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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “Oh, I see. That’s very inspiring, Joshua,” she responds in an encouraging tone. She holds her pose, for a moment, in view of the camera, then yells, “Cut, cut!” The cameraman flips the switch, and Tabatha goes to Amy for a touch-up. Joshua rests back, watching her; he knows she will never do a selfless act, as he can see that she is now conflicted with it.

  The cameraman says to Joshua, “That’s some pretty heavy shit. Are you some kind of—”

  “Don’t! You do not—” Tabatha wields a halting finger. “You do not ask the questions here. I do! Okay, I’m ready. Are you ready?” The cameraman signals he is. “And you?” She looks to Joshua.

  “I’m always ready,” he snaps back, composed, self-confident, enjoying seeing her frayed around the edges.

  She sits and fusses in her chair. “Okay, let’s roll.”

  “Five, four, three…”

  “Now Joshua, your trial is set for six days from now. Will you be representing yourself?”

  “No, I have spoken with my father, and he’s going to represent me.”

  “Oh really? But I thought you’d fired him. What was that in regard to?”

  “I cannot comment on that at this time. But I will say this: once this is all over, you will know the truth, and I will be vindicated. And to answer another question: I, with the full support of my father, will most definitely testify. I will be defending our good name on that stand!”

  “That’s interesting since it is usually considered unwise to do so.”

  “Clearing your name while making fools of your accusers is never unwise, Tabatha. I already told you: when something is taken, you must take.”

  His quick retort startles her, so she decides to startle him back. “So, using your logic, it would be fair to say that if someone took Kimberly from you, then it would be sound judgment to take Kimberly from them. Did you take Kimberly from Trace Friesen?”

  Her tactic doesn’t faze him; he answers back, as if rehearsed, “Kimberly was never harmed by my hand.”

  “Okay, then what about the missing girls written in your book?”

  “Do you know that it is customary for some Christians to write the names of the deceased in their Bibles for protection?”

  “Well played,” she murmurs under her breath, knowing it can be edited later. She then looks to her notes and asks, “Is Kimberly a real person?”

  Joshua gives her a puzzled look and answers, “If something is real to one, but not the other, does that mean it isn’t?”

  Unsure of how to respond or where to go next, she asks, “Are you guilty of murder?”

  He then defies her rule number two and looks directly at the camera, answering, “No, I am innocent; I will prove that at trial as I defend my name from the stand.”

  “But didn’t you sign a statement saying you did murder her?”

  He turns back to her and replies, “Yes, I did.” Then he stands out of his chair and shouts, “Why don’t you ask me about more important issues—like police torture!”

  “Cut, cut!”

  His outburst brings an end to the interview. The guards rush in and haul him back to his cell. There he tells everything and then some to his neighbor, Benson, speaking through the vent. They both agree it will change people’s perceptions of him. Then he lies on his bunk, mulling over every aspect of his performance, knowing he’s saving the big show for his trial.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Day one of the trial arrives. Inside her car Michelle waits for Cools in front of the courthouse. She fidgets with her tightly fitted, dark blue dress and pantyhose as she watches the frenzied horde of reporters and police fighting for position—none of which comforts her. From earlier news reports, she knows that many of the people crowding the steps are the distressed family members of the missing girls written in Joshua’s book, probably more distraught over the fact that none of it will be admissible in his trial. And sadly, they’re surrounded in a sea of others, who seem to have come only because they have nothing better to do with their days but join in the madness. They hold signs that read “Death Penalty” and “We Want Justice,” or “No Evidence—No Crime.” Young women wear black-and-white T-shirts emblazoned with catchphrases like “Live on Forever of no evil” and “Selfless Acts.” Michelle shakes her head in frustration. Why? What are they thinking?

  She startles when Cools knocks on the passenger window. She smiles and presses the unlock button. He jumps in, wearing a pressed black suit and clean, pearl-white shirt; his hair is neatly combed back, and he’s smelling of musk. “Good morning, sexy thing,” he says, clearly excited and full of energy. “Guess what I just heard.” He points to a girl clinging to a “Kimberly isn’t Real” sign. “I was told these girls are paid protesters from Team Siconolfi.”

  “Really? Well, that makes better sense; I was starting to wonder if these silly girls had totally lost their freaking minds.”

  “Yeah, ha-ha…But it definitely tells us these guys are not going down without a fight. And don’t think for a second that they don’t have more tricks up their sleeves. Hey, there goes Captain.” Michelle glances up to see her boss pushing through the crowd, only stopping briefly to answer a few questions. “We better get in there,” Cools adds, and opens the door to light up his last cigarette. He smokes it fast and smashes it on the walkway before they approach the restless mob. Michelle sinks into his arm as they navigate past the reporters. And soon they make it inside, where they find their reserved waiting room, the place they’ll be sitting for the next few days, passing the time until being called as witnesses.

  He glances around at the small expanse with nothing other than a table, a couple of chairs, and a tiny kitchen counter. “Well, at least we get free coffee,” he says, and pours her a cup.

  “Brad, how’re you and Chelsea doing? Have you been seeing her lately?”

  “Yeah, I have been seeing ‘Chelsea Lately,’” he quips back, referring to one of her favorite shows.

  “Ha-ha,” she smiles with churlish lips; then she tries again. “Seriously, Brad, how are you two?”

  He looks at her hesitantly. She raises an inquiring eyebrow, pressing for his answer. “We’re good; she’s great,” he begins generically, searching for the words, knowing his partner of many years isn’t about to let him off the hook that easy. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together and—”

  Suddenly someone knocks twice at the door, and two men burst in. The men are very thin, and both are wearing suits and carrying equipment of a type Michelle has never seen before. The taller of the two says, “Good morning, Cools. And you must be Detective Robertson.” He extends his hand. “Hi, I’m Lee and this is Brian. We oversee security here at the courthouse, and we’re going to conduct a routine sweep of the room and your persons for any electronic devices.”

  “What the hell? Brad, what’s going on?”

  “It’s just procedure, Detective Robertson,” Lee says, as his assistant Brian starts waving his equipment over the walls. “This is the way it’s done now in all high-profile cases. Could you stand; I need to sweep you and your personal effects.” She lets out a sigh and rises to her feet. Lee pulls out what looks like a handheld metal detector and commences guiding it over her voluptuous shape. Cools catches him sneaking a look but says nothing. Next he runs it over their personal belongings. Their gadget sounds a beep over both of their phones, and immediately Lee and Brian look to each other curiously.

  “What’s that?” Michelle asks.

  He coughs, seeming to stall, “Ah…It’s probably nothing…Many cell phones give off false readings. Just in case though, I need to take both of them, and I’ll have all your personal information transferred to the exact same models; you’ll never know the difference.” Then he places them in his pocket.

  “But that’s my phone! When will I get it back?” she asks, obviously irritated.

  “I can have them back to you in about an hour,” he replies. “Brian, you getting anything?”

  “No, the roo
m’s clean.”

  “Okay, looks like we’re done here; sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll be back in an hour or so with your new phones.” Then without saying much more they leave, taking with them the only connection Cools and Michelle have to the outside world.

  “What was that all about, Brad?” Michelle asks, disbelieving what she’s just witnessed was routine.

  “Listen, our phones were bugged. He had to play it off by saying it was procedure.”

  “What? Our phones are bugged? How? And how can you be sure, Brad? Lee said a lot of phones give off false readings.”

  Cools sits her down, holding her arms, “Michelle, listen to me. I called my friend Lee; he and Brian run a security firm, and I told him about how we were being listened to when we were out at the bar a few weeks back. And he told me that it’s possible to put a bug in a cell phone remotely; they don’t even have to touch ’em. That’s why I was so rude with you the other day on the phone.” She forces a smile. He continues, “So, I did some digging, and I found something.”

  “You’re freaking me out, Brad!”

  “Just listen. I cross-referenced the leaders of the archdiocese and some of their most powerful members with DMV records and found that many of them own exotic sports cars. And take a look at this.” He presents the Kitty Club business card. “See the logo with the bright stars emerging from the darkened flames? I looked it up; it symbolizes destruction before rebirth; the dark is giving to the light. It was used in many obscure and ancient religious philosophies that advocate extremism. So I started doing some research on religious extremism. Their ambition is to achieve a heightened sense of awareness by tapping into their fears and pleasures, which they believe brings them closer to God.” He lowers his voice. “Like, driving dangerously is risk-taking, secreted religions is sneaky and devious. Not to mention the fact that it’s hypocritical…to pretend to be one religion but, covertly, practice another that promotes orgies, drugs, strippers, and maybe even murder or human sacrifice. They believe that they are brought closer to God in these finite moments. One website even suggested that there was no greater reward than to kill during sexual intercourse as others watch, worshiping the act itself!”

  “Brad, now stop it! This is far too freaky for me. I can’t do this anymore.” She stands and paces, holding out a firm hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to hear anymore. All I care about is that sick freak in there. He killed his wife, and we’re very close to sending him away for life for it. And like I said before, if rich weirdos want to do their things to get closer to their God, then I don’t give a damn. They scare me, Brad; they really scare the hell out of me!” She starts to break down. He holds her, letting her cry as she sobs into his suit, soaking his jacket. “I can’t even sleep anymore…We can’t mess with these people… and I can’t wait for this trial to be over. I want it to all be over as soon as possible.”

  In that moment Cools decides that she is right. She should stay far away from it. But her fears and tears are just fuel for him to do what has to be done. The price for seeing her in this terrified state and turning a blind eye regarding the missing girls written in Joshua’s book costs a lot more than fifty thousand dollars.

  Two hours and forty-five minutes later, the jury has been selected—seven women and five men from various racial and ethnic groups. All are recluses and antisocial types that somehow haven’t heard much or anything concerning this case. Prosecutor Milkowski readies himself for his opening arguments, in front of attentive jurors. The cameras pan back and forth from Judge Cooper to Milkowski to the jury box to Joshua, who is clean cut and undisturbed, huddled next to his father and the rest of his defense team. It’s apparent he’s been awarded some kind of special treatment; he looks like he’s just spent three days at the spa. His blond hair is freshly cut and styled, his skin is tanned, and he’s even had his teeth whitened. He wears a tailored suit that matches the posh gold Rolex on his wrist. And he holds a couple of secrets that only he and his defense team know about: he is wearing some airbrushed makeup and contacts that brighten his naturally green eyes. And, along with his refinements, he displays sinister and amorous smiles, coming across like a blazing and risky boy toy from a daytime soap opera.

  “Prosecutor Milkowski, are you ready?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Then you may proceed.”

  “Good morning, people of the jury. My name is Andrew Milkowski, and I will be prosecuting this case, State of Washington v. Joshua Siconolfi. The charge in this case is first degree premeditated murder of Kimberly Wallingsford. This is a circumstantial evidence case; even so, I intend to prove without any doubt that Kimberly Wallingsford was murdered in cold blood, placed inside a crab-fishing trap, and then discarded into the Puget Sound like yesterday’s trash. And that this was all done solely by her jealous, vengeful boyfriend, whom you see sitting here today.” He does a theatrical spin, pointing accusingly at Joshua, who appears to be genuinely unaffected. Then he presses further with both vigor and passion, in a preemptive attack against their defense strategy, slowly raising the tempo, resembling an evangelical minister making an altar call. “The state will show you timelines, financial motives, blood and DNA evidence, a signed statement from the defendant, and last but not least the actual audio recording of the murder itself. I want to repeat that you are going to hear her being murdered! And you are also going to hear the defendant clearly stating what his intentions are prior to brutally cutting her throat!” He pauses for a second, before continuing, “The defense plans on persuading you that the deceased was never a real person.” Cameras cut to the confused look on the jurors faces as Milkowski holds up Kimberly’s picture, asking, “Does this look like a person who wasn’t real?” He then places her photo on an easel behind him and walks over to the prosecution table to check his notes. “Also you are going to see police-conducted interviews of the defendant behaving in very strange and violent ways—showing his true nature. Nevertheless what I want from you—what I need from you—is not to convict him due to his peculiar religion or the fact that (and I’m sure you will agree) he is an extremely disturbed person; I need you to deliver a verdict of guilty based on the facts. Those being that on December 29, Joshua Siconolfi”— he points to Kimberly’s picture—“murdered this woman in the prime of her life, in a vicious and cold-blooded attack!”

  He then caringly removes the photograph from its resting place and lowers his pitch. “I want you to take a good look at her. This is the life that was taken.” He marches up and down the jury booth, wielding it until her image is burned into their minds. “I want you to see her on her wedding day.” He pivots, pointing to the prosecution table, where his assistant holds up an empty frame. “And this is her when she is pregnant with her first child.” Another empty frame is held up. “And here she is standing with her loving family in front of their first home.” Another vacant frame. The juror’s eyes begin to swell as their anger rises. Milkowski embraces the moment with them, his eyes also full of tears and wrath. His voice shakes as he moves ahead, “I am a very passionate man, and I have a daughter myself close to this age. And this is one of those defining moments in each and every one of our lives. You have to help me enact justice for her; you have to deliver a verdict of guilty. That is all.”

  He nods and walks to his seat, outwardly saddened and appalled, though at the same time feeling impressed with his presentation.

  “Next we will hear opening statements by the defense.”

  All cameras shift in unison. William pats his son on the back and stands, eager and confident. He saunters, deep in thought, past the prosecution table, approaching the jurors with palms out. Their expressions are telling of their distrust. Still he states to them through a bottomless voice, absent of any doubt. “My client is absolutely not guilty! My client has in no way committed a crime. But just the same, he is culpable and to blame. He’s the reason we’re all here!” The jurors are visibly perplexed as a result of his declaration,
an emotion easier for him to work around than their loathing for his son.

  “By the way my name is William Siconolfi, and my last name is no coincidence, for I am the defendant’s father. But I will not be representing him as my son; I will be representing him as a wrongly accused citizen of our great United States of America. Now, when I say that he’s culpable and to blame, my meaning is that he is only responsible for not providing the police an explanation of events, which is his right. Now here are the facts. William points to Joshua. “He, just like Mr. Milkowski, does not know where Kimberly Wallingsford or Kimberly Sharons or Kimberly Siconolfi is. They’re not even clear as to whom she is, and frankly neither am I. And none of us can possibly know for certain if Kimberly—whatever her name—was ever even a real person.”

  He holds up his hand as he can see their wheels spinning. What exactly does he mean she wasn’t a real person? He lets it seethe in their thoughts then says, “Although we’ll get to that later.”

  “First I’d like you to understand that all of the so-called evidence will not only be straightforwardly explained, but it could’ve easily been explained at the time of his arrest. But put yourself, for a second, in his shoes.” He gestures to Joshua, who smiles like the friendly neighbor boy trying to sell his lawn-mowing services, so he can take his girl to the dance. “What would you do if you were arrested for murder? You, like my client, would probably use your best judgment and not answer any of their questions. Deep down we all know how hell-bent and single-minded these cops can get. It’s no secret how they work—fast and loose like a bunch of presumptuous inbred cowboys!” He receives a few grins from his jurors and pauses for a moment, letting out a little line.

  “And we all know from television shows and past cultural experiences that when these police get the idea inside their heads that you’ve done something wrong, they will only adhere to evidence that supports it. They will only use the things you say that make you look accountable and ignore anything that would exonerate you. I bet just about every one of you has a brother or a cousin or a coworker who’s told you accounts of how these guys operate. And we all know from historical news stories that when a woman goes missing, their first thought is it’s the husband or the boyfriend. So now, if you are this husband or boyfriend and you yourself don’t know where she is and cannot produce her, well then you must have murdered her. But this case presents an additional ambiguity: the fact that the prosecution cannot even prove this person”—he flashes a hand to the photograph—“ever existed as Kimberly Wallingsford or Sharons or Siconolfi in the first place! The prosecution cannot even prove that this lovely woman is even named Kimberly or that she ever lived in Washington state or that she isn’t a model taken out of a magazine—only that Joshua had this picture blown-up, framed, and hanging in his home.”