Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (28 page)

He jumps out of bed.
Tchew-wew
. Swiftly he moves to the sliding glass door of the balcony and peaks out the corner, surveying the landscape below. Then he sees him. It’s a male purple martin, the largest North American swallow, which he read about in one of the brochures. He catches his breath and checks that Chelsea is still sleeping soundly. He then steps out onto the balcony and lights the morning cigarette, laughing to himself and searching the pristine landscape for the answers to his troubling questions. Some second-guessing has invaded his thoughts—primarily the decision to leave the case. Somehow the idea to cease his pursuit of them held more merit when it was his. But instead, it was ultimately made by Captain Jackson, an anonymous threat, and fifty grand. What if Kimberly and Amberly learned something they weren’t supposed to—who the men of the car club are, or maybe even some sinister political plot? Maybe they killed them, framing Joshua to take the fall. How close is Captain Jackson to them? And what about the money—will that be the end of it?

He then sends a text to Michelle.

Cools: Just thinking of you? Anything new?

Michelle: They found the crab trap, but it busted open on impact due to the weights inside…nothing was found except small traces of blood.

“I’ll bet you’re staring at the sea, dreaming of me, aren’t you?” Chelsea asks, sneaking up on him.

He turns and kisses her. “You read me like a book, baby.” Then he turns his phone off.

“What are we doing today?”

“I was thinking about…uh…going scuba diving. And then maybe getting a bird gun.”

“A bird gun?”

“Never mind.”

Chelsea gives him a funny look. “Maybe we better get you some breakfast there, cranky-pants. I’m jumping in the shower. If you order any food, I would like some scrambled eggs and a bowl of fruit, okay?”

“All right, I’ll call room service.”

It’s not long before both of them have showered and begun their day, diving around the coast, where they witness a fabulous array of corals and see how stingrays hover above the seabed. The afternoon is set aside for shopping—Cools’s idea—for imported merchandise from the island’s motherland, Holland. For Chelsea, he purchases perfumes, sexy underwear, and an elegant eighteen-karat white gold bracelet; and a new watch—a TAG Heuer Monaco—for himself, the sticker price topping fifty-five hundred dollars. Then he treats her to an expensive dinner before gallivanting her around to all the known hot spots of clubs and casinos for a night of dancing and gambling. The main events of the night are the slow dance they share at the Carlos ‘n’ Charlie’s and the fight Cools almost gets into at the Crystal Casino. It seems he may have had too much to drink.

After sleeping it off until 10:48 a.m., Chelsea shakes him awake, panicking, “Brad…Brad…Wake up, wake up! I need you to go get me my breakfast from the lobby!”

“What?”

“My hair is all wet, honey, and I need you to go down and get my eggs. I’m starving! And I want to get an early start today.”

His head pounds as he tries to understand. She shoves slippers on his feet.

“Uh…are you kidding me?”

“No, it’s almost eleven; it’s time for you to get up, and room service is backed up. And the only way for me to get my eggs is you have to go downstairs and get them. And I’m really, really hungry.”

He tries to argue but to no avail, since she’s now practically pushing him out the door. “We could get breakfast in the restaurant…”

“No, they’ve already made my order, so please just go; it’ll make me really, really happy,” she says, using her most sensual voice, guiding him into the hallway.

“Hurry,” is the last he hears before the door shuts behind him, and he finds himself standing alone in the hallway, half asleep, still half drunk, in his pajamas, and the clock is ticking.

Then he notices he’s not wearing his slippers, but her pink fuzzies. “Oh well,” he mutters, moving swiftly to the elevator, wanting to finish the task as soon as possible. Along the way he passes a chuckling couple enjoying some joke. And then in the lobby, everyone—even the hotel’s personnel—seems to be a little extra giddy. The hostess girl, who gets his order, asks him if he’s all right, and in short manner, he appears to be the spectacle of the morning; even some of his fellow vacationers are rudely gaping, giggling and chatting among themselves. Cools, not one to often feel insecure, struggles to ignore them. However, a level of paranoia has already set in. Seriously? How can pink slippers be so damned funny? He examines his footwear more closely, which only escalates the matter as two teenage boys start outright laughing and 360 degrees of eyes are upon him. What’s the big fucking deal? He grabs the eggs from the hostess and makes it back as fast as he can, past a blushing maid and a mother who holds her daughter tight as he passes. He storms into his room. “Fuck, thanks a lot, Chelsea! That was a bunch of bullshit!” He shoves the to-go box at her.

“Why…what happened?”

“What happened is you threw me out in the hall wearing your lady slippers. What do you think happened? Everyone was staring and making fun of me. Fuck!”

Chelsea holds back a giggle of her own, suggesting that he splash some cold water on his face. He turns for the bathroom, missing her muted laughter as she hides behind a pillow.

Then there’s a moment of silence, followed by, “Oh, you sneaky little brat! What the fuck is this?”

Chelsea bursts into uncontrollable laughter. And Cools steps out, wearing a face completely painted with makeup, with his girlfriend reciting a comedic line from a movie they’d seen. “Gotcha good, sucka!”

Later, after Cools
cools
off, they have another grand day hiking along sandy trails and sharing the sights, sharing each other. And although he secretly plans on getting even, by late afternoon he has all but forgiven her. They drive to an area just north of Hooiberg, where the Casibari Boulders present somewhat of an enigma due to their size and unusual patterns. Chelsea snaps pictures, inspecting them in wonderment. He, needing a cigarette, walks back to the Jeep, leaving her to examine the curious rocks further. From there he watches her move. There is no denying they are a true match.

Inside his pocket he thumbs a little black box containing a 1.15-karat diamond solitaire set in platinum. He pulls it out and examines it for a moment, rehearsing his lines. As visualized, he holds it out to her, saying, “Chelsea, you are the love of my life, and I wish to spend the rest of my years with you close to my side.”

Then he sees her returning. She is smiling and very much in love. The moment is perfect. They lock eyes as she reaches the car. She suspects something and asks, “What are you doing?”

He freezes. “Nothing! I’m not doing anything!” He drops the ring back into his pocket. “Are you ready?”

She gives him an odd look, replying, “Yeah, let’s get going. I want to get some dinner.”

“Sounds good to me, baby-girl,” he says and starts the motor. They drive away in silence on a highway bordering the sea. Cools searches the steady waves for reason. I’m very much in love with her. She’s definitely the right woman for me, and I know she feels the same. We will be great together. We are great together. Everything is perfect…But it isn’t; something is unsettled, unfinished.

.

Chapter Forty

A
lone to his devices, Joshua scrutinizes his fan mail from countless news agencies and tabloid magazine writers who beg for interviews to religious old ladies who plead with him to give his soul to Jesus. A few of them he finds humorous, like the nutty woman who wants to marry him and the bodybuilder who asks whether he is gay. He decides to ignore them all and map out the rest of his course. Soon he will be appearing in court, presumably to expound upon his allegations of police brutality, but he has other plans. The events of today will not only produce the headlines he desires, but pave the way for his journey home.

Once everything in his mind is in place, he eagerly closes his eyes and submits to his affliction of sequential dreaming, projecting the specter of little Frankie. As of late the emotional connection he feels is so strong and the pictures so vivid that Joshua believes the boy exists. Or at least he existed. What’s more, Joshua can now view from within him as well as without. In his thoughts he summarizes what he’s previously seen: the 1960s, Alabama, Betty running off to work, Panama-Red, the black man, the farmhouse, shotgun flashes, Panama being killed, the large man in blue coveralls, and the fact that the incident is so chilling and sordid the young boy has temporarily lost his hearing. Soon he is returned behind little Frankie’s eyes, feeling a motionless and soundless form that peers through a blood-spattered window of a black Corvette.

Unheard but seen is a distraught woman, who exits the farmhouse and stares in disbelief at Panama’s dead body, now lying cold on the unlit porch. Right away little Frankie realizes that the woman, now jumping up and down frantically, is as angry and scared as he is. And it isn’t long before she loses control and begins hitting the man with the shotgun, screaming silently.

After tolerating a bit of well-deserved abuse, the man grabs her, and they disappear inside the house. Little Frankie stares at the open door until he sees the two of them emerge hurriedly carrying suitcases and keepsakes out to an old, beat-up Ford truck. Back and forth they go until it is filled. Then the woman, while on her way back, stops dead in her tracks, and for the first time notices little Frankie sitting all alone in the car. Once more she breaks out in hysterics. “Oh my God…oh my good God!” She runs for the car as the man drops a bag and leaps off the porch. She opens the door of the Corvette, and they both gaze in shock at an emotionally frozen child.

“I cannot believe that asshole brought his kid with him!” the woman yells, looking dumbfounded at the man. Little Frankie says nothing; he doesn’t even cry; he only thinks to himself that the man is bigger than he thought and that the woman’s red hair is pretty.

“What in the hell’re we gonna do with this here boy?” the man asks.

Nothing is said for a moment; then the woman turns to the man and replies indisputably, “We’re taking him with us to Idaho.”

The cell door unlocks. An incoming guard echoes his commands inside the room. “Siconolfi, it’s time for court. Let’s go!” Three minutes later Joshua is handcuffed, shackled, and tramping down the hall.

Outside the courthouse a whole host of reporters are lingering for another high-ratings press conference. William Siconolfi is attempting to have Joshua’s confession thrown out due to police brutality—the debate of the week. A podium is assembled, and cameras dialed in.

William watches with his colleagues from a hidden vantage point, observing all the commotion. Then he prepares himself and says, “Let’s do this thing,” and strides out into the open and up to the podium, wearing a million-dollar smile, his talking points rehearsed. “Good afternoon. As you know my name is William Siconolfi, and I, along with my team, will be defending Joshua Siconolfi. Now, my client has been a victim of police brutality. He was tortured with physical as well as psychological violence. These are the methods they used to secure the so-called statement of guilt. And conveniently, or perhaps suspiciously, they have not been able to produce any audio or video recording of the event. Because my client signing a statement of guilt absent from being beaten to do so does not exist—just the same as Kimberly does not exist! Joshua has committed no wrongdoing, as we will prove to the state of Washington. He is absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent innocent!” He lets his words hang in the air before stating he will take a few questions. Then he designates a questioner.

“Mr. Siconolfi, what proof do you have that Joshua was tortured?”

“We have a recently released King County inmate, who will remain nameless at this time, who witnessed Joshua being carried to the infirmary just two hours after his arrest.”

“Did you ever know Kimberly?”

“Ha-ha. Is that your feeble attempt at a trick question?” He pauses, deciding something, before adding, “I will answer you this way. Yes, I do feel as if I know Kimberly since my son spoke of her often. Now that is all.”

Its shot, recorded, and live fed to a waiting audience.

Fifteen minutes later in the courtroom, the clerk announces, “On the docket today, we are scheduled for a suppression hearing concerning Joshua Siconolfi, number 7519650.”

Two guards escort Joshua in, wearing the same orange jumpsuit and ankle jewelry. Again the room is packed. William, fully prepared to give a fiery sermon contesting the validity of the signed confession, is standing up front, opposite prosecutor Milkowski. William pats his son on the back. Joshua flares a confident smile toward the cameras.

The legal jargon begins. And as proceedings are under way, the court is interrupted. “Your Honor,” Joshua yells, obviously displeased, “I would like to address the court!” William attempts to silence him, without success. Judge Cooper is clearly perturbed. She bangs her gavel, but Joshua speaks over her. “Your Honor, I will be from this juncture forward be representing myself!”

At first he’s disregarded as an unruly defendant. “You will not disrupt my courtroom!” Judge Cooper bellows.

Joshua doesn’t flinch. He just stares at her with adamant eyes, stating over and over again, “I wish to represent myself. I will be from here forward acting as my own counsel,” until she acknowledges his request.

“Are you serious, or is this just another of your games?”

“No, Your Honor, I wish to represent myself in this case.” Then he stands still, grinning ear to ear, as the rest of the room explodes.

William throws his papers in the air, pronouncing, “You’re on your own, son!”

The reporters go crazy, running in every direction. The top story of the week has been simply laid out with a few, greatly unexpected words.

.

Chapter Forty-One

S
ci-Poll, an independent scientific media company that publishes and distributes information based on public opinion polling, has released its latest findings, subsequent to 858,600 persons surveyed.