I say nothing.
Sheriff Gilbert’s eyes harden.
“To what extent is my deputy involved in what happened last night?”
Shit. They’re going to drag Erik into this. Not that I’m surprised, but I was hoping he might make it out of this unscathed. Despite the fact he was there when they raided my apartment, half-naked, on his knees with his hands behind his head.
I keep my gaze steady with the sheriff’s when I answer.
“What happened last night?”
The kindness in the man’s eyes fades.
“You know very well what happened last night. Two federal agents were murdered, and you were the one who murdered them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sheriff Gilbert issues a frustrated grunt as he slides a finger under the documents and flips them over.
They’re not papers, I see, but photographs, blown up to 6 x 9 so that every detail can be seen. There are three of them, and he spreads them out on the table in front of me like he’s a blackjack dealer.
The sheriff taps the center photograph with his index finger.
“This is you, isn’t it?”
It is, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. No verbal response, nothing in my eyes.
He smiles, nodding to himself as he stares down at the photograph.
“Yeah, we got photographic evidence of you murdering those men. I ain’t no lawyer, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know you’re screwed.”
The center photograph shows me standing on the other side of the tractor, which means the camera must have been positioned above the side door. When the lights came on, I did a quick scan of the interior, but clearly I missed a camera hanging over the door. Unless the camera wasn’t meant to be easily seen.
The other two photographs show me standing over the ICE agents, Mulkey and Kyer. In each photograph, I’m holding the 1911. In each photograph, the men are dead.
None of the photographs show Eleanora.
The sheriff leans back in his seat, crosses his arms, and takes another deep breath.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen next. In the next hour, U.S. Marshals will arrive to take you into their custody. They’re gonna transport you down to San Antonio where there’s a federal judge waiting to arraign you.”
“Sheriff Gilbert.”
This catches him off guard for some reason, the way I casually say his name, and he frowns at me but doesn’t speak.
“Who provided you with these photographs?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, studying me. Clearly not sure how to proceed.
I glance down at the center photograph again, the one that clearly shows my face. It’s almost too perfect. Obviously I’m being set up, but the question is by whom, and why.
“How many of these photographs did you receive?”
No answer.
“Did you receive them from the owner of the location in which these events supposedly took place?”
No answer.
“I’m sure by now you would have already spoken to the owner, so I guess my question is does he or she acknowledge having a security camera placed inside this building?”
Sheriff Gilbert still doesn’t answer. He keeps watching me, his lips tight.
“Say the owner doesn’t have a security camera inside this building, then how exactly were these photographs taken, and why?”
The kindness in the sheriff’s eyes has long since left for vacation. His jaw has tightened, too. His chair creaks as he leans forward to start collecting the photographs.
I ask, “When do I get my phone call?”
The hardness in his eyes snaps into a glare.
“You killed two federal agents. You don’t get a goddamned phone call.”
I should leave it there—let the man storm out of the room to catch his breath, cool off—but I don’t.
“So let me get this straight. You respect the Second Amendment, but not the Sixth? You know, it’s part of the Bill of Rights that guarantees a citizen a speedy trial, a fair jury, and a—”
Sheriff Gilbert slams his fist down on the table.
“You”—pointing at me now with his free hand, his face having gone red—“you murdered two federal agents in cold blood.”
I calmly keep my gaze steady with his.
“Allegedly.”
His jaw tightens again. His face has gone even redder. It looks like he’s ready to explode at me when there’s a knock at the door.
Like somebody’s just poked him with a pin, the sheriff starts to deflate. He glares at me for another moment before snatching up the photographs and pushing to his feet. He nearly tears the door off its hinges, lets it slam shut. A moment of silence outside, and then he shouts, “What?” before he says something else I can’t make out and the door opens again. He doesn’t advance toward the table, though, and stays where he is, holding the door open.
“Your lawyer is here.”
His words drip with contempt.
I don’t make any reaction—no smile, no frown—because I don’t want to set him off any more than I already have. Plus … what lawyer? Obviously I’m entitled to one—so says the Founding Fathers who wrote the Bill of Rights—but I don’t have a lawyer, or even know a lawyer. I wanted a phone call so that I could call Atticus. I wouldn’t be able to speak to him, at least not right away. The only number he gave me is to a dry cleaners that doesn’t exist. Atticus said to call and leave a message if I’m ever in any trouble. And this most certainly seems like trouble. Not sure what all he can do for me, anyway—the photographs Sheriff Gilbert showed me are quite damning—but at least he’s somebody I can reach out to because … well, I don’t have anybody else.
The sheriff lets the door slam shut. For a minute I’m left in that deep silence, and then the door opens again.
And again I don’t make any reaction as I watch her enter the interview room. She’s wearing a black business suit. Modest heels. Full-rim rectangle eyeglasses. Her hair isn’t curly, not like it was yesterday, but long and straight.
As soon as
