Interpretation of the Law 4: Interrogation

4. Interrogation

The interrogator begins her cross-examination with the same questions I’d already answered for the rest of their law enforcement crew. But she also asks questions related to my interactions with the detectives. Some of her sentences go over my head, while others I understand perfectly. However, my reply in Japanese would be too dysfunctional to dispel their suspicion, so I let her kōhai-the young cadet-translate everything.

“She wants to know what you use the knife for?” the young cadet says.

“I carry a multi tool that I use to build sets, fix equipment, and repair gear,” I casually tell it like it’s common knowledge.

The cadet speaks English, though she’s not a native speaker. I’m lucky they’re willing to settle for her, rather than detain me until a qualified translator arrives on Monday morning.

“She wants to know how exactly you use the knife,” the young cadet asks for further clarification.

“I have to cut materials, slice up diffusion, and do other craftsman like work that requires me to carry a multi tool. That’s why I carry a multi-tool. It’s standard for my line of work,” I explain, keeping my vocabulary simple to avoid any misunderstanding.

The cadet translates my response, and the interrogator replies in a tone reminiscent of a lawyer building her case

“In America, you can carry a gun or a weapon, but in Japan, the laws for carrying arms are very strict. Any blade six centimeters or longer is illegal. It must be for work, and if you carry it, it needs to be wrapped and kept inside a bag.”

The young cadet does her best to not only translate the words, but also to echo the interrogator’s precise, almost prosecutorial delivery in English.

I nod to show I understand, choosing not to argue. There’s nothing to gain by pushing back; better to let their process unfold.

The interrogator’s eyes are daggers, digging into me as she fires off her next question. The cadet translates, her own eyes shining with concern.

“She does not understand why a filmmaker needs a knife for their job.”

I reply in a steady tone, “I have to cut rope and other materials from time to time.”

I pause, gesturing as I gather my thoughts. I did not expect to make a court case out of using a basic tool for my job.

“I don’t just hold a camera and press record,” I explain. “That’s only half my work. The other half is like a construction worker-building, fixing, and dismantling scenes and camera equipment.”

I meet the cadet's gaze, and I can see she believes me. Or at the very least wants to believe me.

She passes on my explanation, her words carrying a subtle undertone of my innocence. The interrogator nods, a distant glow flickering in her eyes.

Then comes the setup: “Did you use your tool today?”

Before the cadet can repeat the question in English, my mind races. If I say no, I dig myself deeper. But I can’t recall every mundane use of an everyday tool. If she asked if I wrote something with my pen, I’d probably say “yes” on reflex.

The young cadet asks the question in English.

“Yes,” I say. “I used the tool today.” I can’t confirm it in four seconds, but I can’t deny it either.

Before the young cadet can translate my simple response, the interrogator presses on: “How did you use it today? What did you do?”

She scans my every move, searching for any hint of a lie. I’m tempted to fire back-does she use her gun every day to justify carrying it? But I know logic or a smart mouth won’t save me here; it’ll only reinforce the stereotype of the western gaijin who doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

As the young cadet finishes translating, I let muscle memory override my mental hard drive. I mime using the pliers of the multitool, and suddenly the memory surfaces.

“I used the pliers to remove a tightened screw from the camera body,” I say, as if it’s the highlight of my day. In a way, it is-because it lets me save my Latin ass with the truth.

The interrogator seems satisfied. She moves on, asking about my workplace, my home, my transportation. She had already asked these questions when we got started but rephrases them just to catch any cracks in my story-a classic technique.

Gradually, the interrogation starts to feel more like a conversation. Even through a translator, she manages to lower my guard. I aim to do the same.

“What were you going to do in the area?” the interrogator asks. The young cadet translates. “I was on my way to a dance lesson,” I reply, and the cadet relays my answer.

“What kind of dance?” The interrogator’s curiosity flickers, fanning that distant glow in her eyes. The young cadet mirrors her interest-maybe even amplifies it.

I let my Dominican accent take over, letting my voice linger on the word like a secret they wish they knew.

“Bachata.”

The cadet hesitates, unable to translate what she doesn’t know. She leans in, her tone eager.

“What is Bachata?”

Our eyes meet.

“It’s a Latin dance that expresses love through the movement of your body. If you’ve ever been in love, wanted to be in love, or are in love, you can express that emotion by dancing bachata.”

Her pupils widen with every word, each love bomb landing right on target.

“Wow. Sugoi! ” she exclaims, a bit of her professionalism slipping away in the moment.

The interrogator’s attention shifts to her subordinate, craving a translation.

She listens to her subordinate tell it just as I did, but with a twist of Japanese feminine enthusiasm.

The interrogator's eyes light up.