The Convenience of Lies (14 page)

Everything is fitting together perfectly like a puzzle. It's just like in the movies. And finally, I get the chance to ask another pressing question….

My stomach is churning at how twisted some people can be.

At this point, all I want to do is wrap Ramon in a big blanket and comfort him, tell him everything is going to be okay.

I can't believe this secret has been so well kept.

I realize this statement is more of a question.

I am at a loss for words as my blood boils.

Far from accusing Ramon, I pity him. I feel proud of the fact that I have found the truth because I have been open to hearing it; something Kira could never do.

I realize I am starting to feel torn on what to do. Ramon has shown me a great amount of trust by giving me all this information. I've been very assertive that I won't tell anyone what he says, despite my intentions to do otherwise. But, how can I do that to him after he has shown me so much trust? I am finding myself thrust between two people, like I'm the kid playing the monkey during the game Monkey in the Middle.

It almost feels like he is pleading with me, wishing somebody else would believe him.

Only outsiders are not biased to believing what they want to believe, unlike Kira.

It feels like I've just put my tongue against an electrical socket. Waves of shock tingle throughout my body. I may actually be able to get my hands on some hard evidence!

Perhaps the truth will be able to come out, and I won't have to reveal what Ramon has told me. Maybe I can clear his name, and reveal Brent Andrews for what he really is: a vengeful, hateful, conniving, jerk, who is out to ruin everyone's lives regardless of the costs. Maybe I won't have to deal with trying to get Kira to believe everything that actually happened.

I sign off of AIM, and drive over to Ramon's house as fast as I can without speeding too much. My heart is pounding, my head is spinning, and I can't wait to get my hands on that rock. To think, it was sitting right there, right by my house all this time. I've been driving past where it has been all summer.

Once I get to his house, Ramon climbs into my car, and there is so much excited tension in the air you could cut it with a knife. After the very powerful conversation we had from opposite sides of the town, it's a relief to see Ramon in person. It makes everything we were saying online feel even more real. As we head off, all I can think is that all of this drama is finally coming to an end!

We arrive at the liquor store, and it looks very eerie. It's about 2am, and there is nobody in sight, just the two of us, and that darned rock, lying in wait somewhere. Everything around us has a slightly yellow glow from the street lamps. Without those lamps, everything would be pitch dark. There's not even a star in the sky. The only other source of light is coming from the “closed” neon sign displayed in the window of the liquor store, which is plastered with posters advertising different kinds of beer. In a way I am glad nobody is out. It gives us privacy as we locate the evidence. The parking lot for this liquor store is small, with only about ten parking spaces. On one side of the parking lot, there's a strip of dirt in which there are a few short bushes struggling to survive. Ramon and I clamber out of my car, and he starts looking through the bushes. While there are plenty of cigarette butts all over the place, there are not many rocks.

“They didn't throw it among a bunch of rocks so that it would blend in?” I ask Ramon.

“No,” he says shaking his head, as he picks up a white rock flecked with black, about the size of volleyball. “This is it.” Ramon carries the rock over to my car, and places it in the dent, a perfect fit.

“Is there any paint on it?” I ask, looking over Ramon's shoulder.

He turns the rock around, examining it. My heart sinks. We see no paint.

“It has been outside for about a month now. It has probably worn off,” he says, and I have to agree that's the best explanation. “What are you going to do with it now?” Ramon asks me.

“I don't know yet,” I say truthfully. “Stare at it as a memento of this summer,” I joke around.

“Don't show it to anyone,” he tells me.

“Of course I won't. I'll keep it hidden away,” I say.

Soon I find out that my promise is harder to keep than I expected. All of the information about what truly happened to my car is just like a bubble inside my head, waiting to pop. To make things worse, I am trying to decide my best course of action with this new information. Either I can attempt to get a confession out of Brent and Kurt; or I can let the cops handle it, which would possibly put Ramon in danger.

“I think that I should go to the police, but I'm worried that they will just blame Ramon for everything. I don't know if they will listen to me,” I tell Cody. This question has been rolling around in my mind for two days, so I've called him up to bounce my ideas off of another person. I believe that telling the police the information Ramon gave me is the right thing to do, but I don't want to be responsible for Ramon getting wrongfully accused.

“They will listen to you, Mackenzie,” Cody tells me confidently. I've turned to Cody for advice because he is removed enough from the drama that I think it is safe to tell him, and I really need another person's guidance regarding what to do.

“But the cops have not listened to anybody else who has gone to talk to them. All they keep saying is, 'You need an eye witness or a verbal confession.' ”

“You are so sweet, they will treat you differently. Anyway, you have a good reason to believe Ramon's story. Just bring in that rock; it is good evidence.”

“Do you really think I should go?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“Yes. Go in and talk to the police. They should be able to help. Also, everyone else who has tried to talk to them has been a guy, but you are a girl. Just by that you get more creditability,” Cody convinces me.

After we hang up the phone, I think about this for a while, and I wonder if talking to the police will be somehow betraying Ramon's trust. He told me not to tell anyone. But what good is his information if I don't do anything with it? Of course, the police do have a rule where they are not supposed to give the name of the person who disclosed evidence to the suspects. Also, I really want a search permit to look in Brent Andrews's house for the tape. The only way to do that is to talk to the cops. I should go and talk to the police, and they should listen and be understanding, I decide.

I drive up to the police station, jittering from nerves, but I have to do what I have to do. The police station is right next to the DMV, and both buildings look impeccably clean with modern architecture. The police station is built out of clean bricks lined up in perfect rows. While the two buildings share the same parking lot, there is a driveway that splits the parking lot into two sections, one for each building. I am used to turning left into the section for the DMV with getting my driver's license and everything, and so it feels odd to be turning right into the police station side. What are people thinking of me, going to the police station? Do I look like some kind of criminal? After I park, I eye that red brick building like it's a looming mountain that I need to conquer. Is this really the right idea, the best thing to do?
I've already decided I'm going to talk to the cops.
Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I make myself get out of the car. Heat blasts me from all sides. The sun is overhead, shining in all its glory, and it reflects off of the asphalt. I can feel the heat rising up through the soles of my flip flops. I can only imagine how quickly I could burn an egg on the asphalt. Feeling grateful that I wore a skirt and spaghetti straps, I hurry inside to avoid the squelching heat. As I enter through the automatic doors, I start to wonder how much the city is paying for its air conditioning because it's freezing in here! Now, rather than trying to escape the heat, I'm wishing for a sweater. I watch as goose-bumps start to rise on my arms.

After the initial shock from the excessive air conditioning, I start to look around me. Like the exterior, this reception area is impeccably clean. There are no bright colors, just black, white, and grey. Even the people in here look like they have been absorbed by the drab chill of the room. I look around for where I should go to initiate my visit and spot a pair of officers across the circular room sitting behind a glass window that is about two inches thick. So much glare is reflecting off the glass, it's almost impossible to see through it, which is why I missed seeing the police as I initially took in the room; it just about completely hides them.

I tentatively approach the window where the officers are sitting, feeling like I'm looking through a transparent wall between us. They are engaged in a conversation when I approach them, and the pair of them ignores me for a good two minutes as I stand there shivering and rubbing my arms for heat.
Of course whatever they are chit-chatting about is more important than doing their jobs.
The older of the two looks at me, and I know they are finally not going to ignore me anymore.

“I need to make a report about some vandalism, and I want to try and get a search permit,” I say to the policeman. He looks at me like I am speaking French. Not sure what he's wants from me, I continue, “About a month ago somebody threw a rock at my car.”

The man interrupts me. It seems like he thinks he can just talk whenever the hell he wants to, regardless of what's going on around him. “If you take a seat, Deputy Carlson will see you.”

Realizing that I have been dismissed and my need has been conveyed, I look around the reception hall and eye the several silver chairs scattered around. I pick one and sit down, surprised at how comfortable it is. Considering how un-welcoming the rest of my visit has been, this is refreshing. But, I realize why the chairs are so comfortable when half an hour later I am still sitting in it. That clock seems like it's creeping by like a snail, counting how long it takes to turn me into an ice cube. I cross my arms and legs tightly, hoping to warm myself up with my own body heat.

A policeman comes out of a side door. He looks about forty years old, and his skin is pale white. He takes me into a room just off of the reception area where there is a desk, two chairs, a computer, and nothing else in the room. We sit down, and he gives me an evil glare that only serves to make me feel colder than I already was before he says, “You want to report a case of vandalism.”

“Yes. But, there's more than just what happened to me. A lot of my friends…”

“Let's just start with you, and then we will get to your friends,” he says curtly.

“Well, on July 24, my car was vandalized,” I start out, somewhat reluctantly.

“This is August. Why have you waited so long to talk to the police?” He interjects abruptly.

“Well, I
did
make a report right after it happened,” I say.

He does some fuddling in his computer and says, “Here it says you reported a hit and run on that date.” He glares at me, clearly thinking I'm full of shit.

“Oh well, that's because that's what I thought it was at first. I originally called to report a hit and run, and then the officer told me he thought it was vandalism, so he told me he wrote it down as that,” I explain. Deputy Carlson is looking at me like every word that comes out of my mouth is frosted with incompetence. How is he going to believe me if he is already suspicious of me before we even start this conversation?

“Who was the officer who took your report?” He asks me.

“I don't know. I didn't write it down or anything.”

He puts down his clipboard, and starts twirling his pen, giving me a piercing look. This officer clearly thinks my lapse of memory is significant, like he thinks I'm purposely forgetting the cop's name. It's been almost three weeks! How should I remember the name of a person I've met only once, so long ago? After he's done piercing me, he says, “Did you see or hear anything when your car was vandalized?”

I continue with my story. I tell him about the crash and screeching tires, about what I thought had happened with the bat, and how two days ago I finally got Ramon to tell me the truth about what happened with Brent Andrews and Kurt. So much has happened in so little time, I realize I'm having trouble keeping it all straight, so it's hard to retell the story correctly. I have to continually go back on what I said to what really happened. I'm doing my best, which should count for something.

I notice that the whole time I'm talking, Deputy Carlson is not writing anything down; he's just sitting there twirling his pen incessantly. It's like he doesn't think anything I say is valuable enough to put on paper. Instead, all he's doing is looking at me with judging eyes. I try to tell myself that Deputy Carlson is just trying to give me his full and complete attention, and that he will write down our conversation later. Even so, I feel uneasy.
Shouldn't he be writing this down?

After this goes on for a while, he jeers at me, “So, this guy, Ramon, just randomly started spilling his guts to you.”
I can't believe he's being so unprofessional!

“No. I told him I believed he didn't do it, and then he told me the truth because he knew that I would not go accusing him,” I say defensively, trying to clarify what happened.

Deputy Carlson throws his pen on the table and exclaims, “There you go, changing your story again!” Now I'm the one glaring at him. “Personally I think that all of these people are stupid,” he says forcefully and resolutely, sitting back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

I feel myself gape at him for a moment.
Did he really just do that?
“So you think I'm stupid?” I say shortly, giving him a severe look.

“All of these people are all stupid for hanging out together.” By not directly addressing my question, Deputy Carlson has not only answered it but insulted me at the same time.

“But they
aren't my friends
! I only hung out with Brent Andrews once, and I never even talked to Kurt until after my car was hit! Kira is my best friend, and Ramon is just my friend. And Ramon didn't even do anything to anyone, either!” I say, trying to get this cop to understand. He just shakes his head at me. Before this conversation even started, he had already decided what he thought of me, and nothing I say or do will get him to listen or think otherwise. I am a straight-A, honors student. Doesn't that count for anything? Of course he doesn't know that, but it's unfair for this cop to judge me when he doesn't know anything about me.

As if he is explaining one and one make two to a first grader, he says, “You see, a person has to have a reason to commit a crime. You and Ramon were in a fight, giving him a reason to want to vandalize your car. Why would someone you don't even know want to?” I can feel fury churning up inside of me.

Trying to not let his disdain get to me, I say, “Brent and Kurt wanted to vandalize a person's car who lives close to me, and when they couldn't find it, they did mine instead. It was all chance. Also, Brent doesn't like my best friend, Kira, but she doesn't have a car. So, I was the next best thing.”

“I think that this Ramon is just blowing up your skirt with a bunch of lies. He felt bad after he hit your car, so he wanted to get in your good books again,” Deputy Carlson says, putting it all out on the table. Why is he refusing to listen? I have been completely honest with him.

I know that Ramon was not lying to me. So I try a new start by saying, “But Ramon showed me where the rock was. He found the right rock.” I suddenly realize that in my dash to get out of the summer heat, I left the rock in my car, and I feel like kicking myself. Damn it!

“Does it have any markings on it?” He says, almost like he is jeering at me.

I feel trapped, because I have not found any markings on the rock yet. I had wanted to bring it so that the cop could look. Police are supposed to be trained in that sort of thing, I had hoped his eye would be able to spot something that mine hadn't. “No, but it fits perfectly into the hole.” I feel like this is the best I can say. Hopefully if he realizes this rock has SOME merit, he will decide it's worth looking at.

“Well, that could be any rock then. Ramon just found one because he knew how big the hole was and the size of the original rock,” Deputy Carlson says triumphantly.

“Ramon only saw the hole once, and only briefly when I showed it to him. And the rock fits perfectly. He would not have been able to find a rock that worked so well unless that was the one. And there were not that many rocks where he took me to look for it, it's not like he had a selection.”

“Not unless he made the hole himself. Then he would know exactly what that rock looked like and where it was.” Now the cop seems to be closing the case. He will not discuss this anymore.

I am not finished yet because I want to convince the Deputy Carlson that Ramon is not as awful as he seems to think he is. I feel I'm starting to plead to this unrelenting cop. “But Ramon knew exactly where it was. He had no time to put a rock by the liquor store around my house because I picked him up five minutes after our conversation.”

“How did Ramon know the rock was there?”

“He saw in the tape where Brent and Kurt dropped it off.” I start to feel like I am explaining everything that I've already told him. Wasn't he listening the first time? Clearly not.

“Who was holding the video camera?”

I had not thought of that one. “It must have been Brent. He could drive and hold a camera at the same time,” I say, doubting even myself.

“How would he do that?”

I reach out my left hand like it is grabbing onto a steering wheel, and hold up my right hand like I am holding a camera. It seems obvious that we have two hands that could be doing two different things.

Deputy Carlson looks at me suspiciously. “I will be asking these people about it within the next week,” he says briskly.

“They won't tell you the truth,” I say, sure of this. Why does he need to talk to them anyway? I've already done all the investigative work for him. “I think we need a search permit for that video tape.”

Dismissing my last comment he says, “Well, both Brent and Ramon are eighteen, so they should tell me the truth, especially because this is big boy prison now,” he jeers at me again. At this point I'm starting to get used to his surprisingly unprofessional conduct, but that doesn't make me any happier about it.

I am thinking of Ramon, and that look Brent Andrews gave me when we went to his house, and I know that neither one will say a word. “They won't tell you a thing.”

“Look, I have been doing this job for fifteen years. I know how to get kids to talk. The only way we are going to find out who did it is if we do some questioning.” Deputy Carlson is totally irritated with me now. “Don't you think these people deserve punishment for their actions?”