2 Brooklyn James

by James, Brooklyn

  Gina quickly deviates her memory to something more stimulating, more ominous. Snapshots of Lon and Braydon lying on the floor of the bedroom in their suburban New Orleans estate flood her memory, blood encompassing their lifeless bodies. The sound of a twelve-gauge firing followed by Bou Bou’s whining rings in her ears. The images cause her jaw to clench, her grip on the steering wheel ever-tightening. She remembers her struggle. Her violated, battered body held fast to the bed beneath her, the vile sweat and stench of the man above. The spider web tattoo revealed on his neck. His menacing chuckle causing her to grow manic, accompanied by his sentiments, “What’s the matter, lawyer lady, cat got your tongue?”

  Gina shakes her head, the memories causing too much emotion, stifling her clarity. She looks over at Aubrey who is lost in her music, and in the rearview mirror at Emily who remains deep in her meditation. After a few hard blinks her mind returns to her past, continuing to connect the dots.

  She stands astute in front of a witness railing in a courtroom, one assigned to her case by the State of Louisiana. As Brianna Castille, attorney-at-law, a life only a few years departed, however seemingly a lifetime ago, she questions the witness. Manny Briggs sinks back into the witness chair, his lips twisted in a permanent smirk, his body language relaxed and confident, tending toward audacious. He is an average-sized man, nothing remarkable to note, with the exception of his greasy, black, curly hair pulled snugly into a low ponytail and a formidable spider web tattoo proudly displayed on his neck.

  “Mr. Briggs, please state your occupation for the court,” Brianna directs.

  “I’m an independent contractor,” he says.

  “An independent contractor of what?”

  “You could say I’m a Jack of all trades,” he replies with a smile.

  Brianna smiles back, taking a step toward him. “Construction, waste management, plumbing…show tunes.” She shrugs her shoulders, turning her palms up to the ceiling. “An independent contractor of what?” she reiterates.

  He shifts his weight in the chair beneath him, propping himself up on his elbow. “You could say I do a little construction. Yeah, I’m pretty good with my hands. And I take the trash out, so I guess you could say I do a little waste management, too. Never had an interest in plumbing though.” He grins, prepping for his big finish. “Maybe I should look into show tunes. I do a pretty good Sinatra impersonation.” He eyes the jury, assessing their response, if any. “I could give you a little taste, if you’d like.” He winks, causing Brianna to grow nauseous at the flirtatious gesture.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Briggs. For all his flair and swagger, Sinatra was a bully.” She eyes him accusingly. “Never could stand a bully.” She circles the area between him and the jury. “Who do you work for, Mr. Briggs, as an independent contractor?”

  “The highest bidder,” he says, his smirk slowly retracting. “Hence, independent contractor.”

  “What was the name of the employer on your last paycheck, Mr. Briggs?” Brianna continues to dig.

  He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. “I don’t recall.”

  Brianna pulls a file from her briefcase at the prosecution table. “Funny you should mention that.” She holds the file up for the courtroom to see. “You know who else doesn’t recall? The State of Louisiana nor the federal government. They have no record of you employed as an independent contractor, or any occupation for that matter. Why is that, Mr. Briggs?” She places the file on top of the judge’s bench as evidence.

  “Objection,” the defense calls. “My client is not on trial for his work history.”

  “You don’t find it odd that your client has no record of employment?” Brianna argues. “No record of payment of taxes. No W-4, no I-9, no IRS withholding whatsoever. That doesn’t make you question your client’s line of work?” She enunciates sarcastically.

  “Overruled,” the judge confirms, looking over the evidence provided in the prosecution’s mock-up.

  Brianna nods, turning her attention back to the witness stand. “Can you explain why the federal government and the State of Louisiana have no employment records for you, Mr. Briggs? Why they have no record of IRS withholding nor payment from one Manuel Theodore Briggs?” she reads his given birth name from her paperwork.

  He leans forward in his chair, his once permanent smirk fully extinguished. “Some of us prefer to fly under the radar, lawyer lady. Maybe you should, too,” he states, a hint of warning in his inflection.

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Briggs?” Brianna asks, her head tilted slightly to the side.

  “I don’t make threats.” His smirk returns.

  “Only promises,” she deduces.

  He holds his hands up, palms out at shoulder level, dismissively. “Those are your words, not mine, lawyer lady.”

  “Mr. Briggs,” the judge scolds. “The woman whom you are addressing is an attorney-at-law. On the basis of her education alone, you will refrain from calling her lawyer lady in this courtroom. You may address her as Ms. Castille or Ma’am, respectfully. Understood?”

  Manny nods one solitary gesture, avoiding eye contact with the judge, maintaining an underlying tone of defiance.

  “I can think of only a few reasons why a fully functional, able-bodied man would have no records, or chooses to fly under the radar, as you like to put it,” Brianna returns to her point. “You’re either, one, a recluse…anti-social, preferring to live your life off the grid. Or, two, you think you’re above the law and shouldn’t have to pay taxes the way the rest of us do in this country. Or, three, your work is illegal, thereby requiring you to live your life in stealth-mode so as not to get caught.”

  “Objection. Speculation,” the defense calls.

  “Sustained,” the judge backs him. “Get to your question, Ms. Castille.”

  Brianna approaches the witness stand, her arm casually resting on the railing. Her closeness is physically upsetting to Manny Briggs. Answering to women is a concept completely foreign to him. He all but scowls at her, his eyes laced with contempt. “Do you get paid in cash, Mr. Briggs?” she prods.

  “No.”

  “By all statutes of the law, is the work you perform illegal, Mr. Briggs?”

  “No,” he continues with his short answers, refusing to insert a title of any form in addressing Brianna Castille.

  “My sources tell me you work for one of the most notorious gangs in New Orleans…the Gambinis. Is that true, Mr. Briggs?”

  “The Gambinis are not some run-of-the-mill street gang. They’re Mafia. Get your terminology down,” he scoffs. “And no, I don’t work for the Mafia.”

  “Are you in fact, an independent contractor for the Gambinis? The muscle…the beef…Guido…whatever they’re calling it these days?” Brianna presses on, building imagery for the jury.

  He chuckles. “You watch too many movies, lawyer…” He catches himself, refraining from finishing the derogatory handle.

  The sound of her heels click off the marbled floor as she departs the witness bench. Stopping at the prosecution table, she pulls a few Polaroids from her notepad. Making her way swiftly back to Manny Briggs, she continues, “You deny working for one Vincent ‘Vinny’ Gambini?”

  “I told you, I’m an independent contractor. I work for no one, but myself,” he dodges yet another direct answer.

  She taps the Polaroids in the palm of her hand before laying them in front of him on the witness stand. She splays them out side by side, pointing to an individual who appears in all three photos. “Can you identify this man?”

  He eyes the pictures from a distance, still maintaining his disengagement with the process. “Yeah.”

  “Vincent Gambini,” she clarifies for the jury. “Or do you call him Vinny?” she adds with a perceptive smile.

  He does not respond. Not even a physical gesture.

/>   Brianna points to the first picture in succession. “How about this man? Look familiar, Mr. Briggs?”

  He refuses to make eye contact with the picture, fully aware of his presence in the montage.

  She gathers the pictures, showing them to the jury. “As you can see, this is Mr. Briggs holding open a car door for one Vincent Gambini,” she directs, displaying the first picture. Thumbing through to the next, she holds it up. “From the local casino, owned by the Gambinis. You’ll notice, the man to the right of Vincent Gambini,” she points him out, his arms crossed one over the other, much the same as he is posturing in the witness chair. “Manuel Briggs.” She holds up the last picture. “And again, seen here making a delivery to the Gambini residence.” The image displaying an exchange between Manny Briggs and Vinny Gambini. Brianna circles to the judge’s bench, submitting the Polaroids as evidence before returning to her post in front of the witness chair. “For a man who says he does not work for Vincent Gambini, you spend an awful lot of time with him, Mr. Briggs.”

  “So, anyone you spend time with, you work for?” he asks sarcastically.

  “You’re a family friend?” she fires back.

  He grins. “An acquaintance. I don’t consider an acquaintance a friend.”

  “Apparently you don’t consider holding a woman down against her will and forcing yourself upon her rape, either,” Brianna barks, tiring of his antics.

  “Objection,” the defense calls. “Counsel’s interrogating the witness.”

  “Sustained,” the judge confirms.

  “You deny any affiliation with the Gambinis, even though there are pictures placing you in their company. You, and your partner,” she flings her arm in his direction sitting beside counsel at the defense table, “deny raping three women who have positively identified both of you as their assailants.” She pauses, eyeballing the spider web tattoo on his neck. “That fine piece of artwork you have displayed on your neck…keenly identified by all three women you are accused of raping…do you also deny its presence?”

  “I’m not the only guy in New Orleans with a spider web tattoo on his neck,” he dismisses.

  “Why a spider web?” she asks, receiving a befuddled glance from the judge, who lets the question slide.

  “You prefer a sweet little kitty cat?” Manny responds acrimoniously.

  “‘Sweet little kitty cat,’” she chuckles cheekily. “No, I was hoping for a more profound explanation: you feel trapped, consider yourself sly as a spider, or maybe every ring in the web signifies the number of years you have been incarcerated.”

  “Tattoos have come a long way. They’re not just for gang members or prisoners anymore.” He grins smugly. “You have any tats, lawyer lady?”

  “Mr. Briggs,” the judge begins.

  Brianna holds a conciliatory hand up to the judge, who gives her a nod, refraining from reprimanding the witness. “What’s that saying?” she taps her chin. “‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when…’” She paces in a circle in front of Manny as if deep in thought.

  “‘When first we practice to deceive,’” he finishes her quote in his most mundane tone.

  “Ah, yes…‘when first we practice to deceive.’ You wouldn’t practice to deceive would you, Mr. Briggs? A smart man like you. Surely you know the truth always comes to the surface.”

  “I got nothing to be deceptive about. It’s their word against ours.” His permanent smirk resurfacing. “You got nothing on me.”

  She nods her head firmly one time, her eyebrow arched, lips pressed tightly together in preparation to put this case to bed. “What if it wasn’t simply your word against theirs? We’ve heard testimony of the three women you and your partner raped, separately, on three different occasions. We’ve heard your partner’s testimony. Now, we’re hearing yours. Seems to me we’re missing one.”

  He looks at her unimpressed.

  She approaches the railing separating her from the witness chair, leaning onto it, her posture and gaze intense. “That’s the thing about the mob, Mr. Briggs. For all the loyalty, tradition, swagger…from an outsider’s perspective it has a certain luster, a lore if you will. It can be intimidating. Makes mice of men.” She leans in toward him. “The thing about intimidation, it’s all image, nothing but appearance. Every system has a weak link. Even Rome fell, Mr. Briggs.” She pushes off the railing and turns to a police officer in the back of the courtroom. “Bring him in.”

  Manny exchanges a concerned glance with his lawyer at the defense table as the police officer opens the door to the courtroom. Accompanied by two officers, as part of mandated witness protection measures, a visibly apprehensive man enters, his eyes darting about the courtroom, unwilling to settle on the witness stand. A shifting of bodies and muffled voices are heard throughout the interested congregation. The officers settle into a row in the back, the man positioned between them.

  The judge clears his throat purposefully, causing the curious crowd to return their attention to the front of the room. “Counselor,” he urges Brianna to continue.

  She turns back to Manny who looks around her, his icy stare fixed on the man nestled between the two officers, his eyes remain intently diverted from the witness. “Can you identify that man, Mr. Briggs?”

  Manny looks at him, pure disgust and barely contained rage evident in his expression. He begins to speak through tight lips and a clenched jaw, “Well, let’s see, he’s got pink ears, a pointy nose and beady eyes. Must be he’s sitting on his tail.” His stare never falters as he sucks air through his front teeth, clicking his tongue agitatedly off the roof of his mouth, before finishing, “Yeah, I’d say what we have here is a rat.”

  “You say rat. I say opportunist. Potato…Potahto,” she digs. “This man,” she gestures to him tucked safely away between two officers, “Mr. Thomas ‘Tommy Boy’ Fontaine, is arguably the smartest of the bunch.”

  “We’ll see how smart he is from six feet under,” Manny spews under his breath.

  “What was that? You care to share with the courtroom, Mr. Briggs?” Brianna prods to no avail. “Mr. Fontaine can and will testify that he accompanied you and your partner, Mr. Angelo ‘G-Lo’ Tulane, to all three rape scenes. His statement matches that of the three female witnesses. You and Mr. Tulane took turns savagely raping each victim while he kept watch.” A gleam finds its way to Brianna’s eyes as she scans the spider web tattoo on Manny’s neck. She tilts her head to the side, tapping the pen in her hand against the palm of the other. “I read an interesting article the other day about the smartest animals in the world. Both the spider and the rat made the top ten list. Care to guess which came in higher in the ranks, Mr. Briggs?”

  He remains leaned back in his chair, his arms folded staunchly across his chest, eyeing her as if he would obliterate her into a puff of dust if he could. He says nothing.

  “The rat is smarter than the spider. You see, the spider is cunning and selective. They lure their prey, sometimes waiting for hours before they pounce. Very patient, the spider. They actually use trial and error to perfect the hunt.” She paces between the witness stand and the jury. “Now, the rat. The rat is keen, a fast learner, picking up on things at first try. That’s why they’re so good at solving mazes. Rats are actually social creatures, displaying signs of excitement, stress, loss…remorse.” She pauses on the word, allowing it to sink in with the jury.

  “Objection,” the defense calls. “What is the relevancy of this commentary?”

  The judge, along with the jury, is momentarily caught up in the scientific informative. Brianna takes keen advantage plowing through, “Rats also possess metacognition, a mental ability only previously documented in humans, and some primates. Metacognition is ‘knowing about knowing.’ Awareness, common sense, problem solving.” She approaches Manny, once again deliberately eyeing his spider web tattoo. “You put a rat and a spider
in a maze, the spider waits patiently in a corner, building a web purposely to catch a prey unexpectedly as it happens by. Sneaky, deceptive little spider.” She winks at him.

  “Objection!” the defense reprises.

  The judge clears his throat, snapping to attention. “Ms. Castille, either get to your point, or move on.”

  She nods affirmatively. “The rat will move swiftly from corner to corner, sniffing and searching his way through until he is finally released from the restrictive confines of the maze, where awaiting him on the other end is his reward, a big fat tasty piece of cheese. So you see, Mr. Briggs, instead of sitting in wait, conniving and deceiving, maybe you should have taken a few notes from the rat,” she gestures to ‘Tommy Boy’ Fontaine sitting in the back of the courtroom.

  The defense attorney hastens his glare accusingly at the judge, his hands airborne at shoulder level.

  “The jury will kindly disregard the prosecutions rat and spider commentary. Ms. Castille…” the judge begins.

  Brianna intrudes, quickly finishing her discourse, “While Mr. Fontaine remains in the outside world chewing on his big fat tasty piece of cheese…maybe a nice Gouda.” A muffled round of chuckling is heard throughout the courtroom. She smiles at Manny. “Like the spider in the maze, you’ll be sitting in the corner of some prison block.” She turns her back to the witness stand promptly addressing the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  The judge shakes his head, eyeing the riled crowd, tapping his gavel effectively hushing them.

  “You’ll get yours, lawyer lady. You and the rat,” Manny threatens in a low voice.