Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “Mr. Siconolfi, what proof do you have that Joshua was tortured?”

  “We have a recently released King County inmate, who will remain nameless at this time, who witnessed Joshua being carried to the infirmary just two hours after his arrest.”

  “Did you ever know Kimberly?”

  “Ha-ha. Is that your feeble attempt at a trick question?” He pauses, deciding something, before adding, “I will answer you this way. Yes, I do feel as if I know Kimberly since my son spoke of her often. Now that is all.”

  Its shot, recorded, and live fed to a waiting audience.

  Fifteen minutes later in the courtroom, the clerk announces, “On the docket today, we are scheduled for a suppression hearing concerning Joshua Siconolfi, number 7519650.”

  Two guards escort Joshua in, wearing the same orange jumpsuit and ankle jewelry. Again the room is packed. William, fully prepared to give a fiery sermon contesting the validity of the signed confession, is standing up front, opposite prosecutor Milkowski. William pats his son on the back. Joshua flares a confident smile toward the cameras.

  The legal jargon begins. And as proceedings are under way, the court is interrupted. “Your Honor,” Joshua yells, obviously displeased, “I would like to address the court!” William attempts to silence him, without success. Judge Cooper is clearly perturbed. She bangs her gavel, but Joshua speaks over her. “Your Honor, I will be from this juncture forward be representing myself!”

  At first he’s disregarded as an unruly defendant. “You will not disrupt my courtroom!” Judge Cooper bellows.

  Joshua doesn’t flinch. He just stares at her with adamant eyes, stating over and over again, “I wish to represent myself. I will be from here forward acting as my own counsel,” until she acknowledges his request.

  “Are you serious, or is this just another of your games?”

  “No, Your Honor, I wish to represent myself in this case.” Then he stands still, grinning ear to ear, as the rest of the room explodes.

  William throws his papers in the air, pronouncing, “You’re on your own, son!”

  The reporters go crazy, running in every direction. The top story of the week has been simply laid out with a few, greatly unexpected words.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sci-Poll, an independent scientific media company that publishes and distributes information based on public opinion polling, has released its latest findings, subsequent to 858,600 persons surveyed.

  Do you believe Joshua Siconolfi to be guilty of murder?

  Yes—59 %

  No—26 %

  Not Sure—15 %

  Sci-Poll denotes a sampling error of plus or minus 3.5 percentage points. In addition, after crunching the data, the analysts from Sci-Poll articulate their final analysis: game on.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Nearing the end of paradise, Cools and Chelsea unwind in silence during their final hours in Aruba. Twice more he’s attempted to propose, both ending in the abandonment of what would’ve been a treasured moment in an unforgettable place. He eventually concludes that first he must get through the trial, clean up his act before inviting her to share his messy life, seeing that she is worthy of so much more than he currently has to offer. This decision awards him with a sense of accountability and maturity while at the same time an impression of opportunity lost.

  Inside their hotel room, soft beams of morning sunlight and sea breezes flow through the open balcony, puffing gentle gusts of wind that dance around the curtains. Cools lays peacefully across her lap as they listen to the waves, reminiscing about their vacation. They muse over the morning they rode WaveRunners off the sun-kissed shores and then in unison chose to skip the parasail for fear of its height, deciding instead to spend the afternoon combing the beach for sand dollars and splashing in the surf. They laugh again at the day he thought he’d caught a shark while deep-sea fishing, but it turned out only to be an eight-pound Atlantic bonito. They revisit the excitement they felt when he won sixty-five hundred dollars in one of the island casinos and the grief when he lost it all and more the following evening, the sadness of which was forgotten by wasting the rest of the night away in their hotel room, smoking some of the island’s Nederweed—the high-potency marijuana grown in The Netherlands, which he scored from a bartender at one of the local beach bars. Like two teenagers they giggled themselves silly and fooled around, experiencing new insights as to how best solve the world’s quandaries and speaking much of their personal viewpoints, as well as agreeing closely concerning religion and politics, as they melded together in perfect harmony.

  Cools asks, “Hey, what are we going to do with the rest of the pot? We can’t risk taking it with us.”

  She thinks for a second before snickering, “Maybe we should give it to Koenraad?”

  “Yeah, I bet he would like that; he could go to the beach and watch all the lovely ladies.”

  “Let’s do it; let’s give it to him,” she exclaims, proud of her idea. Then she pushes him. “Get up; get off me, you big lug. I want to go downstairs; my skin is getting dry, and I need to get some lotions.” She springs from the bed as Cools lies back, making use of all the pillows, watching her prepare for her jaunt to the hotel’s gift shop. “Do you need anything?” she asks.

  “Only you,” he replies with a contented smile. “Only you, baby-girl!”

  She leaves, blowing him a kiss, and makes her way down to the lobby, ignoring all the attention she receives from other men. There, in a world away, she sees a familiar face. She walks over to one of the sitting tables in the hotel’s foyer and picks up the local newspaper, Aruba Today. Its front page shows a picture of Joshua along with the story of him firing his attorney father. Her first thought is to deliver it directly to Brad, but quickly she changes her mind, deciding that he needs a full and complete break from it all. Besides, we will be back tomorrow, she thinks. He will know soon enough. I wonder what it must be like to have to contend with these psychos. She then sits, crossing her legs, and dials a number borrowed earlier from his phone.

  After the fourth ring, she hears, “Hello, Detective Robertson here.”

  “Michelle, this is Chelsea.”

  “Well then, how’s the sunshine? I heard you and Brad flew off to the Caribbean somewhere…Aruba is it?”

  Chelsea doesn’t like her calling him Brad but overlooks her pet peeve to inquire of a few things. She asks directly, “Why were you and Brad taken off the Siconolfi case?”

  Michelle sighs, “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Tell me what? That’s why I’m calling.”

  Michelle hesitates, considering the implications of what she might say, then replies, “If I tell you a few things, they’re just between you and me. Is that agreed?”

  “Yes, I’ll keep it to myself until he comes out with it, although I think I should know what is going on,” she quips back.

  “All I can tell you is this…” Michelle takes a full breath. “The case came to a point where we were probing into areas we had no place being.”

  “What do you mean? That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “No, you don’t understand Chelsea. They threatened us! And I don’t want to talk any further about it.”

  “Okay, then answer me this: were you given any money?”

  “No! Now, I should go, and you should also leave this alone.” Michelle hangs up.

  Chelsea reclines back into the chair cushions to pore over every word of their brief conversation. What did she mean, they threatened them? Who are they? And where did he get the money? Maybe he’s protecting me. Maybe he’s protecting us. I should trust in him; I will trust in him.

  Soon she returns with her moisturizers and, close by his side, squanders the rest of the day sunbathing, making love in the afternoon shower, eating fresh calamari at the beachside restaurant, and drinking margaritas. They share one more tender moment, in the form of a cozy nap, before boarding the plane at 1:20 a.m. One thing she is sure of is that they are unmistakably in love,
and they will find their way. She never asks him about the money or the spontaneous decision to leave, but still it burdens her thoughts. On the plane ride back, she stares out the window, reflecting on the past week, somewhat disappointed, somewhat confused. It doesn’t make much sense to her; it was only a few days prior she’d heard him revealing his intentions in his sleep. Over and over, mumbling, “Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?” And then to spend a wonderful week in Aruba that provided many opportunities for him to pop the question? And then he just doesn’t! Why? Did I do something wrong?

  Cools, nestling next to her, reaches out to hold her hand. His eyes are closed, but his mind is visiting the very same concern. I didn’t get cold feet; it’s just not the right time. I feel there’s something I have to finish, something significant—I just don’t know what.

  They land back in Seattle, home of the rain, oddly welcoming it. Not much is said, just kisses and a warm embrace of gratefulness before going their separate and largely dissimilar ways. Chelsea is returning to her perfect apartment and ordered life, while he evaporates into his former reality of wrong choices made for the right reasons. He attempts to cling to his week shared with Chelsea. But it is short-lived, as he then does the worst thing possible. With one little click of the remote, the news of Joshua and his latest shenanigans—the firing of his father, the best defense attorney in Seattle, only to represent himself—intrudes on his consciousness. What is he thinking? It’s like he’s trying to get convicted. Maybe he has a death wish. He wants to be martyred!

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Weeks go by without a great deal of theatrics since very little spills out of Joshua’s twisted mind and into the limelight. He’s been eerily silent, almost purposefully estranged from his followers. Cools has been spending his days laboring over old case files alongside Michelle in addition to late nights watching movies and eating home-cooked dinners with Chelsea. And apart from the media’s day-to-day drum beat of the upcoming trial, things have been normal. But still a light anxiety mounts as Joshua’s day in court draws closer, and everyone prepares for an anticipated hell storm.

  Inside his office Captain Jackson sits, waiting for a meeting with prosecutor Milkowski.

  Outside his office Misty Lakewoods beams of newfound enthusiasm and self-worth, for today is the day she’ll receive the first check that will include her increased pay. She couldn’t be happier. And now the clothing magazine, lying upon her desk, parades a few of the items she intends to spend the extra money on.

  Then abruptly her fantasy shopping is interrupted as prosecutor Milkowski rushes in carrying an overflowing briefcase and shouldering his laptop. He fretfully looks at his watch, which reads 3:50 p.m. He’s twenty minutes late. “Is he in there?”

  “Yes, and he’s waiting for you, so you should go right in.” Her tone is slightly commanding, per her instructions from Captain Jackson. She’s been coached to always make an effort at telling Milkowski what to do.

  “Thank you,” he mutters, and heads in.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” he says, noticeably keyed up. “I, as of a few minutes ago, had a run-in with a little birdie. This little birdie informs me that William has obtained all police reports and a list of my witnesses.”

  “All right, well, we had suspicions of this from the very beginning to make us believe Joshua was going to defend himself. Huh, they thought they’d catch us with our pants down. Now, tell me where we’re at—what’s the game plan?”

  Milkowski draws in a great deal of oxygen, as his overweight body struggles. “Well, it’s pretty straightforward actually. First, I’ll be bringing in the neighbors and two of the girls from the Kitty Club to verify Kimberly was a real person— also generally thought of as his wife. Then we go into all the circumstantial evidence: the recording from the radio show, the taped interviews conducted by your office, showing all his madness, the blood found on the yacht, and the crab trap, not to mention the odd purchases of rope and weights. The love affair between Kimberly and Trace Friesen is ample motive. And I’m going to try to work in his occult manuscripts, found with all the names of missing girls, but it borders his religious freedoms; and Judge Cooper is reluctant to let in constitutionally protected liberties. Besides he could just say he read their names in the paper and was praying for them.”

  “Yeah right!” Captain Jackson barks, jerking his head in the air. “All right, then what about Cools and Robertson?”

  “Don’t worry,” he answers, addressing the situation as if he has it all under control. “I plan on having a long discussion with Cools before we go in. The worst thing that can happen is for the defense to provoke him into one of his fits.”

  Captain Jackson nods in concurrence, adding, “I’ll have a talk with him myself.”

  “Okay, good, I think that’s a great idea.”

  Then there’s a pause ahead of the big question hanging in Captain Jackson’s mind. He asks directly, “And will you get a conviction?”

  “Definitely. Even if his father represents him, I cannot foresee any way out for him.”

  “Sounds good, Milkowski; sounds real good. Now, listen up; there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

  “Okay, I’m listening,” he replies, curious although somewhat reluctant.

  Captain Jackson stares him down. “All right, here’s the deal. At no time can there be any mention of this racecar club and/or Joshua’s involvement in it. Is that understood?”

  “Enough said. I can appreciate that this is a delicate situation.”

  Milkowski leaves the meeting, relieved that simply not mentioning the car club—something someone more influential insisted of him earlier—was all that Captain Jackson had asked of him. He presumed there would be more.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Across town, while trapped in gridlock, Cools receives a couple of phone calls. The caller ID on the first one lights up with a well-recognized name—Tabatha Sterns. He answers with a friendly hello.

  “And a hello to you, Detective Cools. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, except being stuck in traffic, and you?”

  “I’m good. Listen, I’m hosting a special Friday night, and I’d like you to come on as one of my featured guests.”

  “What’s the topic?” he replies playfully.

  “Well,” she begins haughtily, “tomorrow night my guest appearance is also your latest arrest!”

  Cools’s head whirls in amazement, being well aware of the courting done by every media outlet, including the major networks, to land this interview. “Wow, that’s impressive, Tabatha. How’d you pull that off?”

  “I have my ways. So what do you think of me now, Detective?”

  “Congratulations, Tabatha, but unfortunately I’ll have to decline your offer; my Captain would never go for it.” Then he says something he’s wanted to for a long time, “And you know what, I don’t really like the way you people keep giving him the spotlight, so he can spew his lies to the world.”

  She doesn’t react to his insolence and lets it dissipate with a moment of silence before replying, “Well, maybe we could go for drinks; you could give me a chance to entice you with my proposal?”

  He thinks instantly of Chelsea and cuts the conversation short. “Listen, Tabatha, I’m grateful for the invite, but it just isn’t going to happen. What time does it air?”

  “Fine then! You can see what you are missing tomorrow at seven. My show is doing a full hour. And I think you should know that your name will certainly come up since you were the arresting officer. I was only extending you the opportunity to defend yourself. All the same, if you decide to change your mind, you have my number.” Click.

  “Whatever, you little tease!” he says. He shuts his phone, lays it in his lap, and drives along speculating about what Joshua might say. What kind of bullshit will he come up with this time? He’ll talk about us torturing him—that’s what. Or say we framed him. And most likely keep plugging the idea that Kimberly was never real, further
poisoning the jury pool. What if he mentions his affiliation with the secret car club? Or my threats?

  His cell phone rings again. It’s Michelle. He answers, saying, “Hey, guess who I just got off the phone with? Tabatha Sterns—she’s doing an interview with Joshua tomorrow night.”

  “Really? What did she want to talk to you about?”

  “She wants me to be a guest on her panel.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her Captain would have a coronary.”

  Michelle laughs. “Yeah, that’s true. I never really liked that Tabatha Sterns anyway; she’s nothing but a floozy with a microphone! And I don’t know why she’s calling you; she knows you can’t do that. What’s she thinking?” Cools doesn’t respond. “Anyway, I have something for you; I want you to read an e-mail. I’m sending it to you right now; it was printed this morning in Men’s Fitness.”

  He opens his laptop sitting in the passenger’s seat and sees he has incoming mail. “Okay, I just got it.” While keeping one eye on the traffic, he begins to read. “Vitalisep: Maximizing vitality and stamina for a better life.”