wasn’t until 1958 that some random translator made the arbitrary decision to even type the word homosexual into the English-language Bible.

“Well, I tell you that decision wasn’t arbitrary at all. These passages describe a society that has lost the ability to tell right from wrong. And in fact, time after time, when homosexuality is mentioned in the Scriptures, it is condemned.”

Liddy slips into the pew beside me. She gets the Sunday School classes started with their teachers and then comes up for Pastor Clive’s sermon. I can feel the heat of her skin, inches away from my arm.

“Tomorrow, when Max’s ex-wife stands up in court before God and says her lifestyle is normal and healthy and loving, I will tell her that Hebrews 11:25 says the pleasures of sin do indeed last for a short time. But as Galatians also says, one who sows to please his sinful nature from that nature will reap destruction. Tomorrow, when Max’s ex-wife stands up in court before God and says homosexuality is widespread, I will tell her that may be so, but it doesn’t make it right in the eyes of God. I would rather be in the minority and be right, than in the majority and wrong.”

There is a murmur of agreement from the congregation.

“Tomorrow, when Max’s ex-wife stands up in court before God and says that she was born a lesbian, I will say that not a single scientific study to date has proven this, and that she simply has a tendency toward that lifestyle. After all, I like swimming… but that doesn’t make me a fish.”

Pastor Clive walks down the steps from the stage and into the aisle, stopping at my row. “Max,” he says, “come and join me up here.” Embarrassed, I don’t move at first, but then Liddy puts her hand on my arm. Go, she urges, and I do.

I follow Pastor Clive up to the stage as one of his assistants sets a chair in the center. “Max is more than just our brother. He is Jesus’s man on the front line, fighting so that God’s truth prevails. For this reason, I pray for him.”

“Amen,” someone calls out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s different this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is not just a custody case, Your Honor. This is a wake-up call to keep alive the cornerstone of our society-the traditional Christian family. Because research and basic common sense say that kids need both male and female role models and that the absence of this can have dire consequences, from academic struggles to poverty to high-risk behaviors. Because when traditional family values fall apart, the casualties tend to be children. Max Baxter, my client, knows that, Your Honor. And that’s why he is here today, to protect the three pre-born children conceived while he was married to the defendant, Zoe Baxter. All my client is asking the court to do today is to allow him to complete the original intent of these two parties-namely, to allow those children to be parented by a heterosexual, married couple. To let them thrive, Your Honor, in a traditional Christian family.”

Wade points a finger, bulleting that phrase as he repeats it. “A traditional family. That’s what Max and Zoe envisioned, when they took advantage of the science that is available to create these blessings, these pre-born children. Now, unfortunately, Max and Zoe’s marriage is no longer intact. And Max is not at a point in his life where he has remarried. But Max recognizes that he owes his pre-born children a debt, and so he is making a decision in the best interests of the children, instead of the best interests of himself. He’s identified his brother, Reid-a fine, upstanding man you will hear from-and his wife, Liddy-a paragon of Christian virtue in this community-as future parents for his pre-born children.”

“Amen,” someone says behind me.

“Your Honor, you’ve made it clear to the parties and counsel in this matter that this is the final case you will be handling after your long and distinguished career on the bench. It’s fit and proper that you be put in the position of protecting the traditional family here in Rhode Island-a state that was founded by Roger Williams, who fled to the colonies for religious freedom. Rhode Island, one of the last bastions in New England-a state holding true to Christian family values. But just to play devil’s advocate, let’s look at the alternative. Although Max has nothing against his ex-wife, Zoe is now living in sin with her lesbian lover-”

“Objection,” Angela Moretti says.

“Sit down, Counselor,” the judge replies. “You’ll have your chance.”

“These two women had to get married in the state of Massachusetts, because this one-their home state-does not legally recognize their same-sex union. Neither the government nor God sees their marriage as valid. Now, let’s imagine that these pre-born children wind up in that household, Your Honor. Imagine a young boy with two mommies, exposed to a homosexual lifestyle. What’s going to happen to him when he goes to school and is teased for having two mothers? What’s going to happen when, as studies show, he winds up gay himself because of the way he was raised? Judge, you grew up with a father. And you yourself have been a father. You know what these roles have meant to you. I beg you, on behalf of Max Baxter’s pre-born children, don’t let your decision today deny them the same opportunity.” He turns to the gallery. “Once we drive that final nail into the coffin of traditional family values,” Wade says, “we’ll never be able to resurrect them.”

He sits back down, and Angela Moretti stands up.

“If it looks like a family, talks like a family, acts like a family, and functions like a family,” she says, “then it’s a family. The relationship between my client, Zoe Baxter, and Vanessa Shaw is not housemates or roommates but life partners. Spouses. They love each other, they are committed to each other, and they function as a unit, not just as individuals. The last time I checked, that was a valid definition of a family.

“Mr. Preston would like to seduce you with talk of the demise of the traditional family. He raised the fact that Rhode Island is a state that was founded on religious freedom, and we could not agree more. We also know, however, that not every resident in the state of Rhode Island believes what Mr. Preston and his client do.” She turns to the gallery. “Moreover, Rhode Island does recognize the relationship between Zoe and Vanessa. For fifteen years, the state has offered limited legal rights to same-sex domestic partnerships. This very court routinely grants second-parent adoptions for gay and lesbian families. And, in fact, Rhode Island was one of the first states in the country to have a gender-neutral birth certificate that lists not mother and father but rather parent and parent.

“Unlike Mr. Preston, however, I don’t think this case is about general family values. I think it’s about one particular family.” She glances at Zoe. “The embryos in question today were created during the marriage of Zoe and her ex-husband, Max Baxter. These embryos are property that was not divided in the divorce settlement. There are two biological progenitors of these embryos-the plaintiff and the defendant, and they have equal rights to the embryos. The difference here, though, is that Max Baxter no longer wants to have a baby. He’s using biology as a trump card to gain an advantage, to take the embryos away from an intended parent and her legal spouse. If Your Honor rules in my client’s favor, we would make every effort to include the other biological progenitor of the embryos-Max-as part of this family. We believe there can’t be too many people to love a child. However, if Your Honor rules against my client, Zoe-the mother of these embryos-will be prevented from raising her biological children.”

She gestures at Zoe. “You’ll hear testimony, Your Honor, about medical complications that have left Zoe unable to gestate her own embryos. At this point in her life, she doesn’t have the time left in her reproductive cycle to go through additional in vitro procedures to harvest more eggs. Zoe, who so desperately wants to have a baby, is being robbed of that opportunity by her ex-husband-who doesn’t even want a child. He isn’t fighting for the right to be a parent. He’s fighting to make sure that Zoe isn’t one.”

Angela Moretti looks at the judge. “Mr. Baxter’s attorney has raised a lot of questions about God and what God wants and what God intends a family to be. But Max Baxter is not asking for God’s blessing here, to be a parent. He’s not asking God what the best situation for these embryos is.”

She faces me, and, in that moment, I can barely breathe. “Max Baxter is asking you to play God instead,” she says.

Being on the witness stand, Pastor Clive says, is like testifying at church. You just get up there and tell your story. It doesn’t matter if it’s humiliating or hard to relive. What’s important is that you’re a hundred percent honest, because that’s how people become convinced.

Pastor Clive is one of the witnesses out there waiting in whatever limbo they’ve been sent to, and I sorely wish that wasn’t the case. I could use his strength right now, just so that I have someone to focus on while I’m on the witness stand. As it is, I have to keep wiping my palms on my pants, because I’m sweating so much.

What calms me down, actually, is the sheriff coming at me with a Bible. At first I think he’s going to ask me to read a passage, and then of course I remember how every trial starts. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? I rest my hand on the worn leather cover. Immediately, my heart stops its jackhammering. You’re not alone up there, Pastor Clive had said, and sure enough, he’s right.

Wade and I have rehearsed my part a dozen times. I know the questions he’s going to ask, so I’m not worried about that. What’s getting me all tied up in knots is what happens when he’s done, when Angela Moretti has her turn to rip me apart.

“Max,” Wade begins, “why have you petitioned the court for custody of these pre-born children?”

“Objection,” Angela Moretti says. “It’s one thing to listen to him calling embryos ‘pre-born children’ during his opening statement, but are we going to have to listen to this through the entire trial?”

“Overruled,” the judge replies. “I don’t care about semantics, Ms. Moretti. You say tomayto, I say tomahto. Mr. Baxter, answer the question.”

I take a deep breath. “I want to make sure they have a wonderful life, with my brother, Reid, and his wife, Liddy.”

His wife, Liddy. The words burn my tongue.

“Why didn’t you negotiate custody in your divorce agreement?”

“We didn’t have lawyers; we did our own divorce settlement. I knew we were supposed to divide up the property, but these… these were children.”

“Under what circumstances were these pre-born children created?” Wade asks.

“When Zoe and I were married, we wanted to have kids. We wound up having in vitro fertilization five times.”

“Which of you two is infertile?”

“We both are,” I say.

“How was the in vitro done?”

As Wade walks me through our medical history, I feel a sad emptiness in my stomach. Could a marriage of nine years really come down to this: two miscarriages, one stillbirth? It is hard to imagine that all that’s left behind are some legal documents, and this trail of blood.

“How did you react to the stillbirth?” Wade says.

It sounds awful to say so, but when a baby dies, I think the mother has it easier. She can grieve on the outside; her loss is something everyone can actually see in the slope of her belly. For me, though, the loss was on the inside. It ate away at me. So that, for a long time, all I wanted to do was fill myself.

God knows I tried to, with alcohol.

My eyes are tearing up; this embarrasses me. I duck my head. “I may not have shown it the way Zoe did,” I say, “but it wrecked me. Completely. I knew I couldn’t go through that again even though she wanted to.” Looking up, I find Zoe staring right at me. “So I said I wanted a divorce.”

“What was your life like after that, Max?”

Just like that, my throat seems to turn into cotton, so that I feel like if I don’t have a drink I’ll die. I force myself to think of Liddy, the other night, sitting on the edge of my bed, praying over me. “I went through a bad time. I missed a lot of work opportunities. And I started drinking again. My brother took me into his home, but I kept digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole. And then one day, I crashed my truck into a tree and wound up in the hospital.”

“Did things change after that?”

“Yes,” I say, “I found Jesus.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Angela Moretti says. “We’re in court, not a revival meeting.”

“I’ll allow it,” Judge O’Neill replies.

“So you became religious,” Wade prompts.

I nod. “I started going to the Eternal Glory Church, and talking to the pastor-Clive Lincoln. He saved my life. I mean, I was a complete mess. I’d screwed up my home life; I was an alcoholic, and I didn’t know anything about religion. I thought at first that, if I went to church, everyone would be judging me. But I was completely blown away. These people didn’t care who I was-they saw who I could be. I started going to adult Bible study, and to potluck dinners, and to the fellowship hour after Sunday’s services. They all prayed for me-Reid and Liddy and Pastor Clive and everyone else in the congregation. They loved me unconditionally. And one day I sat down on the edge of my bed and asked Jesus to be the Savior of my soul and the Lord of my life. When He did, the seed of the Holy Spirit was planted in my heart.”

When I finish, I feel like there’s light coming out from inside me. I look over at Zoe, who is staring at me as if she’s never seen me before.

“Your Honor,” Angela Moretti says. “Apparently Mr. Preston didn’t get the memo about the separation of church and state…”

“My client has the right to testify about what changed his life,” Wade answers. “Religion is what led Mr. Baxter to file this lawsuit.”

“In this particular case, I have to agree,” Judge O’Neill says. “Mr. Baxter’s spiritual transformation is intrinsic to the matter at hand.”

“I can’t believe this,” Angela Moretti mutters. “Literally and figuratively.” She sits back down, arms folded.

“Just to clarify,” Wade asks me, “do you still drink alcohol?”

I think about the Bible I’ve sworn on. I think about Liddy, who so badly wants this baby. “Not a drop,” I lie.

“How long have you been divorced?”

“It’s been final for about three months, now.”

“After your divorce, when was the next time you thought about your pre-born children?”

“Objection! If he’s going to keep calling these embryos children, Your Honor, I’m going to keep objecting-”

“And I’m going to keep overruling,” Judge O’Neill says.

When Wade and I practiced the answer to this question, he suggested I say, Every day. But I am thinking of how I lied about drinking, and how I can feel Jesus just behind me, and how He knows when you aren’t being true to yourself or to Him. So when the judge looks at me for a response, I say, “Not until Zoe came to talk to me about them, a month ago.”

For a second, I think Wade Preston is going into cardiac arrest. Then his features smooth. “And what did she say?”

“She wanted to use them to have a baby with her… with Vanessa.”

“How did you react?”

“I was shocked. Especially at the thought of my baby growing up in a house full of sin-”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

“Sustained,” the judge says.

Wade doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “What did you tell her?”

“That I needed time to think about it.”

“And what conclusion did you reach?”

“That it wasn’t right. God doesn’t want two women to raise a baby. My baby. Every child is supposed to have a mother and a father; that’s the natural order of things, according to the Bible.” I think about those animal cutouts Liddy and I made for the Sunday School kids. “I mean, you don’t see the animals going on the ark in girl-girl pairs.”

“Objection,” Angela Moretti says. “Relevance?”

“Sustained.”

“Max,” Wade asks, “when did you find out your ex-wife had embraced a lesbian lifestyle?”

I glance at Zoe. It is hard for me to imagine her touching Vanessa. It makes me feel like this new life of hers is a sham, or else ours was, and I just can’t let myself go there. “After we split up.”

“How did it make you feel?”

As if I had swallowed tar. As if I had opened my eyes and the world was suddenly only black and white, and no matter how I rubbed my eyes I could not bring the color back. “Like there was something wrong with me,” I say tightly. “Like I wasn’t good enough for her.”

“Did your opinion of Zoe change after you learned that she is living in a homosexual lifestyle?”

“Well, I prayed for her, because it’s a sin.”

“Do you see yourself as anti-gay, Max?” Wade asks.

“No,” I reply. “Never. I’m not doing this to hurt Zoe. I loved her, and I can’t erase the nine years we were married. I wouldn’t want to. I just need to look out for my children.”

“If this court sees fit to give you back your pre-born children, what’s your intention?”

“They deserve the best parents any kid could have. But I’m smart enough to realize that means someone other than me. That’s why I would want my brother, Reid, to have them. He and Liddy-they’ve taken care of me, they’ve loved me, they’ve believed in me. I’ve changed so much, for the better, because of them. I know I’d be part of the babies’ extended family, and that they would be raised in a Christian, two-parent household. They’d go to Sunday School and to church, and they’d grow up loving God.” I glance up, just like Wade told me to, and I say what we’ve practiced. “Pastor Clive told me that God doesn’t make mistakes, that everything happens for a reason. For a long time, I believed my life was a mistake. That I was a mistake. But now I know I’m not. This was God’s plan all along-to bring me together with Reid and Liddy at the same time my pre-born children needed a home and a family.” I nod, convincing myself. “This is what I was put on this earth to do.”

“Nothing further,” Wade says, and, with an encouraging nod at me, he sits down.

When Angela Moretti starts walking forward, I realize what she reminds me of: some kind of jungle cat. A panther, I guess, with all that black hair. “Mr. Baxter, through the four years of your marriage when you tried naturally to conceive, and the five years of fertility treatments-did you believe Zoe would make a good mother?”

“Of course.”

“What is it today that makes her any less fit to raise a child?”

“She’s living a lifestyle that I think is wrong,” I say.

“It’s different from yours, granted,” the lawyer corrects. “Is the fact that she’s a lesbian the only detriment you see to Zoe being a parent?”

“It’s a pretty big deal. God explains in the Bible that-”

“This is a yes or no question, Mr. Baxter. Is that the only negative thing you have to say about Zoe’s ability to be a good mother?”

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Baxter, that you still have sperm with which to create more embryos?”

“I don’t know. I have male pattern infertility-which means, if I do, it won’t be easy.”

“Yet you don’t want these embryos. You want to give them away.”

“I want these children to have the best life possible,” I say. “And I know that means having a mother and a father.”

“In fact you were raised by a mother and a father, isn’t that right, Mr. Baxter?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you still ended up a drunk, divorced loser living in your brother’s guest room.”

I can’t help it, I come halfway out of my witness chair.

“Objection!” Wade says. “Prejudicial!”

“Withdrawn. If this court gives your brother and sister-in-law the embryos,” Angela Moretti asks, “where do you fit in?”

“I… I’m going to be an uncle.”

“Ah. How are you going to be the uncle if you’re the biological father?”

“It’s like an adoption,” I say, flustered. “I mean, it is an adoption. Reid becomes the father and I’m the uncle.”

“So you’re going to give up your parental rights to these children at birth?”

Ben Benjamin said that, no matter what you sign, at any point, grown children might come find you. Confused, I look at him, sitting at our table. “I thought you said I couldn’t ever really do that?”

“You want these embryos to go to a traditional Christian family?” the lawyer says.

“Yes.”

“But instead you’re suggesting that the court give them to a biological father who is called the uncle and is living in the basement of the home of the parents who are raising him. Does that sound like a traditional Christian family, Mr. Baxter?”

“No! I mean, yes…”

“Which is it?”

Her words are like bullets. I wish she’d talk more slowly. I wish she’d give me time to think. “It’s… it’s a family-”

“When you created these embryos with Zoe, you intended at the time to raise these children with her, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Yet Zoe is still ready, willing, and able to take these embryos and raise them as her children. On the other hand, you left.”

“I didn’t leave-”

“Did she file for divorce, or did you?”

“I did. But I left my marriage, not my children-”

“No, those you’re just giving away,” Angela says. “You also testified that between the time when you got divorced and when Zoe came to talk to you about using the embryos, you hadn’t thought about them?”

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“But that’s what you said. What else have you said that you don’t really mean, Mr. Baxter?” She takes a step toward me. “That you’re fine with giving these embryos to your brother and taking a backseat in their upbringing? That you’re a completely changed man? That you aren’t instigating this entire lawsuit as a means of getting revenge on your ex-wife, whose new relationship makes you feel like less of a man?”

“Objection!” Wade roars, but by that time I am standing, shaking, my face red and a hundred angry answers caught behind my teeth.

“That’s all, Mr. Baxter,” Angela Moretti says, with a smile. “That’s plenty.”

Wade calls for a recess, to let me get control of myself again. As I leave the courtroom, the members of the Westboro church applaud. It makes me feel a little dirty. It’s one thing to love Jesus with all your heart; it’s another to protest outside temples because you believe Jews killed our Savior. “Can you get rid of them?” I whisper to Wade.

“Not a chance,” he murmurs back. “They’re fantastic press. You’ve gotten through the hardest part, Max. Seriously, you know why that lawyer had to get you all riled up? Because she didn’t have anything else to work with. Not the law of this land, and certainly not the law of God.”

He leads me into a tiny room that has a table, two chairs, a coffee-maker, and a microwave. Wade walks over to the microwave and bends down until his face is level with the glossy black door. He smiles so that he can see his teeth, uses his thumb to pick something out from between two of them, and then grins again. “If you think that cross-examination was ruthless, you just sit back and enjoy what I’m planning to do to Zoe.”

I’m not sure why this makes me feel worse.

“Can you do me a favor?” I ask. “Can you get Pastor Clive for me?”

Wade hesitates. “As long as you’re talking to him as your spiritual counselor, and not as a sequestered witness…”

I nod. The last thing I want to do right now is rehash that last hour in court.

Wade leaves, taking all the air with him. I sink into a plastic chair and put my head down between my knees, sure that I’m going to pass out. A few minutes later, the door opens again and I see Pastor Clive’s white linen suit. He drags a chair beside mine. “Let’s pray,” he says, and he bows his head.

His words run over me, catching on all the rough patches and wearing them down. Prayer is like water-something you can’t imagine has the strength or power to do any good, and yet give it time and it can change the lay of the land. “Max, you look like you’re struggling,” he says.

“I just…” Looking away, I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just give them to Zoe.”

“What’s making you doubt yourself?” Pastor Clive asks.

“What her lawyer said. That I’m really the father, but I have to be like an uncle. If I’m confused already, how is a kid going to be able to sort it all out?”

He clasps his hands, nodding. “You know, actually, I remember a situation very similar to this one. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A biological dad, whose child was raised by another couple. They were handpicked by this man-just like what you’re doing-because the father wanted to do what was best for his child. Yet he still managed to have a say in his child’s upbringing.”

“Did you know them?”

“Very well,” Pastor Clive says, smiling. “And so do you. God gave Jesus to Mary to bear, and Joseph to raise. He knew it had to be done. And Jesus-well, clearly, he was able to sort it all out.”

But I am not God. I’m just someone who’s screwed up time and time again, who is trying hard not to make another mistake.

“It’s all going to work out, Max,” Pastor Clive promises.

I do what I always do when I’m around him. I believe what he tells me.

When Reid enters the courtroom, I have to admit, my doubts start to fade. He’s dressed in one of his fancy Savile Row suits, with hand-sewn Italian loafers. His black hair is trimmed precisely; I know for a fact that he had a real barber do his shave early this morning. He is the sort of man who draws attention when he enters a room, not just because he’s good-looking but because he is so sure of himself. As he passes by me to take the witness stand, I smell aftershave and something else. Not cologne-Reid doesn’t wear any. It’s the scent of money.

“Can you state your name for the record?” Wade asks.

“Reid Baxter.”

“And where do you live, Mr. Baxter?”

“Newport. One-forty Ocean Drive.”

“What is your relationship to the plaintiff, Max Baxter?”

Reid smiles. “I’m his big brother.”

“Are you married, Mr. Baxter?”

“To my lovely bride of eleven years, Liddy.”

“Got any children?” Wade asks.

“God hasn’t blessed us with children,” he says. “Though-I confess-it’s not for want of trying.”

“Tell me a little about your home,” Wade asks.

“It’s a forty-five-hundred-square-foot house on the ocean. There are four bedrooms, three and a half baths. We’ve got a basketball hoop and a huge yard. The only things missing are kids.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a portfolio manager with Monroe, Flatt & Cohen,” Reid says. “I’ve worked for them for seventeen years, and I’m a senior partner. I manage, invest, and reinvest other people’s money in order to preserve and increase their wealth.”

“What’s your net worth, Mr. Baxter?”

Reid looks modestly into his lap. “A bit over four million dollars.”

Holy shit.

I knew my brother was well off, but four million dollars?

At the very best, the most I could offer a kid was a partnership in a crappy landscaping business and all my knowledge about how to grow roses in a difficult climate. Not exactly a trust fund.

“Does your wife, Liddy, work, too?” Wade asks.

“She does volunteer work in various organizations. She’s the Sunday School coordinator for our church; she serves meals at a local homeless shelter; she’s involved with the Newport Hospital Women’s League. She’s on the board of the Preservation Society as well. But it’s always been our plan for her to be a stay-at-home mom, so that she could be the one raising our children.”

“Do you consider yourself a religious man?” Wade asks.

“I do,” Reid says.

“What church do you attend, Mr. Baxter?”

“The Eternal Glory Church. I’ve been a member for fifteen years.”

“Do you hold any offices or positions within the church’s hierarchy?”

“I’m the treasurer,” Reid replies.

“Do you and your wife attend church on a regular basis?”

He nods. “Every Sunday.”

“Do you consider yourself a born-again Christian?”

“If you mean, have I accepted Jesus as my personal savior, then yes,” Reid says.

“I’d like to direct your attention to the plaintiff in this case, Max Baxter.” Wade gestures at me. “How would you describe your relationship with him?”

Reid thinks for a minute. “Blessed,” he says. “It is so incredible to have my little brother back in my life, and on a path that’s good for him.”

In my first memory, I am about three years old, and jealous of Reid’s secret club. It was located in his tree house, a special hideaway where he could escape with his school friends. I was too young to climb up into it, or so I was told repeatedly by my parents and by Reid, who didn’t want some pesky little brother tagging along. I used to dream at night about what the inside of that tree house looked like. I pictured psychedelic walls, stockpiles of candy, MAD magazines. One day, even though I knew I’d get in trouble, I climbed up into the tree house while Reid was still at school. To my surprise, it was just rough wood, with some spots where he and his buddies had drawn in crayon. There was a newspaper on the floor and a few busted caps from a cap gun.

I thought it was the most magical place I’d ever seen-but then again, that’s pretty much what anyone thinks about the things that are off-limits. So I hid, even though I heard my mom calling my name over and over. When Reid came home from school, like usual, he climbed up the ladder to the tree house before he even went into the house.

What are you doing here? he asked, just as my mother’s voice rang out, and a minute later, her head popped up through the little trapdoor.

How did Max get up here? she cried. He’s not big enough to climb that tree…

It’s okay, Reid said. I helped him.

I didn’t know why he was lying for me. I didn’t know why he wasn’t mad about me being in his tree house.

My mother bought it, although she said that she would come back to help me climb down because the last thing she needed was a trip to the emergency room. Then Reid looked at me. If you want to be part of the club, you have to play by the rules.

I make all the rules, he said.

I think my whole life, all I’ve wanted is to be part of whatever club my brother belongs to.

Wade is still questioning him when I focus my attention again. “How long have you known Zoe Baxter?”

“She sang at my wedding to Liddy. That was the first time we met, and she went on to date my brother.”

“How did you two get along?” Wade asks.

Reid smiles sheepishly. “Let’s just say we have different philosophies of life.”

“Did you see Zoe often during her marriage to your brother?” Wade continues.

“Not more than a couple of times each year.”

“Did you have knowledge of their fertility problems?”

“Yes,” Reid says. “In fact, at one point my brother even came to me for help.”

I feel my pulse start to race. I had not been present at Wade’s sessions with Reid, the ones where he instructed him on what to say in response to these questions. If I had, I’d have known what was about to come.

“We met for lunch,” Reid explains. “I knew that he and Zoe had done in vitro a couple of times, and Max told me that not only was it taking a huge emotional toll on them as a couple… but it was taking an enormous financial toll on them as well.” He looks up at me. “Max had told Zoe that he’d find a way to pay for a fifth cycle of IVF, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t remortgage his house, because he was a renter. He’d already sold off some of his business equipment. He needed ten thousand dollars to give the clinic, and he didn’t know where else to go.”

I do not look at her, but I can feel Zoe’s hot glare on my cheek. I never told her about this lunch. I never told her anything, except that I’d find a way for her to have that baby, no matter what.

“What did you do, Mr. Baxter?”

“What any brother would have done,” Reid says. “I wrote him a check.”

Angela Moretti asks for a recess. Mostly because I think she’s afraid that Zoe is about to come at me with her claws bared.

It wasn’t like I was trying to lie to her, or hide the fact that Reid gave us the money for that last fresh cycle we did at the clinic. But we were buried in debt; I couldn’t put another ten thousand on a credit card or find any other way to leverage the cost. I also couldn’t stand the thought of telling her we’d run out of money. What kind of loser would that have made me?

I just wanted to make her happy. I didn’t want her thinking about what we’d owe if and when we ever had that baby.

It’s not like Reid ever asked me for the money back, either. I think we both knew it wasn’t a loan, more like a donation. What he said to me, as he scrawled his name across the bottom of the check, was I know if the situation were reversed, Max, you’d do anything you could to help me.

When Zoe comes back to the courtroom, she doesn’t make eye contact with me. She stares straight ahead at a spot to the right of the judge, while her lawyer gets up to cross-examine Reid. “So you’re buying a baby,” Angela Moretti begins.

“No. That money was a gift.”

“But you did give your brother ten thousand dollars, which was used to create those embryos whose custody you’re now seeking, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a right to these embryos because you bought them, don’t you?” Angela presses.

“I have a moral responsibility to make sure they’re raised properly,” he says.

“That’s not what I asked. You believe you have a right to these embryos because you bought them, isn’t that correct, Mr. Baxter?”

In all the time we have been talking about Reid and Liddy having these babies, Reid has never brought up that check he wrote me. He’s never said anything to make me feel like I owe him now because of what he did for me then.

Reid looks down, carefully working through his words before he speaks them. “If it weren’t for me,” he says finally, “these children wouldn’t even exist.”

When the judge decides he’s had enough for one day, I jump up before Wade can stop me and I run out of the courtroom. I have to shove past a group of Westboro folks, who call out that they are on my side.

When did this become a war?

As soon as I burst out of the courthouse, a mob of reporters surges forward. When I hear Wade’s voice at my back, my knees nearly buckle with relief. “My client has no comment,” he says, and he puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me through the walkway toward the parking lot. “Don’t you ever do that again to me,” he hisses in my ear. “You go nowhere until I tell you you can go. I am not going to let you fuck this up, Max.”

I stop walking and stretch to my full six feet. I jab a finger in his fancy-ass tailored shirt. “You,” I say, “work for me.”

But this isn’t one hundred percent true, either. Because Reid paid for Wade, too.

This makes me want to smash my fist into something, anything. Wade’s face is tempting, but instead, I flatten my hand against his chest and give him a shove, enough to make him stumble. I head to my truck and I don’t look back.

I think I know where I’m going even before I get there. There is a spot in Newport near Ruggles Avenue where there are some rocks, and on days when the surf is firing, it’s got the most incredible break I’ve ever seen.

It’s also a place where you might get totally pounded.

My shortboard is in the back of my truck. I strip down to my underwear and get into the wet suit that I always keep in the backseat, just in case. Then I work my way down through the rocks and into the water, careful to keep from getting axed on the inside.

There aren’t any groms bobbing in the water-it’s just me, and the most beautiful curls I’ve ever seen.

I don’t know why the problems I have on land look different in the ocean. Maybe it’s the way I’m so much smaller than what’s around me. Maybe it’s knowing that, even if I get trashed, I can paddle out and do it all over again.

If you haven’t surfed, you can’t understand the pull of the sport. No matter what Pastor Clive does or says, it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to God. It’s the strangest combination of absolute serenity and mad exhilaration. There you are, in the lineup waiting until you see a wave take off. You pump your arms, paddling like crazy, until like magic the foam becomes a wing underneath you and the wave takes over. And you’re flying. You’re flying, and then, just when you think your heart is going to burst outside your skin, it’s over.

A swell rises underneath my board, and I turn to see a tube forming behind me. I pull myself upright and sneak into the shoulder end, riding the barrel as the wave shuts down around me, and then I am falling, tumbling, underwater, not sure which way is up.

I break the surface, my lungs on fire, my hair matted down, and my ears throbbing from the cold. This, I understand. This, I am good at.

Very intentionally, I stay out after sunset. I wrap myself in a blanket and sit on the edge of the rocks and watch the moon take a few turns riding the waves. My head is pounding and my shoulder aches from a nasty fall and I’ve swallowed about a gallon of salt water. I cannot even begin to describe how thirsty I am, how much I’d kill for a beer. But I also know, if I get into my truck, I’ll head right to a bar and have that beer, so instead I wait until it’s past last call at most places, and then allow myself to drive back home.

All the lights are off at Reid’s house, which makes sense, since it’s nearly three in the morning by the time I pull into the driveway. I turn the key in the lock and leave my shoes on the porch so that I won’t disturb anyone while I’m creeping inside.

I sneak into the kitchen to get a glass of water, and see her sitting at the kitchen table like a ghost. Liddy’s white cotton nightgown swirls around her ankles like sea foam as she stands up to face me. “Thank God,” she says. “Where have you been?”

“I went surfing. I needed to clear my head.”

“I tried to call you. I was worried.”

I saw her messages on my cell. I deleted them, without listening. I had to, although I can’t explain why.

“I haven’t been drinking, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say.

“I wasn’t. I was just… I wanted to call the hospital, but Reid said you were a big boy and could take care of yourself.”

I see the phone book, open on the table, and feel a pang of remorse. “I didn’t mean to keep you up. You have a big day tomorrow.”

“Can’t sleep anyway. Reid took some Ambien, and he’s snoring to beat the band.”

Liddy sits down on the floor, her back aligned against the wall. When she pats the spot beside her, I sit, too. For a minute we are quiet, listening to the house settle around us. “Remember The Time Machine?”

“Sure.” It was a movie we saw a few years back, a particularly cheesy one, that was about a time traveler who gets lost in space and stuck 800,000 years in the future.

“Would you want to see the future, even if you knew you couldn’t change it?” she asks.

I consider this. “I don’t know. I think it might hurt too much.”

When she leans her head against my shoulder, I swear I stop breathing. “I used to read these mystery books when I was a little girl, where you could choose a different path at the end of every chapter. And depending on what you picked, the outcome changed.”

I can smell her soap-mango and mint-and the shampoo she uses, which sometimes I steal out of her bathroom and use myself.

“I used to skip to the back of the book and read all the endings and pick the one I liked the best… and then I’d try to figure it out backward.” She laughs a little. “It never worked. I could never make things happen the way I wanted.”

The first time Liddy saw snow, the time I was with her to witness it, she held out her hand to catch a snowflake on her palm. Look at the pattern, she said, and she held it out to me so I could see. By then, though, it was already gone.

“Reid told me what he said today in court.”

I look down at the floor. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.

“I know that Reid can be-well, a bully sometimes. I know he acts like he owns the whole wide world. I know it better than anyone else, except maybe you. I also know that you’re wondering why you’re doing this, Max.” Liddy comes up on her knees and leans closer, so that her hair falls forward. She puts her hand on my cheek. Then, slowly, she kisses me. “You’re doing it for me,” she whispers.

I am waiting to wake up from this hellish, wonderful dream; certain that at any minute I will find a doctor peering over me and telling me that last wipeout left me with a massive concussion. I grab Liddy’s wrist before she can pull it away from my face. Her skin is warm, buttery.

I kiss her back. God, yes, I kiss her back. I cradle her face in my hands and I try to pour into her everything I’ve never been allowed to say. I wait for her to pull away, to slap me, but in this alternate world there is enough room for both of us. I grab the hem of her nightgown and inch it up, so that her legs can wrap around mine; I yank my shirt over my head so that she can kiss the salt from my shoulder blades. I lay her down. I love her.

Afterward, when reality settles in and I can feel the hard tile under my hip and the heaviness of her draped across me, I find myself in a total fucking panic.

All my life, I’ve dreamed of being like my brother, and now I am.

Like Reid, I want something that doesn’t belong to me.

When I wake up on the kitchen floor, I am alone and wearing my boxers and Reid is standing over me. “Look at what the cat dragged in,” he says. “I told Liddy you had nine lives.” He’s dressed impeccably, and he’s holding a mug of coffee. “Better hop in the shower, or you’re going to be late for court.”

“Where is she?”

“Sick as a dog,” Reid says. “Running a fever, apparently. She wanted to stay home, but I told her she’s the next witness.”

I grab my clothes and hurry upstairs. I should get ready, like Reid said, but instead I knock on the closed door of Liddy and Reid’s bedroom. “Liddy?” I whisper. “Liddy, you okay?”

The door opens a crack. Liddy is wearing a bathrobe. She pulls it tight at the collar, as if I haven’t already seen everything underneath anyway. Her cheeks are flushed. “I can’t talk to you.”

I wedge my foot in the door so she can’t close it on me. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Last night, you were-”

“A sinner,” Liddy interrupts, her eyes filling with tears. “Last night I was married. I’m still married, Max. And I want a baby.”

“We can figure it out. We can tell the court-”

“Tell the court what? That the baby should go to the couple with the wife who’s cheating on her husband? The wife that loves her husband’s brother? That’s not quite anyone’s definition of a traditional family, Max.”

But I barely hear the last sentence. “You love me?”

She ducks her head. “The guy I fell for was willing to give the most important thing ever-his child-to me for safekeeping. The guy I fell for loves God, like me. The guy I fell for would never think of hurting his brother. Last night didn’t happen, Max. Because if it did-then you’re not that guy anymore.”

She closes the door, but I just stand there, unable to move. Reid’s footsteps echo down the hallway as he approaches. When he sees me in front of his bedroom door, he frowns and looks at his watch. “You aren’t ready yet?”

I swallow. “No,” I tell him. “I guess not.”

On the witness stand, Liddy can’t stop shaking. She tucks her hands underneath her legs, but even then, I can see shudders going through her. “I always talked about being a mother,” she says. “In high school, my girlfriends and I would make up names for the babies we’d have. I had it all planned out even before I got married.”

When she says the word married, her voice breaks.

“I have the perfect life. Reid and I have this beautiful home, and he makes a good living as a portfolio manager. And according to the Bible, the point of marriage is to have children.”

“Have you and your husband tried to conceive?” Wade asks.

“Yes. For years.” She looks down at her lap. “We were just going to look into Snowflakes Adoption. But then Max… Max came to us with another idea.”

“Do you have a strong relationship with your brother-in-law?”

Liddy’s face drains of color. “Yes.”

“How did you react when he told you he wanted to give his pre-born children to you and your husband?”

“I thought that God had answered my prayers.”

“Did you ask him why he didn’t want to raise the children himself? Maybe at a later date?”

“Reid did,” she admits. “Max told us that he didn’t think he’d be good at it. He had made too many mistakes. He wanted his children to grow up with a mother and a father who… who loved each other.”

“Have you had much interaction with children?”

For the first time since she’s gotten into that chair, she brightens. “I run the Sunday School program at our church. And I organize a youth ministry camp during the summers. I love kids.”

“If the court saw fit to give you these pre-born children,” Wade asks, “how would you raise them?”

“To be good Christians,” Liddy says. “To do the right thing.” As soon as she says it, her face crumples. “I’m sorry,” she sobs.

Across from me, Zoe shifts. Today she is dressed in black, like she’s in mourning. She stares at Liddy as if she’s the Antichrist.

Wade pulls a crimson silk handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket and hands it to Liddy to wipe her eyes. “Your witness,” he says, and he turns to Zoe’s lawyer.

Angela Moretti stands and tugs on the hem of her suit jacket to straighten it. “What can you give these embryos that their biological mother can’t?”

“Opportunities,” Liddy says. “A stable Christian home.”

“So you think that money is all it takes to raise children?”

“Of course not. They would live in a loving household.”

“When was the last time you spent a few hours with Zoe and Vanessa?”

“I… I haven’t…”

“So you don’t really know what kind of love their household is filled with, do you?”

“I know it’s immoral,” Liddy says.

“So it’s Zoe’s sexual orientation that makes her an unfit mother? Is that your testimony?”

Liddy hesitates. “I didn’t say that. I just think that Reid and I-we’re the better option for these children.”

“What kind of contraception do you use?” Angela asks.

Liddy blushes. “I don’t use any.”

I have a sudden flash of last night, her head turned so that her throat was exposed, her back arched beneath me. “How often do you and your husband have sex?”

“Objection!”

“I’ll allow it,” the judge says. Dirty old man.

“Answer the question, Mrs. Baxter.”

“Thursdays,” Liddy says.

Thursdays? Once a week? Like clockwork? If Liddy were my wife, I’d be in the shower with her every morning. I’d grab her when she walked by me at the dinner table and pull her onto my lap-

“Do you time intercourse so that you might be able to get pregnant?”

“Yes-”

“Have you ever been pregnant?”

“Yes… several times… but I’ve miscarried.”

“Do you even know if you can carry a baby to term?”

“Does anyone?” Liddy asks.

Atta girl.

“You realize that if you get these embryos and they’re transferred to you, you may still not have a live birth.”

“Or,” Liddy points out, “I could have triplets.”

“You said that, in the Bible, the point of marriage is to have children?”

“Yes.”

“So if God wanted you to have children, wouldn’t you have had them already?”

“I… I think He has a different plan for us,” Liddy says.

The lawyer nods. “Of course. God wants you to become a substitute mother by depriving a biological mother of the same right.”

“Objection!” Wade says.

“Let me rephrase,” Angela says. “Do you agree that what you want most in the world is to have and raise a child?”

Liddy’s eyes, which have been trained so carefully on Angela Moretti, slide toward me. My mouth feels like it’s full of broken glass. “Yes,” she says.

“Do you agree that not being able to have a biological child is devastating? Heartbreaking?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, isn’t that exactly the fate to which you consign Zoe Baxter, if you take her embryos?”

Liddy turns toward Zoe, her eyes full of tears. “I would raise these babies like they’re my own,” she whispers.

The words pull Zoe out of her seat. “They’re not yours,” she replies, quietly at first, and then more forcefully. “They’re mine!”

The judge bangs his gavel. “Ms. Moretti, control your client!”

“Leave her alone!” I cry, standing up. “Can’t you see she’s upset!”

For a moment, the whole world stops spinning. Zoe turns with a ghost of a smile on her lips-grateful because she thinks that my words are meant for her.

And then she realizes they’re not.

You cannot be married to a person for nearly a decade and not be able to read the Morse code of a relationship: Eyes that meet at a dinner party, telegraphing that it’s time to make up an excuse and go home. A silent apology when you reach for her hand under the covers. An I love you smile, tossed at her feet.

She knows. I can tell by the way she is looking at me that she understands what I’ve done. That she’s lost me, and potentially her embryos, to a woman she detests.

Then the freeze-frame releases and Zoe lunges toward the witness stand. A sheriff grabs her and forces her to her knees. Someone screams. “I will have order in this court, right now,” Judge O’Neill roars.

By now, Liddy is a blubbering mess. Wade grabs at my arm. “Shut up before you ruin everything.”

“Zoe,” Angela Moretti says, trying to push the sheriff off her client. “You need to calm down-”

“This court is in recess,” the judge shouts, and he storms off the bench.

Wade waits until Angela has dragged Zoe out of the courtroom, until the bulk of the gallery has filed into the hallway to gossip about what they’ve seen. “What the hell was that?” he accuses.

I don’t know what to say to him. I can barely understand it myself.

“It just happened,” I manage.

“Well, you better make sure it doesn’t happen again, if you feel like winning this trial. If your ex wants to stand up and look like a crazy nutcase, that’s fantastic for us. You think a judge is going to watch that and think she’d be a good parent? If she does it again, and I pray she will, you sit with your hands folded and you make yourself the picture of calm. You don’t stand up and defend her, for the love of God!”

I bend my head, so that he can’t see the relief flooding my face.

I have no idea where Wade found Genevieve Newkirk. A licensed clinical psychologist, she’s got a Ph.D. from UCLA and has published repeatedly on issues central to marriage, sexuality, and parenting. She’s been on radio and TV-local and national-and has been interviewed for web and print media. She’s consulted on over seventy-five legal cases and has testified in over forty of them. “Dr. Newkirk,” Wade begins, once he’s gotten her admitted as an expert witness, “in your work, have you had the opportunity to explore whether homosexuality is genetically inherited?”

“I have. Frankly, there have not been many studies done, so it’s very easy to review all the research.”

“Are you familiar with the Bailey-Pillard studies?” Wade asks.

“Yes.” Dr. Newkirk turns to the gallery. “In 1991 and 1993 J. M. Bailey and R. C. Pillard set out to study homosexuality in twins. They found that fifty-two percent of identical male twins of homosexual men were also homosexual, that twenty-two percent of fraternal twins of homosexual men were also homosexual, and that eleven percent of adoptive brothers of homosexual men were likewise homosexual. Among women they found that forty-eight percent of identical female twins of lesbians were also lesbian, sixteen percent of fraternal twins of lesbians were also lesbian, and six percent of adoptive sisters of lesbians were likewise lesbian.”

“What does that suggest?”

“Well, it’s complicated. Some would argue that the data suggest a biological component to being gay. However, twins who are raised together have the same sort of shaping influences. In order to have a valid study, twins who were raised apart would have to be assessed-and in identical twins who have been raised apart, there is a zero percent correlation; in other words, just because one twin is homosexual doesn’t mean the identical twin is homosexual. Moreover, if sexual orientation is genetic, how do you explain the other forty-eight percent of identical male twins and fifty-two percent of identical female twins who wind up not being gay?”

“Hang on,” Wade says. “You’re telling me that there are identical twins-twins who were born from the same exact genetic material-who grow up so that one’s homosexual, and the other’s not?”

“Nearly half,” Newkirk agrees. “This suggests strongly that homosexuality isn’t a genetic determination. It may very well be a genetic predis-position-but that’s not the same thing by a long shot. Many people are born with a genetic predisposition toward depression or substance abuse and yet don’t indulge in behaviors that bring them to the surface. Or in other words: the environment in which a child is raised has an enormous influence on whether or not he becomes homosexual.”

“Thank you, Doctor. What about Simon LeVay’s research?”

“Dr. LeVay was a neuroscientist at the Salk Institute, and he set out to find a physiological basis to homosexuality by studying the brains of forty-one people: nineteen homosexual men, sixteen heterosexual men, and six heterosexual women. He found that a little batch of neurons in the hypothalamus-a batch thought to control sexual behavior-is smaller in homosexual men than it is in heterosexual men. Moreover, he determined that it was approximately the size of a heterosexual woman’s hypothalamus-which had previously been shown to be half the size of a heterosexual man’s.”

“Does this show a biological basis for homosexuality?” Wade asks.

“No. First, the hypothalamic region demonstrates considerable range-in some homosexual men the region was the same size as a heterosexual man’s; in some heterosexuals the region was as small as a homosexual’s. Moreover, the control group was quite small, and the study hasn’t been repeated. Finally, we have to wonder whether the brain structure causes sexual orientation-or changes because of it. For example, a National Institutes of Health study showed that, for people who read Braille after becoming blind, the part of the brain that controls the reading finger actually expands.”

“What about Dean Hamer’s 1993 study?” Wade says. “Didn’t he find a ‘gay gene’?”

“Not exactly,” Dr. Newkirk replies. “He found that gay brothers shared a piece of the X chromosome-Xq28-more often than straight brothers did. But again, this study hasn’t been replicated.”

“So none of these esteemed scientists have been able to conclusively prove that a person is born gay?”

“No,” the psychologist says. “It’s certainly not like skin color, for example. You can’t do anything to change your skin color-Michael Jackson notwithstanding. But sexual orientation isn’t all nature. There’s a hefty dose of nurture tossed in as well.”

“That brings me to your most recent article, ‘Beyond Love: Why Same-Sex Marriage Harms Children.’ Can you tell us what led you to write it?”

“There’s copious evidence that it is in a child’s best interest to be raised by two heterosexual parents,” Dr. Newkirk says. “Lesbian partners may indeed be wonderful mothers, but they simply cannot be fathers.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Dr. Newkirk nods. “There are four primary reasons why it’s critical for a child to be loved by both a mother and a father. First, the attachment a parent of each sex has to its child-though equally important-is significantly unique. A mother’s unconditional love and a father’s conditional love complement each other and influence the way a child grows up. A relationship with both sexes in a child’s formative years allows the child to interact with the world more easily in later years. Second, it’s a well-established fact of child development that there are different stages of growth psychologically. For example, although babies of both sexes at first respond better to the care of a mother, at a certain point, to hone his masculine identity, a boy must detach from his mother and identify with his father instead, to learn how to channel his aggression and control his emotions. The father relationship is important to the growing young lady, as well-it becomes a safe place to have her femininity validated. Without that father figure in her life, she is more likely to satiate a hunger for male attention in a way that makes her sexually adventurous in inappropriate ways.”

“And the third reason?” Wade prompts.

“Same-sex relationships have been documented to cause sexual confusion in children, and promiscuity. The message sent is that all choices are equally desirable, that it doesn’t matter who you marry. For this reason young people raised in same-sex-relationship households tend to be both sexually active and sexually indiscriminate.”

“You mean they’re more likely to form homosexual relationships themselves?”

“Exactly. Think of ancient Greece, for example. Homosexuality ran rampant-not because of a gay gene but because society condoned it. Condoning this kind of behavior only leads to a proliferation of the behavior.”

“And the final reason same-sex marriage is detrimental to children?”

“Because it paves the way for even more socially unacceptable relationships. Polyamorous couplings, for example. Can you imagine the emotional ramifications suffered by a child who has a single father but multiple mommies? With whom would that child bond? And if we extrapolate from this-imagine what happens when those marriages disintegrate and then there are remarriages-well, conceivably there could be children with two fathers and six mothers…” She shakes her head. “That’s not a family, Mr. Preston. That’s a commune.”

“Let me ask you, Dr. Newkirk, do your objections stem from an inability of a homosexual couple to provide love to a child?”

“Absolutely not. Certainly homosexual couples can create just as loving an environment as heterosexual couples. However, kids need more than love. They need the complementary experiences of having a male and a female parent for guidance, instruction, and psychological development.”

“Naysayers will ask what your evidence is,” Wade says.

Dr. Newkirk smiles. “Five thousand years or so of parenting, Mr. Preston. Putting children into a newfangled social experiment could be absolutely devastating to the next generation.” She looks over at Zoe. “I have nothing but compassion for homosexuals who want to raise a family. But I can’t allow my compassion for them to trounce the needs of innocent children.”

“As a result of all your research, Dr. Newkirk, do you have an expert opinion as to which home would be a more fit and proper placement for these pre-born children?”

“Yes, I do. I firmly believe that these children would be much better off in the home of Reid and Liddy Baxter.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Wade says, and he turns to Angela Moretti. “Your witness.”

“You say homosexuality isn’t genetic, right, Doctor?” Angela begins.

“There’s no evidence to support that.”

“You said the Bailey and Pillard study isn’t valid because not every identical twin who identified as gay had a gay twin, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you aware that, even though identical twins share many identical traits, there are certain biological factors that differ between them? Fingerprints, for example?”

“Well-”

“And, Doctor, you discounted the LeVay study because it hasn’t been confirmed yet with a similar study.”

“That’s right,” the psychologist says.

“Are you familiar with the research done on the eight percent of domestic rams who are solely interested in having sex with other rams?”

“No.”

“Well,” Angela Moretti says, “in fact researchers discovered in those rams a bunch of neurons in the hypothalamus that were smaller than they tended to be in heterosexual rams. In fact, the findings were very reminiscent of Simon LeVay’s study. Doctor, you also criticized Dean Hamer’s research because it hasn’t been replicated, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean that at some point the study might be replicated?”

“Naturally I can’t predict the future.”

“Are you aware of the Swedish study that identified the differences in the way the brains of straight men and gay men responded to male and female pheromones, which suggested a strong physiological component to homosexuality?”

“Yes, but-”

“Do you know that scientists in Vienna have identified a genetic switch for sexual orientation in fruit flies? And that, when they tampered with the switch, female fruit flies ignored males and instead tried to mate with other females by mimicking the mating rituals of male fruit flies?”

“I was not aware of that, no,” the psychologist admits.

“And did you know, Dr. Newkirk, that there’s currently a two-point-five-million-dollar study underwritten by the National Institutes of Health to do genetic screenings of a thousand pairs of gay brothers, in order to better understand the genetic component of homosexuality? You and I both know that government rarely muddies its hands in research regarding sexuality, Doctor. Wouldn’t this suggest that even an esteemed institution like the NIH is validating the biological basis for homosexuality?”

“Anyone can have a hypothesis, Ms. Moretti. Research, though, doesn’t always back it up.”

“Then how about Dr. William Reiner, at the University of Oklahoma,” Angela asks. “Are you aware that he’s studied hundreds of cases of children born with sexual differentiation disorders-such as a baby boy with an undeveloped penis or no penis at all? Typical protocol has involved surgery to castrate the infant, who is then raised as a girl. Did you know, Doctor, that not a single one grew up to be sexually attracted to males? That the majority of those gender-reassigned babies transitioned back to being males, because they were sexually attracted to women? I’d say that’s a very clear example of nurture not trumping nature, wouldn’t you?”

“Counselor,” the psychologist says, “I assume you are familiar with Darwin’s principle of natural selection?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know that it’s an established scientific belief that the primary goal for all species is to pass along the strongest genes to future generations. Since homosexuals produce only twenty percent of the offspring that heterosexuals do, wouldn’t this gay gene you’re suggesting have long been wiped out by natural selection?” She smiles. “You can’t play the biology card if you can’t justify that.”

The lawyer brushes off her comment. “I’m just a humble attorney, Dr. Newkirk. I wouldn’t presume to dabble in either science or pseudoscience. Now, one of your justifications for raising children in heterosexual unions is that not having both a mother and father is problematic, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So if one parent in a heterosexual couple dies, is it your position to advocate removing the child and putting him in the home of a different heterosexual couple?”

“That would be ludicrous. The optimal living situation for any child involves having both a mother and a father, but obviously that can’t always be the case. Tragedies happen.”

“Such as keeping an embryo from going to its biological mother?”

“Objection-”

The judge frowns. “Sustained.”

“I’ll withdraw,” Angela Moretti says.

“Actually, I’d like to answer,” Dr. Newkirk says. “I can point Ms. Moretti to numerous studies that prove a boy who grows up without a father is more likely to become a delinquent, and to end up incarcerated.”

“What about your claim that same-sex marriage opens the door for polygamy? In the years since gay marriage has been legal in Massachusetts, has anyone petitioned the legislature for a polygamist union?”

“I don’t follow the legislation in that state…”

“I’ll help you out. The answer’s no,” Angela says. “And no one’s asked to get married to a rock or a goat, either.” She begins to tick off points on her fingers. “Let me just sum up what I’m hearing from you, Dr. Newkirk. Homosexual parenting leads to all sorts of devastating developmental downfalls for the children involved. Homosexuality isn’t innate, it’s learned. If you have homosexual parents, you’re likely to experiment with homosexual relationships. If you grow up with heterosexual parents, you will grow up to be heterosexual.”

The psychologist nods. “That’s about right.”

“Then maybe you can explain something else to me,” Angela Moretti says. “How come most gay people have straight parents?” She turns around and walks back to her seat while the psychologist is still trying to find a response. “Nothing further.”

Angela Moretti really doesn’t want Pastor Clive to take the stand. “Your Honor,” she says, “if Mr. Lincoln is a character witness for Max Baxter, there’s no need to qualify him as an expert in his field. The study of Max Baxter is not an academic discipline.”

“Pastor Clive is a religious leader and scholar,” Wade argues. “He’s traveled all over this country preaching the word of God.”

“And you know the one place he can’t preach it? In a court of law,” Angela replies.

“I think I want to hear what he has to say,” Judge O’Neill says.

“Of course you do,” Angela mutters.

The judge scowls. “I beg your pardon, Counselor?”

She looks up. “I said I’m a Jew.”

“Well, I never would have made that assumption, given the fact that your last name comes straight from Federal Hill. But thanks for sharing,” he adds. “It puts some of your earlier objections in a much different light. Attorney Preston, you may call your witness.”

When Pastor Clive walks in from wherever he’s been sequestered, accompanied by a sheriff, the gallery reacts. The members of the Eternal Glory Church call out hallelujahs and amens; the Westboro Baptist group starts clapping. For his part, Pastor Clive ducks his head humbly and walks down the aisle.

He asks to be sworn in on his own Bible.

“Please state your name for the record,” Wade says.

“Clive Lincoln.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m the pastor of the Eternal Glory Evangelical Church of God.”

“Do you have a family, Pastor?”

“Yes,” Pastor Clive says. “I have a wonderful wife, and God’s seen fit to bless us with four beautiful daughters.”

Three of them I know-they’re fresh-scrubbed preteens who wear matching dresses and sing with Pastor Clive on Sundays. The other one sits in the back during services and doesn’t say a word. Rumor has it she hasn’t accepted Jesus as her Lord and Savior. I can’t imagine what a personal embarrassment that must be for someone like Pastor Clive.

I guess we all have our crosses to bear.

“Do you know the plaintiff in this matter?”

“I do. Max joined our congregation about six months ago.”

“Are you familiar with Reid and Liddy Baxter as well?” Wade asks.

“I’ve known Reid for fifteen years. He’s a business whiz, frankly-he’s managed the church’s finances for over a decade. We may have been the only nonprofit that made money during the recession.” Pastor Clive rolls his eyes upward. “Then again, we just might have had Someone looking out for us in the stock market.”

“How long have you been the pastor of this church?”

“Twenty-one glorious years.”

“Pastor, what does your church teach about homosexuality?”

“Objection,” Angela Moretti says. “I don’t see how this testimony furthers his understanding of the plaintiff’s character.”

“Overruled.”

“We believe in the word of God,” Pastor Clive says. “We interpret the Bible literally, and there are multiple passages that state marriage is meant to be between a man and a woman, for the purpose of procreation-and many others that directly condemn homosexuality.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“Objection!” Angela Moretti stands. “The Bible isn’t relevant in a court of law.”

“Oh, really?” Wade says. He gestures to the King James Bible the clerk keeps on his desk for swearing in.

Angela Moretti ignores him. “Your Honor, Mr. Lincoln’s interpretation of Bible verses is a direct melding of religion and justice-which violates the very principles of our legal system.”

“On the contrary, Your Honor, this is entirely relevant to the best interests of the pre-born children, and the sort of home in which they wind up.”

“I’ll allow the testimony,” Judge O’Neill says.

A man in the back of the gallery who’s wearing a shirt that says CLOSETS ARE FOR CLOTHES stands up. “Go fuck yourself, Judge!”

O’Neill glances up. “Motion denied,” he says drily. “Sheriff, please remove this man from my courtroom.” He turns toward Pastor Clive. “As I was saying, you may proceed. But I’ll limit you to choosing a single verse as an example. Ms. Moretti is right about one thing: this is a trial, not a Sunday School session.”

Pastor Clive calmly opens his Bible and reads aloud. “Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable. And if a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads. I know those are two verses, but they’re practically on the same page.”

“How would you and your congregation interpret those passages?” Wade asks.

“I don’t think it’s just me and my congregation,” Pastor Clive says. “It’s spelled out to anyone who reads it-homosexuality is an abomination. A sin.”

“For Pete’s sake,” Angela Moretti says, “I object. For the hundredth time.”

“I will give his testimony the weight it deserves, Counselor,” Judge O’Neill says.

Wade turns to Pastor Clive. “I’d like to direct your attention to the pre-born children at the root of this case,” he says. “When did you learn about them?”

“Max came to me for counseling, very upset after having a conversation with his ex-wife. Apparently, she is now living a life of sin-”

“Objection!”

“Please strike that from the record,” the judge says.

“Max’s ex-wife wanted to get custody of these pre-born children so that she could transfer them to her lesbian lover.”

“How did you advise Max?” Wade asks.

“I told him that this might be God’s way of trying to tell him something. We discussed what sort of family he wanted his children to grow up in-and he said a traditional, good Christian one. When I asked him if he knew anyone like that, he immediately mentioned his brother and sister-in-law.”

Liddy, I think and feel a pang in my chest.

What if I suggested we raise the babies together? We could tell Wade, and he could tell the judge, and then all of a sudden the biological father-me-would be added to the equation. Then I wouldn’t be giving the babies away; I’d be keeping them for myself.

Except that Wade’s made a whole case about me not being ready to be a father.

And Liddy.

Even if she was willing, I couldn’t take her away from everything she’s got. The money, the home, the security. How could I even come close to measuring up to Reid?

Reid, who’s never done anything but help me and who gets, in return, a brother who sleeps with his wife.

Yeah, I’m the perfect father. A real, upstanding role model.

“Reid and Liddy have been praying for children for years,” Pastor Clive says. “They’d recently considered adopting through the Snowflakes agency. When Max came to me, I thought that maybe God was offering us a different solution, one that would benefit everyone involved. That perhaps Liddy and Reid were the best parents for these particular pre-born children.”

“How did Max react?”

“He was cautiously optimistic.” Pastor Clive looks up. “We all were.”

“Thank you, Pastor,” Wade says, and he sits back down.

Angela Moretti starts talking before she even rises from her chair. “A solution that would benefit everyone involved,” she repeats. “Is that what you thought?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a benefit for Zoe, the biological mother of these embryos.”

“As much as I understand the need to cater to Ms. Baxter’s concerns, what a child needs is far more important,” Pastor Clive says.

“So you think that picking nonbiological parents for these embryos is a better choice than picking a parent who has a direct gametic relationship to them.”

“What I think matters far less than what God thinks.”

“Oh yeah?” Angela asks. “When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“Objection,” Wade says. “I won’t let her mock my witness.”

“Sustained… watch yourself, Counselor.”

“You said you’ve known Max for half a year, Pastor?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve never met Zoe Baxter-you’ve only just seen her in this courtroom, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“You have no information about them when they were a married couple?”

“No. They were not members of my church at the time.”

“I see,” Angela says. “But you do know Reid and Liddy Baxter quite well?”

“Yes.”

“You had no trouble coming into this court and saying that, in your opinion, they are the preferred custodial couple for these embryos.”

“Yes,” Pastor Clive says.

“You have a professional relationship with Reid Baxter, too, right?”

“He manages the church’s funds.”

“He’s also one of the biggest contributors to your church, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Reid’s always been very generous.”

“In fact, your church recommends tithing income for its members, doesn’t it?”

“Many churches do that…”

“Isn’t it true that you receive a grand total of about four hundred thousand dollars a year from your friend Reid Baxter annually?”

“That sounds about right.”

“And coincidentally, here you are today recommending that he be awarded custody of these embryos, correct?”

“Reid’s generosity to the church has nothing to do with my recommendation-”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Angela Moretti says. “When you spoke with Max about his ex-wife’s request to have custody of the embryos, you were the one who in fact suggested that he consider Reid and Liddy as potential parents, weren’t you?”

“I opened his mind to the possibility.”

“And you even went a step further, didn’t you-by finding him an attorney?”

Pastor Clive nods. “I would have done the same for any member of my congregation…”

“In fact, Pastor, you didn’t just find Max a lawyer. You found him the biggest hotshot attorney in the United States with a reputation for protecting the rights of the pre-born, right?”

“I can’t help it if Max’s predicament attracted the attention of someone so prestigious.”

“Mr. Lincoln, you stated that the purpose of marriage is to procreate?”

“Yes.”

“Does the Bible have anything to say about heterosexual couples who are unable to have children?”

“No.”

“What about heterosexual couples too old to have children?”

“No-”

“How about people who remain single? Does the Bible condemn them as unnatural?”

“No.”

“Even though, by your own logic, they are not procreating?”

“Plenty of other passages in the Bible condemn homosexuality,” Pastor Clive says.

“Ah, yes. That lovely bit you read from Leviticus. Are you aware, Mr. Lincoln, that Leviticus is a holiness code that was written over three thousand years ago?”

“Of course I am.”

“Do you know that holiness codes had a very specific purpose? That they weren’t commandments but prohibitions of behaviors that people of faith would find offensive at a certain time and place? Are you aware, Pastor, that in the case of Leviticus, the code was written for priests in Israel only, and meant to hold them more accountable than priests from other countries, like Greece?”

“It’s quite clear what’s right and wrong when you read that passage. And you may try to explain it away historically, but it’s still morally relevant today.”

“Really. Did you know that, in Leviticus, there were many other prohibitions listed? For example, there’s one against wild haircuts, did you know that?”

“Well-”

“And one against tattoos.” She smiles. “I’ve got one myself, but I’m not gonna tell you where.” The lawyer walks toward Pastor Clive. “Is that a silk tie against a cotton shirt? Did you know that there’s another prohibition against wearing garments made of mixed fabric?”

“I fail to see how-”

“And hey, there’s another one saying you shouldn’t eat pork or shellfish. You like shrimp scampi, Pastor?”

“This isn’t-”

“There’s another prohibition against getting your fortune told. And how about football? You like football, right? I mean, who doesn’t? Well, there’s a prohibition against playing with the skin of a pig. Wouldn’t you agree, Pastor, that many of those prohibitions are indeed historically outdated?”

“Objection,” Wade says. “Counsel is testifying!”

The judge tilts his head. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, Mr. Preston. Overruled.”

“The Bible is many things to many people, but it is not a sex manual, correct?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why on earth would you turn to it for recommendations about appropriate sexual activity?”

Pastor Clive faces the lawyer. “I look to the Bible for everything, Ms. Moretti. Even examples of sexual deviance.”

“What does it have to say about butt plugs?”

Wade rises. “Objection!”

“Really, Ms. Moretti?” the judge says, scowling.

“Should we assume then that there might be things not mentioned in the Bible that are still sexually deviant?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Pastor Clive says. “The Bible is just a general outline.”

“But the ones that are mentioned in the Bible as being sexually deviant-that, in your opinion, is God’s word? Completely and utterly inviolable?”

“That’s right.”

Angela Moretti picks a Bible off the defense table that has been littered with Post-it notes. “Are you familiar with Deuteronomy 22:20-21?” she asks. “Could you read this out loud to the court?”

Pastor Clive’s voice rings through the room. “If, however, the charge is true and no proof of the girl’s virginity can be found, she shall be brought to the door of her father’s house and there the men of her town shall stone her to death.”

“Thank you, Pastor. Can you explain the passage?”

He purses his lips. “It advocates stoning a woman who isn’t a virgin at the time of marriage.”

“Is that something you’d advise your flock to do?” Before he can answer, she asks him another question. “How about Mark 10:1-12? Those passages forbid divorce. Do you have any members of your congregation who are divorced? Oh, wait-of course you do. Max Baxter.”

“God forgives sinners,” Pastor Clive says. “He welcomes them back into His fold.”

Angela flips through her Bible again. “How about Mark 12:18-23? If a man dies childless, his widow is ordered by biblical law to have sex with each of his brothers in turn until she bears her deceased husband a male heir. Is that what you tell grieving widows?”

I hate myself for it, but I think of Liddy again.

“Objection!”

“Or Deuteronomy 25:11-12? If two men are fighting and the wife of one of them tries to rescue her husband by grabbing his enemy’s genitals, her hand should be cut off and no pity should be shown to her-”

Seriously? I had joined an adult Bible study at Reid’s suggestion, but we never read anything as juicy as that.

“Objection!” Wade smacks the table with his open hand.

The judge raises his voice. “Ms. Moretti, I will hold you in contempt if you-”

“Fine. I’ll withdraw that last one. But you must admit, Pastor, that not every decree in the Bible makes sense in this day and age.”

“Only because you’re taking the verses out of historical context-”

“Mr. Lincoln,” Angela Moretti says flatly. “You did first.”