Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (21 page)

“Are you comfortable?” asks the nurse.

He smiles, enjoying the fact they have to pamper him during his healing process. And since there’s no doubt his wounds will be almost entirely healed before he’s allowed to appear in public, he has an agenda that calls for being gentle to the woman. He answers, “Yes, but I could use some more painkillers.”

“They always help. I’ll be right back, okay?” She leaves promptly.

Joshua, now fully aware of his surroundings, gains notice of his room—the clean white walls, the small television set bolted high in the corner, the assortment of electronic hospital equipment around his bedside. There, within the mundane, he reflects upon his maneuvers during the interrogation, repeating in his mind the gratifying memories of Detective Robertson’s prayer to him. A proud grin forms on account of his performance, his masterpiece.

The nurse returns to his room, carrying a syringe filled with generosity. “Oh, you’re going to like this,” she says, pushing the plunger down. Instantly Joshua can feel it warming him, relaxing him. He snuggles deeper into the hospital bed as she caters to him, applying aloe and vitamin K lotions—natural ingredients that stimulate epithelial growth and speed healing times. Her hands are soothing. Nothing concerns him now, not being tortured or signing a statement of guilt; the outcome was still the same as intended.

Just outside his door, he recognizes Sergeant Wielder’s voice conspiring with Captain Jackson, only he can’t discern what they’re saying. If he could, he would hear Captain Jackson stating, “All right, I’m gonna release a statement saying he went crazy, broke the camera inside the interrogation room, and we had to subdue him physically. That’ll explain why we don’t have any footage of his confession, or lacerations. Then we’ll leak some video of our previous interview, showing his violent behaviors. So when he tells his stories of secret tortures, he’ll be met with nothing but skepticism. Besides he already says all his crazy things; the public already views him as somewhat of an advocate for the dramatic; quite simply put, they won’t believe him. I’m also gonna say he had a seizure and was shipped to Western State Hospital. And by the time they figure out he isn’t there, we’ll say he’s returned but, due to another episode here, had to be sedated and cannot appear in court until Monday morning.”

“You know the media is going to run wild with his accusations,” murmurs Sergeant Wielder.

“All right, I got it. But in the end, he’ll be discarded just like all the other scumbags who come through here. You should know that when it is all said and done, no one believes them. They are discredited by their crimes, their choices to use drugs, and their unwillingness to follow our suggested paths.”

“Yeah, but this is different.”

“No, it’s the same, only on a larger scale. The job’s already done; we just need to clean up the mess!”

Then Joshua can hear them moving down the hall and their muffled voices fading away. The nurse also departs; leaving him in isolation. It’s a healthy break from a disordered life, and he thinks of Frankie Johnson, the boy who was left in the care of Panama-Red—his mother’s new, risky boyfriend. The warm waves roll through him; his eyes begin to flicker, as he nods off and falls into a dream state, revisiting the 1960s and the uncertainties of little Frankie.

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

T
wo 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 hand, 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.”