Until Proven Guilty Read Free Page A

sit on the bed, then took a small tape recorder from my pocket.
    “Do you know what we’re going to do?” He shook his head. “I’m going to ask you some questions and record both the questions and the answers.”
    “Are you sure it’s okay? I mean, we’re not supposed to talk to people.”
    “Why?”
    “Pastor Michael says that people on the outside are tools of the devil and that we can catch it from them. It’s like chicken pox.”
    “You won’t catch anything from me, Jeremiah. I promise.” I switched on the recorder. “My name is Detective J. P. Beaumont. It’s five twenty-five p.m. on Thursday, April twenty-eighth. This statement is being taken in reference to Angel Barstogi, deceased. What is your name, please?”
    “Jeremiah Mason.”
    “And are you giving this statement willingly?”
    He nodded his head. “You’ll have to give your answers aloud,” I told him.
    “Yes,” he whispered.
    “Did you know Angel, Angela Barstogi?”
    “Yes.” His answer was so muted that I didn’t know whether or not my recorder would pick it up.
    “You’ll have to speak a little louder, Jeremiah.”
    “Yes,” he said again.
    “When is the last time you saw her?”
    “Last night at church. We were playing tag.”
    “Was there anything unusual about her last night?”
    He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said, remembering the recorder.
    “How long have you known Angel?”
    “Long time,” he replied.
    “Were you friends?”
    He made a face. “Angel’s a girl,” he said. Obviously being a girl precluded her being a friend. “Besides,” he added, “she’s just a little kid.”
    “Do you know why we’re here asking questions?”
    “Somebody said it’s because Angel’s dead.”
    “That’s true. And we’re trying to find out who did it. That’s my job.”
    “Pastor Michael says God did it because Angel wouldn’t obey the rules.”
    “What rules?”
    “She was all the time talking to people. Even when Pastor Michael got after her, she still did it.”
    “He got after her?”
    “He gave her a licking in church. That’s what he always does, but Angel never cried no matter what he did. The other kids knew that if they’d cry he’d stop. Angel wouldn’t cry. That made him real mad.”
    “I’ll just bet it did,” I said. “And what about you? Did you ever get a licking in church?”
    He nodded. “Once for stealing some food from the kitchen after dinner and once for running away.”
    “Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble?”
    He nodded again. “Pastor’s mad that we’re all talking to you.”
    “How old are you, Jeremiah?”
    “Eight.” As we spoke, I had noticed a bruise on top of his wrist. A small part of it was visible at the bottom of his sleeve. I pushed the shirt sleeve up, revealing five distinct marks on his arm, a thumb and four fingers.
    “How did that happen?”
    He shrugged and looked sheepish. “I fell down,” he said.
    “Where do you live?”
    “In Ballard, not far from the church.”
    “With your parents?”
    “With my mom and my stepfather.”
    “And how does he treat you, your stepfather?”
    “All right, I guess.”
    I could see I had gone beyond what he would tell me. It was one thing to talk about Angela Barstogi. It was quite another to talk about Jeremiah Mason. He could still feel pain. Angel couldn’t. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”
    He considered. “I’m going to miss Angel,” he said, “even if she was a girl.”
    I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card with my name and telephone number on it. “If anyone gets after you about today, I want you to call me, understand?” He nodded.
    I started toward the door but Jeremiah stopped me. He reached behind a broken-down dresser and pulled out a cup, a child’s cup with the ABC’s around the top and bottom. The name Angela was written in bright red letters on one side. Gingerly he handed it to me.
    “It was hers,” he said. “Pastor