Guilty by Frederick K. Foote

I, the most hated and reviled, the duly convicted mass murdering, monster calls and he, the newly anointed great red, white, and blue America white hope, comes to me like I knew he would. He enters with a mouthful of self-serving, homogenized bullshit.

“You’re just one insignificant member of a tiny, marginalized extremist group. You stockpiled weapons and hid in the shadows of normalcy and plotted your cowardly attacks. Death is a reward for your kind. Life without parole is a more fitting punishment, and it robs you of your martyr status.”

I look at him in his high-priced silk suit and school tie. I can smell his in vogue cologne. His Princeton University ring, his razor cut hair, and his casual white, male dominance give him a halo of righteousness and respectability.

“Why you down here? Why you respond to my humble request? You won. You the flavor of the month.”

He has some serious concerns that bring him down to this jail interview room on a cold Tuesday evening. His confidence is a shaky disguise. His eyes narrow. He licks his lips too often.

“You never testified. You never effectively challenged the key witness or critical evidence against you. You had several opportunities to get more experienced counsel, and you rejected them.”

“Why, you got these concerns now? The trial is over, you won. You The Man.”

He pauses, narrows his eyes, hardens his face.

“Are you guilty? Did you do it?”

I’m surprised by the questions. It shows on my face.

“Don’t matter if I did. I’m guilty as charged and convicted by you and my peers.” I can’t help smiling as I respond.

He just realizes how bad he fucked up. He swallows hard, wipes his face with a snowy white handkerchief. He wants to run as far from here as he can, but he stays. He tries to regain his composure, tries to figure it out.

“Are you, are you protecting someone?”

“Mr. DA, Don’t play me. You know why I called.”

“You don’t have proof; I did anything illegal. You just—“

“You know better, boss. Call me when you in your right mind. Guard!”

“Wait. Wait there is something—“ Now, the chosen one wants to talk serious business, but it’s too late now.

The indifferent guard arrives and unshackles my hands from the counter.

The DA is still sitting there staring at me, scared shitless at what he has done. Not worried about me or the ‘real killer,’ but terrified that all his lying witnesses, contrived and suppressed evidence will collapse on him, drown him, ruin his brilliant career and the sky is the limit future. He wants to say something so bad but, not in front of the jailer. I stand. I look down on him.

“You didn’t have to do all that. You would have won anyway. You got blinded by ambition.”

The jailer looks at me in surprise, looks back at the DA. The DA turns stoned face, stands, turns and walks out the door.

##

It only takes ten years to the White House. I celebrate his election, really, our election. I need to get things rolling. I’ve got lots of new responsibilities now. May God be with us. We’ve never owned a president before. I want our first one-hundred days in office to be unforgettable.

 

Frederick K. Foote

 

Header photograph: By Юкатан (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons