Waiting To Be Heard - A Memoir Part 16

"What about his text message? What time did you receive that?"

"I don't know. You have my phone," I said defiantly, trying to combat hostility with hostility. I didn't remember that I'd deleted Patrick's message.

They said, "Why did you delete Patrick's message? The text you have says you were going to meet Patrick."

"What message?" I asked, bewildered. I didn't remember texting Patrick a return message.

"This one!" said an officer, thrusting the phone in my face and withdrawing it before I could even look. "Stop lying! Who's Patrick? What's he like?"

"He's about this tall," I said, gesturing, "with braids."

"Did he know Meredith?"

"Yes, she came to the bar."

"Did he like her?"

"Yes, he liked Meredith. He was nice to her, and they got along."

"Did he think Meredith was pretty?"

"Well, Meredith was pretty. I'm sure he thought she was pretty."

"When did you leave to meet Patrick?"

"I didn't meet Patrick. I stayed in."

"No, you didn't. This message says you were going to meet him."

"No. No, it doesn't."

They read the message aloud: "Certo ci vediamo piu tardi buona serata!"-"Okay, see you later, have a good evening!"

"That means 'we're going to see each other,' " they said, translating the Ci vediamo for me. "You said, 'See you later.' Why did you go see him? "

"I didn't see him!" I shouted. "In English, 'see you later' means good-bye. It doesn't mean we're going to see each other now. It means see you eventually."

In my beginner's Italian, I had had no idea that I'd used the wrong phrase in my text to Patrick-the one that means you're going to see someone. I'd merely translated it literally from the English.

The interpreter balked: "You're a liar."

"No, I'm not! I never left Raffaele's apartment."

The detectives said, "You did leave. Raffaele said you left. You said you were meeting Patrick."

How could I make them believe that I'd been at Raffaele's all night? My protests seemed so flimsy, especially when they ganged up on me. I couldn't make them believe anything.

I said, "I didn't leave."

"Who did you meet up with? Who are you protecting? Why are you lying? Who's this person? Who's Patrick?"

The questions wouldn't stop. I couldn't think. And even when it didn't seem possible, the pressure kept building.

I said, "Patrick is my boss."

The interpreter offered a solution, "Once, when I had an accident, I didn't remember it. I had a broken leg and it was traumatizing and I woke up afterward and didn't remember it. Maybe you just don't remember. Maybe that's why you can't remember times really well."

For a moment, she sounded almost kind.

But I said, "No, I'm not traumatized."

Another cop picked up the same language. He said, "Maybe you're traumatized by what you saw. Maybe you don't remember."

Everyone was yelling, and I was yelling back. I shouted, "I don't understand what the f.u.c.k is happening right now!"

A beefy cop with a crew cut thought I'd said, "f.u.c.k you," and he yelled, "f.u.c.k you!" back.

They pushed my cell phone, with the message to Patrick, in my face and screamed, "You're lying. You sent a message to Patrick. Who's Patrick?"

That's when Ficarra slapped me on my head.

"Why are you hitting me?" I cried.

"To get your attention," she said.

"I'm trying to help," I said. "I'm trying to help, I'm desperately trying to help."

The pressure was greater than just being closed in a room. It was about being yelled at relentlessly by people I trusted completely, by people I'd been taught to respect. Everything felt bigger, more overwhelming, more suffocating, than it was because these were people whom I thought I was helping and they didn't believe me; they kept telling me I was wrong.

They told me I'd been to our house, that they had evidence to prove it. They told me I'd left Raffaele's. Raffaele himself had said so. They told me I'd been traumatized and had amnesia. I hadn't slept in days. They wouldn't let me leave the room or give me a moment to think. Nothing had substance. Nothing seemed real. I believed them. Their version of reality was taking over. I felt confused, frantic, and there was no escape.

People were shouting at me. "Maybe you just don't remember what happened. Try to think. Try to think. Who did you meet? Who did you meet? You need to help us. Tell us!"

A cop boomed, "You're going to go to prison for thirty years if you don't help us."

The threat hung in the air. I was feeling smaller and smaller, more and more helpless. It was the middle of the night. I was terrified, and I couldn't understand what was happening. I thought they had to be pressuring me for a reason. They had to be telling me the truth. Raffaele had to be telling the truth. I didn't trust my own mind anymore. I believed the police. I could no longer distinguish what was real from what wasn't. I had a moment when I thought I was remembering.

The silver-haired police officer took both of my hands in his. He said, "I really want to help you. I want to save you, but you need to tell me who the murderer is. You need to tell me. You know who the murderer is. You know who killed Meredith."

In that instant, I snapped.

I truly thought I remembered having met somebody. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I didn't understand that I was about to implicate the wrong person. I didn't understand what was at stake. I didn't think I was making it up. My mind put together incoherent images. The image that came to me was Patrick's face.

I gasped. I said his name. "Patrick-it's Patrick."

I started sobbing uncontrollably. They said, "Who's Patrick? Where is he? Where is he?"

I said, "He's my boss."