Lock Artist

by Steve Hamilton

  “Welcome to the City of Angels,” he said. “Let me show you which piece of it we’re going to own tonight.”

  Eleven

  Michigan

  June and July 1999

  *

  So there I was. Sitting in the back of a police car. I had a shiny pair of handcuffs on. For the first time ever. They didn’t lock them behind my back, so I could sit there and study them, wondering how hard it would be to get them open.

  Once the two cops had given up on me telling them anything, they had put me in the back of the car and had tried to recite me my Miranda rights. You have the right to remain silent, et cetera. When they got to the part where I had to acknowledge that I understood them, things got interesting. I nodded my head, but one of the cops told me that wasn’t good enough. I had to give them a verbal acknowledgment. Instead, I just gave them a long string of sign language, even with the cuffs already on my wrists, hoping they’d get the idea.

  “He’s deaf,” one of the cops said to the other. “What do we do now?”

  “He has to read his rights and then sign a statement that he understands them. I think.”

  “So give him your Miranda card. Let him read that.”

  “I don’t have it. Give him yours.”

  “What? I don’t have one. How could you not have one if you just read it to him?”

  “I didn’t read it. I have it memorized.”

  “Oh shit, now what are we going to do?”

  “Just take him down to the station. They’ll know what to do with him.”

  I was going to try to convince them I wasn’t deaf, but then I thought, what the hell. Maybe they’ll stop talking to me. By then, another two police cars had already pulled up. Everyone from the party across the street was gathered around now, watching us.

  They took me to the Milford station on Atlantic Street, just around the corner from the liquor store, in fact. It was after midnight now. They stuck me in an interview room for what seemed like another hour, until finally the two cops who had arrested me came into the room, along with two other men. One was a detective, and as soon as he saw me, he looked very confused. The other man was a professional sign language interpreter, who looked like he had just gotten dragged out of bed. One of the arresting officers started talking while the interpreter did his thing, signing to me that I was in the Milford police station, which I had obviously already figured out myself, and that they had to make sure I understood my rights before we went any further.

  When it was my turn, I dusted off just enough sign language to convey the one important message they all had to finally understand. Point to self, put hands in front and draw them apart like an umpire signaling safe, one finger to right ear, then both hands, palm out, coming together.

  “I am not deaf,” said the interpreter. He was speaking for me, automatically, before he even realized what I was saying.

  “You’re Mike,” the detective said. “Lito’s nephew, right? Over at the liquor store?”

  I nodded yes.

  “He can hear just fine, you clowns,” the detective said to the cops. “He just can’t talk.”

  That led to some general embarrassment and a dismissal of the now pissed-off interpreter. The detective read me my rights and had me sign a statement that I understood them, while the two cops kept looking at me like I had made a special point of tricking them and making them look bad. Then the detective gave me a blank legal pad and asked me if I wanted to say anything. I wrote a big NO and slid the pad back to him.

  They fingerprinted me. They gave me a breathalyzer test, even though I was pretty sure I was stone cold sober at that point. Then they had me hold up a little sign with my name and case number as they took two pictures of me, one facing front, one sideways. Then they put me in a holding cell by myself while they called Uncle Lito.

  I sat there in the cell for another hour or so, until I heard some footsteps at the end of the hallway. There was a door there with a little observation window in it. I saw Uncle Lito’s face appear behind the glass, his eyes wide and his hair sticking up like something out of a cartoon. Another half hour passed. Then a cop came to my cell and took me to another interview room. There was a woman waiting for me. It had to be two o’clock in the morning by now, but this woman was wide-awake and very well dressed.

  “I’ve been hired by your uncle to represent you,” she said to me as I sat down across from her. “We need to discuss a few things before you’re released. First of all, do you understand everything that’s happened to you so far?”

  She had a legal pad ready for me. I picked up the pen and wrote Yes.

  “I understand you have not given the police any written statements yet? Is that true?”

  Yes.

  She took a deep breath. “They want to know who else was involved in this,” she finally said. “Are you willing to tell them?”

  I hesitated, then I started writing. What happens if I don’t say anything?

  “Michael, you have to understand something here. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything that happened. I need to know who was with you.”

  I looked away from her.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  I want to go home and sleep, I thought. Figure this all out tomorrow.

  “I understand that there was a party going on across the street from the residence you broke into. I’m sure the police are talking to everyone who was there. Somebody will have seen your … friends running away.”

  One friend, I thought. One friend and two other people I couldn’t care less about. But I couldn’t see how to give up just the two of them without Griffin getting pulled into it. Even if he was already in Wisconsin by now. They’d find him and bring him back.

  “Your car,” she said. “It’s parked down the street from the Marshes’ house?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you even know the Marshes? I’m sure there’s a reason you drove all the way over there, all by yourself, if you expect anyone to believe that, and broke into their house.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “All right,” she said. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I’m going to go get you released now so you can go home and get some rest.”

  Another half hour of waiting, and then I was out of the holding cell. The lawyer drove us home. Uncle Lito sat in the front seat, not saying a word. I was in the backseat. When we got to the house, he thanked the lawyer and got out. I slid out and followed him. I kept waiting for the big blow-up. What the hell got into you, what the hell were you thinking. Something like that. Maybe even some physical confrontation. For the first time ever. But he just opened up the front door and let me in.

  “Go to bed,” he said. “We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

  I went to my room in the back of the house and got undressed. As I lay down and turned off the light, I saw his silhouette in the doorway.

  “Do you have any idea how much this lawyer is going to cost?”

  I stared at the dark ceiling.

  “I didn’t realize it was this bad, Michael. I mean, I know what you had to go through …”

  No. You don’t know.

  “I thought you were getting over that now. I thought you were doing okay.”

  He closed the door and left. As I went to sleep, I saw the aquarium shatter again. The water running onto the floor. The fish lying on the floor, mouths gaping in surprise.

  The next day I woke up late, expecting the worst. I figured by the end of the day, I’d be hauled off to prison, or to some special place where they send juvenile delinquents. What I didn’t know was that the county prosecutor was already working on his second headache of the morning.

  “Okay, here’s where we are,” the lawyer told us, as soon as we were both sitting in her office. “The police believe that the Marsh residence was entered around ten thirty last night,” she said, reading from her yellow pad. “By Michael and some unknown number of accomplices.”

  “I want the names,�
� Uncle Lito said to me. “Do you hear me? You’re going to write them down and you’re going to do it now.”

  “Hold that thought for a moment,” she said. Then she went back to her pad. “According to the police, various witnesses at the party across the street reported as few as two and as many as five young men fleeing the scene when the squad cars arrived. It’s not uncommon to get differing accounts from different people. In any case, several witnesses state that one of the young men was very large.”

  She looked at me, measuring my reaction.

  “That leads them to believe that a Milford student named Brian Hauser may have been on the scene. Apparently, he and Adam Marsh have some history. Is any of this ringing a bell yet, Michael?”

  I didn’t move.

  “As far as the charges themselves go,” she said, “there were no apparent signs of forced entry. Which leads the police to believe that the back door was unlocked. A lucky break for whoever wanted to get in.”

  Nothing about the safety pin, I thought. Or the screwdriver. The police had taken them from me when I was arrested, but I guess it didn’t even occur to them that I could use those things to open the lock.

  “A large aquarium in the living room was shattered, apparently by a fireplace poker. That resulted in a fair amount of water damage to the carpeting and furniture. Although the fish themselves were found unharmed in the kitchen sink. I suppose, what, you broke the aquarium and then felt bad about the fish? Or was the whole thing just an accident?”

  I could really feel Uncle Lito staring a hole through me now.

  “A large banner was left in Adam Marsh’s bedroom. Something to the effect that Milford High School kicks ass. Aside from that, there were no further damages, and nothing was reported as stolen from the house.”

  “So it’s not burglary,” Uncle Lito said. “I mean, if nothing was stolen …”

  “If you unlawfully enter someone’s house to commit a crime, it’s still technically a burglary charge.”

  “But it’s not as serious?”

  “It’s still a felony. If they choose to play it that way.”

  I felt Uncle Lito’s hand on my arm. “Michael, who else was with you? We need those names now. We’ll tell the judge they made you do it. That’s what happened, right? That big guy the police are talking about, was it that kid? Brian … what was it?”

  “Brian Hauser,” she said.

  “Brian Hauser. Was it him? Did he put you up to this?”

  “Actually,” she said, “I’m not so sure we need a definite answer to that question right now.”

  “What do you mean?” Uncle Lito said. “How could we not need an answer?”

  “Because whether he was part of this or not … well, let’s just say that if it’s an open question, it might work in our favor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Here’s what’s happening.” She put her pad down. “I’ve already talked to the prosecutor this morning. First of all, we talked about my concerns with the way the police handled Michael’s arrest, and how long it took for you to be contacted. Even with their little ‘misunderstanding,’ it doesn’t look good. Not with a juvenile involved.”

  “So what does that mean?” Uncle Lito said. “Is that enough to get him off?”

  “He’s not ‘getting off,’ no, but along with their other problem, it gives us a good chance at some broad leniency.”

  “What’s their other problem?”

  “Brian Hauser. You see, without even getting a statement from Michael yet, the police have already been over to his house. Like I said, just based on the witnesses and the personal history. Maybe even talking to the Marsh family already, getting their input. I mean, they really jumped the gun here.”

  “How’s that a problem?”

  “Did you know that Brian Hauser’s father is a Michigan State Trooper?”

  “No. Does that matter?”

  “Mr. Hauser claims that Brian was home at his party for the entire evening. That he never left the house.”

  “He’s covering for his son. You don’t think a father would do that?”

  “Maybe he would. It wouldn’t be the first time, I’m sure. But look at it from their side. They’ve got a state trooper saying his son couldn’t possibly have been involved.”

  “So what does this all mean?”

  “What this means is that nobody is particularly anxious to see this case go any further. The prosecutor doesn’t even want to touch this.”

  “So give him a piece of paper. We’ll have him write the names down right now.”

  She hesitated. “Let me try to put this the right way,” she said. “Michael is going to go down for something, whether he takes these other kids down with him or not. If he goes it alone, he makes life a lot easier for everyone else.”

  “So he’s going to take this rap by himself. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I’m saying … given the motivations of the parties involved … not to mention the special circumstances surrounding Michael’s personal history …”

  Nobody said anything for a while. I could hear the traffic on the street outside her window.

  “So what’s the bottom line?” Uncle Lito finally said. “What are we looking at here?”

  “One year probation. Then disposition of the charges. Meaning the charges are completely stricken from the record.”

  “That’s it?”

  “He’ll have to do some community service,” she said. “You know, cleaning up trash on the side of the highway, something like that. Unless the judge has something more creative in mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a little restorative justice. It’s the big thing right now. Have the guilty party make things right for the victim.”

  “You mean, like fixing the damages?”

  “It could mean that. It could mean almost anything. That’ll be up to the judge and the probation officer. And Mr. Marsh. The victim.”

  So there it was. My big lesson of the day, something I’d take with me and never forget. The whole legal system—If you think it’s just a big set of rules, you’re dead wrong. It’s really a bunch of people sitting around and talking to each other, deciding what they want to do with you. When they make their decision, then they pull out whatever rule they need to make it happen. Get on the wrong side of these people and you have no hope. They’ll turn a parking ticket into a bus ride to the penitentiary. On the other hand, if they decide that it’s in their own best interests for you to be spared, then you will be.

  That’s how it went. A few more days ground by while everyone talked it over some more. Finally, I stood up in circuit court while my lawyer entered a guilty plea and I listened to the judge tell me how lucky I was to get this chance to wipe my slate clean.

  The next day I was sitting in a conference room with a probation officer and the man whose house I had broken into. Mr. Norman Marsh. He was big, overtanned, loud, totally gung ho. It was no surprise that his son was a high school football star. Mr. Marsh could have killed me on the spot if he wanted to. One look in his eyes dispelled any doubt about that fact. But the whole point of the meeting was just to make sure we all understood the program, that I had admitted my guilt and that I would be working for Mr. Marsh that summer to make restitution. Mr. Marsh sat up straight in his chair, looking smart in his perfect suit and tie. He shook my hand with a strong but not bone-crushing grip when it was finally time to do that.

  “I think this is going to be a positive experience for both of us,” he said. “Maybe it’ll teach me a few things about forgiveness. And I hope I’ll be able to share some of my own life experiences with young Michael here.”

  In other words, he was saying all the right things, and I’m sure the probation officer was impressed as all hell. He was already putting this one in the win column. Maybe even imagining all the good press he’d get for setting the Miracle Boy onto the right path. Yet another headshrinker with a dream.

  ______
>
  It was almost two weeks now since the big crime, me taking the rap alone and getting ready to report to the Marshes’ house the very next day at noon sharp. I was outside the liquor store that night, sitting on the back of Uncle Lito’s car. It was a hot night, the beginning of a real heat wave. The two yellow lights on the bridge embankment blinked on and off. Yellow on top. Yellow on bottom. Yellow on top. Yellow on bottom.

  I watched the cars rolling down Main Street, some of them with their windows open, music pumping out into the night air, the ashes from glowing cigarettes trailing behind them. I wondered how many of these people were on their way back home to a television and a late dinner. Surely one person in one car was on his way to somewhere far, far away from Milford, Michigan. If he happened to see me sitting there in the cheap light of the liquor store, maybe he’d assume I was just another local kid who’d never go anywhere my whole life. He wouldn’t know about my history, about the day in June or the fact that I’d been silent for nine years. Or that I couldn’t go anywhere, now that I was officially an offender on probation.

  Another hour passed, the night refusing to cool off any. Not one single degree. A bad sign for the next day. Finally, a car came by and instead of sweeping its headlights past me it locked them right on my face, blinding me. The car turned into the lot and stopped. When the engine was turned off, it kept ticking in the heat. The driver didn’t get out. He just sat there.

  I knew the car. A red Chevy Nova with plaid seats. I sat there for a while, figuring he’d have to open that door eventually. A full minute passed. Then another. Then I slid off the back of Uncle Lito’s car and went to him.

  Griffin was sitting behind the wheel. His face was lit up enough for me to see that he was crying. I went to the passenger’s side, opened the door, and sat down beside him.

  “Is it okay for me to be here?” he said.

  I put my hands up. Why wouldn’t it be?

  “I mean, is it safe?”

  I crossed both fists against my chest, then opened them. With a look on my face that said, of course it’s safe.