17. Anderson
17
ANDERSON
E very interrogation room looks alike. I haven’t been in many of them—most of my client’s troubles are not of the legal variety. But each one smells like sweat and fear. They have a rudimentary set of chairs and tables. Sometimes, there’s the big mirror that you know is one-way, sometimes there isn’t one. No clocks. If you’re lucky, there’s a window for natural light, but when interrogating a suspect, it’s best practice to keep a suspect off their game, and that means no window. The passage of time is psychologically grounding, so with no window and no clock, a suspect loses that grounding.
This room has no window, a one-way mirror, and the chairs give my Dad’s office chairs a run for their money in the uncomfortableness department. It’s the room they use for serious suspects, I’d imagine. Considering their focus is a murder, it seems appropriate I was brought here.
Doesn’t make it any more palatable, though.
Otto says, “Remember what we talked about, Anderson.”
“I know.”
“I know, you know, but lawyers make the worst clients. You’re used to doing the talking. Now’s the time to keep your mouth shut.”
“I know.”
“If they ask you a question, you look at me. I’ll nod if you’re to answer.”
I huff. “I. Know.”
“Then you also know why I’m drilling this into you, so you can take the attitude down a notch. Belligerence doesn’t win you friends. Not with the cops, not with me.”
“Apologies, Otto.”
“Don’t worry about my feelings, Anderson. Just keep yours in check.”
Two men walk in. Suits, not uniforms. One has a file folder in his hands. They sit across from us. The file folder guy begins, “Thank you for coming in peacefully, Mr. West. I am Detective Banks. This is my partner, Detective Wachowski. Understand, this conversation is being recorded.”
I shrug.
“We’d like to begin by asking some questions regarding Neil Johnson. Are you aware he is deceased?”
It’s a benign enough question, but still, I look to Pym. I want him to know I’ll play by his rules for now. He nods, so I respond, “Yes.”
“How did you come about that knowledge?”
I killed him.
Pym nods. “I saw it on TV.”
Wachowski sits back. “Why are you checking in with Pym before you answer? Nervous?”
“Out of line, Wachowski,” Pym snaps. “You’re homicide detectives, which means you think this is a murder, and you’re looking at him like you want his dick for lunch. Why the hell wouldn’t he be nervous?”
The detective glares at Pym but says nothing in response.
Banks says, “We understand your girlfriend knew the deceased, as well. In fact, we’ve narrowed down his time of death to the last night she saw him. That’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?”
Trap . I don’t even bother looking at Pym. He grouses, “Are you going to keep up with this rookie shit because we both have better places to be.”
Banks taps his finger on the table, thinking. “Mr. West, what do you think of your girlfriend kissing the deceased in front of her place of work? Are you into some kind of polyamory thing or something?”
Just trying to rile me up. I glance at Pym, who nods. I keep my voice level and aloof. “We are not polyamorous. She kissed him while we were not together.”
“Interesting,” Wachowski says. “June is a firecracker, so I get why you’re not enough man for her. You’re smart. You know it, too. Makes sense why you’d follow her. I mean, who wants to get cheated on, am I right?”
“Beating around this particular bush will get you nowhere, Wachowski,” Pym says. “Ms. Devlin is not a cheater. Mr. Anderson is not a murderer. You have nothing on them, or you would have arrested them by now. This is amateur hour, and I’m bored, so either cut to the chase, or we walk.”
“The thing about that is we do have something. Or things, rather,” Banks says. He opens his file folder but doesn’t show us what’s in it. He’s looking at something in there. “On the night in question, a man matching your description was seen at the docks where Mr. Johnson’s body was found.”
His words are ice in my veins, but Pym laughs. “A tall white guy with black hair was seen at the docks at night? Stop the presses.”
“We have witnesses that put you near Ms. Devlin’s building the night of the crime,” Wachowski says.
“I’d love to speak to these so-called witnesses,” Pym sneers.
Really wishing I had his confidence right about now. I shrug and act bored. “Your witnesses are obviously mistaken.”
“Maybe they are,” Banks says as he leans forward, “but cameras rarely lie.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Maintaining a cool exterior is getting harder by the second. If I was caught on camera doing anything outside of my alibi, I am fucked. But I’m not giving them an inch. They might have more than they’re letting on, but they might not.
One thing that always stuck out to me in law school was the fact that cops are allowed to lie to you. Didn’t seem fair to me then, and it’s certainly not now. I don’t want to go to trial, but that’s the only place they’re not allowed to lie to you. Doesn’t mean they don’t do it, but at least they’re less likely to lie in a courtroom.
I glance to Pym to keep up the question-and-answer status quo. But he’s the one who responds. “Was that a question, Detective? Or are you just spit balling ideas for your next empty accusation?”
Banks smiles. “I like you, Pym. I always have. But I need you to understand just how much trouble your client is in right now. We have a mountain of evidence that puts him at the scene of the crime, and if this goes to trial, it won’t go the way you want it to.”
“And you’re telling me this as a favor?” Pym scoffs. “No, you’re saying it to make Mr. West nervous because that’s all you have. Scare tactics. If?—"
“You should be scared,” Wachowski says directly to me. “Prison is mean to pretty boys, especially the rich ones. You rich fucks always think you can do whatever you want, don’t you? This was cold-blooded murder out of jealousy because your girl is a slut. You?—"
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I snap.
But the detective only smirks. “Why? You gonna throw me in the bay, too?”
“Enough,” Pym interjects. “Unless you have something concrete, my client has nothing to say to you.” His gentle reminder to keep my mouth shut.
I’m embarrassed that I needed that reminder, but this guy bugs me, and I’m about to go to fucking prison if I’m not careful. Sweat pours down my back, and it’s not warm in here. It’s me. Feels like a noose is tightening. I still have no clue what evidence they have against me, but they’re making it sound like they got me on camera someplace. Yes, they can lie to me during interrogation, but how far would they keep that lie going?
“We have plenty of evidence against your client, Pym,” Banks says coolly. “But we gave you the chance to talk to us like men and set the record straight. Mr. West, how about you do that? Tell us where you were on the night in question—the truth this time—and we’ll make sure the prosecutors go easy on you. We just want some cooperation so we can put this case to bed. Mr. Johnson’s family deserves some closure.”
I glance at Pym, and he nods. “I already gave you my statement.” Our agreed upon response if they came at me like this.
Banks sighs, then nods to Wachowski, who barks, “That joke of a statement has more holes in it than I-93. We have you, pretty boy. Witnesses, cameras, fingerprints, DNA. It’s gonna be fucking sweet to see your privileged ass behind bars, and on a murder charge, it’ll be decades before you breathe the free air again.” He laughs. “Just imagine June, all lonely and brokenhearted that her man is in prison … she won’t be lonely for long, will she? A slut like her?—"
I want to lunge across the table and punch the detective, but Pym speaks up, “You paint a pretty picture. A shame you won’t be able to see it, Wachowski. We both know if you had any of that, Mr. West would be behind bars right now. So cut the bullshit.”
The detectives sit back in unison before Wachowski says, “When you’re gone, maybe I’ll call June myself.”
I snort a laugh at the thought. “Not sure your pride could take it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’d laugh in your face, and I don’t think your ego would ever recover.”
“So that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” Banks asks. He sounds like he thinks he’s onto something. Too much confidence in his voice, but he’s trying to sound soothing. “Seeing her with him that night—your pride took a hit you couldn’t recover from, right? I mean, I get it. Seeing your woman with another man … that’s gotta hurt. Can’t even imagine how bad. It’s understandable, Mr. West. We’re all human. People make mistakes. Sometimes, those mistakes go too far. Things get out of control fast in a bad situation. My partner thinks this was a premeditated thing, but I don’t think so. This was a crime of passion, if ever there was one. Juries understand these things. So do prosecutors and judges. You don’t have to live with the guilt forever. You’re a good man, so I know this is eating at you. If you sign a confession, this will all go a lot easier on you.”
Pym told me not to be belligerent, but right now, it feels like that’s the only thing I have going for me. They’ve got me in a corner, don’t they? If this were a dog-and-pony show, they would have given up by now, right? Fuck, I don’t know. All I know is I need to get out of here before I say something incriminating. I can’t breathe in this damn room, and the vultures are circling.
I bark, “If I had something to confess, I’d fucking do it by now just to be done with the two of you. In fact … ” I stand up. “I’m not under arrest, so I’m walking out that door. Pym’s right. You’ve got nothing on me. I’m out.” I stomp to the door, trying to project righteous indignation instead of culpability.