By Danny J. Robb

On the day of his trial, Wendell Winkle used taxi money from his mother to buy a pint of Jack and chugged it on the bus before arriving at municipal court. Three months had passed since the sensational robbery at the National Museum of Cats, and for simply not being in the right place at the right time, the District Attorney had charged Wendell as an accomplice.

Located outside Lucky Lee’s Noodle House, the courthouse resembled an old-timey telephone booth. Wendell hoped his girlfriend, Helen, would be waiting there to sprint him away. Her last words were, “Be patient. Trust me. I’ll come back for you.” Then, she’d driven off into the sunset with her macho half-brother Al, a hairy-chested guy who wore shredded acid-washed jeans two sizes too small and smoked Gitanes.

Wendell inserted the stub the court had mailed into the door latch. Inside was a plastic bench attached to a beige painted wall and a recessed computer screen on the other side. A florescent light in the ceiling flickered down on a concrete floor long forsaken of a mop. His gym locker had smelled better.

When he sat, the door locked—his judge appeared on screen—Julie Joker, who apparently doesn’t use a mirror when putting on her makeup and sticks her finger in a light socket to perm her hair. 

A computer program called Greater Legal Analytics—or more commonly referred to as Good Luck Assholes—presented its case against him. GLA was loaded with the facets of 500 years of criminal cases and perpetually updated to refine its statistical accuracy. GLA rated his Probability of Guilt at 75%. He needed a POG of 50% or below to be declared innocent. 

He wasn’t supposed to contact Helen, but he sent a text anyway: Where are you? It’s not looking good here.

She sexted back a chest shot, her nipples covered by kiss emojis. “These FEEL good, remember? Don’t do anything STUPID, Wendell. Al is on his way to GET you.” 

Helen had sent pictures like this while Al broke inside the museum and stole the priceless Egyptian Cat God. Who wouldn’t have been distracted?

“Mr. Winkle,” the judge said, “when you made your rounds at work, you used a key to clock in at checkpoints—and according to your employer’s logs, before the night of the robbery, only once before had you missed making a checkpoint on time—and that was on your very first shift. A common rookie mistake. However, the next time you missed a checkpoint happened to be at just the time in which you would have caught the robbers. The court contends you did it purposely to assist in this crime.”

“I had my wisdom teeth pulled the day of the robbery, and the pain medicine I took made me sluggish and put me behind schedule.” Wendell held the prescription up to the camera.

The screen went dark. He tried texting Helen again. One lonely night she’d strolled into his regular hangout at Kilowatt. Dressed in tight leather pants and a loose cashmere sweater, she had a band of burgundy eyeshadow applied like a mask, pink lemonade hair cropped at the shoulders, and she’d sat down on his lap and said with a white lipstick smirk she was claiming him. He’d replied she could have him for a kiss.

“I’ll allow this evidence,” the judge said when she reappeared. The POG counter dipped to sixty-five. 

The screen then filled with an image of a gaming wheel with ten pie-slice segments, five with pictures of apples and five with oranges.

“Mr. Winkle,” the judge said in a sidebar pop-up, “to override your POG score, you must win at least six spins out of ten. Apples you’re innocent, oranges you’re guilty. Win the game, the door opens, you go free. Lose, you go immediately to jail and begin serving twenty-five years. You have five minutes to play. After that the computer spins for you.”

“Please,” he said. “There’s got to be something else.”

A button flashed on the screen: 

Make a Deal

Judge Joker smiled. “I’ll give you an extra spin for every accomplice you identify.”

Wendell slumped against the wall. After dating for only a month, Helen said she loved him. He wasn’t 100% sure he believed her. He wasn’t sure he loved her a hundred-percent.

He pushed the Spin The Wheel button.

Oranges. Guilty.

Wendell had had girlfriends before, but he wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man. It wasn’t that he was bad looking, he just didn’t have much to offer besides himself. Helen told him she liked men with potential.

He spun again. Apples. Innocent. 

“Take the deal, Mr. Winkle.”

Wendell had read in one of his men’s magazines that statistics showed most relationships didn’t last more than a year—but couples had a better chance when they shared common interests and were financially secure. He and Helen liked the same things, dogs and horror movies, having money to burn…

He spun and spun again, and after nine spins, he was up five to four. He needed Apples one more time to win.

“I like you, Wendell” Judge Joker said. “I think you just got played by the real crook who planned this crime. Give me their name and you walk out of here with probation.”

If he lost, he’d be forty-nine by the time he got out of prison, not old, but the good years of his life spent. If he won? What did he really know about Helen? He didn’t even have a picture of her, had never been to her apartment for that matter—on the Westside, she’d said—lived with her mother. Her last name, Troy. To him, she was a goddess. Had she played him like a foolish mortal? He clenched his fists and rested them against his forehead. Love posed such a great risk—but what was more worthwhile to chance?

The timer ticked down. 10, 9, 8…

Spin the wheel, or make a deal?