March 20, 2006
The Interrogator
Alphabet Soup

In what she hopes will appear to be a tactic of intimidation but which is really to hide her growing anxiety, the interrogator paces slowly around the room, forming an increasingly tighter circle around the suspect.

The suspect, although seated, exudes a stubbornly silent and apparently unbreakable resolve. Instead of being guarded or hunched over, he is leaning back in his chair, the body language of someone who is at ease, relaxed even. He seems to be far more skilled at this game than his interrogator.

His chin juts out defiantly, and he meets her frequent glances at him with an unbroken, chilly stare, as if he can see through the façade of her bravado straight to where her last nerves are rapidly crumbling.

When she asks the next question, the tremour in her voice betrays her wavering confidence.

“Where were you when…” she abruptly falls silent, then revealing her increasing desperation, she asks, her voice tinged with hysteria: “I know that you did it, okay? What I want to know is why you did it? Why?”

(Later, she would deny any loss of control, claiming that it was merely a different approach, one she had hoped would shock and surprise the suspect into confessing.)

It still does not have the desired effect.

From where he is stretched back in his high chair, her two-and-a-half year old nephew continues to merely regard her with open contempt and an infuriatingly calm muteness.


Redsaid | 09:49 AM