Saidi had been my price, just as much the start of their decline.
“Well, then, give me the explanation. Shoot.”
I begin recounting my story, though I skip over many details. He knows he’s getting a half-truth, but when I finish, he seems satisfied. I’m certain that anything I haven’t told him, Bastian has already blurted out with that loose tongue of his.
No, I won’t be thinking about Bastian’s tongue right now. Not the right moment to do that.
I’m aware many will be called to testify, and between all our statements, both the police and André will piece the full story together. I’d prefer my version to be the first they hear.
When my boss nods—a gesture I interpret as “Vera, for once I’m proud your name is at the bottom of the company’s list,” though it’s probably more of a “Vera, you’ve messed up, don’t make it worse”—I know I have to repeat the story just as I did before to the police.
If things go awry, I’m laying the blame squarely at his feet.He’s the boss, after all.
Officer Alonso ushers me into another room that is a mirror image of the last, as though they’ve cloned the space and flipped it. I take a seat. This time, alongside Officer Alonso, there’s a woman. Her hair is streaked with grey and yellowed at the ends, her expression long and weary, and her face hangs downward like a tired old horse. She smiles at me, her grin stretching wide and toothy. André stands by the door, gazing out until another officer waves him in and shuts the door behind him.
“Before we begin, Miss Rodríguez, would you like some water? A coffee? Anything else?” Alonso offers.
In the back right corner of the room, there’s a vending machine with plastic cups, the only thing that sets this room apart from the previous one. The machine offers just two options: Water on the left and Coffee on the right. There’s no choice for milk, which is a shame. I would have appreciated a warm glass.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Excuse me, John,” André says. Is he friends with this guard? I don’t know why I’m surprised. André is friends with everyone. “I’ll get her a coffee before we begin. It’ll do you good, Vera.”
My boss fumbles with the plastic cups, trying to separate them. Then he presses the right button. No one says anything as a dark stream pours into the cup, and I shift in my seat. Officer Alonso and the long-faced woman become overly engrossed in the papers before them. I glance at André. It feels like waiting for someone to finish peeing, listening to that awkward trickle against the toilet bowl. The last drops fall, and I almost expect my boss to zip up his fly. Ugh.
The coffee finishes brewing. André sets it in front of me before sitting down beside me. I peer into the paper cup, watching the dark liquid swirl and settle at the bottom. Dark and bitter. Just like my future.
“We can begin whenever you’re ready.”
The woman’s smile is unsettling, her teeth too large for her face, which tapers into an awkward point rather than rounding out.
“Very well. Thank you, Mr Saidi. I’m Alba Morrison, head of the department.”
She angles her sharp chin towards me and says, “We’re going to record your statement. André informs us that you’ve already consented to this. Is that correct?”
I nod.
“Then let’s begin.”
The interrogation proceeds like something out of a movie. I’ve been studying law for a year and a half, and this is my favourite part of every case, uncovering what really happened. Or, more accurately, what your client says happened. In this case, Alonso and Horseface are about to receive a detailed version of events that André has deemed appropriate.
AM: Are you Vera Rodríguez Malin?
She cites my full name, somehow butchering the pronunciation of all the vowels at once.
VR: Yes.
AM: Do you know what you’re being accused of?
VR: Yes.
Officer John Alonso reads me my rights and then reads aloud from his papers.
JA: Money laundering. Is that correct?
VR: That’s right.
AM: Do you plead guilty?
