The Interrogation Room

BOOK: The Interrogation Room
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The Interrogation Room

 

 

 

E.B. Jones,

Copyright E.B. Jones 2013

 

 

I'm an idiot. How the hell do I get myself into these situations? These handcuffs are too tight, for one. When will I get the hell out of here? If only they'd give me a chance to explain myself. I've already missed my flight as it is. Could it get any worse?

 

I should have seen it coming. But you know how small mistakes have a way of adding up, into one big blunder? A friend (more a casual acquaintance) had asked me to carry a suitcase with clothing samples back from Paris. I didn't think anything of it. I'd met Thomas before, at a party in New York. At the time, I just thought it was a coincidence to see him in Paris. He was on a work trip, he said. When I saw him he happened to be taking a coffee right down the street from my hotel. A happy accident, or so I thought at the time. He was one of those people who knew everyone, always looked good, always had something witty to say. And so it was just a small favor he said he needed. And when I checked my bag at the airport counter and they asked me if anyone had handed me anything to carry for them, the question only registered for a split second. This was different. I knew Thomas. Harmless. I checked the bag with his clothing samples and didn't think twice about it.

 

The security line at Charles de Gaulle airport was long. Cigarette smoke hung in the terminal. That was a part I couldn't stand about French airports, all the smoke. I wasn't too keen on flying either, but at least I had a business class upgrade from all my frequent flyer miles. Up until that point, everything had been routine. I showed my American passport to the security screener (Marissa James; blonde; 115 pounds; 5'7”; green eyes; age 28; an address in Manhattan).  And of course, behind the passport there were the stories that went unsaid. Marissa James – fashion writer; single (had a boyfriend, but he ran off with his slutty 19 year-old Russian tennis instructor in Greenwich); in Paris to go shopping for a long weekend and forget him.

 

The security screener looked at the passport too long. That should have been my first tip-off that things weren't going to go well.

 

And now here I am. Handcuffed to this damn chair in a small room with white walls and no windows. It smells like sweat in here. There's a cheap white table in front of me and an empty chair in front of it. I've told my story to at least five people this morning. And they all wanted to hear me say the same thing over and over again. As though, if they asked me the same questions enough, I might change my story and confess to everything on the spot. But I don't have anything to confess. I'm innocent damn it!

 

A man walked in, dressed differently than the other security people with whom I'd spoken that morning. He was wearing a pair of plain blue jeans and a white collared shirt that he'd casually rolled up at the sleeves. He took the empty chair and sat across the table from me.

 

“I want you to tell me your story.” He smiled. His eyes were soft, his smile friendly. I guess he was the good cop. But my patience was wearing thin. I was tired. My wrists were sore from the cuffs. I almost felt like I could confess just so they'd let me out of that godforsaken room in the bowels of the airport. Almost.

 

“You know it already, I'm sure. I've said the same thing to everyone else,” I snapped. I immediately regretted the tone I had taken. Maybe he actually
could
help me. I didn't know anymore. I just wanted to get out of that chair, out of that room.

 

“I want to hear it from you,” he said. “Just one more time, I promise. We'll get this all sorted out.” He smiled again. His eyes seemed kind. As though he meant his smiles and wasn't hiding some malicious ulterior motive behind a mask.

 

I told him. About the suitcase. The clothing samples. I had even peeked into the bag after I got it to my hotel room, after having picked it up from Thomas.  Neatly folded skirts and women's shirts, that was all I'd seen. They had smelled new, never worn. After that, I'd zipped up the bag and continued my packing before heading to the airport for the morning flight to New York.

 

And then, it was surreal. Taking a cab to Charles de Gaulle. Walking to the checkin counter, presenting my id, checking my bags. Getting in a security line that was too long. Waiting. Showing my passport again. Wondering why the lady checking identification was taking so long. Then being led away by two
gendarmes,
walking through what looked like a hidden door, and walking down a long drab corridor
to a small windowless room. Being handcuffed to the chair, then being told that everything would be better for me if I just told the truth.

 

What was the truth they wanted? It had to be related to the suitcase. Taking that was the only thing that I'd done differently from any other trip. But what could they want with it? With me? I'd give Thomas hell when I saw him next time. If only he knew what they'd done to me.

 

It can't get any worse. There's no way,
I thought.

 

“Marissa,” said the man, “thank you for sharing your story again. I know it gets hard waiting in this room. And I want to believe you. I really do.”

 

Thank god this Frenchman finally has some sense.

 

“I want to believe you, but I need you to see one thing first.” He pulled out his cell phone and showed me the screen. I saw a picture of an open suitcase. The suitcase Thomas had given me. But something looked off. It was all torn up, as if someone had taken a knife to the lining and cut away the insides of it. Inside, there were thin plastic bags filled with white-

 

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Thomas had royally fucked me. This was going to take more than explaining. I needed a lawyer. The American consulate. I needed some serious help
now
. This was not just some little misunderstanding. This was serious. The real deal. I started to get visions of orange jumpsuits. What were women's prisons like in France? This couldn't be real.

 

“Call me Jean-Claude,” said the man. “Yes, this is very bad.
Très sérieux
.” He got up from his chair and walked around the table toward me.

 

“I've seen these kinds of things before. Where innocent women do something...euh...
stupide
, and then end up here, like this, trying to explain themselves out of a very bad situation.”

 

He walked behind me and I felt his hands land on my shoulders with a firm but gentle touch. Was this part of a standard interrogation? Building rapport with the suspect, maybe? I could smell his cologne as he stood behind me. There was something so reassuring in his touch. I felt a small tingle in my belly that shot between my thighs. Just a short flash of arousal, like the flash of a firefly on a Summer night.

 

This isn't a time to get aroused, Marissa. You're in deep shit. This guy is just playing you, trying to soften you up so you'll confess to something you didn't do. It's all a trick.

 

That was when I felt his hands begin to massage the muscles of my neck. His thumbs moved slowly from my shoulders up the base of my neck. There was a warmth in his touch that started to make the room fade from my awareness. His touch. Gentle and firm and melting the tension from the past two hours of sitting handcuffed to that chair. I closed my eyes and exhaled deeply.

 

“Thank you Jean-Claude,” I said. “I needed that.” Whether he was playing me or not, it was the first moment that morning where, for just a split second, I was able to feel like things might turn out ok.

 

“We'll make this work out,” said Jean Claude. His voice was deep, soothing in a way that didn't make sense given the gravity of my situation.

 

I imagined that if this were different, if he and I had met somewhere in a bar just a day or so ago, we would have flirted and one thing would have led to another and I would have let come up to my hotel room for a drink and who knows what else. That would have been nice. There was something so reassuring in that touch. So masculine and
there.
He massaged the base of my skull under my neck with his thumbs, and I felt waves of physical calm wash through me. He moved his hands into my hair and I felt his fingers work around the top and sides of my head. They gently massaged around my temples. I'd closed my eyes again.

 

“Are you sure you're a cop?” I said. “Because you sure do have a way with your hands.”

 

He laughed a warm laugh and I felt his face behind mine as he leaned over to whisper in my ear. “You're a beautiful woman, Marissa. A very beautiful woman.”

 

Gently, he kissed the exposed side of my neck. I felt my nipples get hard. They pushed against the inside of my bra. I wanted him to grab my tits and twist my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Give them a little squeeze. Send little shocks of arousal through me until my clit started to ache for his touch. Oh god that would be nice. It might be the last action I ever got in a long time. Especially if I ended up going to some French women's prison.

 

I felt his hands move down between my shoulder blades. I found it funny that, despite his kindness, he still hadn't taken off the cuffs. It wasn't like I'd run away right then. No, quite the contrary. This windowless room was starting to take on a different character altogether. I was alone with Jean-Claude and his magic hands and there was no one else to witness what might come next.

 

I felt him slowly press into the knotted muscles around my shoulder blades.

 

“Ah,” I winced. The muscles were so wound up that it hurt, but it was the kind of pain that begged to be touched and kneaded and slowly released from my body.

 

“You're very tense Marissa,” he said. “That is completely understandable. But I need you to relax. We'll make this all go away. I promise.”

 

I let my head hang forward and my blonde hair fell in front of my face. I felt like putty in his hands.

 

“Really? Everything will just go away?” I almost couldn't believe it. Getting caught in a major airport with enough coke in your suitcase to retire in a third-world country didn't just go away. But his touch felt so...so
nice
. I almost didn't care, not at that very moment. I just wanted him to keep touching me the way he was doing so right then.

 

“Yes, I can make everything go away for you. I believe your story. All I need to do is tell my
superieurs
that, in my professional opinion, you were an unknowing accessory to a crime. You'll be on the next flight to New York.”

 

“Just like that?” I said incredulously.

 

“Just like that,” he said. He continued to massage the muscles around my shoulder blades, knotted up like tight strands of steel cable.

 

“You're free to go when you want,” he said. “Just tell me when you want to leave. I'll take off these cuffs and you can walk out.”

 

“Ok,” I said. His words had registered, but there was something so nice about that touch. I didn't want it to end. “Just a little more.”

 

“Then it's your choice,” he said. That was when I felt his hands reach around to my tits. He grabbed them through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. My nipples started to ache for his touch. I felt my clit begin to swell with desire. I could feel my slit get wet as his hands began to massage my tits through my shirt.

 

I felt him close behind me, standing behind my chair. His hands reached down to my belly and gently pulled my shirt up over my bra, exposing my mid-section. He ran his fingers up my belly to the front clasp of my bra and undid it deftly, without fumbling, as though he was practiced in these things. He was French, after all.

BOOK: The Interrogation Room
10.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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