Chapters (41)
Instead, there are two cameras mounted to the ceiling, one facing me (the suspect) and the other facing the interrogator. I’m at the local police station but it is an FBI agent who first comes in.
He is tall and built like a football player, though those days are well behind him. His hair is cut short, straight across the top, a look popular with 1980’s TV movie villains. He asks me a series of questions that I have no intention of answering or even justifying with a response. When he sees that he’s not getting anywhere, he leaves and sends in a replacement.
Scrawny and lean, he doesn’t look much older than thirty and yet I can tell that he has been around the block a few times in his career. He doesn’t give off the same goofy vibe as the other one and appears more threatening with his demeanor. If it were anyone else, perhaps I would have felt that way. The first guy was playing the role of a good cop and this one is definitely the bad cop.
“Listen, you don’t need to try to scare me,” I say, sitting back in the most uncomfortable chair on the planet. “I already told you and the other guy. I want to talk to my lawyer.”
“You don’t have one,” he points out.
“I’m entitled to one, right? This is still America?”
Begrudgingly, the FBI agent nods.
“I would like to call a lawyer and until I have him with me, I’m not saying another word.”
The FBI agent whose name I already forgot folds his arms across his chest and puffs it out in frustration.
“This isn’t going to help your case,” he finally says. “If you talk to us, and explain, I might be able to help you.”
With my arms shackled to each side of the table, I can’t move so I just sit up a little and look him straight in the eyes.
“I don’t think so, kid,” I say slowly and then sit back.
Without another word, he leaves the room.
I look up at the camera and give it a wink. I didn’t get far but at least I didn’t give them anything that they were looking for.
Cops often don’t know as much as they want you to believe they do. So, they want to make their case by talking to you. It’s tempting, of course. You’re in chains and you want to explain how this whole thing is a terrible mistake. But I force myself to keep my mouth shut.
When the doorknob turns, I brace myself for yet another FBI agent.
Good cop didn’t work.
Bad cop didn’t work.
So, what the hell are they going to throw at me now?
“Hello, Nicholas,” Art Hedison says and my heart jumps into my throat.