The One-Seven

Chapter 11: Making The Case

The room was silent, save for the occasional loud crunch, and the crinkle of plastic. Interview rooms were, like many aspects of his career, nothing like they were depicted on television. The big, open spaced room, with a simple metal table in the middle, and dull lighting, often like a dungeon. Real questioning chambers were nothing like that. Such as the one Percy was in. It was small, barely bigger than a closet. With bright white walls, and bright fluorescent lights. On one side of the room, by the door, was a simple wooden desk, with a soft back chair. Across from the desk was a hard metal chair. Where an annoyed Romanji sat, wincing slightly every time Percy bit down into his bag of chips.

Percy himself, was slouched in a chair across from Romanji, his feet perched up on the desk by his side. The second he'd entered the precinct, Romanji had been crying for his lawyer. So, naturally, as was his right, his lawyer was contacted, and Percy and Montoya refrained from questioning the man. That had been yesterday, and Percy and Montoya had been working to meticulously start breaking down the man's case, as well as doing their best to shatter any potential alibi. However, when they received the call that the state-appointed public defender was on their way, Percy had headed to the room.

He had managed to talk Montoya into letting him be the one to conduct the interview.

They had ensured that the cameras were on, and that everything was being recorded from start to finish. They didn't want Romanji getting cut loose due to a technicality.

But that didn't mean they couldn't screw with the bastard either.

That was part of the play. Unnerve the hell out of him. Make him wonder what they really had on him. Percy made every effort to look as relaxed, and unconcerned as possible. It was all part of the deception. Did they have the bastard dead to rights? Even if they didn't have the camera footage of him in the St. Cloud car hours before the murder. Even if he didn't fit the description of their suspect, and even if they hadn't had his fingerprints, which Percy was certain would be a match to both of their crime scenes, there was the gun.

The man had been dumb enough to bring a gun with him to the penthouse. Not just any gun. A nine-millimeter. A nine-millimeter that was had been rushed over to One-Police-Plaza to be run against the NIBIN database, as well as tested against the shell casings found in both crime scenes. A nine-millimeter that Percy was certain would test as a match for both crime scenes.

They had Alberto Romanji dead to rights. It wasn't a matter of if he was going to jail, it was only a matter of how long would he be there.

So yes, the plan was to unnerve him. Because they didn't want Romanji. Was he the one to shoot St. Cloud? Yes, a fourteen-year-olds life was cut tragically short because this son of a bitch was as amoral as it came. But he was just a two-bit thug. A punk with a gun and willing to use it. No, Falcone was the real prize. Falcone was the one they really wanted.

Percy was jolted from his thoughts abruptly, when the door to the room opened. A young woman, barely in her mid-twenties walked in. She was tall, maybe only a few inches short of six feet. Dressed in an all-black work suit that complimented her caramel skin, with dark black hair, and brown eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed black glasses.

Percy thought she was on the younger side for being a practicing public defender, maybe only a year or so out of school.

"I hope you haven't been harassing my client detective, would hate for your work to be over before it even began," she said snidely, her voice lightly accented, sounding to Percy like she was from one of the posher parts of Britain.

Percy didn't get the chance to respond, "Who the hell are you?" Romanji demanded, speaking up for the first time since Percy had entered the room.

The lawyer didn't bat an eye, "Sarah Rosthein, I'm your lawyer," she said, simply.