The Interview

I arrived at the office to find Janet, my secretary and general helper with all-the-things, holding the phone to her ear. She covered the receiver with one hand and waved at me to go to my office with the other.

“I’ll put you through now,” she said into the phone. “It’s the chief of police,” she yelled at me through the open door. “Oh, and I put an urgent fax on your desk too.”

Being a prosecutor in a quiet backwater like Spokane wasn’t completely without excitement. While the bulk of the crime was petty, much of it caused by drugs and homelessness. Sometimes a fight at a local bar would spill into the street with devastating consequences. Life in Spokane had its own ups and downs.

A hiker might stumble across a skull in Mt. Spokane State Park, or one of the other nearby nature reserves. These gory finds were often ruled as accidental deaths, caused by a fall or an animal attack, depending on the evidence. Nature as devastating as many a criminal.

But on rare occasions, these cases were more sinister. Many in Spokane had recently felt relieved after the apprehension of Robert Lee Yates. In fact, our senior prosecutor helped get information about more murders and the remains of his victims by taking death off the table.

Even though life here had issues, my wife and I moved here several years ago to get away from Las Vegas and its circus atmosphere. My childhood best friend, Kevin, convinced us to make the move.

He and his wife moved here after university. Clara and I occasionally visited them. The contrast between Vegas and Spokane was extreme. The natural beauty and the many surrounding lakes were part of the attraction.

We loved the anonymity and security of living so far off the beaten track, away from the crowds. We also enjoyed the outdoor lifestyle, the lakes, pathways, and hiking—and yet Spokane was big enough to have all the essential amenities. It had a pristine sort of cleanliness unlike the grubby heat of Vegas.

I grabbed a notebook from the shelf behind my desk and a pen and picked up the phone. The call was short and sweet. The caller asked me to head down to meet with one of his detectives.

As I hung up the phone, I heard a solid rap at the door. I jumped, not expecting the interruption.

I put the notebook back, having ripped off the sheet with the time and name jotted down.

“Come in,” I said. Janet appeared before me. She sat down opposite my desk in a wooden chair. Her notepad and pen in hand and her glasses perched on the end of her nose, looking more like a middle-aged librarian than the late
twenty-something that she was. She looked at me silently, her hand poised, ready to write.

“So?” she asked, bristling with curiosity.

“I can’t tell you anything yet. I am sure you will find out when you type out my notes later. But for now, you will have to wait,” I said.

A brisk, impatient huff escaped her lips as she rolled her eyes. “All this confidentiality nonsense. I find out everything, eventually,” she said hastily, as she got up and left the room. I also got up, I didn’t need to grab my coat, as I was still wearing it.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t actually know anything yet either. I was just asked to come down and consult, as this case has cross-over with Seattle. We need to talk to their team,” I said offering an olive branch.

She smiled as she rose and moved back to her desk. “Yes, that does make me feel better!” she said, setting her notebook down. “I expect a full report when you get back.”

“The odds of that are quite low,” I said calmly.

She spun her chair around, so her back was facing me and began typing. Her fingers furiously clicking. She was done with our conversation. I shook my head and with a smile and walked out without saying another word.

I inherited Janet from a more senior lawyer in our office, who had since retired. She warned me that it took a steady hand to manage Janet, who lacked the usual seriousness of most legal aides.

She had strong opinions and was quite prepared to voice them, but was also willing to work as an assistant—something many wouldn’t do. In our small office dual roles were the norm. I personally believed that she agreed to this as it was how she could keep her finger on the pulse of the office.

Within a few minutes I was walking down the hall of the police department with one of the lead detectives of the major-crimes unit. It was a small department, handling everything from murder to gang related activities.

“Listen, I know this isn’t our normal bread and butter, but I wanted you to be with us when we talk to this guy. Then you can get in touch with the prosecutors in Seattle. We have him on a traffic violation, but there are some pretty serious warrants from their jurisdiction.” Joe, the detective, said. He held a grainy fax with a photo and a long list of warrants.

“My guy ran his plates and called for backup as soon as he realized who he had stopped.” Joe paused and looked at me squarely, “everything was completely by the book.” I nodded.

I dealt with this man before. He showed me nothing but integrity and concern for doing his job well.

I waited to see if he had anything more to say. I learned over my tenure as a prosecutor to listen more and talk less.

My job was not to sort out the evidence; that was the role of the police. I was there to decide if the case was strong enough to proceed or if there were any legal issues that needed to be resolved before moving forward.

“He is associated with one of the Asian gangs in Seattle called the Loko Boyz. He is wanted in connection with the murder of a member of a rival gang. We have been in touch with the Seattle police. They want to come interrogate him but asked if we could get information before they get a chance. They are concerned about what will happen if word of his arrest gets out.

“They want to move very quickly. The stakes are very high for them. They don’t want an all out gang war.” Joe continued, as we moved through the maze-like hallways.

He told me of the details of the suspects crimes and the suspicions of the Seattle police. They believed he was running from a rival gang.

Joe stopped and then added, “We’d like you here to make sure we are dotting our ‘I’s and crossing our ‘T’s.”

We stopped outside an interview room.

“Seattle wants him sent back, yes, but while we have him, they thought he might be more willing to talk to us as his guard will likely be down,” added Joe.

The heavy door creaked loudly as we slipped into the room. The room was cool and still. The prisoner sat with his handcuffed hands on the table; a guard stood behind him, ominous and silent.

We sat down opposite the man. He had tattoos on his neck and chest, and his head was clean shaven. His age was difficult to pinpoint. There was a hardness in the lines of his face. He looked far older than he likely was.

He lifted his head and looked straight into my eyes.

I had seen those eyes before! I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I looked at Joe, who sensing the tension broke the ice, by speaking briefly with the guard.

As I turned back, I realized the prisoner was still staring at me. He looked as though he was trying to bore a hole through my head.

“So, Mr. Chin, how are your accommodations so far? Is your room to your liking?” Joe asked with mock seriousness.

The prisoner dropped his poisonous gaze. He turned his body toward the detective and said, “I particularly like the chocolate left on my pillow,” his voice was hard and emotionless. His mouth barely opened as he spoke.
He sneered at us. He didn’t look and sound like a man who would part with information easily. He would not go down without a fight. But which fight was he in?

I took a deep breath, reassured by the handcuffs holding him down, and I began to speak. I would not let him intimidate me!

“What sort of deal are you looking to make? We know you have information about the murder in Seattle. We are presuming you are holding out, negotiating for better terms,” I said pragmatically. I was determined that he would not hear the agitation I was feeling.

He raised his hands towards his head. The guard twitched nervously. He rubbed his forehead and then placed his hands on the table. He sat silently for what seemed ages.

“I came to Spokane to finish a job, and I will finish it, one way or another,” he said as he stared at me, his eyes black as the endless night sky.

There was another long silence. He eventually dropped his gaze and added, “If I am going to talk, I don’t want to go back to Seattle. I will need to talk here.

I need to stay here.” He tilted his hand slightly, opening his palm and staring into it.

I saw a small fork shaped tattoo on the webbing between his thumb and his finger. I sucked in a bit of air. This was the confirmation that I needed.
Silence hung in the air cold and lifeless. No one spoke. Joe raised his eyebrows curiously.

“Mr. Chin,” Joe said finally, “you can talk to us. We aren’t the Seattle police. We can use the information you give us to get you a deal. If your only request is where you are incarcerated, why not talk now?”

Mr. Chin dropped his head disguising a smile. He slowly raised his head and stared at me.

I stood up suddenly and said, “OK, no point wasting our time until we find out if the folks in Seattle want to play ball or not. I know they want you back and it seems you want to stay. We will see what we can find out.”

“Tell them I can make it worth their while.” He drawled adding, “I will tell everything, if I can stay in Spokane!”

He wasn’t pleading, he was bargaining. He knew he had information that would be useful and seemed intent on getting what he wanted out of the deal.

Joe also stood up and nodding at the guard and followed me out of the room.

As he got to the door, I heard the prisoner ask, “Do you know of anyone named Fish? I’m looking for someone named Fish.” Joe paused at the door and turned to look at Mr. Chin, then he turned his gaze to me. His eyebrows raised, he knew that most everyone called me Fish.

I shrugged at him lifting my shoulders up and then turning away from the door.

“That was odd,” Joe said. “Is he looking for you?”

“I don’t know,” I said simply.

We stood together in the hallway. The faint smell of stale coffee wafted down the long corridor. My mind was flying faster than my feet. How had I not guessed this was coming?

Joe looked at me with some concern, my distraction too obvious to hide. I smiled weakly and tried to concentrate my thoughts.

“These gang types are hard nuts!” he said.

“This guy has a small tattoo, a brand actually, on his hand between his thumb and forefinger. Have you ever seen anything like this before?”I asked. I knew he likely had not, but I needed to seem as surprised as everyone else.

Joe shook his head and answered, “No. That is new to me. I noticed it too, though. It could almost be mistaken for a birthmark. Perhaps it is?”

“He sure is an unusual character. He doesn’t seem like our average criminal,” I said. I paused thinking for a moment. A silence hung in the air as we both puzzled over this first meeting. “What did he mean when he said he had a job to do? What do you know about that?” I asked.

“That was new information. I’ll get one of our detectives on it. But we haven’t found any evidence of any activity in Spokane other than his running a stop sign in a residential area,” said Joe.

“I’ll talk to the DA in Seattle and get back to you. Can we meet again tomorrow to interview him again?

If we have answers from them, we might get to the bottom of some of our questions,” I suggested. “If he is true to his word, he sounds like he is willing to give up the information they need.”