Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (43 page)

Jeffery notices that Tabatha’s lips curl smartly as she motions the delivery girl over. And being the professional he is, his concentration is only averted for a second. He quickly ignores the girl and continues explaining the camera positions in a sharpened voice that’s telling Tabatha she should remain wholly attentive to his trained guidance.

The girl walks up to them, and Tabatha points to a table, instructing her, “There…just set it down there.”

“This is my coffee, lady. I just paid six dollars for it, and I don’t feel like giving it to you,” the girl replies.

Her curt response is enough even to break Jeffery’s concentration. He speaks up, before Tabatha has a chance, saying, “This is a private studio, miss. You’re not allowed in here.”

She pays no regard to his authority and states, “I came here to see Tabatha Sterns. Are you Tabatha Sterns?”

Tabatha retorts smugly, “Yes, I am. And you are…?”

“I see no reason to be a bitch! I was told to come talk to you. Joshua sent me!”

“Security! Security!” Tabatha yells, thinking to herself that there’s no way she was sent by Joshua. I’ve been in contact with him every day. And if Jeffery wasn’t here, I would scratch this slut’s eyes out for having the nerve to call me a bitch!

The girl reaches hastily into her purse. Tabatha scoots back with a sneer, knowing that any second guards will be dragging her away. And next the puzzling girl says something that changes everything. “Can’t you see that I’m the woman you have on your video screen, or are you blind as well as stupid?”

Tabatha’s expression alters from scorn to confusion as two security guards charge in.

“Here! Over here!” Jeffery yells, pointing her out.

They grab her; she struggles as she screams at Tabatha. “You dumb fucking bitch!You thought I was missing! And in your ignorance my husband’s been sent to prison!”

Perplexed Tabatha looks back and forth from the girl to the eight-foot-tall image on the video display. At first she can’t comprehend what is happening, but the eyes, the cheekbones, lips, teeth—the resemblance is uncanny. “What are you trying to pull? Are you trying to say that you’re Kimberly?”

“Yes, I’m Kimberly…Kimberly Siconolfi!”

Tabatha, seemingly possessed, springs out of her seat. Jeffery is speechless. And the guards immediately let go of her and step away as if they’ve encountered a ghost.

“Oh my fucking God! Where in the hell have you been?” Tabatha asks, circling her, inspecting her more closely as others on the set begin to realize the situation and move nearer.

“It’s Kimberly—she’s alive!” a cameraman yells.

Tabatha’s mind spins considering the implications. This can’t be. I’ll lose my big interview. But wait a minute; this is better…much fucking better! “Tell me where in hell have you been?” Tabatha asks again, accusingly.

Kimberly smiles, taking pleasure in her frustration; she replies softly, “We are…to will to know—to will to be silent.”

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Chapter Sixty-Nine

“F
ox News alert! Welcome to Studio B. I’m Sheppard Smith, and wow, you’re just not going to believe this. We just got word on a story you couldn’t believe could get any stranger. But it did! Remember Joshua Siconolfi? Sure you do, the Sickness, as some have called him. You know, the guy we convicted and sent to prison for killing his beautiful stripper wife, but there was never a body. Well, now we’ve found her body. And get this: she’s very much alive! Seems she was simply gone…somewhere. Where? I don’t know. She must’ve fallen off the face of the planet. And once again Joshua bleeds his darkness from the obyss. So now we go live to Tabatha Sterns, in Seattle, who’s breaking the story.”

Tabatha comes onto the screen with a lively “Good afternoon, Sheppard.”

“And a good afternoon to you. Now, tell us where this story has gone?”

“Well, Sheppard, it is all true and substantiated. Here at KUBE Channel 9, we’ve independently confirmed that Kimberly is very much alive—as well as being a real person, I might add. And her wrongfully convicted husband will be released from prison in upcoming days. I’ve already talked with the governor, and he’s agreed to sign a full pardon sometime later this week.”

Sheppard cuts in, asking, “Well, the big question of the day is: where was Kimberly all this time? Has she been hiding under a rock or something?”

Tabatha raises her eyebrows in almost disbelief as to what she is about to report. “Well…she’s been living on a ranch somewhere in southern Arizona. It’s some sort of cult, the Sisterhood of Mystery and Enlightenment. And, according to her, the ranch consists of approximately sixty-five women who shave their heads, work the land, and live without electricity or any other influences from the outside world—no television, internet, phones, radio, or even newspapers for that matter.”

“That’s bizarre…But at least, you know, it kinda makes sense—being that, how she could’ve been unaware of what’s been going on all this time…absent of any news and all.”

“Yes, and as strange as it is, it all seems to fall into place; she claims that she just simply took off on a whim one day before Joshua’s infamous radio call. And as she put it, she was following her guide.”

“A whim, huh? And following your guide? Is that what they’re calling it these days—when you run off from your, not-husband, in the dark of night, to shave your head and join the Mysterious Sisterhood of Enlightenment? What more do we know about this cabal in the desert?”

Tabatha flashes a quirky look, sneaking a peek at her notes. “She won’t tell us much about their beliefs, merely that—and I quote—‘We are…to will to know—to will to be silent.’”

Sheppard repeats the phrase to himself, then quips back, “Hmm…sounds more like to will to…not tell us anything.” Then he turns, facing across his table to Judge Napolitano. “So where do we go from here, Judge? What, if any, legal actions do the Siconolfi’s possess at this juncture?”

“Well, Shep, this case, as you may well know, is far from over. There will no doubt be a lawsuit for wrongful conviction. Most likely the Seattle Police Department will want to settle out of court in attempt to make this all quickly go away, but I assure you it will not! There are a lot of ins and outs here to consider. And I should also add: there may be a lawsuit against Detective Cools, who—to be considerate—grossly mishandled the investigation from its very beginning.”

Sheppard shakes his head, saying, “So much has happened so fast. What if…?” He then switches back to Tabatha, who instantly appears on the screen so fast she isn’t ready. And as she fiddles with her earpiece, he asks, “Tabatha, is there any proof—other than her summation—that Kimberly ever resided at the sisterhood ranch, unawares as the story goes? Or could she be making the whole thing up?”

“We are currently probing into that very question, but right now we can’t even confirm that the ranch exists; there’s no listing, no phone number, and nothing comes up on the Internet. But I would like to note that none of that matters at this point; the only thing that really matters is that we have a wrongfully convicted man serving time in a prison for a crime he hasn’t committed.”

“So it seems.” Sheppard turns his attention back to the judge, asking, “What if it turns out that she knew what was going on and let it happen…some kinda revenge, or something along those lines?”

Kimberly’s picture pops up.

The judge holds out an open hand. “It’s too early to tell at this point, Shep. We just simply don’t know.”

Sheppard thanks his guests, returns to full screen, and summarizes, “Well, there you have it, folks, for now at least.

“Now, in other news, as if we could top that. President Obama has—”

Click.

The television set in a seedy motel room flashes white then goes off. The remote control is dropped to the floor next to an empty bottle of Jameson. From underneath the pillowcase, a gun is pulled out into the open. The visitor, a redheaded prostitute who calls herself Raspberry, flinches. And the next thing she hears is her coked-out John mumbling to himself, “That’s it…now I’m going to kill that son of a bitch!”

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Chapter Seventy

S
pring winds of bright cold air play upon the afternoon parking lot. Cars and news vans occupy each available space, and every square inch of its asphalt is trampled on by an ambitious gang of reporters. They cluster together waiting impatiently outside the walls of the Washington State Penitentiary for Joshua’s emergence. Most of them are already in front of their cameras, doing commentary. What has gathered them all here today is the newly leaked information that he was granted a full pardon by the governor earlier this morning. From there the news spread like a wildfire on a dry and windy oilfield.

Viewership for this event is estimated at over 39 million. Commentators have made the comparison to the all-time record of 111 million held by Super Bowl XLVI, which pitted the New England Patriots against the New York Giants.

Interestingly enough, a daring rock band, Absence of Light, is playing an acoustical version of their new song, titled “To Will to Be Silent.” They’ve cleverly positioned themselves near the center of the lot, performing out of the back of their van in an attempt to get some free publicity. Up front and center, and a mere three days after they’d first met, Tabatha Sterns and Kimberly stand together—superficially as friends. They grip each other’s hands, waiting for the door to open. Both are dressed suitably for the occasion in warm coats with matching gloves and knee-high leather boots. In addition Kimberly wears a pink beret over glittery blond extensions. A week ago the two of them could’ve been thought of as sisters. But now their identities are too well-known to be mistaken for anyone except for who they are.

While dividing the spotlight, Tabatha comforts Kimberly, warming her shoulders from the chill. For Kimberly the congested attention is menacing; for Tabatha it’s full of excitement. And part of her wishes to retreat to her camera, with microphone in hand, and share her hyped speculations of appending lawsuits, book and movie deals, and TV reality shows. Nevertheless, temporarily sidelining her aspirations is justified, since she’s holding onto the trophy—the Holy Grail. She cleaves to Kimberly, insistently protecting her from the other journalists, while eavesdropping in on a few of them. To her left, a younger curly brunette—skinny bitch, Tabatha thinks—is touting some of the latest gossip, reporting that there’s a joint effort by both the FBI and Team Siconolfi to unearth the private interrogation room and expose one of the many tactical abuses of the police that led to this blunder. To her right is a man she’s familiar with, John Ahoum, from a competing news station, who is asking his viewers viable questions. “Will Joshua be angry with Kimberly for being gone. Will Kimberly be angry with Joshua for faking their marriage, or will they reunite forgivingly? Will they now marry—for real this time? Could they play themselves in any upcoming movies?” Tabatha listens closely, mindful of what is around her, although completely unaware of who is watching from afar. At the very outskirts of the event, in a Ford Mustang with darkly tinted windows, sits a coked-up, old has-been with a score to settle.

Suddenly the prison gate opens. The crowd’s enthusiasm intensifies. Cameras adjust amid flashing lights. And Joshua walks out, larger than life, tall, athletically becoming, and free. Kimberly breaks from Tabatha and runs to meet him. Photographers scramble for the best shot as everyone falls into silence, awaiting the couple’s reactions.

It shocks some. They embrace hard. Joshua picks her up and spins her around and around, kissing, whispering to the back of her neck, proving his desire for her. Sentimental goodwill toward the young couple stirs among the crowd. And their shameless groping is overlooked as they lose themselves in the moment, without a care, ignoring the world. They are alone upon a stage and instant celebrities, wanted, loved. And whether one thinks of them as Romeo and Juliet or Bonnie and Clyde, not a soul can deny that Joshua and Kimberly look impressive together, resolute, the perfect fit.

The people hoot and holler for over a minute as Absence of Light plays a nightclub beat in the background. And everyone gets a closer look at Kimberly. Her coat is now wide open, exposing her short, tight-fitting dress and round cleavage, which is diverting the camera angles. And her eyes are lit up as lightning crackling within ice. She’s simply radiant and instantly loved.

Then Joshua seizes one final kiss before composing himself. He makes his way to the podium with wetted eyes and Kimberly entwined under his arm. They seem to possess no will to let go of each other.

The platform is styled as for a press conference, holding numerous microphones, all advertising their respective news outlets. He yanks one of them from the stand—ABC News.

“We love you, Joshua!” teenage girls scream from the back.

Kimberly only smiles at their admiration as Joshua extends his hand in the air, calling for their quiet attention. He displays a demeanor of unreserved significance. The crowd settles at his command. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to right the wrongs of a corrupt system!” He pauses, momentarily accepting their affinities, then begins jabbing himself in the chest, his voice growing larger with each word, “I have been harassed by the police, wrongfully arrested, interrogated, and tortured. I have been called a liar. I have been called a killer—a murderer. And I have been sentenced to a life without hope and stripped of every dignity!”

Then he lowers his voice to a more poignant tone. “As you well know, the police set me up. I had to endure the stress of a trial. And in their evident mistreatment of the common man, they convicted me of first degree murder and sent me to this godforsaken place.” He pauses again, appearing as if he is about to cry; his eyes gloss over; his voice shudders. Kimberly grips him tighter, supporting her man.

“I am an innocent man. I’ve done nothing wrong. I…have…done…nothing… wrong!” He pounds his fist on the podium. Everyone senses his pain, his sorrow; their throats begin to swell. Then he steps away from his podium, looking individuals in their souls, building upon their emotions.