‘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 ...’
twenty-one
Life 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.
School never teaches you about this mangled human slime, it slays me. You spend all your time learning the capital of Surinam while these retards carve their initials in your back.
‘Find focus, science-lovers.’ Marion Nuckles arrives in a puff of Calvin Klein chalk dust, all gingery and erectile. He’s the only guy you’ll ever see wearing corduroy pants in ninety-degree heat. Looks like he’d wear leather shorts without laughing.
‘Who remembered to bring a candle?’ he asks. Suddenly I find my shoe needs tying. Like just about everybody, except Dana Gurie who produces a boxed set of gold-leaf aromatherapy candles.
‘Oops – I left the price on!’ She waves the box around real slow. It even looks like she highlighted the price with a marker. That’s our Dana. She’s usually busy reporting who barfed in class. The careers advisor says she’ll make a fine journalist.
Lechuga stands out of his chair. ‘I think Jesus used his candle already, sir.’
Exploratory snorts of laughter. Nuckles tightens. ‘Care to elaborate, Max?’
‘You mightn’t want to touch Jesus’ candle, that’s all.’
‘Where do you think it’s been?’
Max weighs up audience potential. ‘Up his ass.’
The class detonates through its nose.
‘Mr Nuckles,’ says Dana, ‘we’re here to receive an education, and this doesn’t seem very educational.’
‘Yeah, sir,’ says Charlotte Brewster, ‘we have a constitutional right to be protected from deviated sexual influences.’
‘And some people have a right not to be persecuted, Miss Brewster,’ says Nuckles.
‘That’s Ms Brewster, sir.’
Max Lechuga puts on his most blameless face. ‘Heck, it’s just fun, y’know?’
‘Ask Jesus if he finds it so fun,’ says Nuckles.
‘Well,’ shrugs Charlotte. ‘If you can’t take the heat . . .’
‘Get out of the car!’ chirps Lorna Speltz. Wrong, Lorna. Duh.
Nuckles sighs. ‘What makes you people think the constitution upholds your interests over those of Mr Navarro?’
‘On accounta he’s a diller-wippy,’ says Beau Gurie. Don’t even ask.
‘Thank you, Beauregard, for that incisive encapsulation of the issue at hand. As for you, Ms Brewster, I think you’ll find that our illustrious constitution stops short of empowering you to breach a person’s fundamental human rights.’
‘We’re not breaching any rights,’ says Charlotte. ‘We, The People, have decided to have a little fun, with whoever, and we have that right. Then whoever has a right to fun us back. Or ignore us. Otherwise, if they can’t take the heat . . .’
‘Get out of the fire!’ Wrong, Lorna. Duh.
‘Yeah, sir,’ says Lechuga. ‘It’s constitutional.’
Nuckles paces the width of the room. ‘Nowhere in the papers of State, Doctor Lechuga, will you see written “If you can’t take the heat.”’ He spreads the words out thick and creamy. It’s a tactical error with Charlotte Brewster fired up the way she is. She won’t tolerate losing, not at all. Her lips turn anus-like. Her eyes get beady.
‘Seems to me, sir, you’re spending a lot of time defending Jesus Navarro. A whole lot of time. Maybe we don’t have the whole picture . . .?’
Nuckles freezes. ‘Meaning what?’
‘I guess you don’t surf the net much, huh, sir?’ Lechuga casts a sly eye around the room. ‘I guess you ain’t seen them – boy sites.’
Nuckles moves towards Max, trembling with rage. Jesus abandons his desk with a crash, and runs from the room. Class goddess Lori Donner runs after him. Nuckles spins. ‘Lori! Jesus!’ He chases them into the hall.
See Jesus’ dad, ole Rosario? He’d never end up in this position. Know why? Because he was raised back across the border, where they have a sensible tradition of totally freaking out when the first thing gets to them. Jesus caught the white-assed disease of bottling it all up. I have to find him.
The class casually slips into character for the scene, the one where they’re innocent bystanders at a chance event. Heads shake maturely. The Gurie twins swallow a giggle. Then Max Lechuga gets out of his chair, and goes to the bank of computer terminals by the window. One by one, he activates the screen-savers. Pictures jump to the screen of Jesus naked, bent over a hospital-type gurney.
I step up to Nuckles in the hall outside class. He ain’t seen the computer screens yet. ‘Sir, want me to find Jesus?’
‘No. Take those notes to the lab and see if you can find me a candle.’
I grab the sheaf of notes from his desk, and head outside. Already I can see Jesus’ locker hanging open in the corridor; his sports bag is gone. Nuckles returns to the class. I guess he sees the pictures, because he snarls: ‘You cannibals dare talk to me about the constitution?’
‘The constitution’, says Charlotte, ‘is a tool of interpretation, for the governing majority of any given time.’
‘And?’
‘We are that majority. This is our time.’
‘Bambi-Boy, Bambi-Boy!’ sings Max Lechuga.
*
Dew tiptoes down Lori Donner’s cheeks, falling without a sound onto the path outside the lab. ‘He took his bike. I don’t know where he went.’
‘I do,’ I say.
I guess she feels safe, Jesus turning out the way he is. She’s just real sympathetic. I’m still not sure how to handle the new Jesus. It’s like he watched too much TV, got lulled into thinking anything goes. Like the world was California all of a sudden.
‘Lori, I have to find him. Cover for me?’
‘What do I tell Nuckles?’
‘Say I fell or something. Say I’ll be back for math.’
She takes one of my fingertips and kneads it. ‘Vern – tell Jesus we can change things if we stick together – tell him . . .’ She starts to cry.
‘I’m gone,’ I say. The ground detaches from my New Jacks, I leap clean over the school building, in my movie I do. I’m fifty yards away from Lori before I realize that the candle, and Nuckles’s notes, are still in my hand – I don’t want to ruin my Caped-Crusader-like exit, though. I just jam them into my back pocket, and keep running.
Sunny dogs and melted tar come to my nose as I fly to Keeter’s on my bike. I also catch a blast of girls’ hot-weather underwear, the loose cotton ones, white ones with bitty holes to circulate air. I’m not saying I catch a real whiff, don’t get me wrong. But the components of this lathery morning bring them to mind. As Nuckles would say, the underwears are evoked. I ride this haze of tangs, dodging familiar bushes along Keeter’s track. A sheet of iron creaks in a gust, somehow marking this as an important day, a pivot. But I’m embarrassed. The excitement of it puts me in a category with the ass-wipes at school, toking on the drug of somebody else’s drama. Your neighbor’s tragedy is big business now, I guess because money can’t buy it.
I spy fresh tracks in the dirt. Jesus went to the den all right. The last bushes crackle around me as I squeeze into our clearing. But he’s not here. It’s unusual for him not to stick around and sulk, shoot some cans with one of the rifles. I throw the bike down and scramble to the den hatch. The padlock is secured. My key is back home, in the shoebox in my closet, but I manage to lever back an edge of the hatch enough to squint into the shaft. My daddy’s rifle is still there. Jesus’ gun is gone. I follow his tracks up the far side of the bunker, scanning the horizon all around. Then I catch my breath. There, in the far distance, goes Jesus – a speck away, standing up pedaling, fly
ing, on the way back to school with his sports bag. I screech after him, catch myself running like the kid in that ole movie, ‘Shane – come back!’ But he’s gone.
Blood circulation re-starts in my body. It’s interpreted as a window of opportunity by my bowels. Thanks. My brain locks up over a crossfire of messages, but there ain’t much I can do. Believe me. I grab Nuckles’s handwritten physics notes from my pocket. They’re all I have for ass-paper. I decide to use them, then ditch them in the den. Some bitty inkling tells me they won’t be top priority when I get back to class.
On the ride back to school I’m followed, then overtaken, by a rug of time-lapse clouds, muddy like underfruits bound for the fan. You sense it in the way the breeze bastes your face, stuffs your sinus with dishcloth, ready to yank when the moment comes. Trouble has its own hormone. I look over my shoulder at the frame of a sunny day shrinking, vanishing. Ahead it’s dark, and I’m late for math. It’s dark, I’m late, and my life rolls toward a new alien world. I haven’t figured out the old alien world, and now it’s new again.
School has a stench when I get back, of sandwiches that won’t be eaten, lunchboxes lovingly packed, jokingly, casually packed, that by tonight will be stale with cold tears. I’m bathed in the stench before I can turn back. I drop flat to the ground at the side of the gym and, through the shrubs, watch young life splatter through slick mucous air. When massive times come, your mind sprays your senses with ice. Not to deaden the brain, but to deaden the part that learned to expect. This is what I learn as the shots fire. The shots sound shopping-cart ordinary.
I find a lump of cloth tucked in the shadow of the gym. Jesus’ shorts, the ones he keeps at the back of his locker. Somebody cut a hole in back, and painted the edges with brown marker. ‘Bambi’ it says above. A few feet away lies his sports bag. I grab it. It’s empty, save for a half box of ammunition. I keep my eyes down, I don’t look across the lawn. Sixteen units of flesh on the lawn have already given up their souls. Empty flesh buzzes like it’s full of bees.
‘He went for me, but got Lori . . .’ Nuckles snakes around the corner on his belly, slugging back air in blocks. ‘He said don’t follow him – another gun, at Keeter’s . . .’