78A brown manila envelope vibrated on a table in the FBI interrogation room where Rupert looked back and forth between Matta and the agent who had driven his forehead into the car with enough force to raise a small egg over his eye. He held ice wrapped in paper towels against it, the melt running down his forearm. His phone, wallet, keys, passport and money were in the envelope.
“Your girlfriend will call back.” Alvarez smirked.
Matta shot her partner a look to silence him.
“I want my lawyer,” Rupert said firmly.
“You won’t be speaking to anyone until we get some answers,” Matta said.
“I know my rights,” Rupert insisted.
“Your status is a bit sketchy.” Matta leaned back in a hardwood chair across the table.
“What do you mean status?”
“We just don’t know what you are, Marshall,” Mat
