Altered Reality Magazine

Wannabe Cochran From the first draft of The Crazy between Us by Eric Pellinen (Novel available on Amazon) The nightmare was not over. Gilbert couldn’t wake himself up. This whole scene was too disorienting to be of the real world. Sitting in the prison cell alone all he had to look at was the white brick walls, the gray cement floor, the stainless steal toilet beside the stainless steal sink, and listening to that fucking annoying sound fluorescent lights make went there you’re alone in a room with no other sounds to drown it out. Gilbert thought to himself that if this were real, he’d find a way to kill himself, but of course there was a camera on the ceiling in the corner of the cell watching his every move.     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.”