Eat'em: Chapter 5

Chapter 5



Mass Murderer’s Imaginary Menagerie! That’s the headline that accompanies my reveal of the Grotesque Infection during my trial. The catchy title does a good job of making me out to look like a lunatic. The article itself is farce. The journalist, David House, wrote it as if I am suggesting a microbial alien invasion of fungus people landed in my backyard. It reads like a smug movie review. He even compares my defense to an M. Night Shyamalan film.

The jury is expected to remain impartial and not be swayed the media. But the week after “Mass Murderer’s Imaginary Menagerie!” made the front page of the Star Telegram the prosecution compares my every word to various movies.

“I never said anything about trees exacting revenge!”  Standing trial sucks. It’s long and pointless and entirely unfair. I didn’t get to go home and rest between court hearings. Which would make sense since I’m allegedly innocent until proven guilty. I explain everything to the jury aside from Eat’em, at Mike’s suggestion. They look at me as if I suggest I should be allowed into their houses at night to exterminate their children. My throat tightens and I stammer on, “The Grotesque Infection isn’t caused by trees or plants or funguses or whatever. It’s a bacteria or virus perhaps um… a little help?”

Eat’em paces on the desk in front of me, the lawyer I wish I had. He points at the jury with his tail and declares, “Grotesques belong to a phylum of the animalia kingdom known as Platyhelminthes. Some of the parasites in this…”

“Parasites!” I shout, cutting Eat’em off. “They’re parasites.”

“Parasites,” the District Attorney, Dale Gomes, leans back against the partition that separates the stand from an inappropriately sized audience of people with whacked ideas for entertainment. Some of them are students of law, or journalists, there’s a few witnesses and some mourning family members I can’t bear to watch. Lt. Hershel Thibodeaux Bellecroix holds his head in his hands at the back of the auditorium. He’s sitting with a few other cops I don’t recognize. Gomes looks at a clipboard and reads from it as if he’s quoting me. He isn’t. “Fungus, bacteria, viruses. You’re so certain that this sickness needs to be eradicated; yet you’re absolutely uncertain as to what it is. What makes you an expert on disease control?”

It can’t be much more than sixty-five degrees in the courtroom and my shirt is all but soaked through with sweat. I want to scratch my face, but if I remember correctly, that’s an admission of guilt. Maybe I saw that on a cop show, I don’t recall. Still, I resist the urge.

“Doctors,” the DA continues, “don’t seem to share your opinion on the existence of Grotesques. None of your victims tested positive for anything. The only thing that seems to coincide with your story is other stories. Fiction, Mr. Brook. Movies. Video games.”

“Objection!” Eat’em jumps onto the pulpit. “Objection, yes! I call mistrial. Leading the witness. This jury bores me! Jacob, come on, let’s go… just kill these people already!”

My little red lawyer would have me battle my way to the death to reach freedom. Mike looks more interested in my answers than he does in defending me. I take a deep breath. “My life is at stake here. You want people to assume I’m a liar because of comparisons you’ve made to They Live or World War Z or Last of Us? Well, clearly you stole your life from To Kill a Mockingbird and we can all assume you’re full of shit too then, right?”

Judge Brentt, a string bean looking guy whom ducks under doorways and walks with a giraffe’s gait, likes to remind me I can be held in contempt of court. My outburst brings the courtroom to chatter, which the Honorable Brentt breaks up with a gavel. It plays out like a scene from Law and Order with the exception of the little demon humping the air and pumping his arm with an exuberant, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The commotion dies down and I gather my thoughts. These eyes of ridicule, looming over me like hungry vultures. I’ve been through too much to die without them knowing. I search my soul for the perfect words to help them understand, but I come up empty.

Eat’em grows restless. He points at various people and scowls. He chants, “Jacob’s going to kill you. And you. And yes even you. We’re going to get pizza and you’re all going to die.”

Several stories pop into my head from articles or newsreels from long ago. I search for the most fitting one. “I heard of a guy in Florida, Mr. Rudy Eugene, the cannibal shot down in the streets…”

“You’re like him,” Gomes doesn’t even look at me.

“No,” I say, “No, not at all. I’m like the police that shot him.”

“They were saving a man’s life.”

“Yes,” I swallow air. I need water and a bathroom break. I need a recess from ridicule. I need a recess from life. “I’m aware. They saved the life of Mr. Poppo. That’s what I’ve done. That’s what I’ve been doing. That’s what I will continue to do.”

“None of the people you’ve killed were expressing any kind of violence, though,” Gomes raises both brows. “Is that not the case?”

Bellecroix turns his head away at this. He fidgets in his pew. I know he can feel my eyes on him, but he refuses to look up. He knows this accusation is bullshit. People are only violent until they die… then they’re only missed. Someone could be a sociopathic jerk, liked my no one, but in death, they’re tragic heroes. Nothing prevents people from mourning the lost except for the outcome of a “fair trial.”

I shake my head and plead toward the jury. Eat’em nods back and forth from the jury to the judge, a lawyer through and through. “No,” I say. “That’s not the case. They know that’s not the case. Officer,” I shout to deaf ears, “Lt. Bellecroix! Tell them that’s not the case!”

“If this infection spreads through bite,” Gomes says, “Why didn’t Mr. Poppo become infected?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t even know if his attacker was infected. I just meant it as an example. The police were protecting Mr. Poppo from a man, I protect men from a parasite.”

“You’re not on trial for killing parasites, Jacob.”

“I know, but…”

“You’re on trial for killing people,” Gomes raises an eyebrow and discretely cracks his knuckles one at a time – a challenge - implying nothing I say matters. Mike stares blankly.

“You understand the burden of proof is on you, Jacob,” Gomes rattles me with each word. Not only does he make me look the fool, he gives me a lesson in law while he does it. The burden of proof should be on him. He’s the accuser. But I’m not on trial for what I’ve done, rather why I’ve done it. And his telling expression says it all. No excuse appeases my actions in their minds. “Nothing suggests any real threat to humanity. Nothing suggests anyone you killed was a risk to anyone at all.” He lies. “Nothing suggests you’re anything more than a common murderer.”

“…but,” I said.

“But nothing, Jacob,” the only objection he gets comes from Eat’em. He lectures and berates me while the circus watches intently. “This morning we were presented with autopsy reports of several of your victims. Nothing lives in them. Nothing controls them or eats their brains. No parasites. Why should we continue to believe you when these reputable sources have shown there’s no such thing as the Grotesque infection.”

“Continue to believe me?” I belt out, “When did you believe me? Hardly anyone believes me. But I’ll tell you why you should! I can see things others can’t. I can tell who in this room failed to wash their hands just by looking at them. And I can do that sitting right where I am. They just have to hold their hands up. Yet that means nothing to you, because you only want to believe what you can see. I can do things that nobody in this room can do, and you don’t bat an eyelash, you just think so what? I’m gifted. I’ll show you proof and you’ll still deny it because you don’t want to believe me. It’s too much of a stretch for you to think you don’t know everything.”

I look out at the sea of faces. They fear me. They think I’m a danger to their families. To themselves.

“Tell me, Jacob, have I washed my hands today?” Gomes holds up his hands briefly, but continues before I can answer… “I fail to understand how the ability to assess a person’s hygiene leads to the right to take a life.”