Part 4: Trial & Aftermath
Jesus researches his case and battles The Other; reunited with Lucas; Winston reveals baby Jesus Jr. is born; Dupree presents a plea deal — Jesus refuses.
The crystalline sea of Thorazine held secrets so deep that no diver or submarine could ever uncover its recesses. Miles underneath the topaz surface, darkness lies in wait, a sea onto itself, holding its minions that would do the bidding of The Other. He could feel them speaking to him, calling his name from the depths, but no amount of coercion could resign him to the vicious waters. Jesus knew what was in store, biding its time until his craft failed, crashed into an iceberg of frozen medicine or set adrift, helpless, waiting for the gulls to pluck his eyes from their sockets and pick his bones clean of flesh. From the darkness, in some long-forgotten animalistic recess of his mind, Jesus could hear him calling. He tugged at Jesus’ heart with his bond, but that bond was weakening, and Jesus was the captain of his ship, the commander of his vessel. He was the craft that carried him through the murky, convoluted waters where the light splintered and shimmered prismatically in the sunlight and glowed a soft golden brown under the night sky.
He was The Captain, and he carried the self-assured confidence of one who wasn’t unfamiliar with the grave waters of his mind.
But alas, his ship had failed him. A hole had sprung in the hull, growing ever larger with each passing wave. The metal wasn’t meant to withstand the corrosive Thorazine, but Jesus’ crew fought valiantly to bail out the water that was flooding in. Even he himself took up the bucket and began to heave and bail in a chain reaction in tandem with the others. They were a machine, and each man was a single link in the chain—A chain of doomed sailors, soon to be forgotten and swallowed up by the unforgiving waters. It was The Other who told Jesus this. He could not be saved, but on and on he worked, slashing the bucketsfull of water and handing them off with mechanical haste to each successive crew member.
“It’s a lost cause.” He could hear Him say. “It’s useless; you are bound to this fate.”
Jesus had known his fate since the beginning. His unconscious had simply manifested what he knew to be true, but yet, even in the face of undeniable peril and seemingly inevitable death a glimmer of hope drove him forward; with each bucket full of Thorazine his spirits lifted, even as the water line passed his knees.
“This is it boys. We won’t go down without a fight!” He called to his crew. They cheered in approval as the craft sailed in the eastern sky, riding a little lower with each passing moment.
The law library inside New York County Jail was not a library at all, rather a small, rectangular room in a side hallway that branched off of the main stretch of the building Jesus was located in. The hall was primarily used for storage, and was rarely visited by inmates, giving it a comforting seclusion and peace. Six bound copies of federal and state law along with various volumes of other titles related to law, no more than a dozen titles in all humbly adorned a small bookshelf at the end of the room opposite from the entrance. Two large rectangular tables dominated the room, providing enough space for eight people to simultaneously study the books and collect notes, but the room was barren and empty when Jesus arrived, escorted by an officer and a week after another inmate had shown him how to submit a request to use the library.
His thought was that somehow he would find some special condition or loophole that pertained to him and would allow him to mount some type of defense after Andrea had shot down his original plan.
There was much talk in the pod from who appeared to be experienced and streetwise jailbirds about what Jesus could do about his case. They had unanimously agreed that he should fight, spouting off obscure phrases and anecdotal reports of individuals that had found themselves in similar-or worse- situations, and come out ahead in the end. Such was the normal jailhouse talk, an endless echo chamber of self-assurance leaking ceaselessly from the gaping mouths of half-crazed convicts and desperate, broken men who seemed to need self-assurance more than they did books. Jesus decided to take his chances with the books. They were a safer bet, he thought, and they had been his salvation before when the turbulent tides of life had thrown him more than he had bargained for. On his first visit to the library, he quickly began looking up the statute for first degree murder, then, unsatisfied with its results, continued browsing through the sections of second and third degree. The text were wordy, difficult to navigate, and used unfamiliar language. He spent a great deal of time before he even found the correct book to pull from, but once he did, he found notes and references scribbled in the margins. They read, “Marin vs. State,” and “Possible conflict? Check Cassandra.”
At first the notes seemed cryptic and incomprehensible, but Jesus began to note that they corresponded to specific court cases. There was an entire three volumes of case law on the shelves. The notepad he had brought with him had only just began to fill with notes and citations, lists of cases to inspect, possible reduced charges, precedents, and documents when he once again heard the jingling keys that, in a Pavlovian response, alerted him that a guard was coming. The man informed him that he had ten minutes to finish his work.
Jesus looked at his paper. He had written down the statutes of punishment he was facing as well as a diverse section of one-line notes about specific case laws and conditions. He still had very little substantial material to go on. The tip of the iceberg had been scratched, and none of its inside bore a remote resemblance to the inane ramblings of his fellow inmates. He made a mental note to himself to take their insistent counsel with a grain of salt.
Back in the pod, he found The Other waiting for him, perched on the top bunk where Jesus slept, smiling to himself as if he had just seen something very entertaining.
“The little bookworm thinks that he can worm his way out of anything, doesn’t he?” Said he, “Crawl, worm, crawl. Crawl until you’ve dug yourself a hole so deep that you’ll never find your way out again.”
Jesus tried to ignore his taunting as he returned his notebooks to their home under the foot of his thin mattress. It was a constant battle between the light and the darkness in his mind, the forces that encouraged him to keep bailing water from his sinking ship, and The Other, an agent of entropy and chaos, a manifestation of his guilt, who wanted nothing more than his complete and utter demise. The two sides were at constant war, launching attacks and mounting defenses in an eternal chess game, and Jesus was the battle field.
Jesus didn’t respond to Him. To do so would be admitting his substantiality, and in effect, giving him power.
“You can’t run from justice,” Said John.
Neither can you.
“I don’t have to,” He said. Jesus could feel the steely grey eyes of Leroy on his neck. They pierced into him, urging him to turn around and face him, but Jesus declined. He would not face a ghost, a visage of his own mind, but instead remain oriented towards the truth.
“Jesus,” He called. He was looming behind Jesus now, breathing onto the nape of his neck.
Jesus could feel his energy, the heat radiating off of his body and the field of electricity emanating from his being. To turn around would be tantamount to failure, so he refused, instead busying his hands by organizing his papers.
“Jesus,” He called again, clearer this time. His voice sounded sharper, more clear and distinct than it had before. In it was an element of familiarity that made Jesus stop and consider turning, but he dismissed the notion, not to be fooled by the tricks and tactics of The Other.
“Jesus! It’s me, Lucas,” Jesus turned to face the voice. “They just assigned me to this pod. I had no idea you would be here. How have you been, man?”
Lucas looked a full five years older and fifteen pounds heavier. The months that had passed since Jesus had been sent to The Hole, and after, Green Mountain, had grown Lucas a beard and filled out the sleeves on his shirt uniform with shoulders that couldn’t have belonged to the skinny boy that had pestered him incessantly when he had first arrived there.
“Hi Lucas. Good to see you,” He slapped him a handshake and a brief one-armed side hug shoulder bump. “I just got back here myself. Been a wild spring for me.”
“Yeah, me too. I keep getting jerked around and put off in court,” Lucas said, “Haven’t made any progress on my case in months.”
“What was that again, your case?” Jesus asked.
“Auto theft. What did you say yours was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Right,” Lucas said, “Well, I wish you the best of luck with that. You got a deck of cards?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
As August ended and the sun bid farewell to another year, Jesus’ arraignment date crept steadily closer. Like the changing of the seasons, he could feel the change in his life encroaching on his psyche, a constant reminder that the odds were stacked against him. He devoted his mind to the law library and the precious information that he could glean from it so that when the arraignment did come, he would be prepared. It offered him some occupying comfort to do something that could give him hope, but it was a false comfort. Through his research, he had found nothing that could potentially help him prove his innocence. The inevitability of a plea of insanity loomed threateningly on Jesus’ mind, and with it, the admittal of a crime which he didn’t commit—or did he? For the first time since Green Mountain, Jesus began to doubt himself. He began to doubt his own resolve. The Other was drawing close to him once more.
Who can I trust?
When the arraignment did come, it held neither relief nor added burden to Jesus. In fact, he never even entered the court room. Once again, he was passed from one holding cell to another. By now, Jesus had become accustomed to the process. A shoe full of cigarettes and coffee helped him pass the time until the long, fruitless day was over. The one caveat was that Dupree spoke to him briefly before the arraignment, when he shared the case law and ideas that the library brought him. Still, Dupree held that the only viable defense was an insanity plea. It was a gambit, one that New York had not seen in over eight years on such a high-profile case. If successful, it was bound to be a major boon in Dupree’s career.
“I want to hold out as long as possible to get a glimpse into the state’s case. By the next court date, I should have some more solid information to go on.”
Jesus was a monk, a master of self-centered introspection and endless waiting. As he peered into the recesses of his own soul, he could feel the eyes of The Other peering over his shoulder. Winston wrote him letters that read something like motivational speeches. It was what he needed in this time.
Maybe he needs it more than I do.
They refrained from talking about the details of the case, lest the state learn something from an unscrupulous anonymous source. During their visits, however, they discussed the case freely, albeit in hushed, low voices.
“Are you sure that there’s no way to convince Andrea?”
Winston frowned sympathetically, “Trust me, I’ve tried. If there was a way to get you out of this, I would take it.”
“All I need is for her to tell the jury that John visited the apartment and somehow snooped around enough to possibly find the gun I had bought. With her testimony, that would be more than enough to instil reasonable doubt.”
“No one wants that more than me,” Winston said, “Especially now.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jesus said.
“I mean that your son was born last weekend,” Winston said. “She named him after you. Jesus Cassius Castillo Jr. He’s perfectly healthy, born five pounds eleven ounces.”
“That’s … ” Jesus’ voice faltered in a mix of elation and despair, joy that his son had been brought into the world and sadness that he had not been there to witness the miracle, “That’s incredible.”
“You’re a father, now,” Winston said.
Find your focal point.
“And you’re a grandfather,” Jesus said. “I wish I could be with them now. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her to go through this without me. It’s a father’s sacred duty to care for one’s family when the time calls.”
“Don’t you worry about that, son,” Winston said, “I was there the whole time. They’re in good hands.”
“Thank you, Winston,” Jesus said, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Time to wrap it up, gentlemen,” Announced the officer.
“Will you bring photos of the baby for me to see?” Said Jesus.
“Of course, but you won’t need to see photos. Soon, you’ll be able to see for yourself and hold your child outside this place,” He said.
The words tasted sour as they passed out of Winston’s mouth. They were lies, white lies, but lies nonetheless. He knew that Jesus would not see the free world for a very, very long time. He would watch his son grow into a man from behind bars, watch him grow to resent his absent father just as Jesus had resented Winston. That’s how it was bound to be.
“Jesus,” Jamie Dupree said, “Good to see you.”
“Wish I could say likewise. I like the change of venue. This spot actually gives us some privacy.”
It was an all-white conference room attached to the holding area outside of the courtroom Jesus was expected to be in. A month had passed since his arraignment. The state would extend a plea deal.
This was the beginning, and ending, of negotiations.
“We’ll get right down to business,” Said Dupree. “I got the state’s offer,” She handed him a thick stack of papers. Like most legal documents, it bore a stronger resemblance to indecipherable hieroglyphics than it did to modern English at first glance. It was long, at least thirty pages, Jesus estimated. Mostly redundant, as all of the useful information could be found on the second page.
“The five years at fifty percent,” Said Dupree, “You’ll be out in eighteen. Can’t say I never did anything for you.”
She knew his answer before he even had to say it, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “And if I don’t?”
“It’s up to the judge’s discretion. But likely life,” Jamie said, “Look, you should seriously consider this offer. Manslaughter is a fucking steal. They’re handing you an escape rope. All you have to do is grab it and bail yourself out.”
“That’s right, bail yourself out, Jesus. Do the sensible thing, Jesus,” Said John Letters condescendingly.
I’m not doing this right now.
“I’m not doing this right now,” Said Jesus, “We’re going to show them who the real culprit is.
I’m not pleading to anything I didn’t do.”
Dupree sighed. “I had a feeling you would say that. The fact is that we don’t have a case. I’m going to do my best to cross examine their witnesses and point out any flaws in their case, but we simply don’t have anything. We don’t have any witnesses to call, no evidence to show, nothing. We just have your word, which is, no offense, considerably discredited seeing your current whereabouts. As your lawyer, I have to strongly advise you against this option.”
“And as your client, I politely decline,” Jesus said, “I don’t care if the state drops it to a trespassing charge; I’m not taking it. I’m going to win this case one way or another.”
“I like your enthusiasm, but it’s misguided and unfounded,” Said Dupree.
“It might be, but at least I know what I want,” Jesus said, “I have my focal point, Jamie. Do you have yours?”
The first time Jesus Castillo saw his child was in the visitation room of New York County Jail, cradled in the arms of his mother next to his grandfather. Streams of joy evaporated off of his cheeks as words were exchanged, but Jesus didn’t even hear them. He was lifted out of his body, up above the ceiling and through the atmosphere.
For the first time in his life, Jesus understood God, and God smiled upon him.
“You’ll never believe who I ran into yesterday at the grocery store.”