Vernon God Little (29 page)

The journey into court is gray and regular. From the make-up room, I hear helicopters thumping over the courthouse, in case I escape, or something. Ha. Like: yeah, right. They
wish
I'd escape, just so's they can avoid the hard core of regret they have coming when my innocence struts out. They're going to have to eat that ole dish cold. I sit stiff with this kind of righteous optimism
during make-up today, eating fries. They must whiff that ole truth around the corner, to suddenly feed me fries. Only problem is they cuff me extra-tight for the walk to my cage, and I have to hunch my shoulder up to my cheek, where I smeared ketchup. As I try to clean the ketchup, I watch a shaft of sunlight swivel slowly over the courtroom floor, until the witness stand is lit up like Mount Sinai. The sound of tattered leather scuffles up the stairs towards the back. Without even looking, you know it's Mom, leaving. She gets her picture took arriving each morning, but she can't handle the guts of the day. Pam'll be outside in the Mercury, both feet on the pedals.

The judge arrives, nods to everybody, and I sit back to watch my Fate played out before me.

‘The State calls Taylor Figueroa.'

Taylor steps through the crowd in a gray business suit with short skirt. She throws back her hair, fixes the cameras with a girl-next-door smile, then stands tall like a majorette to take her oath. Goodness but she's pretty. A taste crawls through me of how things could have been. I kill it.

‘Ms Figueroa,' says the prosecutor, ‘please state your age and occupation.'

Taylor bites her lip, like she's thinking about it. When she speaks, her inflection rises, then dips, then rises again at the end, like a car changing gear. The school smell effect.

‘I just turned nineteen, and like, I was a student, but now I'm kind of, trying out for a career in media.'

The prosecutor nods sympathetically, then frowns. ‘I don't want to cause undue distress, but you'll appreciate these proceedings demand that some delicate questions be asked – please, hold up a hand if this becomes too uncomfortable.'

Taylor scrapes a tooth over her lip. ‘It's okay, whatever.'

‘You're very brave.' The prosecutor hangs his head. ‘Ms Figueroa – have you ever been – stalked?'

‘
Stalked?
'

‘That is, has a disproportionate interest ever been shown toward you by a stranger, or a casual acquiantance?'

‘I guess so, yeah, one guy.'

‘What made you think this person's interest was unusual?'

‘Well like, he just turned up out of the blue, and started confessing to all these crimes and whatever.'

‘Had you known him previously?'

‘Uh-huh, kind of, I mean – I think I saw him outside a party once.'

‘
Outside
a party?'

‘Yeah, like, he wasn't invited or anything.'

‘Was anyone else outside this – party?'

‘No.'

The prosecutor nods at the floor. ‘So – this person was alone, outside a party he couldn't attend. And he talked to you?'

‘Uh-huh. He helped me into the back of this car.'

‘He
helped
you into the
back
of a
car
? What happened next?'

‘Like, my best friend turned up, from inside the party or whatever, and this guy went away.'

My eyes move over the jury members, revising their age up to where they all have daughters like Taylor. Their eyebrows show a new slant.

The prosecutor waits for it all to sink in. Then he asks, ‘So where did you next see this person?'

‘In Houston.'

‘Did he reside in Houston, or in Harris County somewhere?'

‘No. He was on his way to, like – Mexico.'

‘From where?'

‘Martirio.'

The prosecutor shoots a meaningful glare at the jury. ‘Martirio to Mexico via Houston is quite a detour.'

‘Yeah, like, I couldn't believe it, he just came to see me, and he confessed to all this stuff and whatever . . .'

‘And then what happened?'

‘My cousin turned up, and he ran away.'

Taylor drops her head now, and everybody holds their breath, in case she cries or something. She doesn't though. The prosecutor waits till he's sure she ain't, then he lets go the cannonball. ‘Do you see that person in the courtroom?'

Taylor doesn't lift her head, she just points at my cage. I lower my face to try and snag her gaze, but it's glued to her shoes. The prosecutor tightens his lips, and launches himself, business-like, into nailing the rest of my cross.

‘Let the record show that the witness has identified the defendant, Vernon Gregory Little. Ms Figueroa, you will have heard the defense claim that Vernon Little was in Mexico at the time of the most recent murders. They say you knew he was there. Did you know he was there?'

‘Well, like – he was there when I arrived.'

‘How long can you definitely say the defendant was in Mexico?'

‘Three hours maybe, tops.'

‘So you can't support the defendant's claim that he wasn't here for all the murders?'

‘I guess not.'

The prosecutor moves to the witness box, rests one arm on the railing, and smiles caringly at Taylor. ‘It's nearly over,' he says softly. ‘Just tell us, in your own time – what transpired during those hours in Mexico?'

Taylor stiffens. She takes a breath. ‘He tried to, like – make love to me.'

‘Was this when he confessed to the murders?'

‘Uh-huh.'

Breath is intaken across the room, across the world, probably, followed by a buzz of murmurs. My soul screams out with the sting of it, but my attorney nails me quiet with an eye. The green buzzer in my cage starts to look inviting as, ever so slowly, the room, the cameras, and the world, turn to study me in greater detail. The prosecutor just smiles, moves to his table, and presses a button on a machine there.

‘Yeah,' my voice scratches through the court. ‘I did it for you.' It plays over and over. ‘I did it for you, for you, for
you
. I
did it
.'

Brian puts on a real hooshy face for the cross-examination. He puts his hands in his pockets, and stands in front of Taylor, like her dad or something. He just stares at her, as if what she's about to say is the dumbest excuse he ever heard. Her eyes flick down a little, then widen like, ‘
What?
'

‘You saw the defendant for three hours in Mexico?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘So, as far as you're concerned, he could've been anywhere in the world, outside those three hours?'

‘I guess so.'

‘Why did Vernon Little come to meet you in Mexico?'

Taylor rolls her eyes – a girl's hoosh. ‘Well, to have sex, or confess, or whatever.'

‘You paid him to have sex with you?'

Taylor recoils. ‘No way!'

‘So no money changed hands between you that day?'

‘No, well like . . .'

‘Yes or no answer, please.'

‘See, but . . .'

‘Yes. Or no.'

‘Yes.'

‘So you gave Vernon Little some money – three hundred dollars, in fact.' Brian turns to the gallery, raises one eyebrow. ‘Darned boy must be good.' A chuckle scurries through the back.

‘Objection!' barks the prosecutor.

‘Sustained,' says the judge.

Brian throws me a bitty wink, then turns back to Taylor with his most fatherly stare. ‘Did Vernon Little know you would be in Mexico that day?'

‘See – but, like . . .'

‘You surprised him, didn't you? You used a cash offer to entice
him – a confused, innocent, desperate teenager – to a place where you appeared, out of the blue. Is that the truth?'

Taylor's mouth flaps emptily for a second. ‘Yeah, but I was told . . .'

My attorney raises his hand to her, then folds his arms. ‘I put it to you that you were employed to enact this stunt. You were employed to entrap the defendant, not by the police, and not necessarily with cash, but lured with promises of celebrity by the man behind this entire charade.'

She just stares at Brian.

‘Taylor Figueroa – please tell this court the name of the man who took you to Mexico.'

‘Eulalio Ledesma.'

‘No further questions.'

Lally appears at the top of the stairs, dressed all in white. His face is waxy. Angry puckers squirm on each cheek as he grinds his teeth inside. The crowd turn to look at him as he steps down the aisle, into the light. I turn to look at the crowd. You can tell they love him. The prosecutor is first to examine.

‘Eulalio Ledesma – you've been in a unique position to observe the defendant, first as a close family friend, and later, I'm sure, as a concerned citizen . . .'

‘Tch, excuse me,' says Lally, ‘I have a meeting with the Secretary of State – will this take long?'

‘I can't speak for the defense, but I'll keep it brief,' says the prosecutor. ‘Just tell us, please – if you could characterize the defendant in a word, what would it be?'

‘Psychopath.'

‘Objection!' shouts Brian.

‘Sustained – the jury will ignore both question and answer.' The judge rotates a hard eye to the prosecutor. ‘And Counsel will remember a young man could well be executed as a result of these proceedings.'

The prosecutor gestures to the jury like his hands are being tied, but the judge quickly scowls him out of it. He skulks back to Lally. ‘Perhaps you'll tell the court, Mr Ledesma – did the defendant say anything to you, privately, about the school tragedy?'

Lally draws his lips tight, the way your best buddy does when he has to tell his mom you ate the last cookie. ‘Not as such,' he says.

‘Did anything he do suggest his involvement?'

Lally takes a deep breath. He looks at me with black, swollen eyes, and shakes his head. ‘He talked in his sleep some nights.' His bottom lip starts to bounce. ‘Growled in his sleep, more like it – “Boom,” he would say. “Take that – booom . . .”' A sob breaks free from his throat. Deathly hush spreads over the world.

The prosecutor bows his head, and waits a respectful moment. Then he says, ‘I'm sorry to put you through this . . .'

Lally raises a trembling hand, cuts him short. ‘Anything to bring peace upon those wretched souls.'

Sniffles break out in court. There ain't a trace of hoosh about the prosecutor anymore, not within a hundred miles of him. After eight centuries, he just asks, ‘Did you also see the defendant kill Officer Barry Gurie?'

‘From the ground where I lay, injured, I saw the defendant run towards Officer Gurie. I heard a scuffle, then three shots . . .'

The prosecutor nods, then turns to my attorney. ‘Your witness.'

Brian straightens his tie, and steps up to the box. Silence crunches like lizard bones.

‘Mr Ledesma – how long have you been a TV journalist?'

‘Almost fifteen years now.'

‘Practicing where?'

‘New York mostly, and Chicago.'

‘Not Nacogdoches?'

Lally frowns. ‘No-
ho
,' he hooshes a little powerdime-booster.

‘Ever visit?'

‘No-
ho
.'

Brian shoots him a knowing smile. ‘Ever told a lie, Mr Ledesma?'

‘
Tch
...'

‘Yes or no.'

‘No-
h
-
ho
.'

My attorney nods and turns to the jury. He holds up a calling card. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to show the witness a calling card. It reads, “Eulalio Ledesma Gutierrez, President & Service Technician-In-Chief, Care Media Nacogdoches.”' He glides it through the air to Lally's face. ‘Mr Ledesma – is this your business card?'

‘Oh
p-lease
,' hooshes Lally. He's like an ole-fashion train all of a sudden.

Brian gives him his hardest stare. ‘A witness will testify that you presented this card as your own. I ask again – is this your card?'

‘I said
no
.'

‘Your honor, if I may be allowed to append a witness to this examination, for the purpose of identification . . .?'

‘Go ahead,' says the judge.

My attorney nods to the back of the court. The double doors creak open, and two orderlies guide a little ole Mexican lady into the room. Brian waits until she's tottering at the top of the stairs, then he closes in on Lally.

‘Mr Ledesma – is this your mother?'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' growls Lally.

‘Lally! My
Lalo
!' cries the lady. She breaks free of the orderlies, but her foot catches a railing in the aisle, and she tumbles to the ground. The judge rises out of his seat, frowning as the lady is helped to her feet. She bawls, and tries to pinpoint Lally's voice. He stays quiet. His cheeks pucker double-time.

Brian lets the hush return before calling to the ole lady. ‘Mrs Gutierrez, please tell the court – is this your son?'

‘It's him.'

She pulls her helpers down the aisle, then her foot misses another step, and she dangles suspended in their arms. The judge
pulls back his lips like he just stepped on a spleen. He squints at the ole woman, then shakes his head.

‘Ma'am – can you point to your son?'

Breathing is canceled across the world. ‘Lalo?' she calls. ‘Eu
lalio
?' He doesn't answer. Just then, one of the attorneys folds his arms, and at that nano-rustle of his sleeves, the ole woman flinches and points to the prosecutor. ‘Lally!'

The prosecutor throws out his arms in despair. The judge's eyes fall to my attorney. ‘Time out – am I to understand this witness is visually impaired?'

‘Every woman knows her child's voice, your honor.'

‘Lalo?' sniffs the woman, now reaching for the stainographer.

The judge sighs. ‘Just how in God's name did you figure to get a positive identification?'