The Zombie Who Talked Too Much

The Zombie who Talked Too Much

A zombie boy sat in the witness stand playing with a snow globe, while the lawyers and their clients settled in their seats. I spent most of the past night studying for a twelfth-grade necromancy test that I took that morning, and truly wasn't in the mood for a trial. I raised a thirteen-year-old kid named Billy Hale, from the grave in a quick ceremony after school to testify for his own murder. Honestly, it's something I've done a kazillion times, but I was hella-tired and due for a date with my Hello Kitty covers cuddling me as I slept in their warm embrace.

Judge Kichida, whose hair and mustache was as white as rice, tapped his gavel repeatedly. "Sylva Fleischer, please step forward. "

I sighed inwardly, and traded a hopeful smile with Mom. She rubbed my shoulder with her warm, soft hand, and then patted it gently. "Go on, sleepyhead," she said. "You'll be in your bed in no time.

My Converses screeched when I got up and walked passed a frail little man in thick-rimmed glasses. His long, crooked fingers rested on an ancient-looking stenotype machine as he waited to type up the court's proceedings. I nodded hello to him, and went over to the witness stand. I was totally brain- dead about having this pretrial; I totally forgot to wear something more conservative, and not this BIKINI

SAMURAI SQUAD t-shirt and blue

jeans—so

embarrassing. At least my hair was in a neat ponytail, and the little makeup I wore looked cool.

"This is a preliminary hearing," Judge Kichida said. "What happens today determines if this case goes to trial, or not. Do you understand, young lady?"

Nodding, I cleared my throat. "Yes, your Honor.

Billy Hale was dressed in his favorite outfit: a spotless baseball uniform he pitched his first no-hitter in, only the day before he died. The navy blue and white striped uniform was the youth club replica of the New York Yankees. His baseball cap sat on his head with a little tilt, the same way his sister said he liked to wear it. According to his mother, he was very shy, and never said much to anyone, except his father, which seemed a bit ironic.

I took the globe out of the little deadhead's hand, and whispered to him. "Pay attention, Billy." Pointing to the judge, I waited for him to gaze at Judge Kichida, and when he finally did, I hid the globe behind my back so that he wouldn't get too distracted.

"Billy," I said, "You have to pay attention, and then you get the snow globe back. "

He slowly turned his undead focus back to Judge Kichida. He's ready, sir," I said.

"Son, what you tell us can help very much. Do you

understand?" asked the Judge.

Billy faced me. His large walnut-brown eyes asked for permission to speak.

"Go on, Billy," I said. "Answer the question. Do you understand Judge Kichida?"

"Yes," he said, his voice slurred and soft.

Billy's lips were badly bruised, and were difficult to look at— at least to me. One of his front teeth were shattered, and his wavy, black hair was matted to his small head like dirty crow feathers.

"Good," the judge said. "Information brought to my attention yesterday in my chambers by the prosecution, called for me to have the boy raised for this trial. I thank both sides for making themselves available for this proceeding.

Just then, three middle-school boys stumbled into the courtroom, laughing, and stumbling into the courtroom pews, as if they were being chased. They made such a ruckus, everyone in the courtroom, news reporters, Billy's parents, uncles, and siblings, and all the attorneys, turned to see who bum-rushed the court session, and angry chatter filled the room.

Judge Kichida smacked his gavel against his desk.

"Settle down, settle down," he said. "This is a closed session boys. You don't belong in here!"

"Um, yes I do," Moke said, defiantly. "I lost my keys and needed to get them from my brother."

Moke Mahelona was hefty and rude, a fifteen-year-old blond boy, also known to be the bully of Billy's middle school. He was older than everyone in his class because he got held back twice. His father, the town drunk, told the principal he would keep him in the eighth grade until the boy learned something more than being an annoying failure. The other two court crashers were Moke's flunkies, Petey and Michael. Petey was a tall, skinny kid with a sloppy black mop for hair, and rich politicians for parents. The other rebel, Michael, loud with the Napoleon complex, was the son of Reverend Johnson. I'd knew all three of them well, from the many times I more or less threatened to kick their butts if they didn't stop terrorizing kids at the mall on their skateboards in downtown Honolulu.

Mano, the cute bailiff and Moke's brother, stepped forward, reaching his muscular forearms in his front pockets. His pretty, caramel skin flashed an apologetic expression. "Sorry, your Honor," he said, and rushed over to Moke.

Mano whispered something to his brother that seemed harsh by the way his head shook, but was inaudible, and then he unhooked a house key from a ring of keys and slammed it into his brother's hand.

Moke smirked. "No worries, bro," he said, "I won't lose your stupid key, again."

"Now get out of here," Mano said, obviously embarrassed, rubbing his hand over his silky black hair. He looked up at the Judge Kichida, who waited impatiently, tapping his fingers speedily across his desk. "Sorry for the delay, your honor.

The judge nodded, and turned to Billy, who hadn't taken his undead eyes off Judge Kichida since I instructed him to pay attention.

"Now son," he said. "We won't even have to go to trial, if you just look around this room and tell me who hurt you so badly you lost your life."

I placed my hand on Billy's cold hard arm, "Go ahead, Billy. Look around and point out your killer."

Billy's father jumped up, scraping the table's legs against the floor. Both of his hands were pressed tightly against his closely-shaven head with his elbows pointing forward. "I tell you, I didn't do it!"

He looked at his wife, on the other side of the courtroom. "Martha, you know I wouldn't harm our children. I said I was sorry for hitting you.

Martha was a petite woman in her thirties, and had long black hair. She wore a green floral dress and dressed her daughters in similar sundresses. She tried to ignore her husband, looked back at her children, and then with great effort, trained her eyes on Judge Kichida.

Billy's father pounded his fist on the desk, "What is it going to take for you to get that through your stupid thick head, Martha?"

"Order—Order," the judge demanded, "one more outburst, Mr. Hale, and I'll be forced to take action—action that won't be in your favor—I can assure you!

I'm sorry, your honor," Mr. Hale said, and sat down. Tears streamed down his face, and he covered his head on the table with his arms. The outburst seemed to ruffle his attorney's feathers, who nervously played with the knot in his tie, moving it back and forth.

In one regard, I was sad that the kid had to point out his dad, who we all knew had an anger-management problem, due to the fact Billy's lawyer revealed that during a quick sidebar. In another regard, I was happy, because it didn't look like he respected his wife, his kids, or his marriage. As bad as it sounds, it would all be over soon, anyway, I'd be able to get some much-needed sleep. This case was a dead ringer—no pun intended.

I yawned, covering my mouth, hunching my shoulders in embarrassment. "Sorry, Judge," I said. "Go ahead, Billy, look around the court and point out the person who caused you to die. "

Billy spotted the globe, when I turned slightly, and stared at my hands.

"All right," I said, "You can hold the pretty globe while you point out who took your precious young life away from you.

Billy reached his hands out, as if the snow globe was zombie candy. He moaned, and looked up at me. His face was pale, but somehow his eyes showed, not happiness, zombies couldn't express that, but satisfaction.

Totally confident the pre-trial was about over, I walked toward the prosecutor, Ms. Lee.

Anastasia Lee was a young bleach-blond power attorney, wearing a sharp gray suit, and boasting a killer track record of wins. I was two seconds away from teasing her for blinking her long eyelashes, and watching me do all the work, when I heard a loud crash of glass shattering on the floor.

Moke, the bully, and his band of merry dimwits laughed. "Look at the dead dork," Moke said, "he sucked as a pitcher and as a zombie. Maybe you should try life as a vampire, Billy! At least they suck on purpose."

Billy pointed at the three boys. "Killers," he said. My head tilted in confusion. "What?"

"Drugged dad," Billy said, "and beat me...with...dad's golf clubs. Placed in dad's hands...fingerprints.

Moke stood up and pointed hysterically; "He's lying! You're not going to believe him, are you? He talks too much and he's a stupid—

A large piece from the broken snow globe pierced Moke right between his eyes.

"Strike one," Billy said, and reached down for another shard of glass.

Moke screamed, his voice like a ten-year-old running from the boogieman. Then Judge Kichida banged on his gavel. "Stop this, now! Bailiff. Bailiff."

Mano, the Bailiff, had already moved to assist his injured brother as Billy picked up another piece of glass and threw it, hitting Michael in his left eye.

Michael screamed, holding his eye while wailing his free arm wildly. "Ster-rike two," Billy said.

Billy's mother and his sisters screamed for him to stop. Hearing their voices would do no good because zombies only obey the necromancer who raised him or her.

"Billy stop," I said, calmly. "Put down the glass." His small ghostly fingers obediently released the triangular shard of glass.

"Are those the ones who killed you? Moke, Michael, and Petey? They killed you?"

Billy didn't answer. He just nodded.

I had to make sure. "All three?"

Billy nodded again, and fell to the floor, trying to put the globe back together.

Billy," I said, lifting his chin, "Not your father?" "Dad, innocent," he said. "Mo...Mike...Pete killed me." The girls cheered, and ran over to hug their father. Billly's mother rushed to her undead son's side in a tearful dash, and helped him collect the shattered snow globe. Mano, the bailiff, grudgingly arrested his brother, Moke, and his sidekicks. I glanced up at Judge Kichida, and he smiled beneath his thick white mustache.

"Good job, necromancer," he said.

I nodded. "No worries,

I said, feeling my mother's warm

hand on my shoulder. "You can call me anytime you need me, your honor.

"I'll make a conscious note of that," he said, nodded his head at Mom and me, collected some papers on his desk, and went into his chambers.

That afternoon, I slept well until after midnight. When I got up to brush my teeth and put on my pink silk pajamas, all I could hear in my head was Moke's voice saying Billy talked too much. I chuckled. For a boy who never said much while he was alive, it was a good thing he did after he died.