[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qDnfp5z.png[/img][/center]

[center][b]Interlude:
The Out[/b][/center]


Here's how it goes:

You are a citizen of a free nation. Having lived your adult life in a land of guaranteed civil liberties, you commit a crime of violence. Whereupon you are arrested -- "jacked up" in the parlance of the street-- and you find yourself here; in an interrogation room complete with four brick walls, three chairs, and one metal table.

Have a seat, please.

There you sit by yourself for almost an hour until a police detective, a man who is clearly not your friend, comes in with a smile and offers you a cigarette. The detective also brings with him a notepad, a pen, and a digital voice recorder. After you take the aforementioned smoke, he launches into a non-stop monologue that goes back and forth, back and forth, but comes to rest... in a very familiar place.

"You have the right to remain silent."

And you do. You're a criminal. Criminals always have the right to remain silent. You've seen [i]Law & Order[/i], right? Your Fifth Amendment rights prevent you from self-incrimination. If it was good enough for all those greedy CEOs and juicing athletes who testified in front of Congress, who the fuck are you to argue? Let's get some perspective, shall we? A police detective -- a man paid by the government to put you in prison -- is explaining to your dumbass that you have the right to shut up before you say anything stupid. Think about that for a moment. Talking to a detective during an interview is only going to hurt you, he tells you. Yo! Wake the fuck up, and shut the fuck up.

Also think about your right to an attorney.

The man with the too-bright smile that is betrayed by a pair of tired eyes tells you that you have the right to talk to an attorney anytime. Be it before questioning, after questioning, or during any questioning sessions. The man who wants to arrest you for violating the peace of the great city of New York is telling you that you can talked to a person who is a trained professional in legal matters, someone who has read the relevant code... or, he's at least gotten his hands on some Cliff Notes. Either way, he is sure as hell more up on his shit than you are. Let's face it, pal; You just shot a man in the head behind 112th Street Bar. You are many things, but a legal genius you ain't. You're going to need the help of an expert. Take whatever help you can get.

After his long speech informing you of your rights, the detective says that he wants you to be adequately informed of these rights. Right now, there is nothing he wants more than to help you out in this very confusing and stressful time in your life. He also wants you to know, and you can take it from him because he's been doing this for awhile, your right to an attorney isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

He says that once you call for that lawyer, there isn't a thing in the world he can do to help you. Nope, once that bell is rung it can't be unrung and your good friends here at the 18th Precinct won't be able to lend you a hand. The next authority figure to get their hands on your case will be a no nonsense prosecutor from the District Attorney's office.

And God help you if a three-piece suit wearing bloodsucker like that gets a whiff of your case. You'll be halfway to the Attica on a ten to life bid before you can even fucking blink. You ever been to Attica? They say Ryker's is the roughest prison in the state, but my money is on Attica. They'd eat you alive in a place like that.

Your best bet is to speak up. Speak up now.

With that little tidbit, the detective leaves the room and lets you think on it. Suddenly you realize how small this room, how without windows its a lot like a prison cell. That gets to you as you finish off your smoke and wish you had another. The detective returns minutes later, this detective who is not your friend, and smiles at you as he sits down at the table across from you with two cups of coffee.

"I got the coffee right? Two sugars, no cream?"

"Yeah, the coffee's fine, man." You say with a nervous twitch. "But, uhh...what happens if I want a lawyer?"

"We'll get you a lawyer!" The detective springs up from his seat and heads towards the door. "No problem, we got a line of lawyers waiting outside."

A few feet away from the door, he spins on his heels and looks back at you with his hands clasped together.

"But! Maybe you should think first." He walks back towards the table and leans over it. He's crowding you, but not in a threatening way. Kind of like how your mom or dad would get in close when you were a kid. There's a warmness there. This man, this man who has warned you that talking to him is a bad fucking idea, genuinely cares about your well being. 

"Like I said, once that lawyer is called we can't do anything to help you. This will be your only time to speak, remember that. So... he came at you, didn't he? It was self-defense."

You look down into the coffee and then back at his face. Swallowing hard, you answer.

"Uh-huh." You say cautiously.

"Wait one minute." The detective says as he slides you a piece of paper that seemingly appears out of thin air.

"Might want to read that first."

The form reads "I do not wish for an attorney right now, and I am willing to answer questions without an attorney present, and I do all this voluntarily on my part."

You sign the paper, initial it to be sure.

The detective looks at you, his eyes dripping with innocence, and says:

"He came at you didn't he?"

"Yeah. He... uh, he came at me," you whisper.

That's it. You're done.

If the detective wasn't too busy taking down your statement and writing an arrest warrant, he'd tell you as much. He'd say something about your ignorance and the fact that you just admitted to killing another human being. He'd also mention that, in all his years of working murders, he's still amazed that his bit even works.

Stop and think. When you came through those doors what did it say on the glass? That's right, Homicide. Who lives in a Homicide Unit? Homicide Detectives, so far so good. And what does a Homicide detective do for a living?

You got it.

You took a human being's life tonight. So, when you opened your mouth, what the fuck were you thinking?

Bar none, the homicide detective is the best salesman on the face of the earth. He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them. And he's damn good at it too. Through lies, half-truths, and cajoling he gets the truth -- or enough of it to build a murder case -- from you. And it's all entirely legal. His weapon isn't violence anymore. Now it's his prey's own goddamn stupidity that he has weaponized.

There is a thing in interrogations known as The Out. Every suspect who opens their mouth in an interrogation pictures The Out. The right series of answers, the right amount of charm, the right bit of an alibi that will allow them to stroll out of the interrogation room and head home unscathed. 

It is a lie, as blatant as any lie that detectives can use in their interrogations. Once you are in this room, there is no amount of words that can lead to your freedom. Only silence. Only asking for a lawyer can get you out of this room. You go to a jail cell, yes, but you do not willingly sign your life away in search of The Out. The truth is that The Out is digging your own grave. The Out always leads in.

You better get used to these small, cramped spaces, son. You're gonna be calling them home for at least the next thirty years.


---


[b]NYPD 90th Precinct
Brooklyn[/b]


"He's in the holding cell."

I didn't need sight to know how the cops at the Nine-Zero looked at me. I could almost feel the chill in the desk sergeant's voice. Cops don't like me. To be honest, most lawyers and judges don't like me either. The media, on the other hand, love me. And that makes cops and lawyers hate me even more.

"What do you want with him, Murdock?" The desk sergeant asked. "He don't look like your type of client."

"I do pro bono work from time to time. Now, are you going to continue to violate my client's constitutional rights, or am I going to have to file a civil rights lawsuit?" 

Five minutes later, I was inside an interrogation room with sixteen year old Yussel Goren. He'd been given standard issue prison outfit, his blood stained clothes taken in as evidence. Even with them gone, I could still smell the faint traces of blood. The kid must had been covered in it. All I really knew was that he'd been charged with murder, and he had confessed to said murder.

Rule 1 when I have clients: Never, ever talk to the cops. Ask for a lawyer, but say nothing else.

"Who did you confess to killing?" I asked.

"Neta," he said softly.

"Your girlfriend?"

"No... a girl from school."

I paused to pull out a digital recorder. The cops had their interrogation with Yussel on record, but I liked to record my talks with clients to compare notes. If the kid was confessing, though, I doubt I'd need a copy of his interrogation.

"Did you kill her, Mr. Goren?"

"Yes."

His heartbeat spiked through the roof. And that made me pause. I'm used to clients protesting innocence while they lied through their teeth. As much as our criminal justice system errs, more often than not they arrest the right people. But, this? This is something new.

"How did you kill her, Yussel?"

Hesitation on his part. He shrugged his shoulders, the shackles on his wrist clattering together. His heart rate went through the roof before he even spoke.

"Stabbed her. A lot of times."

People lie. That's the one of the few things that cops and lawyers can agree on. People always lie. Yussel Goren is lying. He's lying about committing a murder he's innocent of.

Why?