His hand slams down on the table as he starts to scream, “Tell me what really happened or you can spend the rest of the night in jail!”
Great, he must be the bad cop. I wonder when the good cop is going to get here.
“I already told you what happened!” I said screaming back.
“No! That is not how it went down. Do you think I was born yesterday?” No. The detective presses both fists down on the table turning his knuckles white. “What was your beef with this guy?”
“I didn’t know him, I already told you that!”
The detective starts to pace now, “so you and your buddies decided you would roll on by this guy’s house and shoot the place up? I recognize your tats. I know who you run with. What did he do to your crew?”
“I was in a gang when I was a teenager because I got mixed up in the wrong crowd. Now I’m a hardworking husband and dad with a job. I’m not that person anymore. I’m the victim!”
“Oh, you’re just a victim? Of what, society?”
Profiling.
“What do you want me to say? We rolled up in my car and shot up his house in return for whatever crime he committed against my friends or family members; however, that’s not how it really happened. I’ve already told you what happened! I came here for help! I came here to report a crime!”
A serious crime.
“Then how did it happen?” The detective’s face is so frustrated his eyebrows are starting to become one and the wrinkles are leaving permanent marks on his forehead and around his mouth.
Before I can answer, in walks another detective. The room is much too small for the three of us. The new detective motions for the other detective to leave. Without argument the first detective gets up and moves to the door. Before shutting the door, there is eye contact between the two of them that makes me feel uncomfortable.
“I’m detective Chambers. Can I get you some water?”
Good cop.
“No, I’m fine thanks. I just want to get this over with so I can go back home to my wife and kids.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened?”
“I already told the other guy.”
As if you weren’t standing on the other side of the mirror listening.
“Well then, how about you tell me,” he says as he sits back in his chair crossing his arms as though he is prepared to keep this up until he hears what he wants.
Looking for inconsistency?
“I was on my way home from work and was stopped at a red light when two guys, with ski masks and guns, forced their way inside my car.”
“What intersection were you at?”
“MLK and South Street.” The detective writes it down.
“Before I could react, they held their guns to my head and demanded for me to start driving. So I did and as I drove, they told me where to go. They said they would kill me if I tried anything, so I did what they said. I did what I had to in order to stay alive. They had me drive to a neighborhood and once we got near one of the houses, they rolled down the windows and started shooting. If I had known that was what they were up to, I would have tried to escape or do something to keep them from hurting anyone. Then they had me drive them to the gas station on the corner of Mills and Shire. They got out of the vehicle and took off running. I immediately drove here to the police station to report what happened and you guys put me in handcuffs!” Since he wanted to play good cop, I held back on the attitude. I simply told him what I knew as an innocent victim. “You can check the surveillance cameras at the intersection and the gas station. I know they have them.”
“Fine, we will. Can you give me a description of these two guys that were with you?”
“The one in the front seat was wearing a navy blue hoodie. The one in the back was wearing a red shirt and khaki pants. I can’t tell you more than that because their faces were covered.” The detective nods and writes down the descriptions I'm giving. He may be playing the role of good cop, but at least he is acting as though he believes me.
“We will check out the information you gave. Meanwhile, you aren’t under arrest, but you will stay in a holding cell until we get this figured out.”
The detective opens the door to the room and motions for someone. In walks a uniformed officer in blue with his gold badge attached to the breast of his shirt. He handcuffs me and walks me down the white, outdated corridor to a set of elevators. The elevator comes to a stop on our floor and the door opens with a creak. I step forward into the elevator and the officer follows directly behind me, holding on to my handcuffs. The carpet in the elevator is stained and tattered. The doors shut and the elevator moves downward in a shifty motion. When the doors open again, I am introduced into a sterile room. Straight ahead is a tall desk and behind it stand two officers.
“I’ve got one checking into a detainment cell,” the officer says as he finally releases my cuffs.
“What is your name sir?” The tallest one asks, his accent not from the south.
“Jermaine Bilks.”
“Let’s see, you got picked up on burglary charges in 2010 and did six months. You haven’t been in trouble in five years.” I hated jail and knew I never wanted to go back. Most of the guys I know from the neighborhood, are lifetime criminals or dead.
They take me to my cell for the night, which is cold and uncomfortable. If they look at the video like I said, I know I will be out of here soon. I just need to stay positive. I am finally able to doze off despite all the loud noises and yelling coming from the other inmates. I wake up to a knock at my cell door. It’s an officer ready to take me back to interrogation. We make our way back through which we came only eight hours earlier. The shifty elevator and the outdated hallway, unchanged. I take my seat in the chair in that tiny room and patiently wait for the detective to arrive.
There is a knock at the door and without answering, it opens. The good cop. “Well after looking at the camera feed, we have determined that your story checks out. We have video of a guy in a dark hoodie and a guy in a red shirt, both wearing ski masks, using guns to force their way into your vehicle. When they got out at the gas station, the one in the dark hoodie was no longer wearing a ski mask. We will try to use the video to identify him and his accomplice. All we need from you is a written statement and then we will let you go.”
The officer enters and removes my handcuffs. The detective slides the pad of paper across the table. I pick up the pen and start writing down what happened.
Once finished, the officer escorts me to the exit. I open the door, stepping into the sunshine and make my way back to the vehicle. The cloth seats are warm on my back and legs. I turn the engine on, unfamiliar with the dials of the vehicle, I back out of the parking space. I pull out of the station parking lot and onto the street.
Sitting hidden at the bottom of the car’s console, under a ski mask and gloves, is the gun I used for my revenge against the guy that tried to hurt my sister. Now I need to go drop this car off some place where the police won’t find it. Eventually, the owner of the car will come forward with the same story I had, except for the ending. The part where I forced him to put on my hoodie and get out of the vehicle along with the other gunman. By then, I will be far away from here. It’s a good thing the owner of the vehicle looks a lot like me, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to get away with using his name at the station. Since I wasn’t being arrested, only detained, they didn’t bother fingerprinting me. Otherwise, this would all have ended differently.