Federal Bureau of Investigation
Investigation# 140-6698
Subject: Paulo Henders (A.K.A Ultra-tripleX)
During the course of the investigation of the now deceased assailant behind the killings and attempted murders at the ZION FRATERNITY at SHAKER KRISTA in SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY in the state of CA, Federal Agents have interviewed the assailant's two sisters, his neighbors, one of his only close friends, boss and some coworkers at the SLO(SAN LUIS OBISPO) disposal service.
He lived in a house he had inherited from his parents. His mother died of cancer in 2005. His father currently resides at the MONTECITO OAKMONT NURSING HOME suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.
His sister, Lisa Zing, who lives in MESA, AZ, says she had not made contact with her brother since their mother died. What she had to say about her brother’s type of character was: “nothing more than a misanthropic, shit-head of a bastard. And you can quote me on that.” She went on to say that her brother didn’t deserve the house.
Assailant’s other sister Gabrielle Henders who lives in the city of SAN FRANCISCO CA, said this about her brother Paulo: “Yes, it was true he was harsh with his words when he’d talk to us during a family squabble, but he never did anything wrong to anyone else before that I know of. He never got physical. He’d never threaten us. He seemed so compassionate, as if he were trying to help in his own irregular way. I loved him very much. He was my brother after all.”
His neighbors, most of which knew him since he was born, said during his adult life they only saw him outside the house when he’d wash his car, mow the lawn e.t.c. He would never have a lot of people over. The neighbor across the street stated he once saw a lady drop him off at the house. The neighbor assumed it may have been a date due to the fact both were in formal dress attire. The only person who would frequently visit the residence since he started living alone in the house was his close friend.
His best friend, a man named Terry Sanchez, who Paulo had been friends with since childhood, was asked if there was any hint that Paulo Henders would commit such a horrific crime. He said: “No.” He went on to say that he never knew Paulo had weapons of any kind. He said: “I never knew he was into guns. I’ve known him almost twenty-two years, and not once did he tell me about owning guns. Ever.” Mr. Sanchez did go on to say that over the past two years Paulo seemed to be going through a “slight bout” of depression. He started smoking cigarettes, and drinking more than he usually did.
His boss and coworkers were interviewed with their consensus of opinion regarding Paulo Henders as being one of the best employees. He always showed up on time and only had sick days when he was actually sick. He was quiet and would mostly keep to himself. Charles, a coworker whom Paulo would sometimes have lunch with, swore he had only seen Paulo smile five times since knowing him.
Transcripts of all interviews are provided within this report on the following pages.
“Need more sleep,” he mumbled.
“You got enough sleep,” Blair said. “You passed out before ten last night. It’s eight in the morning.” She smacked his butt through the quilt. “Come on. Get your ass up.”
“I can’t take anymore physical abuse from you,” Gilbert said as he slowly moved to sit up. “Do I have to get up now? I don’t have to go to court today. And why am I naked?”
“I undressed you, and tucked you in,” Blair answered.
“You didn’t take advantage of me, did you? That would be rape, you know.”
“I didn’t rape you, idiot. Now, take a shower, and get dressed. I’m going to have to start documenting once you’re ready.”
Gilbert stood up, stretching.
Blair commented, “You make being hungover look sexy.”
“Kiss my bony ass,” he retorted.
“That footage of you being escorted to the police cruiser is on youtube, and…,” she began giggling, “the comments from the women who like you say you look like a superhero with that tattoo on your chest. Others say you look like a villain.”
“I’m getting it removed as soon as this circus is over.” He turned away, walking to the bathroom.
“Don’t do that,” she said, laughing. “It’s a signature look for you.”
Gilbert slammed the bathroom door shut behind him.
“You’re getting as looney as the rest of them, Blair,” he said from inside the bathroom.
After his shower, Gilbert sat on the bed fully dressed in the same cloths as he wore the day before, putting on his shoes. Blair stood before him recording the scene with the digital camcorder, handling it like a professional, always looking at it’s LCD screen.
“How are you?” she asked.
Gilbert looked up at her, his gaze on her face. He said, “Hungover.”
Blair pointed at the camera lens, mouthing the words: “Look into camera.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, then looked into the lens, and slowly repeated, “Hungover.”
“I meant how do you feel, Mr. Vergo.”
“Please, call me Gilbert. I’m not a teacher. I feel like shit.”
“Do you feel any anxiety about what could happen to you?”
Gilbert’s gaze went from the camera’s lens to Blair’s face, then to the window, looking at the clouds in the sky.
“If one were in a situation where other people can control your fate,” Gilbert began to say, “it’s as if even being free from behind bars, the world is still a prison.”
“There’s a chance you might have to go behind bars again soon,” Blair informed.
Head flicking back to face Blair again, Gilbert stared up at her with a furrowed brow.
“What do you mean?” he inquired. “Is that a joke? I thought we were being serious.”
“After the footage of you tripping outside ended up on the major news networks, the judge wanted you re-incarcerated.”
“But I’m out on bail. I didn’t commit a new crime anyway.”
“He has the power to revoke your bail, Gilbert, if he so pleases.”
“God-fucking-dammit!” he yelled, shooting to his feet, hands going to his forehead, and covering his eyes. He walked a few steps across the room. Blair followed him with the camera held higher.
“Allen was on the phone this morning with the judge,” Blair said.
Turning around back to the camera, dropping his hands from over his face, Gilbert asked, “And what the judge say? Do I have to wear orange again?”
“Allen’s gonna have breakfast with you at the diner down the street. He’ll let you know what the judge’s decision is.”
“I know that DA is going to work his ass off getting my ass back in that jail,” Gilbert said into the camera. “That mindless, soulless prick accused me of being an alcoholic. And you know what, I’m going to figure a way to make that blond yuppie look stupid. So fucking stupid he’ll rue the day he ever took on this case.” He exerted a loud exhale, and shook his hands up and down. “Calm down, Gilbert.” He looked back at Blair. “What time’s the breakfast meeting happening?”
“He’ll send a text to all of us when he’s ready,” Blair answered.
“Fuck, I don’t want to be back in jail. Such bullshit.”
Blair turned off the camcorder.
“Is that it?” Gilbert asked.
“For now,” she said. “Once Allen sends the text, I’ll start filming again, all the way to the diner. If the diner gives us permission, then Jerry and I will film what you and Allen talk about.”
“I’m not sitting next to Jerry, by the way,” Gilbert said, putting his hands on his hips.
“Then he’ll be filming the shot of you during the breakfast.”
“I don’t mind that.” He shook his head so fast it looked like it was vibrating.
“And please,” Blair said, almost pleading, “don’t make a scene. Just talk to Allen about the case.”
“Fine,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Don’t you worry. I won’t cause any kind of drama.”
“Thank you.”
Within a half-hour all five of them were sitting at a round booth in the corner of the diner. They had the permission to film the breakfast as long as they did not record any of the patrons or the employees, or say the name of the diner. As long as those conditions were followed during their time there, they could record what Allen and Gilbert talked about. Blair was at one end of the seat next to Gilbert with her camera on Allen. Jerry sat at the other end across from Blair with his camera shooting Gilbert. Allen and Gilbert faced each other across the table as they talked. Ray was in the middle nearest to the window, taking notes, and recording additional footage of the scene with his smartphone. They all had already ordered their meals.
Allen held up his thumb and forefinger close together as he said to Gilbert, “You were this close, Gilbert. This close to having the police come to your hotel room and haling you back to the jail.”
For a moment Gilbert looked guilty.
“I understand what I did was a mistake,” he said. “And I know how lucky I am to have you for a lawyer, such an excellent lawyer, and keep me from being put back behind bars. But you must understand this is a very stressful time for me. I’ve never experienced this kind of hardship before.” Gilbert gave Jerry’s camera an annoyed look.
Jerry reacted by almost clearing his throat when he did not need to, but kept himself from doing so to keep with the subterfuge.
“Look, I know this bullshit case has gotten to you like a horse kicking you in the nuts,” Allen said, “but I need you to hold yourself together.” He slammed a fist into the palm of his hand. “Keep your nerves hard and sharp. Be prepared for any and all obstacles coming your way. They’re gunning to make an example of you. Do you get what I’m telling you?”
“Yes,” Gilbert answered. “Affirmative.”
“Now, I convinced the judge not to put you back in jail under one condition, whether you like it or not.”
“Okay. What’s the condition?”
“You’ll have to be under house arrest during the trial.” Allen said this looking perturbed at delivering the bad news.
“That’s not so bad,” Gilbert said. “At least I don’t have to wear cuffs again.”
“So you’re not mad?” Allen asked.
“No. I’m a little of a recluse anyway. But where would I stay for the house arrest?”
“You’re in luck. I just so happen to know someone who lives here. A lady I went to law school with.”
“I don’t want to impose on anyone’s family life,” Gilbert said.
The waitress arrived with their food.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gilbert said to her.
The waitress ignored him as she distributed everyone’s meal.
When she was gone, Gilbert said, “Not one of my supporters.”
“But Frida is,” Allen said, commencing to eat. “She’s a free spirited feminist type. She has no family living with her, and is only married to her career. And has a house so big, you could consider it a mansion.”
“How long do you expect this trial to last?” Gilbert asked while cutting himself a piece of pancake.
“If all goes well, a couple of months maybe,” Allen said, scarfing down hash browns.
“Shit, man, I got rent to pay.” Gilbert’s head went back. “Damn, the door. I got to call my landlord Lance. Hopefully he isn’t too pissed about the SWAT team busting my front door. And I got to call my boss. I can’t believe I forgot to call them. I’m probably evicted, and lost my job.” He shook his head. “Oh well, at least these pancakes are good.”
“That’s the spirit, Gilbert,” Allen said. “Look to the good things you have at the moment. Seriously, when you see Frida’s place, you’re going to never want to leave California.”
Later that afternoon, wearing the cheesy suit, Gilbert, along with Allen, and the DA Stanley Fenway, sat before the judge as he gave him a lecture about responsibility.
“Mr. Vergo, you must understand that the fool you made of yourself on the footage now playing on the television not only displays a total disregard of respect for the justice system, but seems to me you lack empathy, or even sympathy for the victims of the Shaker Krista shootings. A man in your position shouldn’t be getting drunk and stumbling in public like Lindsey Lohan.” The judge shook his head as if he were a disappointed father. “Why did you do such a thing?”
“Your honor, my client -,” Allen began to say before the judge cut him off.
“I’d like Mr. Vergo to speak for himself on this matter. Please, Mr. Vergo, just between you and me.”
Gilbert adjusted himself in his seat, a little more than embarrassed about what the truth was, being that it was very personal, having nothing to do with the actual case.
“Well, sir,” Gilbert said, “part of the reason I got a little carried away at the bar was due to the stress over the charges against me, but honestly I wouldn’t have had more than three drinks if during my time there I didn’t learn something that you could say triggered me into drinking four or five more. I apologize, your honor.”
“What was it that triggered you into getting drunk?” The judge didn’t want to let it go; he wanted a damn good reason to keep himself from changing his mind about the whole house arrest thing, and shove Gilbert back in that cell.
“It was something personal, your honor, that had nothing to do with the case. Just something that put more weight on my shoulders, so to speak.”
“Strike this from the record, please,” the judge said, staring down at the stenographer. “Stop typing, Mrs. Vela.”
The stenographer, a middle-aged woman, stopped typing into the stenotype, and put her hands to her side.
The judge gestured to Gilbert, “Tell me of the weight added onto your shoulders that made you ignore, shall I say, the ethics of how to behave as a person suspected of being an accessory to a mass murder.”
“Um,” Gilbert said, so very uncomfortable, “the man you saw in the footage with me, the one trying to help me up after I tripped on my bum, had informed me during my first drink that he was having an intimate relationship with my…” Gilbert cleared his throat. “…well, who I thought was my girlfriend, because I hoped we had just reconciled, but it turns out she’s now my ex-girlfriend now. And I had hint of a feeling she was cheating on me with him before she up and moved out of the apartment a few weeks prior to me being arrested. He was buying me drinks, and I made him buy me more after he admitted of the relationship with her. It felt like it was the only way to get back at him. At the time anyways.”
Stanley Fenway held his fist over his mouth, holding back laughter as best he could.
“You have anything to say, Mr. Fenway?” the judge asked.
Clearing his throat, holding back a smile, Fenway said, “No, your honor. Sorry.”
“Mr. Vergo, I could understand. But next time you want to get back at someone by somehow legitimately draining their wallet, don’t harm yourself in the process. You’re not an alcoholic like Mr. Fenway insinuated the other day, are you?”
“No, sir,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “I’m more of a moderate drinker.”
The judge looked down at Mrs. Vela, and said, “Recommence for the record, please. I’m going to have Mr. Vergo be put under house arrest for the remainder of his trial. Is there a residence he can do this at?”
Allen stood up, and said, “Yes, your honor, there is a former colleague of mine who has a home here in San Luis Obispo where my client can serve his house arrest.”
“Who’s your former colleague?”
“A Ms. Frida Lopez. I have her address right here, written on the -.”
The judge interrupted by making a sort of side note, “I know her address. She is willing to have Mr. Vergo stay at her home? She won’t mind the media parked at the curb outside?”
“From what she said in our last conversation, it seems she’d like the attention,” Allen said. “For her own law practice, that is. She said if she had the time, she may act as counsel for the defense.”
“Yep, that sounds like Frida,” the judge commented.
In the minivan on the way back to the hotel, Blair sat in the middle seats beside Gilbert with her camcorder directly on him. Jerry was in the back seat filming as well, with his angle more on Allen in the front passenger seat.
“I can’t believe that guy compared me to Lindsey Lohan,” Gilbert said. “As if I were in someway a quasi-celebrity. Isn’t Lohan clean now? Well, if you call popping legal prescription pills clean, that is. But at least she’s not snorting that cocaine, and being carried out the front door of Club Night Static.”
“Gilbert, I’d just like to say what a good excuse you had for the judge in there,” Allen said. “You welded shut that cell door with that anecdote you told the judge. How did you come up with that? You got to be one creative writer.” He began to clap and laugh.
“Too bad it’s true,” Gilbert said.
“What?” Allen said, his happy face flushed away, and hands up in mid-clap.
“What did you say to the judge?” Blair asked.
Looking into the camera’s lens, Gilbert said, “The truth of course. As they say the truth shall set you free. In my case, not back in that jail cell.”
“Oh, shit,” Jerry uttered.
Allen turned in his seat, pointing a finger at the cameramen, and said, “Jerry, Blair, later we need to have a talk in private.”
“Leave them alone, Allen,” Gilbert said. “Don’t let behind the scenes drama kill it for the documentary. It’s all right. I’m starting to let it go.”
“It might make a good addition to the film,” Ray said. “Add like an internal controversy kind of angle during the trial.”
“Ray, please don’t say the word ‘controversy’ again,” Allen said.
“Ray is probably right,” Gilbert said. “I think we should put it to a vote. Anyone who thinks the fact Blair is fucking Jerry should be included in the documentary raise their hand.”
Ray and Gilbert were the only ones who voted ‘yes.’ Allen put both his hands over his face.
He said, “If what you said gets out to the media, they’re going to have -.”
“A fucking field day,” Gilbert finished for him. “They got more bullshit to talk about. Ratings go up for them. Publishers sell more magazines. They make money, you guys make money. Remember when you told me this trial is bigger than the OJ Simpson case?”
“Yes,” Allen said, removing his hands from his face, befuddled.
“In that famous trial everyone made money. I mean everyone. Even a fucking guy walking his dog a block away from the Simpson house wrote a book about how he supposedly saw the white bronco drive down the road. The only person who lost money was OJ himself. I don’t see myself coming out of this situation with a penny in my pocket when I’m found not guilty. So, please, Allen, don’t take the things I say so seriously. I’m fucking with you about putting the fact Blair is fucking Jerry into the documentary. Ray, on the other hand, was being serious. But that’s okay with me.”
Gilbert reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cellphone.
“If you excuse me,” he said, “I have to call my landlord to see if I still have my apartment, then my boss to see if I still got a job when I get back to Eugene.”
“I already called them,” Blair said.
“You did?” Gilbert said, surprised. “Really?”
“Lance said after the cops and feds got what they wanted, he got the door fixed. For now you’re not evicted. He said he’d be coming down here to go on the witness stand in support of you. Lewis said you still have your job when you get back, and he’ll be coming here too. They like you, Gilbert, remember?”
“Yeah, I know.” He was silent for a moment, looking at Blair. “Thank you. Did you call my sister, by any chance?”
Blair’s eyes finally left the LCD screen and looked at Gilbert.
“She didn’t answer,” Blair said.
“No surprise there,” Gilbert muttered.
“Gilbert, my goal with your case is not to make money,” Allen said, “it’s to get you out of being the scapegoat of a horrific crime you literally took no part of. Even with the Patriot Act to justify their actions, what the FBI did to you was illegal, and I’m sure it won’t be hard to think otherwise once I get my hands on their supposed evidence against you. But if you want, when this is over, you can countersue for wrongful prosecution. Get yourself a nice hefty sum for defamation of character as well.”
“I don’t know about that, Allen. Maybe. I just want out of this shit storm as soon as possible, and back home to my comfortable life.” Gilbert sighed, seeming to almost want to fall asleep right then and there.
Allen went back to the current situation.
He said, “Okay. What’s going to happen next is we’re checking out of the hotel, then head right over to Frida’s house. She’s waiting there right now. We’ll be met there by Detectives who will place an ankle bracelet on you. By the way, Frida has a well stocked bar. Will you be drinking?”
“When I do, I won’t go over the limit, Dad,” Gilbert said, leaning close behind Allen’s seat. He then looked into Blair’s camera, gave a wink, then brandished crossed fingers.
“Maybe you shouldn’t drink at all, Gilbert,” Allen said.
“Okay, I won’t drink the night before I go to court, before an interview I do for TV - if I decide to do one - while we have meetings about the case, or when I talk to the LOL cameras.” With the last statement, Gilbert winked at Blair’s camera again.
“Half that’s bullshit,” Allen said. “I know lies. I’m a lawyer. Night before you go to court, our meetings so your mind can absorb and prepare sufficiently, and if you decide, not before interviews, don’t drink. That’s all I ask. And when you’re drunk being filmed by the LOL crew, please don’t do stupid shit, and don’t make yourself look like a Lindsey Lohan.”
“Again with the Lohan reference,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “She’s got such a bad rep. I had a crush on her when I was a kid, you know, before the cocaine made her a skeleton.”
About an hour before sunset, the minivan pooled up to a gate outside Frida Lopez’s property located in an upperclass neighborhood. The house was a red brick, two story luxury home on a five acre property.
“Holy shit,” Gilbert said, flabbergasted. “You can’t be serious. I have to do house arrest in that house?”
“Yeah,” Allen said. “Told you it was almost like a mansion. Press the call button, Ray.”
Ray reached out of the minivan and pressed a button on an intercom sticking out of bushes outside the gate.
“Hello, can I help you?” said a woman’s voice on the speaker.
“Allen Johnson with four others here to see Ms. Lopez,” Allen announced. “She’s expecting us.”
“Good to hear from you again, Mr. Johnson. Please, come right in.”
“Thank you, Stacy.”
The gate opened, and Ray drove the minivan up the long driveway to the house.
“Frida’s got to be one successful lawyer,” Gilbert said. “Is Bill Gates one of her clients?”
“She owns a law firm with over two hundred people working for her,” Allen said.
“You and Frida have a thing going? You know, just between you two?”
“That would be none of your business if there was.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ But don’t worry, I won’t talk about such a thing again.”
Ray muttered, “We can get an Oscar nomination for this kind of drama.”
“Ray, please,” Allen said.
“Sorry, Allen.”
The minivan parked near the front door where a butler and maid, both in their early thirties it seemed, were waiting for them on the front steps, waving at them with polite welcoming. They then ascended the steps as everyone got out of the minivan.
“Please, allow us to bring your things into the house,” the butler said with an english accent.
“Thank you, Ren,” Allen said. He turned to an astonished Gilbert. “Let’s go inside and meet with Frida. She’ll be happy to see you.”
“That seems rather strange,” Gilbert said, staring up at the house, “I’ve never even met her, and she’s looking forward to meeting with me. If I wrote a best selling novel, it would make sense.”
“She’s sympathetic to what you’re going through. Now, come on, go inside with me.”
They ascended the front steps. Blair and Jerry were behind them, recording with their cameras.
Ray came close behind Jerry, touched him on the shoulder, and said quietly to him, “After they enter, you flank right, get them in profile when they talk to Frida.” He then went close to Blair. “You get a little behind Frida, get a good two person shot of Allen and Gilbert. Try to keep Jerry out of shot as best you can. Go now, they just passed the threshold.”
Entering the foyer, Allen and Gilbert saw Frida waiting for them in the middle of the room, her hands held together and close to her chin. Frida Lopez was a beautiful woman in her mid-fifties, but looked like she was about to enter her early forties by the end of the year. She wore a tight pink tank top with a picture of a cartoon cat on the front of it, tight pair of black jeans of which the cuffs stopped at the halfway point of her shins, and a pair of sketchers. And though she had a latino name, she was as blue eyed and blond as any Swedish woman could be. Gilbert didn’t know what to make of the sight of her. He didn’t expect her to dress like a millennial.
“If it isn’t my cowboy from Texas,” she said. “How are you doing, Allen?”
“I’m doing good, Frida,” Allen said, smiling. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, almost a year, Allen.” Frida placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t make the time we don’t see each other so long again, Mr. Johnson. I know you’re out there in Texas busy righting the wrongs of the justice system, but please, do find the time to see me. I may have to go to Austin, and get you myself.”
As if he totally forgot who was beside him, Allen caught the eye of Gilbert staring at him, and seemed to come back to professional fortitude.
“Oh, Frida, this is Gilbert,” he said, gesturing to his client. “Gilbert Vergo, Frida Lopez. One of the finest, and most successful lawyers I’ve ever known.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Lopez,” Gilbert said.
“The feelings mutual, Gilbert,” Frida said, holding out her hand. “Please do call me Frida.”
Shaking her hand, he said, “Yes, Frida. Thank you for letting me stay in your lovely home. I hope I’m not intruding in any way.”
“No, no. I’m happy to help you in your most dire circumstance.”
“Frida, detectives are coming in a few minutes to place an ankle bracelet on Gilbert here,” Allen informed.
“Yes, of course,” Frida said, looking over Gilbert. “Allen, did you pick out that dreadful suit for Gilbert here?”
“Yes. Why?” Allen looked at Gilbert’s suit. “It’s a style I thought was appropriate.”
“He looks like a door to door Bible salesman. Shame on you.” Frida moved closer to Gilbert, feeling the material of the jacket and the tie with her hands. “It’s so tacky.”
“It’s part of my strategy to make him appear more like a layman. One who wouldn’t have a clue about -.”
“You’re making him look like a simpleton,” Frida interrupted. “He can’t look like a fool in front of the jury, or the media, for that matter.”
“Even though I’m not a fan of wearing suits, I have to say I concur with her assessment,” Gilbert put in.
“You see, Allen, that doesn’t sound like a simpleton.” She lightly rubbed Gilbert’s cheek. “Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got better quality men’s wear upstairs. After the authorities put the monitor on your ankle and give you the speech of how it works, I’ll take you up to the closet, and browse for something that fits.” She looked over at Allen. “And is appropriate enough to your counsel’s standards.”
Two detectives arrived at Frida’s home. Both were woman. One a redhead, the other a blond. They were both exceedingly attractive ladies in their mid-thirties. Gilbert had a moment of ‘love at first sight,’ and tried his best to hide it.
Gilbert sat on a couch in the living room while one of them secured the monitor on his ankle.
“Not too tight, is it?” said the redhead lady detective.
“No, ma’am,” Gilbert replied. “It’s comfortable.”
Standing up, the detective said, “Now, my partner is outside placing sensors at the four corners of the property, making an invisible wall all around. If you cross the wall at anytime during your house arrest, a police cruiser will be called to come here and bring you back to jail. If you are not here, you will be considered on the run, and a warrant will be issued for your arrest. The ankle bracelet can be tracked by GPS, so it will be easy to find you. The only time you are allowed to leave this property is the day you go to court. Don’t try to be smart by cutting it off. It can tell us if the strap is severed. Those are the conditions. No if, ands, or buts.”
The blond detective came in from outside.
“All the sensors are up and operating,” she said.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Vergo?” the redhead asked.
“No, officer,” Gilbert replied, grinning. “I’m good. Got it. Do not leave the property at anytime, unless I am going to court.”
A moment of silence as the redhead looked down at Gilbert.
“Nice suit,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.
“I don’t like it either,” Gilbert agreed.
“Again with the suit,” Allen murmured.
The redhead looked up at Allen, and said, “Okay, Mr. Johnson, we’re done here.”
“Thank you, officers,” Allen said.
As they were leaving, Gilbert lifted his left leg, looking at the ankle bracelet. Blair and Jerry came close to him as they filmed.
“Never thought in my life I’d wear this fucking thing,” Gilbert said aloud. He then looked up into both cameras shaking his head. “Never in my life.” He gave out a sigh. “I need a drink.”
“What would you like?” Frida asked from behind him.
Gilbert half turned on the couch to see her, pondering the choices of drinks available to him in such an affluent residence.
He said, “You know, I’ve never had a martini before.”
“Stacy,” Frida called out toward the kitchen.
Stacy - the maid - came into the room, holding her hands together. She said, “Yes, Frida.”
“Fix everyone a martini, please.”
“What’s this about martinis?” Allen inquired, walking back into the living room. “What did I say about the drinking, Gilbert?”
“Hey, man,” Gilbert said, pointing a finger at Allen, “I said I would no longer be drunk in public, and not be hungover in court. Well, I can’t go out in public at the moment. And my first day in court isn’t until, like, when?”
“A week from today.” Allen had his hands on his hips, rolling his eyes.
“Okay, so I got sometime to relax. Everyone here does. Ray, Jerry, Blair, and you, Allen, just have a martini with me.” He looked at Frida. “You too. If you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind at all, Gilbert,” Frida responded. “Of course I’ll drink.”
“But, Gilbert, I need you headstrong when we go over the evidence against you after I get it from the DA,” Allen said.
“We’re not having that meeting now,” Gilbert snapped. “So, please, as my lawyer, and hopefully friend for the rest both our lives, sit down and chill. We’ll make a toast to the case, or to the liberties of the american citizen, or whatever.”
All eyes were on Allen.
“Okay, fine,” he said, his hands going up. “Lets all have a martini.” He pointed at Jerry and Blair with both hands, and said, “Stop filming.”
“No,” Gilbert said. “They’re going to document everything, except when I use the bathroom.”
They all spent the rest of the day drinking. All but Gilbert took it easy. He just needed the escape for the time being, asking Frida if she had a stereo system to play music. She said she’d allow it if it wasn’t any kind of loud, heavy metal. He was too drunk to care what genre of music she had in her library, as long as he could dance to it.
Later they ate dinner in the dining that Stacey and Ren prepared. Blair and Jerry took a break from filming. Classical music was playing on the stereo. A most relaxing and uplifting atmosphere that had Gilbert in a good mood.
“I must be the most unluckiest, lucky guy right now in the world,” Gilbert said. “I’m serving a house arrest in one of the biggest, most beautiful homes I’ve ever been in, and eating the best, and finest meal I’ve ever had for dinner. Thank you so much, Ms. Lopez. I needed this. I’m eternally grateful.”
“You’re welcome, Gilbert,” Frida said. “Please, call me Frida. I don’t like feeling so old.”
“Sorry, I forgot, Frida. You don’t look old at all, anyways.”
Ren brought Gilbert a fresh martini.
“Thank you, Ren,” he said. “That will be my last one for the evening.”
“Thank God,” uttered rubbing his forehead.
“Don’t be so stressed, Allen,” Gilbert said, rubbing his lawyer’s shoulder. “I’m in control, man. Everything’s together up in here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Why aren’t you guys documenting?” He asked Blair and Jerry.
“That’s enough for today,” Ray told him. “We’ll start fresh when you wake up tomorrow. Footage of you dancing and ranting is simply filler we may not use.”
“Okay, cool,” Gilbert said. “So, you’re the director of the documentary, right, Ray?”
“Yeah, basically. If there’s something happening I think should be shot in a specific way, I’ll tell Blair and Jerry where to film from.”
“You got a journalism degree?”
“Yes,” Ray said, “I went to UC Berkeley school of Journalism.”
“That’s great, man. Hey, can I make a suggestion, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Sure, input from the subject is welcomed,” Ray said.
“I can do like a video diary you could include into the documentary with a handy-cam I could film myself when I’m alone. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a great idea. I have a handy-cam in my luggage. I was gonna use it as back up in case one of the cameras stopped working.”
“Gilbert, just don’t take it with you to court,” Allen said.
“It’ll only be for here,” Gilbert said. “It would look weird if I got out of the minivan in front of the media with my own camera. I could just see the headlines now. ‘Gilbert Vergo documenting his own trial. What is he doing it for? His own youtube channel?’ I don’t even have one. They’d look for it as soon as someone makes that assumption.”
“So you never uploaded videos yourself?” Allen asked.
“No. My youtube account doesn’t even have my name on it. It’s a troll account. I even have a second e-mail for it.”
“Do you have your name on the e-mail account?”
“No, a fake name.”
Allen was quiet for a moment, thinking, then said, “So the FBI only tracked you down by your IP address, not anything else.”
“Yeah,” Gilbert said. “I figured that too. What’s on your mind, Allen? You think it means something. You told me yourself they can use the Patriot Act against me.”
“I’ll just take note of it,” Allen said, taking out his phone. “Put it right in the ‘notes’ app.”
The night had whined down with everyone going to their bedrooms with the exception of Gilbert and Frida. Ray had given Gilbert the handy-cam camcorder before he had went upstairs. Gilbert sat with Frida at the dining table testing out his new toy by filming the room and the table deserted of all the empty plates, with the exception of two martinis he and Frida had yet to finish.
“Is it cool you’re on camera?” Gilbert asked.
“It’s okay,” Frida said, “I give you my permission.”
He pointed the camera in her direction.
“This is Frida Lopez who was kind enough to allow me to serve my house arrest in her wonderful, luxurious, and beautiful home,” he said. “Give the camera a wave, please.”
Frida waved at the camera with glee and giggles, saying, “Hello, there.”
“Alright, there you have it for now,” Gilbert said, then turned off the camera. “This should be fun to do. Need something to occupy my mind during this bullshit trial.”
Ren came into the room from the kitchen.
“Will there be anything else, Frida?” he asked, almost bowing.
“No, Ren,” Frida said. “That’ll be all for today. You and Stacey can go. Take the day off tomorrow, the both of you. Come back after the weekend when I’m gone.”
“Thank you, Frida. And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vergo.”
“The feeling’s mutual, Ren. Please, do call me Gilbert. And thank you.”
Ren gave him a nod, then quietly made his exit.
“So you’re going out of town on business?” Gilbert asked Frida.
“Not really for business,” she said, “I have people to run my business. I’m just going on a trip. For fun.”
“You have a great life.” Gilbert started drinking the rest of his martini.
“Yes, thank you,” Frida said, drinking her martini and looking at Gilbert with a seductive smirk on her face. “Speaking of fun, I got a nice game room with a pool table. Want to play a game? After, I’ll pick out a better suit for you to wear in court from the selection I have in the upstairs dressing room.”
“Sounds cool,” Gilbert said, placing the empty martini glass on the dining table.
Leading him down a hallway to the game room, he couldn’t help but stare at Frida’s fine ass. There was a moment when Frida turned her head to look at him, catching his gaze, seeing where it was pointed at. Gilbert noticed and flicked his gaze forward down the hall, clearing his throat a bit too much, making the embarrassment of being caught more obvious. Frida turned her head back forward, smirking with pleasure.
“Frida, if you don’t mind me saying, but you’re pretty white for a Latina,” Gilbert said. “Are you all Spanish descent?”
“No. I’m actually of Swedish descent,” Frida said. “I was adopted.”
At the bar in the game room they each downed a double-shot of tequila before even racking the balls on the pool table.
“Does that old jukebox work?” Gilbert asked, pointing to it at the side of the room.
“Yes, works just fine,” Frida said, moving over to it. “It’s stocked full of the best oldie pop songs. Still plays the records good.”
Gilbert moved over to it, pushed the button to browse through the song list, and said, “This is so cool.” He then chose a song.
“Paul Anka,” Frida said. “Good choice.”
While they played pool, Gilbert turned on his camcorder and started filming. At one point the song Be my Baby by The Ronettes played on the jukebox, and Gilbert got excited.
“Frida, film me please,” he asked.
She held the camera as it recorded Gilbert dance to the song. He held the pool stick in a very sexually suggestive manner as if it were his penis, then lifted it and held it in his arms, pretending it was a gun, and pointed the end of it right into the lens of the camera.
The image made the inebriated Frida Lopez extremely horny. She turned off the camera, put it on the bar countertop, and made a beeline for Gilbert. He dropped the pool stick on the ground as Frida wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, basically forcing her tongue in his mouth.
For a moment, Gilbert pushed her away a little.
He said, “Frida, I know we only just met. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you. You are a beautiful women. Headstrong, successful, and-.”
“Shut up, and kiss me, you gentleman,” she demanded. “Fuck me right here on the table.”
“I don’t have a condom,” Gilbert said.
“I got condoms in every room,” Frida informed as if it were obvious that he should have known.
She went behind the bar, opened a drawer, and took out a ‘Her Pleasure’ condom.
After they were done with their party in the game room, Frida showed Gilbert to his room.
“My room is at the end of the hall, a few feet from yours,” she said as they entered his room. “There’s a dressing room in here with the suits I told you about. I got the perfect one for you. Hopefully it’s your size.”
They went into the dressing room with two racks full of almost new suits.
“Why you have so many suits?” Gilbert asked.
“Some men leave them here after they spend the night with me,” Frida said, looking for the suit she had in mind. “Or if they’re not prepared for whatever they do for a living, I have Ren buy new ones as back up for my boy toys.” She reached up and got a suit off the rack. “Here we go. A charcoal, stripe, vested suite.” She showed it to Gilbert.
“Wow,” he said, “Dashing.”
She held it up against Gilbert, and said, “Looks like it’ll fit just fine. Let’s make sure. Take off that salesman suit, fuck me one more time, then try it on.”
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