My head was spinning in fifty directions by Richards’s words smashing against my promise to Aaron, to Brody, but mostly to myself. “I’ve got nothing to say,” I mumbled.
“Fine, I’ll tell your father. He won’t be happy,” he said as he left the room.
I wanted to say, Like I care, but I let it go. I sat alone in the room for a few moments, cracking my knuckles, looking at the ugly gray walls that seemed to be inching closer.
“Mister, you knock this off right now!” ex-Dad shouted. The door was not shut behind him by the time the sentence was finished. “You’d better start talking, right now, or else.”
“Or else what?” I looked down at the table, but felt like I was standing on it. I wanted to say, How does it feel to want something and not be able to get it? I’ve wanted you to be there for me, to be a father, but you wouldn’t do it, you selfish bastard. Now, you want something from me. All my life you’ve had it over me, now I’ve finally got something over you. I’ve got my secret.
“What did you say to me?” He was right in my face. The bulging veins of his neck seemed to be touching the tiny, weak yet growing, hairs on my chin.
“Or else what?” I repeated. “There’s nothing you can do to me.”
“This is serious, Mick, very serious.”
“You can’t hit me, you can’t ground me, and you can’t leave me,” I proclaimed.
“I should let you rot in here,” he shot back. “I’m trying to help you, son.”
Try harder, I wanted to reply, maybe shout, but instead, he pulled out the chair across from me. The scraping of the chair legs on the floor sounded like paper being torn.
“Mick, how did this happen?” His voice was softer now.
“I don’t want to—”
“No, not that, this, between us.” Ex-Dad sounded lost. “Why are you so angry at me?”
I wanted to shout, The fact that you have to ask me is all the answer you should need!
“I’ll make you a deal, Mick.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you what you want to hear—what we talked about this afternoon—if you tell me what happened. You don’t have to tell the lawyer, the cops, or even your mother. It will be a secret just between us,” he said.
“Between us?”
“I’m sorry, Mick.” Ex-Dad spoke like a first-grader stumbling over a new vocabulary word. “I’m sorry I haven’t been a better father. But most of all …”
My father let it dangle in the airless room for just a moment.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner,” he continued, as his words bounced off each other but failed to hit the target of responsibility. “It’s hard for me to admit it, to face it.”
“Why did you do it?” I asked, knowing I didn’t need to explain the pronoun.
“Because, because, Mick, I was selfish. There, I said it, are you happy?”
“Why?”
“Why was I selfish?” Ex-Dad seemed confused. “I don’t know, I can’t explain.”
“I know,” I mumbled through the smile I was trying to cover up.
“How do you know?” ex-Dad said.
I was thinking about Brody’s and Aaron’s dads as well. “Because you were weak,” I said, sighed, then put my head facedown on the table. I pretended to hear the molecules of the wood bouncing against each other rather than ex-Dad’s grinding teeth and choked-back sighs. I didn’t have a watch and there was no clock in the room, but I guessed it was ten minutes before he spoke again.
“Okay, son, now it’s your turn,” ex-Dad said, each word measured like a precious metal.
I chewed my tongue as the different versions of events flashed like lightning behind my eyes.
“Mick, be a man, keep your promise,” Ex-Dad said, but I wanted him to add, Mick, be a better man than me and keep your promise.
“Okay, but, Dad, this is between us, right?” Ex-Dad extended his hand and I shook it. “We decided not to go to the football game. We were hanging around the Big K. This homeless guy was bothering us. He asked me for a light, and I handed him my lighter. He ran off with it.”
“So you had nothing to do with this?” Ex-Dad spoke the question as a statement of fact.
I nodded with closed and hidden eyes, then asked, “Do you have to tell the lawyer?”
“I’m going to tell him only that you told me you’re innocent and that should be enough for him.” Ex-Dad had a proud sound in his voice that I’d never really heard before.
“Okay, just tell him I’m innocent. This is just a mistake,” I said, still without making eye contact.
“A mistake.” Ex-Dad repeated the magic words and then opened the door to leave.
After a few minutes, the lawyer came back into the room and spoke. “It’s time.”
A cop entered the room. Like kids in costumes marching down the street on Halloween, my lawyer, my parents, the cop, and I walked down a beige hall toward the courtroom. When the courtroom door opened, my senses slowed down again to take it all in. I stared at Aaron and Brody, who were already seated, along with men I guessed were their lawyers, before the white-haired judge. I wasn’t given a chance to say anything to Brody and Aaron, but as our lawyers entered our not-guilty pleas, we looked at each other, then nodded. As we were led out, I stared at Brody and at Aaron; I knew no matter what—come hell or high water—none of us would be the first to talk.
Part Three
Thursday, November 18
What would you do?
If I tell on my friends, then I won’t go to prison, but how could I live with myself? Your friends are all you have, especially when your family has let you down. They don’t lecture you or judge you or ground you or make you feel bad like your parents or teachers do. They’re your escape from all that. If you don’t have friends, then you don’t have any escape. But if I don’t tell, then maybe I will go to prison, another place without escape. If none of us tells, maybe we’ll all go free; if one of us tells, then that one goes free and the others stay behind bars. I don’t know what Brody is saying, what Aaron is saying. I don’t know what they’re going to do, so how can I know what to do? What would you do?
9:00 a.m.
“It’s really simple, kid,” the investigator barks at me from across the table. He’s trying to scare me. “The one who talks is the one who walks. So, I’ll ask you the same thing I did when you came in here four days ago. What happened on November fifth?”
I’m trapped in an impossible situation. He’s asking questions but I’ve got no answers I can give—yet there’s so much I want to say. My mind is a mess, littered with fear of the future, thoughts of the past, and one nagging question: how did my fifteen years of life lead me to staring death—in the form of a bloody dead body—in the face?
The investigator stares me down, not even acknowledging Richards sitting next to me in the tiny interrogation room: three walls of stone; one of reflecting glass. “Someone will talk, Mick. Why not make it you?” the investigator says very slowly.
I answer him with an open-mouthed yawn. I can see myself in the mirror, yawning; I know it’s one of those two-way jobs. I’ve seen enough TV cop shows to know that the police and prosecutors can listen in when they’re talking to me, but they’re not allowed to listen in when I talk to my lawyer or parents—not that I plan to tell them anything, either. The mirror won’t open; the wall won’t crack; the stone won’t bleed.
I’m fighting to stay awake; sleeping on the hard bed and harder dreams of Genesee County Juvenile Detention Center hasn’t been easy for me. I doubt it’s easy for Brody or Aaron, either, but I don’t know. We’re kept separated at the facility, and if my parents are speaking to either Brody’s or Aaron’s mother, they’re not passing on any information. I’m feeling isolated, abandoned, and scared. I’ve become the Scarecrow.
“Tomorrow, the three of you are going back to court. The judge is going to hear our evidence, and then he’s going to decide to try you as an adult. That means hard time, Mick,
real hard time. Is that what you want? To spend maybe the rest of your life in prison? You’ve had a taste of it the last few days. Is that what you want?” The investigator is talking louder now.
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and start singing “Stairway to Heaven” in my head. I’m not looking at this police officer; I’m just thinking things over one more time.
“You’ve got the key to let you go. You tell me what I want to know, you tell me what Brody and Aaron did, and why they did it, and you’ll go free. Freedom or prison, you decide.” The investigator says it like somebody trying to sell me something. The investigator looks to be about the same age as ex-Dad, a little taller, a little less hair, a little fatter, and a lot friendlier smile. Another cop is outside the interrogation room talking with my parents. At least that’s what I’ve been told. My parents wanted to be in the room with me, but I refused. I not only don’t want them in the room, I don’t want them in the building. I wish my mom wasn’t my mom so she wouldn’t have to live through this, but I’m glad ex-Dad is feeling pain in his guts for once.
“Can they hear us?” I ask Richards as I point to the glass wall.
The investigator jumps in. “It’s just a flip of a switch.”
I cross my arms like a man who’s been gut shot and vow to say nothing else.
“We can put you there. We found your lighter, your prints. We can put Aaron there. We have a blood match. But Brody, we don’t have anything on him. My guess is that he’s going to talk. Once he talks, he walks, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”
My face turns almost as gray as the county-issue shirt and pants.
“I understand the three of you are friends, Mick, but let me tell you something I’ve learned. It’s all about survival. Everybody—you, me, your lawyer, your friends—when it comes right down to it, our urge to survive is the strongest motivator. Brody knows that; he’ll talk, you can trust me on that.” The investigator is trying to stare me down, but I keep singing in my head.
“Don’t listen to him, Mick,” my lawyer finally chimes in. I thought he was asleep.
“I hear you’re good in math,” the investigator says, and it makes me wonder. How does he know that? How does he know anything about me? And if he knows something, then maybe he knows everything. I’m like a frog on the dissection table.
When I don’t answer, the investigator stands. Unlike my teachers’ endless droning lectures, I strain to hear every word, while making sure my face and tongue remain frozen as he says, “By the end of the day, we’re going to close this case. We’ve got everything we need for tomorrow’s hearing, but I don’t think you want that, Mick, do you? When it goes to trial—notice I said when, not if—and when you are convicted, you’ll probably spend the rest of your life in prison. Is that what you want, Mick? I can’t imagine how this is going to make your parents feel. Do you really want to put them through that? Maybe somehow you’ve conned yourself into believing killing Shreve was an accident, so you live with that guilt. But how can you live with the guilt of how your parents are going to feel about their son being in prison? I can help you change all that, right now.” The investigator is more preacher than teacher now.
I squirm in my chair at the thought of acting like a snake or a rat. Richards is just listening.
“Don’t you want to go home for Thanksgiving?” the investigator asks.
I merely shrug.
“You see, the shit’s hitting the fan. The public is outraged. All those bleeding hearts for the poor and the homeless want you convicted. The family of the victim. You see, everybody in the community feels guilty about what happened to a guy like Shreve, how he slipped through the cracks. They didn’t do anything to help him when he was alive, so they’re going to do it now. There’ll be letters to the editors, phone calls to our office, and nobody, Mick, is on your side.”
“Interesting information, but you don’t have anything on my client,” Richards says.
“Read this, Mick.” The investigator pulls a newspaper from a file folder. He puts it down in front of me. It’s a single page from the Flint Journal from Wednesday. I push it away, but he pushes it back at me and I take the bait.
FAMILY OF A HOMELESS MAN EXPRESSES THEIR OUTRAGE
Edward Shreve, 39, was found dead on November 5, in a wooded area behind the WindGate trailer park.
According to law enforcement sources, Shreve was beaten to death and then set on fire, possibly as an attempt to conceal a brutal homicide.
Three Swartz Creek area teenagers are being held at the Genesee County Juvenile Detention Center in connection with the incident. All three are sophomores at Swartz Creek High School; two of them have a violent family history.
During an interview with the Flint Journal, Shreve’s family expressed outrage at the savageness of the crime. “They can rot in jail for the rest of their lives so they can think about what they did,” Shreve’s sister Mary Kramer said. “It was so senseless for these kids in the prime of their lives to go messing with someone like my brother, who was really quite helpless. I hope they understand they took a life. They took away a girl’s father.”
Shreve was the youngest of four children. His siblings say he had worked at the GM parts division, but was unable to find another job after being laid off.
“My brother wanted to work, but it was hard for him,” Kramer said. “Sometime after he lost his job, he started drinking. Things got a lot worse for him after that.”
Kramer said soon after her brother’s unemployment insurance ran out, he and his wife divorced. Without a job or place to live, and with his alcoholism growing worse, Shreve started panhandling and sleeping in a makeshift home in the woods behind WindGate trailer park.
Homeless advocates estimate the number of homeless, particularly in the Flint suburbs, is growing at a tremendous rate due to high unemployment and a reduction in state services.
While the city of Flint has services and shelters for the homeless, there are fewer resources in suburbs, according to North End Soup Kitchen spokesperson Margaret Edmonds. Edmonds added, “With growing unemployment, the entire county is faced with more homeless. It would be challenging for any community, especially a smaller one like Swartz Creek.”
Shreve’s ex-wife and teenaged daughter have turned down our request for an interview. Shreve’s daughter attends Swartz Creek High School with the three suspects. Police do not believe there is any connection between the daughter and the suspects.
I finish the story, then grind my fingernails into the bottom of the table.
“You see what I mean?” the investigator says, leaning into me again. “Everybody is against you, Mick. I’m the only one on your side. I want to help you, but you need to talk.”
“Mick, don’t believe him. I’m on your side, he isn’t,” Richards says. The investigator puts the newspaper back in the folder, a folder that looks to be stuffed full. I wonder what else is in there and what else has been in the newspaper. What’s the story on page 1C?
“I know he’s not going to put his family through this. I know he can see what I see, his mom going to work. Where does she work, Mick?”
I crack my knuckles again, although not all of them pop.
The investigator quickly glances at his notebook. “That’s right, Chico’s. That’s a fancy store in the mall, right? Is that what you want? Your mother going to work and having her co-workers and maybe even customers whisper, ‘Have you heard about Linda Salisbury’s son, Mick?’ How can you put your own mother through an ordeal like that?”
“Shut up!” I shout, then grab hold of the edge of the table.
“At least you’re talking now, that’s a good start,” the investigator says. “But my guess is even by now—what, we’ve been in here less than half an hour—Brody’s given you up, probably Aaron as well. I’m willing to hear your side, Mick. Keep talking, just keep talking.”
I so want to say fuck you, but I say nothing. But even more, I want to know what’s g
oing on in the other rooms. Is Brody talking? Is Aaron? Can I really trust them with my life?
“Remember those floods in New Orleans?” The investigator is standing next to me. “All that started with a crack in the levees. Do you know what a levee is, Mick?”
More failed knuckle cracking on my part.
“A levee holds back water. People trust it works, just like you trust your friends. But when the pressure starts to build, no matter how strong the levee—or how strong a friendship—cracks happen. It takes just one crack. No matter how strong a levee is, all it takes is one crack; once it cracks here, it cracks there, then there, and before you know it, you’re drowning. While you’re acting tough, in those other rooms it’s a different story. Can you hear it?”
But I can’t hear anything except “Stairway to Heaven” on replay in my head.
“Can you hear it?” The investigator repeats, then he makes a show of cracking his knuckles. “The levee is breaking. Your friends are telling us that it was all your doing. They’re saying that you bashed the guy’s head in, stomped in his rib cage, and set him on fire. Once they’re done talking, they’re going home. They’ll sleep in their beds, while you’ll be in a cell—but not in a place like this. You’ll do time in the state prison full of murderers and rapists.”
“Stop trying to scare him—” Richards starts to say.
“I’m trying to save you, Mick. You’re about to go under. I’m reaching out a hand to help you, and you’re going to turn that away? You’re drowning and I’m offering to save your life. The water is rising, Mick,” the investigator says, reaching his hand across the table, but I turn away.
“A picture is worth a thousand words, right?” the investigator says, then opens up the folder again. He pulls out some photographs, then pushes one across the table at me.
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