Chapter 16
Thomas
About ten minutes after I arrive in the interrogation room, the door on the other side of the Plexi-glass opens, and a detective walks in. They say nothing for several seconds as they move the table to one side, scoot the chair up closer to the divider, and begin tapping away on the tablet they’re holding. This is definitely not a technique I’ve seen on the crime drama shows. After about a minute or more, they look up at me.
It’s a friendly enough face that appears on the avatar as the detective begins.
“So, you’re detainee 00XJ5,” they say rhetorically. “I’m detective Santos. Do you know why you’re here?”
I decide to play it cagey and lie.
“No.”
A smile graces the avatar, and I hear a slight chuckle.
“Well, think back over the current school year. Have you participated in any events that are expressly illegal? Say, some reveal parties, maybe?”
I’m not feeling particularly cooperative. But, then again, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and it might come in handy to at least be cordial and not make it harder on myself than it already is.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“Okay. So, here’s the deal. We have reason to believe that you’ve attended a number of these events and that you’ve even helped organize them. We also believe you’ve had dealings with some of the leaders who are putting on the events—people higher up in the organization.
“I’ll make it easy for you. What we want is for you to help us identify who those leaders are. In exchange, you’ll be sent back to school, no harm, no foul.”
It’s my turn to chuckle, or more accurately, to snort.
“So, what makes you think I’ve done anything more than attend a reveal party?”
The detective taps on the tablet and turns it around so I can see. A video is playing on the screen showing three robed figures walking along behind a brick building. I recognize the place, and I know they’ve got me. It’s definitely me in the front. I’m the guide. But I’m not ready to give in just yet.
“So, you’ve got a video of three people in robes. Which one am I supposed to be?”
A few more taps on the tablet later, and I’m watching myself remove the robe in an alleyway, tucking it away in my suit, my nametag clearly visible. I’m busted.
“And before you say anything else, we know this is the way the guides in the reveal parties work. You were leading those other two students away from the reveal party and back to campus.”
I’m frantically trying to remember when that particular party was. How many dead-drops have I made since then? How many times have I met Veritas at the schoolhouse? I remember that party took place before the conference. There’s no telling how long they’ve been following me around, tracking my movements, observing who I’ve talked to, where I’ve gone and with whom. They could potentially know a lot. My greatest fear is that they might have found out about Veritas. But they don’t know everything. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be trying to get more information out of me now.
I’ve got to be very careful here. The less I say, the better.
“So, let me make this a bit more clear for you. The penalty for attending a reveal party is expulsion. Buuuut, the penalty for participating in helping to organize one is a lot steeper.”
I feel the clutch in my stomach return with a vengeance. I know he’s playing a psychological game with me, letting me squirm before he tells me what could be in store for me, but there’s nothing I can do about it besides wait. I’m a mouse with its tail caught in the trap, just waiting for the trapper to decide my fate.
“You’re looking at somewhere between three to five years in re-education camp . . . unless you cooperate with us and help us identify the leaders of the group.”
I close my eyes. Even though I knew re-education camp was a possible penalty for my actions, it still stuns me to hear it said out loud. Hearing this is the worst thing that’s happened so far. I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. Sensing the impact their words have likely just had, Detective Santos pounces.
“Listen . . . give us a few names, a few details about what it is you’ve been up to, and then you walk away, back to school, and no one knows anything.” They lean forward slightly before continuing. “You don’t have to spend the next three to five years in re-education camp.”
I can feel tears start to well up in my eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to get caught and be put in this position. But then again, I wasn’t supposed to have to live life hidden behind a mask, either. These people have been controlling me my whole life, telling me when I can show my face and when I can’t, what opinions I can have and which ones I’ll get punished for even mentioning. They’ve controlled my life so much I don’t even know who my biological parents are. The injustice of it all begins to well up inside of me, and the anger begins to overwhelm the fear.
I know there are going to be consequences for the next thing I say, but in this moment I don’t care. Right now, I just want to give ‘the man’ my middle finger and protect Veritas. So I give him my answer in one single, clear word.
“No.”
His avatar frowns as he looks at me, nodding his head slightly.
“Okay. I know you want to protect your friends, and you’re probably angry at how life is set up, at being asked to hide your face behind a mask. I get it. But I want you to think about the alternative. The way it used to be. These rules we live by are here for a reason. Take all of this away, and it won’t be long before we’re all back in the streets, at each other’s throats, whites and blacks and Asians all trying to kill each other. The religious zealots and the LGBTQ community will be suing each other and sending pipe bombs to each other in the mail. And then what kind of a life will we have?
“These rules, as much as we may not like them, keep us safe. I know you don’t see that now, but trust me on this. You’re young, and you’re an idealist—I can appreciate that. There’s nothing wrong with being an idealist. But you need to channel that energy into things that won’t lead to chaos and bloodshed down the road. It may not be a perfect way to live, but it’s the safest way to live for the most people, and that’s worth a lot.”
His speech is persuasive. It’s what we’ve been told by our teachers and our leaders my whole life. But what if it’s not true? What if they’ve taken the facts and used them in such a way as to magnify the problem and make what happened before seem worse than it was? What if they’re lying to us? I mean, how many people have been sent to re-education camp and had a similar experience to Veritas’ mom—being tortured and threatened and having their memories erased? That’s violent. That’s not just or right, and it wasn’t racial hatred that did that. It was the government trying to force us all to follow their rules at the point of a gun.
“Well, I can see you need some time to think. But here’s the thing. You don’t have that luxury. You see, if I leave this room without getting the information I’ve been sent in here to get, then you get put into phase two interrogation. Do you know what that is?”
My face is like stone, and my mind is racing. I don’t respond.
“Well, let me tell you,” he continues. “That’s where a doctor, who’s not as nice as I am, straps you into a chair. They use a needle to insert a few small devices the size of BBs into your brain, right up through the nasal cavity.” He runs a single finger along his viewscreen next to the image of his avatar’s nose to illustrate the point. “And then they ask you these same questions. And if you don’t answer, well, those BBs travel around and put themselves in some very specific pain centers around your brain. And then those little suckers produce an electric shock. I’ve heard it makes you feel like you’re on fire.”
I squirm in my chair involuntarily, forcing myself to stop when I realize what I’m doing. The slight smile on my interrogator’s screen tells me my reaction didn’t escape his notice.
“So, you see, I’m actually the closest thing to a friend you have in this scenario. You’re gonna give them the answers they want in phase two, believe me. You’ll be telling them whatever they want to know and then some.”
Detective Santos turns around and points to an old-style clock on the wall, the minute hand positioned at three minutes to the hour.
“You see that clock? In three minutes, I’m either walking out of this room to tell them you’ve decided to go to phase two or you’re starting to tell me what I want to know. So, what’s it gonna be?”
Three minutes. The anger and the fear are wrestling inside of me. I wonder how long I’ll be able to hold out before I tell them exactly what they want to know. I read in a spy novel once that, in the end, everyone talks. I think of my family, of Veritas, of Cynthia and Jeremy, and my other friends. They probably don’t even know I’m here.
I can’t talk. I just can’t. I don’t know how long I can hold out, but I have to try.
“Two minutes,” he says as he melodramatically turns back to look at the clock.
I’m strangely calm now, resigned to my fate. I almost feel relief. Almost.
“One minute.”
The minute-hand moves to the twelve, and the detective turns back to me, a frown on the avatar’s face.
“I know you think you’re being brave instead of just stupid. But I’ve seen hardened criminals break in the first five minutes of phase two interrogation. And I’ve seen some people who hold out a lot longer. So I’m gonna give you a final piece of advice. Of the few people who hold out the longest, they don’t come out the same. Something about enduring that level of trauma, even though it doesn’t supposedly damage the brain itself . . . well, let’s just say it can change you in other ways. So, just remember, there’s no shame in giving in. Everyone does eventually, and you could save yourself some long-term problems if you give in early.”
Detective Santos gets up and exits the room, leaving me to think about the torture that awaits me.
