Come Christmas Steve

Come Christmas Steve

Chapter 32

Not Again

The following days were spent focusing on the family business. Dad and Whittaker received a call from a guy who wanted to meet with them about becoming a dealer for Dad's sprayer in Butte. He asked if my mom could join them since his wife was a partner in the business and she liked to meet the wives of the people they did business with. They left early on Saturday morning and I agreed to stay home and hold down the fort and answer phones.

I had a nagging concern about being home alone. Lingering paranoia, I supposed. Billy was going off with some buddies on a fishing trip at Hungry Horse Reservoir. He was surprised that it was Damien Matthews who invited him to go. Damien was one of the ones who gave Billy some shit about me when this whole thing blew up. His family attends Reverend Lewis' congregation. Billy was excited that things seemed to be blowing over and frankly, so was I. Adam was right when he'd said that people have short attention spans and they would move on along with the media. It had been a long time since any media had tried to contact me. I thought maybe it would happen when the State prosecution ended, but I guess a prosecution being dropped isn't much news. The house was quiet. I could hear the steady tic-toc of the old clock in the hall.

I worried what might happen if US Marshalls showed up to arrest me while I was alone. I hoped they'd let me lock the house up before they locked me up. I dismissed it and went to work. .

Around ten o'clock, I got a strange phone call. "Hello, is this the Steele's?" a voice asked.

"Yes it is," I replied. "Can I help you?"

"Can I speak with Mr. Steele please?" he asked.

"I'm Mr. Steele, unless you mean my father. He's out of town today. I'm his son, Shane. Can I help you?"

"Oh. Can I talk to Mrs. Steele?" he continued.

"Sorry. She's gone with my dad. I'd be happy to help you any way I can," I offered.

"What about that other young man who is helping your father with his business. The tall red head. Is he there?" the guy pressed. Obviously, he didn't consider me worthy of being any help.

"No sir. Gone also. Sorry. Can I take a message?" I asked.

"So are you the youngest son or the gay one?" the man asked.

Suddenly, my defenses kicked in. Something was not right. This made me nervous. Being home alone and still feeling some lingering effects from the last beating I'd gotten simply because I was gay, I didn't want to take any chances with another weirdo with some agenda.

"I'm the gay one," I said sharply. "Why?"

"Can I talk to the kid?"

"No. Sorry, he's busy."

"Busy or gone?"

"Busy."

"All right. Well, when someone gets back, have them call me," the man said.

"Why won't you just tell me what you need and I may be able to help you."

"Nah. I'd rather not. I'd rather talk to someone else. No offence."

"I'm way beyond being offended by your type. Goodbye." I slammed the phone down.

I clenched my fists and cursed under my breath. I got up and went to the kitchen to calm down. I cut a piece of Mom's cherry pie and poured me a tall glass of cold milk. When I finished the pie and milk, the phone rang again.

"Hello, Steele's. Can I help you?"

"Hi," a cheery voice said. "I certainly hope you can."

"Great. How can I help?"

"I delivered some parts there yesterday and I think I might have left a box behind that didn't belong with your order. Could you go out in your shop and check for me? It's about the size of a shoe box and is addressed to Steel King Fabricators."

"Umm, okay. You want to hold on or you want me to call you back?"

"Call me back. You might be a while and I need to keep making deliveries. If I don't answer, just leave me a message. My name's Howard."

"Okay, Howard. What's the number?" He gave me his number and hung up.

I headed out to the shop and started looking. There were stacks of boxes all over the place. I turned the ringer up on the phone extension that Whittaker had me install in the shop. I thought I heard something outside and poked my head out the door to see if someone had driven up, but there was no one. I went back to searching. Not finding it, I tried the barn where we were keeping additional inventory. There was nothing there either. I headed back to the house to the desk in the corner of the family room we'd turned into our makeshift office and called the delivery guy back.

"Hey, this is Shane Steele. Sorry to say, I don't see the package anywhere."

"Ahh. I was hoping you would. Thanks for looking. I owe you," he said.

"No worries. Good luck finding it," I said.

"Thanks. Goodbye."

I hung up and stretched. It was too early to eat lunch and the pie had spoiled my appetite anyway. I had my work caught up and so I decided I'd write Steve a letter. I'd started one on the pad in my room so I headed into the landing and toward the stairs. I thought I'd start a load of wash too, since I'd worn my last pair of clean boxers that morning.

"Hi Shane," a young voice called out from atop the stairs.

I jumped a foot in the air and yelped. "What the hell?" My heart nearly burst right out of my chest. There stood Colt, completely naked with his hairless little prick in his fingers, waving and smiling nervously.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demanded. "And why the hell are you naked?"

"I need your help," he said. "Come to your room and I'll show you." He trotted off, still smiling awkwardly.

I couldn't believe it. I stormed up the stairs taking two at a time wondering what I had to do to get rid of the little parasite. I was out of patience. He had to understand that he couldn't keep doing shit like this. I wondered how the hell he'd gotten in. I walked in my room and he was sitting on the bed stroking his small, turgid penis with a smattering of short pubes adorning its base.

"Stop that!" I demanded. I grabbed his clothes from my floor and tossed them at him. "Get dressed!

Now!" I was shaking and doing my best not to start yelling at him.

"I don't know what it is with you, but I've told you I can't be around you and I sure as hell can't be around you when you're naked. I'm sorry you have an asshole for a dad who you can't talk to about things, but I can't help you with that, okay? Leave me alone!"

He started to cry, fingering a small scab at the base of his penis. "I'm sorry Shane. I didn't want to ..." He gathered his things and ran off, buck naked. He ran out my door, down the hall, and down the stairs, stopping only to pick up a flip flop that fell from his pile and then right out our front door. I went after him. He turned, crying hard now, and then rushed to his bicycle leaning on the side of our barn. He stuffed his clothes in a backpack and took off down our lane and out onto the highway, naked except for his flip flops. I stood in the wide area of the driveway between the house and the barn and stared in disbelief.

I was trembling uncontrollably. All kinds of horrible scenarios were running through my head. What if's were flying around bumping into random brain cells like drunken barnstormers. I worried what if someone saw a naked boy coming from my driveway, while I was home alone. I also considered what if Colt rode all the way home like that and either his dad or his mom got it out of him why. I feared Colt had lost his little mind or maybe his asshole of an old man had done something bad to him. I worried he may have wanted to tell me that his old man, who I'd learned was gay, or at least bi, had abused him and I'd chased him off without giving him a chance to ask me for help.

I sat on my bed and dropped my head into my hands. I was trembling still. "Dear God, please bless this poor confused young man."

Something came to my mind from the sermon that Pastor Nichols had given about Christ and how he was severely tried but refused to break until he had finished his mission to redeem us. He said that in order to rise to our potential, it was often necessary to sink beneath the weight of a multitude of hardships. Because when you do emerge, you emerge stronger than you ever could have been otherwise.

"I don't want any more strength, Lord. Please don't let this turn bad for me or for Colt. Please," I begged.

I suddenly felt a warmth and felt as if the room had brightened as I spoke those words. I looked to see if the sun had come from behind a cloud and was streaming in my window. It was not.

"I understand. Trust me," was spoken to my mind and heart. "Just a little longer." It wasn't audible, but it was clear. It was real.

I gathered myself together and picked up my room. There was a brush lying on my floor and a bottle of lotion from my bathroom. When I picked it up, the handle was greasy. I sniffed and it smelled of ass. "What were you doing up here, Colt?" I was more worried for him than before. I was starting to believe he really had been abused by his father and was coming to me to cry for help. I worried he had been forced into things he didn't want to do but was now somehow addicted to. Perhaps that was what he wanted help with. I wondered how confused and miserable he was. I cleaned it all up and went to the office to call my parents and find out when they would be home. I locked the doors. My stomach was churning.

Every time the phone rang, I jumped. I answered tenuously and was always relieved when it wasn't Sheriff Withers screaming about my imminent death. I was especially relieved when the phone rang and it was my father's voice. "What's up, Shane? You left a message."

"Yeah. I was just wondering when you would get back home," I said.

"A couple of hours still, we haven't been gone that long. Is something wrong?"

"No. Umm, not really. Kind of, maybe. I don't know."

"Shane, what is it?" my dad asked.

"I really should wait and tell you when you get home. It's hard to do over the phone and it's really okay now," I said. I'd debated whether or not to even tell my dad what had happened. There was a possibility that Colt had made it home safe and undetected. He might have stopped and put his pants back on at the very least, I figured. Then it would just be another in a long series of weird events with that kid.

"Do your best," Dad said.

"Okay. I got this strange call earlier. It was some guy who didn't identify himself but asked if you were home and then he asked for Mom and then he even asked for Whittaker, but he wouldn't tell me what he wanted. Then, when I told him I was your son, he asked if I was the youngest one or the gay one. He asked if Billy was home, but by then I was spooked, so I just told him that Billy was busy and couldn't come to the phone."

"Hmm. Are the doors locked?" Dad asked.

"Yeah."

"Good." Dad paused, and spoke more softly, "Well if anything happens, call 911 first then call me if you can."

"Okay, I will. I don't think anything will happen, but that's not all of it," I said. "It gets even more weird."

Dad sighed. "Go ahead."

"That little kid, Colt Withers, the Sheriff's kid ..."

"Yeah. What about him?" Dad interrupted.

"So I got another call from a guy who delivered some materials yesterday and he asked me to go look for a package that he thought was dropped at our place by mistake. So I was out looking for it but I couldn't find it."

"Hmm. Okay. UPS probably. What does that have to do with that Colt kid?"

"I came back in and called the guy and told him I couldn't find it. When I hung up, I walked out into the hallway and Colt was in our house, standing at the top of the stairs."

"Damn. We're going to have to get a restraining order on that little shit," Dad said.

"Dad. He was buck naked. He said he needed my help and told me to come up to my room. I ran up the stairs and he was sitting on my bed masturbating and his clothes were on the floor."

"What the hell?" Dad exclaimed. I heard Mom and Whittaker asking him: 'What? What?' in the background.

"That's what I said. I got mad at him and tossed his clothes at him and told him to get dressed and leave like right that minute. He said he was sorry and started crying. He gathered up his stuff and ran off. I went after him, but he had a head start and he ran out naked, got on his bike and rode off."

"Naked?" Dad asked.

"Naked," I confirmed.

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit. And when I went back to my room, he'd been in my drawers and he'd left a brush on the floor that he'd put lotion on and used it up his butt. At least, it smelled like that's what he'd done. It was so freaking weird." There was a long pause. "Dad? Dad? Did I lose you?"

"No. I'm here. Call Adam. Right now."

"Good idea. What are you thinking? I'm worried Colt's being abused by his dad and maybe he came to me for help or something. Maybe his Dad's been doing weird shit with him. Something's not right about that guy, you know."

"Just call Adam and tell him everything. We'll hurry home," Dad said.

"All right. Thanks. Why does this crap just keep happening, Dad?"

"Good question, son. Good question. Hang up now and call Adam."

"I will. Hey Dad?" I added.

"Yes."

"Just quick, how did your meeting go there?" I asked.

"Not well. It was a waste of time. He was a scam artist. He was an unemployed bum from what I could tell. He claimed to have run farm implement dealerships all around the Midwest and wanted us to front him and his partner, his white trash wife, money to get started marketing my sprayers in Montana and neighboring states. It was a joke."

"That sucks. Bad day all around," I said. "Bye. Hurry home. Bye."

I immediately called Adam and got his voicemail. I left him a lengthy message until the beep sounded and cut me off. I didn't bother pressing '5' to start over. I figured he wouldn't listen to all of the voicemail I'd already left. He'd just call me as soon as he heard the name Colt.

About four o'clock there was a knock on the door. I thought it might be Mom wanting in but not having her keys. I peeked out the window before opening the door and my heart sank. I forced myself to move to the door, opened it, and raised my hands over my head.

"Shane Steele?" a Sheriff asked with his gun aimed at my chest.

"Yes."

"You're under arrest. Keep your hands visible and back up slowly."

I complied.

"Do you have any weapons on you?"

"No."

"Lie face down on the floor, slowly."

I complied.

"You know why we are here?"

"Not really."

"Let me fill you in, pervert."

He grabbed a wrist and jerked it behind my back. Then he knelt on that one while he jerked my other wrist back to meet it and cuffed me. "Eyes, Mack," another officer said nodding toward the security camera.

"Thanks," Mack responded. Then he placed his knee in the small of my back and read from a notepad,

"You're under arrest for violating multiple sections 45-5 of the penal code." He began rattling off a list of charges the only one that shocked me was anal rape of a minor child with a foreign object. That made me shudder. Immediately, I thought about the brush.

"We have a search warrant also." Another officer shoved a copy of a paper in my face and then asked,

"Which one is your bedroom?"

"Upstairs. First one on the left," I answered cooperatively.

A group of detectives marched upstairs. When they had all passed, the officer who cuffed me pulled me roughly to my feet and marched me upstairs to my room as well. He sat me in a chair and I watched as gloved detectives combed through my room.

"What time was Colt here?" the arresting officer asked.

"What about my rights?" I asked. "You didn't read me my rights."

"Oh yeah, you have the right to have the shit beat out of you if you don't answer my questions." Then he threw a punch directly into my ribs that folded me over and caused me to scream.

"God Dammit, Mack!" a woman detective shouted. "If you can't control yourself, I'm taking over. Don't fuck this up."

Mack glared at her. "Yeah, yeah." He read me my rights.

"When was Colt here and where did you stash the soiled underwear?"

"I want my attorney present," I said. Wham! I took another shot to the ribs.

"That's it!" the woman shouted. "Out! Get outside and manage the perimeter."

Mack stood and turned to leave, smacking me hard on the back of my head as he did.

"Why God? Why?" I muttered.

"Shane," the woman said. "You help yourself by helping us. Tell us where the brush is and where the underwear is. We already know all about that, okay?"

"I want my lawyer present," I said, not looking up. She walked away. They found the underwear I'd had my wet dream in along with a pair of tighty-whities belonging, I presumed, to Colt, stuffed between my mattress and box springs. The brush, they found in the bathroom drawer. They took my computer and the computer downstairs in the makeshift office with them and took lots of fingerprints.

All of this was still going on when my parents showed up. They refused to let my parents in until they were finished. When they finally dragged me back downstairs and out the front door, I was assaulted with a barrage of cameras, media and microphones. They were shouting questions at me all the way to the Sheriff's car. The look on my mother's face when my gaze met hers tore my heart out.

I slumped a bit in the seat as they buckled me in so the cuffs wouldn't cut into my wrists as bad. Something I'd learned. It gave me a little space between the seat and my back. The booking process was long and tedious. Lots of sitting on wooden benches waiting for my turn to get processed, fingerprinted, mug shot, stripped, searched and finally issued the jumpsuit. They put me in a small cell with four solid walls but for a tiny window in the door. I'd seen this kind of cell in the other jailhouse. Several of the prisoners in them were naked. I was told that they were kept that way for their protection against themselves. They were mentally unstable and couldn't have anything that they could use to harm themselves with. Others were there because they were extremely dangerous. I was put there because of my high profile. They didn't want anything to happen to their prize show animal. I realized on the ride over in the back seat of the Sheriff's SUV that I'd been set up. I wondered if it was Sheriff Withers' idea or if the overzealous prosecutor had dreamed it up.

Either way, I was so sad that they'd coerced Colt into participating and especially at what they'd made him do with the brush. It was so ironic that they'd become the child abusers in order to paint me as one. I marveled at the lengths they'd gone to in order to further a career and excise their personal demons. Some deeply ingrained mental illness was at play.

I wondered what drove Sheriff Withers, especially. He obviously was a conflicted and tortured person. On the one hand, he was such a paranoid homophobe and on the other, he was cheating on his wife with a man, a preacher no less. It was all too ridiculous to imagine and yet it was all really happening. I lay down on the thin mattress spread across the back wall of the tiny room and rubbed my sore wrists and reinjured ribs. I was beyond tears. I wasn't even capable of rage any longer. It was all just amusing. So I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed like the multitude of mad men who'd undoubtedly occupied my tiny, barren cell before me.

Dinner consisted of a tray being slid into a slot in the door. The tray was made of fiber board, I assume so that I couldn't use it to harm myself. On it was a small carton of 2% milk, a slightly stale white roll, a slice of turkey, some small carrots and a piece of white sponge cake. I was really hungry, so I ate it all. There was precious little taste to any of it. I left the tray and milk carton on the floor next to the door, assuming they would come by and pick it up. They never did. I peed in the trough that ran into the back wall. I had no idea what I was supposed to do if I needed to take a dump. Use the food tray, I guess. Send the shit they fed me right back to them.

It was a long first night. I slept in little fits. Each time I woke up, I felt like I must be dreaming until reality settled back in. It was a night full of endless mini-nightmares. The only way I even knew it was night was by the fact that they dimmed the lights. By morning, when the lights brightened again, I was already feeling the effects of confinement. Although I had more than my share of issues and phobias, claustrophobia had never been a problem for me. Until that morning, at least. I sat on the small bench and stared at the four blank walls. I paced around and around in my cheap flip flops that they'd issued me, stopping to stare out of the 12x9 inch window. From my cell, I could see the central hall. A woman sat in an elevated booth and controlled the double lock cage letting guards and occasional prisoners in and out. The second door never opened until the first one had shut. It was minimal entertainment, but I was thankful to be close enough to be able to see it. Looking the opposite direction, the other lockdown cells had nothing to see but another white wall.

Breakfast was a bowl of mush, barely warm, with raisins and brown sugar in it. Another carton of milk and a paper spoon. I had no idea such a thing existed. It barely lasted through my mush, before becoming mush itself. I'd tried to ask through the slot if they wanted last night's dinner tray back, but they ignored me and just moved on. I piled the breakfast tray next to the dinner tray. I expected the prosecutor to show up and start in with the questions. I was hoping that would happen just to get out of the box and I knew Adam would be there telling me not to answer anything. It would be good to see Adam. I needed him more than ever.

To pass time, I did squats. It hurt my sore ribs, but not as bad as the attempted pushups had. Sit-ups were out of the question. I did toe raises, high stepping in place and stretched. I attempted a nap, but that was pointless. I always settled back on staring out my window at the comings and goings of staff and prisoners. Once in a while, a prisoner would leave all dressed up. I assumed for a court appearance.

About the time I would have thought lunch would be coming, someone opened my food slot. "Step to the middle of your cell, face a wall, spread your legs and put your hands against the wall."

I was excited. I was hoping Adam was there and that he would be bailing me out again. I really wanted to get out of the box. If one partial day had driven me crazy, I imagined that if I were to get twenty years, I'd for sure be a raving madman, sitting naked on the floor and muttering incoherently.

Two guards entered, cuffed my hands and chained my ankles. They led me out of my box and past the booth and double lock cage. They took me past the general population cells filled with more than a reasonable capacity. The inmates milled around, mostly. A few stood at the bars by the hallway and chatted with others in opposite cells. Some of them referred to me as fresh meat when I passed by, one of them calling me a boy scout and detailing some merit badges he'd like to teach me. Another one speculated that I must be a real bad ass to be shackled. I stared straight ahead and ignored it all. At the end of the hall, one of the guards entered a code and the heavy steel door unlatched. They opened it and handed me off to another guard outside. I shielded my eyes from the sunlight. The heavy door closed and latched behind me. "Ten minutes," the yard dog told me. Apparently, that's what they called him. At least one of the other inmates outside with me called him that.

It was possibly the shortest ten minutes of my life. As the days wore on, however, it became the most cherished ten minutes. There was grass and shade trees. The trees were encased with steel fencing so that you couldn't climb them, but they provided shade and housed an occasional bird. I just stood in the sunlight, however and let it warm my whole body. I sat for a minute on a bench and watched a group of ants carry on their important business, mindless of the fact that they too, were in prison. But I didn't sit long. I had plenty of time for sitting. I wanted to walk.

"Time's up. Over here!" Yard Dog barked. I had no intention to cross him and made my way back to my door as quickly as my leg shackles allowed. After a few minutes wait, the same guards who escorted me there, took me back. But we didn't go back to my box. Instead, we turned right and entered a shower area where I'd been when they processed me in the day before. The guards took my wrist cuffs off and told me to remove my jumpsuit and underwear. Once my clothing was pooled around my ankles, they sat me on a bench and cuffed my wrists to the wall. One leg at a time, they removed the shackles and slipped my suit and underwear off. Once naked and shackled again, they un-cuffed my hands and led me to a shower nozzle. They cuffed just my left hand to a pipe that ran from the ceiling to the floor so that I could move up and down but not leave the immediate area of the shower spray. I washed with my right hand and it felt good to shower.

I could feel the eyes of other prisoners on my naked body and that creeped me out. I made eye contact with some of them and instead of looking away, they leered at me. I wondered if they knew who I was, but I doubted it. Just fresh meat, I supposed. A couple of them were masturbating. I was glad to have my flip flops still on my feet, not wanting to imagine what was on the concrete floor.

After my brief shower, I was led to a toilet without any dividers, where I was offered a chance to take a shit. I didn't need to, so I declined. I was issued fresh underwear but my same jumpsuit. Once dressed, performed just opposite of the way I'd been undressed, I was led back to my box. I found it clean. It had been sprayed down and smelled of a disinfectant. The trays were gone. I was happy to find a gallon jug of water. It was even cold. I drank a quart right off.

By evening, I needed to take a dump, but I had to hold it. That made the second night even less restful than the first night. I was desperately anxious for the guards to show up for my trip outside. When they finally did, it was so exciting. I asked if I could go to the head first before going outside, but they said no. The plan was never altered. I walked around slowly during my outdoor period. I needed to go so bad, I was in serious pain. I showered quickly and as soon as my ass cheeks hit the porcelain, I exploded. When I was done, one of the guards laughed at how much I'd deposited. "Bet you won't take a pass on the shitter anymore," he commented. '

"No. I won't," I agreed. I thought about how bad it must suck for them to watch guys do that as part of their job. Maybe you'd get used to it, but I wouldn't want to.

This went on for days until I was getting really worried. I lost track of the days and each day when the guards showed up for my precious ten minutes outdoors, I had to ask them what day it was. More than a week had passed and I had not spoken to anyone. Not my attorney, not the prosecutor, not anyone.

After lights were dimmed one night, I got up during one of my waking spells and went to the piss trough. I got naked and masturbated into the trough. I needed a physical release and I needed the psychological escape. I closed my eyes and imagined Steve and I in the woods, sitting on a log. Cool wind was blowing across our naked bodies. We kissed and caressed each other. I slowly fondled my naked body from my neck, down my chest and then my silky balls. I tickled my thighs and butt cheeks, all the time imagining it was Steve doing it. Finally, I took my erection in hand and pretended again that Steve and I were doing each other. I let it go on for a long time, bringing myself to the edge and then backing off over and over until my balls were a very dark blue. At last, I succumbed and whispered, "Cum, Shaney, cum," emitting a gasp, I blew a couple weeks' worth of cum into the trough. I put my forearm against the wall and leaned my forehead into it while I let the orgasm wash over me. I finished and stood there caressing myself for an uncertain amount of time. Time lost its meaning in there.

Three days later, I was retrieved right after breakfast. "Your attorney is here," the guard informed me.

"Yes! Finally!" I exclaimed.

They took me through the gate locks and into a room where a younger, dark haired, handsome attorney was sitting. "This is the wrong room," I told the guards. "He's not my attorney." They stared at me and then at the attorney.

"Hello, Shane," the young attorney said. "I'm Michael. I'm working on your case."

A rush of panic shot through me. Adam had finally had his fill of me. He'd dumped me and the court must have appointed this young guy to represent me. I wondered if I was his first criminal case. He didn't look any older than my brother, Tom. I was screwed.

I stood and stared at Michael, my new attorney.

"You're my new attorney?" I asked redundantly. "What happened to my other attorney, Adam?"

"Adam is still your attorney. I work with him. He just sent me here to take care of a few items, get your side of the story and to arrange a transfer for you."

"Oh, good." I sighed with relief. Michael smiled.

"Sorry if I scared you. I didn't mean to."

"No worries. I'm glad he hasn't given up on me," I said.

"Adam never gives up. Certainly never on someone he believes in."

I sat down and Michael opened up a leather binder. He prepared to take notes and started asking me some questions. "First of all, what happened on July 12th?"

"Is that the day I got arrested?" I asked. I'd lost track of time.

"Yes," he responded with a smile.

"I was home alone and doing some work at the desk in our family room. We use a corner of it for our family's new business. I was catching up on some paperwork and answering phones."

"Why were you home alone?" Michael asked.

"My parents and my friend had an appointment in Butte. Some guy wanted to propose becoming a dealer for the sprayers my dad invented."

"And your brother?" Michael asked.

"He got invited by some friends to go on a fishing trip."

"Go on. Tell me more about that day," Michael prodded.

"I got a strange call, two of them actually. One guy called and wanted to talk to my parents and then to my friend and even said he wanted to talk to my brother. He told me that he didn't want any help from me because I was gay, when I tried to get him to tell me what he wanted. It was just really strange. It scared me. I thought he might be some homophobic weirdo who would try to come over and attack me."

"About what time was that?" Michael asked.

"Around ten maybe," I answered.

"And the other call?"

"It was from some delivery guy who wanted me to go look for a package that he thought he had delivered wrong. So I spent a half hour or more looking for it out in the shop and in the barn."

"What time was that call?"

"Like about ten-thirty-ish."

"And did you go straight out to look for the package?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. I did."

"Did you find it?"

"No." I answered.

"Did the delivery man say who the intended recipient of the package was?"

"Umm, yeah. It started with Steel, like our last name. Let me think." Michael sat back and waited. "It was like Steel Fabricators or Steel Fabrication. I'm pretty sure."

"Did he seem legitimate?" Michael asked.

"You mean like was he making it up?" I clarified.

"Yes. Do you feel like he was sincere in what he said?"

"I guess so. Sure. Why would he lie about that?" I asked.

"And he definitely said that he had made the delivery the prior day?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. He said the package was about the size of a shoe box. Why?"

"We've checked on all the deliveries that came for a full week prior and none of them made that call," Michael explained.

"Oh my god!" I exclaimed. "That was just to get me out of the house so Colt could get in. And the other call was to make sure I was really alone."

"That's what we believe."

"Have you traced the numbers?" I asked.

"Naturally. Both were from burners. Burners are prepaid phones paid for with cash. Not traceable. Both were purchased from the same location here in Kalispell."

"Shit. It's obvious I was set up!" I said. "I can't believe Colt would go along with this. No wonder he said what he did."

"What did he say?" Michael asked.

"He said something like he was sorry. He didn't want to. He didn't finish saying exactly what he didn't want to do. I thought he meant he didn't want to get me in more trouble or something."

"Finish taking me through that morning when Colt showed up," Michael asked. I told about hearing a noise while I was in the shop and wondering if a car had driven up, but there was nothing there. I explained that I went in and called the guy back about the package. "Then I heard Colt upstairs and he was naked at the top of the stairs and said he had to show me something in my room," I said.

"That must have been a shock," Michael replied.

"A big one. I yelled at him and ran upstairs. When I got there, he was sitting on my bed jacking himself. He asked me to join in. I just threw his clothes at him and told him to get dressed and leave. That's when he mumbled about being sorry. He started crying and was really upset. He took off without getting dressed. I ran after him to stop him from going out naked, but he was already on his bike and pedaling down our lane by the time I got outside. Did he go home that way?" I asked Michael.

"No. That's not in the police report, and I'm sure it would be if he had. The report indicates that he came home upset and crying. When his mother questioned him, he told her that he went to ask you to get him a condom. According to the report, he claimed that he wanted to show it off to friends at the rodeo and pretend he was having sex with a girl from school. He claims you invited him into your room and asked him whether he knew how to use a condom. He told his mother that you made him get naked before you would give him the condom and that you played with his penis, he actually called it his wiener, until it got hard and then he claims you demonstrated how to roll a condom on. The opened, unused condom was found in your trash can."

"None of that is true." I said.

"We expected that. Now we need to prove it," Michael responded. "The boy also reported that you stopped him from getting dressed and that you got naked and laid on top of him, holding him down. He said you rubbed your penis against his and forcibly kissed him. He said he was scared and played along so you wouldn't hurt him. He claims you had told him that you wanted to show him what gay sex was really like."

I shook my head in disbelief. I felt sick. "Someone really messed with that kid's head to coach him into making all that up and do this to me, and I'm pretty sure I know who. His father is a psycho and has some weird, homophobic hatred for me. He beat me up over it and might have killed me if some news guys hadn't come along at just the right time," I explained.

"Yes," Michael said. "Adam filled me in on that. It seems logical that his father is behind this framing.

The problem, like I said, is proving it."

"There is something else about his dad that we just found out. I don't know if it will help or not. I was with my brother and my friend, Whittaker, and their girlfriends at the diner across the street from the motel a while ago. It was the motel where we made the video for my other trial. We saw Sheriff Withers go to the motel and we wondered why. We wondered if it had something to do with me. We ran across the street and my brother went in and followed him upstairs and he saw him go into a room with Reverend Lewis, the reverend from our old church where we used to go to. The two of them are secret gay lovers," I said.

"What makes you think that?" Michael asked.

"My brother, Billy, sneaked up the stairway close enough to hear them talking when Reverend Lewis let him in the room. It was definitely what they were meeting up for. Billy even took a video of them on his phone and showed it to us."

"Hmm, interesting. That's certainly helpful," Michael answered. He scribbled furiously on his pad. He asked all kinds of details.

"Getting back to Colt's report on the incident, he claims that you attempted several times to penetrate him but that you couldn't force your penis to go in. He said you got upset and kept telling him to relax. He said you tied his hands to the bed with some white ropes, which the investigators found under your bed. He said you went to find a brush and some lotion. He claims you told him that you were going to loosen him up first with the brush handle so you could teach him how fun it is to get ass-fucked." Michael paused and stared at me to assess my reaction.

Then he continued, "According to him, you smeared lotion on the handle and forced it into his rectum and wiggled it around. The medical exam confirmed that he had been penetrated with something consistent with a smooth round stick. He said you took pictures of him that way and posted them on the internet. The police found those postings on your computer as well as other links to young gay porn and some other downloads, but nothing that would be clearly underage. There were also hetero porn images saved on your hard drive which appear to have been done under your brother's login. There were pictures of Colt with the brush inside of him, pictures of him erect and masturbating on your bed and in your desk chair as well as a couple of him tied up naked on your bed with the white cotton ropes that were found under your bed. Any idea how that happened? Did he have a camera with him or his cell phone?"

"Not that I remember. I mean, I didn't check the pockets of his pants. He could have had one in there. I don't remember feeling it. He could have taken it with the camera built into my monitor, I guess. If he knew how to use the program to do it with," I supposed.

"That doesn't play well for you. There is zero tolerance for that. The good thing is that having that on there and posted makes it a federal offence and gets it into the same federal case as the Daniel incident. The state prosecutor is not happy about losing this case to the federal courts."

"I hate that guy. He is just plain evil," I grumbled.

"To wrap it up, Colt claims that he ejaculated while you were violating him with the brush handle. Again, he used different words. He said you fucked him in his ass with the brush until he shot his jizz. He then says you used both his underwear and yours to wipe up his ejaculate, or jizz as he calls it."

"I would never do that. Never!" I said. "I don't look at child porn and I don't mess with kids. I would never do either of those things. I hate that stuff."

Michael shrugged, "We believe you." Then he finished, "Colt claims you took the brush out of his ass and untied him after he had his orgasm, but says that you made him stay naked while you forced him to suck on your penis. He claims you made him suck on it until you had an orgasm. He said it scared him and he pulled off while you finished shooting your ejaculate onto his face and neck. He claims you wiped it off him and said the two of you should take a shower. He says that's when he grabbed his other clothes and ran off, while you were in the bathroom. He said you chased him but he got away on his bike."

"That's just all so sick and disgusting. How could anyone be so depraved as to make him lie about all that? I mean if they wanted to frame me, then okay, have him sneak in and jack off onto my boxers. That's clever. But all that other shit, that's just a sick thing to do to a kid. Especially if his old man put him up to it. Colt's at risk of really being abused if he hasn't already been. You have to get him some help," I said. "His father is dangerous!"

"First things first. We have to gather enough evidence to show that the Sheriff set you up," Michael said.

"The brush part of his story is confusing. There was no clear evidence that it was used to penetrate the boy's anus. If it had been used, there would have been traces of fecal matter on it as well as lotion. It did have both his and your fingerprints on it on the opposite sides of the bristles, but nothing else. Unless there was a separate, but identical brush at your house that was used."

"That's because I saw it on my floor next to the lotion bottle. I scrubbed the handle clean and even used Clorox on it to sanitize it. Then I put it away."

"Aha. We really wondered about that," Michael said. "That will play into the prosecutor's hand by appearing that you were removing evidence of what you'd done to him. The police found a pair of your red plaid boxers along with a pair of Colt's underwear stuffed under your mattress. Colt's semen was found on his underwear and on yours, but what we can't understand is why your semen was also found only on your underwear. Colt obviously had time to ejaculate onto his and onto yours, but we have no explanation for your large quantity of semen," Michael explained.

"Oh no," I said. "I had a wet dream and stuffed my boxers in with my dirty clothes pile. Colt must have pulled them out and used them. I was out of other underwear in my drawer. My drawers were open and Colt had obviously been looking through them, but I couldn't see anything missing. I bet when he couldn't find a clean pair, he used the ones in my dirty clothes pile."

"Oh my. Not good. That does explain it. I wonder if they can determine how old or how fresh his semen residue was as compared to yours," Michael spoke out loud. "The presumption will be that you only used your underwear to clean up your ejaculate, which brings me to that point. There's one more troubling thing you can hopefully help us with. Colt claimed that when you ejaculated into his mouth, that you moaned and said 'Cum, Shaney, cum!' Can you explain why he would say that?"

I was stunned. I had no idea how he would know to say that. I racked my brain to remember all the conversations I'd had with him and whether I ever would have said something like that. I shook my head slowly, side to side. "No," I drawled. "I can't. That is something I got in the habit of saying from when I was about twelve maybe. But I don't have any idea how Colt would know to say that. Honest. I have no idea."

"Hmm."

"What?" I asked.

"Well, your brother and your friend, David, both confirmed to us that you have that habit upon ejaculating. We hoped you could be more enlightening on how Colt knew it."

"I don't know. Honestly, I don't." I could see Michael was uneasy with my answer. "I swear!"

"Last couple of things, did you ever communicate with Colt by leaving him notes?" Michael asked.

"Notes? No. How would I even do that? No," I answered. That was puzzling.

"Didn't think so. Last item. How often did you entertain sexual fantasies involving Colt? Did you ever tell anyone that you had them?" Michael just put it out there like it was an already established fact.

"What? No. No, no, no. I never had fantasies about Colt. Who told you that?" I demanded.

"C'mon, Shane. This young boy is practically throwing himself at you. He's asking you advice about sex. You took his number in the boy's room and you called him. You attended his rodeo. It's not a crime to fantasize, but it is to act on it. How often did you think about it?" Michael pushed.

"NEVER! I swear it."

"Okay, I'll let Adam know that," Michael said, scribbling some final notes and asking a few more details.

"You think of anything else. And I mean anything, you need to let us know next time we meet."

"When will that be?" I asked.

"That depends. A week or two, possibly."

"Meanwhile I have to stay in here?" I asked. I detailed how awful it was to sit in that box they had me locked up in by myself. I asked if he could do something to get me out of the box.

Michael placed a sympathetic hand on my forearm and said understandingly, "No, I can't do that. If I could, I wouldn't. You don't want to leave the box. Believe me about that. Do your best to deal with it, until we get you transferred."

"Transferred?" I asked.

"Yes. You will be going to Caspar, Wyoming for the Federal District Court hearing. Normally, you would have already been arraigned, but given the unusual nature of the case and the other case going on with the little boy, Daniel, it has been a little complicated sorting out who would try you first and where and if they would combine the cases. The state prosecutor wanted to keep the Colt case in his court system, but since there is an internet child pornography aspect to it, that allows it into the federal jurisdiction and they will try both cases together."

"Is that good or bad?" I asked.

"Good. It only gives them one swing at you. Besides, the Federal prosecutor doesn't have the same vendetta against you that the State prosecutor seems to harbor," Michael explained. "Although, it seems that the Federal prosecutor is going to allow the State guy to be involved in the investigation and also be on the prosecution team as an advisor since he has done so much work on both cases already."

"Will the jail be better than here?" I asked.

"Yes, for sure," Michael answered. "Everyone at the Federal Court holding facility is either in the midst of their trial or awaiting trial, so they're all wrapped up in that. There aren't any long term inmates there serving lengthy sentences so it's a much different crowd from the State penitentiary or County jail."

"Good," I answered. "How long again?"

Michael smiled, "A week, or two, tops."

"Okay. One would definitely be better," I said. Michael agreed with an understanding smile.

On the way back to my cell, we stopped while my guard held a conversation with another guard. I happened to be stopped directly in front of my neighbor's box. Through the small window, I could see the sad occupant. A gaunt, nude man who looked fifty but was probably in his twenties sat on the floor pulling at his greasy, disheveled hair. His eyes were abnormally wide and wild. He gritted his teeth and growled as he pinched himself and jerked at his hair. He caught my eye and in a flash, leapt to his feet and launched himself at the small window. He pressed his contorted face to the window and began screaming a litany of obscenities at me. I backed away and the guard noticed. He shook his head at me and pulled me a few steps away from the view of the window. It left me very unsettled.

Back in my cell, I flopped onto my plastic covered mattress and stared at the ceiling. I focused on the single light bulb until it blurred into my field of vision. I wondered about my situation. I pondered all the information I'd just learned from Michael. I kept drifting to the guy in the neighboring cell. I wondered what his childhood had been like. Had he once been an innocent little child? What had he seen and experienced. If he had gotten into meth, like I suspected, what drove him to do that to himself? I shuddered. I thought about Steve and his upbringing and how it had shaped his life and philosophy of life. I considered what experiences had shaped my life. I thought about the self-imposed shame I'd heaped on myself once I'd become painfully aware of my difference. I struggled so long against my unshakable fascination with guys and especially with their penises. How had this molded my character?

I wondered if my desperate need to be accepted and to please others grew from this life long struggle. Part of why I loved Steve so much was because he had become my mental Messiah. He'd freed me from the burdens of constantly struggling against myself. In spite of all the senseless crap that happened to me since Steve's disappearance, I wouldn't have traded that physical prison, for going back into that psychological prison I'd been voluntarily living in. I was fortunate that my family accepted my reality, much easier than even I had accepted it. I'd fought it for so long and I was so tired. I was growing tired of the legal fight also. But I had to keep hope. I had to hold on to Whittaker's confidence that it would all work out. It was growing more and more difficult with each new blow.

The prosecution was every bit as determined to ruin my life as Gordo Matthews had been back in my first year at junior high. I have no idea how he knew I was gay when I didn't even know it, or admit it, myself. But he was relentless in making sure I didn't have a shred of self-respect left. I didn't have Billy around to outshine me since he was still back in grade school.

I'd actually made friends with a girl in my science class. As I was laying there on the stained plastic mattress, pondering my life, I vividly recalled that fateful day in the hall. Candice had smiled at me and waved me over where she was hanging with a couple of her girlfriends. She introduced me. We exchanged nods and said "Hey."

I'd talked my mom into buying me a pair of shorts that were in style then with an elastic waist. Of course, she insisted that they had to be a little bit too big so I could 'grow into them'. I'd forgotten my sweet fabric belt that went with them and they were sagging a bit. I'd also convinced her to buy me boxers instead of the tighty-whities I'd worn in grade school. I wanted to fit in every way possible.

Candice was asking if I was planning on going to the school carnival on Saturday. It was an annual fundraiser and I could tell she was hinting about us going together. Suddenly, just as I was about to ask if she wanted to ride over with my family, Gordo the gorilla showed up. "Hey faggot," he sneered. "What's a little queer boy doin' talking with girls?"

"Shut-up Gordo," Candice said. "Don't be rude."

I felt small and weak with a girl defending me against this bully. "Yeah, Gordo, shut your stupid mouth and go away!" I said.

"What did you say?" Gordo the gorilla asked threateningly.

My heart raced. I had no shot at defending myself against Gordo. He was a head taller and much broader than me. He was a little overweight but still much stronger than me. "Please just leave," I said. Hoping he would, knowing there was no chance.

"Who's gonna make me?" Gordo asked. "You?"

I was in a bad spot. I remembered weighing my options. I thought I could make an excuse about having to be somewhere and take off before Gordo embarrassed me any more in front of the girls. A second option was to make a stand and get the crap beat out of me, but avoid looking like a chicken. I never got a chance to make the choice. Gordo the gorilla never gave me time. One of his crew crept behind me and got on all fours. Gordo sneered, "You're such a pussy."

He gave me a shove and I fell backwards over his accomplice and hit my head hard on the floor of the hallway. While I was laying there stunned, Gordo grabbed the legs of my shorts and gave them a jerk. He claimed afterwards to the vice principal that he didn't mean for my boxers to come off too, but they did. Seeing my very small, pre-pubescent dick and balls, Gordo and his gang pointed and jeered, "Look! The little faggot's got a baby dick. He needs a diaper."

I was totally humiliated. I scrambled as best I could to get my shorts back up but the boxers rolled up and twisted around one leg and I couldn't pull them up. The crowd grew larger by the minute to see what was going on as I struggled to pull up my shorts with one hand while covering my privates as best I could with my other one. In desperation, I jerked my shorts and boxers completely off and ran to the boy's room to put myself back together. Daniel Moss, a kid I knew from fifth grade, took pity on me and brought me my backpack and papers that went flying across the hallway. He left them by the sink and called through the stall door to let me know they were there. Between stifled sobs, I thanked him.

Between that, and getting laughed at by the first girl I asked to a junior high dance, I pretty much swore off trying to date any girls for the rest of my school career. Once I gave in to the notion that I was possibly gay, I decided it definitely wasn't worth the effort. I looked so forward to college and the chance to start fresh and sort things out, and then Steve became my roommate and I was in lust. After he came to my house for Christmas and liberated me, I was in love.

I thought how nice it would have been if on the first day of junior high, we all could have gotten the sorting hat put on our heads, like in Harry Potter. It could've told us you're in the Cool Jock group, or in the Straight Regular Guy group, or the Awkward Gay Kid group. Then I'd have known for sure and so would've everyone else and it would just be, so what? I hoped that someday, it would come to that. Great strides were being made in that direction. Although great prejudice was still out there, the tide was turning toward acceptance. That kind of societal change takes time, however. Time that was not working for me. Sheriff Withers and the State prosecutor were determined to keep bullying me at almost any cost, with no more concern for the impact it was having on my life than Gordo had shown back in junior high. They were just bullies, bigger and more powerful than Gordo, but bullies just the same. I remained the hapless victim, still confused about why they had chosen me.

The days came and went, came and went, came and went. One not unlike the other. The time outside the box was extremely precious. I found an anthill and I looked forward every day to squatting beside it and watching the small creatures go busily about their business oblivious to the fact that they were in prison. They were living in their own micro world going about their business unaware that I was even there, capable at any moment of destroying their peaceful existence with one stomp of my foot. But I would never do that. That would make me the bully.

I was awakened one morning while the bulb was still dimmed. "Get up. You're transporting today," the guard barked. "Ten minutes." I was taken to use the restroom.

I was shackled and led through the dual locking doors, past the woman sitting in her booth of thick glass, and out of the side door to a parking structure. I was handed a small packet of papers in a manila envelope, which I was instructed to read during the trip. I was placed in an unmarked mini-van and my hands were unshackled but my feet were not. I was the only passenger. Off we went to Caspar, Wyoming. On the way, I read the packet that described the rules and regulations as well as the procedure for arrival of a new inmate at the Federal Court holding facility. It also talked about the visiting procedures and how court appearances would be handled. It all seemed very organized.

I spent most of my time just relishing the scenery through the tinted van windows. I didn't speak with the guards and they didn't speak to me. It was usually better that way. The guards discussed some professional baseball game that they'd both watched. They had lives. I did not. I spent my time wondering what this new chapter would bring.

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This was a long chapter. I hope you found it intriguing -- Hans, h.schreiber@hushmail.com