Chapter 8
Sounds About Right to Remain Silent
TRE
“Order up!” I shout.
Sandy scoops the plates onto her serving tray with practiced ease and vanishes to deliver another table’s lunch.
The bell above the door rings as I check the ticket for the next order. I glance over my shoulder and see two of the sheriff’s department’s brown uniforms. “Hey Kev, grab a seat wherever you can find one,” I call out and then slap a couple of burger patties on the grill.
I step over to the fryer and check on the fries when Kevin replies, “Actually, Tre, we need you to come with us.”
I turn around to make sure I heard correctly. “Excuse me?”
“We have some questions we’d like to discuss with you back at the station.”
“Questions? About what?” I demand.
“Please, just come with us. We’ll give you a ride to the station and sort it all out there.”
“I’m kinda busy here.”
“Don’t make this difficult, Tre. Sheriff just wants to ask you some questions.”
“Well, unless you want to explain to half the town why they don’t get to eat on their lunch break today, you can wait until I’m off work. My shift doesn’t end for a few hours, so I’ll stop by sometime this afternoon.”
A thin man with dark brown hair and pointy features, who I’ve never seen before, steps out from behind the deputies.
“Mr. White, this is a very serious matter that requires urgent attention.” I can tell from his pale skin, white button-down shirt, and pressed black slacks that he’s the sort who spends all day in office buildings and doesn’t get outside enough. He’s clearly not a local.
“And who the hell are you? What’s the matter, Kevin? You guys are hiring contractors now, too?”
The background noise of the diner has dwindled to almost nothing. Everyone seems to realize news is happening right in front of them, and they aren’t going to miss a word. I may love Kalomish, but small communities live for gossip.
“I’m a representative of Henley and Montank—”
“Get out. You’re not welcome in my establishment. You need to leave.”
“Sir, that’s not necessary—”
“The courts have been very clear: I am within my rights to refuse service to anyone. If the bigots can do it, so can I. If you don’t go now, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing, harassment, loitering, soliciting, and anything else I can think of.
Thankfully, the long arm of the law is here already.
” I stare him down, and Kevin raises his hand in front of the guy, who hesitates for a moment, then walks out the door.
“It doesn’t need to go down this way, Tre,” Kevin tries again.
The bell over the door jingles, announcing the arrival of three road construction workers who are momentarily oblivious to the standoff they walked into.
“I already agreed to come by this afternoon. There’s nothing going down. Just let the sheriff know he has to wait a few hours. Unless you really want to shut down the diner with all these people in it—in which case you’ll need a warrant—and how does that benefit anyone?”
The deputies glance around. I scan the restaurant as well and notice a couple of phones pointed our way.
Shit. Fiona is definitely going to hear about this.
It’s going to be one more reason for her to want to avoid having anything to do with me, I realize.
She came in for coffee this morning, but this might be enough to make her decide not to come back.
Kevin and his partner, Deputy Wassermann—according to his name tag—decide a delay is better than becoming a spectacle.
“The sheriff doesn’t enjoy waiting, Tre.
For your own sake, don’t take too long. If you aren’t there this afternoon, I wouldn’t expect the next visitor to ask politely,” Kevin says, and they head outside.
“Welcome, grab a seat wherever you can find one,” I tell the three newcomers. The smell of burnt meat hits my nostrils. “Oh crap!”
I rush to the grill and scoop the slightly charred burgers into the garbage.
Then I check the fries again, but they’re overcooked, too.
“Jackie! Can you go grab me some new fries? These are trash.” I pull the basket out of the oil to drain before dumping them in the garbage.
“Hey Sandy, can you make sure those water pitchers are refilled?”
They jolt back to activity, and the rest of the diner takes the cue to resume their conversations as I work the next ticket.
The rest of my shift is uneventful until I swap out at two o’clock.
I go to my apartment and change out of my greasy clothes.
I consider taking a shower, maybe drawing things out as long as I can, but decide there’s no point in antagonizing them.
I’m not worried about their questions, though.
If they actually had any evidence, they would’ve already arrested me.
It’s like Fiona said, of course they’re going to suspect me.
I’ve been one of the loudest opponents of the developments.
I’ll let them ask their questions and play dumb.
Eventually, they’ll realize they don’t have any good reason to think I’m the one who did it.
I drive the few miles over to the sheriff’s department, arriving around three.
I take the closest space in the nearly empty visitor parking lot and walk in.
In the entry vestibule, a few spartan chairs are spread along the wall facing the reception desk, where a single deputy is seated behind a computer monitor trying not to show her boredom.
I beam a smile at her and say, “Hey Aimee. I’m here to see the sheriff. Do you know where I should go?”
She frowns. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. White?”
Cops always love to lean into formality, as if it gives them more authority.
They tend to think a uniform and a title should impress or intimidate people, but that doesn’t mean I need to play along.
Especially not when I know the majority of the department.
Aimee got the job because she’s Sheriff Morris’s niece, and she’s more desperate than most to be taken seriously.
I look at her for a moment before answering, gauging whether she’s messing with me or if she’s been kept so out of the loop she doesn’t know they want to interrogate me.
Maintaining my smile, I cheerfully supply, “Oh, he’s expecting me.
Should I go on back?” I point at the door on the back wall next to the end of the reception desk and take a step toward it.
“Wait here,” she orders, picking up the phone. After a brief conversation that’s too quiet to overhear, she tells me, “A deputy will come escort you shortly.”
I haven’t bothered sitting, and I’m watching the interior door when the one behind me opens. “Ah, Mr. White, I’m in time.”
I turn to see a tall, round man with a bald head and bushy black eyebrows entering. I make room as he extends his hand to me. “Arthur Kostas. I’m here to represent you.”
I take his hand because it’s the polite thing to do. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you, and I didn’t call you to represent me.”
“Of course. I’ve been retained by your father, or rather, my firm has. He called this afternoon to make certain we would be present to provide counsel. He was very insistent.” Arthur passes me a business card, as though it’s enough to prove what he’s saying.
I guess word of the incident at the diner made it to my dad already. That means Fiona has probably heard about it by now, too.
“Mr. White, please come with me,” a deep voice booms from the interior door.
I’m facing my supposed attorney but pitch my voice so that the deputies should be able to hear. “I don’t need a lawyer because I didn’t do anything. This is all a waste of time. But since you’re costing my dad a lot of money, you may as well stay.”
I turn and follow the new deputy further into the building. Normally, I’d strike up a conversation to fill the silence, but I’m too interested in looking around to chat. Despite being escorted out of every town hall in recent memory, I’ve never been inside the sheriff’s department.
We pass through a doorway with Arthur trailing uncomfortably close behind me, saying something about letting him do the talking.
There’s a large room with multiple desks—each containing a very basic-looking computer workstation—and several deputies.
However, we immediately turn left down a narrow hallway that blocks the room from sight.
We walk under fluorescent lights, past two closed doors before stopping at a room near the rear corner of the building where we’re told to wait inside.
Arthur and I enter, and this, like everything else I’ve seen so far, is disappointingly boring.
I was looking forward to a bare table with chairs on opposing sides and a wall that’s a two-way mirror, maybe a bright lightbulb hanging overhead.
Instead, it’s a long room that has a rectangular table in the middle with six chairs.
The walls are all old wood paneling without a single mirror.
Arthur moves to a chair on the opposite side of the table, facing the doorway, and gestures for me to sit next to him.
He takes the quiet as an opportunity to explain how to talk to the cops—or rather, not talk to them—like we’re cramming for a final exam.
“Don’t say anything unless directly asked, and then let me answer for you unless I say otherwise.
You’re here voluntarily, and since you haven’t been detained, much less Mirandized, you’re free to leave at any point.
You aren’t required to answer any questions.
Nobody has ever talked themselves out of being a suspect, but plenty of people have talked themselves into it.
They’ll try to find ways of using every word you say against you. ”