The Interview

I stare at the young man. He’s sitting alone at a dented steel table. He’s tapping the ring finger of his right hand on the table top. He seems very much at ease. A tune filters through the microphone and into a small room concealed behind a one-way mirror. There are two of us in this adjoining room. I look at my partner.

“Is that the Star Spangled Banner?”

Steve pauses and listens. “I think so.”

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Let’s go,” says Steve.

We both leave the observation room and move, with a practiced confidence, into interview room three.

Normally, an individual sitting at that particular table, would take this moment to pepper us with questions about why they are here and statements about their innocence and the flagrant violation of their rights. This young man does nothing like that, he sits quietly and waits.

We take our seats, place two brown case folders on the table and wait for a full minute to pass, hoping the uncomfortable silence will force a panicked outburst. The young man seems to relax into the moment.

I break the silence with “You know why you’re here right?”

“Nope.”

“Then, I find it odd that you haven’t asked us why you’re here. That’s strange don’t you think Steve?” I turn to my partner.

“Yup, super strange.”

I continue, “Well, someone robbed the Quicki-Mart. The clerk says it was Abraham Lincoln.”

“And…” says the young man.

“And, we need to talk about that mask you’re wearing. Is that Reagan?”

“Nope, Lincoln.”

I look at Steve. We both smile. No one is going to believe this one.