Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (31 page)

“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.”

“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

D
ay 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 room’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!”