Joe B. Trade

Joe B. Trade

Thanks to neuroparenthetical as always, for the superb editing, taking my jumbled words and turning them into something readable!

Yes, I know what it rhymes with. Two Supreme Court decisions, and an eternal argument. There's plenty to consider no matter what side of the issue you're on. The reason there's plenty to consider, is because the arguments for both sides focus on the wrong things; the wrong people.

This is one for the BTB's. No, I didn't feel obligated to throw you a bone. I don't usually write this shit. Real people, who end up in shitty situations that can be easily forgiven with some effort, on both people's parts, are what I write about most. When someone leaves - cuck's get 1* - the joke and the pity is actually on them.

WARNING: This story deals with a scorching hot social issue. If you're easily offended by violence, pregnancy, medical removal of body parts or abortion clinics, stop here and move on.

Especially on this one, relax; it's just a story, people.

"All rise!" the pot-bellied bailiff proclaims. "The Honorable Hubert Williams presiding."

The overcrowded courtroom remains standing until Judge Williams takes his seat on the bench. Some of the spectators and press line both the back wall and the one opposite where the jury sits. The older robe-clad man begins to study the file before him, looking down his nose through his reading glasses. Finally, he looks up at the defendant.

"Mr. Joseph Bartholomew Trade," he states, before reading a laundry list of charges. Mr. Trade stares straight ahead, emotionless, until the judge reads the words, "conspiracy to commit murder," at which point the corners of Joe's lips turn up in an evil-looking smirk.

After the final charge is read, Judge Williams asks, "You've plead not guilty at arrangement. Is that correct Mr. Trade?"

"Yes, not guilty to all charges, Your Honor," Lester Wilkins, council for the defense states emphatically and confidently.

"So noted on the court record," the judge replies. "District Attorney Lewis, are you prepared to give your opening statement?"

One year, eight months prior

Joe Trade forced all his weight down on the specially-made pipe wrench while his co-worker used a piece of rebar to crimp the temporary cap over the large-diameter pipe. It certainly wasn't the first time Joe had had to deal with the extreme water pressure of a busted fire hydrant. The story behind this job was a little strange though.

From what Joe had seen and overheard from police and paramedics on scene, an elderly lady had swerved her Buick in order to miss a fawn at the last moment and couldn't correct the vehicle before taking out the hydrant. The car had ended up on top of the ensuing geyser, and Emergency Rescue had had to extricate the poor woman, before taking her to the hospital.

"Those damned tree-huggers," Joe thought to himself while working to shut down the flow of water. The state legislature had, earlier that year, caved to pressure from a particularly extreme - but well-organized and well-funded - animal rights group. No more hunting; no more relocating either. To the surprise of almost no one in the community, the deer population had exploded. Now, both the deer and the humans were in more danger than either had been previously.

Suddenly, Joe's co-worker succeeded in capping the pipe, causing Joe's wrench to slip. As his counter effort ended, Joe's forearm slid across the torn, jagged metal. The laceration hurt like hell, and Joe knew it would require stitches. Joe's co-worker, Earl, managed to flag down the last EMT on site before he could drive away.

"Hey, you really should go to the emergency room, buddy," the paramedic told Joe. In return, Joe begged and pleaded with the younger man to just stitch him up then and there.

"It's my kid's birthday tomorrow," he almost cried out. "I need to get home so I can help my wife with all the decorations and set up for her party. She's going to be four. I can't sit around in the emergency room all night."

Joe apologized and thanked the man for helping him out of a tight spot. He was tired and irritated. As much as Joe needed this extra gig, the DPW on-call shift always seemed to take him away from his family at the most inopportune moment. His day job as a diesel mechanic was almost as taxing, so even when he was home, he was usually exhausted.

Joe arrived home at a few minutes after midnight. Becky, his wife of six years, was out on the patio, hanging a 'Happy Birthday' sign above the slider. She'd already done most of the prep without her husband, and the final touches would have to happen in the morning while she took her daughter on a little shopping spree to the mall. It would be up to Joe to complete the set-up and decorations for the party of about fifteen or twenty friends and relatives.

"I'm beat, Joe. Thanks once again for the help," she said, her words cutting sarcastically. "I'm going to bed. Put all this stuff in the garage and finish hanging that string of lights on the deck. I'm not tall enough, or it would already be done."

Joe knew Becky hated him moonlighting for the city, but what could he do? Becky's family was wealthy - wealthy and connected. Lately, she'd been throwing her former lifestyle in his face on a fairly regular basis. It wasn't pure disappointment she displayed. Something in their marriage was off. Joe's spouse gave him a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the stairs without even a 'good night' or any other term of endearment. She hadn't even noticed his injury.

Joe went upstairs to splash some water on his face. He really wanted a beer, especially with the pain in his arm. He took a moment to check his bandage and the EMT's handiwork. Before heading back down to complete his tasks, he peeked in on the real love of his life, Annabelle.

'Anna B' was the nickname Joe had given her from almost the time she could first talk. She'd had real trouble with her long name, so Daddy had made it easier, and fixed it. That was Joe. He had always been good at fixing things. He'd even rescued Becky when her car had become stranded on a rural road outside their home town. That was how they'd met.

Anna B was a Daddy's girl. Becky often seemed jealous of how much she adored her father, given how often he was out of the house. Of course, Joe's heart melted a little more every time. The only other man in Anna B's life was Uncle Rico. That was the name Joe always called him in front of his daughter, so it had stuck. It was Joe's way of taunting Ricardo, whose name was Spanish, not Italian. Joe disliked the smug, pretentious bastard, so he relished every opportunity to tease him.

Joe worked on the easier decorations first while sipping his beer. Once he was finished with both, he moved on to the harder task: re-stringing the overhead lights above the deck. He's taken them down for winter, and now that it was May, he wanted them up for all the guests to see tomorrow. As he finished, he noticed his arm trickling blood. Holding his arm over his head and then bringing it back below his heart had forced the blood past a few of the stitches.

Joe quietly went into the guest bedroom. Becky used it for crafts and had a closet full of stuff from the local project and craft store. He slid open the closet door, and, after a few moments rummaging, found the sewing kit he was looking for. He brought it down to the kitchen table and began threading a needle so he could re-close the wound.

Once the patch job was completed he washed the needle and went to put it back in the kit. Suddenly, he noticed something strange. Right below the clear plastic top tray was an official looking document.

Twenty seconds later, Joe's world collapsed.

Two days after the birthday party, Becky was at her mother's house.

"Joe's acting very odd, Mom," Becky said with some distress and urgency.

"Yes, I notice too," Sophia Marie Lafata declared in her thick Sicilian accent. "Atta the party, also. You make-a sure everything hidden, yes, Rebecca?"

"Yes mother," Becky replied, like a little girl might.

Sophia took another sip of her Sangria, and slipped deep into thought. She was now the matriarch of the Lafata family, since her husband, James, "Jimmy" Lafata had died from pancreatic cancer four years earlier. The family as a whole, but especially Jimmy and Sophia, had lived a storybook life. They'd met at St. Peter's Catholic Church in Farmington Hills, Michigan. Sophia had been raised as a strict Italian Catholic girl, and Jimmy had been an emerging third generation Sicilian Mafioso. He'd been destined to lead the third-largest crime family in the Detroit area. Needless to say, Sophia's parents' had tried desperately to talk Sophia out of love and especially marriage, but to no avail.

"When you go home, you check," Sophia told her daughter. "Check your hide place and you make-a sure nothing disturbed." Sophia told her daughter.

Sophia had never bothered to learn English properly. Ironically, it had served her well in the male-dominated mafia world. The men of her generation considered it a sign of submission - that their women weren't venturing out into the new world, assimilating, and trying to make their own way. As the decades had passed, and the younger, American-born goombas had come to fill out the lower ranks, Sophia had aged gracefully into the role of the staunch, traditional mafia matron. The greasy-haired kids were enamored of a place, time, and culture that most of them had never even tasted, let alone immersed themselves in, and they worshiped Sophia as one of its relics.

Her new family had lived in a prestigious Detroit suburb. Jimmy had taken over for his father when he'd died. The family business dealt mostly in vice and had been very lucrative for a very long time. Jimmy, along with his brother, had owned a seafood company and a linen company downtown. The latter had been a beautifully ironic place to launder all the cash from the family's real sources of income.

Then the casinos had come; the state legislature just couldn't pass up the additional downtown revenue. That had been okay at first, since Jimmy had had connections to the casino owners in Las Vegas. Then there'd been a few Indian casinos; finally, the families' nemesis, the Russians had made their move.

The Russian mob in the late 1990's had been making plays into almost every major metropolitan city, east of the Mississippi. Jimmy had tried to fight them off, just like almost every other Italian crime family from New York to Miami. Like all the rest, Jimmy had failed. After Jimmy's brother had been found naked, hanged and skinned in his 'accounting' office downtown, Jimmy had relocated his family to the Pacific Northwest. They'd settled in a small north Idaho town.

It hadn't been easy for Sophia at first. They'd lost a considerable amount of their net worth, fighting the Russians. Additionally, Sophia had had to deal with a serious culture shock. She'd expected most things to be similar to Michigan, but had found out quickly, that assimilation was expected. So, in order to get along with a bunch of people she considered hicks, she'd joined a few volunteer organizations, and had started attending a nondenominational Christian church.

One thing Sophia would not budge on was sending her precious daughter, Rebecca, to a private school. She'd wanted the best for her offspring, and wouldn't let Jimmy interfere with child-rearing decisions. After all, neither Rebecca, her sister, or her brother were actually Jimmy's kids. Sophia's family had a long pure-bred tradition that went back to the old country, and all the children born in the last four generations had been sired by second, third or fourth cousins - not the woman's husband. Most of the men were oblivious, too mired in their high-stress lives to care, although some surely suspected.

Sophia had learned much being married to Jimmy. She had slithered and slinked like a shadow, staying quiet, but picking up everything she could use from her husband's dealings. Joe had been the man of choice for Becky, although other family members had wondered why Sophia had supported him so avidly. He wasn't even Italian. But Sophia saw him as being immature, and far less intelligent than the people in her circle.

He'd be the perfect man to raise Becky's children. If he ever were to find out about the Lafata's incestuous traditions, Sophia believed she'd be able to manipulate him.

"Call your first witness, council," the Judge tells Thomas Boseman, Deputy District Attorney and second chair to Robert Lewis.

"The State calls Sophia Marie Lafata." Sophia places her right hand on the book, hoping it doesn't burn a hole through her, then repeats the words.

"Mrs. Lafata," Boseman begins. "My first question is: How long have you known the defendant, Mr. Trade?

"From time Rebecca bring him home," Sophia answered truthfully. "For dinner, I think. We make-a da meatballs."

The gallery breaks out in stifled laughter.

Boseman continued, "Do you think the defendant loved your daughter?"

Lester Wilkins leapt from his seat before Sophia could answer. "Objection, your Honor! Leading the witness, and supposition."

"Sustained. Mr. Boseman, rephrase the question so the witness can answer, and we're already off to a rocky start here. Mr. Wilkins, state your charge of supposition for the record."

"Prosecution said, and I quote, "LOVED" your daughter. That presumes she's no longer alive."

Murmurs grow in the courtroom.

Judge Williams slams his gavel once. "Order! Mr. Wilkins, I take that question to mean, loved her, past tense, as in, before the general time period in question, not as in post mortem. Supposition objection overruled. Please answer the question, Ma'am."

Sophia had been given a gift: a distraction, and just enough time, to start up the fake waterworks. "Yes, I mean, yes, I think he love her at first. Even to get married. Perhaps, in some way he still love her. I think he always love her."

Mr. Boseman looks confused, then irate. He turns and looks at his colleague Lewis, who seems just as stunned. Boseman walks over to Lewis and the two confer via whispers.

Boseman turns and addresses the judge. "Your Honor, permission to treat this witness as hostile."

The courtroom erupts. Wilkins flies out his chair, slinging objections like snowballs. The gavel pounds repeatedly as Judge Williams screams to restore the room to order. After several moments, the crowd becomes silent.

"This is highly irregular, Mr. Boseman. This is your first witness, and from what I can gather, not even one that has anything more than second-hand testimony to offer."

"That's not correct, Your Honor. Mrs. Lafata is an eyewitness to establish the defendants' state of mind prior to the alleged crimes." Boseman is clearly, literally sweating.

"And, I take it Mr. Boseman that your witness has gone off script?" Williams asks with a wicked sneer. It seems Judge Williams isn't fond of Mr. Boseman. "I'm not inclined to allow this trial to turn into a damned circus on day one, council. Let's take a twenty minute recess, and see if the prosecution can get back on track."

Joe was hammering his third Jack rocks when Burt and Mikey arrived at the dive bar. They walked away from him and towards a booth on the opposite wall from the bar. Joe stood and walked towards them.

Burt raised his hand once he'd gotten the sexy bartender's attention, and circled it around over his head to indicate a fresh round for all. Mikey took in the state of his long-time friend. He looked like shit.

"Alright Joe, whatcha got?" Burt turned slightly in the seat to make eye contact.

Joe pulled out a folded document and laid it on the table. "This is Anna B's birth certificate. At least I think it is. Like I told you, I think it must be a fake based on what it says. But I also went through Beck's phone and there's something not right with her texts."

Mikey picked up the paper and studied it.

Burt asked, "What about her texts?"

"She's telling her mom about my attitude or my mood since I found this fucking certificate. They're plotting and scheming as if it's all true. Back and forth about how to handle me or deal with me, like I'm a piece of garbage."

Mikey brought out a similar document and studied them side-by-side. "This is legit," he exclaimed. "Here, look at the state seal. I'm sorry Joe, but I asked LuAnne about it. She won't say nothing. You remember she works for old man Wilkins, that ex-Green-Beret attorney guy over on Lakeview."

Joe remembered. Lester Wilkins had helped him with a serious matter right out of high school. He was the reason Joe was still a free man.

"Shit," Burt said, mostly to himself, when he saw the similarities. "What the fuck you gonna do, Joe? Don't do nothing stupid. If this is true, that bitch ain't worth the trouble."

Burt seemed to be taking it as hard as poor Joe. Of course, Burt's wife had bailed on him one year prior, and taken both kids to California so she could shack up with some former high school boyfriend.

Mikey changed the subject. "Who's this fucking Ricardo Versaci?"

Joe looked down and away from his friends, unable to tolerate the humiliation. "Becky's second cousin."

Mikey went pale. "This is fucking bullshit, Joey. What the fuck are you going to do?"

"I don't have a clue," Joe stated robotically. "If this was...planned, well, I guess I need more evidence."

Burt jumped in with, "Kinda seems like it was..."

"What did the texts say?" Mikey kept up the prodding.

To answer was almost unbearable for Joe. He felt like such a fool. Many of his friends had politely warned him to stay clear of Becky, including the two sitting with him now.

"They're trying to figure if I know, and how much, if so. One text from Becky to her mom says she is six weeks pregnant right now. They're talking about how to handle it...without me finding out."

Burt had suddenly come to life. "You mean these evil bitches don't want your wife to have your kids? Does Becky's mother know about Anna B?"

"Yeah, it seems that way." Joe couldn't continue. His life had turned to absolute shit in less than forty-eight hours.

Mikey came out of his stupor too, still unable to believe what he was hearing. "We need more proof, Joe. Let me get a couple voice activated recorders - one for her car and one for her purse. Can you put a tracker app on her phone, if I show you how?"

Joe nodded.

Joe B. Trade looked upon the angelic face of his daughter, Anna B. Yes, he thought, she's my daughter. Anna was in that place of contentment, having just fallen asleep but not quite out for the night. They had always been Joe's favorite few minutes of the day. The look on his little girl's face was priceless. Joe kept trying to read her a new story, but no matter what he did, they always wound up on the The Three Bears. That's always when her eyelids started to get heavy.

Tears ran down Joe's face as he studied her every detail. He resolved that he would never let Becky or Sophia steal his daughter away - or his unborn child, for that matter. It seemed that if they couldn't get him in line, then they'd try. Joe steeled himself. It was to be war.

That day's recording had revealed a treasure trove of new information, unlike the first five days'. Becky's family members were sick, and many were downright monsters. Joe also learned a horrible truth - one that would require immediate attention and a fair amount of planning to address. He and his friends didn't have a ton of time. The next morning, Joe would call in sick for the first time in over two years, and then meet Mikey and Burt to get started.

"Alright council," Judge Williams began. "Can I presume you have your witness under control now?"