arrested him. We put him in the car. He escaped.
Martin figured that the method of escape would be seen as a minor detail, unless they somehow figured it out, in which case Martin suspected he’d spend several months answering questions and the rest of his life regretting the answers he’d given.
So Martin decided to bide his time, and was pretty happy with that decision right up until they booked him. The first step of the booking procedure was to remove his handcuffs, which he’d liked. The second step was for him to empty his pockets, and that was when Martin knew he was doomed. As reluctant as a man walking to the gallows, he handed over his wallet, his keys, and his phone. The rest of the booking procedure was a blur. Then they’d put him in a holding cell and let him sit there for about an hour. Now he was in the interrogation room.
Special agents Miller and Murphy came in and sat across the table from Martin. Miller was tall and muscular, with a receding hairline. Murphy was average height and doughy, with unruly brown hair. They both looked happy. Miller silently read papers in a manila folder with Martin’s name written theatrically on the tab. Murphy placed a plastic bag on the table. The bag held Martin’s shoelaces, belt, and the contents of his pockets. Martin could see the corner of his phone there next to his wallet. It was torture. Freedom was right there, and he couldn’t reach it.
Eventually Miller closed the folder and put it on the table.
“Mr. Martin Banks,” he said, “we’re going to ask you a few questions. The more quickly and more honestly you answer, the sooner we can all go home.”
Martin considered this. “So, I may be going home tonight?”
“Oh definitely, Martin, you’re going to go home tonight. But, bear in mind, jail might be your new home.”
“Ah,” Martin said.
Miller continued. “See, My partner Murph and I aren’t from Seattle. Heck, until today Murph had never been to Seattle, isn’t that right Murph?”
“That’s right.”
“See, we had to fly up from L.A., on no notice, because of you. That’s where we live. L.A.. Hey Murph, why do you live in L.A.?
“Because I hate rain.”
“ He hates rain, Martin! So you can imagine how happy he was to have to come to Seattle in October! You happy, Murph?”
“Nah, I ain’t happy.”
“He’s not happy, Martin! You got anything to say about that?”
Martin stammered. If he were any more off balance he’d be lying on his side. “I’m sorry?”
“Murph doesn’t want your apology, Martin! He wants answers! If you answer Murph’s questions well enough, we can go home tomorrow, and maybe get some sightseeing in before the flight. Would you like that, Murph?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Murph wants to go sightseeing, Martin! Maybe see the Space Needle, or that market you got where they throw great big fish around for no reason. Murph’s seen it on the Food Network about a thousand times.”
“Oh,” Martin said, mostly out of reflex, “if you do go to the fish market, right next to it there’s a little shop that sells the best tiny donuts. You don’t wanna miss out on that.”
There was a silence so thick you could lean on it.
“Why,” Special Agent Miller asked almost too quietly to hear, “because we’re cops?”
‘NO!” Martin said, an edge of desperation in his voice. “They’re just great donuts! A little machine makes them fresh, and they … give them to you … in a brown paper bag.”
“Shut up about the donuts! Murph doesn’t want your donuts! Murph wants you to answer his questions!”
“Then when’s he going to ask a question?”
“Shut up, Martin! I’m asking the questions here!”
“That’s kinda my point.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shuuuuuut uuuup!”
Miller sat down and panted for a while. Murphy just stared at Martin. Finally, Special Agent Miller continued.
“Look, kid. We’re Treasury Agents. We mainly used to investigate bank fraud and we were