Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (39 page)
Read Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." Online
Authors: Bad-Boy Storyteller
.
I
nside Judge Cooper’s chambers, Milkowski sits nervously discussing all that has happened. She lets him vent, appreciating his worries and consoling him with her silence. Naturally she’s not a good listener and has to make-believe to meet the leve of interest he’s in need of as he goes on and on trying to figure out if he’s won or lost. Growing frustrated she stands, eyeing the liquor cabinet, and says, “I need a drink. Can I get you one?”
“Yes, please.”
She pours two tall glasses of vodka, adding orange juice from a small cardboard box container and a couple of ice cubes. Out of the glass she considers hers, she sneaks a swig and refills it with more alcohol after checking that Milkowski isn’t paying any attention. “Here you go,” she says, handing him his glass. He stops verbally fretting for a second to take a sip, giving her the chance to change the subject.
“You have to admit William’s closing arguments were quite innovative; he throws more curve balls than Randy Johnson.” Milkowski is left speechless, and she realizes she might have offended him. Then she adds, “Oh, and you were great too…uhh…I was really impressed with the way you handled yourself in there. And I know it’s somewhat taboo to say anything, but I think you got him. I saw conviction in the jurors’ eyes.” She tells him this convincingly, although she believes in not to be true. She has the rising suspicion that it will be at least a hung jury and that she’ll most likely then have to lower his bail to a more attainable amount. It’s something she’s not looking forward to doing. And to some extent this prospect is responsible for her added alcohol consumption.
Milkowski slurps down half of his drink and replies, “Yeah, you may be right, and I’m almost certain it won’t be an acquittal. Worst case scenario, they’ll come back deadlocked, and then I will just have to start over.” But just to make sure, he thinks, I’m going to have Martinez do his thing.
“I’ll tell you one thing right now,” she says, “as soon as they come back with the verdict, probably sometime tomorrow, I’m going to sentence his cute little ass right then and there. I want this media circus out of my tent. Did you know that they’re talking about me in the press, saying that I’ve been too lenient, that I’ve allowed the defense unnecessary concessions to create a spectacle for my
own
recognition?”
“Yeah, I heard some of that on talk radio,” he replies, not really interested. “I’m going to ask for, life without.”
“And you
will
get it,” she replies sharply, holding her drink in the air, toasting Joshua’s fate.
He follows suit, posing another question, “What about Detective Cools?”
“What about him? He’s done for! He’ll be real lucky if he isn’t brought up on charges.” There’s an awkward pause. “You want another drink?”
“Uh, no, actually I’m famished,” he says, getting up from his chair. “I think I’m going across the way to Chinese Gardens and get a bite. Would you care to join me?”
“No, I have work to do. I need to be prepared just in case they come back tonight.”
Her response is as he expected. He couldn’t have her come with him anyway since he needs to be alone to set things in motion. One thing William was absolutely correct about is the fact that prosecutor Andrew Milkowski is an underestimated fat man. And he will do most anything not to lose. “Okay, I will see you when were called back in.”
Soon he’s hiding in a dark, private corner inside the lounge of the Chinese Gardens, where, across a plate of
mu shu
pork, he stares at his phone, making his final decision. Then he contacts Ghost. And ten minutes later, a secure line is set up between the deputy and himself. “Martinez, this is Milkowski. Are you ready?”
“Yes, are we going to do this then?”
“I need it done, Martinez. So make it happen. I’m counting on you!”
.
R
ight outside the jury room, Hubbard asks Martinez, “Who was that?”
“Ah…jus’ my wife. She wants to…she wants to vacation next month back to her homeland, and she jus’ bought the tickets. Listen, I’m starving; could you run and get me a Butterfingers?”
“You know I’m not supposed to leave you alone at this post.”
“Who cares? No one cares. I got things here; jus’ grab me a candy bar real quick and slip back. What’s the big deal?”
“All right, all right…Butterfingers?”
“They’re the best of all the candy,” he replies, waving him on. Hubbard leaves. And Martinez waits until the door at the end of the hallway closes, then moves closer to the jury room door, where he can overhear them deliberating.
“I don’t buy any of that bullshit with Joshua and his father discussing the case.”
“I believe Kimberly is real and he killed her. But where is she?”
“There’s no proof. And it’s obvious Detective Cools was out to get him.”
“I lied when I said I hadn’t heard of this case before, but without a body, I don’t think I can convict him.”
Martinez turns his phone off and holds it to his ear. Then loudly and animated, he pretends to be speaking into it. “Honey, you’re not going to believe what jus’ happened; it changes everything! Here’s what the jurors don’t know!”
Attention inside the jury room is diverted. They still themselves, silently listening.
“Honey, it’s her…Yes, Kimberly! The one they found last night with her throat slit in the tree line behind the Kitty Club…Yeah, it’s her; they jus’ confirmed it…Uh-huh…I know…That’s exactly what I’m saying…Uh-huh…And how messed up is it that she’s only found now? He might get away with it! He might get away with murder…Uh-huh…I jus’ can’t believe it…Okay, I’ll be home soon, honey…Okay, bye…Love you too.”
An hour after the ruse, a cell phone rings inside the bar of the Chinese restaurant. Milkowski answers and receives a message that the jurors have reached a verdict. He throws forty bucks on the table and grabs a handful of mints as he rushes out the door. He chews them up, attempting to mask the few too many he has had, then moves expediently to the courthouse through a gauntlet of reporters.
“Prosecutor Milkowski, what will you be recommending if it comes back guilty?”
“Prosecutor Milkowski, will you be filling charges on Detective Cools?”
“Will you be filing charges for the other missing girls?”
“I am not ready to comment at this time,” he says over and over, while pushing his way into the courthouse and down the hall to the courtroom. There he finds everyone waiting for him. He takes a quick look at Team Siconolfi; neither father nor son wears their usual cocky grins, because they both know that a quick verdict is almost always in favor of the prosecution. At the back cameras are dialed in, and the reporters hold dual cell phones, one with the text reading “guilty,” the other “not guilty, their spring-loaded thumbs on the send buttons. Blood pressures are high, and the tension is suffocating in the room as Milkowski takes his seat. The second he touches the chair, the court clerk announces, “All rise.”
Judge Cooper walks in briskly and immediately asks if both counsels are ready. Then she says to Joshua, with a threatening gavel, “Listen to me carefully, Mr. Siconolfi. I’m allowing you the dignity to stand freely in my court. But be warned: any outburst from you will not help the sentence I may be imposing on you. Do I make myself clear?”
Joshua, seeming uncharacteristically unsure of himself, nods and replies weakly, “Yes, Your Honor, I understand.”
Next she orders the jurors back in. Everyone searches their demeanor for insight as they seat themselves solemnly, their expressions revealing nothing. Judge Cooper wastes no time in asking, “Have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman replies that they have and hands a piece of paper to the bailiff, who hands it to Judge Cooper. She reads it and hands it back to the bailiff, who returns it to the foreman. Judge Cooper now knows, but her facade is dense, offering not a clue. Joshua is ordered to stand. William positions close to his side with a comforting arm around his shoulder. And everyone holds their breath as the foreman clears his throat and begins to read. “We, the jury, hereby find the defendant, Joshua P. Siconolfi, guilty of murder in the first degree.”
The words briefly pull the life out of the room, and then, like a tsunami, it floods back in. Everybody begins talking among themselves, the murmurings growing louder by the second. Judge Cooper grips her gavel, and the bailiffs coil—all awaiting Joshua’s expected eruption. But Joshua appears entranced, as if he didn’t hear his verdict; he turns for the cameras, smiling, and leans back, staring into the heavens with the outstretched arms of a martyr. And once more the room becomes silent, ominous.
Judge Cooper interrupts the moment, announcing that she’s prepared to sentence him, and asks Milkowski for his recommendation. He responds with a lengthy version of Joshua Siconolfi is the worst of the worst and needs to be removed from society for the rest of his natural life. Then she poses the same question to William, who begs for mercy and leniency. And when he’s finished, she asks Joshua if he’d like to say something before being sentenced.
“Yes, Your Honor, I would,” he replies, then pauses, swelling everyone’s impatience. He faces the cameras, aiming for the spotlight, speaking to them at first as a teacher. “Why is your justice system failing? Because you cannot instruct morality out of corruption! The world machine you have built rests upon a foundation no stronger than the elasticity of water. You believe yourselves too big to fail. Yet, you are sinking, blanketed in bondage, comforted with ignorance. And painfully you will be taught to have respect for the wisdom of our creator.” He stalls for a few seconds, receiving opened-mouth stares of mixed sentiments—confusion, sadness, disdain, sympathy. “You are fools! You disgrace yourselves. I know what you have done. I will visit you in—”
“Okay, that’s enough of that!” Judge Cooper yells. Joshua stops, unexpectantly. Then she takes in a deep breath and chastises him without response. Stating her reasoning in great detail as to why he is now sentenced to life in prison without the possibility for parole—forever removed from society.
He’s then expediently taken away without incident. His temper is stoic and composed as he ponders, for the first time, what it might be like for him in prison, wondering who his friends will be, or more importantly who his enemies will be. Under the fluorescent light, he mulls over his father’s whisperings. It’s only round one son; I’ll have you back in front of this court inside six months on appeal—reassurances of hope that do little for the dark cloud mounting within.
Benson, from the vent, asks what the verdict was. And after Joshua tells him it didn’t go well, Benson explains that now it makes no difference, that now he can confess without fearing any further punishment, adding that if he does, it could greatly increase his chances of parole someday.
Joshua replies, “Fuck you, Benson! Or should I call you by your real name, Officer Geoff Ward. I always knew who you were. Tell that to the press, you fucking rat! You tell them I did it, but that they made me do it.”
Then all Joshua hears is the door slam shut from inside the adjacent cell.
.
F
ive celebrated days later for the powers that be, five agonizing days later, for Cools: out of his car’s front seat, he rouses, nuzzling a half-full bottle of Jameson. Empty beer cans, he remembers nothing about, litter the floorboards. And cocaine residue clouds a CD case. His vehicle has been transformed into an anti-rehabilitation center, where he’s been practicing the ancient art of alcohol and drug therapies. And with a business-like understanding of “location, location, location,” he has parked at the end of a dead-end road— one that leads past remote homes to a locked gate that protects commercial forests from unwanted trespassers. With a push of a button, the window rolls down enough to let in some fresh, cold air. The landscape is unfamiliar to him.
Where the fuck am I?
His only appraisal is that he’s secluded far away from the desolation that has become his existence—a world that is full of television broadcasts playing and replaying his journey to rock bottom, and the same that is unwelcoming to insobriety and vigilantism.
Before he can light a crinkled cigarette found in an empty cup holder, his mind recalls the two-hour biography of Joshua on A&E, from his privileged childhood to a life imprisoned. The tag line: “And the devil whispers to him.”
He shakes the recollection from his thoughts, swallows some booze, and then through hazy, blurred eyes checks his messages.
Missed calls: Chelsea, three; Michelle, two; Tabatha Sterns, seven.
Chelsea and Michelle want to help him, meaning he’d have to give up the alcohol and drugs. Tabatha Sterns wants to use him, meaning he’d have to give up what little pride he has left and allow her to film another special—this one starring the most dishonest cop in modern times. He adjusts the rearview mirror to inspect the drunken mess he’s developed into. His face is older, with a nearly full-grown beard beneath deep, sunken eyes. The youth is long gone. And his head throbs since he’s still fairly drunk from last night, when he was drunk from the night before that. Again he tips the bottle to quench the rising anxieties. He holds it to the light, assessing what is left. The level is low; his checklist for the day will begin with a quick stop at the liquor store.
Then reluctantly he looks at his watch for the date. It confirms what he already knows. Today is his big day—his hearing where, mostly due to political pressures by the media that have been calling for his head, he’ll be fired, officially. It all churns the undigested alcohol in his stomach. This he remedies with a good-morning line of white powder. The drug burns his nose and drains down his esophagus, waking his wits like twenty cups of Starbucks. He lays his head back, going over the what-ifs.
What if the media attention would’ve been less?
What if they didn’t portray Joshua as the victim just to sensationalize ratings? Putting out half-hour shows under the streamers of “Framed,” “Criminal Cops,” and “Set-Up?”
