Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

That's how it started. "

"I thought it was your job to keep this from happening."

"Another part of my job is to explore all the possibilities," said the lawyer, sorting the copies and aligning the edges. "Apparently, they also think you kidnapped Dr. Coleman."

Stanley let out a short laugh, more like a cough, "Why would I do that?"

"To get Apophis, for money, for revenge, or all three, that's the prosecution's theory."

"Miss Gibson," the subject spread his hands, as if he had just discovered that the living room window had been smashed by an unknown baseball for the third time in a month, "I can't even kidnap a kitten."

"That," said the lawyer, "is what we want everyone to believe."

"It depends on the ending."

"Tell me about that houseboat."

Stanley was still holding the photo provided by the forensic office. He pondered for a while on the code with letters, and turned the photo over, with the bottom facing up, "The hotel rents it out to those who want to be undisturbed, newlyweds, A sailor, a trader from London, a writer on the verge of collapse, a Moroccan who only pays and doesn't want to talk much. In the winter of 1978, a man hanged himself in the living room. Occasionally, adults can be heard talking The kitchen talks about it, 'poor guy', they say, 'gambling debts, alcohol'. I'll look at the roof and imagine where he hangs the rope, you know, like people standing on the seashore and imagining themselves Like drowning."

"Now I think I should have parked farther away, in the wrong direction; maybe even found a slope, released the handbrake, and pushed it into the sea, but none of us took a course like 'How to Escape Pursuit 101'. We left our car at an intersection and thought we were smart enough."

"We walked for more than two hours before we found the house."

The roof isn't falling in yet, but it's almost there.The row of windows by the water had collected such a thick layer of dust that it looked almost brown.Jason found some old newspapers under the sunken sofa, all dated before 1989.He made the mistake of trying to wipe the glass clean with the old prints, creating a miniature sandstorm of confetti and dust.The dust on the round table was like untouched snow, and the gun lay on it, as if it had been waiting there for years.Stanley opened the bag and counted the items inside one by one, the squished cigarette case, a handful of coins, certificates, leather-bound notebooks, and lighters.His fingers touched the magazine, hesitated, took it out, pushed it back into the pistol, and released the safety catch.He put down his empty bag and went to the window, where the old-fashioned wooden peg fell apart almost as soon as it touched his fingers, and the window slid open and would never close again. 20 meters away, the waves beat the deserted beach.The lion-like reef only shows a snout behind the cliff, a furtive feral cat.Jason crumpled up the old yellowed newspaper and threw it aside.

Stanley tried to close the glass window one last time, and it slid open again. "I'm going to see what's in the tool shed."

The tool shed was where he remembered it, the floor was moth-eaten, and a thin sapling had grown, bent at a painful angle, squeezed through the gap in the wall, and stretched its branches into the barren sunlight.A pair of wooden paddles lay in the corner, next to barrels of diesel oil with faded labels, two marked "Generator" in black felt-tip pen, and four marked "Speedboat."On the shelf was a carpenter's toolbox, mouse traps, a large box of Allen screws, candles, a car battery, and a bundle of rotting twine.He took the candle and the bucket of diesel and went back to the damp and musty living room.

They never found a generator, nor did they have a speedboat.If the boathouse looked only gloomy in the sun, it was a rotting pile of planks at night.Stanley wanted to light a candle, but Jason told him not to.This light, he argued, would stand out like a beacon on an empty shore.

"I haven't slept all night. What do people think when they can't sleep, Miss Gibson? Though I'm sure your insomnia comes from the long trial preparations. What I'm thinking is I need a blanket, a A thicker coat; thinking of the rocks and Tennyson in the bay, year after year, familiar with the children of strangers (Note 1); my father, alone in the nursing home, with his failing kidneys Life; my mother, her roses and blue headband; my office on the third floor of the R&D center with the sunset and the lake from there. Notebooks and the freezer in the basement. Jason and I didn't talk, we both understood It will be over soon. And yet it was a long night, much longer than any other."

"Agent Ferguson came early in the morning, and we heard car engines. No police cars, just three featureless black sedans. Burned the notes, and I told Jason, get this over with, today, right here. He Say no, say we can still make a deal with the Americans. That's his way of thinking, you see, 'I can negotiate a way out'. Talking isn't working anymore, I grabbed the The can of diesel from the tool shed was dumped on the notebook."

Excess liquid flammables dripped from the edge of the round table, and Jason yelled, knocking the lighter out of Stanley's hand.There was a pause of a few seconds, as if a frayed wire was suddenly connected, and they went to grab the Glock 17 on the table at the same time, and the table tipped over, and scattered objects rolled down.Diesel-soaked notebooks lay on the moth-infested floor.

The first shot startled them all, and a window shattered. His wrists ached from the pounding recoil, and Jason knocked him down, clutching his wrists, trying to take the weapon away.Stanley broke free, got up, and raised the gun again.

For a few dramatic seconds, Jason looks like he's about to say something, maybe "no", maybe Stanley's name.He will never know.

A second shot rang out.

"I got the gun first and we wrestled like two wild dogs and the gun went off and shattered a window. Jason knocked me down and the gun fell to the ground, this time I didn't see where the bullet went Yes. And then," Stanley rubbed the bridge of his nose, "then there was fire."

Two flash bombs shattered glass, smashed into the wall, and rolled into the slow-flowing diesel on the floor.Blinding white light and fire.Rotting planks blazed, igniting what little furniture and wooden siding remained. Flames easily licked the roof and encased the beams, raining hot ash.The notebook slowly curled up in the fire, turning to ashes.Stanley stepped over the body, looking for an exit.

"The last time I saw Jason, he was looking for his notebook. All I wanted was to get out of this purgatory, with the smoke covering everything."

Gibson waited, but the subject seemed to have finished his story.

"You didn't kill Jason Coleman."

"No."

"Look at me," said the lawyer, "and say it again."

Stanley looked her in the eyes, "I didn't kill Jason Coleman."

"Okay," Gibson straightened up and put the pen back in his pocket, "I have no other questions."

-

The last time Gaspar Stanley took his seat in the dock, the scars on his face hadn't completely faded and the cast on his right arm was still in place.He looked a little pale, but that's totally understandable for a wounded man.Privately, the jurors believed that the defendant had struck them as some kind of gentle and timid herbivore, obediently led this way by the prosecutors and led back by the defense lawyers.During the trial, which lasted for half a month, the defendant showed a moderate confusion most of the time, as if he didn't understand why he needed to be here, or that he hadn't recovered from the shock of hearing the news of his friend's death.Even as prosecutors laid out the evidence of the murder — gunpowder residue, autopsy reports and potential motives — the defendant’s slight somnambulism remained unbroken.

Everyone was on their feet when the judge returned, and Stanley glanced at the defense attorney, who nodded and patted him on the arm.

"Has the jury reached a unanimous conclusion?"

The little man in a dark blue cardigan sitting on the far left stood up, "Yes, on the court."

Gaspar Stanley straightened up a little, waiting for the sentencing.

End of the full text.

The author has something to say: Note 1: Tennyson, "In Memory of AHH", original text: andyearbyyearthelandscapegrow/familiartothestranger'schild