The Wilmington Massacre

In his hotel room Chris pondered upon the task at hand. He was to speak at a lecture to a few thousand intellectuals, writers, journalists, student, staff, and faculty members. These were the same people who would not even bother to acknowledge him as a simple human, should he not have been a now well-known writer. They were all spineless worms. He removed his materials from his bag and took them to the bathroom. The reception, he could tell, would be full of news people, each scrambling to take a picture of him. He wasn’t being immodest when he felt that he was going to be the biggest story on the news that night. Chris knew exactly what he was thinking. He opened the fridge. Orange juice. What he wouldn’t give for a swig of Vodka right about then. Someone knocked at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Hi it’s me sir. Harry Matthews."

Son of a bitch! He was here an hour early. This was not good. Chris opened the door to reveal Harry and a bunch of smiling college morons, all eager to please him. Eager, so it seemed, to be accepted by him. Shit! thought Chris. This was not going well at all. He put on a smile. "C’mon in!" They all rushed in. The bastards.

There were about twenty of them. Some of them actually looked intelligent enough to be decent, while the rest of them reminded Chris of what he hated so much about college. "It’s, like, so totally nice to meet you Mr. Banks. Like, I’ve read all your books, <Chris’ mind: All one of them> and I just, like, so totally adore you." Was her neck broken, or why the hell did she keep moving it from side to side and playing with her hair. He nodded curtly and turned away. "Mr. Banks, hi, I’m Dale Evans." Goodness, his grin was so wide and sincere it could almost pass for that of the president. The handshake was firm... Must be aspiring to be a salesman. "Mr. Banks hi..." This was not working. He had to make a move. "Excuse me one second, I have to go to the bathroom." His materials were in the bathroom. He had to leave. "Sure, I’ll just introduce you to the others when you get back."

The Reception:

There were so many cameras, just as he had anticipated. Flash everywhere, crowds of journalists pressing forward to catch a good picture. He grinned to himself. He WAS the biggest story in the news. That always made him feel good. There was that girl from the hotel. She might have been a good screw. She looked at him, beyond the security barricade, in apparent awe. This always made him feel good about himself.

Chris had regained all the self-esteem he had lost in those miserable years of low-life scumming, after he left college. As he entered the car, he made out the figure of a news woman reporting live to wherever the hell she was reporting. He would probably be the biggest story there too. He waved as the car drove by the reporter. She stood there, face directly facing the camera, and the correct journalistic posture in effect:

"This is Donna Conchitez reporting live from Wilmington, where world-famous author, Chris Banks, today stunned the world by murdering 25 people in a McDonalds restaurant, having sneaked out of his hotel room through his bathroom. The story is that Mr. Banks left a pre-engagement meeting with U of W student representatives at his hotel room, and climbed out the window with a bag containing what is believed to be the murder weapons.

Mr. Banks then, after asking directions from several witnesses, proceeded to enter a Macdonald’s restaurant on 14th and Metropolitan, and opened fire. According to a witness at the scene, once Mr. Banks had finished his outburst, he counted how many people he had shot, and then shot one more person hiding in the corner, probably (we speculate) to make the number 25. The biggest twist to this story is that the act was carried out almost exactly as outlined in Mr. Bank’s bestseller, The Wilmington Massacre."

News-anchor: "What is the mood there Donna?"

Donna: "Well, Kathy <said with all sincerity of face>, people are totally puzzled. I spoke with a couple of the students who had met with Mr. Banks earlier today, and they want to know why he did it. They seem as baffled as we are."

News-anchor: "Any news on what he will be charged with?

Try murder?

Donna: "Well we can’t be too sure, but the Police detective has told us exclusively that there is a good chance that he will be charged with murder-one."

News-anchor: "There you have it folks. Channel two was the first to bring it to you. Thank you Donna"

Donna: "You’re welcome Kathy."

News-anchor: "And now here’s Kevin with the weather..."

70% chance of rain tomorrow. As you can see, the precipitation does something with the barometer coming from the southerly winds and that storm belt, but who gives a shit? Just tell me what to wear tomorrow, fool.

COURT

"...and we will prove behind any shadow of a doubt, that it was Mr. Banks himself who committed this sick, dastardly act, for his own motives." The prosecutor walked back to her chair, breathing heavily, but confident yet. She didn’t know what to make of this Bank’s case. He was defending himself in court, just as in his book, and what a spectacle it would be. She hadn’t had a chance to ever speak with him, and didn’t quite know what to make of it. He must be crazy, a thought which came to her mind and conflicted with her principles. It was required that she recommend to the judge that he be ruled mentally incompetent to stand in his own defense--a recommendation she didn’t make for, though she was up against a novice like Banks, a conviction was a statistic, and a career was most definitely a career. She watched as Banks rose to face the jury. Something stirred within her. He had a sort of confidence which scared her. What was in his mind? What was he thinking?

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury... <pause> <Step> there are times in one’s life that answers are needed. But before we can answer, we need the question. Why does it rain? Why did the sun rise this morning? Why are we here? Indeed, there are times, I profess, when answers elude us. We try and figure it out with our brains, but yet the answers are not so readily available." Step. Step. Step. Step. Pause. Even the judge was captivated. "And then we come to that conclusion, which we have all, at different times of our lives, come to.

We... don’t... know. <Pause>. So you sit here today, and you are all confused. Why are we here? You ask yourselves. I’ll tell you why you’re here. You’re here because today, I stand accused of a crime so unbelievable it warrants, no, necessitates these questions: Why would I do this? What would I stand to gain? Would I do this if I was sane? If so, am I sane? Well, look at me. I submit to you that while I am not the complete specimen of our times... while I am not the athlete who does the 100 in 9.9. While I am not the quarter back who throws the touchdown with ten seconds to go <voice rising>... while I am not the preacher who heals the sick... <voice loud now>.

I AM A NORMAL, EVERYDAY PERSON. I am, as the gospel so blessedly puts it, that I am. Why? Why am I here? I ask myself this everyday in my cell as I sit in confinement. Is this what I want? To be in shackles. Not to have the opportunity to see the sun rise? <voice low> or hear the children play? Is that not what I have lived for all my life? To have it taken away for THIS? I ask you. Why am I here? There is a poem by Maya Angelou that I would like to read to you, as I close my opening statements.

I wish you to remember this poem as you hear this case, and remember that my freedom is not something I have taken for granted.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill. Of things unseen yet longed for still. It’s tune is heard on the distant hill. For the caged bird sings of freedom." He turned and walked slowly back to his desk, leaving all in utter awe. The prosecutor’s heart was beating fast. This was going to be something. Chris Banks might put on one heck of a show.

THE VERDICT

"This is Robert Donovan reporting live from the Supreme Court where the conviction of Author Chris Banks has just been overturned."

News-anchor: "Walk us through the events leading to this Rob."

Rob: "Sure, Kathy. Well, months ago Chris Banks, after merely hours of deliberation by a jury of peers, was convicted in the murder of 25 people in Wilmington. After the trial, in an almost calculated move, motions were filed for a repeal of the verdict citing jury prejudice. This move was almost similar to that in Mr. Bank’s book where the convict filed a motion for repeal citing racial prejudice.

However, in this instance, Mr. Banks alleged ‘Circumstantial Prejudice.’ As you know, Kathy, in subsequent hearings, several of the jurors admitted that they had heard about Mr. Bank’s book, while some admitted that they had indeed read the book. The issue remains unanswered as to why Mr. Banks, during jury selection, did not question them regarding his book. Well, Kathy, having been appealed to the State Court, and subsequently the Supreme Court, Mr. Banks has had his sentence repealed on the basis of what is now known as ‘Circumstantial prejudice,’ stemming from the fact that practically no one was immune from prejudice because of popularity of Mr. Bank’s book. This has set a very important precedent. Kathy,"

News-anchor: "What do you suspect is the mood outside the courthouse, Bob?"

Rob: "Well, there seems like there might be a lot of debate concerning this decision by the Supreme Court."

Nooooooo! Really?

News-anchor: "Well there you have it. Channel 7 was the first to bring it to you. Thank you Bob."

Rob: "Sure thing Kathy."

News-anchor: "And now here’s Jim with the sports."

The hometown team has lost again. Shit!

Having read the manuscript several times over, he was convinced that they had a winner. This Chris Banks was some writer, that was for sure. It was a cleverly crafted tale of a man tired of society’s ills, fighting against the notion to conform to what was "correct." It told the story of how a man pre-planned a massacre by writing a book about it, and then used the same book to get his murder conviction overturned using the infamous "Circumstantial Prejudice" defense in his favor.

"Rhonda, get Mr. Banks on the phone for me."

He looked at the time. It was but a quarter-past-two. He smiled at himself. This was going to be a big one.

The end