“I want my lawyer”.
It’s not a comfortable room. Barely furnished, just a table and three chairs, one on one side and two on the other. The furniture is plain, nothing too fancy, suppose they don’t treat murder suspects with luxury. There is an old-fashioned video camera in the middle of the table with what looks like a microphone leading from the bulky camcorder. There is a large mirror on the wall adjacent to me, and I know that the officers behind it can witness and monitor my every move. The lighting is cold, greeny-blueish caused by the large fluorescent lights hanging from the dirty cream chipped painted ceiling. The four by 6-metre interrogation room seems pretty sound proof as I can’t hear anything from the outside of the room in the precinct nor any of the New York traffic.
It couldn’t have been easy for someone to do this to me. Apparently, they found my DNA and fingerprints at the crime scene. I know soon that they will ask me about my whereabouts and an alibi for that night. They won’t believe me when I tell them the truth. The last thing that I remember is
With any small movement, I can feel the handcuffs digging into my wrists. ‘Have they put them on too tight? Are they suppose to feel like this?’ I wouldn’t know. I have never been arrested or even had a traffic ticket. I am very cautious with my every action and almost do everything I am asked. My colleagues at a very well known Law Firm in New York highly respect me and multiple people look up to me with my high success rates of closing cases. I can’t have anyone know that I’m here or else it might ruin my reputation. But leaves me with one burning question, Why would someone frame me for the murder of Sophia Taylor?