He slumped down in the hardwood chair and stared at his feet.

“Mr. Bathe, would you like to answer the question?”

“I’m sorry, what was the question?”

“Could the stenographer repeat the question for the defendant,” the judge said from his perch. The little old lady adjusted her glasses and grabbed the paper.

“That’s not necessary,” the prosecutor said as her six inch heels clicked across the marble floor of the courtroom. “I can ask again. Mr. Bathe, I asked you what the purpose was to the actions you took while you were in your position.”

“The purpose,” he repeated as he rubbed his wrinkled brow. “I wanted us to be noticed again.”

“Noticed,” she asked with a single eyebrow raised, “by who? Even before you committed the crimes you stand accused of you were a very famous man. A political activist, a CEO, a veteran soldier, a well respected politician, a powerful and wealthy man. Who, Mr. Bathe, could you have possibly been trying to get the attention of with your actions?”

“He himself,” he said. “God.”