Secrets Uncovered Read Free Page B

wanna take a break? Um... I think my client needs a break,” Avon’s pimply-faced Georgetown-graduate lawyer stammered, sounding just like one of those clichéd television series attorneys. No one in the room paid him any mind. “Okay ... may-maybe not.” The attorney shrank back down onto his seat.
    The DEA interrogators who surrounded Avon turned quiet; it was a tactic Avon recognized. Silence usually unnerved guilty suspects, making them feel the need to fill up the silence with words, which would inevitably cause a slipup. Avon was silent too. He was trying to read them. Were they appeased? Were they still suspicious? The tension in the room was stifling. Some of the interrogators’ faces had looked as if Avon had just announced that he had a terminal illness, while others looked less surprised and more suspicious.
    A tall, square-shouldered white man broke from the group and walked over and placed one leg on the edge of the table, where Avon sat. The man leaned in so close— Avon could smell stale coffee on the man’s breath. “And you didn’t attempt to save your fellow agent’s life?” the man asked again, his bulldog jaw shaking with emphasis as he spat the words in Avon’s face.
    Avon slammed his hand on the small, wobbly silver table, causing the man to quickly remove his leg and stand erect. Avon jutted his pointer finger toward the beefy man. He was tired of the accusatory tone of this whole circus.
    â€œAre you listening to what I am saying? Brubaker tried to have me killed. He left me undercover with some of the most dangerous drug dealers in New York, and then he went and fucked my wife—just for the hell of it! Somebody paid Barton to kill him, and then Barton turned the gun on himself! But it wasn’t me! This entire fuckin’ movie-like conspiracy is much bigger than me. I shouldn’t be the one explaining it all. Somebody should be explaining to me why I was thrown in the thick of a fuckin’ government cluster fuck, and why my case agent was a crooked motherfucker who was probably working for you! Not only could I have been killed, but a lot of innocent people died because of this little fucked-up game you’re running here!” Avon barked back, the muscles cording in the chocolate skin of his neck. They had finally penetrated his resolve.
    The interrogators eased back and softened their tones. Another tactic. Now they’d play nice guy and try to get some type of admission, if not a confession. They’d never seen any guilty person speak with so much conviction.
    â€œAgent Tucker, we know this is hard. We just need the facts. Tell us one more time where you stood. What about the girl?” the lone female of the bunch chimed in, her eyes soft and placating.
    Avon’s face softened when he pictured Candy’s face in his mind’s eye. He had been thinking about her nonstop. He wondered where she had gone and if she was in any danger. Avon rested his elbows on the table and placed his bald head in his hands. He had to admit, as young as Candy was, she had done something to his heart. He had tried to tell himself that the night they shared together was purely a result of finding out his wife and partner were playing house during his absence, but Avon admitted to himself that he really had feelings for Candy. After the night they’d shared, he could not stop thinking about her. He felt sick, crazy even. Candy was a young girl, and he was a married man; yet she was a recurring thought.
    Everyone in the room seemed to be suspended in time waiting for Tucker to answer the question. Avon opened his mouth to tell them the story again. He would pick and choose what he told them about Candy.
    A loud knock, echoing through the door, interrupted his thoughts. Avon’s shoulders went from tense to relaxed; the knocking was a welcome distraction from the line of questioning. Everyone else turned toward the thick metal door