“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. <See story page 1C>
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 going 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.
I quickly look at the photo, then wonder if the cop can hear my heart beating, or can sense my soul leaving my body.
“What we have here, Mick, is a photo of the three of you outside the Big K Market on Friday, November fifth. It’s from the video camera outside. It seems to me you’re having a good time,” the investigator says, almost smiling as he taps the photo with his index finger. “You see the time stamp there on this image we’ve lifted from their outside camera? Do you see it, Mick?”
I stare at my own smiling face in the grainy black-and-white photos. I flash on that night and wonder how I could have thought anything was funny; I stare at the tiled walls around me now and wonder if anything will ever be funny again.
“We compared the time you were outside the Big K with the time that Mr. Shreve was inside. Guess what, Mick, it is the exact same time,” the investigator says, then leans into me.
“All circumstantial,” Richards says. The investigator takes more photos from the folder, putting them down quickly in front of me, like he was dealing blackjack. These color photos show the remains of a human being with burned skin hanging off of broken white bone.
“Here are photos of what was left of Shreve,” the investigator says, pushing the photos toward me. I stare at them as if I was seeing an accident on the side of the road. “Mick, look at these photos.”
“This is wrong—” Richards starts, but the cop cuts him off.
“We can do this the hard way or the easy way,” the investigator says.
I try to resist, but I can’t, so I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Easy way is simple: Mick, tell us what happened. I admire your loyalty to your friends. You’d only better hope and pray they are as loyal to you. My guess is they’re not as loyal and they’ll save themselves. Hard way is we go to trial and everybody sees these photos. Which is it going to be for you?” The investigator flipped his friendly smile switch. Now he’s all teeth.
“Don’t answer that,” Richards says.
“I’m guessing that Mick probably got caught up in something that his friends did. If he turns on Brody and Aaron, and we believe him, then we’ll recommend the case to juvenile court,” the investigator says. “No prison time, for sure. Detox or some program if drugs or alcohol were involved. Probation, community service, and maybe some sort of restitution.”
“I see,” Richards says, but I don’t like the interested tone in his voice.
“Christmas is coming up and this is a gift,” the investigator says with a smile. “But we’re closing this out. Brody may seem tough, but he’s ready to talk, I can tell. And the other one, Aaron, he knows the system, so he knows if he talks, then he’ll get the walk.”
I avert my eyes from the drowning-pool blues of the investigator.
“Aaron seems the weak link,” the investigator says to Richards. “From what happened to his dad, he knows that it’s better if you don’t have to stand in front of a jury. Aaron will sell you out to save himself hard time like his father’s doing. You really want him to decide your fate?”
I can’t take much more; it’s like there’s a ticking time bomb in my chest.
“Brody’s a Catholic, right?” the investigator asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well, they say confession is good for the soul. It might start with confessing his sins to a priest, but that won’t be enough. Brody will talk to us. He’ll tell us everything. Maybe he’ll tell us this was all Mick’s fault. Is that what he’ll say, Mick? I want you to connect the dots. There is a dead man and you’re involved. We know that. Someone is going to go to prison for that crime. We know that. What we don’t know is who that person should be: you, Brody, or Aaron. Three people know who did what: you, Brody, and Aaron. The first to talk is the one who walks.”
“We’re done now,” Richards cuts him off. The investigator nods, then opens up the folder.
“While you’re thinking about things, you might want to read this,” the investigator says just before he exits. “It might explain why we’re more willing to believe you than your friends.”
TWO TEENAGERS ACCUSED IN BEATING OF HOMELESS MAN HAVE VIOLENT FAMILY HISTORY
Two of three teenagers being held for the murder of Edward Shreve, a homeless man, have a violent family history.
One has a father who is currently on death row at Huntsville State Prison in Texas for the brutal murder of his son.
Another’s family also has a violent background. One brother is currently serving a ten-year sentence at Leavenworth Military Prison in Leavenworth, Kansas, for assaulting an officer. The same suspect was recently removed from a school activity for violating the school’s code of conduct for students.
Investigators have learned that earlier in the day, this suspect had an altercation at the Space Invaders arcade with a student from Flushing High School.
The third teenager has no history of violence.
Police have yet to learn how the paths of the three teenagers and Shreve crossed on the night of November 5. Police also lack a motive for the killing.
I read the story twice, slower the second time, hoping the words would change. I stall for time, taking a drink of water, but it does nothing to squelch the burning in my stomach. I notice the investigator left the photos of the Scarecrow faceup inches away from me.
“Mick, what do you want to do here?” Richards asks, then turns over the photos.
“Just leave me alone,” I say.
“Look, I’m not going to pressure you like the cop. I want what is best for you, but it doesn’t look good. I think he’s probably right about Brody and Aaron,” Richards says.
“I said leave me alone!” My shout is loud enough to cause the glass of water to vibrate. We sit in silence for a few minutes, although the volume in my head is up to ten. The photos of the burned up Scarecrow are turned over, but I still hear Robert Plant singing. I’m distracted when the investigator re-enters carrying a small brown box. “Mick, your parents want to join us. I know you don’t want that, but they get to choose, not you.”
My parents walk into the room behind the investigator. I want to scream at them to leave. They’re standing behind me: Mom’s hand is on my shoulder; ex-Dad is seething like a boiling pot. Mom finally sits, but ex-Dad remains standing, five feet and one hundred miles away.
“So who is Garrett Barber?” the investigator asks, like he was talking about the weather.
“He’s this kid—” ex-Dad starts to say.
“Let him speak, Mr. Salisbury, it’s really best,” the investigator says. “Mick, who is he?”
“A kid at school,” I mumble.
“Really?” The investigator furrows his brow. “Mick, we’ve been finding out a great deal about you since you’ve been in here. You can sit here and lie to us, but what good is that going to do? We either already know or will find out the truth. So, again, who is Garrett Barber?”
“Tell him,” ex-Dad says, slapping his hand hard against the back of my chair.
I don’t move a muscle, not even a molecule within a muscle.
“He told us that you and Brody beat him up,” the investigator says, then looks at Richards and away from me. “Sounds like your client does have a history of violent behavior.”
I wanted to turn to Mom and tell her—but only her—why I had a fight with Garrett, that I was defending her. And it was Brody who did the beating up, not me. The investigator pulls a folder from the box, then puts it in front of me next to the Shreve pictures.
“I have his statement right here if any of you would like to look at it.” The investigator hands the folder to Richards, who starts to speed read through the pages. When it becomes obvious I won’t answer him, the investigator pulls out another folder.
“And who is Nicole Snider?” the investigator continues. “We’ve talked to her and her father. He was thinking of taking out a restraining order—”
“What the hell is going on?” ex-Dad explodes. I want to say, That’s a lie, but what is truth and what is lie is confused in my head now. “Why were you stalking this girl?”
“My son isn’t a stalker,” Mom says. I notice that she says “my son,” not “our son,” when speaking about me, even with ex-Dad in the room. I feel bad making Mom spend so much time in this room with ex-Dad; her skin must be crawling.
“Again, it’s all right here.” The investigator hands another folder to Richards. “Mick, do you want to tell your side of the story? Mr. Snider was very convincing and very angry.”
This is all wrong. All wrong.
“How about a Natalie Riley?” the investigator says, but I’m confused by this name.
“Who are these girls?” Mom says, not really asking me, just desperate to know.
“Your son, Mrs. Salisbury, made a lewd sexual remark to this young woman at the Space Invaders arcade, which led to—guess what?” the investigator continues in a monotone voice.
I remember the girl and realize the investigator must know everything about me.
“It led to another act of violence with your son and Brody Warren attacking a young man at the arcade,” the investigator says. “A jury will be very interested in this pattern of violence. The young man said he would testify at your trial. That is, if you want a trial. Like we’ve said, you don’t need to do that, just tell us what happened that night with Mr. Shreve.”
More silence from me; tears from Mom; sighs from ex-Dad. Everything’s normal.
“Here’s his statement,” the investigator says, handing yet another folder over to Richards. “Still don’t want to talk, Mick? Fine, let’s continue.”
As sweat drips from my forehead, I’m beginning to understand the levee analogy.
“So we have these acts of violence, one of them on the day of the attack,” the investigator says, then pulls out another folder. “But then we’ve yet to add in the accelerant to your son’s behavior. The same accelerant they used to try to burn the body: alcohol.”
“My son doesn’t—” Mom rushes in armed with her beliefs about me, not the facts.
“We talked to some students at your school and they said your nickname is 151,” the investigator says. I imagine every student at school talking about me, like they once talked about Brody’s football heroics. But all the talk is nothing more than a public humiliation. No matter what happens, I know I’ll never ever be able to attend Swartz Creek High School again.
“151? What the hell does that mean?” ex-Dad asks, slapping the chair again.
“Why don’t you tell your father about your nickname?” The investigator is smiling again, but not the friendly smile. No, this is the smile of a willing and well-paid executioner.
“You’d better start talking, mister!” Another shout from ex-Dad, another slap.
“No?” The investigator shrugs. “151 stands for Bacardi 151 Rum, isn’t that right, Mick?”
“That is irrelevant,” Richards says, trying to ignore, as I am, Mom’s tears.
“I’ve got someone who will testify about Mick’s impaired judgment when intoxicated.” The investigator pulls out another folder. He taps on the table waiting for me to speak.
When I give him nothing but a cold stare, he says, “If you don’t want to talk about Garrett Barber or Nicole Snider or Natalie Riley, then how about Roxanne Gray?”
“Shut up!” I shout; I can’t take it anymore. I’m almost ready to talk to make this stop, so Mom doesn’t have to hear any more about the secret and shameful life I’ve been hiding from her.
“Calm down, Mick,” Richards says. “He’s trying to upset you, rattle you.”
The investigator offers the folder to Mom, saying, “A drunken sexual incident at a party.”
“Stop this,” Mom pleads.
“Linda, be quiet!” ex-Dad shouts from across the room.
“I know it must be hard, Mrs. Salisbury, I got two kids of my own.” The investigator’s rough voice has grown smooth, like he pulled a switch. “You try to raise them right, teach them good values, but they get away from you. It’s not your fault, don’t blame yourself for what your son has become. Bad influence of these other two has made your son become a murderer.”
“My son hasn’t become anything,” Mom cuts in. “He’s a good child and—”
The investigator cuts her off, saying, “A child doesn’t have this history of violent behavior. A child doesn’t perform sex acts. And a child doesn’t watch movies like this.”
The investigator pulls from the box the Filthy First Times DVD and my death is total.
“Oh, Mick,” Mom says, then turns to leave the room. I wait for my father to say “That’s mine,” but the only sound in the room is Mom’s footsteps, not ex-Dad’s admission. Same old shit.
“I’ve had enough,” ex-Dad announces, then walks over to me. He grabs my chin and yanks my face around so I have to look at him. “What happened to you? I raised you better, mister!” My eyes look down, but I want to raise my voice and shout, You never raised me. You chased women, then left me and Mom. You’re not my responsible father, you’re just my sperm donor.
“So, there you have it, Counselor,” the investigator says. “And this was just a few days of investigating. Mick, what else are we going to find? Can you really risk that? No judge or jury is going to buy the innocent act. Mick, you’re guilty and everyone in this room knows it.”
“We’re done,” Richards announces, slapping his hands on the table.
“I’ll leave this all with you, Counselor,” the investigator says. “You can tell your client how we’ll bring this all out when he goes to court. Everybody is going to know everything about you. Every little detail.”
“I don’t think so,” Richards replies.
“And then we’ll have the photos of the man that your client brutally murdered,” the investigator says, standing up, taking his Pandora’s box with him. “It’s about the weight of the evidence. Mick, do you feel the weight of all of this on top of you? Do you feel it? Just tell me what happened and all of this goes up in smoke.”
He demonstrates the final phrase by taking from the box my lighter sealed in an evidence bag. “Your lighter, your prints, your history. We’ve got one dead body, and you’ve got two untrustworthy friends. Mick, you’re smart. Add it up and know there’s only one path to take.
“I’ll give you time to think about it,” the investigator says. “Mr. Richards, Mr. Salisbury, why don’t we talk about this outside? Let’s give Mick time to make the right choice.”
· · ·
Through the glass, I imagine the conversations between ex-Dad and Richards. I imagine my mother’s tears. I imagine conversations down the hallway with Brody, his lawyer, that cop, and Brody’s mom. I imagine Aaron and that set of conversations. But all I can do is imagine because I can’t see through the thick walls. I can’t hear what others are saying; I can only imagine. I can only hear what’s already been said about me; I can only hear myself saying, I’m ready to talk. But even as I practice forming the words, I know I can’t turn on my friends for there is nothing worse in the world than cheating on those you love. I’ve cheated once and paid the price. The police may be dealing from the bottom of the deck, but I want to dig deep and find the best part of myself even in the shadow of my worst deeds. I just want to sleep. I’m exhausted from not sleeping and not telling the truth. I close my eyes, but sleep won’t come. After maybe a half hour, the door opens and another cop walks in with Richards.
“Mick, I’m Detective Allan,” the man says, then sits down. I grunt, look up, and notice the wide smile on Allan’s face. Allan’s older, gray-haired, and his voice sounds like he’s not going to be surprised by anything. “I’ve talked to Aaron and Brody. We got the whole story, Mick.”
I don’t say anything. Richards looks as stunned as I do.
“We’ve got Aaron’s story, and we’ve got Brody’s, so that leaves you,” Allan says, pushing a blank sheet of paper across the table. “You’re all alone, Mick, all alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve both given you up,” Allan almost whispers, the paper pushed a little closer. “So if you were counting on your friends to protect you, if the three of you had some sort of agreement, if you thought you could trust them—Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say, mostly to convince myself.
“Aaron said you were the one who killed Shreve and burned up the body,” Allan says, pushing the paper closer. “If you want to tell us something different, then start writing.”
I’m weighing the words in my jam-packed skull as Allan looks through his notes.
“Here’s what he said, ‘Mick was the one who killed the Scarecrow,’” Allan says as the fire alarm goes off between my ears. How did Allan know to use the term ‘the Scarecrow’? Did Brody and Aaron really confess? If so, did they both blame me? Or is Allan lying to me? The crack in the levee is getting wider; the first investigator was right. I feel like I’m drowning.
“Brody and Aaron are my friends. They wouldn’t say anything,” I protest.
“I’ve seen a lot of folks doing hard time with that attitude,” Allan says. “If you want to pin your hopes on these two, well, Mick, that is your choice. I’m not your parent, I’m not your lawyer. But I can tell you you’re making a mistake. Prisons are full of guys thinking they had friends, but realizing too late that they were friends second, and humans with the urge to save themselves first. Brody cracked right away, but Aaron took longer. They’re survivors, Mick.”
I don’t hear him; I just hear Plant singing. If only I can keep it together.
“Brody acted all tough, but I think when he talked to that girl—” Allan says.
“What girl?” I interject.
“Lauren Shreve, the victim’s daughter,” Allan says. “She’s seen him a couple of times.”
“Why wasn’t I notified?” Richards says quickly.
“You’re not his attorney. Who Mr. Warren sees is between him and his lawyer, but I thought your client might find it interesting that Brody has been talking with her,” Allan says, then chuckles, another hook that reels me in. “You just have to wonder what was said, no?”
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“They talked in person rather than over the phone,” Allan says, then scans his notes. “What did you guys call her?—that’s right, Cell Phone Girl.”
Everyone in the room sees it happening at once. The levee’s been compromised somewhere. Somebody talked: nobody but the three of us ever called her that name. Allan leans in; he must have sniffed out the fear sweating down my forehead like a raging river.
“Here’s a pen, Mick,” Allan says, laying the black object on the blank piece of white paper. “Write down what happened if you can’t tell us. We can end this today.”
“No.” I cross my arms. He picks the pen up and clicks it like a stopwatch.
“Mick, to be honest, we’re still inclined to believe you, cut you some slack,” Allan says.
“What do you mean?” Richards asks.
“Brody, he’s just a punk. We see kids like him in the system every day,” Allan says. “And Aaron, good kid, but damaged. So, I’m sorry to break the news to you, but your friends rolled on you. You might as well return the favor and roll on them.”
I’m singing the end to “Stairway to Heaven” over and over like a stuck CD, the same part of the song repeating endlessly in my head.
“So, we’ve heard their stories, and we think they’re probably lying,” Allan says. “But the only way we’ll know for sure is if we hear your side. Once we have your version, then we can compare the three, but to be honest, Mick, your story would have the most credibility.”
“You’d better listen to this,” Richards says.
“Mick, I’m waiting for your answer,” Allan says. “Time to tell us the truth.”
I want to say, Answer, here’s your answer: fuck you. There’s a faint click of a heater coming on. There’s the ticking of Richards’s watch and the clicking of Allan’s pen. There’s the beating of my heart. Outside, I imagine, there is the spilling of Mom’s tears.
“Last chance,” Allan says, snatching the paper off the table. “If I walk out that door now without your statement, then all we have left is the physical evidence that puts you at the scene, and the signed confessions of Brody and Aaron. We’ve shown you how we know everything about your life and we’ll tell it to the jury. But, if I leave now without your signed confession, then the next time we’ll see each other is when the judge sentences you to prison. You’re too smart for that, Mick,” Allan says.
“Mick, let’s—” Richards starts, but I just shake my head violently.
“Bad choice, kid, bad choice,” Allan says, then starts toward the door.
“Wait!” I shout just as Allan taps on the glass so he can exit the room.
“You got something to say?” Allan turns, the smile is back, bigger, more inviting.
“I want to talk with my mom,” I say softly, hiding my eyes, shame, sorrow, guilt.
Allan doesn’t say anything as he closes the door behind him.
“Alone,” I say to Richards.
“I’m going to try to talk to your friends’ lawyers, see what’s really going on,” Richards says, then rises from the table. “But, Mick, you have to decide what’s best for you, not your friends.”
“I know,” I admit out loud, more to myself than to Richards.
“Even if Allan’s lying about Brody and Aaron confessing, I think he’s right that they probably will crack and blame you. Even if one of them gives you up, that’s bad for us.”
“I know,” I mutter, even though I don’t know anything for sure anymore.
“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Richards says, then walks to the door. As he taps on the glass, he turns to me. “Don’t say anything to the police or sign anything until I get back, understand?”
As minutes pass and Mom doesn’t come into the room, I wonder if she’s deserted me. If so, I couldn’t blame her: I’m a screw-up who has brought her nothing but shame and sorrow. My guilt isn’t over the Scarecrow, but about scarring my mom’s life. She deserves better than my father, better than me, and better than watching her son go to prison. I have to protect her again.
· · ·
“Mick, are you ready to talk?” Mom says softly as she finally enters the room a few minutes later. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to withstand that look on her face, the one she wears that says, You are my son, I will love you and protect you no matter what.
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“You don’t need to tell the police what happened, because I know you,” Mom says.
“Can they hear us?” I ask, then point at the two-way mirror.
“I know that you couldn’t have done something like this,” Mom says in reply.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“And this evidence, I’m sure there’s a good reason for all of it,” Mom continues.
I don’t know whether to smile or cry.
“Do you know why, Mick?” she asks, but doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “I know you couldn’t have done something this terrible because if you had, I know you would have told me. I know you’re a good person, Mick, and I know if you’d done something bad, that you would have to tell someone, and that someone would be me.”
Sitting in the tiny room, I wished I could just disappear. “Mom, I’m not perfect.”
“I know that, Mick, I guess even more now,” she says as images of DVDs, rum bottles, and Roxanne flash through my mind, but no doubt are burned into Mom’s memory.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I’m so sorry,” I repeat.
I stop talking because I can’t lie to her anymore. I stop breathing for a microsecond because I can’t imagine her disappointment in me. I stop telling myself that it’s not my fault because even if I didn’t smash a brick into the Scarecrow’s head, there’s blood on my hands.
“I know you couldn’t live with yourself if you’d done something so terrible.” Her voice has a slight tremor. “You couldn’t do that to another person. You couldn’t do that to me.”
“To you?” I say.
“I know you couldn’t do something that would hurt me, like going away to prison. It would destroy me to think you did this and then lied to me about it. That’s why I believe you. I believe you because you know that if you lied about this, it would destroy me.”
I feel like a prisoner falling through the gallows and twisting in the air.
“Mick, look at me.” She takes my hands and squeezes them until my knuckles lose color. “I love you more than I could tell you, and if you care about me at all, then you need to tell me and the police exactly what happened, but—”
“But?”
“I know you had more to do with this than you’ve told us. It’s going to hang over you unless you set it free. You’ve got to accept responsibility and then you’ll feel better. Trust me.”
“I know, Mom, I know.” I can’t hold back tears much longer.
“I know you want to protect your friends. I know you want to save yourself. Mick, the worst thing you can do now is lie to me or to the police,” Mom continues, “because the truth always comes out. You can make up stuff or cover it up, but the truth always emerges. I know you’re confused about what to do and what to say, but if you tell the truth, then you won’t feel that way. You won’t hurt anymore. You need to start healing.”
“I can’t,” is all I can say: two words to stand for the two thousand I can’t say.
“Mick, please don’t do this to me, to yourself,” she continues. “I told you one day you’d talk to me. That day has to be today.”
I take a deep breath, then out comes the contents of my lungs along with the words I’ve been holding back. I must admit what I am: helpless. “Mom, tell me what to do.”
“There’s only one thing to do,” she replies. “Do the right thing. Tell the truth.”
“No matter what?”
“I know it’s trite, but it’s true. The truth will set you free.” She squeezes my hands again, but I stand mute. When I say nothing, she let’s go and her face turns cold. “If you don’t tell the truth, then—”
“Then what?” I ask. She pauses for seconds that seem like hours before she speaks.
“If you don’t tell the truth, then I can’t love you anymore, Mick,” she finally says.
I want to scream, but no sound will give my pain the justice it deserves.
“I’ve been lied to too much by your father, and I won’t let it happen to me again. If you’ve lied to me, then I can’t love you anymore, Mick. There’s no worse punishment these people can give you than that. To know that your own mother, the woman who brought you into this world and raised you, doesn’t love you anymore,” Mom says.
“Mom, what are you saying?” I ask after recovering from stunned silence.
“Mick, you have a choice to make, probably the biggest choice you’ll ever make in your life. You need to choose between your friends and your family. You need to choose between telling the truth or living a lie. You need to choose if you still want to be my son,” Mom says, then rises and starts toward the door.
“Wait!” I shout, but when I try to say more, no words come out, only an anguished sound. It is the sound of shame, regret, and guilt. It is the sound of tears, rage, and sorrow.
My mother moves toward the table and sits down across from me. She touches me again, this time lightly on the shoulder like she was pushing the play button on my jPod.
“Here’s what really happened—” I start, trying to unravel the truth from the lies. My tongue burns as I speak the truth and nothing but: word for word, minute for minute, blow by blow of what I did, what Aaron did, what Brody did. As I speak, Mom never says a word, although her eyes tear and her mouth drops. She wanted the truth; she should’ve known better.
When I finish by admitting to burning the body, the life seems to leave my mother’s body, just like I saw the Scarecrow’s soul rise on November 5.
“I’m so sorry, Mom, I’m so sorry,” I confess, my voice thick with tears.
“I know, Mick,” she replies softly. “I’m sorry, too.”
“I wish I could take it all back,” I say, wiping my running nose with the sleeve of the gray shirt. “Things just got out of control, but that’s no excuse.”
“I always wondered,” Mom says after a moment of silence.
“Wondered what?”
“If you were going to turn out like your father, or if you would be a better man,” Mom says, but I can’t capture the strange emphasis she put on the word father.
“What do you mean?”
“If you would accept responsibility, if you would be a man,” she says sharply. “This is a horrible thing you’ve done, but you’ve admitted to it. You’re a better man than your father, and I’ve finally been able to protect you like a mother should. We’re all ready to heal now, Mick.”
“Heal?” and the word clicks in my head: everything is connected to something else, but the click is real. It’s the sound of the door to the room opening. Both of the cops, as well as my lawyer, come into the small space, which seems even smaller. My father is missing in action.
“You did the right thing,” the investigator says, but the comment is meant for Mom, not me. My heart shakes like thunder as lightning hits. I realize Mom didn’t answer my question “Can they hear us?” when I pointed to the two-way mirror that the investigators were behind as I confessed every detail of how Brody and Aaron murdered the Scarecrow. My friendship bonds are forever broken with my words; my family triangle complete with Mom’s betrayal of me.
TWO TEENAGERS HELD IN BEATING OF HOMELESS MAN TO BE CHARGED WITH SECOND-DEGREE MURDER; OTHER TO FACE LESSER CHARGES
November 19
The Flint Journal has learned that two of the teens arrested for the murder of a homeless man in Swartz Creek will be arraigned today as adults on charges of second-degree murder. The third teenager in the case will plead to a lesser charge in return for his testimony against the other two. No other details have been released.