Chapter 5 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the downtown Los Angeles federal detention facility smelled faintly of industrial floor wax and old paper. The walls were cinderblock painted a depressing shade of institutional beige, and the single rectangular mirror on the far wall concealed a high-definition recording suite monitored by federal prosecutors and corporate compliance attorneys.
I sat on one side of the metal table, dressed in a dry, sharp charcoal business suit, my posture straight, my hands resting calmly on the scarred wooden surface.
The heavy steel door swung open.
Two federal marshals led Richard inside. He looked a thousand years older than he had that afternoon in the cockpit. His designer shirt was wrinkled and stained with sweat, his hair disheveled, the expensive silver handcuffs clinking heavily against each other as he was pushed down into the metal chair across from me.
He didn't look at me at first. He stared down at the table, his chest heaving, his mouth working silently as if he were trying to swallow glass.
“You can’t do this, Amelia,” Richard whispered hoarsely, his voice lacking any of the smooth, charismatic charm that had once fooled half the boardrooms in Silicon Valley. “It was... it was a misunderstanding. A mid-air turbulence accident. The door latch failed! You know it did! The FAA will investigate—”
“The FAA already investigated, Richard,” I interrupted calmly, sliding a thick manila folder across the table toward him. “In fact, our corporate security team downloaded the entire flight-data telemetry and cockpit audio logs within three seconds of liftoff.”
Richard’s head snapped up. His eyes darted to the folder.
“Every word you said,” I continued, my voice dropping into a steady, rhythmic cadence. “'Move a little closer to the door, sweetheart... You’ll get an even better view... Goodbye, Amelia.' Clear, crisp, studio-quality audio captured by the cabin directional microphones.”
He swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. “The... the marriage privilege... you can’t use private conversations—”
“Spousal privilege doesn't protect communications made in furtherance of an ongoing or planned felony, Richard,” I said, leaning forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table. “And attempted murder certainly qualifies as a felony.”
He slumped back in his chair, the last remaining trace of defiance draining completely out of his posture. The arrogance that had fueled his betrayal evaporated, leaving behind a pathetic, cornered coward.
“Why...?” he whimpered, staring at me with hollow, defeated eyes. “How did you know? I was so careful. For months, I played the part. How did you figure it out?”
I let out a quiet, cold breath through my nose. 📱
“Because you made one fundamental mistake, Richard,” I said softly.
“What mistake?”
“You studied my balance sheets, you studied my corporate structure, and you studied my trusts,” I replied, my gaze locking onto his with absolute clarity. “But you forgot to study me. You thought because I loved you, I was blind. You thought because I built a home with you, I had surrendered my survival instincts.”
May you like
I stood up from the table, smoothing down the lapel of my jacket.
“Enjoy your new accommodations, Richard,” I said, turning toward the heavy steel exit door. “The federal prosecutor is asking for consecutive life sentences without parole. And don't worry about our child—he or she will grow up knowing that their mother didn't need a man to protect her from the monsters in her own house.”
