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.” I hope she can’t see how tightly my hands are clutching each other under the table.
The detective nods.
She then begins asking me questions again, but mostly they are the ones I’ve already answered. I slowly begin to relax, even begin to feel a little bored. Some water would be nice, but she doesn’t offer me any. No two-way mirror, unlike all the cop shows I’ve watched. Just the cinder block walls. And the chair is comfy. Where did they get it, from someone’s living room via the Salvation Army? It’s so out of place here.
And this detective is very young. I know it’s hot outside, but hair in pigtails? I’ve never seen a grown woman wear them before. But they somehow suit her. And there has been nothing ridiculous about her manner. She’s very professional. Surely, though, she already knows everything about my marriage and life with John to write her report. And I’ve missed half a day’s work. I look at my watch and take a series of deep breaths. In and out, in and out, that’s what my shrink recommends in times of stress. Or clenching my fists, then releasing them—first one hand, then the other. It does something to both sides of your brain to help you relax. I do that, but it doesn’t help.
The detective tells me to take a break. I go to the bathroom, grab a drink of water from the fountain in the big open room filled with desks. I notice that the officers stare at me. Even to them I’m an object of curiosity. I return to the examining room before the detective does, feeling acutely the strange mixture of boredom and anxiety that has plagued me since John’s death.
Then, “Ready?” the detective asks after coming back in and seating herself. Really, she’s young! She has a habit of fiddling with her little finger, twisting it around as though winding up her hand like some sort of child’s toy.
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Taylor? John?”
“I’ve told you this. Several times. It was Thursday morning. He’d gotten up early as usual to make his rounds”—I stop briefly before I’m able to go on—“and left a bit after 5 AM. All as usual. Why don’t you ask Deborah? According to her, that’s where he headed every morning, their deal was supposedly sacrosanct.” My voice betrays my bitterness. Resentful that Deborah had deprived me of the kind of lazy mornings in bed with John that I had always cherished as the sweetest part of a relationship.
“But you heard from him later in the day.” The detective consults her notes.
“Sometime late in the morning. Here, I’ll tell you the exact time.” I pull out my cell phone and scroll down the calls. “At 11:07 AM precisely. I was at work.”
The detective nods. She really hadn’t needed to ask that question. She applied for—and received—a subpoena to vet my phone records and emails. I think of the dancing cats and poop jokes and other things I share with friends, and am resigned to looking like a fool in front of everyone assigned to the case.
“Your office is in. . . . Santa Clara.”
“Yes. At WebSys. On Tasman Drive.”
“Tell me again what he said in that phone call.”
I sigh impatiently. And I can feel another hot flash coming on.
“Just that he had an emergency case in LA. That he was flying down that evening. He thought he’d be back on Friday, but he wasn’t sure.”