"They Got Their Show" by Garrett Davis
If there were a Netflix-style docuseries about the person accused of killing your loved one, would you watch it?
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They Got Their Show by Garrett Davis
It is midnight in Ponderosa and Nick Velasquez can’t sleep. The public doesn’t want him to sleep. It’s been like this ever since it hit all the big streaming platforms. The viewers stay up bingeing and he… well, he has been bingeing in his own way. With a bottle of tequila in one hand and a lit joint in the other, Nick wanders from room to room like a ghost in his own house. He shuffles through indents made in the living room carpet. Depressions from the furniture his esposa, Marcella, took with her when she left. Can’t look at my eyes without seeing our little girl. Nick pulls on the joint, its coal shifting from a deep cherry red to bright yellow in the darkness. He exhales a plume of smoke and walks down the hall, his sobriety trailing behind him. And just when things were getting back to normal. He’d gotten a job at a local taxi company, found a support group with minimal woo woo, hell he’d even gotten Marcella on the phone once or twice but then the docuseries hit Netflix.
He’s been circling the house all evening, like water going down the drain, each revolution getting smaller and smaller bringing him down inevitably to a single point. His daughter’s room. Everything is, more or less, as Carmen left it; Notorious B.I.G posters, a half-made bed and her diary open to a blank page dated June 17th 1995. Stumbling into the room, he squares off with the closet. A four-year-old Carmen wouldn’t sleep if the closet door was left open at night. She got scared that if it were left open, monsters from the dark could just walk on in. So being a good daddy, Nick made a big show of closing the doors and threatening any would-be monsters inside. It became a nightly ritual until at fifteen, her embarrassed protests hit home. Nick takes a swig from the bottle and wipes his mouth using the back of his hand. He’d asked her once why the monsters didn’t simply push the door open.
“Daddy,” she had said, “The handle is on the outside.”
Swaying slightly, it seems to Nick that the evil behind those bifold closet doors is almost palpable. It might be the drugs or maybe it’s the liquor but he swears he can feel pressure built up behind those doors. He sees darkness leaking out from underneath and marvels at the strength of those flimsy tarnished brass hinges. Putting the bottle down, he extends a shaking hand.
“Don’t do this,” he whispers to himself.
The doors open, revealing stacks upon stacks of banker’s boxes. They’re piled floor to ceiling, each one labeled in fat black ink: 1995. He takes a shot of tequila for each box he brings to the living room. Marcella had been nice enough to leave him an old reclining chair and he had since bought a secondhand television. So bathed in blue TV light, Nick gets to work. He organizes statements, arranges and rearranges glossy eight by ten photographs and rereads old newspaper clippings. Back in 1995 Carmen and a local boy Benjie left the house to rent a movie from Blockbuster. They did this every weekend. Nick would give Carmen twenty dollars and she and Benjie would walk the three blocks to the video store. But on June 17th, 1995, they never returned.
The docuseries plays in the background. When did I put that on? It details what they call shady police work and circumstantial evidence. It claims that the country has put an innocent man on death row. Nick glances at his masterpiece, laid out just as he remembers it; each document linked by a thread of red string, and they all lead to Benjie. He’d cut Benjie’s photo out of one of Carmen’s old yearbooks; they’d gone to school together. Benjie is fat in the photo, his face pitted with acne. Every grad class has one fat loser that no one likes—no one but Carmen that is. Nick puffs on his joint in contemplation. He never understood what made them such fast friends. He finds his answer in another memory, something Marcella once told him. Her words hang in the forefront of his mind and he’s so high he swears he can actually hear her say it.
“She wants to fix him,” Marcella had said, “she just doesn’t know that yet.”
“Well she’s certainly not in it for his brains,” Nick says aloud, reliving the conversation in real time. “If I had a line-up of potential school shooters… I’d pick that sad little puto nine out of ten times.”
The public, however, didn’t seem to feel that way. Benjie is on the screen now, much older and less ruddy in the face. Nick suspects he’s wearing makeup for the shot. The lighting is good — the angle flattering — he almost looks handsome. Like lipstick on a pig.
“Did you kill Carmen Velasquez?” The interviewer asks.
“No,” Benjie answers, “Why, uh, why’s everyone still asking that? I’ve been in here nearly, uh, twenty years and my story hasn’t changed. And do you want to know why?”
“Why?” The reporter asks.
“Cause it’s the truth. I ain’t never hurt a fly in my life.”
When Benjie says this, Nick hears the pings; likes and retweets being sent out from the viewers. He picks them up like radio waves on teeth fillings. They sound like the bells and whistles on an old pinball machine. I’m on a whole ‘nother frequency, hombre! That’s when it falls apart. He sees the mistake in his careful plotting on the floor.
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