Mischa Berlinski: Peacekeeping

What you have to understand is that a professionally conducted interrogation is not fair. For my part, I have almost two decades’ experience conducting interrogations such as this one each and every day; most of the time, the suspect has never before been interrogated. I am certified in the Reid technique, both Level One and the Advanced Course; the suspect has not flown to Charlotte for the five-day seminar at the Airport Marriott in Advanced Tactics of Criminal Evasion. He does not know the rules in the way I do. He has come to my territory, my office, at the moment of my choosing. I am dressed in a suit and tie. I have my diplomas on the wall, and the shoulder holster of my firearm is visible. I have drunk my coffee, moved my bowels, taken a shower. I am not in a fine sweat and my heart is not beating like a bongo. And of course, the stakes are so much higher for him than for me: should I make a mistake, a criminal will go free, but I will still go home to my wife. Should he make a mistake, he will go to prison. Under these conditions, the moment a suspect sits in my office, naturally he is nervous.

That is always the first thing I say.

“You seem nervous.” I try to say this with as much compassion as I can. “Is something bothering you?”

I have had many suspects simply collapse at this point. Almost every criminal — indeed, almost everyone, innocent or guilty — has an urge to confess; later, they will wonder why they didn’t just stay quiet. Nobody who works in criminal justice doubts that we are born with sin on our hands.

“We need to clear a few things up,” I say. “The sooner we clear things up, the sooner this will be over.”

Now I’m required by law to add, “You don’t need to stay here and talk to me. You can leave at any time, but I’d very much appreciate your assistance in getting this settled out, so you can get back to your business. You can also have a lawyer with you here if you like. Do you understand?”

In fifteen years, only a handful of suspects have availed themselves of their legal opportunity to stand up and walk out of my office. Only a handful. One was a seventeen-year-old boy named Antwan. He was accused of stealing a Corvette. The victim was the suspect’s neighbor, and the victim was sure that Antwan was the culprit. The boy had apparently ogled the car just a little too long. The car was found smashed up in the bottom of a ravine a few days later.

Antwan said, “I don’t got to be here, I’m out of here.”

“That’s no problem,” I said. “We’ve got your endotriglyceride levels from that doorknob you’re touching. We’ll match those up against the steering wheel, and that’ll tell us the whole story right there.”

Antwan pulled down the sleeve of his hoodie and began wiping at the doorknob.

I said, “Son, why on earth wouldn’t you want us to match up those endotriglyceride levels if you’re not involved in this? If you’re afraid of what those endotriglyceride levels will tell me, you should sit right back down. If the truth comes out later and you been wasting my time, I won’t be able to help you.”

I was right. It was the moment. The endotriglyceride levels never lie. Antwan sat back down.

Then I tell the suspect that he is guilty. Full stop. He is guilty, and I know he is guilty. I tell him all the evidence we have against him, piling it up layer after layer until he feels entombed by his misdeeds, until the suspect is well-nigh positive he cannot escape. If I do not have solid evidence, I invent it.

Sometimes I will tell the suspect that he was caught on a hidden surveillance camera.

Sometimes I will tell him that we have an eyewitness against him.

Once, I told a suspect that Madame Roccaforte, a very well known psychic here in Watsonville County, had given me his name. She had seen him burning in a lake of fire.

The suspect will start to open his mouth, and I shush him quick. If he were to speak, we might start to argue. An interrogation is not a debate. Once he says, “I didn’t do it!” it’s that much easier to stare me in the eye and say it a second time. Or he might ask for a lawyer. So I say, “Now is the time for me to talk. Your time to talk will come later. For now, you just listen to me.”

I do not want information from the suspect: I want a confession.

I say, “Antwan, all your friends tell me you’re a pretty good kid, do all right in school, respect your mamma.”

“Yes sir.”

But his voice is wavering, and he doesn’t make eye contact. He is biting his lip. He is staring at my Florsheims.

“But Antwan, I know you stole that vehicle. There is no doubt in my mind. Even if I didn’t have the endotriglyceride levels to back me up in a court of law, I can see it right in your eyes. So we need to work together on this.”

I let this sink in. And here, so much depends on my professionalism.

“Let me tell you what I know. They say you had that new job down at Arby’s after school. They say you were even giving some money to your mom. That’s good. They say you were running late all the time, having to take the bus down there every day, I could see that. And I know Lou Wendell. Oh boy!”

All of this has come out of my pre-interrogation interviews. Lou Wendell is the manager over at Arby’s. You don’t manage a successful franchise like Arby’s for eight years without being a prick. Antwan nods up and down slowly, but his foot is jiggling, up-down-left-right, over and over again.

“If it was something like that — you taking that car because you were running late, thinking you’d lose your job, and getting in an accident — I think everyone understands, a good kid like you making a mistake. On the other hand, if it was just that you wanted to go for a joyride, well, that’s another thing. Just take a man’s car, drive it around for pleasure, ditch it in a gulley…”

I shake my head once or twice.

“You see, Antwan, the law makes a distinction between what we call crimes of necessity and crimes of malice, between what we need to do and what we just do because we feel like it. So if you were feeling rushed that afternoon because you can’t afford to lose that job, and the keys were right there, and you thought you’d get that car back to him before he even notices it’s gone, and you needed that vehicle — that’s not the worst thing in the world.”

Now Antwan is bobbing his head more than slightly, if I’m telling the story right. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it. He doesn’t know that I’ve given him the choice between two stories. In one story, he can hold his head upright; in the other, he must live with his shame. Innocence is never an option.

You and the girl were just messing around; she was doing all sorts of crazy things; things just got out of control; you’re not the kind of man to hurt a woman. Or : you are a predator. Violent. A threat to society.

A newborn baby in the house? Family comes before anything else. Who can blame a man for looking out for his own? Or : you kited those checks to buy meth, smoked the dope in your own house in front of your own baby.