Vernon God Little

'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.