The detective gives me his slow sad smile, happy I've joined the group, sorry we have to meet this way. "We can't be sure of that yet, I'm afraid, Mr. Devore," he says.
"We can be sure," I say. "This is the first time for Billy. I don't know about the other boy, or what he might say about Billy, but this is Billy's first time."
Marjorie says, "Burke, we're all just trying to—"
"I know what we're trying to do," I say. I look flat and level at the detective. I say, "If this is Billy's first time, the judge will give him probation. If this is Billy's fourth time, the judge will put him in jail, and my son doesn't belong in jail. This is Billy's first time."
He nods his head slightly, but says, "Mr. Devore, we can't be sure what a judge will do."
"We can guess," I say. "This is Billy's first time. I'd like to speak to him now."
"Mr. Devore," he says, "this has been a shock to you, I know, but please believe me, I've been around this sort of thing a lot, and nobody wants to persecute your son, or make life tougher than it already is for anybody. We just want to clear this all up, that's all."
"I'd like to speak to my son," I say.
"Very soon," he promises, and turns back to Marjorie, more fertile ground than I am, he thinks, and says, "I hope you'll urge Billy to come clean on this. Just get it off his chest, get it all behind him, and then the whole family can get back to normal life."
I watch him, and I listen to him, and I know him now. He's my enemy. Billy isn't a human being to him, none of us are human beings to his kind, we're all just paperwork, irritating paperwork, and they don't care a pin what happens to the people involved, so long as their paperwork is neat and tidy. He is my enemy, and he is Billy's enemy, and we know now what to do about enemies. We do not accommodate our enemies.
I always believed that I and my family and my home and my possessions and my neighborhood and my world were exactly what the police were here to safeguard. Everybody I know believes that, it's another part of living this life in the middle. But now I understand, they aren't here for us at all, they're here for themselves. That's their agenda. They're the same as the rest of us, they're here for themselves, and they are not to be trusted.
Marjorie has understood what I was saying, and she gives the detective less sympathy than before, and he quickly realizes he's lost her, so he brings out the forms. The inevitable forms. Before he gets to fill them out, though, Marjorie says, "Can we take Billy home with us?"
"Not tonight, I'm afraid," he says, and the son of a bitch does a wonderful imitation of sincerity. "In the morning," he says, "Billy will appear before the judge, and your lawyer can ask for his release in your custody, and I'm sure the judge will go along with it."
"But not tonight," Marjorie says.
Looking at his watch, the detective tries a smile, saying, "Mrs. Devore, tonight's almost gone, anyway."
"He's never been in jail before," Marjorie says.
Oh, please; what does this creature care? He's in jail all the time. I say, "You have some forms there? Before I get to see my son?"
"This won't take a minute," he says.
It's all the same questions, all the usual crap. Of course, it has the one zinger question in it: "And, Mr. Devore, where are you employed?"
"I'm unemployed," I say.
He lifts his eyes from the form. "For how long, Mr. Devore?"
"Approximately two years."
"And where did you work before that?"
"I was a product line manager at Halcyon Mills, up in Reed."
"Oh, is that the company that went bust?"
"They didn't go bust," I say. "They merged, two companies merged. Our operation was moved to the Canadian branch. They didn't take any U.S. employees with them."
"How long were you there?" Now his sympathy almost does seem real.
"With the firm, twenty years."
"You were downsized, eh?"
"That's right."
"A lot of that going around," he suggests.
I say, "Not in your business, I think."
He laughs, a little self-consciously. "Oh, well, crime," he says. "A growing industry."
"I wonder why," I say.
"I don't think I've ever seen them before," Marjorie whispers to me, as we follow the detective down a concrete block corridor toward whatever space now holds Billy.
I'm irritable, holding myself in. I give Marjorie an angry frown, not wanting confusion at this point, wanting clarity, and I say, "You never saw who before?"
"The parents," she says, and gives me her own surprised look. "Burke, they were sitting back there in the big room, when we came through. Didn't you see them? They have to be the other boy's parents."
"I didn't notice them," I say. I'm focused, Billy is my concern.
"They looked frightened," she says.
"They should," I say.
There's a uniformed trooper at a desk in the hall. He sees us coming, and stands to unlock a yellow metal door. Everything is yellow, pale yellow. It's supposed to be spring, I suppose.
The detective says, "If you could keep it to five, ten minutes, okay? He'll be home in the morning, you can do most of your talking then."
"Thank you," Marjorie says.
The trooper holds the door open. We go in, Marjorie first, and as I go by the trooper says, "Knock when you want to come out."
"All right," I say, thinking, it isn't that easy.
This is the cell; my God. I'd thought it would be a visiting room or something, but I suppose a small state trooper barracks like this couldn't be expected to have very elaborate arrangements. Still, it's a shock. This is a cell, and we're in it with Billy.
He was sitting on the cot, but now he stands. There's only the cot, attached to the wall, and a chair, attached to the floor, and a toilet without a seat. That's all there is.
Billy is in his socks, and his belt is gone. From the puffiness of his face, I would say he's been crying, but he isn't crying now. He has a closed, bruised, defensive, sullen look to him. He's shut himself down inside himself, and I can't say I blame him.
I let Marjorie go first, asking him how he is, assuring him she loves him, assuring him everything will be all right. She doesn't talk about the burglary, thank God.
I let her go on a while, and then I say, "Billy."
He looks at me, ducking his head, pathetically abashed and defiant, almost standing up to me. Marjorie steps back, white-faced, watching me, not knowing what I mean to do.
I say, "Billy, we are not alone." I point to my ear, and then I point around at the walls. I keep my face deadpan.
He blinks, having expected almost anything else from me; recrimination, accusation, tears, perhaps self-pity. He looks around at the walls, and then I can see him trying to gather himself together, trying to be receptive and alert instead of closed-down and mulish, and he nods at me, and waits.
I say, "Billy, this is the first time you ever did anything like this. This is the first time you ever went along with anybody at all to break into that store."
I raise an eyebrow, and point at him, to let him know it's his turn to speak. "Yes," he says, looking at my finger.
"That's right," I say. "I don't know this friend of yours, I don't know what he's likely to say, how much he's likely to want to spread the blame, but whatever he says, Billy, don't you ever change from the truth, and the truth is, that is the first time you ever broke into that store, or any other store, or any place at all."
"Yes," he says. He's looking now like a drowner seeing the man with the rope.
"That's all you have to remember," I say, and then I spread my arms, and I say, "Billy, come here."