Chapter 13
“So let’s search for this dude online?”
Sometimes I google myself. Only an article about high school honor roll and another about some charity event I ran in college come up.
Unmemorable and unimportant, the search screams at me.
At least that was better than what it will be now.
Every time someone googles me now, they’ll see my status as a murderer.
An accused murderer, but nonetheless, not opening a ton of promising doors for me…
I look at Amaya as she sips her coffee and pulls out her phone for the search.
Why is she even here? On its surface, this looks like the most obvious case out there.
Yet, here Amaya is, taking a chance on me when she could be doing a million other things.
I think about an alternate universe where she hadn’t gotten into my cab that night and I picked up the guy who waved me down first. I’d probably still be in jail with someone telling me to cop a plea.
This isn’t how I had thought it would all play out, this murder investigation.
Amaya herself, even. I’d expected that an old, grizzled white man with an expensive watch would take over the case.
After all, those are usually the people who play attorneys on television.
I expected that cops would be swarming and detectives finding clues.
Maybe someone who looked like Jack Nicholson would yell, “You can’t handle the truth!
” That’s from a movie of course, but so much of this just feels anticlimactic.
As the actual criminal defendant, I’m the most vulnerable person in this so-called justice system.
I always thought the good guys and the bad guys were so clear cut.
Somehow real life is always more complicated.
“Okay. His name is James Wilkerson-Taylor. It’s sort of a common name, though the hyphenated surname may help us narrow this down,” Amaya says while typing his name in Google.
I hold my breath, hoping somehow there are only a few search results. Over twelve million results are generated in less than a second. Not a great start.
“Let’s try ‘James Wilkerson-Taylor NYC,’ ” Amaya suggests after a short pause.
Less than one million results. We are getting closer; there’s still no way we can sort through so many searches.
“Okay, let’s do ‘James Wilkerson-Taylor NYC python,’ ” I offer.
“There’s no way that is going to—” Amaya begins.
Before she can finish her thought, the screen is filled with more options.
I stare at it in wonder. There is a Yelp review for an exotic pet supply store, and given that James owned a pet snake, this could be him.
I briefly scan the other search results, and while I don’t remember much about James, I’m sure he wasn’t a seventy-year-old priest. Amaya clicks on the Yelp review.
Though the thumbnail of the photo is small, a shock of recognition runs through my body.
I couldn’t really describe him earlier, but seeing a picture refreshes my memory immediately.
It’s the glasses more than anything. When I tried picturing him in my jail cell, I didn’t give him glasses. What an obvious detail to forget.
“It’s him,” I almost shout, forgetting where I am for a moment. One person looks up from her laptop, while no one else notices. It takes a lot more to make a New Yorker look up from their phone or conversation. “I think,” I add, just in case I’m incorrect.
“This is great. Okay…” Amaya says, leaning in to read the review.
“Oh wow, this is a detailed Yelp review about python care.” She continues to scan the page quickly.
“Damn, he gave the business a two-star rating and ends it with ‘would not come again, please consider taking your business for python upkeep items to Amy’s Exotic Pets on West Fourth.’ Interesting. ”
“Can we see what else he reviewed? Maybe by clicking on his name?” I ask.
Amaya smiles, giving me undeserved credit for an obvious course of action. I smile back. It’s nice to not feel completely useless.
When Amaya clicks on his name, dozens of his other reviews pop up.
“He is quite the prolific reviewer.” Amaya clicks through a review. “He’s harsh. Although he raves about this cheese shop.”
I make a mental note of the name of the cheesemonger, and I’m thinking about cheese plates.
A little Manchego with a dollop of fig jam…
Focus, my brain screams at me. I turn back toward the negative reviews.
My philosophy is if you can’t say anything nice—especially to small businesses, which are most vulnerable—don’t say anything at all, which Alex says makes me a pushover, but people have bad days.
“Oh, this one is particularly nasty,” Amaya says as she begins to read the review aloud with relish.
“ ‘Lutrino’s Pizza is aptly named because the pizza should be found only in a latrine. The pizza, heralded as one of the best in Brooklyn by apparently every other Yelp reviewer on here who is afraid to tell the truth, is limp and soggy. The cheese is greasy. The spices are off. And the pepperoni has probably gone bad. Not to mention the owner, Sal, is a rude man who refuses to provide refunds. Sal thinks because this pizza establishment has been in his family for decades, he has the right to dupe the people of New York into thinking this pizza is good. Well, folks, this just isn’t. ’ ”
While it is awful that James died in my vehicle, maybe it will soften my guilt if I find out the guy was a total dick.
“There are responses to the reviews,” I say, realizing this is satisfying my Gemini desire to gossip.
“One guy says that ‘the pizza is delicious, you dimwit.’ Another says, ‘Sal is the best and nicest guy around. Yelpers, don’t listen to this rogue review.’ Oh, boy,” Amaya exclaims as she scrolls through all the comments defending Lutrino’s Pizza.
She doesn’t read the ones with curse words aloud, but they are nasty.
Just like it’s easy to yell at me, an anonymous taxi driver, it’s easy to be absolutely horrific to people online.
“Sal responds!” Amaya clicks on the review.
“ ‘Mr. Wilkerson-Taylor, thank you for your comments. I disagree with them completely. Lutrino’s Pizza is the best in Brooklyn, possibly all of New York. Some business owners on Yelp say to contact them to make the situation right. I won’t be doing that for someone who has trash taste.
We have the best pizza and everyone knows it. Period.
It’s such a New York City response I can’t help but smile.
“Oh my god, James responded and so did the owner,” I say, realizing I’ve been basically holding my breath through the whole ordeal so far.
James Wilkerson-Taylor: Dear Sal. I came again. I thought that maybe you had a bad day and I misjudged you as the other Yelpers seem to think. Your pizza still sucks. It tastes like rat droppings. I’m going to tell everyone I know to avoid this place. You couldn’t pay me to eat this putrid shit.
Sal Lutrino: Putrid shit? Come say it to my face, and we’ll see what happens. You’ll be seeing what Sal Lutrino can do offline.
I look at Amaya. We are thinking the same thing.
“Is that a threat?” I ask to confirm.
“I’d say so. When were the last few messages posted?”
“Just last week,” I respond. “Wanna go grab some pizza?”