Masterstrokes and the Forbidden Name
726 Words
"Want a mint?" the on-duty officer asked, walking down the hallway toward the interrogation room alongside John.
"No, thank you," John replied politely, walking with his hands in his pockets.
"Alright," the officer replied, unwrapping the candy and popping it into his mouth. "Here we are."
He opened the heavy metal door for the prisoner to enter. John stepped inside, but the room was empty.
"Where is Prosecutor Nilow?" he asked, turning back to the officer.
"Oh, he stepped out to take a call, but he'll be right back. Have a seat, John, and sit tight. I have to lock the door properly, understand?" the guard said, pulling the heavy handle until the lock clicked loudly.
"That's fine," John murmured. He pulled out the metal chair and sat down with absolute calm.
A few hallways away, Prosecutor Nilow was sitting on some steps near the building's rear exit, breaking into a cold sweat.
"Please, give me a little more time," the prosecutor begged into the phone. "He hasn't talked yet, but I know he will."
"No. We've already given you too much time. If he stays in jail without standing trial, it will bring trouble for all of us. The trial is tomorrow, first thing in the morning," a raspy, elderly male voice dictated from the other end of the line.
"I understand that, but I need his testimony. I have to get something out of him!" Nilow insisted, desperate.
"I'm sorry, but that is how things are going to be."
"Well, then at least start the trial tomorrow afternoon. That way I have time to go prepared, at least grant me that," the prosecutor pleaded.
"Yes, fine. I believe that is a reasonable request. See you tomorrow, Prosecutor Nilow," the elderly voice dismissed him before abruptly hanging up.
The prosecutor stared at the dark screen of his phone.
"This can't be happening!" he shouted in a fit of rage.
Blinded by anger, he hurled the cell phone down the stairs. The device bounced against the concrete with a sharp thud. Seconds later, Nilow took a deep breath, trudged down the steps to retrieve it, and walked back up, plotting his next move.
Meanwhile, in the interrogation room, John waited patiently. «Why are they taking so long?» he wondered, drumming his fingers on the table.
Finally, the door swung open and Prosecutor Nilow strode in.
"Hello, John."
"Hello, Prosecutor Nilow. What do we have for today?" John asked, feigning intrigue.
"Basically nothing. Your trial is tomorrow," the prosecutor blurted out in a severe tone.
"Thank God."
"John, you can get out of all this. You can skip the trial if you give me something useful. Like, for instance, the truth. Where did you get all your wealth?" Nilow pressed him, leaning both hands on the table.
"I already told you. I worked, created, and evolved a digital software program," John answered without blinking.
"But where is your registered company? Where are the tax payment receipts to the government? That is the part you always skip in your speech."
"Maybe at my house. I don't know. You arrested me without warning. Had I known, I would already have the documents ready, because mere words prove nothing, right?"
"You're right, you just didn't have time to forge anything. That is your excuse," Nilow spat with contempt. "But tomorrow you will have to prove your innocent version of the story to the judge. You could have avoided all this if you had just cooperated."
"I will be ready for that tomorrow," John said, standing up with deliberate slowness.
Prosecutor Nilow grabbed his folder from the table and turned around. Just as he was about to open the door, John's deep voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Wait."
"What do you want?" Nilow asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"You know, I need you to do me a small favor. Contact a friend for me... Her name is Carol Minier. Can you do that?"
In that exact instant, Prosecutor Nilow's face turned completely to stone. A cold sweat ran down his spine and, visibly disturbed, he brought a hand to his head, unable to articulate a single word.
- Writer
