MEMORIES OF A CHARIOT (STORY)
August 26th, 2018
MEMORIES OF A CHARIOT
By Jordan Pastor
December 22nd, 2018. Axel Stuart Warnecke was charged with the murder of his girlfriend, Felicia Gianna Cordova. Cordova’s body was found the evening of September 2nd in Armistice Park in Hoboken, New Jersey. Investigators have determined that her killer had fled the scene a few hours before the body was discovered. A passer-by who would like to remain anonymous was in the park when he found Ms. Cordova; officers were immediately on the scene. The suspected killer, Mr. Warnecke, could face a life sentence if he is found guilty of the murder of Ms. Cordova.
On December 26th, 2018, the day after Christmas, the jury came to an unfettered, unanimous decision. Axel Stuart Warnecke was found guilty on the charges of first-degree murder and tampering with evidence. Warnecke now faces life in prison - a fitting end, some would say. His brother, Quentin Warnecke; as well as Cordova’s sister, Priscilla Montegrin were both present in the courtroom during the announcement of the verdict.
Snowflakes danced down from the hazy evening sky, embracing the brick-red courthouse shingles in a blanket of soft ice. Inside the building, but outside the door to the courtroom, Quentin and Priscilla sat quietly on the worn, wooden benches against the opposite wall. Reporters and their crews were getting ready to leave, trailing large black wires behind their heavy equipment. There was a somber complacency in Priscilla’s pupils.
“It’s gonna be really cold outside,” Quentin chuckled as he caught a glimpse of her face. He didn’t think she heard him. “Pris.”
“Don’t call me that.” She looked at him briefly, then snapped her eyes back to their original position. Quentin exhaled through his nose, then bit his lip.
“I’m sorry. I was just try-”
“Why… Why would you do that? Why would you wanna make conversation with me after sitting through that ?”
“I just thought I’d try to talk to you. Can you talk to me ?” He asked. Priscilla grated her palms up her face and into her hair, bringing them back down again to slap her cheeks, finally resting her shaking hands on her bottom lip.
“What am I supposed to talk to you about, Quentin ? I can’t… my sister is dead. She’s not coming back, I’m never seeing her again. I can’t eat I can’t… breathe,” her eyes darted back and forth toward random coordinates, until she realized what was happening. “I don’t wanna talk to you ! I don’t wanna hear your voice, god ! I don’t wanna see your face. Don’t talk to me! DON’T TALK TO ME!” Her last exclamation brought her to her feet in a primally loud shriek. Her muscles felt like they were engulfed in a searing hot explosion. “Fuck !” She screamed at the ceiling. As she looked down at Quentin’s face, hers was still drifting between a state of crying and of indignation. A trembling shiver rose within Quentin, and he felt his body jolt with anger.
“I don’t have him,” Quentin began. Priscilla turned around to face him. “You got to have a sister who was good. She’s gonna be remembered well. I don’t have that.” His voice began to grow louder. Frustration was beginning to bubble up from within him like magma. “My brother was good. He got us the chariot. He worked and worked and tried and tried because he wanted to be good. He loved the fucking shit out of me ! And I love him ! He’s my fucking brother !” His shoulders tightened, and his hands began to shake tears began. “I can’t have that ! Ax is good ! They don’t - they don’t know who he is !” He roared back at her. “And he took it away ! He fucking took our life away from us ! People want him to die !” He cried out with fear. His face became pale. The adrenaline tangled his lungs and made it nearly impossible for him to remember to breathe. He began to wheeze a little.
“At least he’s still alive.” Priscilla snapped. Quentin’s eyes widened. “And I don’t wanna hear about that stupid fucking car again.”
“The chariot ? You know it ?”
“Yeah.”
“The orange 80’s Camaro ?”
“Yeah.”
“I fuckin’ hated that thing.” There was a slight pause. Priscilla began to squint as she slowly began to spill a laugh. She covered her hand with her face, trying to hold back her snickering. “What’s so funny ?”
“It was so ugly !” She said. This invited a small giggle within him.
“And it didn’t even work right ! It was just a shit car !”
“Why did they love that thing ? They drove it everywhere.”
“Everywhere !”
“And the…” Priscilla held up two hands, as if she was holding a sandwich, “and the hot-”
“And the Hot Papi bumper sticker ?” They both belted out laughing. Quentin gripped his hair, then rubbed his eyes.
“The snake !”
“The fucking cushion snake !”
“That chariot was trash ! It was a garbage car !”
“And the smell…”
“That nasty smell !”
“Ms. Montegrin ?” A young woman in a blue blazer asked. The grip she had on her clipboard was tight, and her smile was polite. She was absent for the context of the conversation.
“Hi, yeah. That’s me.” The young woman extended her hand; Priscilla shook it.
“My name is Ellie King. I’m a student from Boston University, and I was wondering if you would be okay talking to me a little bit about the case ?” She asked. Quentin chuckled politely.
“Sure. Just a minute.” Priscilla responded.
“Of course, take your time.” Ellie said before briefly disappearing again down the corridor.
“She really just went in like that.” Quentin mumbled to Priscilla. When she felt the sleeve of his coat brush up against her shoulder, she looked up at him. There was a gentle optimism in both of their chests that blossomed like the first flower of spring. She threw her arms around his torso, embracing him. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her uncertain heartbeat against his own. A smile once again erupted in their cheeks.
“Merry Christmas, Quentin.”
“Merry Christmas, Pris.”