Saturday, October 5, 2013

Drake Files: Chapter One

I promised something finished for the weekends, and here it is. This is the opening chapter of a new series I'm working on. Hope you like it. This is in no way a final version, and hopefully one day I'll this finished and on book shelves.


Chapter One
It was a cold December day when I pulled into CIA headquarters’ parking lot in Langley, Virginia. I’ve worked for the CIA for almost twenty five years as an interrogator. In all that time, I’d never seen a suspect like the one sitting in that interrogation room.
At first I couldn't believe it. My boss handed me his file before we went into the observation room on the other side of what everyone knows to be one-way glass. Sitting in that quiet room is a fifteen year old boy. I look to the man who handed me the file for some indication that this is a joke. I’ve made a living being able to read people, and this is apparently no joke. Reading over the file, not only is this not a joke, this is one of the most serious cases I’ve ever been a part of.
I skim through the file in disbelief. Theft of classified information, treason, trespassing, kidnapping, suspected involvement with terrorists… I haven’t seen a wrap sheet like this since… in my entire career I haven’t seen a wrap sheet like this.
And I look through the glass and see a fifteen year old boy. Long, messy red hair, dark eyes, five feet, four inches tall and looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in a while. I can’t even imagine what this boy’s story is, but then, that’s what I’m here to find out.
I go over into the next room and sit down across the table from the boy. He doesn’t even bother to look up as I set the file on the table and flip it to the first page.
I like spending a minute studying the suspect face to face before starting an interrogation, just to get a sense of them. The boy won’t stop tapping the floor with his foot; his hands are visibly shaking on the table his breath is loud and shaky. He’s nervous, for one thing, but I get the sense that whatever he really is, a hardened criminal he is not. Maybe there’s hope for him, and I find myself hoping that when all of this is sorted out, he could be rehabilitated instead of just carted off to jail. But I have to set all of that aside for now, because for now he’s a suspect.
I look down at the file and clear my throat before speaking. “Drake Edward Fletcher,” I begin. I see him cower in a similar way my children do when I use their full names when they get in trouble. I continue, but dial down the formalities a bit. “May I call you Drake?”
He bites his lip as he looks down at his hands and gives the slightest nod of approval. I continue. “Drake, I must say, I find it hard to believe this file they handed me outside.”
He stays silent and avoids looking at me. I switch to parent mode and say, “Drake, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
Still looking at the table, he responds, “That file has everything you need to know about all of this. I already confessed to all the crimes.”
He did confess, I heard the story. He confessed to all the crimes mentioned in the file, but hadn’t been further questioned since. Stranger enough was that he turned himself in with three other kids, all of which deferred to him, and all of which are also held in this facility. When asked if he wanted to talk to a lawyer, he refused. He’s apparently been here ever since.
“I know you confessed,” I said, “but that doesn’t help me make sense of all of this.”
He finally looks me in the eye. His gaze is strong, his eyes full of anger. “What do you care,” he throws at me.
“I care because it’s my job to care.” I indicate the file and say, “this is one of the strangest accounts I’ve ever read. It’s my job to understand these things, and this one makes no sense. I’d expect to read a file like this on a hardened terrorist, not someone who’s still too young to drive. You’re no criminal, Drake, and I can tell so don’t try to say you are. You and your friends got tangled up in something much bigger than yourselves. Your friends all defer to you, so you’re going to have to be the one who tells me everything, Drake, because, frankly, if half of what happened in this file is true, someone’s going to have to go away for life. Personally, I’d hate to think that a fifteen year old is the fall guy for all of this.”
He looks back down at his hands, which are still shaking and clammy. Sighing, I add, “I’ll tell you what; I’ll get us some food if you tell me your story.”
He looks from the floor to the table, obviously contemplating my offer. After a minute of silence, he speaks. “Fine, I’ll tell you everything. But first, I want to say that some of this is pretty… incriminating, especially for our parents. So if I do this, and tell you everything, I want a few things first.”
I lean back in my seat, and nod for him to continue. My hunch was turning true. This wasn’t a master mind I was dealing with. It was a kid who had something on his chest he wanted to get off.
“First,” he begins, “I want everything I’m about to say to not show up on my record, and the same goes for the records of my friends.”
“Second,” he continues, “I want all of our parents absolved of any crimes against the US.”
“Lastly,” he says, “I want the director of the CIA to kiss my feet and apologize personally for ruining all of our lives.”
“How about just the apology,” I offer.
“Fine,” he agrees, “But as long as I never see another CIA agent ever again.”
“Well, Drake,” I say, “I can’t promise those things for sure until after you tell me your story. I can promise that we will talk about all of that afterwards. For now, how about a pizza and some drinks.”
Once again, he contemplates my offer. My impression of this boy is anything but a terrorist. He wants to protect the people he cares about, and he’s going to be careful to do so. “Make it a large pepperoni, and can you at least tell me one thing before I start?”
“What is it?”
“Can you tell me where my parents are being held?”
That’s exactly what I figured he would ask for. I know that people are listening in on this, so I call out, “Someone get that pizza and find out where his parents are.” The room is soundproofed, but I can see in my mind people running around to get what I’ve asked for. “Do you want to wait for all of this, or are you up to going ahead and getting started?”

“Then let’s get this started already,” he finally says. I just sit back and listen as he tells his account.

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