Cheated (18 page)

“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.

T
WO
T
EENAGERS
H
ELD IN
B
EATING OF
H
OMELESS
M
AN TO
B
E
C
HARGED WITH
S
ECOND
-D
EGREE
M
URDER
; O
THER TO
F
ACE
L
ESSER
C
HARGES
November 19