On Earth, as it is in Heaven

Disaster didn’t stymie Louis Pasteur, Edison took years to see the light

I’m mad at my cohabitant. He thinks he’s perfect. I think he isn’t, and he irritates me. We’re on bad terms.

This post is a bit woo-woo. Woo-woo is ghosts, ghoulies, things that go bump in the night, spectres, spirits, the afterlife, guardian angels, souls, consciences, reincarnation and, of course, God. If you poo-poo woo-woo, then this post is not really for you-hoo. There will be less woo-woo another day here, when all talk of the intangible and unreal is dropped, when we can discuss the axis of evil and the devilish demons in Moscow, Gaza, Jerusalem, London, … did I leave anyone out? Then I’m with you in spirit, if not in fact. Hard, real, realpolitik spirit.

Robert Roberson III is autistic. That is what his counsel, Gretchen Sween, Esq., says, at least, and she is under a duty of honour not to lie about such things.

Robert Roberson III is on death row in Texas for murdering and sexually abusing his daughter, and Ms Sween, Esq., believes not only that neither of these convictions is true but that neither of the crimes for which the convictions were handed down in 2003 ever occurred. And, while she’s under a duty to challenge the state’s case against her client, she cannot in honour assert something that she knows to be false. So, she believes what she writes. And so do I. However, it is quite one thing to be executed for a crime that somebody else did. And it is really quite another to be executed for a crime that was never committed by anyone. The petition that Ms Sween has filed in the Supreme Court of the United States of America founding on the 14^th amendment to the US Constitution (the due process clause: it needed an amendment to get that in there?) has, however, been rejected for consideration by their honors, the Justices of the SCOTUS.

The casual observer of this pantomime that is being performed by the Justices for Dame Justice in my view does Justice no justice. And what that sentence endeavours to make patent is that you can say justice as often as you wish and still remain far removed from its heart, which is that which is right.

There is no right in politics. Politics is doing that which is politic, and that encompasses making compromises, felling decisions, creating systems and efficiencies, and collecting taxes to pay for it all. But, whilst the greatest happiness of the greatest number, as propounded by the 19^th-century philosopher and social commentator Jeremy Bentham, may oft be held high in the banner of many a politician, it is not often achieved, other than in the form of a majority that is less inclined to break those things about which they take the view that it has not been entirely proven they are broken already. They always get one more try.

Some musical accompaniment:

What disappoints people about politics is politicians who don’t do what people believe is right; of course, different people think differently about what is right. So, politics is the art of making everyone believe that what is done is right, is right for everyone and keeps everyone from battering seven bells out of each other. Hence: compromise.

What disappoints people about Justice is when prosecutors fail to get their man. Nothing irks like an unsolved murder. But murders that are solved, even if the wrong man gets convicted, are less concerning. Especially if the man who’s convicted is one of them. Them is rich billionaires, if you’re a street sweeper; and they’re drug addicts, if you’re a middle manager; and they’re gay, if you’re straight; they’re Arab if you’re Jewish; Jewish if you’re Arab; Azerbaijani if you’re Armenian; and they’re Ukrainian if you’re Russian. That’s them.

Least concerning of all, however, is where someone is convicted of a crime that never happened. Because prosecutors just don’t prosecute crimes that weren’t committed. No, they don’t. Even in Winston-Salem in the 17^th century, they didn’t. The crime was there for all to see, so it was committed, and someone needed to pay for it, and that was the accused. They elect prosecutors, provide them with a career ladder, and feign surprise that some manipulate their way to the top. My surprise is not feigned, for pot shots have been taken at me, myself, by career-motivated prosecutors.

Politicians always get one more try, but the falsely convicted don’t always get one more trial.

And we sometimes know that an accused is guilty by the way they act: cold, cold-blooded, no mercy, indiscriminate, wanton, profligate, devilish, demonic and, well, not polite. And that is how autistics are frequently perceived by normal people. Like you and me. More music.

So, when an unqualified, self-appointed sexual-abuse specialist declared that Robert Roberson III had sexually abused his daughter, Nikki, and Robert reacted the way an autist would react to being accused of that fact, everyone, including the jury, concluded that that’s what he had precisely done, despite the lack of any corroboration and the lack of qualification on the part of her who had pointed the finger of accusation. “No, I didn’t,” was taken as conclusive proof that Yes, I did.

In the intervening 20 years or so since Mr Roberson was put on death row, much question has been cast on the finding that he abused his daughter and murdered her. Texas even enacted a law to allow expired cases to be examined where the science on which convictions had been secured was proved to be junk science. Junk science (shaken baby syndrome) is what was used in Mr Roberson’s case. But SCOTUS is not interested in reviewing the due process with which Mr Roberson’s life was put in the balance.

Either they think junk science is good science. Or they think Mr Roberson is one of them (whoever they are). Or they think Justice is served when Justice is said to be served, even if Justice is not actually thereby served. Or they simply don’t think. That’s also possible.

I don’t want to belittle Mr Roberson’s situation. It is extremely precarious and parlous. But his own philosophy shines through with brilliance: “I hope and pray that God gives them the knowledge for the People to make a righteous decision. I know I didn’t do it. I’m not guilty. So I’m at peace with the Lord.”

And that’s where the woo-woo comes in.

I’m in the Netherlands, as anyone who read this blog post knows. I had the Netherlands in my diary already back in the early summer, for a reunion of people from my early professional days, next weekend. My professional choices have sometimes ended up in what might be labelled failure and the question for today is, on the woo-woo scale, how much of a failure is a failure?

Of course, I could brag and boast the truth: that I have a stockpile of millions, that financial worries in my life are nil, but, although both of these statements are true, that doesn’t mean I’m able to pay my way next weekend, and I said so to the organisers. They replied, “Come, and we’ll pay.” And, for that, I love them, because it is a litmus test and a necessity in one and the same: without that statement, I couldn’t go; with it, it proves to me that my presence there is valued more greatly than the expense to them of hosting me.

I’d arranged to stay with a friend in nearby Nijmegen, but he is delayed in India because his niece has suffered a stroke. She is doing well, but he will now not return to the Netherlands until after the reunion, so we will meet up another time. Both of us had our plans thrown into disarray by the health concerns of others, for whom we care and whom we love. And our mutual plans were then abandoned as we prioritised our cares for others. That is very important to me, because it constitutes the truth of why we are here. Not to reunify old friends, but to care for old friends. My old friends care for me, and I care for my old friends and it is that, not financial worries or museum visits, or whatever we will do in Arnhem, that is important. Because these are tokens of love, the most valued currency of our world.

However, despite the generosity of the reunion organisers, and even with the expediency of motoring from Tilburg to Arnhem, instead of from Nijmegen to Arnhem, my attendance nonetheless became aleatory with the illness of my friend and his hospitalisation. I advanced my trip to the Netherlands to take care of things at his home, pay hospital visits, buy flowers and cheer him up. It worked! He’s very much on the mend, will be home today.

Long bed-side chats got me introduced to the man in the next bed, Jeroen, and he was charming, as was his wife and his young, teenage son, who are concerned about their husband and father. As were the consultants and the nurses. As were the dog-walkers I needed to ask for directions. As was everyone. Everyone.

Why’s everyone so nice, when you’re away, and so rotten in your own home? I told my bed-ridden friend that I was fed up with my cohabitant. “You do know, he’s autistic?” he said.

I was stunned. “Autistic?”

“Not extremely, but he displays signs that are clear. If you’re able to see them.”

At home, a friendship was in the balance owing to perceptions not based on truth. It was all my fault. Because it didn’t occur to me to look for what was there to be seen. And, then, everything went wrong. I had no cash. My friend was hospitalised. Rajiv’s niece had a stroke. I couldn’t stay in Nijmegen. What a disaster. Yes, what a disaster?

And now, my friend will come home. Rajiv’s niece is on the mend. I’ll be in Arnhem at the weekend, expenses paid. And I understand my cohabitant.

Yet, Robert Roberson III is still on death row. Pray for him. On Earth, as it is in Heaven.