Part 2 (1/2)
”Yeah. But a signature would've been nice. Now we're going to have to work.”
”What are you talking about?”
Thompson spoke without pa.s.sion, doodling on a pad of yellow paper with a black and silver Montblanc pen.
”I didn't make any confession.”
He snorted. ”I've heard that one before. Three witnesses, though, three statements, all cops, you a felon ...”
I was offended and stretched some more as shooting pains spiked through my back and sides. I gagged on bile and water and finally spoke. ”Ex-felon.”
”All right, an ex-felon. Who's the judge going to believe?”
At that point I looked up and saw a video camera above the door. I grinned and covered with a cough before walking over to look at the unit from underneath. My lawyer cleared his throat as I checked out the thick-gauge wire basket around it and the armored cable feeding into the wall. He was staring at me with curiosity and something like fear when I came back.
”May I? Thanks.”
I took the pen from his hand and braced my wrist. Two steps and a hard thrust and I burst the lens amidst a shower of sparks and the smell of ozone. Thompson recoiled as I handed the pen back.
”Are you crazy? That pen was from my mother. That camera was off, it's never turned on when there's an interview.”
”Sure. The cops'll be in right away so I'll talk fast. I didn't make the confession and I can prove it but if the cops find out how, then they'll fix it.”
I was lying (a little) and praying (a lot) at the same time, which didn't matter to Thompson, who was just quietly furious. He remained on his stool and shook his head while gathering his stuff together to leave. It was interesting to watch as tiny flakes of dandruff rained down onto his shoulders and the pad of paper in front of him.
”You're dreaming. The cops aren't watching, the camera's standard equipment and it's never turned on during interviews. They'd be breaking client/lawyer confidentiality rules.”
Walsh came in with his hand on the b.u.t.t of his Colt. ”Any problems?”
Thompson's lips whitened and he looked at me through slitted eyes. I smiled and addressed myself to him. ”All right, how'd they know the camera got broke unless it was on in the first place?”
”Any problems?” Walsh repeated himself, looking everywhere but at the camera.
Thompson stood up and exhaled through his nose. ”Officer Walsh, do you have a room where I can do an interview? One without a camera?”
Walsh rolled his eyes. ”Well, they all have cameras. It's SOP these days. You should know that, Mr. Thompson. Sorry.”
He didn't sound sorry.
I waited and watched the man but my adrenals didn't kick in, I guessed they were empty. I wanted to kill Walsh with my bare hands or some kind of tool but I was tired and sore and old. And then the pain started again.
”What about the bathroom?” I asked.
”The bathroom ... you've got to be kidding.”
”No. I've got to go.”
”Well, sure, I'll take you. Least we can do.”
Thompson was livid now, his thin face pinched with rage. ”Hasn't my client been allowed to go to the bathroom yet?”
Walsh didn't move his hand from the gun. ”He was busy confessing. He got all caught up in unburdening his soul and time just flew.”
Thompson stepped a little closer to Walsh and his knuckles whitened around the pen.
”My client is also looking a little battered. That didn't happen when he was in your custody, did it? That would be unfortunate for you.”
”That kind of s.h.i.+t just breaks my heart. Don't worry, your client was treated like gold here. Pure gold.”
”Fine. After this I want to see whomever's in charge.”
Walsh was acquiring an audience as cops in uniforms and plainclothes showed up along with clerks to peer in like spectators at a zoo. The smells of fresh coffee and tobacco smoke filled the interrogation room and made my stomach knot and I realized I was real close to p.i.s.sing my pants. Elena Ramirez, the cop from the house, was in the front row and watching blank-faced.
”That'd be Lieutenant Ross. He just got in. He's reading Haaviko's statement in his office. I'm sure he'd love to speak with you. Let me set it up.”
The pain was growing worse and my head was aching. My voice slurred when I spoke and my tongue felt fat and thick, like an un-inked stamp pad. ”Can I please use the bathroom?”
”Sure.”
Daniels stepped forward at Walsh's gesture and started to usher me off to the left. My eyes were tearing and I wondered if I was going to throw up again. I stopped worrying when I realized there was probably nothing left in my stomach to throw up, even if I wanted to.
”Mr. Thompson, come with me, please,” I said.
I blinked back the tears and looked directly at Walsh.
”Please, I just don't want to get beaten again.”
Everyone flinched and then slipped back to work and a twitch started under Walsh's right eye, but he remained silent as Daniels led me and Thompson to the bathroom. We pa.s.sed through a big room full of desks with gla.s.s-walled offices on two walls and interview rooms along the third. The fourth wall was covered in corkboard tiles holding notices and pictures and that held doors to the bathrooms.
Daniels looked at me impa.s.sively. ”Leave the stall open.”
The cop leaned back against the sinks and watched me with his arms crossed while Thompson turned around to wash his face. I used one hand to brace myself while manipulating the soft, plastic zipper down the front of the overalls. The overalls were one piece and it was a practiced humiliation that made it necessary to remove your clothes all the way down to the ankles to use a toilet. I did it without thinking and p.i.s.sed a weak, pain-filled arc.
I stared and puzzled out loud. ”Red?”
The bowl filled as I watched but my brain didn't register at first.
”Red means blood.”
It came out in a trickle, diluted with urine, and the pain spiked and I doubled over as Thompson and the cop rushed over.
”Oh s.h.i.+t.”
Suddenly the cop was trying to hold me up and then I heard Thompson dialing his cell phone and asking for an ambulance and then I pa.s.sed out.
5.