Girls and boys, ranging in ages from thirteen to eighteen, all dressed in saffron robes, the girls’ foreheads daubed with paste, the boys’ heads shaved except for the topknot enabling Krishna to yank them up to heaven at the proper time, were gathered in a six-deep phalanx down the length of the corridor, hopping up and down, beating drums, ringing bells, and chanting “Hare Krishna” over and over, transforming the bleak, sterile surroundings into a gay and vivid bazaar. All under the amazed and watchful eyes of a cordon of helmeted, club-wielding police officers who had been summoned to maintain order.
Brice Mack was literally stunned by the sight and noise and wavered momentarily before plunging ahead into the mass of exotically scented bodies in a game attempt to reach the telephone at the other end of the corridor. It was important he reach Gupta Pradesh at the Waldorf and warn him to stay clear of the main elevators and to find his way into the building through the service entrance.
With the help of a policeman, who seemed to delight in roughly clearing a path for him through the dancing, swaying, happy mob, the attorney finally made it to the end of the hall where the telephones were situated. There he found the space in front of them occupied by an impeccably dressed and carnationed Judge Langley standing in the center of a barrage of lights, cameras, and questioning reporters, vainly attempting to add a brick or two to his own national image and reputation.
The reporters, however, seemed of a different mind, for instead of concentrating on the relevant issue of the moment, that of reincarnation, they peppered him with embarrassing questions concerning his Tammany days and his ascendancy in the O’Dwyer hierarchy, wanting particularly to know how he had managed to elude the tentacles of the Kefauver inquisition and, in general, prying and poking into the shadier corners of a past that the aged jurist would just as soon had lain dormant and forgotten.
Even as the carnation wilted under the extreme heat of the lights, so did Judge Langley’s disposition and temper erode under the onslaught of punishing questions, until at last his replies and rejoinders descended to a brash, monosyllabic level better suited to the gutter than to the august environs of a courthouse corridor.
Finally, with a display of temper, Langley pushed his way past his inquisitors, shouting, “Out of my way, goddamn you,” and, calling for a police escort, ordered him to clear a path through the mob of caterwauling children to his chambers.
The area cleared of paraphernalia, Brice Mack put through his call to the Waldorf and learned that the maharishi, in the company of Fred Hudson, had already left. Bullying his way through the Hare Krishnas to the elevators, the attorney hurried down to the main entrance to intercept his witness.
Tall, lean, acetic, garbed in the simple orange-colored robe of one who has thrust aside the world of material delights, the Holy Maharishi Gupta Pradesh allowed Brice Mack and his assistant, Fred Hudson, to usher him through the dark and tortuous basement of the Criminal Courts Building to the service elevators, which they found stacked high with overflowing trash bins and with scarcely enough room for the operator. Only by huddling together in a tight knot, with their faces pressed through the grillwork of the elevator gate, were the three men able to make the slow trip up to the seventh floor.
Booming, rhythmic cadences from within the courtroom informed them that the Children of Krishna were inside, awaiting the appearance of their master.
At the first sight of Gupta Pradesh, a deep, reverent hush fell over the courtroom as all eyes strained to absorb the form and countenance of the saintly man. The purity and intensity of their consciousness of him flooded the courtroom so strongly that even Brice Mack could tangibly experience the high level of awareness the children radiated.
With a smile both serene and loving, Pradesh raised his hand in greeting toward the Children of Lord Krishna and then proceeded to the defense table and Elliot Hoover, who had risen and was awaiting him with outstretched hand.
Judge Langley remained speechless, his face contorted with incredulity as he silently observed the genteel passage of salutations between witness, audience, and defendant.
With a taut rap of his gavel and seething voice, he addressed the defense attorney.
“Mr. Mack, you have kept the court waiting a full five minutes, and I don’t mind telling you we are fast losing our patience! When I say, ‘Court will convene at a certain time,’ I mean it, and I make a point of personally being in the courtroom at that time!”
“I apologize to the court for our tardiness, Your Honor,” Brice Mack said with a small bow of the head. “With your permission, I am ready to call my first witness.”
“All right, proceed.”
As Brice Mack slowly turned around to the defense table, he quickly scanned the room, momentarily dwelling on the look of assured indifference on Scott Velie’s face; noting that the reporters’ row directly behind the railing was packed solid with an assortment of familiar and unfamiliar faces, including one Catholic priest and several dark, turbaned gentlemen probably representing some foreign or religious press; and also noting with some surprise the absence of Janice Templeton, her husband being the sole occupant of the witnesses’ row.
Brice Mack cleared his throat and in a loud, clear voice trembling with chivalrous politeness declaimed, “It is my honor to call His Holiness Gupta Pradesh to the stand.”
The silence in the courtroom deepened as the maharishi, who was still standing alongside Elliot Hoover and the guard, who had also risen and was attending his prisoner with a watchful eye, inclined his head toward the bench and slowly advanced to the witness stand at Brice Mack’s direction.
The bailiff, Bible in hand, stood by the chair and waited patiently to administer the oath; however, upon seeing the book containing the revealed truth of the Christian faith, the old Hindu came to a sudden halt and, turning to Brice Mack, engaged him in a whispered conference.
After a few seconds of this, Judge Langley craned forward in annoyance and demanded, “What’s wrong now?”
“It’s the Bible, Your Honor,” the attorney explained. “The maharishi informs me that he cannot swear an oath on the Christian Testaments.”
“Well, does he possess his own Bible?”
“No, Your Honor, the Hindu faith subscribes to neither a founder nor a sacred book.”
Judge Langley turned to the bailiff.
“Administer the substitute oath.”
While the bailiff foraged through the back flap of the Bible for the correct slip of paper, Gupta Pradesh ceremoniously ascended the stand and turned to confront his audience. His long, curly hair encompassed a face of purest tranquillity. His eyes, which seemed to be gazing into eternity, brimmed over with warmth and compassion for all they beheld.
At last, the bailiff found the right passage.
“Do you solemnly affirm that the testimony you may give in the cause now pending before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, this you do under the pain and penalty of perjury?”
“To the extent that the power and the ability is given me to do so, I do solemnly affirm,” intoned the maharishi, for the very first time lifting his deep-chorded English-accented voice to the heights and depths of the immense chamber, filling it so entirely as to produce an overflow of reverberations at the conclusion of his statement.
It was a voice that thrilled, that sent shivers even up Bill’s spine, and that stimulated an immediate reaction in the Children of Lord Krishna, who rose from their seats as one and in perfect unison started to chant and hum and sway in an excess of joy.