by Marvin Kaye
Sextette between sympathetic and diabolical vampires. "Vanilla
Blood" closes the tally with some particularly nasty bloodsuckers!
WELL, THEN. WE might as well begin in the middle. Because the beginning
has been done to death, hasn't it? The discovery of the bodies, the cross-country
chase, even the allegations of police brutality… you've seen it on CNN. 60
Minutes. 20/20. Hard Copy. Graphic detail. You saw it all.
You saw her face. Pale as Ophelia in the bathtub of blood. The half-formed
smile. The eyes, wide, emerald green, the soggy blonde hair that wound about the
corpse like a seaweed garnish; the skin, luminescent, of a piece with the porcelain
she lay in; naked, of course, but they didn't show that on TV. If you were lucky,
you caught the nudity when the camera lingered on the photos that first day on
Court TV, marking the exhibits one by one, starting with the crime -scene
photographs.
You saw it; we can dispense with it.
You saw the perp on the cover of Newsweek. How young he looked!
Anyone's kid, really—a nice southern boy. Tried as an adult? You didn't really
want to agree with the prosecutors—he seemed so good-looking, so vulnerable,
so… in need of a friendly social worker. Stared right through the camera and into
your eyes… and into your heart.
Even the Pope sent a letter. As if that would have done much good here, right
in the heart of Catholic-hating Klan country.
And then there was the lawyer. Pro bono, of course. A man who had been on
every dream team in every high-profile trial in the last ten years. A talking head on
Court TV. Once rendered Pat Buchanan speechless on Crossfire. He, too, had
made the cover of Newsweek. But that was the "Superlawyers" cover story last
year.
The prosecutor. An ice queen. Considered more robot than human… at least
until Flynt released the nude pics. You know this. You've spent whole watercooler
breaks discussing her anatomy. Oh, yes, she was a natural redhead all right.
Unless, of course, she had taken the trouble to dye… down there.
What a bitch! But an appealing one.
And the judge. He fumbled his way through the last big one, an eighteen-month
soap opera of celebrity murder, money, and sex. Now he had learned his lesson,
and he was breathing fire, not taking any shit.
You are familiar with all these figures, I'm sure—there aren't many people in
America who aren't. The Saturday Night Live parody alone said more than this
brief memoir ever could.
So, instead, we'll start in the middle…just seconds after Judge Trepte kicked
the cameras out of the courtroom.
We'll even go so far as to begin in the middle of a sentence.
—gone yet? Good, good.
—Sir? Get that thing out of my courtroom. Thank you. All the way out. When
I kick out the cameras, sir, I kick out the cameras; I don't mean to have them
lurking about in the anteroom. I mean, out, out, out.
—But, Your Honor, we've paid generously for the broadcast rights to—all
right, Your Honor. Yes, sir. Good-bye, sir. Thank you, sir.
…
—and now, Counselor, you will reveal to this court exactly why your next
witness is arriving in so remarkable a fashion.
—He always travels this way, Your Honor.
—Objection! The defense is attempting to offer a corpse as a defense witness!
—You must admit, Counselor, that the prosecution does have a point.
—He's not exactly dead, Your Honor. He just travels this way.
—In a coffin.
—Yes, Your Honor.
—Well, I'll be damned. Strike that. I think you will all agree that I made the
right call in getting rid of the press. We can all relax now and get to the bottom of
this nonsense, without getting yet another lead story on the CBS Evening News.
Miss Anderson, strike all that—all of it. This is not going to be a trial for the TV
trial junkies. No. This is life and death… some would add even undeath. Don't
expect me to run this courtroom like Judge Itoh. More like Judge Dredd. Strike
that, too, Miss Anderson, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike. Now I'll stop
pontificating and turn things over to you overpaid lawyers.
—The prosecution continues to object, Your Honor.
—Sustained.
—Your Honor, we cannot present this case without this witness's testimony.
—Then I will reconsider the objection when the witness deigns to get out of
the coffin.
—He can't yet, Your Honor. But I believe he will be able to in about five
minutes…
—Five minutes you may have. The court will recess for five minutes… no, let's
say ten. Some of us still smoke.
—Well, Counselor?
—I don't understand it, Your Honor, but the witness doesn't appear to have
stirred.
—Does the defense counsel propose to attempt to resuscitate the witness? We
do have paramedics on call, do we not? Or will smelling salts do the trick?
—Your Honor, this has gone on far enough. Defense's sense of the theatrical is
a little ill-timed, don't you think? I mean, they defend a few big-name actors, they
think they're Perry Mason. Can I continue to state my objection?
—Your objection stands. Bring on your next witness, Counselor.
—We confess, Your Honor, we're sort of at a loss. In view of the apparent
immobility of our star witness, we'd like to… ah… may I look at my notes?…
Jeremy Kindred. Yes. He's on the list.
—Very well.
—State your name for the record.
—Jeremy William Kindred.
—How old are you, Jeremy?
—I'm… I don't know exactly. Fifteen, sixteen.
—Are you a vampire?
—Yes.
—Are you a member of the group variously known as the Brotherhood of
Blood, the Cult, the Vampire Society?
—I was, sir.
—You were?
—I was for a while, sir, but it was just what you'd call peer pressure, and no
sir, I didn't kill nobody, didn't drink nobody's blood.
—Just answer the question, young man.
—Uh, sure, Your Honor.
—Tell us about it… in your own words, if you'd like.
—Objection! This is all irrelevant. The witness wasn't even at the killing. He's
just wasting the jury's time.
—I think it's important to my case, Your Honor, that we clearly illustrate the
circumstances under which these kids could come to believe that these crimes
were not only acceptable, but desirable.
—Listen. The cameras are off, Counselors. There's no more need for
posturing. The jury is going to zone out completely unless you entertain them with
a good story. So, kid, let's have it.
—Uh…
—You may proceed, Jeremy.
—Well, sir, I really joined it for the sex. I mean, there was a rumor that the
Brotherhood had these orgies in the old Hanson house.
—That's an abandoned house?
—Yes, sir, by the cemetery. I don't know why it ain't been tore down yet; it's
kinda an eyesore. It's condemned, though. I always used to walk past it on my
way to school. It's a big old place, creaky doors, peeling paint, scary statues of
devils with
leathery wings… and the big angel with the bronze sword… not shiny
anymore, green mostly… not since the ringleaders of the Brotherhood was all put
in jail. But that used to be the weirdest thing about that place. It was all crumbling
and dirty except for that sword. That tall angel stood next to them wrought-iron
gates and it held its sword high in the air and the sword was all polished… and
you know, walking to school in winter, with the sun just rising, you could of swore
that thing was on fire. The way it caught the sunlight. So the kids called it the
Flaming Sword, like the preacher says about the Angel of Death. Anyways… there
was this rumor that someone had wild parties there… you might call them raves, I
guess… lotta E, lotta dope, lotta loose wenches, if you know what I mean. So
when Cat Sperling kept looking at me from the other end of the hall, she was a
senior and all, with tits like balloons, you could say I was interested. Everyone
knew that Cat had something to do with them parties. And everyone wanted that
bitch, shit, even the girls wanted her. But there's something weird about her that
you need to know. It wasn't no big Hollywood special-effect kinda thing but…
she carried the night around with her…
—Could you explain that a little more clearly, Jeremy? Take your time.
—Well, sir, it didn't matter if the sun was out, or if all the lights was on inside
that school room. She always had like a shadow on her. Her skin was real pale,
and it glimmered… well, like the moon was shining… but just on her, you
understand, just on her. There was a silvery thing about her eyes, too… you know
like when you're in the woods all alone at night and you catch the moonlight
dancing amongst the leaves… you catch my drift, sir?
—You're saying she was attractive. She had a unique look. Some kind of
makeup, perhaps.
—Yeah well, it was like on no infomercial about pearly essence face cream… a
lotta girls use that shit… she was different. It was like she was the real thing, and
the others were all just imitating her. Did I tell you about the black hair? It was
long, all the way to her waist. And she wore black lipstick. It matched.
—A Goth, then.
—More than that. Like I said. Not a wanna-be. The real thing.
—Objection, Your Honor, I fail to see how this catalog of feminine charms has
any relevance whatsoever to the defense's case!
—Stop posturing, Counselor. I've sent away the cameras; and the jury looks
awake for the first time since this sorry spectacle began. I'm going to allow it. You
may proceed, Mr. Kindred.
—Just tell the story in your own words, Jeremy.
—Well, I still think he's fishing, Your Honor.
—I've already overruled your objection.
—Jeremy?
—Yes sir. Cat Sperling, sir.
—Cat Sperling let you know, through some kind of sign language or eye
contact, that she had something to discuss with you.
—Not exactly, sir.
—What did she let you know?
—She wanted to fuck me, sir.
—Watch your language, young man! Try to act in a manner consistent with the
dignity and majesty of the law—what's left of it!
—I'm sorry, Your Honor; I don't know no other word for what she was trying
to say.
—Very well, then. The court will take into account the deprived environment
you clearly come from.
—I ain't no trailer trash, Your Honor!
—Quite so, young man, quite so. Why don't you finish telling your story to the
court?
—Sure, Your Honor. Like I said, I got the Look from her. There ain't no
mistaking the Look, sir. From all the way across the hall, and I knew she wanted
me. Well, so there's a place you go to when you give someone the Look… at least
that's how it works at Edward Kramer High. The place is up on a hill, you know,
the hill just north of the cemetery. There's a road that winds up, and a hiking trail
as well. At Kramer, we don't need to pass notes; it's a tradition; you get the Look,
and if you give the Look back, then you go meet on the hill. If you hold up one
finger, it means tonight, two fingers means we'll set a time later. Well, Cat held up
one finger; everyone saw it, even if they didn't say nothing; Kramer ain't a kissand-tell kind of a school.
—It's an ancient tradition, then.
—I'd say so, sir.
—One that your parents would know about. That even a few members of this
jury may well have experienced, if they happened to have gone to your high
school.
—Did Cat Sperling meet you on the hill that night?
—Yes, sir.
—Did she then proceed to initiate you into the Brotherhood of Blood?
—Oh, no, sir. You can't get in just like that.
—Tell the court what happened, Jeremy.
—Well, that night, I went up to the hill. I borrowed my mom's Malibu. I don't
have a license, but you said I'd have immunity, right?
—This is a multiple-murder case, Jeremy. I don't think the court is too worried
about your license.
—Okay, okay. Well, she was waiting there all right. She was every bit as
enticing as the rumors said. It was windy and her hair was flying every which
way… and catching the moonlight. She leaned against a tree with a joint in one
hand… I can say that, can't I?… and her eyes were wild. I couldn't believe my
luck. I mean, to tell you the truth, I'd never done it before. Unless you count, one
time, in summer camp—
—That's all right, Jeremy. I don't think the court needs an exegesis of your
sexual experiences.
—Okay. So she says to me, Jeremy Kindred, I've had my eye on you. You're a
good-looking kid. And I says, Yeah, they say that. I'm tall for my age, almost six
feet already. And she says, You got that unplucked look. Like a glistening round
apple in a tree… a fresh smell, apple-scented shampoo maybe, a little-kid smell in
a big-kid body… and I know how much you want me, seen how you stare at
me—across the hallway or last week when we had that big assembly with the
Yankee AIDS speaker. Here, take a drag of this, it'll relax you; I know your heart's
pounding, boy. Really pull on it, hard, I mean hard. Come closer. You always
wanted to touch them, didn't you? Here. Put your hand on them. Through the
sweater for now, I ain't no whore… I know you like it, Jeremy Kindred. So well, I
felt them titties, and they were fine. Firmer than I thought they'd be. Fairly straining
against the wool they was. Got a rise out of me, lemme tell you. It was something
to be alone on the hill with Cat Sperling. It sure turned my head. I didn't even think
nothing of it when she asked for a drop of blood.
—So let me get this straight, Jeremy. This woman, this older woman—
—She won't but three years older than me, sir, if that!—
—Well, for the sake of argument, a slightly older and certainly much more
sophisticated woman… lures you to a well-known trysting spot… gets you all hot
and bothered… and suddenly asks to drink your blood?
—She didn't say drink, sir. You're jumping the gun on the story. She just said,
Jeremy, you cute-as-a-button boy toy, let me have a drop
of blood. The drinking
didn't rightly occur to me, not at that moment… I don't know what was occurring
to me, really, excepting I wanted to get inside her jeans something fierce. I knew
she was a member of that Brotherhood thing, so blood had to figure in it
somewhere… like swearing blood brotherhood with your best buddy in junior
high or something. Well, she asked for a drop of blood, and by now we were in
the backseat of the Malibu, I forgot to say that, didn't I?… and I was reaching into
her jeans… it didn't feel down there like I thought it would… more leathery… and
slick… like a beat-up old wallet. And she was all, I have a needle here, and I just
need a little bit, just a thimbleful would do the trick right fine. And she reached into
a back pocket and pulled out a hypodermic. The needle glinted in the moonlight
that reflected off the rearview mirror and you know what, it made me mighty hard,
more than I'd ever felt before in my life, 'cause I guess there was something dark
about it, something forbidden… and this was how she did it… she yanked my
pants down to my knees and kinda crouched down and pushed me up into her,
and at the same time she jabbed that needle into my chest, like she was fixing to
impale my heart. Well, I can't tell you how that made me feel, I mean, I just about
burst right then and there, after being inside of her only a minute … and then I
thought, well, I'm screwed for sure, because Cat Sperling ain't gonna want a green
kid who can't last but a minute inside the famousest pussy in town.
—Your Honor, I simply have to object. I just don't see how this catalog of
adolescent fumbling can possibly relate to the defense's case.
—If you'd bear with me for a second, Your Honor, I believe the witness is
about to reach a crucial point of evidence in the defense's case… the blood.
—All right, Counselor. But if you don't reach some kind of relevance within
the next two minutes—
—Jeremy, tell the court about what happened next.
—Well, sir, she didn't seem to pay no mind to the fact that I come inside her.
She was only interested in the blood. When she saw that stream of red gushing
into that syringe, she started thrashing and heaving and carrying on something
fierce. She was all moaning, too… and shrieking… like a passel of cats in a back
