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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “Yeah, I called the radio show and pretended to kill my wife…I was drunk, and I thought it was funny.”

  “But, Josh, you don’t have a wife, and even if you did, it’s not funny.”

  “Well, each to his own. But if you need to know, I don’t think it’s funny anymore, okay? I don’t think any of this is funny, especially them trying to charge me with murder.”

  “Listen to me, Josh. They are charging you with murder, and in the first degree, and you have to answer some questions. Now, I need you to tell me why there’s some woman’s blood on a boat you rented.”

  “If I tell you, you’re just going to diminish my religion, like you always do.”

  “No, I won’t Josh. Now, I need to know, and I need to hear from you: why is there blood?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but first you have to understand that my religion is real, Dad—not like Kimmy, but really real.”

  At the prosecution table, Milkowski closes his eyes and shakes his head, now understanding what he’s gotten himself into. The jurors don’t even notice because they’re glued to Joshua inside his transparent partition, envisioning the meeting between father and son.

  “I know it’s hard for you to accept the fact that I have a differing belief than most. But it is you that does not understand. I pray to Ra, the true God. And I give sacrifice to Ra on the winter solstice, since it is required of me.”

  The word sacrifice buzzes in everyone’s ears. And there’s a sense that they may very well be listening to a confession with some sort of religious argument.

  “Wait a goddamned minute, Josh. You’re lying! Now, I’ve heard your talk of this winter solstice bullshit before, and I looked it up. The winter solstice is on the fucking twenty-second, not the twenty-sixth of December, when you took the boat out!”

  “That’s because you do not comprehend that the universe changes and that millennia have passed. Also that your religion was spawned from mine. I am remembering the true solstice, or Sheiva ta, from the Tablet of Origins, or its more familiar English translation, the Sabbath! It is you that denies your obedience to remembering the Sabbath!”

  “Uh-huh, okay, well…So it was the solstice then. Still, what were you doing?”

  “I was giving a sacrifice of many items, including letters of poetry, herbs, wheat, maize, pottery that I had labored hours over, and our blood. I took them out to sea at the appointed time, and I placed all the sacraments in a vessel; this time I used a crab pot to lower them to the sea floor. And in doing so, one of the urns holding our blood spilled onto the boat railing—this one obviously Kimmy’s.”

  Milkowski, failing to remember what had happened the last time, tosses his pen in the air. He attempts to apologize but is at a loss for words since he has just listened to Team Siconolfi explain away everything.

  “But, Josh, listen to me. Kimberly isn’t real! Whose blood did you have?”

  There’s an extended silence. Everyone in the courtroom can hear the other breathe.

  “Answer me, Josh! Whose blood did you have?”

  “I got it from Amberly! But Amberly is Kimberly. She is one who lives within the dependent and the damaged—she lives within Amberly!”

  “And this Amberly—she’s the same woman who told the police that Kimberly was missing?”

  “Yes.”

  Then, with a click of the remote, the room falls still. William stands with his head down somberly. Joshua appears to be innocently confused.

  Clap…clap, clap-clap…Milkowski alone starts a slow, building, sarcastic applause. The smirk he wears is a medley of admiration for the performance and repugnance for the altered realities of truth. And he no longer cares about the media watching or even what may happen to his career. All he knows is that Joshua is up next and that the gloves are coming fucking off. But then William announces that the defense rests, and all the blood drains out of him. He now realizes he won’t get his chance to cross-examine him and that he let them tell their story for free.

  He’s been played.

  Judge Cooper recognizes this as well and calls for a recess.

  Milkowski’s exhausted eyes move to a report lying on his table—the one written and hand-delivered to him by a colleague, who didn’t warrant either his trust or his confidence. He’ll probably never know which.

  At the top of the report, her name is written in delicate calligraphy: Janice Dryer. “My professional, psychological analysis of Joshua Siconolfi is that he will definitely take the stand.”

  Thirty-eight minutes later, Judge Cooper says to the jurors, “We are ready to proceed with the closing arguments. And because the state has the burden of proof, you will hear first from prosecutor Milkowski. After which counsel for the defendant will have an opportunity to argue, and then the state will have another chance for rebuttal. Prosecutor Milkowski, are you ready?”

  “Yes, I am, Your Honor.” He stands, holding a yellow legal tablet, and approaches the jurors, seemingly amused by the whole ordeal. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would like to extend to you how I feel right now. I am somewhat set aback. I have some kind weird of appreciation for their defense strategy. I do not believe I could conjure up such fantastical stories in my wildest dreams. That was a well-thought-out and well-delivered performance. But it was just that—a performance. So now let us come back to reality because we have important labors ahead.” He looks to his notes and begins. “The defendant did his part by murdering his girlfriend; I am doing my part by proving that to you, and then you will do your part by returning a verdict of guilty! So let’s get started.”

  He then takes them step by step for the next hour and forty minutes, leaving not a stone unturned, tying in jealousy, greed, uncontrolled rage, Joshua’s disgusting actions, and their blatant disregard for the oath of truth in the court. He dismisses the ridiculous assertion that Kimberly was never real and plays against their own fears, claiming that they may someday read in the paper that Joshua has done it again, and that it could be someone close to them. From previous exploration of the twelve, he knows which jurors have daughters close to Kimberly’s age, and he speaks to their heartstrings, propagating their duty to protect them, to shield them from the monsters that prey upon the weak and defenseless.

  William stares listlessly, acting as if he is bored, often checking his watch, and smirking along with Joshua.

  Finally Milkowski reaches the end of his evidence. He and his yellow legal tablet are exhausted. However, some energy has been reserved for his final assault. He raises his voice and circles dramatically, facing Joshua behind the Plexiglass barrier. “This—this fiend from hell itself brutally murdered Kimberly Wallingsford in cold blood! And he even had the deplorable narcissism to force his evil upon an audience of millions of unsuspecting listeners!” Milkowski’s tone amplifies as he charges forward with every word. “He is not a worshiper of God; he is a worshiper of pain, suffering, and hatred! He feeds off others misery. I have never truly hated a man in my life. But he is a plague upon our society that we cannot let loose. He has to be removed from our civilized world. We have to purge this wickedness from our midst. And you have to be the ones who remove him. You have to do what is right. And you have to find justice for Kimberly by delivering a verdict of guilty—guilty of murder in the first degree! That is all; thank you.”

  Judge Cooper patiently waits until he is seated before surrendering the court over to the defense. And when she does, William springs from his chair, hostile and aggressive, in an effort to outgame the prosecutor’s fervor. He cries outs, scorning, “You are an underestimated fat man!”

  Judge Cooper slams her gavel. “That’ll be enough of that, Mr. Siconolfi!”

  He ignores the judge and traverses straight to the jurors, furious. “Fiend from hell? Worshipper of pain and suffering? Plague upon our society? Purge the wickedness from our midst? Now I’m beginning to understand why he wins so much!” William stabs his finger toward him. “How dare he speak to you as if you were fools, as if you w
ould fall for his adolescent antics. Spewing excerpts that only belong in a commercial for an exorcist movie. Shame be upon him for becoming so desperate as to resort to this. Personal attacks. Character assassinations. What about the facts? What…about…the…facts?” He then mumbles his way back to his table. “I can’t believe this shit…in all my years…the balls on this effing guy.”

  There he sits, while the courtroom catches its breath, until everyone, even Joshua, positions back in their seats. Then, from his chair, he begins his prepared summation. He barks out the words circumstantial evidence, his tone critical of the phrase itself. He looks to the jurors in disgust. Again he says the words circumstantial evidence and asserts, “It is the most dangerous of its kind! How does one defend themselves when there’s no proof a crime has even occurred?” He stands searching the jurors and the room for answers. “How can a person get a fair trial when everyone is against him: the police, the media, politically motivated prosecutors, and even you yourselves? Yes, even you. Did you know that studies from acclaimed universities find that nine out of ten jurors believe the defendant to be guilty before they even step into the courtroom? So I need you all to search deep inside and ask yourselves if you can be absolutely confident that you do not hold preconceived ideas of a man who is imprisoned inside a glass box such as this.” He presents Joshua. “If a man is accused to be guilty by the police and the prosecutors, do you adhere to the same consideration? Do you say to yourselves he has to be guilty or else why would everyone else think he is? Or do you think to yourselves, he looks guilty; he must be guilty; or just simply do you believe that someone has to pay? Why not him?”

  He pauses for a second. “I understand these are tough questions, but why are they tough? It’s because deep down inside you know them to be true.” William shrugs. “We’re only human; we’re all susceptible to this. If I tell you a woman is a whore, do you question or believe? If I point out a thief in the neighborhood, do you let him roam free or do you keep a watchful eye? I tell you it is easier to stand with the accuser than to defend the accused!”

  Again he pauses for a spell, pacing up and down the jury box. Then he lowers his tone to explain further. “It is hard to oppose a counterfeit accuser, especially when you have a defendant who’s an outsider like him.” He points to Joshua. “He’s an easy target: he has no friends, and the only ones he does have, he makes up in his head; he has no children to consider; he’s strange and sometimes creepy, and he doesn’t worship the same God as most of you. If he’d lived in Salem during the 1690s he would’ve been burned alive as a witch. Oh, but you might say, well, those witch trials were hundreds of years ago. Then I would ask you a different way: what if he was a black man from the 1950s? Hits a little closer to home, doesn’t it? Oh, then you might say, well, that was another generation. But what if instead of Joshua P. Siconolfi his name was Aazim Namir Muhammad, and he was on trial this day, absent of any evidence, for conspiring an Islamic terrorist plot? Could you? Would you be prudent? Or is it easier to say to ourselves, he most likely did it. The cops think he did it. Besides, I don’t like him anyway!

  “So, this is about more than just him. It is about all of you as well.” He shakes a finger at them. “You, you, and you have all done things in your life that you regret. Do not make this one of them. Do not send an innocent man to prison for the rest of his natural life for the wrong reasons!” William stares at them; his facial muscles tremble, and he looks as if he’s about to shed tears. He swallows hard and pulls it together, then walks back to his table and thumbs through his notes, allowing a moment for everyone’s emotions to settle.

  “Okay, now let’s get to this so-called evidence. I don’t disagree with really any of the circumstantial evidence in this case; I only obviously disagree with the far-fetched interpretation of it. So what are we really dealing with here? My client childishly made a disturbing prank phone call. And personally I do not see the humor in it at all; as I presume neither do you. But just because we agree it’s not funny, doesn’t mean it wasn’t anything more than an unpopular practical joke. Maybe he fits somewhere in the category of a demented Ashton Kutcher, but not a murderer.” William sees some consensus from a few of the jurors and surmises, “Okay, so we know he’s not a very funny guy…probably doesn’t get invited to a lot of parties.”

  The jurors follow him as he begins roaming aimlessly around the courtroom, still carrying on. “Then there’s the blood, but the amount of blood found was miniscule, not life threatening, as you heard Dr. Lutin testify to. Then the prosecution alludes to the assumption that her body was put into the crab trap and tossed into the sea. Well, we’ve since found the crab trap, so where’s the body? It doesn’t add up! She couldn’t have just floated away; they searched the entire area. Most of this doesn’t make any sense at all; I’ve been sitting here for three days now trying to figure out how this prosecutor obtains his extremely high conviction rate. And I tell you: I’m deeply concerned about it; quite frankly it scares the shit out of me! I could be sitting there.” He gestures again to Joshua. “You could be sitting there someday without any solid proof that you’ve done any…thing…wrong! And I might add that given the current statistics you would only have a 1.8 percent chance of being vindicated. Nobody—I say, no…body— performs their job with 98.2 percent efficiency. Maybe prosecutor Milkowski is a mad scientist of conviction, or maybe it means this court sometimes sends innocent people to jail!”

  He walks over to his notes. “Now, let’s talk about this fantasy woman. She has so many diverse identities I can’t even keep track myself. Who is she? Kimberly Wallingsford? Kimberly Sharons? Kimberly Siconolfi? Amberly? Are Kimberly and Amberly the very same person? Is she the defendant’s wife, or girlfriend? Was she real? And if she was a real person then why doesn’t anyone claim her? Doesn’t she have a mother, a father, a step-father, a sister, an aunt, a cousin, or a best friend? Did she ever have a teacher or a guidance counselor, a business partner or an employer? Who is she? Where is she? Nobody seems to know. She’s just vanished!” He flings his hands in the air. “Disappeared completely from the face of the earth. And I don’t mean that she has vanished as of two months ago, but rather she seems to have vanished away from this earth her…entire…life!”

  He then walks over to where Joshua sits. There he inspects the enclosed box his son is held captive in; he taps on the glass, dividing some of his time for a brief connection. “You know, I had this friend in college; Buddy we called him. And Buddy wasn’t a very attractive man, although he was quite a liar… oh boy, was he ever a liar. He would share with us, in detail I might add, of his numerous sexual escapades. Invented fictions of girlfriends he never had. And I’m going to tell you right now: Buddy never had one single girlfriend. But there were more eye-witness accounts of his dreamed-up girls than there are of this Kimberly. She isn’t a real person, people! She never was. Let me make this clear: Kimberly is not a real human being! She’s the figment of an overimaginative mind. Now, I could’ve by all rights spent three more days in here with one… expert…psychological…witness…after…another, explaining all the worlds’ minds to you; however, I didn’t, because I have confidence in you. I discern that you already know that paranoid schizophrenics fabricate stories and have delusions. Yet I ask of you: what is more insane: a paranoid schizophrenic believing in his delusions or the police believing in his delusions? There’s not one shred of proof that any person is missing. The only proof in this case is the fact that my client, a person with diagnosed mental problems, was threatened by the police. Wrongly accused; illegally arrested; and tortured into writing a false statement! This we’ve proved.”

  A smirk or two from the jury tells him he may have gone too far. As a result he quickly changes the topic away from Joshua being the victim to their personal debt to the court. “You are empowered to do what is right; it is your duty to seek the truth, to attain to the facts.”

  Then he closes with zeal and passion. “Now, I want you to ask yourselves somet
hing. Do you believe that I would do everything possible to make this whole mess easy for you?” He pauses as if one of them might reply. Then he answers for them. “The answer is absolutely not! I want this to be the hardest decision you’ve ever made. I want you to know with unconditional certainty that you are making the right choice. I wouldn’t accept your verdict of not guilty— at this very moment—if you said to me that I created some reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt is bullshit! It’s the politically correct way to say that he probably did it, but some fancy lawyer made a number of arguments, and now I’m not a hundred percent sure. That is not what I demand of you. I demand more— much more! I need you to pore over all the evidence, or lack thereof. I need you to study, use your commonsense, and deliberate and then deliberate some more. I need you to know why he’s not guilty.

  “Now, you may be saying to yourselves, ‘Yeah, sure, he wouldn’t accept our quick and unstudied not guilty verdict—what difference would it make to him?’ But I tell you, it makes a world of difference to me. Because I am not asking you to just say not guilty and be done with it, since that will only be the beginning of a long and tireless journey that lays ahead for each and every one of you. I insist—I demand of you—to fight for what is true! I need you to tell them.” He swings his arm over the backdrop of news cameras. “I need you to justify Joshua P. Siconolfi to the world! Thank you.”

  “Are you done, Mr. Siconolfi?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Prosecutor, would you like to rebuttal?”

  Milkowski declines, thinking to himself that it was powerful, but it won’t matter. I still have Deputy Martinez. Plan B.