The Lock Artist

Eleven

Michigan

June and July 1999

So there I was. Sitting in the back of a police car. I had a shiny pair of handcuffs on. For the first time ever. They didn’t lock them behind my back, so I could sit there and study them, wondering how hard it would be to get them open.

Once the two cops had given up on me telling them anything, they had put me in the back of the car and had tried to recite me my Miranda rights. You have the right to remain silent, et cetera. When they got to the part where I had to acknowledge that I understood them, things got interesting. I nodded my head, but one of the cops told me that wasn’t good enough. I had to give them a verbal acknowledgment. Instead, I just gave them a long string of sign language, even with the cuffs already on my wrists, hoping they’d get the idea.

“He’s deaf,” one of the cops said to the other. “What do we do now?”

“He has to read his rights and then sign a statement that he understands them. I think.”

“So give him your Miranda card. Let him read that.”

“I don’t have it. Give him yours.”

“What? I don’t have one. How could you not have one if you just read it to him?”

“I didn’t read it. I have it memorized.”

“Oh shit, now what are we going to do?”

“Just take him down to the station. They’ll know what to do with him.”

I was going to try to convince them I wasn’t deaf, but then I thought, what the hell. Maybe they’ll stop talking to me. By then, another two police cars had already pulled up. Everyone from the party across the street was gathered around now, watching us.

They took me to the Milford station on Atlantic Street, just around the corner from the liquor store, in fact. It was after midnight now. They stuck me in an interview room for what seemed like another hour, until finally the two cops who had arrested me came into the room, along with two other men. One was a detective, and as soon as he saw me, he looked very confused. The other man was a professional sign language interpreter, who looked like he had just gotten dragged out of bed. One of the arresting officers started talking while the interpreter did his thing, signing to me that I was in the Milford police station, which I had obviously already figured out myself, and that they had to make sure I understood my rights before we went any further.

When it was my turn, I dusted off just enough sign language to convey the one important message they all had to finally understand. Point to self, put hands in front and draw them apart like an umpire signaling safe, one finger to right ear, then both hands, palm out, coming together.

“I am not deaf,” said the interpreter. He was speaking for me, automatically, before he even realized what I was saying.

“You’re Mike,” the detective said. “Lito’s nephew, right? Over at the liquor store?”

I nodded yes.

“He can hear just fine, you clowns,” the detective said to the cops. “He just can’t talk.”

That led to some general embarrassment and a dismissal of the now pissed-off interpreter. The detective read me my rights and had me sign a statement that I understood them, while the two cops kept looking at me like I had made a special point of tricking them and making them look bad. Then the detective gave me a blank legal pad and asked me if I wanted to say anything. I wrote a big NO and slid the pad back to him.

They fingerprinted me. They gave me a breathalyzer test, even though I was pretty sure I was stone cold sober at that point. Then they had me hold up a little sign with my name and case number as they took two pictures of me, one facing front, one sideways. Then they put me in a holding cell by myself while they called Uncle Lito.

I sat there in the cell for another hour or so, until I heard some footsteps at the end of the hallway. There was a door there with a little observation window in it. I saw Uncle Lito’s face appear behind the glass, his eyes wide and his hair sticking up like something out of a cartoon. Another half hour passed. Then a cop came to my cell and took me to another interview room. There was a woman waiting for me. It had to be two o’clock in the morning by now, but this woman was wide-awake and very well dressed.

“I’ve been hired by your uncle to represent you,” she said to me as I sat down across from her. “We need to discuss a few things before you’re released. First of all, do you understand everything that’s happened to you so far?”

She had a legal pad ready for me. I picked up the pen and wrote Yes.

“I understand you have not given the police any written statements yet? Is that true?”

Yes.

She took a deep breath. “They want to know who else was involved in this,” she finally said. “Are you willing to tell them?”

I hesitated, then I started writing. What happens if I don’t say anything?

“Michael, you have to understand something here. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything that happened. I need to know who was with you.”

I looked away from her.

“Are you going to tell me?”

I want to go home and sleep, I thought. Figure this all out tomorrow.

“I understand that there was a party going on across the street from the residence you broke into. I’m sure the police are talking to everyone who was there. Somebody will have seen your… friends running away.”

One friend, I thought. One friend and two other people I couldn’t care less about. But I couldn’t see how to give up just the two of them without Griffin getting pulled into it. Even if he was already in Wisconsin by now. They’d find him and bring him back.

“Your car,” she said. “It’s parked down the street from the Marshes’ house?”

I nodded.

“Do you even know the Marshes? I’m sure there’s a reason you drove all the way over there, all by yourself, if you expect anyone to believe that, and broke into their house.”

I closed my eyes.

“All right,” she said. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I’m going to go get you released now so you can go home and get some rest.”

Another half hour of waiting, and then I was out of the holding cell. The lawyer drove us home. Uncle Lito sat in the front seat, not saying a word. I was in the backseat. When we got to the house, he thanked the lawyer and got out. I slid out and followed him. I kept waiting for the big blow-up. What the hell got into you, what the hell were you thinking. Something like that. Maybe even some physical confrontation. For the first time ever. But he just opened up the front door and let me in.

“Go to bed,” he said. “We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

I went to my room in the back of the house and got undressed. As I lay down and turned off the light, I saw his silhouette in the doorway.

“Do you have any idea how much this lawyer is going to cost?”

I stared at the dark ceiling.

“I didn’t realize it was this bad, Michael. I mean, I know what you had to go through…”

No. You don’t know.

“I thought you were getting over that now. I thought you were doing okay.”

He closed the door and left. As I went to sleep, I saw the aquarium shatter again. The water running onto the floor. The fish lying on the floor, mouths gaping in surprise.

The next day I woke up late, expecting the worst. I figured by the end of the day, I’d be hauled off to prison, or to some special place where they send juvenile delinquents. What I didn’t know was that the county prosecutor was already working on his second headache of the morning.

“Okay, here’s where we are,” the lawyer told us, as soon as we were both sitting in her office. “The police believe that the Marsh residence was entered around ten thirty last night,” she said, reading from her yellow pad. “By Michael and some unknown number of accomplices.”

“I want the names,” Uncle Lito said to me. “Do you hear me? You’re going to write them down and you’re going to do it now.”

“Hold that thought for a moment,” she said. Then she went back to her pad. “According to the police, various witnesses at the party across the street reported as few as two and as many as five young men fleeing the scene when the squad cars arrived. It’s not uncommon to get differing accounts from different people. In any case, several witnesses state that one of the young men was very large.”

She looked at me, measuring my reaction.

“That leads them to believe that a Milford student named Brian Hauser may have been on the scene. Apparently, he and Adam Marsh have some history. Is any of this ringing a bell yet, Michael?”

I didn’t move.

“As far as the charges themselves go,” she said, “there were no apparent signs of forced entry. Which leads the police to believe that the back door was unlocked. A lucky break for whoever wanted to get in.”

Nothing about the safety pin, I thought. Or the screwdriver. The police had taken them from me when I was arrested, but I guess it didn’t even occur to them that I could use those things to open the lock.

“A large aquarium in the living room was shattered, apparently by a fireplace poker. That resulted in a fair amount of water damage to the carpeting and furniture. Although the fish themselves were found unharmed in the kitchen sink. I suppose, what, you broke the aquarium and then felt bad about the fish? Or was the whole thing just an accident?”

I could really feel Uncle Lito staring a hole through me now.

“A large banner was left in Adam Marsh’s bedroom. Something to the effect that Milford High School kicks ass. Aside from that, there were no further damages, and nothing was reported as stolen from the house.”

“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?”

I shook my head again.

“It feels like you’ve been violated. Like someone has reached right into your guts…”

He held up his ball and squeezed it as hard as he could.

“Like someone has taken something away from you that you’ll never, ever get back. Your whole sense of security. Of being safe in your own goddamned home. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you?”

I sat there and looked at him.

“What’s with the not speaking, anyway? What’s that all about?”

With his free hand, he reached over and picked up a framed photograph that had been facing away from me.

“I have a daughter who’s the same age as you,” he said. “Ever since the break-in… ever since the violation of this house…”

He turned the frame toward me. I saw her face.

“Things have been hard enough for her, is what I’m trying to say. Since her mother’s been gone.”

He stopped for a moment.

“Since her mother took her own life. A few years ago. I’m telling you that just so you know what she’s already been through, okay? Amelia’s been living in her own world ever since. Getting better, maybe. I don’t know. But now… fuck, with you breaking in here… I can’t even imagine how scared she must be. You have no idea, do you? You have no fucking idea.”

In the picture, she was wrapping herself up in a hooded sweatshirt, her hair whipped around by the wind off a lake in the background. She wasn’t smiling.

But she was beautiful.

“I hope to God you have kids someday. I hope you have a daughter like my Amelia. Then I hope you have a few cheap lowlife punks break into your house and terrorize her. So you get to feel what I’m feeling right now.”

Amelia. It was the first time I heard her name out loud. Amelia.

He turned the frame back away from me. I had a bad feeling in my stomach now, hollow and raw. I hated the idea of her being afraid in her own house. Someone who had been through at least some of the same things I had been. Someone who could draw those drawings I had seen in her bedroom.

“Now, my son… Adam…” He picked up the other picture on the desk. This picture was twice as big, which should have told me something right there.

“He’s on a full scholarship to Michigan State. My alma mater. He’s already up there for summer conditioning.”

He turned the frame so I could behold the full glory of his son. Adam was in his Lakeland uniform, kneeling on the ground with one hand on his helmet.

“I know what happened here,” he said. “I know why you guys broke into this place. Why you felt you had to put that banner in Adam’s bedroom. I mean, after four years of him beating your team up and down the field. Hell, it must have been pretty frustrating. I guess I can understand that part.”

He actually smiled at that point, for the first time. He put Adam’s picture back on the desk, carefully aligning it until it was in just the right place. Then he opened up a drawer in his desk and took out a small pad of paper and a golf pencil. He slid them over the desk until they were directly in front of me.

“So let me ask you something, Michael. You feel like writing some names down for me?”

He leaned back in his chair and began passing the exercise ball from one hand to the other.

“I know this didn’t come out in court. This is just between you and me, is what I’m saying. It doesn’t leave this room. I know that Brian Hauser was one of the gang who were with you that night. I mean, let’s not even pretend that he wasn’t here. Are we good so far?”

I sat there.

“That buddy of his, the quarterback… Trey Tollman? Who can’t even throw a ball forty yards? Are we talking about him, too?”

Another moment of silence.

“They used to be friends, you know that? Adam and Brian, I mean, back when they were in junior high school.”

He paused for a while, thinking about it.

“Then Brian goes to a different high school and starts taking cheap shots at Adam. You know he almost destroyed Adam’s knee once? Could have ended his whole career. Funny how a kid can turn into an asshole so quickly. Guess it runs in the family. You ever meet his dad? The state trooper? Couple of useless fat fucks, both of them. Anyway, I know you took the rap for him, Mike. I know it and you know it. So like I said… just between you and me… Nod your head if I’m right so far.”

This wasn’t my battle. God knows none of those other guys ever thanked me for taking the blame for him. And yet…

“I’m waiting.”

And yet fuck this guy. I wasn’t moving a muscle.

“Come on, Mike. Don’t be a chump. It’s not worth it.”

I can do this all day, I thought. I’ll sit frozen in this chair while you keep talking.

“Okay,” he finally said. “If that’s the way you want to play this.”

He stood up and came over to me. I still hadn’t moved yet. I waited for him to put his hands around my neck.

“You know what? One phone call from me and they’ll find something else to do with you. If I tell them you’re not being a good little probationer here. You follow me? They’ll send you to one of those camps with all the other juvies. I’m sure your little silent act will go over real big with those guys. Is that what you want?”

I finally looked up at him.

“You’re putting me in a real difficult position here. I get you from what, noon to four, six days a week? So get your ass out of my chair and come outside.”

I stood up and followed him. He led me through the kitchen, through the very same door I had opened with a screwdriver and a safety pin. He opened it and was about to head into the backyard. Then he stopped suddenly and looked at the doorknob.

“By the way… this was the door you came in through, right?”

I nodded.

“Was it unlocked?”

I shook my head.

“Then how the hell did you open it?”

I made like I was holding something in each hand.

“What, did you get a key somehow?”

I shook my head and made the motion again. Two hands. A tool in each.

“Are you telling me you picked the lock?”

I nodded.

He bent down and examined the knob. “You’re lying. There’s not a scratch on this thing.”

Whatever you say, I thought. I’m lying.

“We’re not getting off to a great start here,” he said, almost laughing. “That’s all I can say.”

He stood there looking at me for a moment.

“Last chance. Are you going to tell me who else broke into my fucking house, or not?”

I didn’t tell the police, I thought. Why the hell would I tell you?

“Okay, fine,” he said. “I guess we’ve got to do this the hard way.”