"My name is Jack, born in New York, 24 years old." Jack calmly sat on the chair in the interrogation room, his voice steady as he stated his information. "Graduated from Harvard University, a member of the party…" He had to join; it was a mandatory condition for his position as an NSA agent.
The young officer let out a cold laugh, a mocking smirk spreading across his face.
The interrogation team consisted of three people: an older officer in his fifties, a young officer who looked like he had just graduated from the academy, and a female officer in her twenties tasked with recording the session.
"Explain what happened," the older officer said after noting down Jack's personal information. He tapped his pen on the table and spoke in a calm yet commanding tone. "Don't try to play games with us. You know the rules: cooperation brings leniency, resistance brings severity."
Jack's mind raced. If he confessed now, wouldn't that be equivalent to handing them a signed statement? His training had taught him exactly how to handle situations like this.
"I want to see a lawyer," Jack said, leaning back slightly in his chair, his tone firm. "Once I've consulted with a lawyer, I will fully cooperate."
"A lawyer? You want a lawyer?" The young officer stepped closer, his smirk deepening under the harsh interrogation lights. "Do you really think you're in a position to demand a lawyer?"
Jack frowned slightly, sensing something was wrong. "Am I not entitled to a lawyer?" His voice remained steady, but a faint trace of displeasure was detectable beneath his calm demeanor.
SMACK! A sharp slap landed on Jack's face, leaving a stinging sensation.
At first, Jack didn't even register what had just happened. A few seconds later, the realization dawned, and anger surged within him. "You dare to hit me!" he roared.
"I hit you, so what?" The young officer loomed over him, delivering another backhand slap. "You still think you're getting a lawyer? Dream on." Nearby, the female officer stopped writing for a moment to stifle a yawn.
"Ahem!" The older officer stepped forward, blocking the younger one. His expression softened into one of feigned paternal concern. He patted Jack on the shoulder and spoke in a placating tone, though still dripping with condescension: "Listen, kid, don't let all that Western nonsense about rights and freedom brainwash you. We're here for your own good. Just tell us how you managed to put those people in the hospital, and the system won't treat you unfairly."
Jack stared at the officers, momentarily dumbfounded. "What?"
"Come on now," the older officer continued, his tone soft but persuasive. "The system won't let a guilty person go free, and it won't wrong an innocent one either. Just be honest—how did you hurt them?"
Anyone less discerning might have fallen into the trap and started explaining "how they hurt someone," but Jack quickly picked up on the underlying trick. "Hurt them? You're saying I hurt them? Me? Alone? I injured—what—fifteen, maybe twenty people?" He raised his voice in protest. "They attacked me! I was defending myself!"
"Whether or not it was self-defense isn't for you to decide!" The young officer slammed a notebook onto the table, his tone dripping with disdain. "That's up to us! Now, tell us the truth—what caused the fight? Was it some petty argument at the bar? Did you start it?"
Jack looked at him like he was listening to some ridiculous joke. "You think I, alone, started a fight with twenty people? Do you even hear yourself?"
"We've seen your type before," the young officer sneered, tapping the notebook against Jack's cheek. "You probably have accomplices. Just admit it—what sparked the fight? Why did you start hitting people?"
Jack held his ground, staring the officer down. "I want a lawyer."
SMACK! Another slap, harder than the first two. "You still think you're getting a lawyer?" the young officer snarled.
"I'm filing a complaint against you for police brutality!" Jack shouted, finally losing his composure. Despite his extensive training and his knowledge of how interrogation tactics could be twisted, experiencing it firsthand was an entirely different matter. "I'm going to report you!"
The older officer shook his head, his expression turning to one of exaggerated pity. "Lawyers aren't available until after you've confessed. That's the rule. And let's be real—even if you get a medical exam, no one's going to document a couple of slaps. Just cooperate, and this will all go much smoother for you. We won't hit or yell at you anymore. Deal?"
Jack let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Let me ask you one thing: did I hit someone important? Maybe a senator's son? Or some city councilman's nephew? I just want to know why I'm here."
The older officer sighed, his voice laden with mock sympathy. "You're an educated man, someone the state has invested so much in. It's a shame it came to this. But, let me tell you, some things are better left unknown."
Jack exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting off into the distance. His cuffed hands shifted slightly. "Fine. What about my buddy? Where is he?"
The older officer's response was calm and practiced. "He's fine. Some bruises, nothing serious."
"Got it." Jack nodded, as if piecing things together. "Go ahead and write it up. Once you're done, I'll take a look. If it's close enough, I'll sign."
Both officers exchanged surprised glances. They hadn't expected Jack to give in so easily. In their minds, someone like Jack—an educated man—would surely argue endlessly about his rights or rail against the alleged brutality. His sudden cooperation caught them off guard.
"But there's one thing I still want to know," Jack said, his tone turning icy as he leaned forward slightly. "Who exactly am I taking the fall for? I just want to know how I ended up here."
The older officer hesitated, his voice dropping slightly as he spoke. "The city mayor… doesn't want his son to face any trouble before his upcoming civil service exams." He paused, then added, "Don't worry—this will be written up as a simple brawl. You'll be home in two weeks. And there might even be… a small token of gratitude for your cooperation."
Jack let out a cold laugh. "I see. And this will go on my record, won't it?"
"Of course, once we get your confession, we'll pull your file," the young officer said, noticing how cooperative Jack was and deciding to drop the pretense of playing "good cop, bad cop." He got straight to the point, "Where do you work?"
"An import-export company... but I quit today." Jack let out a bitter laugh, his tone tinged with resignation. "Guess bad luck really doesn't come alone."
"An import-export company in Long Island? That's a nice place, good benefits. Why'd you quit? So, your file should be with their HR management center?" The young officer pretended to care as he handed over the written confession to Jack. "Take a look, and if everything seems fine, just sign it and press your fingerprint here."
"My file isn't in Long Island." Jack lowered his gaze to the document, glancing through it. Using the little legal knowledge he'd learned, he quickly realized that the confession portrayed him as the instigator of the fight, painting the others as the ones merely acting in self-defense. He let out a dry laugh, his voice carrying an ironic hint of admiration. "Well written."
The young officer gave him a modest smile. "Oh, it's nothing. Just doing my job."
Jack sighed and nodded slightly, turning his wrists lightly inside the handcuffs.
"Okay then, just press your fingerprint and—wait, what?!" The young officer's voice suddenly shot up in disbelief. He stared as the handcuffs slipped off Jack's wrists and clattered to the ground with a crisp metallic clang. Jack, still seated calmly in the chair, was casually rotating his wrists, even as he continued flipping through the confession papers as if nothing had happened.
"Restrain him!" The older officer shouted instinctively, though he, too, had no idea how Jack had managed to slip out of the cuffs. He lunged toward Jack.
Meanwhile, at the headquarters of the New York Police Department, the head of interrogations, Chief George, was leisurely seated in a high-end restaurant. Surrounded by a few well-dressed men and women, he was enthusiastically discussing plans to capitalize on the upcoming election season.
Just as he was reaching the climax of his anecdote, his phone rang. Chief George, still smiling, raised a finger to excuse himself from the table and answered. He didn't even have time to say hello before a panicked voice yelled from the other end, "Chief George, we have a situation!"
"A situation?" George frowned slightly, though the practiced smile remained plastered on his face. He lowered his voice to speak into the phone. "Calm down and speak clearly. What happened? Why are you so worked up?"
"The interrogation room… It's a mess. Several officers are down… injured," the panicked voice stammered.
"Injured? Who's fighting who?" George sounded bored as he spoke, not taking the call seriously. "There's what—seven or eight officers on duty? Just use the tasers. Did you guys arrest some pro-level MMA fighter or something?"
"It's not an MMA fighter…" The voice on the other end quivered, as if in fear. "We already used tasers on him. He didn't even flinch!"
George froze for a moment. "Didn't flinch? At all?"
From the other end of the line, there was a clamor of noise, followed by someone shouting, "Don't let him close the door! Mike, get back—" The line abruptly cut off.
The smile finally faded from George's face. He rose from his seat, his expression darkening as he muttered under his breath, "Unbelievable… Someone's actually causing trouble inside the station?" He tossed a handful of bills onto the table and left, muttering an apology to his dining companions.
When George arrived at the station, the interrogation hallway was in chaos. Several riot officers had surrounded the area, their shields and batons at the ready. A lieutenant with a bullhorn was shouting, "You are surrounded! Do not resist! Surrender now! Cooperate, and the consequences will be less severe!"
George pushed through the crowd, narrowing his eyes at the scene. Spotting an older officer whose uniform was torn and tattered, George pulled him aside. "What the hell happened here?"
"I don't know." The older officer looked defeated, his voice trembling slightly. "We had just finished writing up his confession, and then… he just slipped out of the cuffs. We tried to subdue him, but…" He gestured to the mess around him, including the torn remnants of his own clothing, "this is the result."
George squinted at him, disbelief etched into his features. "Are you sure the handcuffs weren't defective?"
"Absolutely not!" The older officer nearly shouted, his frustration evident. "If you ask me, it's some kind of… I don't know, special forces training, or maybe he knows how to dislocate his joints—"
"Special forces training? What is this, a Hollywood movie?" George scoffed. "Dislocate his joints? Shrinking bones? Come on, give me a break. What's he asking for?"
The older officer opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked completely at a loss.
Inside the interrogation room, the female officer was doing her best to remain composed as she addressed Jack. She spoke with a measured tone, trying to de-escalate the situation. "You've assaulted police officers, which is a serious crime. Now, you're resisting arrest. Things are only getting worse for you. Stop now, while there's still a chance to make this right."
Jack sat calmly by the door, glancing at her briefly before replying, his tone cold and detached. "Resisting arrest? I'm one guy against a dozen cops. You call this resisting arrest? And what about the false confession you tried to make me sign? Or beating me up? What do you call that?"
The female officer knelt down beside one of the injured officers, using a handkerchief to dab at his forehead. "We didn't beat you. Don't exaggerate. There's always going to be a bit of physical contact during an arrest. That's not the same as beating someone. Police officers enforce justice; how could you call that 'beating'?"
Jack let out a cold laugh. "Oh, I see. 'How could police be accused of beating someone?' Got it."
The female officer sighed and shook her head. "But you hitting people is still wrong. We might have used a little force for the sake of the investigation, but you hitting back so hard… that's completely uncalled for."
"So it's okay for you to hit me, but I can't defend myself?" Jack's voice dripped with sarcasm. "What kind of logic is that?"
"How can you lack basic moral principles?" The female officer sounded genuinely baffled. "Haven't you heard of turning the other cheek? Confucius once said, 'Repay injury with kindness.'"
Jack almost laughed out loud. "So, I should've just sat there and let them beat me? Ryan and his twenty guys come at me and my friends, and I should've… reasoned with them?"
"Of course! You should've talked to them, explained that fighting is wrong," the female officer said with complete seriousness. "And if that didn't work, you should've immediately called the police. We would've handled it for you. Violence only makes things worse."
Jack shook his head, incredulous. "How exactly am I supposed to reason with twenty guys stomping on me? And I did call you—took you ten minutes to show up. What was I supposed to do in the meantime? Lie there and take it?"
The female officer replied matter-of-factly, "If you hadn't hit them first, they wouldn't have hit you. One hand can't clap by itself."
Jack, thoroughly done with the conversation, turned toward the commotion outside and shouted, "When is your boss getting here?"