And there he was in all his glory: Brian David Mitchell. Immanuel David Isaiah. The Holy Prophet of his God.
His eyes were almost closed and his head was tilted upward just a little bit. He was thin, his cheekbones sunken underneath his hollow eyes. He wore the same beard but it was fuller now and he had the same long hair. His hands were cuffed in front of him and another chain ran around his back, holding his arms to his sides. The chains around his ankles made it difficult for him to walk, so he waddled into the courtroom, the sound of his chains clinking through the quiet room. He wore a simple pale shirt and loose-fitting pants. He was completely surrounded by security guards but he seemed to ignore them. Walking into the courtroom, he kept on singing, an awkward and lonely sound. His guards escorted him to his seat at the table with his defense attorneys. The guards helped him to sit down, but with all of the chains around his hands and feet he seemed to fall into his chair.
And there he sat, his eyes closed, his head back, his voice filling the courtroom as he sang.
I didn’t take my eyes off of him. I wanted him to look at me. But he didn’t. He kept on singing, his eyes closed. But I knew that he knew that I was there.
I was anxious, mainly because I didn’t know what to expect. Not on any level. I was walking into the dark. What was he going to do? What was he going to say? How was he going to react when he finally looked at me?
I thought he might stand up and shake his fist, telling me to repent. I thought he might scream out that I was an unfaithful wife who had betrayed the Lord’s servant. I thought he might tell me that I had failed my earthly mission. I could imagine him doing any number of crazy things
But as I sat there, I realized I really didn’t care.
Nine years had passed since he had snuck into my room to kidnap me. My life had gone on. And I had been able to do what my mother had told me. Don’t you let him steal one more second of your life. Not one more second! You be happy. You move on.
He was a nightmare, but it was over. I had woken up and I was safe now. I’d never let him hurt me or steal another moment of my life away. Soon the trial would be over, then I’d never have to see him or hear his voice or think about him again. This chapter in my life would be closed forever. I would go on with my life. Mitchell would go back to jail. I would be happy while he’d be … what?
I didn’t care.
*
The trial was long. It seemed that some of the testimonies sounded more like personal résumés of lawyers trying to impress the audience than anything designed to prove guilt or innocence. Some of the testimony made me mad. Some made me happy. Some of it bored me almost to tears. But there were parts of the trial that, even now, I can remember word for word.
At one point David Backman, one of the prosecuting attorneys, was questioning a defense witness, Dr. Stephen Golding, who was testifying that Brian David Mitchell was incapable of knowing right from wrong. Backman had a pen in his hand and he was walking toward the podium to write down some notes when he must have realized that he didn’t need his notes to make his point. He threw the pen down and began:
“Dr. Golding, is Dr. Welner a psychiatrist?”
“Ah, yes, I think so.”
“Dr. Golding, is Dr. Gardner a psychiatrist?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Dr. Golding, are you a psychiatrist?”
“No, I’m not.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
At that moment, I knew Mitchell wasn’t going to get away with it. He wasn’t going to be able to convince the jury, or the world, that he was crazy. He wasn’t going to convince the jury, or the world, that he didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t a prophet. He hadn’t received any visions. He hadn’t talked to God. All he was was a dirty pedophile who liked living on the streets.
And though he never looked at me, or spoke to me, or acknowledged me in any way, there was one time when we did have a final communication between us.
One morning, when things were not going very well for the defendant, Brian David Mitchell suddenly stopped singing, fell down, and started shaking on the floor. He was moaning and frothing and acting as if he were going to die. His attorneys fell beside him, cradling him in their arms. “Immanuel! Immanuel!” one of them cried.
Oh, come on, I thought. This is ridiculous! All of us know this isn’t real.