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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Michelle walks in. “Sorry I’m late, guys,” she says with a flirtatious smile, the same smile that has worked her entire life when behind schedule.

  Wasting no time, Milkowski says, “Okay, I would like to discuss a few of my concerns. I’m putting both of you on the stand tomorrow, and I believe it’s in our best interests to share the same frame of mind. First of all, do not let William rattle you. There’s nothing worse than for him to present you as angry cops or to show that you hold personal feelings toward the defendant. Simply answer his questions directly—nothing more, nothing less.” He speaks openly to Cools, leaving little doubt as to whom he is referring. “Also I want you to direct your answers squarely to the jurors, and warm up to them as much as possible.”

  “I gotcha, Milkowski; whatever you need to put this creep down,” Cools replies, shaking his head low. Michelle agrees with her eyes.

  “Oh, and he’s definitely going down—downtown like Charlie Brown,” Captain Jackson says, seeming to be also getting a little buzzed.

  “Maybe going down like Lewis on Clark,” Cools slips in.

  They all start laughing, even more so than before. Michelle has to beg them to stop howling and playing around long enough to explain to her what’s so funny.

  Just then JFK and his rookie partner, Officer Bill Carter, walk in to deliver some papers to Captain Jackson. Fredo informs them that they’ve learned nothing new. They leave after only five minutes of small talk, presenting an opportunity for Cools. He uses the voice of a different character and says loudly, “Hey, I gots a joke for ya guys.” Captain, Michelle, and Milkowski lend their undivided attention. Cools flips out a lighter and lights up a cigarette amid a silly grin. Then he says, “So Jack and Bill went up the hill…They both had a buck and a quarter. Jack came down with two-fifty…Fucking cocksucker!”

  At once they all begin laughing hysterically. And over the next hour or so they enjoy a delivered pizza, and more stories and laughter, sharing in the victories of the day. It is a memorable time for each and every one them as the feeling in the room suggests that they are optimistic that tomorrow will bring forth the same fruits.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  A few blocks away, at the county jail, the source of the impending tumultuous events tells of his day to a hungry-eared Benson through the ventilation shaft. He celebrates the horror on the jurors’ faces and lists with pride all of the news stations and major newspapers covering his story. Benson, from the other side of the vent, doesn’t understand his elation, as Benson believes the end result for Joshua is going to be nothing less than growing old and dying in a cold prison. Still he allows him to talk until he runs out of steam, then asks, “Do you think they’ll ever find Kimberly?”

  Joshua chuckles and replies, “Hell no! They’re so fucking stupid! They couldn’t find her if I left them a trail of blood; they can’t even see past the obvious.”

  “What does that mean—the obvious?”

  “I shouldn’t say anything more; they’re probably listening.” Then he changes the subject and asks Benson what all he has in his cell.

  “Ah, I’ve got a few things…some store…a few books. Do you have any good books?”

  Joshua thinks for a second and replies, “Yeah, I’ve been reading this one called Little Frankie. It’s about a nine-year-old boy who lives with his mother, and it’s set in the sixties. I’m only partway through it though. But the story goes: This little boy’s mother was called into work, and she left him in the care of her new boyfriend, who ends up getting killed in a drug deal. Then the people—this hillbilly couple—think little Frankie is the son of the man they just shot to death, so they’re now going on the run to Idaho, taking him with them.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “That’s as far as I’ve seen…or, I mean…that’s as far as I’ve read. Maybe I should read some more, and I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, do what you got to do, man—anything to keep your mind off your trial.”

  Joshua steps away from the vent and lies down on his bunk. Soon he’s forcing himself to sleep, knowing little Frankie is close.

  In an old Ford truck, little Frankie rides in the middle of the bench seat, motionless and silent. They’re traveling fast and urgently down a dark highway. To the dreamer’s eye, it is sensed that the couple will now be his new mommy and daddy. The mommy, Sally, also sits quietly, simply watching the moonlit landscape go by, with her red hair blowing in the muggy summer wind. Devoid of any makeup, she’s still a nice-looking girl, apart from being too thin and ratty. And little Frankie thinks she doesn’t appear to be much older than the high school girls that live down his street.

  At the wheel, wearing the same dirty, blue coveralls, is her husband, Abe, the man who just blasted Panama-Red to death on the front porch. He’s outwardly agitated and restless, though seemingly more so with little Frankie, since he won’t say anything, than he is over his own situation. Mile after mile goes by without getting a single word out of the young boy, but he isn’t giving up; Abe figures he will just keep talking until little Frankie says something back. “Alls them boys back home—they calls me Big Abe. Dat’s ‘cause I’m so big an’ all. Da you have a name, boy? Maybe weez could be friends?” He gets no response. So with communication lost, he attempts making funny faces, but only receives some strained laughter out of Sally. She shakes little Frankie gently, encouraging him to do the same. Yet he only stares out the windshield in utter silence, frozen, emotionally paralyzed. Then Abe, in a more serious tone, says, “I dint mean ta kill yer pa boy. I was jus’ trying ta protect me an’ my wife, an’ dat’s it.”

  “Let’s just leave it be!” Sally yells. “He’s been through enough, don’t’cha think?” She holds little Frankie tight, like a real mother, and says, “Weez gonna take real good care a you, little fella. You don’t have to worry ’bout a thing. Weez gonna take real good care and make sure you get to a good school an’ all, and you don’t need to be scared of Abe; he’s always been real good to me, an’ he’s gonna treat you all the same. Ain’t that right, Abe?”

  “Dat’s right, little fella. My sister—she lives in Idaho, an’ she gots herself a real nice place dere, an’ she has little ones too, ‘bout yer age in fact. Yer gonna be jus’ like brothers.”

  Little Frankie doesn’t budge, bodily or mentally, although the talk seems to make Sally and Abe feel better; they just smile at each other and continue on down the road, meaning every word they say.

  Joshua rouses awake, sweating in the midst of skepticism. He has the strong sense that Abe and Sally mean a lot of the things they say but feels that they’re the dangerously unreliable types who invariably voice their forethoughts of goodwill, but always seem to choose the wrong path.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  On the second day of the trial, as the lawyers begin with a number of preliminary legalities, the jurors stare in confusion at Joshua, scrutinizing his every move, desperately trying to figure out what could be churning inside his soul. They all find it hard to believe that this well-dressed, handsome young man did and said the things they heard just yesterday. Some entertain ideas of split personality and toy with thoughts of demonic possession. Others consider him an attention freak, who may very well have killed his girlfriend solely for the spotlight. But one thing they sense of Joshua is that he carries within himself the potential fuel for a centuries-old storm.

  Detective Michelle Robertson is called to the stand.

  She gingerly makes her way to the witness box with a wriggle and a nervous smile. A great deal of energy has been put into her toning down her normally flashy look, and the results are incomparable. From her easy silver-blue dress that matches her eyes to her light makeup and limited jewelry, she is stunningly classy and promising for the cameras. Later, on the news, she’ll be referred to as “The Lady Detective,” as well as offered an interview on one of the major networks, which she will gracefully decline. And although this coming evening her sense of worth will
be lifted, presently she is sitting in front of the world just trying to steady her breath.

  She is sworn in, and Milkowski approaches, asking if she was one of the arresting officers.

  “Yes, I along with Detective Cools and Sergeant Wielder’s team arrested Joshua at his residence the morning of January 5. He refused orders to exit his home and surrender peacefully, requiring Sergeant Wielder’s team to go in and forcibly extract him.”

  “Very good, Detective Robertson…or may I call you Michelle?”

  “Yes, please do,” she replies, loosening up some and adjusting the top of her dress. She does it modestly but with the confidence of a real woman.

  “Okay then, Michelle, were you also part of the interrogation process?”

  She directs her answer to the jurors as Milkowski had instructed and unknowingly drops a bombshell. “Yes, and he was somewhat of a nightmare.”

  “What do you mean when you say he was a nightmare?”

  “Well, when we first brought him in, we left him alone without handcuffs; we do that sometimes: let them sit by themselves to think about what they’ve done. We simply study them through the two-way mirror, learning their nervous tics. Next thing we know is he gets up on top of the table and starts yanking out the video monitor and before we could get in there he…he had the whole thing torn out of the wall.”

  “You lying fucking whore!” Joshua bolts to his feet, clanking his restraints.

  Judge Cooper slams her gavel. “Order! Order in the court!”

  “You lying little bitch! You motherfuckers tortured me!”

  “Order!” The judge shouts, still banging her gavel. “Order in my court!”

  “Fuck you! Fuck you all!”

  “Bailiffs, restrain him now!” Judge Cooper yells. Her command is slower than their reaction time, though, since two of them are already on top of him, holding him still with heavy knees on the back of his neck. Everyone else is in shock, deathly still. Judge Cooper looks as if she is about to apply capital punishment to him right then and there. She demands that he be stood, facing her. He’s dragged to his feet. She then points her gavel at him, stating in the most composed voice she can muster. “I am ordering you to be gagged for the remainder of the day. No one says things like that in my court!” She wants to utter more but painstakingly holds her tongue. She slams the gavel twice more. “This court is in recess until the defendant is properly bound and gagged.”

  The reporters scramble to set up live streaming to their news affiliates, feeding the world the curses from Joshua.

  Headlines read, “You Motherf——rs Tortured Me!”

  William and Milkowski are called into Judge Cooper’s chambers after the bailiffs haul Joshua away. Not a pebble of what they discuss is known, although a mountain of speculation stimulates numerous media theorists. They surmise everything from the most probable—that they’re having a discussion regarding Joshua’s outburst and how best to control him—to giving credit to his claims of being abused by the police.

  Soon, everyone is returned to their positions, and Joshua is brought back in. But he doesn’t wear the gag Judge Cooper ordered, mostly due to the reality that it would appear excessive as it played later on national news. But his ribs are now sore, and one of the bailiffs is standing three feet from him, wielding a Taser.

  Michelle is called again; this time she appears more nervous than before. And Milkowski, wanting to get her through this as soon as possible, begins questioning her about what Joshua said during his interrogation. She slumps and becomes visibly weak; the jurors can see her revisiting a time of personal anguish. “He taunted me, saying that my husband was going to burn in hell because he doesn’t go to church.” She starts to weep. “And he leered at me, sharing his desire to have sex with me. But he didn’t use those words. Then…” She fights her emotions. “Then he presented me with a proposition. He said if I did something…that he…he would confess and write a statement. And that’s my job. To get them to confess,” she adds, defending herself.

  The jurors are puzzled, gripped.

  “What did he ask you to do, Michelle?”

  She begins to tremble as she pulls a folded sheet of paper from her purse. Then she looks at the cameras. She looks for Cools, but he isn’t there. “I don’t know if I can do this…I don’t know if I…”

  Milkowski holds her hand, reassuring her that everything will be all right.

  Judge Cooper interjects, asking if she needs a break, but Milkowski answers on her behalf. “No, Your Honor, she can do this…This is what she is. Detective Michelle Robertson was created for this post, to not only search out the truth, but to bring her findings before the court.”

  Instantly she begins to weep out loud, though only for a second as she abruptly regains her composure and through newfound inspiration opens the folded paper and reads. “His request required of me to get down on my knees.” She shakes the paper out of frustration, although it doesn’t change the words written upon it. “And I said these things because it is my job to do so! I said, ‘Oh God, Joshua, father of all creation, I pray to thee and ask for you to forgive me of my sins.’”

  The crowd begins to murmur.

  Joshua smirks contently.

  Milkowski whispers, “You did well.” They share a brief moment, even if it is short-lived, seeing that he now has to turn her over to the defense.

  William stands, remaining at his table. And from across the room, he directs a long and peculiar gaze at her conspicuous cleavage. “Detective Robertson,” he asks, “is that a cross necklace you’re wearing?”

  She clutches it in her hand, answering yes.

  “And are you a Christian?”

  “Objection: I do not see how the witness’s religious preference is permissible in this court.”

  William counters. “Your Honor, the witness just testified to praying to my client. I think it’s reasonable to ask if this is a common practice among her beliefs.”

  “Overruled: Detective Robertson, you’re to answer the defense’s question.”

  “Yes, yes, I am.”

  “Hmm…So enlighten me, Detective Robertson, is praying to a man an ordinary practice in your religion?”

  “No, it is not!” Michelle retorts, feeling the room’s judgment of her.

  “Is it blasphemous?”

  “I believe so…it is.”

  “So tell me, Detective Robertson, if you are willing to blaspheme your Lord and Christ, what wouldn’t you do to get a statement? Wait. Wait a second, Detective Robertson. I don’t want you to answer that question.” Everyone looks to William, trying to understand. Then he adds, “I like you, and I don’t want you to perjure yourself.” And before Milkowski can object, William declares, “I have no further questions for this witness.”

  Judge Cooper subsequently jumps in and calls for a twenty-minute recess. Everyone disperses, excluding Milkowski, who remains seated and a bit concerned as he watches Michelle escaping through the back. All in all, she did well, he thinks, except he doesn’t understand why she answered the question relating to the video camera differently than they had explained to him before.

  When court resumes, Detective Bradley Cools is called.

  He enters the courtroom, excited for the opportunity to drive one of the final nails into Joshua’s coffin. Without missing a beat, he walks briskly past the defense table, purposely shunning Team Siconolfi, and in midstride nods to the jurors. They accept him right away. Milkowski waits for him to position himself in the witness stand before asking any questions. Next, they systematically go over every detail of his part in the investigation. Then he’s turned over to the defense. Milkowski holds inner worries as he returns to the prosecution table. Please be levelheaded. Please don’t fuck this up.

  William springs out of his seat, marches aggressively toward the witness box, and, in a loud accusing tone, asks, “What exactly did you say privately to my client outside his home the morning of December 29?”

  Cools smiles, amusingly
at William’s intimidation attempt, and replies freely, “I inquired of the defendant as to the whereabouts of his wife.”

  “I didn’t ask you what you asked him. I asked you what you said to him.”

  “Maybe I don’t get your meaning; I do not recall saying anything to him.” He turns to the jurors. “I’m a detective. I only ask questions.”

  “Well, allow me to refresh your memory. I’m sure you remember threatening Mr. Siconolfi with your gun.”

  “Objection: Your Honor, this is argumentative.”

  “Sustained: That will be enough of that, William,” Judge Cooper says firmly.

  “Okay, Your Honor, I will rephrase the question. Detective, did you threaten Mr. Siconolfi with your gun?”

  “Absolutely not,” Cools answers straight to the jurors, most of who return warm sentiments, bolstering his confidence.

  William mutters lightly under his breath, “Chelsea’s a sweet little slut,” then asks the courtroom, “Detective, did you at any time during your investigation threaten Mr. Siconolfi by means of planting his DNA?”

  “No, I did not!” he answers, raising his voice.

  Milkowski waves a hand, telling him to slow down, as Joshua looks across the jury box, shaking his head and mouthing, “Yes, he did. Yes, he did.”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d be less of a man without your gun.”

  “Objection: Your Honor, he is merely badgering the witness!”