The Lock Artist (17 page)

“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.

“I wanted to turn myself in,” he said. “I really did.”

I put my hands down.

“I’m serious. I was going to do it.”

I made a
Y
with my right hand and shook it in front of my forehead. Ridiculous.

“I still can, Mike. Do you want me to? Would that help you any?”

I shook my head.

“Are you sure? I can tell them everything.”

I hit him in the shoulder, a little harder than I meant to.

“Those other guys,” he said. “I bet they don’t feel bad at all. I bet they haven’t been dying inside like I’ve been.”

I nodded at that, thinking, yeah, thanks a lot. I looked out the window.

“I still feel bad. I’m going out to Wisconsin. You know, that summer program thing, before school starts in the fall. I feel like I’m just abandoning you here.”

He thought about it for a minute.

“Still,” he said. “I mean, one more year until you graduate. Then you can go to art school, right? Maybe even come out to Wisconsin and join me? That would be cool, right?”

I shrugged. He stopped talking again for a while.

“I owe you one,” he finally said. “Okay? I’m totally serious. Anything you ever want. I totally owe you.”

I nodded again before I got out of the car and watched him drive away. I couldn’t help wondering if the visit had made him feel any better.

No, he’ll still feel just as guilty, I thought. Maybe more than ever. He’ll never be comfortable around me again. The only real friend I ever had. He’s going to leave town now, and I’ll never see him again.

I was right.

The next day, I drove over to the Marshes’ house. I knew being late would be Strike One, so I got there at eleven fifty-seven. It felt strange to be there at that same house again. It looked even bigger in daylight, the white paint so clean you needed sunglasses to look at it. I parked the car on the street, only a matter of yards from where I had parked just a few nights before. I walked to the front door, feeling the sun burning down on my head. I knocked on the door and waited.

Mr. Marsh opened the door. Instead of the perfect suit and tie, now he was wearing a white sleeveless workout shirt and a pair of tight blue compression shorts. He had a headband on to complete the effect.

“It’s you,” he said. “You’re here.”

Like I had a choice?

“Come this way.” He left the door open and turned away from me. I closed the door and followed him.

“We’ll have a little chat in my office,” he said. “After you see this.” He led me through the living room, where the aquarium had been replaced, and where the exact same fish were now swimming around as if nothing had happened. All of the other damage had apparently been fixed as well. There was no trace of the invasion.

“Twelve hundred dollars,” he said. “Between the new tank, the water damage on the rug and the furniture . . .”

He stood there and waited for me to react in some way. To acknowledge what he was saying.

“I should have waited to let you do it, but hell, that wouldn’t have made any sense. What were you going to do, glue the glass back together?”

Now you’re arguing with yourself, I thought. I’d better do something here. So I lifted both hands a few inches, then let them fall back to my sides.

“Yeah, sure. You’re damned right. What else is there to say?”

He turned and went to a door just past the stairs. He opened it and gestured for me to enter. It was a room I hadn’t seen the first time around. There was a bookcase of dark wood on one wall, a huge projection television screen on another wall. A large picture window looking out over the backyard on the third wall, and on the fourth, the biggest goddamned stuffed fish I’d ever seen. It was one of those huge blue marlins, at least eight feet long with another three feet of spear nose. It was stuffed and mounted and lacquered, looking so real you’d think it was still dripping wet.

“Have a seat.” He indicated the leather guest chairs in front of his desk. He sat behind the desk, the great fish just behind his head. He produced one of those little rubber exercise balls and started squeezing it. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at me and squeezed.

“I caught that damned thing off Key West,” he finally said, without actually looking up at the thing. “I fought it for three hours.”

He squeezed some more. He didn’t take his eyes off of me.

“Okay, I admit, I’m a little torn here. Part of me still wants to kill you right now.”

He paused and watched me, no doubt measuring the effect of his words.

“The other part of me just wants to hurt you really badly.”

This isn’t the way this was supposed to be going, I thought. Not according to my probation officer.

“Let me ask you this. Have you ever had your home broken into?”

I shook my head.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like?”