“Michelle, I told you I’m taking Lexapro, and I’m happy with that.”
“Brad, just read the advertisement,” she demands impatiently.
“Okay, fine.”
“Vitalisep acts quickly, increasing vitality and stamina without having to consume high-calorie energy drinks. It affords you the freedom to stay awake longer, be more alert, and get more done. But until you know how you will react to Vitalisep you should not drive or operate machinery. Call your healthcare professional if problems occur. In some cases side effects may cause restlessness, irritability, hallucinations, and depression, also an increased chance of suicide.”
“What chance of suicide?”
“Just keep reading, Brad!”
“Do not take with alcohol as it can develop into engaging in activities you cannot remember. Other abnormal behaviors include aggressiveness, agitation, violent actions, and/or risk taking. Some have reported dizziness, difficulty in swallowing, night sweats, and/or shortness of breath. Severe allergic reactions such as swelling of the tongue and throat occur rarely, and may be fatal. And like most medicines, Vitalisep carries some risk of dependency. When taken over extended periods, you could experience severe paranoia, confusion, nightmares, and tooth decay, loss of jobs, friends, respect, and possible imprisonment. If such problems occur, stop taking Vitalisep and call your doctor right away.
“The makers of Vitalisep would also encourage you not to take this product as it is made entirely of methamphetamine and is not sold in stores. We recommend you to consult with your physician before considering taking illegal drugs.
I am the wrongly accused Joshua Siconolfi, and I approved this message.”
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s an ad taken out and paid for by you know who, which has sparked off a ton of controversy. Many are coming out against the publisher of the magazine, asking why they would give this creep a forum to disgorge his rhetoric. The publisher defends it, stating they felt the ad was creative, thought provoking, and an inspiring anti-drug campaign. Then in addition, there’s a full page-and-a-half article on him talking about what a misunderstood person he is. But I think it’s just an attempt to soften his image. Trial begins next week, and he’s trying to sway potential jurors.”
“Yeah, he’s one resourceful son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
Then she asks in a concerned tone, “Brad, are you thinking at all…about… you know?”
“No, and neither should you. We’ve chosen our path, and it’s most likely the best decision we’ve ever made.” His words reverberate across the airwaves, ending their conversation. They both respectfully say their good-byes. But neither of them has forgotten about it, nor fully resolved to leave it be.
Chapter Forty-Five
At 3:35 a.m. Joshua’s cell door opens. He awakens in confusion as the guard yells, “Siconolfi, roll it up!”
“Huh…what?”
“Roll it up. You just made bail, so grab your stuff and come with me.”
His mind rushes as he gathers his bed roll and documents. Fifty million dollars— who would’ve…who’s paying to get me out? Could it be them?
The guard ushers him to the booking and release station, preparing him for discharge. He hands him a plastic box holding all his possessions—clothes, shoes, wallet, watch, sunglasses—and points to a holding cell. “Go in there and change out of your jumpsuit.”
He hesitates, then asks, “Who’s bailing me out?”
“We never know—just that your bond is secured and I’m to cut you loose. So get dressed ‘cause I don’t got all night.”
It’s less than three minutes before he comes out wearing shorts and a T-shirt. His clothes feel good on him. He checks his watch. It’s dead, but that’s the least of his concerns.
“Over here.” The guard motions.
Joshua steps up to the window and signs his release papers. He reads, “Bad-Boy Bailbonds.” My dad wouldn’t have paid my bail. Who else could? Who else would? Who’s out there waiting for me?
After a few quick signatures, the guard instructs, “Okay, go to door number four and wait for it to open. You look nervous; you all right?”
He coughs and nods with an offended look, then does as instructed. He waits, disorientated and with much expectancy, for it to open. What is going on? Should I leave? This isn’t right.
The electronic bolt begins to grind, tension mounts, his heart rate flutters.
Then another guard yells, “Oh shit, wait a second! It’s Joshua Sitelli that’s made bail, not Siconolfi. Get him back in his cell where he belongs.”
“No, fuck that!” he yells back, uncertain but defiant. “I already signed my papers; open the fucking door.”
“Do as you’re told,” the guard demands, followed by promptly getting on his radio and calling, “Code five in booking! Code five! Code five!”
Without any place to go, he begins moving around pointlessly. Other guards start pouring into the small room; soon he’s surrounded. “Get on the ground, Siconolfi! Get on the ground!” they command. But in his state of mind, he doesn’t comply fast enough, and he’s hit with a Taser.
Next he’s immediately dragged back to his cell, and once again the door closes.
The guard returns to the booking room; he picks up the phone, laughing, “Ha-ha…yeah, you should’ve seen his face, Captain Jackson. It was fucking priceless, absolutely fucking priceless!”
Chapter Forty-Six
The news gets out of the approaching interview of Joshua from his jail cell, jump-starting a hurricane of dialogue as media trials are born inside every newsroom, showcasing under the banners of “The Siconolfi Riddle” and “Trial of the Twenty-First Century,” someone even coining the slogan “Prison-Cell Diaries.” All agree that his trial will rival that of O. J. Simpson or the Floridian party girl Casey Anthony, acquitted of killing her two-year-old daughter, Caylee. Panels are assembled, presenting well-groomed men and bleached-blond beauty queens offering in-depth coverage of Joshua’s father and his ties to the Roman Catholic archdiocese, Detective Cools, the reckless arresting officer who blasted a hole in Joshua’s driveway now accused of police brutality, and the adulterous affair between the late Kimberly Siconolfi and ex–political figure Trace Friesen. Programmers dedicate entire segments to the discussion of the Egyptian religious manuscript hiding the names of the missing girls. Several mention his poems, his unveiled talents that afford them a diagram of his sanity, or insanity, depending on who is commenting. First it’s mostly the major networks, until everyone gets into the game, franchising them into minitrials complete with distorted facts, conjecture, and countless critics, attacking from thousands of viewpoints and arguing the lot, from largely damning circumstantial evidence to some of the most ridiculous excuses that wouldn’t work on prepaid jurors. One asshole after another dreams up possible defense strategies, inspiring and teaching the world the fine art of lying and creative bullshit. Clever-talking wannabe lawyers, arguing, speaking over each other, and opposing all opinions except their own dominate most perspectives. Everyone is vying for time in front of the cameras and solely approving of one thing: that although Joshua is sick and deranged, he’s a noteworthy and fascinating individual.
Cools channel surfs from one news broadcast to another, growing increasingly perturbed. Little by little he’s getting caught up in it again. With every added crumb of attention given to Joshua, a piece of the detective’s psyche turns darker, blacker. He ventures to The Shelter for harder liquor and guidance. There he makes a call to Captain Jackson, asking, “Can you stop this interview? I don’t think it’s a good idea to let him do this.”
Captain Jackson thinks that Cools is right, but answers, “I don’t really have a choice, Cools. I’m getting pressure from every fucking angle.”
“What angles? Who?”
“Don’t concern yourself with it,” he snaps back, defensively. “I have to do what I have to do. He’s going on, and that’s all there is to it!”
> The call ends on that note. Cools pours another full glass of Jameson and, for the first time, thinks about doing a little of the cocaine in his freezer.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“I can hear them coming. I have to go,” Joshua speaks into the vent in his cell.
The keys crack the lock open and a guard orders, “Siconolfi, step out!”
Joshua walks out into the corridor, where he’s met by three more guards and the lieutenant, all wanting to control the conditions. Wasting no time the lieutenant underlines his authority. “First, let’s make one thing known, Siconolfi. I can terminate this interview at any moment—do you hear me?”
Joshua nods with a slight smirk.
“Here’s my rules. You will say nothing that implies any mistreatment or personal concerns you may have with my jail. That means you will not mention the food, the temperature, water, health services, cleanliness, or the conduct of my staff. Is that absolutely clear?”
“Yes, I get it. And you listen to me; my aim is not to—”
“I don’t give a fuck about your goddamned aims, Siconolfi. All I care about is the reputation of my detention center, and if you don’t get that, I can put you back in your cell.”
Joshua returns him a look of repugnance, replying, “I got it. Now, can we go?”
The lieutenant catches an impatient breath and narrows his eyes. “If you fuck with me, Siconolfi, I’ll put you in Erubiel’s cell. Do you know who Erubiel Cruz is?”
Joshua shakes his head, countering smart-alecky, “Why? Should I? Who the fuck is Erubiel Cruz?”
“Erubiel is a three-hundred-pound killer; he’s a Mexican national, calling shots for the Sureno street gang. And he lives to hate the white boys!”
“Go ahead; put me in there. I’ll have him doing my fucking laundry by day’s end!”
Everyone chuckles, even the lieutenant some. “Okay, keep pushing me, and we just might find out!” He then turns, leading the way, adding, “Oh, and another thing, quit talking to Benson through the vents; we can hear you.”
Nothing more is said as Joshua follows along toward the library, where a cameraman and a make-up girl wait with Tabatha Sterns. She wears a dark blue, casual pantsuit, which matches her eyes. First things being first, they have him sign several legal papers, most of which he is not interested in. His only concerns are the agreed-upon one hundred thousand dollars and that the interview, in its entirety, will be offered to all other news organizations.
Tabatha, somewhat preoccupied with a phone call, asks if he needs anything.
“No, I’m good to go,” he replies confidently. He sits and right away the make-up girl steps over to him, introduces herself as Amy, and begins applying hair gel, even a few touch-ups. The cameraman pins a microphone just beneath his collar while the guards watch their every move through the windows.
Ending her phone conversation, Tabatha looks over and snaps at Amy, “Do it right! I want his hair messy, like the photo I chose.” She then promptly transforms back to her mask of purity, saying to Joshua, “I want you to look your best.” He can effortlessly read what Ms. Sterns is all about. The immediate impression she projects is that of warmth and the welcoming woman, but he can see past her facade. She reminds him of one of those phony, feed-the-children personalities wearing thousands of dollars of jewelry and over-the-rainbow expressions of compassion and kindness. They strive to impress upon you their sickening sweet intentions and charitable values—those who become apparently overjoyed and jubilant of your very presence, but only when they want something of you, as the same of this kind can strike at you with the efficiency of a poisonous snake in an instant. Their very presence is a lie; Tabatha Sterns is a lie.
Yet still, she was chosen long before the beginning.
Tabatha scoots over, as Amy finishes up, and pats him on the leg, saying, “Oh my, you really do look magnificent; you truly are a handsome young man. Now, with your permission of course, I think we should take a sneak preview at some of the questions I intend to ask before we begin recording.”
“You can ask me anything; I have nothing to hide,” he replies sharply and confidently.
“Well, my kind of man,” she counters humorously, then swiftly alters to that of a skilled administrator. “But we do have a couple of rules. Number one, please keep any cursing to a minimum, as it doesn’t fit well with our audience.” He nods in compliance. “Number two, answer to me, not the camera—just pretend it isn’t even there. Number three, address me as ‘Tabatha.’ And number four, take all the time you need to answer; I want to get the full perspective of your take on things, okay?”
“Yeah, I’m ready, Tabatha. Let’s do it.”
“Wow, you really are my kind of man,” she replies, looking him up and down. Then the cameraman turns on the lighting, and Amy positions the chairs, as Tabatha double-checks her hair, as well as her cleavage, in a pocket mirror.
Joshua watches her. If she wasn’t such a fake whore, I would definitely want to take it from her, smashed down, bent over, pulling that blond hair hard.
“Okay, are we ready?” Tabatha asks the cameraman.
He gives the thumbs-up and begins counting backward. “Five, four, three…”
“Good evening, I’m Tabatha Sterns, and you’re watching our primetime exclusive interview here on KUBE channel 9. Tonight we are going to explore the mind of an incarcerated man accused of murdering his wife. His case is currently set for trial, and he vehemently denies the charge. No body has yet been found, and there’s a great deal of uncertainty as to whether his wife ever existed in the first place. You know who I’m speaking of: Joshua Siconolfi. And he is sitting right in front of me here at the King County Corrections Center.” The camera pans to him as she continues. “Joshua…” she asks in a concerned tone, “may I call you ‘Joshua’?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Good, now, Joshua, I would first like to start by asking about Kimberly. Tell us what your relationship was like.”
His eyes brighten, and he stares into nowhere for a moment. Then he speaks adoringly of her, as his lost love. “Kimmy was…She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. And when we were together, we were everything we needed—nothing, not anyone else, mattered. I loved her deeply and miss her every single minute of every hour.”
Tabatha, seeing that her cameraman is cutting in a quick shot of her, displays her understanding. “And when was the last time you were together?” she asks.
“The day before…you know…,” he answers, seemingly remorseful.
Tabatha advances gently, “You mean the day before…the radio call?”
“Yes.”
She makes a notation, then asks him directly, “Why did you make that call that day, Joshua? What was going on inside you?”
He looks to her for understanding. She extends her graceful eyes. And although nobody expects him to openly answer, he does. “I don’t want to make excuses… But the conditions were that I had drank an entire bottle of absinthe, ‘The Green Fairy,’ an alcohol that was previously banned in America and most of Europe due to its hallucinogenic properties; it’s said to bring forth the voices of madness.”
“I’ve heard of this; it was popular among poets and artists in the nineteenth century, wasn’t it? Didn’t Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear while high on absinthe?”
“Yes, that is correct: van Gogh, Oscar Wilde, Manet, not to speak of Ernest Hemingway. In fact his masterpiece For Whom the Bell Tolls was written under the influence of it. So I was curious to try it, but gravely ignorant of its power…It absolutely made me crazy, and I cannot remember anything from that day.”
“Don’t you remember talking to me, reciting your poem?”
“No, not even after seeing it on television.”
“Sounds like you had what we call a blackout. Have you ever had a blackout before?”
“Never! I never drink like that.”
The camera zooms in for a close up as Tabatha moves quickly to
another topic. Being a skilled reporter, she knows that when someone claims not to have any recollection, it’s time to redirect and pull a sneak attack at a later time. Deflect and ambush—Tabatha’s code. “Okay, let’s talk about something else—something of a personal curiosity to me. Tell me, Joshua, of your religion. Convert me if you will.”
“We do not convert anyone; you have to seek first the wisdom of Ra to gain acceptance; however, we believe in the balancing of one’s soul. If something is lost, you must find. If something is taken, you must take. And if something is given, you must give. God has given us much, but how do we give to him? We do this through truly selfless acts.”
“Sounds quite interesting,” she replies, ever so slightly patronizing him. “And how does one accomplish this?”
He inhales and explains, “In our view a truly selfless act is when I, you, do something for someone else without ever receiving anything in return, not even the recognition for doing so. I believe this in itself to be the greatest gift I or you can offer to God. It can be anything, but it has to be done in absolute secrecy, without ever telling another soul of your good deed. Neither can anything be asked of God; rather, it is given as an endowment for all he has already done for us. I would like to give you an example of what I believe is a truly selfless act.”
“Yes, I would like to hear that,” she says, flashing a wide-eyed smile for the camera. Though she’d never admit it, she recognizes full well that her high ratings are in large part due to her sex appeal.
“I’m sure you’ve read the anonymous poem, ‘Footprints in the sand.’”
“Yes, where God carries us in our time of need.”
“It is an inspirational work of art, and I would surmise that its author had to have known of its greatness when he or she wrote it, also that he or she could’ve profited from it, and not just monetarily, but received immense recognition for the work. And I believe that this person simply and anonymously gave us this beautiful poem and kept it secret as a selfless act, as a gift to God. And if you do this, if you complete your life with the blessing of selfless acts, I promise you will find it enriching to your soul here on earth as well as in the hereafter.”
Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done. Page 24