He had not yet been appointed legal representation, but they did allow him a phone call, which he assumed was being recorded, of course. There was only one person on the outside that he thought could help him. Blair was not that person. It was another lady in Gilbert’s life that avoided talking to him. He hoped this person would make an exception because family is the most important thing all people need to survive. Right?
Gilbert was escorted into a room with pay phones on all sides of the room. He sat on a bench before a phone. He turned to the corrections officer who escorted him.
“Do you have some quarters, man?” Gilbert asked. “I don’t have money.”
The officer scoffed, then said, “The calls free, dumb-ass.” He closed the door.
“Why are people so rude to me?” Gilbert said aloud to himself. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“Excuse me, I’m on the phone here. Shut up.”
Gilbert looked around and saw another prisoner on the other side of the room, looking at him angrily.
“Sorry, man,” Gilbert whispered.
“See you in the showers, bitch,” the man said, then went back to his conversation on the phone.
Just what I need, Gilbert thought. Can it get any worse?
Then he realized he was about to call his sister, and he immediately wanted to take the phone cord and choke himself.
The phone on the other line rang five times before it was finally answered.
“Hello,” Gilbert’s sister said, her tone amiable.
“Hello, Veronica, it’s Gilbert. How are you doing? It’s been a long time. Great to hear your voice. How’s your family? I bet you’re on top of the world.” He had to get as much in with the niceties as possible before Veronica hung up on him.
“You motherfucker,” Veronica snapped into his ear. “I didn’t expect to get a call from you. What the fuck have you got yourself into now? You’re on the news for killing those poor college kids in California.”
“How could I when I live in fucking Oregon, Veronica?”
“Don’t get smart with me, little bastard. I’ll hang up this damn phone.”
“Okay, sorry. I’m just going through Hell right now. I don’t know what to do. I’m at a loss. Look, I’m not being charged with the murders, I’m being charged as an accessory to the murders. I need help, Veronica. Please. You’re the only one.”
“How the fuck you expect me to help?”
“Your husband’s a lawyer, woman. I need his assistance. So if you just ask him if he can-.”
“He’s a divorce lawyer, he doesn’t do murder cases. Never has. Ever.”
“Can he make an exception? I can’t pay for a lawyer of my own.”
“No,” she answered with no hint of reconsidering. Her decisions were usually final and unwavering.
“Can you at least ask him?”
“I don’t want Larry involved in whatever you’re involved in.”
“I’m not involved in anything,” Gilbert said loudly in the phone. “I don’t know how my incarceration is in any way justifiable, or even legal.”
The other prisoner shushed, then said, “Mothafucka’, what did I say?”
Gilbert held the phone receiver away from his face, turned to look at the other prisoner, and shot him a look that he didn’t expect from Gilbert.
“When we’re in the shower’s, I’m gonna shove a fresh soap up your ass, faggot!” Gilbert proclaimed. “Now, would you be kind enough as to not interrupt me while I’m on the fucking phone.”
“Damn,” the other prisoner said, “I’m just sayin’.” He then went on to sweet-talking his mother.
Gilbert put the phone receiver back to his ear.
“Sorry about that, Veronica,” he said.
“Whatever,” Veronica said not caring.
“Look, you’re the only one I’ve got. My only family. Mom and Dad are gone.”
“What about Blair and her family? Maybe one of her cousins is a lawyer.”
“Blair left. I don’t know why she left, or where she went. She hasn’t answered my calls. FBI agents said she hasn’t even answered their calls.”
“That’s too bad.” Veronica continued to be disinterested in his woe.
“Can you at least be here for me. For support.”
“No,” she said, then hung up the phone.
The silence was like death to Gilbert. He screamed, slammed the phone receiver into the phone on the wall until it broke in half, then roared the word ‘fuck’ as loud and for as long as he could. His head dropped. Tears fell onto his orange prison outfit like a broken faucet.
A hand went on his shoulder. He looked up to see the other prisoner looking down at him with compassionate eyes.
“You okay, man?” he asked Gilbert.
“No. I’m dead.”
A day later, still without legal representation, Gilbert was transferred by bus to San Luis Obispo County, California where the college town Shaker Krista was located. He had been to California only twice with his family when he was a kid. The only place they visited was Disneyland, never anywhere else. He had wanted to take a trip to San Francisco, but he never managed to save up enough money. The chances of ever seeing the great city were slim at this point of his life. He didn’t believe he’ll still have his job in Eugene when this event ends — if he ever’s able to go back, that is. He was the only prisoner on the bus, which didn’t make him feel special. The drive was dreary and mentally weary. Nothing but moving land passing by. He felt nothing. The spirit draining from him.
After the almost twelve hour trip, the bus neared the jail where Gilbert was to be held during the trial, he noticed a crowd of people lining both sides of the road leading to the building. He saw people holding up signs. One said: “It’s not your fault.” Another said: “How could you let it happen?” The one that was the strangest to Gilbert, a sign shaped like a heart, being held up by a young woman said: “You’re HOT! I’ll be your Blair!”
“Your fans, kid,” said the corrections officer holding a shotgun behind the gate, giggling. “You got ones that hate you, love you, and want to fuck you.”
“A world gone mad,” Gilbert muttered to himself.
A few hours after settling into his holding cell, Gilbert was then escorted to a room where he finally met with his legal council. What he expected was a poorly paid, cheap-suit wearing, super-caffeinated dude who didn’t have the time to shave that morning. So Gilbert sat at a table, handcuffed, without hope, a corrections officer standing in the corner. The door opened. A tubby blond white man, cleaned-shaven, wearing a dark blue suit with a red tie, a handkerchief in his outside breast-pocket, and holding a black briefcase, walked through the threshold.
He pointed to Gilbert, then looked up at the corrections officer.
“This is a consultation,” the tubby man said with a hint of a Texas accent. “Why is my client handcuffed?” Before the officer could say a word. “Take off his cuffs, and leave. I need to speak with my client privately. You know the drill.”
The corrections officer unlocked Gilbert’s cuffs.
“Thanks, man,” Gilbert said.
“Don’t be polite to him,” the tubby man almost demanded. “To treat you like this is inhumane.” He waved at the officer. “Goodbye now. Call you when we’re done.”
The corrections officer left the room without looking or saying a word.
The tubby lawyer placed his briefcase on the table, then reached his hand to Gilbert.
“Hello there, my unfortunate friend, my name’s Allen Johnson, attorney at law,” he said.
Gilbert shook the man’s hand. Mr. Johnson shook with a stiff, stern grip as if the man met his idol. For a second Gilbert’s limp arm felt as if it were being handled like a whip.
“Damn, Mr. Johnson,” Gilbert said, “I’m gonna need arm later.”
Mr. Johnson released his grip, then held his hands up.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I just can’t suppress the excitement of finally meeting you. And please, do call me Allen.”
“I’m sorry to say, Allen, due to my predicament, the feelings not mutual. You don’t look like you work for the State.”
“That’s because, Gilbert, I am not court appointment. I specialize in cases that involve the violations of civil liberties. I do work for the L.O.L., who have assigned me to your case.”
“The what?” Gilbert asked, bewildered. “The Laugh Out Louds? Oh dear God, I must be in Hell. I’ve seriously died and gone straight to Hell.”
“It stands for: League of Liberty. And no, you’re not in Hell, you’re still in California. And what is happening to you is not only hellish, it is inconceivable, intolerable, unconstitutional, and worst of all, tyrannical.”
“You sound like Johnny Cochran.”
“That man is my idol,” Allen said, holding up a hand and looking at something that wasn’t there with wide eyes. “I have a poster of him on the wall in my office behind my desk. The first thing people see when they enter the room. Mr. Vergo, have you watched the television this week at all?”
“No.”
“The media coverage on your case hasn’t been this big since the O.J. Simpson trial. TMZ is talking about you, and you’re not even a celebrity. The video of you being put in the back of the police car has gone viral, and almost plays nonstop when they talk about you on the news networks.”
“You’re talking about it like it’s a good thing,” Gilbert said, unimpressed. “And even mentioning the Simpson trial makes me feel more hopeless.”
Ultra-tripleX Vlog# 9: Omnia Vanitas
“Hey there, my one and only viewer, thanks for watching and listening. Please do share my videos with friends and loved ones. I, Ultra-tripleX, need the exposure like everyone else who has something to say about the world. Everyone wants attention. When we’re children, we love the attention we get from our mothers, then our fathers, then eventually almost anyone we meet on the journey through life, then finally from a significant other. It’s the one and only act of selfishness all look upon as tolerable. The one thing I desire most in my adult life is the love and attention of a woman, which I have yet to succeed in obtaining. I think I’d prefer a lady with different interests to my own because if I were to spend the rest of my life with someone who lived and thought like me, then the relationship may become stale and boring. No one wants that. Much like my preferable, ideal woman, I want my youtube audience to consist of the people part of the majority in civilization. Those people I view as (makes quote signs with fingers) ‘Eyes wide, but blind,’ due to their narrow minded understanding about how the world is. It’s not totally their fault; they were just raised that way. The environment molded their thoughts into being in a permanent state of misunderstanding. I’d like to think my videos can help them achieve a certain enlightenment, (chuckles) a kind of windshield wiper to bring them clarity. Is it selfish of me? Maybe. But the so called(makes quote signs with fingers again) ‘normal’ society of this age seems simply abnormal to people like me. You see, people like me have minds that contain ideals, thoughts, and beliefs which are incomparable to that of the majority’s. We are not here to hate you, nor love you, we are here to help you. Yes, I am envious of the popular youtube channels who acquire thousands to millions of views because I (points index finger at face) have something to say, something all who can understand my words needs to hear. It’s not that I see myself as a prophet, but an informer. And my words do not come from a higher power — I don’t believe in deities — but from my own mind based on my observations of the human species. Now, I admit I’m nobody special, and if you hate what I say, by all means go someplace else and waste your time watching cats shit on piano keys. I know most will not take me seriously because, you know, I’m a garbage man. I’m not embarrassed to admit it — it pays my bills, feeds me, and most of all, keeps me talking, keeps me expressing myself. It’s getting late. I got to go to bed. Like, subscribe if you want, and see you later.”
Allen Johnson paced around the room while he spoke to Gilbert, never sitting down in the chair, and sometimes stopping directly behind him, pontificating the words he said.
“I have not yet seen the evidence the prosecution has against you, which was provided to them by the FBI, and I assume, other federal agencies,” Allen said.
“Like what other agencies?” Gilbert asked.
“The NSA, of course. And maybe with the help from factions within the CIA.”
Gilbert craned his neck to look at Allen in bewilderment, but only managed to get the lawyer just right within his peripheral.
“Doesn’t that sound a little paranoid, man?” Gilbert asked. “A bit of an over-exaggeration?” Then he said, “Wait, I’ve been incarcerated for simply watching a fucking youtube video. Never mind. You don’t have to answer those questions.”
“They will call you ‘paranoid,’ they will question your mental state, your mental history, any criminal record. Fuck, they will even look into how many times you watched, and jerked off to porno. And, Gilbert, they will say and do the exact same thing to me.”
“You’re talking about the persecution, right?”
“Not only them, sir, but everyone else out there in the media and it’s audience,” Allen said, now leaning forward with one hand on the table, a finger pointing to the wall.
“Didn’t Johnny Cochran at least make O.J. Simpson feel better during their meetings?” Gilbert asked. “Because you’re failing at it right now with me.”
“I’m just telling you the truth, Mr. Vergo. And the truth is a bitch loves you for a few years, then divorces you, and takes the house, kids, car, and eighty percent of your paycheck.”
“Huh?” Gilbert uttered, confused, his mouth agape.
Allen Johnson stood straight up, and began to pace the room again. This time he was sure to be in full view before Gilbert.
“Gilbert, you do know what the Patriot Act is, do you?”
“Yeah, I know about it.”
“There’s something in it called ‘Section 215,’ sometimes referred to as ‘Hunting down the Lone Wolf.’ It stipulates that government agencies can spy on people suspected of planning to commit terrorist acts, or anything similar. And the person spied on doesn’t have to fit the definition of an actual terrorist. It basically gives legitimacy for monitoring American Citizens, invading the constitutional right to privacy.”
“What does that have to do with my situation?” Gilbert asked, raising his hands, palms facing the ceiling, then dropped them back on the table with a solid thud. “If they detained me for being an accessory to a terrorist act, then don’t you think I wouldn’t be here, but at Guantanamo Bay? I’d be the only non-muslim.”
“Now, this is only an assumption,” Allen began to say, “but I think you’re being made an example of simply being associated with the shooter — what’s his name? Oh, Ultra-tripleX. That’s what the media’s calling him. They’re not even using his real name when they talk about him. So fucking sick. Anyways, the Patriot Act expired this past summer.”
“Cool, then they have no legal legitimacy to charge me as an accessory.”
“Well,” Allen said, rubbing his turkey neck, “it was renewed, with a majority vote by congress, and signed by President Obama. It’s referred to now as ‘The Freedom Act.’ The only thing both the Liberals and Conservatives agree on is protecting the people from terrorism by taking their liberties away.”
“Why do they give ‘em those democratic names?” Gilbert said, dropping his hands on the table again. “They should just call it ‘The Nazi Act,’ for fuck sake. I mean, I simply clicked a mouse, and now I’m here for helping kill a bunch of people in a city I’ve never been to before.”
Allen finally slid the chair from under the table, and sat in it. He opened his briefcase, took out a blank legal pad, and retrieved a gold pen from his jacket pocket.
“All right,” he said, writing down something on the legal pad, “let’s get down to business. So what happened after you were detained and booked?”
“I was questioned by two FBI guys.”
“How did you know they were FBI agents?” Allen asked, eyes staring down at what he was writing.
“They had those jackets on that said ‘FBI’ on them, and they introduced themselves as FBI agents.”
“Did they show IDs?”
“No. Also their names were Anderson and Smith. I thought that was funny.”
Allen looked at Gilbert, brow raised.
“If they didn’t show you their identification, then how did you know they were really FBI agents?” he asked.
“The thought of asking to see their business cards didn’t occur to me.”
“It could have been cops posing as FBI agents.”
“Hey, Allen, they said they were FBI agents, and I thought nothing to think otherwise.”
“Fine, but you never know. What did they ask you?”
“They played a recording of a message I left my girlfriend. They said they were monitoring my phone calls that morning.”
“Fucking fascists,” Allen muttered, shaking his head as he took note. “What else?”
“Then they got into my connection with Paulo Henders, a.k.a Ultra-tripleX.”
“What was the connection they claimed you had with Mr. Henders?”
“They had a copy of an e-mail I wrote to him. Along with his reply. Oh, and the fact I was the only person not only subscribed to his youtube channel, but the only one to watch all his videos.”
“And you confirmed this to them? Why?” Allen said.
“They had a copy of the e-mail. I saw it, I read it. Look, man, I thought it was a prank being played on me. I thought I was on a damn TV show. It felt so fucking unreal.”
“To keep your reputation from being defiled, deny, deny, deny, and stay in denial,” Allen said in reverence.
“Okay, Cochran.”
“Gilbert, every time you refer to me as Johnny Cochran,” Allen said, sniffing, and wiping away an imaginary tear, “You make me want to cry.”
“Then just keep on rhyming, Counselor.”
“Hey there, my one and only viewer. It’s you know fucking who, Ultra-tripleX. Please do excuse my mood in this video, I’m not having a very uplifting time in my life right now. I feel like there’s a heavy weight on my shoulders that I can not find myself to shake off. It seems permanently stuck atop of me, as if I were the foundation of the Pyramid of Giza, buried under it’s grand glory for all to see while I lie buried under it for none to see. But though my spirit is dimmed, I will continue on with my expression, because it’s a freedom that will always be with me, regardless of whatever consequences come my way. Words, for all of us living, is what can free us from the torment of existence. When we are happy, words are there to keep it happy. When we are in a state of hellish experiences, words are there to aid us out of it. Depending on the context, words can either be harmful, or a loving embrace, but they are still words that can enlighten us. I don’t really know where I’m getting at, what the fuck I’m talking about, if what I’m saying is getting me or anyone else anywhere, but I will continue to speak regardless — relentlessly, unfalteringly until there is no breath with in me to do so. Morbid it may be, but death is inevitable and life is full. I went out to a bar last night with coworkers, and I got incredibly drunk. I didn’t make a fool of myself, but the others thought I did. I ended up dancing by myself in the middle of the dance floor without a care in the world. Women avoided me. I guess they thought it was strange I’d simply jump in amongst the crowd without someone else to dance with, and just start moving my hips, feet, shoulders to the music. It wasn’t even the type of music I liked, but being as drunk as I was, I found myself loving it. Is that how life should be enjoyed? Your senses dulled, numb, dumbfounded at the lights and beats of enjoyable chaos? That’s how I see it. All these substances people partake in: the cocaine, the marijuana, the alcohol, the shrooms, the LSD. Are all there to make people forget about such things like injustice, corruption, and the ignorance of society. I can’t help but be mad about it. Most of all mad at myself for joining in with the zombification of the human spirit. And also the fact I am now totally hungover. How can people like this shit? My head hurts, and I can’t go about the day with full awareness. It does not make me feel free. I must always feel free. Otherwise I can’t fully experience the joy of life, especially if I did with a woman by my side. How could people be so stupid to rely on damaging themselves physically, mentally, and spiritually to be happy? It’s astonishing. It’s aggravating. And it’s horrifying. As I’ve said before, I can’t find a girlfriend I’d like in some stupid bar. Maybe I should try and go to school at the community college, work my way to the State University. I remember one of my teachers in high school saying she loved the fact that she went to college, because that’s where she met her husband. She said this as if it were better than getting the college degree that earned her the right to be a teacher. I think I may be too old to try and find love in college; a lot of the ladies are ten to twelve years younger than me. Kind of makes me feel icky to think about that kind of age difference, but there are some who are late in the game of academics who are close, if not older than I. I don’t know, if my mood changes for the better, I might just decide to use my free time to go back to school. Alright, my one only viewer so far, see you later. Please do try and share my videos. Maybe I’ll finally get a damn twitter going.”
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