Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

“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.”