Final Call for Mercy

1

I was one-hundred percent sure that my ass was starting to flatten. Two hours later and the only thing going my way has been water that tasted like oxidized metal served in a paper cup. My throat was dry and if that water didn't quench my thirst, then the taste made me forget my dry throat.

I have to admit with my head hung in shame that I was not doing well in this particular situation. If my father was here, he would have smacked me in the back of the head. Thankfully, he's not. If he was, I have a feeling I'd be on my way to that secret government dungeon. These nosy ass tombos have a lot more put together than they realize. I'll have to deal with that. (Tombos is slang for cops in Colombia.)

"No, sir. I do not know what you are talking to me about." I stretched my back in my seat and groaned. At least I didn't have to fake the frustration, too. "Don't you think these questions are a little... stupid?"

"Things would go a lot faster if you cooperated, Ms. Bianchi." Even-worse cop was really trying hard to get a bullet through the eyes.

I scoffed, "you mean if I falsely incriminated myself to make your job easier."

"No," bad-cop said. "We mean if you gave us straight answers."

"Let me summarize it for you because I think you're not getting where I am coming from," I told them. "You're telling me my father was related with some gang in LA that goes by some wack ass name which I forgot. The Cheetahs? Lions? Meerkats? I don't know--"

"The Jaguars," bad-cop corrected.

"Right, the Jaguars. Gangs and their stupid need to make a city sound like the zoo. Anyways, my father was related with them. You're saying that he faked his death, even though I saw him getting buried, and moved on to have relations with even bigger gangs like one's in Sicily and other parts of Italy. And, on top of that, you are accusing my biological father-- who came back to get me after he found out the news-- of being involved with the Sicilian Mafia and are accusing me of picking that as my career choice as if going with my biological father was not the only option I had."

Even-worse cop straightened. "You didn't go with your adoptive family. Why?"

"I was seventeen," I deadpanned. "If my father told me to go with him, I couldn't really fight back. And, if you know all of this, then I'm guessing you looked into my records."

"We did."

"So, I'm guessing you saw the countless school reports where I am filed with injuries and bruises. Even if I had a choice, my adoptive family would not even be the last one."

"Yes," bad-cop said. "And we also found out that your birth is not registered in Italy, Colombia or the United States. Anywhere actually. How did you attend school in the first place, Ms. Bianchi?"

I hoped the panic in me didn't show on my face. I felt it in my legs, because they started bouncing. My hands began fidgeting with each other and my teeth started torturing my lip. "Well, if I'm honest, I'd have to tell you I was a little preoccupied with coming out of my mothers vagina. I didn't exactly have time to remind them to register me."

Even-worse cop narrowed his eyes at me. "I'd advise for you to take this more seriously, Ms. Bianchi."

I glared him down. "I'd advise you let me call my lawyer, Sir. It's been hours."

Even-worse cop was going to say something, but bad-cop spoke before he could. "Of course. We are sorry for not doing it sooner. I'll go see if they have the phone ready. Wait just a moment."

I gave him an overly sweet smile and waved goodbye as he left the interrogation room. Even-worse cop followed after him.

Being as discreet as I could be, I let my eyes scan the room. I knew there was a camera in the left corner of the room, over the door. There was also one behind me on the wall, I saw it as I walked in. This room didn't have a two-way mirror, so I'd just have to watch for the cameras.