The Killing of Miguel

by Christopher Mcafee

  “Are they here for me?” I asked.

  The nurse looked confused. “Oh, I don’t think they are here to see you. There are a dozen or so other people worse off. They said they pulled you from a church. You’d think that would be the safest place to take cover. That was the worst tornado outbreak in this area in twenty years. Thank God that it was on the news before it hit.”

  “Yeah…thank God…I guess,” I said.

  ***

  Mr. Swift would stop in and see me on a daily basis to check on my welfare. I found that I received extra attention when he came. Not because I needed it, but because the nurses were all smitten with him. It was just like when my dad was around women. All females would turn into giddy school girls. I still didn’t know exactly why he was so concerned with me, and I still didn’t understand why my mom hadn’t come to see me.

  The doctors told me I would have to stay up to six weeks before I was strong enough to walk on my own. Some painful rehab was in the works. But most nights, I rehashed in my mind the night all of this took place.

  How could a plan that seemed so simple go so terribly wrong?

  And I still couldn’t believe that Father Patrick had lied to me about being an immortal. It had no bearing on our friendship though. I still felt that he was a great man.

  Mr. Swift paid me another daily visit.

  “Steven? It’s time for me to come clean with you. I was not just a friend of your father. I was a fraternity brother and am now an attorney. The authorities are going to start questioning you about the night of the incident. I’ve filed several motions with the courts to buy you some time, but now I’ve run out of options. I just want to make sure you are well enough and strong enough to answer. And don’t worry; I’ll be by your side the whole way. OK?”

  I nodded.

  “First of all, I expect you to be charged with kidnapping of a minor. I’m going to argue the fact that Father Patrick took advantage of your youth and your innocence to coerce you into doing this crime. And after talking to some people you are close to, and with the recent death of your father, the fact that the infant didn’t sustain any permanent harm, and the fact that you are still a minor yourself, I think we can wrap this up with a maximum of six months of protective custody, which means you won’t be in the general prison population. You will be released on your own recognizance, pending trial. I’ll do my best to keep things moving so you can put this behind you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please, Steven. Call me Jake.” He smiled.

  “OK…Jake.”

  I felt awful that Father Patrick’s name was going to be ruined over this. And, at that time, I was not so sure that Father Patrick hadn’t used my youth and innocence against me.

  ***

  Over the next few weeks, I felt myself getting stronger. I inquired about any funeral service for Father Patrick and was told that The Catholic Church had claimed the body and had left no notice of burial. The Church had hired a contractor to level the site of the church and haul the remnants to a location some 100 miles away in hopes of recovering some artifacts.

  I was feeling pretty upbeat about my situation when I was paid a visit by Jake and another gentleman, who announced that he was from the prosecutor’s office. I expected what Jake had told me to expect: paperwork stating that I was being charged with kidnapping of a minor.

  Before the prosecutor’s assistant could begin, Jake intervened: “Excuse me, could I have a word with my client?”

  “No, Mr. Swift, you have delayed this for too long. Young man, after carefully examining all the evidence, you are being charged with the kidnapping of a minor and the first-degree murder of one Father Patrick. You are hereby ordered to appear in front of Judge O’Neil for a pretrial hearing in two weeks. Do you understand?”

  I nodded and looked at Jake.

  The man from the prosecutor’s office turned and left.

  “Jake, what the Hell just happened?”

  “I’m sorry, Steven. I didn’t think it would come to this. They found your fingerprints on the murder weapon. At first, I countered with the fact that you probably had handled it at some time other. But the wound in his chest, the angle of the axe, and the fact that you were the only other one there makes you responsible in the eyes of the prosecutor.”

  I was numb. “That can’t be. I pushed him away! He was going to kill Beth’s baby!”

  Jake ran his fingers through his hair. “Steven, I want you to tell me everything that has happened since you met Father Patrick, anything that might have to do with what led up to that night of his death.”

  It didn’t take long for me to remember that I had picked up the axe after Father Patrick had thrown it. It had missed the target and stuck into the cross. It had been bad timing on my part.

  For the next four hours, I spilled my guts to Jake about Miguel and about Alexa and my love for her. I told him about Father Patrick giving me his Battle Ring and that it possessed extraordinary powers. I told him that Father Patrick and I had made a plan to kidnap Miguel Jr. and then kill Miguel with the Holy Stick, but it had been lost on my way to the Catholic Church.

  And finally, I told Jake about my father and him selling his soul to the devil.

  I asked him about the storm.

  “They had been predicting bad weather for that day. Didn’t you see the weather reports?”

  “No, I was a little preoccupied,” I said. “So it wasn’t Miguel chasing me?” I asked.

  “It appears not, Steven.”

  I knew he was wrong. My Battle Ring had been red with Evil.

  Through it all, Jake never batted an eye.

  He then leaned in and whispered, “Steven…I believe you.”

  I choked up. “Thanks.”

  He went to leave.

  “Get some rest now.”

  I rolled over and fell asleep.

  Chapter 14

  It didn’t take long to figure out that any evidence that I was innocent was gone, and with my recent behavior, I was deemed crazy. Anything that was in the church had been hauled away. My only witness was dead. I was sunk.

  I was released from the hospital and immediately taken to the county jail located 20 miles from our small town. My clothes had all been ruined in the “storm,” so the nice people at the hospital gave me some scrubs to wear. They gave me my belongings in a brown envelope to be checked out. Everything that was important to me was there: my wedding rings, my Battle Ring, and my dad’s running shoes. I put them all on.

  This time, the media was there for me. The news trucks were tailing our vehicle with cameras clicking. Upon exiting the car, I was bombarded with questions. Reporters were yelling at me from a distance. It was all so surreal. Religious protesters were yelling awful things at me.

  I gave Jake a confused look.

  Jake threw a coat over my head and pushed through the crowd. He was yelling, “For God’s sake, he’s just a kid!”

  He was right. I was just a kid. But it appeared that I was going to have to grow up quickly.

  I traded my scrubs for a jail uniform and then gave my belongings to Jake.

  “Make sure nothing happens to my stuff. It’s all I have,” I said.

  Jake pulled out a small lockbox, placed my belongings inside, and gave them to a court clerk.

  “Don’t worry. I’m the only one with a key,” he said.

  ***

  At the pretrial hearing, everything was straightforward. I was led into the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit. My hands and legs were shackled, as was the custom for anyone charged with a felony of this kind. Jake gave me a reassuring nod as I sat next to him.

  No evidence was presented; just some preliminary facts and some dates were stated. Due to the high profile of this case, jury selection was to begin immediately.

  And no bail. “The Catholic Church thinks you might be a flight risk. They’re leaning on the prosecutor really bad,” Jake said.

  I was taken back to my cell accompanied by two guards,
and Jake followed with a stack of newspapers.

  “Steven, I believe in full disclosure with my clients. I want you to know the gravity of this case. It’s big.” He began to lay out several local newspapers as well as some that were national. My picture was on the front page of all of them.

  One of them read: “Youth Accused in Religious Murder.”

  “Well, that’s not good,” I said.

  He paused and added, “Miguel has left with Beth and the baby. They’re headed for Ecuador. And with everything that has happened, City Council has decided not to name the track and field complex after your dad. I’m sorry. I wish I had better news.”

  “Me too.” I looked at Jake, and he appeared to have even more bad news.

  “Your mom has been besieged with reporters knocking on her door. The have camped out in front of your house. I have filed a motion to keep the media a hundred yards away. But with their first amendment rights, it’s going to be difficult to enforce.”

  I felt overwhelmed, as if I had let my whole family down.

  “Thankfully, one of the neighbors has agreed to be a spokesperson for her. Maybe you know him. Reverend Randolph?”

  “Yeah, I know him,” I said, trying not to scream. He was using this opportunity to come off looking like a good Samaritan.

  Jake was looking at his papers. I could see the wheels turning. “Isn’t that the house you took the baby from?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think he would be a good witness for the defense?”

  “No!”

  Chapter 15

  They say the wheels of justice move slowly, but not in my case. Jury selection went smoothly, and Jake did all he could. He was masterful when it came to interrogating the potential jurors, and he felt that with the media coverage, we might get an acquittal or even have the case dismissed.

  Jake and I would meet daily in my jail cell. We would go over my testimony bit by bit. It was tedious and relentless. But whenever Jake was there, I felt I was in the best hands possible. He would also give me updates on my mom.

  “She sends her love,” he would say, and I would choke up.

  Our conversation soon turned to the eventual question: “Steven, how do you want to plead?”

  I hesitated.

  Jake looked closer at me. “Steven? Do you feel you did anything wrong?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Then ‘Not Guilty’ it shall be.”

  ***

  One day, he came with a man in a suit who stated that he was from the legal department of the Catholic Church. I

  never knew that there was such a thing.

  He started questioning me, and I looked at Jake. He nodded.

  “Steven, did Father Patrick ever give you anything? A relic or maybe a piece of jewelry?”

  From what Father Patrick had told me, the church had been trying to retrieve items from him and he had resisted. So I lied.

  “No.”

  “Steven, are you sure?” He leaned in, and his eyes seemed to look right through me.

  I swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Steven, the Catholic Church would like to end this as quickly and as quietly as possible. And we have quite a bit of influence with the courts. If you could produce anything that you might have in your possession…well, let’s just say, it would be beneficial to you receiving a short sentence. We just don’t want anything to fall into the wrong hands. Do we?”

  I shook my head, and he took offense. The Catholic lawman began to lose his cool. “If you are found with anything that is property of the Catholic Church, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law! And worse than that, you will find yourself in purgatory!”

  I felt like I was already there.

  He struggled to compose himself. “Call me if you decide to cooperate.” He turned and left.

  I was sweating bullets.

  “The Battle Ring?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah.”

  ***

  On the first day of the trial, Jake entered my jail cell holding a blue suit.

  “Here, put this on,” he said.

  I did as I was told and remarked, “I look good.”

  “Better than that, you look innocent. You ready?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

  As I entered the courtroom, the cameras were clicking away. The man from the church legal department was there, as well as Reverend Randolph and many of his church members.

  Bastards, I thought to myself.

  The bailiff spoke: “All rise for Judge Ronald O’Neil.”

  “Great,” I said. “O’Neil, a real Irish Catholic name.”

  Jake looked my way and put his fingers to his lips.

  Since there were no actual witnesses, it was mostly testimonies from citizens who had looked on from outside the church.

  It was all hearsay and coincidental evidence, and Jake handled it masterfully. Whatever the prosecution had to offer, Jake had an answer. It was the first day, and already they were running out of options. The prosecution was scratching their heads, and I think they were amazed at how well-prepared Jake was.

  At the break, I glanced at my enemies in the courtroom. They weren’t smiling.

  After the first day, Jake and two guards escorted me back to my cell. I felt great.

  “Jake, man, you were incredible! How did you get so good?”

  He looked me straight in the eyes, serious. “It all comes with a price.”

  He turned and exited the cell.

  My stomach churned.

  ***

  The case was in its fourth day. The prosecution’s last witness was a Catholic Cardinal who testified that he had been Father Patrick’s best friend. It was kind of strange, as I had never heard Father Patrick even speak of this guy. He read from a script how Father Patrick’s death was from Evil forces and that killing a holy man was an abomination and should be dealt with swiftly and harshly. And that I should be made an example of, or there would be open season on all who served the Lord.

  I felt that the tables were turning. Was this the church’s way of retaliating for me not giving them the ring? I looked at the jurors. Several were wiping their eyes. Jake had said he had been careful not to allow any devout Catholics on the jury. This guy had all the jurors in the palm of his hand. I felt sunk.

  I returned to my cell, less enthused than ever. I took my suit off, and instead of hanging it up, I threw it in the corner. Tomorrow was to be the last day. Jake and the prosecution would make their final statements.

  We would then await the verdict.

  I calmed myself, hung up my suit, and relaxed. For the first time, Jake offered nothing to reassure me. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Try and get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  ***

  The final day was here. I sat through three agonizing hours of final statements and watched the jurors be excused to decide a verdict. They all looked at me as to draw judgement from my appearance.

  “The longer it goes, the better our odds,” Jake said.

  I nodded.

  After two hours, they returned, and we all stood.

  The judge asked, “Jury, have you come to a verdict?”

  The jury foreman stood. “Yes, we have, your honor. We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty of first-degree murder.”

  The crowded courtroom gasped as Jake smiled and grabbed my hand.

  “On the secondary charges of manslaughter and the kidnapping of a minor, we find the defendant…guilty.”

  The judge announced the date for sentencing.

  Jake hung his head, as he felt he had failed me. “I’m sorry, Steven.”

  I wasn’t surprised. “How much time?” I asked.

  “Ten to twenty years,” he replied.

  My knees buckled. I looked at the jury in disbelief.

  My enemies looked victorious. And they were.

  I was lead back to my cell as my head swirled. I felt nauseous and pro
ceeded to vomit before reaching my destination. I sat on the bed wiping my face with cold water.

  Jake wrapped his arms around me.

  ***

  The next few days I spent reflecting on my situation. How long would I have to actually spend in prison? How old would I be when I got out? And mostly, how was I going to survive? I’d heard all the horror stories. Beatings. Sodomy. My whole world was about to be turned upside down.

  Jake would visit daily, and I was feeling guilty that I had monopolized so much of his time only for him to lose the case. It occurred to me that I had no money to pay him.

  “That’s fine, Steven,” he said. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in this case.”

  ***

  On one visit, he brought some papers to sign.

  “My appeal?” I asked.

  “No, Steven, we won’t appeal until after the sentencing. This is something else I need you to sign. The Catholic Church is petitioning the court to take a look at your belongings. They think you may have something of value that belongs to them.”

  We both knew what they wanted: The Battle Ring.

  “You can’t let them have it,” I said.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Could my future get any worse?

  ***

  Sentencing day.

  I put on my blue suit and waited for Jake. I was sweating profusely and wished I had asked Jake for some deodorant. The guards seemed to check on me more often that day. I could only guess that they had been instructed to do so, as they might be afraid that I would hurt myself or commit suicide.

  As Jake entered the cell, he was all business as he gave that reassuring look that I was accustomed to. This time, it didn’t work. He also had my belongings in a small lockbox.

  “You need to check everything to make sure it’s here before you leave. After sentencing, they will take you away.”

  “Take you away.” Even coming from Jake’s mouth, those words had an uncomfortable feeling.

  I opened the box and put on my wedding rings, the Battle Ring, and my dad’s running shoes. It looked stupid with my blue suit, but I didn’t care. I was trying to summon some kind of strength from my belongings, but I found none.