Fiction
by Dana King
by Dana KingThe room is a ten-foot-by-thirteen-foot box of glazed brick. Electrical conduits end in four-outlet boxes on three of the walls. Secured to the floor four feet from a long wall is a standard gunmetal gray government-issue table, a D-ring bolted to one edge. Three straight-backed chairs face the table’s longer edges, two on one side and one between the table and the near wall. A video camera nestles in a high corner, A small microphone hangs close to the ceiling. A four-foot-by-six-foot two-way mirror in the wall facing the single chair provides a view from the observation room.
In the single chair since a patrol officer left him 45 minutes ago sits Steven Miller. Twenty-three years old, five-feet-ten inches tall, 165 pounds. Miller is an apprentice plumb
