Part 4: Trial & Aftermath
Jesus in jail befriends Lucas; at arraignment, hallucinated voices overwhelm him; he attacks a guard; placed in solitary; encounters The Other — The Animal.
Jesus’ meeting with Kelly left him with deep questions about himself and his own identity.
Who can I be when I don’t even know myself?
Thoughts of suicide crossed his mind. It was an easy option, a viable way out of the maelstrom of tragedy that surrounded him. Jesus began to become a recluse, staying in his bed and not facing anybody except during meal times, when he was required to come out and eat. He would give most of his food away; how could he be hungry with this weight on his shoulders?
The other inmates left him alone, content to not bother someone who obviously doesn’t want to talk. There was one, however, a young white boy named Lucas, who befriended Jesus. He was scrawny and small; the gang members and other inmates would pick on him and take his food. Lucas saw Jesus as a fellow outcast, an oasis of familiarity in a desert of hostility. At first, Jesus was dismissive of his questions and comments, but eventually, Lucas wore him down and the two gained some semblance of friendship.
“What are you in here for?” Lucas asked. Before Jesus could answer, he continued, “I’m in here because I stole a car. Well, I didn’t really steal it, but they said I did. You know?”
“When you go to court,” Lucas said, “You can hide anything you need to take in your shoe. They don’t search your shoes.”
“Good to know,” Jesus replied. It turned out that Lucas was a wealth of useful information. It wasn’t his first time in jail; he had been in and out of juvenile for petty thefts and assaults, a common occurrence for a youth from his Harlem neighborhood. Lucas and Jesus came from different worlds, but they had something in common: They both felt like a small fish in a big pond.
Lucas shared his story with Jesus, a story of a lost, confused kid growing up in the heart of a city that eats its own young like a feral animal under the intermittent care of a single mother who struggled with alcoholism. She would leave him alone for days at a time, and as a product, Lucas became streetwise and independent. He was forced into the role of his own protector and caretaker before he was old enough to go to high school, which he would rarely attend before eventually dropping out in his junior year. Drugs and gangs were an inevitable eventuality for someone in his position. He started smoking grass before he turned thirteen, and by the time he dropped out of high school, he was doing coke daily.
As a result, his would-be puberty was stunted and he stayed skinny and short.
What Lucas lacked in stature, he made up for in wit. He was quick, funny, and surprisingly well read after spending countless afternoons at the public library, the only place that was safe, open, and free.
His options were severely limited as a youth growing up in poverty, and despite the vast chasm in between their radically different life experiences, Jesus felt a commonality with Lucas, who told his story to him openly and readily. Lucas wanted what everyone wants: To be understood, and in that understanding, have the weight of experience lifted from his shoulders.
Lucas taught Jesus how to play rummy and speed, and they would spend hours passing time playing cards with a deck that another inmate, a friend of Lucas’s from the street, had left for him after his sister had made his bail. Lucas had told him volumes of stories about himself, but never asked Jesus about his own story. Maybe he just wanted to talk about himself and gain some self-serving catharsis from sharing his story, and maybe he sensed that Jesus wasn’t ready to delve into the chapters of his own life. Either way, Jesus’ story would remain an unexplained mystery to Lucas. Kelly had told him to watch what he said around the other inmates. It wasn’t unlikely that Lucas could turn on him and share what Jesus had confided in him. Furthermore, to recount one story would be to Jesus to recount them all, and that notion threatened to disrupt the fragile equilibrium that was his increasingly conflated psyche.
The guilt, desperation, and fear that Jesus felt at night were more than thoughts; they were palpable forces, characters as real as Lucas and Kelly. They manifested themselves into dreams, as visions, disembodied voices that tested the limits of his sanity, sometimes hushed whispers, and sometimes in jeering shouts. Jesus was at the center of a pressure cooker with a head full of dynamite.
Christmas and New Year’s came and went as the weeks flew by. It seemed that this place had no sense of time. In a couple senses, it was a limbo, a waiting area between the heaven of the outside world and the hell of prison. The normal rules that governed time and physics did not apply. It was a place that one could easily get lost in, and many did.
The indictment came just as Kelly had promised in the form of legal mail. Even though Jesus had prepared himself for it, it was a blow that resonated into the pit of his stomach, another reminder that his foot was caught in a snare that threatened to take his life. Worst of all, it was a trap of his own making.
In January, Jesus went to court for his arraignment. The grand jury had rushed his indictment.
Kelly would tell him that was because some of the major players in the DA’s office were trying to push it to a quick resolution.
On the day of court, Jesus was shackled at the ankles and cuffed to another prisoner as they rode to the courthouse in town. He waited in another holding cell for what seemed like forever before the guard called him up to another holding cell closer to the court room. The guard led him to a small room where Kelly was waiting.
“The judge is Timothy Bolton. He’s a hard judge, and isn’t going to cut you any breaks. David Reid, your district attorney, is a hardass. You can expect a fair trial, but I wouldn’t be surprised for them to pull every trick in the book. I’m going to wait as long as possible to reveal our secret weapon, but we’ve got a ways to go before that. First, I’m going to file for discovery so that we know all the evidence that the state can use in their case,” Kelly said. He stopped and adjusted his glasses for a moment.
“I always recommend my clients to seriously consider the plea deals, even if they are innocent.
Sometimes, they offer you the best chance of getting a good deal. We will probably get our first and last offer in around a month. If there’s something I know about Reid, it’s that he likes to play straight and fast. No negotiations, just one offer. Unless something changes, I’m not optimistic in proving your innocence. It’s possible to get a not guilty verdict, but not likely. I think that we’re better off focusing on the mitigating factors that could lead to a shortened sentence or even a suspended sentence.”
Jesus nodded slowly, trying to absorb the slew of information. The jail had its own population of inmate lawyers, all of which claimed that Jesus could get off on some technicality or another, but what Kelly said made sense.
Who can I trust?
“I want to have you interviewed by a mental health professional. It will be hard to find someone to do it pro-bono, unless you have funds to offer them. Do you have money?” Jesus shook his head. He didn’t have a soul in the world to call, besides Winston, and there was no way to get in contact with him.
“That’s going to make it harder, but not impossible. I’ll do what I can. Now, when you go in to that court room, don’t say anything. Let me do the talking,” Kelly said.
“Okay,” Jesus said. He looked into Kelly’s eyes and hoped the man staring back was an honest one, and if he wasn’t, he would be his kind of dishonest.
Kelly left, and the guard escorted Jesus back into the secondary holding cell. Thirty minutes later, the guard brought him into the courtroom. He was handcuffed and instructed not to speak.
The court room was cold and full of unfamiliar faces. A quick glance around revealed a few familiar ones. John, Paul, Luke, and O’Neil were scattered throughout the pews that faced the court. A woman announced, “Now hearing the case of State vs. Castillo.”
“Your honor,” The state attorney began, “The state alleges that on Monday, November 21st, at approximately 5:15pm, the defendant, Mr. Jesus Castillo, shot Mr. Leroy White in the back of the head while entering … ”
The voice droned on, a stream of overly-formal verbiage. Jesus was in a dream-like state, lost in a trance. The red on white, the bitter, biting cold, and the emptiness inside of him …
What have I done?
Jesus could feel the cold, slushy wetness in his socks from the snow that had melted through his sneakers, which offered meager protection. The magnum felt heavy in his hand, solid, almost like an extension of his arm. The muzzle flashed before his eyes in front of the court reporter, the judges, and all of the attorneys. He could hear the report of the gun clear as day, but it was distant, like watching a movie in a theater. He felt disconnected, disassociated with himself.
“They’re going to find out. They’re going to find out about everything. They’re going to find out about how you killed me, how you fled Mexico with my little girlfriend. Pathetic,” Rodrigo said.
What would you do, Winston? How would you solve this?
“You’re a man now, Jesus. You have to solve your own problems,” Winston said.
Sophia was there, too, watching with tightly closed lips and deeply sorrowful, concerned eyes.
Eyes that seemed to say, “I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
“You’re losing it, man,” Said Christian.
“Fuck it, play it up,” Said Enrique.
“None of us are really here,” Said Miriam, “But you can talk to us just the same.” In the background, he could feel the vibrations of speech coming from the general direction of his lawyer, but his ears had disconnected from his brain, short circuited somehow.
“I don’t want to talk to you, I want you to leave me alone,” Jesus whispered under his breath.
“Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. Just leave you alone. Right; we’ll just go home to where we live.
In your head,” Rodrigo said, dark sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“You want me to leave you?” Andrea said.
“We live in your head,” Rodrigo said.
“We all live here,” Said Juan.
“You need me,” Said Andrea, “You need me here with you. You can’t let me go.”
“In your fucking head.”
“You’ll never let me go.”
“You have to deal with this on your own, son,” Winston said. Jesus could feel Osito’s stoic, dark eyes beating down on him, judging him.
” … An informal plea of not guilty,” Said Kelly.
“Why don’t you just own up to it,” Said Leroy. “This is your destiny. You killed me. Don’t you see my head?” Fresh gore was spackled around his expensive suit, falling out from the gaping quarter of his head that was missing.
“We’re in here, and we’re staying,” Said Rodrigo.
“You need me.”
“You need us.”
“Leroy says, Leroy said, Leroy says … ”
“Enough!” Jesus screamed. “Get out of my head. I don’t want you; I don’t need you; get the fuck out of my-” He never got a chance to finish the sentence because he was being manhandled back into the holding area. Something hit him in the abdomen with incredible force. His body crumpled, shutting down. He tried to move, but his muscles failed to respond to his brain’s signals. Someone was shouting from far away. So very far away …
Jesus awoke alone in a small, dark cell. There was a toilet and a roll of toilet paper, a thin foam mattress, a metal bed bolted into the wall, and a door. The door had a covering over the window, but from outside a sliver of light came in. There was also a horizontal slot, presumably for trays of food. The cell was tiny, barely eight by eight feet.
What happened?
Jesus racked his brain for memories, but it yielded nothing. The last thing he could remember was collapsing in pain at the floor of the holding area outside of the court room. He had no sense of time or direction, no idea of where or when he was.
That officer must have punched me right in the ribs.
As he moved to get out of bed, his body exploded in pain. At first it seemed overwhelming and all-encompassing, but after Jesus laid and focused on it, he could tell his ribs, legs, and back were somehow hurt. His cheek stung, and his wrists and shoulders were sore. He felt like he had been dragged behind a horse.
For a very long time, Jesus laid perfectly still. Even the tiniest movements would shoot painful ribbons through his whole body, emanating from his ribs and back. It was exhausting; just to focus on enduring through the agony required all his attention and willpower.
He stayed like that until the horizontal slot in his door opened and light shone into his tiny cell.
Food!
His body screamed out for nourishment, and he scampered out of bed, fighting through his intense pain and soreness to achieve his prize. A tray was placed on the folded surface of the door, which he retrieved with desperate eagerness. He wolfed the food, some vegetables, bread, and bologna down in a hurry. Only after he finished, Jesus realized that the tray slot was still open. He crawled to it and peered through.
He appeared to be on the upper level of a large room. Outside, he could see stairs and railing leading down to a desk. In front of the desk were a half dozen tables and three metal cages containing what appeared to be showers. He stared through the slot, absorbing as much information as possible about his surroundings as possible, which was very little because of the small and poorly angled opening.
Other prisoners were yelling incomprehensible obscenities, an almost constant custom in jail, it seemed, mostly directed at the guards, but sometimes with no clear recipient.
“Tray,” Said a loud, clear voice from outside his cell. Black khakis, black boots, and a utility belt stepped into view.
“Excuse me sir,” Jesus croaked out, “Where am I?”
“Tray,” The voice responded. He sounded angry. “Or you don’t eat.” Jesus crawled back to his bed to retrieve the tray, but by the time he had it in his hand, the slot had shut and he could hear footsteps walking away.
“Tray,” He heard again, heavily muffled.
“I have my tray! Please, I want to eat!” Jesus yelled through the door. He banged on it to no avail. As he pleaded, he only seemed to further antagonize his screaming neighbors. They continued their yelling with aggressive, renewed vigor. Jesus resigned himself back to his bed and eventually the darkness allowed him to succumb to peaceful, restorative sleep.
When he awoke again, it was impossible to tell how much later, his body was sore down to the bone, but some of the sharp, stabbing pain had subsided into a dull throb. It could have been half an hour or four hours when he heard a voice. He was staring at the ceiling, trying to move as little as possible when he was clearly addressed.
“Hello, Jesus,” It was his own voice. But where was it coming from? Jesus searched the cell, but could not find its original. Then, he realized where it must have come from. Above the sink, bolted into the wall, there was a flat panel of reflective steel, a mirror of sorts. Jesus forced himself with considerable effort and discontent to his feet and placed his hands on the sink, peering into the mirror. The image was blurry, distorted by dents, and nearly impossible to see in the near complete darkness, but Jesus thought he could make out the faintest line of a face. He leaned closer.
Yes, it was definitely a face, but it wasn’t his own. It was changed, different, darker.
“They call this place the hole, Jesus,” The voice said. Jesus recognized it as his own, but there was a foreign quality to its tonality, a low undertone of rumbling malevolence and anguish.
“Do you know who I am?” The voice said.
“Who are you?” Jesus replied.
“I’m yours.”
“No. I’m me.”
“That’s right,” The voice said, “But I’m a different part of you.” “What is happening to me?” Fire burned in his mind. The wood snapped and crushed as the orphanage’s roof caved in.
“I am the part of you that you needed.”
“I don’t need you,” Jesus said.
“Yes you do. I’m always here, but it’s only when you need me, I come out. I am The Animal. I am The Other. I am a predator, a killer, a survivor. You need me now. I have always been there, lurking inside of you, but I was like a child, underdeveloped and unfed. But you raised me. You brought me to the light of day. Want to know what you did yesterday? I know you do. I’m you,” Jesus said, staring at his muddled, dark reflection in the mirror. He tilted his head.
“We gouged the mother fucker’s eye out, that’s what we did. Let’s see if they ever do that to us again.”
Jesus Wept
Now he remembered. He remembered lying useless and prone reeling from the punch. The officer grabbed his shoulder to pull him up, but he was already up. He was faster. He went right to the eye, gouging with his thumb. His teeth sought the guard’s neck, but they fell short. And then they beat him. “Oh, how they beat us. They beat us until their arms were tired; then, they took a break and beat us some more. They broke us, yes, and they brought us here, but they cannot break our spirit. We will fight.”
“No. You will fight. And I will fight you. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I’m not a damned animal. Now leave me alone!” Jesus screamed at the mirror, and then he was alone. The Other was gone. Jesus sat down on his bed and waited.
From time to time; he would hear the jingling of keys and the thud of boots outside his cell, and every time his hopes would rise, only to be crushed again as nothing happened. It was a very long time before another meal came, almost half a day, and it would be longer even until Jesus would be removed from the hole. He spent weeks, there, leaving only once every three days to shower in a metal cage.
Once a week, he was taken outside, shackled at the hands and feet, so he could stand in a fenced in area with the other hole inmates. The sun was wonderful. It would be the best part of his time in the hole.
The worst were the nights. Jesus only could tell it was night because of his meals, and because of the freezing cold. The cold penetrated through the walls like a ghost, filling the room with its presence. All night, Jesus laid freezing, shivering in a pathetic ball on his bunk. After the third day, they finally brought him a thin blanket, for which he was infinitely thankful, but even that did little to stave off the freezing nights. It was truly hell, and would remain the darkest time in Jesus’ life. Rodrigo, Leroy, and The Other visited him often, jeering him and lecturing him on what he had done. His sanity and resolve began to wear thin at the hands of the constant mental onslaught. The little sensible part of his mind that was left could feel himself degrading. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was to himself. The guards wouldn’t talk to him, and the inmates weren’t worth trying to talk to. In the hole, Jesus prayed to a higher power, but only The Devil responded, because God wasn’t there.