The judge granted me a one-day delay and ordered me back to jail so they could clean me up. Afterward, they escorted me to my cell. And during the whole process, not one single person said they were sorry.
A Mockery
Bob had warned me that my sister would be the star witness for the prosecution. I didn’t believe him. She wouldn’t testify against me; I was her baby brother.
I was wrong.
The first time Sheila walked into the courtroom, escorted by two sheriff deputies, I knew something was wrong. Her movements were rigid. The way she walked, her mannerism, and the harsh expression on her face. It just didn’t feel right.
She wore a light blue summer dress, revealing how much weight she had lost. It wasn’t that she was ever fat, but she certainly was never that thin before. She didn’t look healthy. Her hair was bleached blonde and shorter than before, but it still covered whatever kept her sunglasses pulled against her face. Maybe she had her ears reconstructed. Deputies led her to a chair directly behind the prosecution’s table and then the officers moved to each side of the courtroom and took up their posts.
I turned in my seat and looked at the crowd behind me. It was standing room only. Everyone was here because of me. It was actually kind of cool.
Over the next few weeks, the prosecution called all kinds of people to the stand. Some I knew, like an old boss, a former coworker, several of my neighbors, and then my wife. When Carla took the stand, her eyes told me everything. I had changed her life. For the better. She was grateful. I smiled. She smiled back.
On the stand, she frustrated the prosecution. She was friendly to the defense. Atta girl, Carla, I thought.
Other than Carla, most of the witnesses they called didn’t even know me. They were either doctors or some kind of experts on this or that, talking about the fatal injuries inflicted on my victims. It was easy to see those witnesses were there simply for shock value, their only job being to scare the jury into a guilty verdict. I saw right through their ploy. I hoped the jury did too.
And then the prosecution called their second-to-last witness.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor began, “we would like to call to the stand Ms. Sheila Bradbury.”
“Proceed.”
The prosecutor turned to my sister. Suddenly the volume of his voice increased dramatically. “Ms. Bradbury, could you please come forward!”
She rose from her chair and was escorted to the stand. The trial became a mockery from that moment on.
The prosecutor turned to the jury and shouted, “For the record, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Ms. Bradbury’s hearing has been seriously impaired due to Samuel’s attack.”
“Your Honor, I object!” Bob jumped to his feet. I was surprised he had the balls to even bring up an objection before the judge. “The prosecution is implanting the notion that the details of the attack on Ms. Bradbury have already been established, when in fact they have not. That is the whole purpose of these proceedings, is it not?”
“Objection sustained,” the judge responded. Bob returned to his seat as the judge continued, facing the prosecutor. “The prosecution’s last remark will be stricken from the record. The need to inform the court of Ms. Bradbury’s impairments is understandable. However, you must do so without leading the jury to prematurely assign guilt.”
The prosecutor faced the judge. “Yes, sir.” He turned back to the jury. “Because of the injuries Ms. Bradbury sustained during her attack, I must speak loudly, almost yell, if she is to hear me. She suffered tremendous hearing loss, almost total loss, due to equilateral eardrum damage sustained in the knife attack, as divulged by our expert medical witnesses. And she will only be answering questions phrased in yes or no format, since her tongue was also viciously cut out.”
Bob climbed back to his feet. “Your Honor, again I must object. The prosecution is not only exploiting Ms. Bradbury’s physical conditions to initiate sympathy for the witness, but he is also attempting to influence the emotions of the jury by using such adjectives as viciously.”
“That’s an adverb. Overruled. The prosecution is simply bringing awareness to the jury as to why his voice is elevated and why all his inquiries will be introduced in a basic yes or no format. And I think we can all agree the jury is well aware of the brutality involved in the attack on Ms. Bradbury, regardless of who carried it out. The prosecution may continue.”
Bob shook his head and returned to his seat.
Sheila was dressed more formally than during any of the previous days. She wore dark slacks, a white blouse, and a dark blazer. I wondered who picked out her clothes, making sure she matched. I could do it. I could be the one to get her dressed each day, to make sure she looked as beautiful as possible. As a matter of fact, I should be the one to do it. I was still her brother, after all. We were family.
She had removed the sunglasses and, despite her eyelids kind of caving into her empty sockets, she still looked like my big sister. I wanted to tell her that everything would be fine if everyone would just leave us alone.
Things weren’t fine, though. Everything just kept getting worse. My sister’s answers to the many horrible and extremely unfair questions asked by the prosecuting attorney swayed the courtroom. He referred to me as a “malevolent aberration of mankind.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I wasn’t whatever he called me. I was a soul rising from the mediocrity of mankind through spiritual enlightenment.
I turned toward the crowd behind me, as I did each day, and was pleased by the attendance. Full house. And I began to understand. I was not a celebrity. These were not my fans. I was a budding God, and these were my followers.
Bob questioned Sheila after the prosecution finished. It didn’t go well. He stumbled with his questions, continually having to rephrase them so she could answer yes or no. He got flustered. Watching him up there was like watching a car crash in slow motion. He was supposed to ask her things that would help me, but he obviously didn’t remember that.
It didn’t help that Sheila put on a poor me act for the jury. I had seen it before. She did it all the time as a kid. She wouldn’t answer a lot of Bob’s questions, pointing to where her tongue used to be. The judge instructed Bob to rephrase his questions again and again.
Sheila was helped down from the stand and led to the aisle. I reached for her as she passed, but one of the deputies rudely shoved my hand away. He glared at me, daring me to do something about it.
Finally, the last witness was called. Chad, the piece-of-shit cop from my sister’s trailer, took the stand. Yeah, the same guy who had tried to murder me. Why wasn’t he on trial for attempted murder? He was also fucking my sister. Wasn’t that a conflict of interest?
Chad took his seat, his eyes locked onto mine. Suddenly every little detail of that night flooded back. Chad bursting into Sheila’s room and his look of disbelief, immediately erased by the twist of hatred. He hated me without even knowing me. He didn’t know what was going on, had no awareness of the spiritual act I was engaged in. And yet, he hated me. He raised his gun and pulled the trigger for no reason at all.
I held his gaze in the courtroom. Ultimately, when I took my place beside the other Gods, the cop before me would wander without hope through eternal damnation. I would make sure his suffering was great.
Chad told his side of the story and I could tell the jury bought it. Despite my continued insistence, Bob never did bring up the fact that the asshole was fucking Sheila. Bob had told me the most difficult aspect of the trial would be how we approached my defense, since the innocent by reason of insanity plea had been abolished by the State of Texas shortly after the Violent Criminal Human Zoo Act was passed. Apparently too many people—people who really meant to hurt others—had been getting off with that defense. With a better option available, the “you’re not guilty, you’re just crazy” philosophy no longer cut it.
After the prosecutio
n finished all their bullshit, Bob got his turn. It was time for him to step up and become the star, the hero who saved the day. But he didn’t. He called very few witnesses, mostly experts who didn’t know me for shit, and none of them did me a damn bit of good. The prosecution objected to a lot, the judge sustained most of the objections, and Bob fizzled right before my eyes. It was obvious he was overwhelmed. He rested his case after only five days.
All the testimonies were heard, mine not being one of them—even though I told Bob I thought I should take the stand. Closing arguments were given, and the case was turned over to the jury. They deliberated for less than a day.
Guilty on all counts.
After the verdict was read, the judge turned to me. “Mr. Bradbury, you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers. You will be immediately remanded to the authorities of the great State of Texas. Sentencing will take place directly after Violent Criminal Human Zoo criteria is examined. If you are eligible, I will recommend death in the Confinement Center, with Criminal Zoo option intact.”
The judge said it with about as much emotion as if he was assigning me a junior high homeroom.
Death in the Confinement Center
The Violent Criminal Human Zoo Act states that the “Death in the Confinement Center” sentence cannot be imposed by a single man—meaning the asshole who called himself a judge couldn’t enforce his not-so-hidden agenda of screwing me over without a little help. Yeah, he could “recommend it,” but he couldn’t mandate it. So said my shitty lawyer.
Once a person is found guilty of a violent crime resulting in the torture or death of another person, a checklist of conditions is reviewed by the judge before the Confinement Center “with Zoo option intact” sentence can be considered. It means you will never see freedom again. Ever. Other than death, there’s only one way out. The Zoo. And I heard the Zoo was worse than death.
If the crime does not meet all the requirements of the sentence, the judge must impose traditional prison sentencing. If the crime does fit the criteria of the Confinement Center sentence, it is introduced during the sentencing phase. Once it is introduced as an option, the sentencing jurisdiction automatically reverts back to the jury. It is written in the law that “only through the unanimous vote by a jury of one’s peers shall the accused be condemned to death in the Confinement Center.”
I was never given the opportunity to examine the checklist, because the judge was not required to go over the list in front of me. Bob did tell me later, however, that one of the main points on the checklist was “absolute and indisputable DNA evidence.” He told me that because of DNA exonerations in the past, forensic science was front and foremost during the Zoo consideration. So what if my DNA was found at the crime scenes? It didn’t prove my actions were done with criminal intent. I don’t remember God ever being put on the stand for murder. But none of that was considered, and my actions apparently fulfilled all the requirements. The whole thing was bullshit and the judge knew it.
The day after the jury found me guilty, the judge returned sentencing jurisdiction to them. My jailer informed me of this information with a twisted smile. Two days later, I was hauled back to the courtroom to face the jury’s decision.
“Mr. Bradbury, please rise and face the jury,” the judge commanded.
I stood and looked defiantly around the courtroom. Everyone stared at me. Except Sheila. She sat silently in the front row, her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap.
“Has the jury come to a decision?” The judge stared at the foreman.
The man rose to his feet. He held a large envelope in his right hand. “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”
The judge paused for dramatic effect. I squeezed my hands into fists and clenched my teeth. My heart raced. I looked at Sheila. She sat forward, her head tilted in the direction of the voices.
“Proceed,” the judge finally said.
“Your Honor, after careful and prudent deliberation, we the jury,” the foreman cleared his throat, “sentence Mr. Samuel Bradbury to death in the Confinement Center, with the Criminal Zoo option intact.”
A wave of electricity burst through the courtroom. Sudden chatter erupted everywhere. My legs buckled and I dropped into my chair. How could this be? Two deputies came to me, grabbed me by both arms, and pulled me back to my feet.
“Order! I will have order in my courtroom!” the judge commanded with a strike of his gavel. The room became quiet. “Mr. Foreman,” the judge said, looking at the man. “In accordance to the law, the Confinement Center can only be sentenced with a unanimous vote. Do you have the unanimous vote required for this sentence?”
“Yes, Your Honor, we have a unanimous vote. As required by law, the vote was taken, documented in writing, and sealed in this envelope.” He held up his right hand.
“Bailiff, the envelope, please,” the judge said.
I stood, flanked on both sides by the officers, and watched everything unfold in a state of shock. The world had suddenly taken a horrible, surreal turn.
The bailiff passed the envelope to the judge. He opened it, scanned it briefly, and then looked at me. “Mr. Bradbury, the vote is indeed unanimous. Therefore, the court rules that you shall die in the Confinement Center. If you wish, you are afforded the right to choose the Criminal Zoo as an option. Mr. Bradbury, I must add, I have toured both facilities. May God have mercy on your soul.” He looked at the deputies. “Please escort Mr. Bradbury out of my courtroom.”
I stared at my sister. “Sheila, tell them! Tell them the mistake they’re making! Tell them who I am! What I am becoming!” I tried to pull free, tried to go to her, but the deputies held me firmly.
Sheila turned in my direction, her face expressionless. She rose from her chair and felt her way toward me. She almost tripped over several pairs of feet as she moved toward my voice. People gently helped her along. The deputies’ grip on my arms became vise-like as she approached. I tried to reach for her but was restrained.
“Tell them the truth, Sheila. Don’t be swayed by the ignorance in this courtroom. Don’t let them judge me like this.”
She stood directly in front of me, reached up to touch my cheek, her face void of all emotion. Her sudden slap—stinging, hard like my dad’s—caught me by surprise. Then she turned and walked away.
“Sheila, no!”
The deputies forced me toward the back door.
“No! Let go!” I screamed.
The officers dragged me from the courtroom and down the corridor, my head spinning. This was not how soon-to-be-Gods were supposed to be treated.
The deputies shoved me through the back doors and into the waiting van. They climbed in beside me and the door slammed shut.
“Holy shit, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone actually get Death by Confinement Center!” one of the deputies said, looking at his partner. He turned to me. “Or you get to choose the Criminal Zoo. Fuck me, think about it! Sitting around waiting for death to take you away, or choosing to be tortured just to get out. Can you imagine that shit? I wouldn’t want to be you, pal.” A smile followed his words.
“Fuck you,” I said.
“No, my friend,” the deputy responded, shaking his head, “you’re the one who’s fucked.”
Terrifying at Every Turn
I honestly cannot decide which hell is worse. The four-walled enclosure that keeps me prisoner measures seven feet by twelve feet. Spacious compared to the Confinement Center. One wall is made almost entirely of thick, clear acrylic. It’s called the “viewing wall.” Behind the wall, visitors with Level 1 clearance—merely observers—gather to watch what takes place. I get to see people. I get to hear them. They talk to me. I talk back if I want. But the ones who come into my enclosure, Level 2s, seek only one thing. My pain.
The L1s stand behind the protection of the acrylic, viewing me as if I were an animal in the Denver Zoo. They visit with each other, t
heir mouths moving fast and their hands gesturing excitedly, while I am tortured.
A door exists at the right end of the viewing wall. It’s standard width, but only half the height of a normal door, and it has a damn serious locking system with several backup mechanisms. I’m told that it’s short like that so I can be shot through the head as I dip beneath the frame while trying to escape. The design, according to my keeper, came from the ancient Anasazi tribes of the southwest. Makes sense to me, I suppose. In those days, if someone you didn’t know or didn’t like stuck his head into your dwelling, you could put an arrow right through his brainpan.
The corridors outside the enclosures are wide enough for a ton of visitors. Pressure pads line the hallway floors; motion detectors line the walls; cameras run the length of the ceilings; heat sensors are everywhere; sound is monitored and recorded in every room; laser beams sweep through the air twenty inches above the floor. The net result of this security: anybody can be detected anywhere in the facility at any time.
Along with the viewing wall and its dwarf door, the cell has three other walls; my keeper told me they are a foot thick. Because of the wall thickness, the screams of other inmates cannot be heard. I guess that is one thing to be thankful for. The enclosure’s walls are covered with a six-inch foam pad and laminated with smooth white vinyl. Non-textured white linoleum covers the floor, also with a foam pad beneath.
I questioned the reason for foam padding everywhere. My keeper said one of the original inmates of the Zoo had tried to commit suicide by lowering his head, sprinting the length of the room, and ramming into the far wall—not padded at that time. He survived the attempt, sustaining brain and spinal cord injuries, but was turned into a drooling retard—paralyzed from the neck down. After being in here, I see his act as a success.
Like the Confinement Center, there are no clocks in the Zoo. No calendars. No specific days or dates. We do not celebrate Christmas. There is no Thanksgiving, no Easter, no Halloween. I think I might have had a birthday, but I’m not entirely sure.
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