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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  As soon as Betty leaves the party, Panama-Red takes over, and the mood changes steadily. Within an hour the stereo is playing full blast, with harder music, and the volleyball yard has altered into dancing and drunken mischief. Most of Betty’s friends have left and been replaced by Panama-Red’s rougher-looking and much louder compadres, who begin to frighten little Frankie. They blow the smoke from their funny-smelling cigarettes into his face and sniff white powder from the coffee table. A few of the thugs even take turns punching him in the arm to gauge his strength while voicing troubling comments about his mother.

  Then suddenly a black man, one little Frankie has never seen before, bursts in the front door and yells, “Panama! Panama, we’ve got a fucking problem, man!”

  Panama, clearly startled from his statement, recklessly shoves the coffee table out of his way, messing up the rows of white powder he’s been working so hard on, and springs to his feet. “Be cool, man. What’s going down?” The music is turned off, and the party comes to an immediate halt.

  The black man surveys the room and its company, deciding something. “Not here, man. Where can I tell you about it?”

  Panama squints and answers by motioning the black man to follow him into Betty’s bedroom. They quickly make their way inside, slamming the door shut behind them. Little Frankie can hear a torrent of yelling from inside her room as everyone else pretends to ignore it, some even deciding it’s a good time to leave. Confused, little Frankie stands unmoving, wishing his mother were still there. He watches the bedroom door, praying that it doesn’t open.

  Then after a long, rage-filled dispute, they come out, and immediately Panama begins yelling, “Everyone out, now!” But apparently people aren’t moving fast enough, so he yells again, “Everyone get the fuck out now!” He begins picking up their jackets and throwing them at his less-than-happy friends, still shouting, “Go! Get the fuck out of here!” Then, as the last of them hurry out the front door, he puts on his jacket, retrieves a gun from under the couch cushion, and says, “Ah fuck! We have to take the kid.”

  Four hours later Joshua awakens back in present time. The pain medication has dissipated, and although he has a mountain of current troubles of his own, he can only think of little Frankie. He senses that undeniable connection with him, as he lies there, longing for the return of his own mother.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Two days later at three thirty in the afternoon, and after a good deal of anticipation, Joshua is said to be appearing in court. Speculation has been rising regarding the suspicious mix-up over where he has been. And some believe they have been detoured though a spinning circle of misinformation. But those who wish to publish Joshua’s story do not dare compromise their relationship with the police. They tread a fine line between gaining the facts and pissing off their sources. And now they wait restlessly in a courtroom filled to capacity inside the King County courthouse.

  Cools and Michelle sit near the front, suitably out of the microphones’ reach. They have just spent the last fifty-five hours hiding from and shunning journalists and columnists of every kind, all wanting interviews for their newspapers and sensationalist magazines. Joshua is fast and furiously becoming the story of the year, and anyone close to him is considered exceedingly valuable, especially the arresting detectives. They sit close, protecting each other, so close in fact that Michelle can smell the liquor on his breath. She worries about him and knows why he went to his car earlier. It wasn’t, as he said, to get his notepad; it was to gulp a few drinks from the bottle he hides under the seat. But at least this way he’s calmer, she concludes. He catches her staring at him and just pats her on the leg. It’s not a time for conversation since both their minds are puzzling over the news declared to them this morning from Officer Smithe, investigating the suicide of Trace Friesen in Tacoma: the verified parallel that William Siconolfi and Trace Friesen—two very powerful and ambitious men, who are tightly woven together in the midst of a stormy scandal—both hold seats in the private balcony of the same parish.

  Michelle had Ghost crunch the data, using what he calls coincidence of circumstance software. He explained to her that, given the population of the greater Seattle-Tacoma region of approximately 3.4 million, the probabilities of two prominent men being tied to the same place of worship, a secret love affair, a murder, and a suicide gave a rating of “highly improbable.” Ghost clarified that he ran the information as raw data, taking in consideration the unlikelihood of Trace and Kimberly ever having a chance encounter at the church. Everyone agreed that no evidence or even a remote possibility could be considered that either Joshua or Kimberly ever attended services at the parish. Ra is their god, an opposing religion to the church. Also there is no evidence supporting that Trace Friesen and William had any dealings together, financial, professional, or otherwise. And even in the event they did, would it make sense that William would introduce Trace Friesen, a well-known political figure and fellow parishioner, to his crazy son and stripper wife?

  Captain Jackson enters and makes his way through the reporters while sidestepping only one question. “All I can tell you is I’ve been informed from the jail authorities that he was uncooperative and had to be moved for a short time to Western State Hospital for evaluations, and now he’s back here in King County. All right, now, that is all.” Then he strides to the front, where a spot is waiting for him next to Detective Fredo. He frowns, shaking his head in annoyance to Michelle and Cools before sitting in the adjacent section of seats.

  Then the prosecution entourage arrives, dismissing the mob in an air of conceit. Milkowski, holding an armload of briefs, stops and whispers something to Captain Jackson before seizing his table directly in front of Cools and Michelle. The rest of his team fills most of the table with folders, and they all cozy in next to each other, lining up for war.

  Sheriffs and bailiffs, doing their best to keep the excitement in the courtroom to a professional level, hold their posts, intimidated by the numerous cameras pointed toward the defendant’s table. The logos read BBC, MSNBC, FOX News, CNN, and Associated Press—all surrounded in a sea of other journalists and magazine writers, every one of them readied to feed the ferocious tabloid hunger. They’ve discovered a bottomless reserve of fodder, in Joshua, and today the film is rolling to catch every bit of what may come.

  Their handheld cameras begin flashing as William strolls in wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit. Everyone knows exactly who he is because his pictures have been circulating on the news over the last couple of days, the story being that he’s been on a discreet assignment in Vatican City. Questions are blurted, attacking every angle.

  “Will you be personally defending Joshua?”

  “Will your son be pleading not guilty?”

  “How does Archbishop Malea view the defense of your son?”

  William raises his hands, quieting them in preparation for a statement. He looks regal and plays his part well. After a few moments, they settle.

  “First and foremost I would like to state the fact that Joshua Siconolfi is one hundred percent innocent! And yes, I will be representing him. Also, to answer your question, I have spoken in private with Archbishop Malea, where he counseled me too follow my divine calling to be here. That is all I have at this time,” he adds and then slices through the room to the defense table. Tracking close behind him are four of his male colleagues and a woman, who seems out of place. She scoots through them as the defense and the prosecution teams share proper acknowledgements, finding her station under the judge’s bench. There she makes a short phone call.

  “All rise for the Honorable Judge Cooper!”

  Michelle grips Cools’s hand, interlocking fingers as they stand. A small door opens behind the bench, and Judge Cooper steps in briskly with an air of preparedness. The cameras lock onto her. Through their lenses her image fits nicely, as she is a stern-looking, firm-statured woman in her fifties, wearing a simple head of graying hair—very judge-like. She takes her chair and, with a strict ha
nd, waves everyone to be silent.

  “You may be seated.”

  The clerk announces, “Next on the docket, we have number 7519650, Joshua P. Siconolfi.” A door to the side of the courtroom opens, and the bailiff escorts him in, in handcuffs and shackles. William stands, and Joshua grins for the cameras. They love him; he’s camera friendly, mysterious, utterly diabolical, and as of late, he is the news. And even though many in the courtroom do not see him as such a rock star, he prevails still. His light blond hair is wetted and messy. And the orange jumpsuit fits him nicely (under which most picture the thin, muscular physique previously seen in swim shots). He clangs over to the defense table, receiving a brief hug from his father, and stands before Judge Cooper, who doesn’t afford him a second look since she’s a no-nonsense arbiter who tries little to hide her emotions. On this day her countenance reads of utter contemp. Cools and Michelle share the same disdain as she, except they cannot take their eyes from him—for different reasons than most, as they are searching his face for signs of trauma, though he appears to be fully recovered.

  The noise level slowly rises in the heat of it all. Judge Cooper bangs her gavel, addressing the crowd curtly before things get out of hand. “I can close these proceedings to the public in an instant! If anyone makes an outburst in my courtroom, I assure you that you will spend the night in my jail. Your being here is a privilege that I have granted, and one that will be respected. I want silence. And all cell phones will be turned off.” She stares at the crowd for a moment then turns to Joshua. “Is your full, complete name Joshua Paul Siconolfi?”

  He compliantly answers, “Yes, Your Honor,” then smiles for his attention givers.

  Judge Cooper ignores his antics, stating frankly, “You are being charged by the state of Washington with murder in the first degree, which is a capital offense and can be punishable by death. How do you plea?”

  William, standing next to his son, speaks softly into his ear. Everyone holds their breath, willing him to say something outrageous or maybe even recite another one of his poems.

  “I plead not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “Duly noted; the defendant pleaded not guilty. So now I will consider granting bail.” She looks to the prosecution table.

  Milkowski rises as some of the cameras pan. “Your Honor, we have sufficient evidence, including a signed confession, to convict Mr. Siconolfi with this crime.” All reporters look back and forth to each other, seemingly perplexed; in all of their eyes burns the same question: did he just say they have a signed confession? Milkowski moves along. “And also, I would like to add, he is currently under investigation for thirty-four—yes, thirty-four—other missing persons, all young women. He has an extensive history of violence and has not been cooperative while in custody, so we would like to request the court not to grant bail.”

  The judge makes some notations on an unseen tablet then looks straight to William, purposely disregarding Joshua, and says, “At this time I will grant you a few minutes to surmise as to why I should not follow the petition of the prosecution.”

  William shines a welcoming smile. “Your Honor, with all due respect to the prosecution in this case, there simply is not enough evidence to prove any crime has been committed, let alone that the defendant is responsible. And it is my understanding that any ongoing investigations concerning missing persons are based solely on a list of names written in a book. There is not any evidence that this is his book or that he’s the one who wrote the names in it. So I would ask that you realize the gravity of the situation—that is, these unsubstantiated claims are the telltale signs of a desperate prosecutor who is motivated by the spotlight.” Milkowski shakes his head. William carries on. “Now, my client has had some issues in the past, most due in part to alcoholism. And he has paid his debt to society.” William continues his narrative, speaking amid well-practiced hand gestures. “And I am pleased to inform the court that he no longer uses alcohol and attends Alcoholics Anonymous regularly.” Judge Cooper rolls her eyes, recalling the report she’d read detailing the cocktail Joshua was holding when police were dispatched to his home. She glances at him, seeing he is wearing his innocent-little-boy face as William adjusts, recatching her view. “Also, Your Honor, my client is a homeowner here in the great city of Seattle. And if need be, he could, with any reasonable conditions, be remanded into my personal care, where I would assume full responsibility for him while awaiting the dismissal of these charges.” Judge Cooper again rolls her eyes, this time blatantly. William, noticing her impatience, closes. “So, Your Honor, my client is in no way any threat to the community, and I am pleading with the court for bail to be set and to be set within reason. Thank you.”

  All interest shifts to Judge Cooper. She scans over her notes, looks directly at Joshua, and replies, “I have already read statements from both the prosecution and your attorney concerning bail, and I set your bail at fifty million dollars.”

  Rumblings begin to mount. Michelle mutters, “Thank God.”

  Judge Cooper raps her gavel and, in a sharp tone, says, “Moving forward!” Then she spends a minute reviewing her paperwork and advances procedurally. “I am going to set a trial date for June 17.”

  Joshua yells out unexpectedly, “I demand my right to a speedy trial!” Everyone listens intently, hoping for more, since his statement feels like only the fuse has been lit.

  “I clearly instructed you to be quiet!” She waves her gavel, staring at him, signifying her control over his future. Then she adds in inflexible terms, “You will be silent, or I will have the bailiff gag you and strap you to a chair if I need too.” These are her only words, but other threats are made with her staunch expression. William also scolds him inaudibly as she waits for him to comply.

  There is a tense moment of resistance before Joshua responds with a simple, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The room relaxes as she returns to her notes. “Fine, I will grant you your request and set trial for February 19—that’s six weeks from today. That is all,” she says sharply, before banging her gavel and excusing herself promptly.

  Joshua is quickly escorted away as his father assures him he will be visiting him soon.

  The reporters, disappointed he didn’t make a scene or utter some evil verse, scurry out of the courtroom to transmit the details to their awaiting stations. William joins them outside the court. And even in the early beginnings of his tirade, his skills and strategy are apparent. The drumbeat is scored, repeating over and over again of Joshua’s innocence while defending his right to practice the religion of his choice, making claims that this is a modern-day witch hunt. Then, unlike his son, he doesn’t let them down; he gives them what any one of them would literally kill for to have exclusively. He holds his hands high and says, “I have an extremely important admission to include.” All attention is on him. “I was not a good father, and I…” He bows his head with a hint of shame; his eyes moisten. The cameras are captivated, sensing something nuclear. William becomes visibly and uncharacteristically fragile and is obviously struggling to press forward. “Joshua…Joshua, my one and only son, is and always has been eccentric, to say the least; he suffers from numerous afflictions, including paranoia and schizophrenia. I know you think he’s a monster, but I assure you he is not.” William fights himself to keep it together, and his battle is heartfelt; compassion is extended to him by everyone in the hallway as he tells all. “My Joshua is a very confused young man…and Kimberly…his wife…is a figment of his imagination. She has never really existed!”

  At first everyone is speechless, until one of them argues, “But we have her photo.”

  William holds his hand over his forehead, giving his reply, “And if you visit his home, you will find the same portrait hanging in his living room. But I assure you: it was most likely stolen from the photography studio he worked at during college. Kimberly is simply not a real person! That’s why they will never find a body. She is made up—his supposed lover. She is not missing or dead; she’s merel
y his delusion!”

  Thirty seconds later newscasters from around the world interrupt their broadcasts with various declarations.

  “News alert.”

  “Breaking news.”

  “This just in…”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Oh my God, are you freaking kidding me! We have to prove that Kimberly is real! A woman who has no family except for… what…an aunt somewhere in the Midwest, and her best—maybe only—friend, Amberly, is missing; her boyfriend has committed suicide, and her husband is a freaking psychopath.” Michelle finds it difficult to mention a woman’s boyfriend and husband in the same sentence, but right now that is the least of her worries. She wants to pull her hair out, and Captain Jackson, her partner, and Ghost are not saying a goddamned thing. “Are you getting anything?” she demands from Ghost.

  “I’m working on it,” he replies, without taking his sight from the computer screen.

  “So what do we do now? We have to run around…and what?”

  “Settle down,” Cools says, trying to quiet her so he can think. “All we have to do is get the marriage certificate, find a couple of strippers who’ll say that they knew her, and use the GPS tracking system from the yacht and locate her body. She’s out there—I know it!”

  “No!” Captain Jackson jumps in. “It’s not gonna be that easy. I just spoke with Milkowski, and he tells me that this is unusually problematic; it’s a real tricky-sticky situation. And although he assures me it can be done—that is, convicting someone of murder without a body—it cannot be done if her very existence is in question. And have either of you even considered the fact that maybe she isn’t real? What if he’s messed-up in ways we cannot even imagine? No, our hands are tied. We have to prove Kimberly was an actual person, that she was in fact Joshua’s wife. And that is exactly what we’re gonna do. So, first things first.”