ThursThreads, week 90


The room on the other side of the one-way mirror was cinder block and misery, washed out by too-white, too-bright fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. The door on the left opened, and five men were escorted in, wearing matching Wal-Mart sweats and block numbers hung around their necks. The DA was standing behind me, explaining again what I was supposed to do, while a sweaty man with a lazy combover stared daggers at me. The lawyer for whichever one of these mopes they’d arrested, I assumed, but mostly he was ignorable.

Number 3. He could be the one. Or maybe number 4. It didn’t really matter – I wasn’t going to pick one of them, no matter how intensely the DA repeated her instructions or how much flop sweat dripped from the shyster. They just wanted a fact – he did it, or he did, or he did. But facts don’t mean anything. They just are. I wanted to know.

Coming here was a mistake. I shook my head, trying to look disappointed, and ignored the lawyerly smile and scowl from over my shoulder. The hallway was lit by the same fluorescent lights as the interrogation room, and I could feel the questions in the eyes of the cops and passers-by as I made my way out of the building. Let them figure it out and come up with their own facts. They would anyway.


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