One Big Problem

One strange interrogation.

Ever try sitting in the back of a car with your hands cuffed behind your back?  It’s sort of like having someone trying to twist both of your arms off.  But what made it really bad was being forced to listen to a Joe Bryson lecture.

“…and that is why all of you so called heroes from World War 2 will never hold a candle to the men who fought in the Great War.  Now, what your problem is…” Joe was in the passenger seat telling me what my problem was.  It all made sense in whatever world he lived in.  There was a uniformed policeman in the driver’s seat that looked like he wanted to drive into a tree to shut Joe up.  If only I got that lucky.

“Joe, sorry to interrupt your meaning of life talk or whatever you are blathering about, but do you think you could uncuff me?  At least while I’m in the back seat, I’m not going anywhere.”

Joe turned around to look at me.  He made sure I had a full dose of his stink eye before answering, “That’s the problem with you, Cote.  You don’t accept my help.”

 “Your help by arresting me?”

“No!  My helpful advice!  It’s standard regulation to keep an uncooperative suspect cuffed while being transported.”

“Uncooperative?  I came without a fight.”

“You should have turned yourself in, Cote.  Do you know how foolish I felt when we got the call over the radio that you were wanted, when you were with us not two minutes before?”

“I didn’t shoot up any club!  It was shot up around me!”

“You’ll get to state your case down at the station.”

"That’s all I want to do.  So can you take my cuffs off now?”

“No.” Joe said.  He turned back around and stared out his window, not saying another word the whole trip to the police station.  The cop driving looked so happy at the sweet silence that I thought if he had the chance he would kiss me.

 After I was booked in down at the station, Joe left me in the capable hands of one of Los Angeles finest.  This one in particular looked young enough to be Joe’s distant descendent.  At first I thought he was there to visit his Dad, and they had let him dress up as a policeman.   To my surprise he was the policeman.

“Bring him to interrogation room # 4, Brian.” Joe said. 

"Yes Mr. Bryson.” Brian replied.

 “That’s Detective Bryson.”

“Hey!  Mr. Bryson.  I ain’t saying nothing till I have my lawyer.  I get a phone call, I know my rights.” I said, playing the belligerent asshole.  Some say I play that role too well.

“Cote, you can’t afford a lawyer.”

“Maybe so, but I still get a phone call.”

“Brian, escort Mr. Cote here to the phone for his one phone call.  Then bring him to interrogation room #4.”

 “Yes Mr. Bryson.”  Brian replied.  Joe left before he committed double homicide.

Brian led me to an empty room with a single phone in it.

“You have five minutes to make your call.”  Brian said.

“Five minutes from now, or five minutes from when the other person answers?  Or is it five minutes from when I start dialing?”

 I would say a Brian had a look of confusing on his face, but his confused face looked the same as before.  I had a feeling Brian was confused a lot.