Cheated (16 page)

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.

F
AMILY OF A
H
OMELESS
M
AN
E
XPRESSES
T
HEIR
O
UTRAGE

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 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.