Vernon God Little

'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…'

twenty-one