Vernon God Little (30 page)

‘Your honor,' starts Brian, but the judge slams down his glasses and spreads his hands wide.

‘Counsel – the good lady can't
see
.'

A good night's sleep doesn't happen for me tonight. I twist and buck with the horrors of Jesus, knowing I'm in a lottery to join him in the flesh. When I'm locked in my zoo cage next morning, everybody's attention hangs on me. Sure, Brian gets up and argues, says it's entrapment and all. But you get the feeling everybody kind of knows Lally's was the final nail. Subtle changes in the room tell you they know; the stainographer's head sits back an extra notch, for instance.

While all this happens I feel a vibe from Jesus. It says to cut my losses, forget about my family secrets – it says I've been loyal above and beyond the call of duty, I just have to let them find the gun. It says to tell them about the bowel movement I had outside school that day. I mean, shit must carry a lot of evidence about a guy. Probably you could clone whole other guys from it, then just ask them why they did it. One of my fingers touches the green button in the cage, feels its surface. Cameras whirr close. You just
know crowds on the street, people in airports, folks in the comfort of their own smell at home, men in barber shops in Japan, kids skipping classes in Italy, are tuned in, holding their damn breath. You sense a billion cumulative hours of human life just got shortened by raging blood-pressure. Power, boy. I purse my lips, and trace a gentle line around the buzzer, toying with it, pretending to have hefty options. The sudden hush in the room makes Brian spin around. When he sees my hand over the buzzer he scrambles my way, but the judge hisses behind him.

‘
Leave him be!
'

I don't hit the buzzer to change my story. I hit it because my story ain't getting told. I get an enlightenment about the ten years it feels like I've been listening to this whole crowd of powerdime spinners, with their industry of carpet-fiber experts, and shrinks and all, who finish me off with their goddam blah, blah, blah. And you just know the State ain't flying any experts down for me. What I learned is you need that industry, big-time. Because, although you ain't allowed to say it, and I hope I ain't doing The Devil's Work by saying it myself – Reasonable Doubt just don't apply anymore. Not in practice, don't try and tell me it does. Maybe if your cat bit the neighbor's hamster, like with
Judge Judy
or something. But once they ship in extra patrol cars, and build a zoo cage in court, forget it. You have to come up with simple, honest-to-goodness proof of innocence, that anybody can tell just by watching TV. Otherwise they hammer through nine centuries of technical evidence, like a millennium of back-to-back math classes, and it's up in there that they wipe out Reasonable Doubt.

With nothing to really lose, I hit the buzzer. It makes a sound like a xylophone dropped from an airplane, and I'm suddenly blinded by a firestorm of camera flashes. The last thing I see is Brian Dennehy's mouth drop open.

‘Judge,' I say.

‘
Shhh!
' chokes Brian.

‘Go ahead, son,' says the judge. ‘Shall we activate the recant procedure?'

‘No sir, it's just that – I thought I'd get a chance to say how things really happened, but they're only asking stuff that makes me look bad. I mean, I have witnesses all the way back to the tragedy.'

‘Your honor,' says the prosecutor, ‘the State would hope to preserve the structure of this case, after all the effort that's gone into it.'

The judge stares blankly at him. ‘And I would hope, Counsel, that the State, like this court, would seek to preserve the
truth
.' He smiles warmly for the camera, then says, ‘Swear the boy in.'

‘Your honor,' says Brian, holding out a helpless hand.

‘Silence!' says the judge. He nods to me. ‘Say your piece, Mister Little.'

I take a deep breath, and go through the routine with the Bible. Brian sits with his head in his hands. Then I quiver right to the heart of my concern. ‘I never was in any trouble. My teacher, Mr Nuckles, knows it, he knows where I was. The reason I wasn't in class is because he sent me to get a candle for some teeter-totter experiment – if he'd talked earlier, none of this suspicion would've happened.'

The judge stares at the attorneys. ‘Why has that witness not appeared?'

‘He was judged unfit by his doctors,' says Brian. ‘Plus we were sure charges relating to the high-school incident would be dropped on the basis of existing evidence.'

‘I think we need to hear from your Mr Nuckles,' says the judge. He looks up at the cameras. ‘I think the world will
demand
to hear from him.' He waves a hand at the court officers. ‘Order him to appear – we'll travel to his bedside if necessary.'

‘Thank you, sir,' I say. ‘Another thing is . . .'

‘You've made your point, son. In fairness now, I'll have to let the prosecutor ask you some questions.'

I think you can hear my attorney weeping. The prosecutor
adjusts his smile and wanders over. ‘Thank you, Judge. Vernon Gregory Little, how are you today?'

‘Okay, I guess – I just was going to tell . . .'

He holds up a hand. ‘Your position is that you never saw the last sixteen victims – correct?'

‘See, the thing is . . .'

‘Yes or no answers, please.'

I look at the judge. He nods. ‘Yes,' I say.

‘And you never saw the victims at school, until they were dead or dying – correct?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you admit you were at the scene of those murders?'

‘Well, yeah.'

‘So you've sworn under oath that you were at the scene of eighteen deaths, although you didn't see all those deaths happen.'

‘Uh-huh,' my eyes flicker, trying to keep up with the math of the thing.

‘And you've sworn you didn't see any of the sixteen most recent victims – but it turns out they're all dead too.' The prosecutor runs his tongue around his mouth, frowning. It's an advanced type of hoosh, in case you didn't know. Then he smiles at the jury, and says, ‘Don't you think your eyesight is starting to cause a little trouble around town?' Laughter bubbles through the court.

‘Objection!'

‘Leave it, Counsel.' The judge dismisses Brian, and waves me to answer.

‘I wasn't even there, at the latest deaths,' I say.

‘No? Where were you?'

‘Mexico.'

‘I see. Did you have a reason to be in Mexico?'

‘Uh – I was kind of on the run, see . . .'

‘You were on the run.' The prosecutor tightens his lips. He looks back to the jury, which is mostly station-wagon owners, and the like; some hard-looking ladies, and a couple of nervy men.
One dude you just know irons his socks and underwear. They all emulate the prosecutor's lips. ‘So let's get this straight – you say you're innocent of any crime, that you never even saw half of the victims. Right?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But you admit to being present at the first massacre, and you have been positively identified at the scenes of the other murders. Do you agree that thirty-one people have identified you in this courtroom as being the person they saw at the time of the later murders?'

‘Objection,' says Brian ‘It's old news, your honor.'

‘Judge,' says the prosecutor, ‘I'm just trying to establish the defendant's perception of the facts.'

‘Overruled.' The judge nods at me. ‘Answer the question.'

‘But . . .'

‘Answer the question yes or no,' says the prosecutor. ‘Have you been identified as the suspect by thirty-one citizens in this courtroom?'

‘Uh – I guess so.'

‘
Yes or no!
'

‘Yes.'

My eyes drop to the floor. And once I'm aware of what my eyes are doing, the rest of me gets that first wave of panic. Heat rushes to the back of my nose. The prosecutor pauses, to give my body space enough to betray me on TV.

‘So now, having had your presence established at the scenes of thirty-four murders – you tell us you were later
on the run
.' He makes googly eyes to the jury. ‘I can't imagine
why
.' A chuckle bumps through the room.

‘Because everybody suspected
me
,' I say.

The prosecutor tosses his arms out wide. ‘After thirty-four murders, I'm not surprised!' He stands a moment, while his shoulders bounce with silent laughter. He shakes his head. He mops his brow. He wipes a tear from the corner of one eye, takes a deep
breath, then stumbles the few steps to my cage, still vibrating with fun. But when he levels his gaze at me, it burns.

‘You were in Mexico on the twentieth of May this year?'

‘Uh – that was the day of the tragedy, so – no.'

‘But you just told this court you were in Mexico at the time of the murders.'

‘I meant the recent ones, you know . . .'

‘Ahh I
see
, I
get it
– you went to Mexico for
some
of the murders – is that your story now?'

‘I just meant . . .'

‘Let me help you out,' he says. ‘You
now
say that you went to Mexico at the time of
some
of the murders – right?'

‘Uh – yeah.'

‘And where were you otherwise, when you weren't in Mexico?'

‘Right at home.'

‘Which is in the vicinity of the Amos Keeter property, is it not?'

‘Yes sir, kind of.'

‘Which is where the body of Barry Gurie was found?'

‘Objection,' says my attorney.

‘Your honor,' says the prosecutor, ‘we want to establish that all the murders took place before he ran.'

‘Go ahead – but do feel free to find the point.'

The prosecutor turns back to me. ‘What I'm saying is – you are the closest known associate of the gunman Jesus Navarro. You live mighty close to the scenes of seventeen homicides. You have been identified at all of them. When first interviewed, you absconded from the sheriff's office. When apprehended and released on bail, you ran to Mexico . . .' He leans into the bars, casually, wearily, and lets his face relax onto his chest, so just his heavy eyes poke up. ‘Admit it,' he says softly, reasonably. ‘You killed all those people.'

‘No I didn't.'

‘I suggest you killed them, and just lost count of all the bodies mounting up.'

‘No.'

‘You didn't lose count?'

‘I didn't kill them.'

The prosecutor tightens his lips and sighs through his nose, like extra work just landed at knock-off time. ‘State your full name, please.'

‘Vernon Gregory Little.'

‘And where exactly were you in Mexico?'

‘Guerrero.'

‘Can anyone vouch for you?'

‘Yeah, my friend Pelayo . . .'

‘The truck driver, from the village on the coast?' He ambles to his desk and picks up an official-looking document. He holds it up. ‘The sworn affidavit of “Pelayo” Garcia Madero, from the village named by the defendant,' he says to the court. He carefully lays the paper down, and looks around the room, engaging everyone's attention individually. ‘Mr Garcia Madero states that he only ever met one American youth in his life – a hitch-hiker he met in a bar in northern Mexico, and drove to the south in his truck – a hitch-hiker called
Daniel Naylor
...'

L
ife flashes before my eyes
this fourteenth of November, bitty flashes of weird existence, like the two weeks of a mosquito's life. The last minute of that life is filled with the news that Mr Nuckles will testify on the last day of my trial, in five days' time. Observers say only he can save me now. I remember the last time I saw him. Twentieth of May this year.

‘If things don't happen unless you see them happening,' said Jesus, ‘do they still happen if you think they're gonna – but don't tell nobody . . .?'

‘Sounds like not unless nobody doesn't see you not telling,' I say.

‘Fuck, Verm. Just forget it.' His eyes squint into knife cuts, he just pedals ahead. I don't think he can take another week like last week. His lust for any speck of power in life is scary at times. He ain't a sporting hero, or a brain. More devastatingly, he can't afford new Brands. Licensed avenues of righteousness are out of his reach, see? Don't get me wrong, the guy's smart. I know it from a million long minutes spent chasing insects, building planes, oiling guns. Falling out, falling in again, knowing he knows I know he's soft at heart. I know Jesus is human in ways nobody'll spend the money to measure. Only I know.

Class is a pizza oven this Tuesday morning, all the usual smells baked into an aftertaste of saliva on metal. Rays of light impale selected slimeballs at their desks. Jesus is locked in his school attitude, lit by the biggest ray. He stares at his desk, baring his back, exposing his knife. You probably have a knife stuck in you that loved-ones can twist on a whim. You should take care nobody else discovers where it's stuck. Jesus is proof you should take damn good care.

‘Yo Jaysus, your ass is drippin,' says Max Lechuga. He's the stocky guy in class, you know the one. Fat, to be honest, with this inflatable mouth. ‘Stand clear of Jaysus's ass, the fire department lost another four men up there last night.' The Gurie twins huddle around him, geeing him on. Then he starts on me. ‘Vermie – git a little anal action this morning?'

‘Suck a fart, Lechuga.'

‘Make me, faggot.'

‘I ain't no faggot, fat-ass.'

Lorna Speltz is a girl who's on a time-delay from the rest of us. She finally gets the first joke. ‘Maybe a whole
fire engine
is up there too,' she says with a giggle. That authorizes the she-dorks to start up. Hee, hee, hee.