“Yeah.”
Everyone holds their collective breath, anticipating that Steele may exercise his right to an attorney, which would bring this to a grinding halt. Five seconds pass, then Tomasetti dives in with a harsh summary of Steele’s predicament, using the “We have a bunch of evidence against you, so you may as well start talking” approach. “We have a Skoal can with your fingerprints on it that places you at the scene of a murder.”
“What? Murder?”
“We’ve got footprints that are going to match those boots we took off you.”
Steele gives him a red-eyed glare. “I didn’t kill anyone! What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The barn you torched? We found a dead guy inside.”
“What? We didn’t—”
“We’ve got you dead to rights,” Tomasetti points out. “We could charge you with first-degree murder right now. If the prosecutor wants to be a hard ass about it, he might even go for the death penalty.”
“Fuck you! I didn’t kill no one!”
“You’re going down, my man. You’ll be lucky to get life in prison. It’s a done deal. End of story. You getting all that?”
“I didn’t do no murder!” he cries.
“So if you’re feeling lucky today, go ahead and keep your big fat mouth shut.”
Steele jumps to his feet, slams his fists against the tabletop, jangling the cuff. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill anyone!”
In an instant, Tomasetti is on his feet. Clamping his hand around the back of Steele’s neck, he shoves him back into the chair. “Sit the hell down, you piece of shit.”
Steele sits there, breathing hard, glaring up at Tomasetti. “You guys are railroading me.”
“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.