FIVE
NO I DID NOT. I DID NOT. I DID NOT.
I did not say those things, and I did not plan those things.
Won’t anyone believe me?
Matt Donaghy had not been arrested by Rocky River police.
Matt Donaghy had not been handcuffed and led forcibly from the rear of Rocky River High to a waiting police vehicle and taken to police headquarters to be charged with any crime.
No one had been a witness to such a spectacle. But it would be talked of as if it had happened. It would be talked of, and shared, and discussed like a scene in a movie that not everyone had seen, but a few had seen, or claimed to have seen, and by being talked of with such zest, such dread and enthusiasm, it would shortly come to seem that, at Rocky River High, nearly everyone had seen it, and had opinions about it.
“He was cuffed? Matt was cuffed?”
“Not his ankles, though. So he could walk.”
Had Rocky River police actually entered the school? During fifth period? Those classmates of Matt’s who’d seen the plainclothes detectives lead him out of study hall would describe the men in varied ways, disagreeing on details, but all agreed that the detectives had been wearing suits, and had spoken quietly to Matt.
What happened outside the classroom was a matter for speculation.
It began to be claimed that the plainclothes detectives had been backed up by uniformed, armed cops. It began to be claimed that there’d been a SWAT team with high-powered rifles, bulletproof masks, and vests. Few could truthfully claim to have seen the SWAT team on the premises, though the building wasn’t exactly deserted at the time Matt was led out of study hall.
Where had the detectives taken Matt, exactly? Some believed that they’d all gone downstairs to Mr. Parrish’s office, and had left for police headquarters later; others, impatient with such an inessential detail, insisted that Matt had been “arrested” immediately and taken away to headquarters.
“If he’d made a break for it, they would’ve shot him? Wow.”
“No way Matt was gonna make a break. They had him, and he knew it.”
“Did they search his locker? Did they confiscate stuff?”
“Did he confess?”
“Did you ever see any gun of Matt’s, like in his locker?”
“I didn’t know Matt had guns.”
“Stuff to make bombs? Or, like plans? Drawings?”
“They’d be downloaded from the Internet. All that kind of shit you can download if you know where to look.”
In Mr. Parrish’s office, the door shut tight.
Matt’s teeth were chattering. He tried to speak calmly.
“Look, this is crazy. I never . . . what you’re saying.”
“We’ve had a report, Matt. Two reports. Two witnesses. They heard you.”
“Heard me . . . what?”
“Threaten to ‘blow up the school.’”
Matt stared at the detective, uncomprehending.
“Threaten to ‘massacre’ as many people as you could. In the school cafeteria today, just a few hours ago. Are you denying it?”
“Y-Yes! I’m denying it.”
“You’re denying it.”
“I think this is all crazy.”
“‘This is all crazy.’ That’s your response?”
There was an undertone of disgust and incredulity in the man’s voice that reminded Matt of his dad. Matt shivered.
On the table a tape recorder was running. The detectives were also taking notes. Mr. Parrish had removed his glasses and was stroking his eyes as if they ached. There was a glimmer of perspiration on the principal’s upper lip, and his face was crisscrossed with faint lines like scratches with a dry pen. His assistant was there, a young woman frowning over a notepad. Mrs. Hale, the school guidance counselor, and Mr. Rainey, the school psychologist, were present, staring at Matt as if they’d never seen him before.
It was then that Matt did an unexpected thing: He grinned.
His mouth twisted like some sort of rubber mouth. Maybe he even laughed. Mr. Parrish said sharply, “Matthew, this isn’t funny. Very serious accusations have been made against you.”
“I’m not . . . I don’t think it’s funny,” Matt said quickly.
He was feeling tired suddenly. As if he’d been running around the track for miles.
“Let’s go over what we’ve been told. You did, or did not, make threats to ‘blow up the school’ in the cafeteria today?”
“Look, ask my friends! They can tell you.”
“Certainly we will. If it’s necessary, we will.”
Matt had given them the guys’ names: Russ, Skeet, Neil, Cal . . . Who else? But Mrs. Hale said, “We don’t want to involve anyone unless it’s necessary. We’d like to clear this up at the source.”
“Well, if I’m the source,” Matt said, sarcastically, “I can tell you: I never threatened anybody or anything.” His heart was beating hard. He recalled a story of Edgar Allan Poe’s he’d read in Mr. Weinberg’s class last semester, “The Imp of the Perverse.” He said, his mouth twisting again, “And if I had, I wouldn’t tell you, about it, would I?”
There was stunned silence. Mr. Parrish’s assistant shifted uneasily in her chair.
“Just a joke, officers,” Mr. Parrish said. His face was becoming mottled as if with hives. “Matthew means to be funny.”
“Do you think this is ‘funny,’ Matthew? Our conversation?”
“No, sir.”
“We’d hoped to clear the air, Matthew. Without bringing you to headquarters.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t mean—what?”
“I didn’t mean—the last thing I said.”
“Which was—?”
They wanted him to speak into the tape recorder, that was it. Anything he said would be, will be, used against him in a court of law. Matt’s mouth twitched. It was funny!
No, this was serious. Matt repeated what he’d said, and added an apology. The detective with the glasses was beginning to dislike him, he could tell. The other detective, younger and thicker bodied, regarded Matt with more sympathy. Or so Matt thought. “Now you’re saying you are serious, you are telling the truth, yes? You’re not lying now.”
“Yes, sir. I mean—no.”
“You’re not lying now?”
“I wasn’t l-lying, no. It was just a dumb joke.”
“Do you consider a bomb threat, a threat to ‘massacre’ as many people as possible, a ‘dumb joke’? Or something more serious?”
“Look, ask the other guys! They’ll tell you.”
“But why would they tell us, Matt, if you won’t? If you’re all involved in a conspiracy together?”
“We’re not in any conspiracy, we’re not. This is all crazy! It’s exaggerated! I never said anything like that.”
Mr. Rainey said quietly, to Mr. Parrish, maybe they should contact the other boys now; and Mr. Parrish said, in an undertone, he was hoping to avoid making an issue of this. “You know how upset parents in this district can get.”
The questioning, the clearing of the air, continued. Matt had been thinking of it as a kind of TV sitcom in which he was the star, he’d have all the good lines (if he could only think of them), but it wasn’t like that at all. The others, the adults, had the script; and he was floundering. He was stammering, he was fighting back tears. He couldn’t stop his mouth from twisting, like a two-year-old on the verge of a tantrum. No, no! This was serious. He knew it was very serious. He’d clear the air, yes. He was an intelligent kid; Mr. Weinberg praised him. Other teachers praised him. He’d explain to these adults in an assured, mature voice, and clear everything up. Maybe his mom and dad would not be contacted. (Matt wanted to think this, so badly.) Maybe, if things got cleared quickly enough, he could return to study hall, and everybody would be relieved and happy to see him. Mr. Weinberg would make one of his jokes—“Well, Matthew Donaghy! I see you made bail.” Or—“I guess you’re being recruited for the CIA, maybe?” And Matt would blush, and think of some witty response. Everybody would laugh.
He’d return to his desk, acting nonchalant. Stacey would be relieved. Maybe she’d squeeze his hand, in front of the others. “Oh, Matt! What was that all about?” Russ and Skeet would be dying to know, too. But Matt would tease his friends by taking out his play script and opening his laptop. In a mock-Brit accent he’d say, “Now, where were we when I was interrupted . . . ?”
He wanted to think this, so badly.
I never said anything. I never meant anything.
Please won’t anybody believe me?
Out in the corridor a bell was ringing. Study period was over, forever. It was like a plane you’d missed.
Never could Matt Donaghy return to that study hall. Never let the other kids see it was all a joke, it was nothing.
So strange: to hear the bell, to remain seated. With these adults. These strangers he feared and hated. While the other students were leaving classrooms, in a noisy herd on the stairs, rattling their lockers. He had a quick flash of Stacey, in tears. She was frightened for him! Or just embarrassed she knew him . . .
“Look, can I leave now? I told you everything I can tell you, over and over. I’m . . . expected at Drama Club.”
“Not just yet, Matt. Maybe in a little while.”
“When we clear this up, Matt. We have a few more things to clarify.”
“But I’ve told you everything. I just keep repeating myself. Please, would you talk to my friends? There’s Russ Mercer, there’s ‘Skeet’—Frank Curlew. There’s Neil—”
Please. The word sounded so desperate, so cringing and begging, in Matt’s mouth. He was feeling sick.
Mr. Parrish assured Matt they would talk to his friends, soon. If it was necessary. Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary.
Matt’s spirits lifted a little, hearing this. Mr. Parrish liked Matt, didn’t he? He was a friendly principal, a “hands-on principal,” he called himself, determined to maintain and to improve Rocky River’s “tradition of high academic standards” but hey, just a regular guy, eyeglasses winking at you in the hall, a wide quick smile asking, How’s it going? He was an OK principal, a nice man, Matt believed, or wished to believe. He’s on my side. I’m a student here. He wants this cleared up more than I do. Matt’s mother came to PTA meetings and made it a point to speak with the principal, the guidance counselor, the psychologist, Matt’s track coach, all of Matt’s teachers. These were people who would be writing letters of recommendation for Matt when he applied for college next year. Crucial to make a good impression on them! Get them to like you. Get them on your side.
The conversation continued. The clearing of the air.
The detectives asked to see the contents of Matt’s backpack, and he showed them. He was sullen but cooperative. An invasion of my privacy. Don’t you need a warrant? Next, as he’d known they would, they asked him to take them to his locker, to let them examine his locker, and at this Matt balked. “No, sir.” Suddenly he was stubborn, he would not cooperate.
Mr. Parrish asked him. The others. Concerned for him. Pretending not to be alarmed, suspicious.
But Matt shook his head no. His face was blazing hot.
Why? Because he was ashamed. Didn’t want anybody to see the detectives going through his things.
His mouth twitched in an angry grin. “If you’re expecting to find guns and bombs, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to put them in my locker, would I?” He knew this was a mistake. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “That’s the first place somebody would look, isn’t it?”
The detectives were staring at him.
“You tell us, son. You’re the one who knows.”
Sure, he knew they could open his locker, legally, without his permission. The principal of Rocky River High was the one to give, or withhold, permission. Mr. Parrish might have waited for a search warrant, but he was eager to cooperate with police. “You won’t find anything,” Matt wanted to sneer at them. He wanted to laugh except he was too scared suddenly.
They found nothing. Which proved nothing.
They took Matt Donaghy to Rocky River police headquarters in an unmarked police vehicle. He wasn’t handcuffed. He was accompanying the detectives “voluntarily.” They’d allowed him to telephone his mother, and she would be joining them downtown.
Fortunately, Matt’s father was away for another night.
“Matt, there isn’t any”—his mother was blinking rapidly, wiping at her damp eyes—“truth to this charge, is there?”
“Mom! For God’s sake, no.”
They were alone together, briefly. At police headquarters. In a windowless fluorescent-lit room. On a Formica-topped table were Styrofoam cups with the dregs of coffee in them, an ugly black plastic ashtray heaped with cigarette ashes and butts. Matt hurriedly explained to his mother what had happened. What a misunderstanding it was. Just a joke, and he’d been overheard and misunderstood. Some “witnesses”—he didn’t know who they were—were claiming he’d said something he hadn’t. His mom wasn’t absorbing much of this, wanting to embrace him, tears brimming in her eyes. “These—‘witnesses’—who are they? Why would they be spreading lies about you, Matt?”
To this question Matt had no answer.
It was a shock to him, to see his mother so agitated. And knowing he was to blame. His dad would never forgive him. He’d need to keep her at arm’s length; the last thing he wanted to do was break down like a baby.
Wordlessly, he shook hands with Mr. Leacock, “his” attorney.
And he shook hands with the middle-aged, kindly-faced female-from-Westchester-Family-Court, too.
“Matt Donaghy. I’m here to protect your rights.”
All so crazy, like a dream. One of those exhausting dreams that go on and on. And maybe (Matt didn’t want to think) it was just beginning.
Mr. Leacock advised him to tell “all that you know” but to speak cautiously and never “incriminate” himself in any way. Matt was definitely not under arrest—yet—but it was urgent that the situation be resolved within a few hours so that everyone could go home.
So Matt told. Again.
He hadn’t done anything wrong. He hadn’t said anything wrong.
Please ask his friends to corroborate his story! Russ and Skeet and Neil and Cal and . . . he was forgetting who else had been there, at lunch . . . Denis Wheeler? They would clear Matt of all suspicion.
He tried not to speak sarcastically. He tried to hide the rage he was feeling. Explaining to his silent audience (the detectives, the court-appointed female, his teary mother, and his attorney): Why would he, of all people, want to blow up Rocky River High? He liked school. A lot. He liked his classes, and he liked lots of people, he’d been elected vice president of his class. And he’d never owned a gun, never fired a gun . . .
Matt began to stammer. He began to cough, and someone handed him a cup of water. He drank—the water was tepid. His hand was trembling. His eyes snatched at his mom’s. They were both remembering how, at his uncle Jax’s summer place in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, he’d fired a .22 rifle. This was a few years ago; Matt might’ve been thirteen. Uncle Jax had wanted to teach him, and Matt had wanted to be taught, it seemed a thing a guy would do, and talk about back east with his friends. What Matt mainly remembered about the rifle was its surprising weight, and the loud jarring crack! when he pulled the trigger. He’d never come anywhere near hitting a target.
He looked away from his mom. He didn’t want to know what she was remembering, and what she might be thinking.
Who were the “witnesses” who’d gone to Mr. Parrish’s office to report Matt Donaghy?
Their identities were being protected at this time.
Mr. Leacock objected that his client had a right to know who was accusing him.
Matt was saying again, patiently: Whoever they were, they’d heard him wrong. Whatever they thought they’d heard, they’d gotten it wrong.
Or somebody was deliberately spreading lies to hurt him.
But why? Why hurt him?
When he was just . . . Matt Donaghy?
Sixteen. A junior at Rocky River High. A steady A-minus student (except for English, where he received mostly As). He wrote for the school paper and literary magazine, he’d been elected vice president of his class (by just eleven votes), people seemed to like him all right, he wasn’t the best-looking guy at Rocky River but with his freckled face and quick smile he was OK, but there was a deeper seriousness, an edginess, he kept to himself. He wasn’t weird. He wasn’t a loner, a computer freak. He wasn’t into sick stuff on the Internet like some guys. He’d had a lot of the same friends since grade school, and his friends were terrific. His teachers had always liked him. . . .
Mr. Weinberg would vouch for Matt. Mr. Drewe, the boys’ track coach, would vouch for him. Not a star runner but a good team player.
Suddenly it was like Matt was on trial.
No, Matt did not do drugs. And he didn’t smoke. Maybe he had a few beers, sometimes. At parties.
Well, he smoked . . . sometimes. But not really. He wasn’t stupid, he knew the health risk. He wasn’t into tobacco, nicotine. He’d actually chewed a plug of tobacco not long ago, a friend gave him, and it was a totally disgusting experience. He’d swallowed some of the juice and gotten the sickest he’d ever been, trembling and vomiting. And the guys laughing at him. He didn’t do drugs, either. Well, he’d tried some things. Everybody tried some things. He’d done “X,” Ecstasy, but it made his heart race and left him breathless, made him paranoid, which was scary. No, he didn’t hang out with a drug crowd. You heard of some of the older kids doing coke, heroin, but Matt wasn’t in that crowd. What he was guilty of, he guessed, was saying stupid things. To make people laugh. He was sure, that day at lunch, when Skeet had teased him about maybe not being picked for the Arts Festival when it meant so much to him, he’d said something like, “What could I do, blow up the school?” and when that got a few laughs, he might have said, “Massacre a few hundred people?” and Skeet was into it, typical Skeet, pounding the table, laughing, as if the idea of Matt Donaghy doing such a thing was hilarious, “Like Columbine! Viva Columbine!” and Matt jumped to his feet making machine-gun-spraying gestures, in a crouch, pretending to be opening a coat, “Vroom-vroom-VROOM,” and by this time all the guys at the table were into it, or most of them, Skeet, Russ, Cal, just showing off, wanting people to notice them. Girls at nearby tables, pretty girls like Stacey Flynn glancing over at them, smiling, with a look of You guys! Grow up. Or What’s so funny? Indulging the guys as they’d been doing since first grade. But it was crowded in the cafeteria, and other people were passing by their table, which was in the center aisle, and maybe somebody heard . . . or misheard. So if there was anything Matt Donaghy was guilty of, he supposed, it was acting dumb, juvenile. Lots of times like this he’d be ashamed afterward. Because he wasn’t like that really. He was a serious person really. He wanted to be a writer, a playwright. He wanted to perform in his own plays. That meant work, and brains, not goofing off like an asshole. The problem was, Matt had a talent for it: making people laugh. Even as a small kid he’d been mouthy, and funny. Adults had laughed at him. If people laughed, they liked being around you, it was a good feeling. They were apt to like you. Sure, Matt admired people who didn’t seem to care if anybody liked them—Mr. Jenkins, who taught calculus, for instance. And Mr. Rainey, the school psychologist, who had to meet with parents who weren’t happy that their children were having “psychological” problems. And there was that big girl with the fierce staring eyes: Ursula Riggs. A star girl athlete. Didn’t seem to give a damn whether she was “well liked” or not. Maybe because her father was a big-shot CEO. . . . Matt was different. He needed to be special. Somehow. To make people like him. So he’d hear his mouth go on and on like it had a life of its own. Like he was a ventriloquist’s dummy and didn’t know what he was saying, sometimes. Saying things he didn’t mean. Like on TV, the grossest stand-up comics saying things you aren’t supposed to say, late-night cable . . . like to do with sex, race, people’s bodies, going to the bathroom . . . school shootings, bombs. On TV you know it isn’t real, it’s just . . . comedy. A guy with a big mouth and a microphone. People laughing their heads off. Mr. Weinberg warned: It’s the violating of taboo, that’s why people laugh. Sometimes they’re shocked, and they laugh. But others will hate you and turn against you. So you have to be careful. Not that Matt was crude, much. He had a big mouth sometimes, but . . . how was that a crime? In the United States we have a Bill of Rights guaranteeing us freedom of speech and freedom of expression.
Don’t we?