Interpretation of the Law 5: Photoshoot

5. Photoshoot

The pair return their attention to me, and the interrogator asks another set of questions related to my original plans.

She asks, “Were you planning on meeting someone?”

“No.”

“Who was going to be your dance partner then?”

“That depends on who shows up,” I openly say.

The young cadet translates until we hit a dead end, and then the topic shifts to another set of questions involving my peers at work. The interrogator’s questions are clearly designed to get the name of someone who knows me-someone who can verify who I am beyond the ID cards.

She continues, “How many people do you work with?”

“About fifteen.”

“Do they know you are here?”

“Two of them are on their way," I reply with a sense of confidence.

I feel a faint vibration pass through the table. The plastic box with my belongings sits between us.

“They might have messaged me. If I can check my phone, I’ll let them know I am here,” I suggest.

“No. You can’t use your phone here,” she firmly answers.

An invisible thought bubble emerges over my head. The Dutchman was right. Once you’re in here, there’s no contact with the outside world. That American right to demand a phone call doesn’t fly in Japan.

The plastic box is transparent, and my phone is visible, but the screen is facing away from me. Help has either arrived, or I’m getting Italian football updates.

The sergeant walks in and places my IDs on the table. He speaks, and the cadet promptly translates.

“He wants to know which is your first name and which of these names is your family name.”

Japanese society doesn’t have middle names or family names from both sides. I point to each answer. He takes the IDs and steps out of the room. The door is wide open. It never closes. This isn’t like Hollywood films where a suspect is in a room with two cops, door closed, bad lighting, and a one-way mirror. There is still bad lighting, and besides the ladies interrogating and translating, there’s one male guard in SWAT-like apparel standing at attention. His presence is obvious in a small room, but he never moves, shifts, or speaks-which makes it easier for me to ignore him and focus on the focus puller sitting across me.

The interrogator pulls out a point-and-shoot camera and asks me to stand for an unofficial mugshot. The guard steps out to make space. The young cadet walks me through the interrogator’s instructions.

“If you can stand here. Ok. Now please face the camera.”

Snap!

“Now please turn to the left.”

Snap!

“Please show her where you had the blade when the officers stopped you.”

I point to my right hip along the seam between my jeans and shirt.

Snap!

The interrogator steps back to take a full-body image. She brings the camera back down to make a request.

“She’d like you to pull your pants down,” the young cadet says.

My eyes dilate and I ask for clear confirmation. “I’m sorry, what does she want me to do?”

“She wants the pant legs rolled down. You have them rolled up,” she clarifies.

“This is how they found me. It was a warm night that was gonna get hotter, so I rolled up my jeans,” I say.

The cadet translates, and the interrogator nods.

Snap!

They ask me to sit back down, and I do, thinking to myself that I’m sharing too much information. More often than not, talking too much only adds confusion and deepens suspicion. It’s better to keep my mouth shut unless I need to clarify something. I pop the invisible thought bubble above my head and empty my mind, waiting for further instructions or questions.

“Please wait one moment,” says the interrogator in Japanese. That much, at least, she knows I understand.

She steps out, and in pops the guard, still standing at attention. The young officer and I sit in silence. Without directly looking at the guard, I pay close attention to the signals he’s sending. His attention is completely on me-like security at a casino when someone is winning too many hands at a blackjack table.

No matter how this turns out, I’m going to play the hand that wears a velvet glove, not a cast iron one. I turn my attention to the cadet next to me.

“I like your hat.”