This requires some serious follow-up. I pick up the phone to summon MJ myself.
19
MJ
AT LEAST THEY HAVE AIR-CONDITIONING here at the station. I hate this hot weather, it reminds me of Tennessee, and of the silly things people used to say about the heat. Hot enough to make a prostitute sweat in church. As hot as a goat’s butt in a pepper patch. It’s also not good for some of the more delicate plants in the garden. Yesterday the temperature reached 99 degrees and today they’re forecasting more than 100. At ten in the morning, I’m already perspiring. Of course, it’s that time of life. And stressful situations make the flashes more frequent, and more intense. I’ve taken to wearing sleeveless shirts, even on cool days. At the office I wear short skirts (probably shorter than my figure can now bear). But the discomfort of being hot outweighs my sense of vanity. I heard a couple of the younger women snicker last week as I bent over the copier. All the sympathy and kid-glove treatment after John’s death lasted exactly two weeks. Let them. So what. I’ve got more important matters to worry about.
This time I know why I’m sitting here in the interrogation room. I’m a suspect. In a case of wrongful death. Meaning murder. I would expect (well, would hope) anyone who knows me to laugh at that, only I haven’t been able to face anyone since the first article named me as a “person of interest.” Other published reports quickly followed, of course, along with the announcement that this was officially a murder investigation, which fired up the media circus again. Person of interest! It sounds flattering. Yet I know how serious this is. Last night I couldn’t sleep, but wandered through the dark house, so nervous even my feet were sweating.
The door opens and that same young detective comes in. She holds out her hand and I extend mine shakily. “MJ,” she says, “good to see you again,” and I nod and say, “Detective,” but she smiles and says, “Remember? Just call me Sam.” It all feels very civil, would she be treating me like this if she truly thought I was capable of murder? I relax a bit, then recall what I’ve seen on television—the good cop/bad cop thing. Sam is the good cop? I tell myself to keep my guard up. Her next question only confirms that I should.
“So you decided not to bring your lawyer?” she asks. She walks over to the wall, and pushes the button on a machine connected by a cable to the video camera mounted high on the wall. “Do you mind?” she asks, and points to it.
I shake my head no, not trusting my voice. She settles back in her seat, and looks at me questioningly.
“I don’t have a lawyer,” I say. This is true. I don’t know anyone who does. Who needs lawyers except rich people and criminals? We’d gone to a lawyer to draw up our wills, but that woman wasn’t my lawyer in any sense of the word.
“As I told you on the phone, people usually bring their lawyer to an interview of this kind,” she says, and her voice is gentle as she adds, “I’d really advise you to get one.”
“I don’t have the money,” I say, and am embarrassed at how much my voice quivers.
“Oh,” she says. And then, seemingly genuinely, “I’m sorry. I understand you’re in a difficult position. But,” she clears her throat, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”
She says all this in such a normal voice that I only afterward grasp that she’s read me my rights.
She stops and looks at me. “Do you want me to put you in touch with the public defender’s office? It’s your right.”
“No,” I say flatly. “I have nothing to hide. I can’t say anything that can be used against me because I didn’t do anything wrong.”
19
MJ
AT LEAST THEY HAVE AIR-CONDITIONING here at the station. I hate this hot weather, it reminds me of Tennessee, and of the silly things people used to say about the heat. Hot enough to make a prostitute sweat in church. As hot as a goat’s butt in a pepper patch. It’s also not good for some of the more delicate plants in the garden. Yesterday the temperature reached 99 degrees and today they’re forecasting more than 100. At ten in the morning, I’m already perspiring. Of course, it’s that time of life. And stressful situations make the flashes more frequent, and more intense. I’ve taken to wearing sleeveless shirts, even on cool days. At the office I wear short skirts (probably shorter than my figure can now bear). But the discomfort of being hot outweighs my sense of vanity. I heard a couple of the younger women snicker last week as I bent over the copier. All the sympathy and kid-glove treatment after John’s death lasted exactly two weeks. Let them. So what. I’ve got more important matters to worry about.
This time I know why I’m sitting here in the interrogation room. I’m a suspect. In a case of wrongful death. Meaning murder. I would expect (well, would hope) anyone who knows me to laugh at that, only I haven’t been able to face anyone since the first article named me as a “person of interest.” Other published reports quickly followed, of course, along with the announcement that this was officially a murder investigation, which fired up the media circus again. Person of interest! It sounds flattering. Yet I know how serious this is. Last night I couldn’t sleep, but wandered through the dark house, so nervous even my feet were sweating.
The door opens and that same young detective comes in. She holds out her hand and I extend mine shakily. “MJ,” she says, “good to see you again,” and I nod and say, “Detective,” but she smiles and says, “Remember? Just call me Sam.” It all feels very civil, would she be treating me like this if she truly thought I was capable of murder? I relax a bit, then recall what I’ve seen on television—the good cop/bad cop thing. Sam is the good cop? I tell myself to keep my guard up. Her next question only confirms that I should.
“So you decided not to bring your lawyer?” she asks. She walks over to the wall, and pushes the button on a machine connected by a cable to the video camera mounted high on the wall. “Do you mind?” she asks, and points to it.
I shake my head no, not trusting my voice. She settles back in her seat, and looks at me questioningly.
“I don’t have a lawyer,” I say. This is true. I don’t know anyone who does. Who needs lawyers except rich people and criminals? We’d gone to a lawyer to draw up our wills, but that woman wasn’t my lawyer in any sense of the word.
“As I told you on the phone, people usually bring their lawyer to an interview of this kind,” she says, and her voice is gentle as she adds, “I’d really advise you to get one.”
“I don’t have the money,” I say, and am embarrassed at how much my voice quivers.
“Oh,” she says. And then, seemingly genuinely, “I’m sorry. I understand you’re in a difficult position. But,” she clears her throat, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”
She says all this in such a normal voice that I only afterward grasp that she’s read me my rights.
She stops and looks at me. “Do you want me to put you in touch with the public defender’s office? It’s your right.”
“No,” I say flatly. “I have nothing to hide. I can’t say anything that can be used against me because I didn’t do anything wrong.”
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