Adam Johnson: Emporium

The interrogation room kind of gives me the willies. Not that I’m against the judicious use of electricity, in the name of Protection and Service; it’s just there’s something a little claustrophobic about the place. I admit Lt. Kim’s done wonders with the decor, throwing in a few plants and inspirational posters — she even invested in a new kind of oral shunt, which not only keeps a “suspect” from biting his or her tongue, but also forces the mouth into the shape of a gentle smile.

I put on my mirrored sunglasses, and as I open the door, remember to watch my language — all “suspect” conferences are taped on closed-circuit, which means the reporters hack in every once in a while, so we try to keep a lid on the cussing.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Seema.

“I’m soldering,” she says when she sees me, “for justice.” She holds up the smoking iron like the Statue of Liberty.

“No, I mean here, at the police station.”

“It’s national Take Your Daughter to Work Day,” Seema says, though we can barely hear each other over Gupta’s “suspect.”

“Oh, right, sure. Hey, I had a great time yesterday.”

“You hung in there longer than most,” she says, and without a mouthguard, you can see she’s got a chocky set of braces. Wearing her hair up also reveals some cauliflowered ears from grappling. But her eyes are deep brown, rifted with gold.

Behind us, Gupta’s really going after it. “Where did you stash the dang PIN numbers?” he demands. “And no more of your darn lies.”

The “suspect” keeps confessing, but it’s lame, and Gupta hates to reward insincerity. Plus, you can barely understand him with that oral shunt.

“Not so fast this time,” he says, and the grinding buzz of the truth machine starts again. The whole thing unnerves me — you know the sparking zap is coming, followed by a little blue smoke ring and that ozone smell. The suspect’s blindfolded, so he can’t see when the next jolt is coming, and his skin keeps wincing in anticipation.

Look out, I whisper, feeling a wave of flash empathy coming on, strong enough that the “suspect” begins to resemble a normal person, a neighbor you might know or some guy walking in the park. The LAPD says this is when good cops make mistakes.

I throw my sunglasses on the bench — they aren’t working at all. I feel a little woozy, and I’d look like a total puss if I fainted in front of Seema.

“Hey, Gupta,” I call, which makes him stop and smile, surprised to see me.

“Take five,” Gupta tells the “suspect,” then comes over to grab a clean towel.

“Blackbird,” he says, “what the heck are you doing here?”

“How about we give the technology a rest,” I tell Gupta. “What say I bring Twan in here so the two of us can play a little ‘good sniper — bad sniper,’ see if that works?”

“Sorry, Blackbird. This is kind of a father-daughter thing.”

“As if,” Seema says. “This is so unfair. That guy doesn’t even have a fighting chance.”

“I’m sure the world would be a better place,” Gupta tells her, “if everyone settled their differences with hand-to-hand. Until then, aren’t you forgetting how angry you got when someone stole your PIN number last year?”

“At least in jiu-jitsu there’s rules,” she says.

Gupta sops his forehead and turns to me. “Kids,” he says, shaking his head.

We follow him back to the silver table, careful to stand on the rubber mat, and looking at that poor fool all strapped down makes me want to amscray out of there. I look at Seema’s large eyes, at the way she bites the tip of a finger, and I get the feeling she’s waging her own battle with empathy. I’ve got some techniques that could help, but it’s something everyone, finally, has to do on their own.

Gupta adjusts the truth machine’s dial past “candid” and “frank” to “gospel,” the highest setting. Then he tests the new electrodes by swiping them together, and an arcing flash of light leaves us all blinking a moment.

“That’s not really a truth machine, is it?” Seema asks.

Gupta throws her a stern look.

Seema points at the machine’s fancy display panel. “I mean, behind those lights and buttons is some kind of pain machine, right?”

“Hush now,” Gupta says, lowering the rods, and I can’t tell if he’s speaking to his daughter or the “suspect.” Our eyes follow Gupta’s hands to the man on the table, who lies there flinching. There’s a point in sniping when the bullet’s away, when someone’s fate is sealed. The Kruger bucks in my hands, and for the moment or two it takes the slug to find its home, the target still thinks life is A-okay. They’re so clueless in my scope, so lost, I can’t help whispering, hit the deck. This is the dream I keep having: It’s always a nice day. I’m raking leaves. Sometimes washing my dad’s car. Ghostly, from far away, I hear my own voice call, duck. I don’t scramble for cover in these dreams; instead, I just stand there, holding the hose, searching the roofs and trees for the part of me that’s sure everything’s about to go wrong. This is the voice that Lt. Kim always wants to talk about, the voice in my head that believes anything can end, suddenly and without warning.

There’s a flash of light, and my knees go weak. I must look like one of those old snipers who’s gone soft, the kind you see living in the street in his dirty uniform, selling daisies for a buck. All I can do is head for the door, steadying myself as I go.

In the hall, I lean over and breathe deep as a team of chirpy cadets passes.

Then Seema is by my side. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, hands on knees.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she says. “I mean, I only have to come here one day a year.”

I stand straight, try to arch my back, snap myself out of it.

“That room’s just a little claustrophobic,” I tell her.

“Let’s get some fresh air, then,” she says. “I could use some fresh air.”

I’m feeling pretty shaky, so I’m thinking of what a cool sniper might say. I lean against the wall, try to stand all smooth. “Yo,” I tell her, “we could maybe grab some lunch.”

Seema casts a weary glance through the one-way glass to her father, hunched over the metal table. “Sure,” she says, and it’s that easy, we’re going to lunch.

We start walking together, debating tostadas or vindaloo, but before we even decide on a restaurant, ROMS comes cruising by, obviously headed out on a bomb disposal run. He’s pushing an asbestos supply cart and wearing his shiny Mylar blast suit.

He stops when he sees me. “What up, peoples?” he asks.

I pretend I don’t see him, even though he’s waving his claws in big hellos.

“Do you know this robot?” Seema asks me.

“Sure, we’re home-slices,” ROMS says.

It knots my gut, but I cold-shoulder ROMS. “This geek?” I ask Seema. “No way.”

ROMS pulls off his shiny hood. “Hey, homie, it’s me!”

“Shove off, drone,” I tell ROMS, who puts his hat on all wrong and slumps away. To Seema, I say, “That robot used to help carry equipment for our band.”

“You’re in a band?” Seema asks.

“Yeah, I play bass,” I tell her. “Most of our numbers are in French, though, so you probably wouldn’t understand.”

My hands are all shaking, I feel like such a fake.

“Quel chance,” she says. “Je parle français aussi.”

Then I hear this voice in my head. Get out of there, it says.

“Sorry, gotta go, see you,” I say and head back down the hall, beating it through the lockdown and central processing. I race past rows of booking tables, then stumble through the gift shop — knocking over all kinds of souvenir shot glasses and nearly killing the bail blonde — before finally ducking into the Sniper Lounge.