Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (32 page)

“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.”

Milkowski tosses his pen in the air, exhaling loudly, exhibiting a show of irritation over William’s absurd defense.

William immediately turns and levels a firm finger at the prosecution desk and begins an ardent tirade. “Do not give in to this childish role play! I’ll bet he throws his pen at every trial. And don’t be fooled by any of his innuendos, his exaggerated truths, conjectures, and inventiveness. For I tell you all, he is a crafty and seasoned professional in his form of occupation. He will not deny that he holds to his credit a solid 98.2 percent conviction rate. But do you believe that 98.2 percent of everyone accused of a crime committed that very crime? If you do, you would have to believe that police officers do their job with 98.2 percent accuracy. Let’s put that another way. Do you assume that all state and county employees work with 98.2 percent efficiency? Ask yourself: have you ever known a police officer to be wrong or mistaken? Or what about your mailman? Have you ever found mail that doesn’t belong to you in your mailbox? What about our politicians, our governors, our congressman, even our president—do they work with this level of effectiveness? I think that you would answer no. I think that you’re reasonable people who realize that none of our officials fly at this high of an altitude. Rather, I would contend that they perform at a rate closer to that of a weatherman.” The jurors share a few brief smiles, even a chuckle or two. “Yet, prosecutor Milkowski does. And the way he achieves this success is by playing on your sentiment, twisting the truth, and flat out misleading you! He tells you he’s a passionate man, and I believe him, but his passion is
not
for the facts, it is for the winning and advancing his career! You will see this as we go along. You will hear, from this man, many circumstantial possibilities, but from us, all you will hear is straight talk. And here it is…” William goes to his prepared chalk board and rotates it so that it’s facing the jurors as well as the cameras. On it is a short numbered list written in large chalk marks. He points to each one.

“First, my client suffers from paranoia and schizophrenia, which he is currently taking medications for. Secondly, this Kimberly is nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He tells people of her, myself included, because he believes her to be existent. Thirdly, there is not one single shred of evidence that a crime has even been committed here, much less that my client is somehow responsible for it.” William moves back to the jury box, whispering to individual jurors, “She was never a real person in my client’s life. I’ve never met this woman. She is imaginary, make-believe. She never was.”

Then, after an intimate moment, he walks back to his table and stands behind Joshua, placing a caring hand on his shoulder. “Think about this…Have you ever been in a circumstance where it looked as if you’d done something wrong, but you didn’t? Have you ever heard humorous anecdotes where someone else was caught in a situation where it appeared they’d done something wrong? Maybe you we’re accused of gawking at another from your wife or husband…or maybe the smell in the room did not come from you. Maybe someone has accused you of saying something that you didn’t say. Maybe you’ve experienced an incident where you were misinterpreted, taken out of context, or perhaps someone else simply got the wrong impression of who you are or what you’re about.”

William lets his examples of reasonable doubt roam free. Then, looking even deeper into their souls, he concludes, “My client is an innocent man, simple and true! And it will all come to pass when this is all said and done. But first you will hear embellished realities and unjustifiable speculations. And my money says at first you will be drawn in; remember, prosecutor Andrew Milkowski is legendary at persuasion. On the other hand, when he is done, I will
prove
to this court their disreputable nature and then, and only then, will you begin to comprehend why my client has chosen to tell his story to a jury instead of telling it to them. And when we are done here, you will know without a doubt, that you have made the right decision, by bringing back a verdict—the only reasonable verdict—of not guilty. So for now, I will essentially remain silent, awarding them an empty playground, so we can see how they play with others. Just keep one thought close to your hearts, and that is the fact that Joshua Siconolfi is not guilty of any crime—not because he is perfect, but because there is no crime! I would like to thank you for your time.”

“Okay then,” Judge Cooper says to an astounded, speechless courtroom, “I think this would be a good time to take lunch. Court is in recess until one thirty.”

Bang. Bang.

.

Chapter Forty-Nine

T
en minutes before court is to resume, from the fifth-floor windows, Milkowski surveys the mob outside while stuffing his face with pastrami on rye. Even as a boy he was heavyset, earning him the nickname Fat-Cow-Ski. Presently, as then, he overindulges to curb his anxieties, finding comfort through his taste buds. With a Diet Coke he washes down the coveted flavors, musing over the attributes of his newfound nemesis. That fucking incessant prick!

While losing himself in another bite of thousand-island-smothered brisket, Captain Jackson sneaks up on him, catching him off guard. “How we doing, Andrew?” he asks in a tone demanding of an answer.