Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

“Shut up.” Tomasetti says the words through clenched teeth. I know him well, probably better than anyone, but even I can’t tell if it’s an act. Either he’s a better actor than I’d imagined, or he’s genuinely pissed off.

Tomasetti bends, gets in Steele’s face. “I’m going to give you one chance to save yourself,” he says in an ominous tone. “Are you ready to listen?”

Steele struggles to get himself under control. After a moment, he says, “I’m listening.”

“We know you were working with someone. Give us the name or names, and we’ll cut you a deal.”

“I wasn’t with no one! I swear!”

I fold my hands in front of me and sigh. “Willie, there’s no such thing as loyalty when it comes to doing hard time. When we find your partner, you can bet he’s going to roll over on you. Even if you were only along for the ride, you’re going to fry.”

Steele gapes at me, his mouth opening and closing like a big fish. “I-I think I want a lawyer. I know how you fuckin’ cops operate. You’re trying to trick me into incriminating myself.”

Tomasetti scowls at me. “Book this piece of shit. Murder one. Arson. Felony assault. Attempted murder. And be sure to tack on the hate-crimes designation. That’s good for an extra five years.” He looks at his watch. “I’ve got to get back.”

I rise quickly, look at Steele. “You just blew the best chance you’re going to get.”

“ Wait! ” Steele screams the word. His face blooms brick red. He’s sweating profusely. The bump on his forehead seems to throb beneath the stark fluorescent lights.

We look at him, wait. He stares back. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk.”

Tomasetti looks at his watch, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “We don’t have all day.”

Steele blinks rapidly. “What’s in it for me?”

Rasmussen speaks up. “Give us the names of the people who were with you and we’ll recommend manslaughter to the prosecutor.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Best-case scenario,” the sheriff says, “you get probation.”

“No jail time?” Steele asks hopefully.

Rasmussen shrugs. “We can’t make any promises, Willie. All we can do is let the court know you cooperated and make a recommendation.”

“Juries like it when defendants cooperate with the police,” I add.

Steele looks like a trapped animal, one that’s thinking about chewing off its own leg to get free. One more small push and he’s going to start gnawing.

Tomasetti removes the handcuff key from his pocket and bends to unfasten the cuffs. “Better?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Rubbing his wrists, Steele flexes his fingers and stares down at his hands as if wondering what they’re capable of.

Taking Tomasetti’s cue, I rise and go to the coffee station, pour coffee into a Styrofoam cup, and slide it across the table to Steele. “You need creamer?” I ask.

“Black’s fine.” After a couple of minutes, he raises his head, looks at Tomasetti. “You sure you guys aren’t trying to fuck me over?”

“We need your help,” Rasmussen says. “Do the right thing. Help us out here. And we’ll help you as much as we can. You have my word on that.”

Steele picks up the cup and slurps. His hands shake so violently, he ends up spilling some. No one seems to notice.

We wait.

After a moment, Steele raises his gaze to Tomasetti. His forehead is so swollen and misshapen that his eyes look slightly crossed. “We didn’t mean for no one to get hurt.”

“I understand,” Tomasetti says. He’s the good cop now, the guy you can confide in without worrying that he’ll use it against you.

Steele blows out a breath. “We killed them sheep. The ones that belong to that nasty old Amish broad.” He goes silent.

“What else?” I ask.

He stares at his hands. “Tossed a Molotov cocktail into a buggy.” Incredibly, he laughs. “You shoulda seen that fuckin’ horse go.” At the last moment, he remembers whom he’s dealing with and sobers.

“Willie,” I say, pressing. “Tell us the rest.”

“We beat that fat Amish guy. Tied him to his buggy.” He shifts in his chair. “Every time we hit him, that fuckin’ guy spewed Bible shit. Like God was going to swoop down from heaven and rescue him.”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s so stupid that he doesn’t realize that kind of commentary isn’t exactly inspiring our collective sympathies.

“What about the barn?” Rasmussen asks.

Steele’s gaze snaps to his. “That wasn’t my idea. I swear to God. I didn’t want to do it. It was a nice damn barn.”

Tomasetti’s eyes glint. He looks like a predator toying with some half-dead prey. “Whose idea was it?” he asks.

Grimacing, Steele touches the bump on his forehead, checks his fingers for blood. “James Springer.”

Recognition sparks in my brain. I’ve heard the name before. Some long-buried memory tugs at me. I turn the name over in my head, churning through the years. That’s when I recall going to school with a boy by the name of James Springer. An Amish boy. He was nearly ten years my junior. I remember him because I always thought he looked like a cute little puppy. “He’s Amish?” I ask.

“He ain’t no more,” Steele replies. “They kicked him out. For doing drugs, I think. You know, meth got ahold of him, so it wasn’t really his fault. Now he’s broke. Family won’t talk to him. Can’t get a girl. He’s pretty pissed. Blames the Amish for everything that’s happened to him.”

“Who else helped torch the barn?” Tomasetti asks.

Steele’s gaze skitters away. “Ain’t no one else.”

Tomasetti slams his hands down on the table so suddenly, Steele jumps. “I’m an inch away from throwing your lying ass in jail.”

Steele hangs his head, looks down at the tabletop. “Aw, man.”

“Protecting someone isn’t worth going to prison for the rest of your life,” I tell him.

Cursing under his breath, Steele lifts his gaze to mine. “This ain’t fuckin’ easy.”

“You should have thought of that before you started your own personal crime wave,” Tomasetti snaps.

Steele’s face screws up and he begins to cry. “My brother, man. My fuckin’ kid brother. He’s only seventeen.” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Don’t tell him I told you. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“Nothing you say will leave this room.” Tomasetti, I realize, is a master liar when he’s got the law to back him up. I wonder if he’s as good when he’s in rogue mode.

The room falls silent, the only sounds the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and Steele’s nervous fidgeting. We watch him, giving him a chance to pull himself together.

“Did you and your buddies murder Solomon and Abel Slabaugh?” Tomasetti’s voice is low, but the question echoes like a gunshot.

Steele looks as if he swallowed his tongue. I see his throat working. His hands clench into fists on the tabletop in front of him. When his voice finally comes, it’s a strangled sound I barely recognize. “We didn’t kill no one. You can’t pin that on us.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Tomasetti says in an ominous tone.

“I ain’t fuckin’ lying!” Steele jumps to his feet. “I swear!”

Next to me, Rasmussen puts his hand on his baton.

“Sit down and calm the hell down,” Tomasetti says.

“How can I calm down when you’re accusing me of something I didn’t do? That’s some serious shit!” Steele is literally frothing at the mouth. Spittle flies from his lips, a speck landing on his chin. “I didn’t kill them people! Don’t try to put that on me!”

“Is it possible your brother or Springer did it?” I ask.