I was led into a small room, uncuffed, and told to sit down and someone would be with me shortly. My first thought was, "Thank God they didn't give me a backless paper gown to wear!" The room, if it had a poster or two of big pharma pimping a product, and a cabinet would have been my doctors exam room. It was as cold as that room too. You would thing the Feds could afford to heat it if anyone could. I sat down and looked around for the camera. It was easy to spot since it was on the ceiling and no attempt had been made to hide it. It looked like a very large, fat, malignant tick with a shiny abdomen who had burrowed his head into the drywall above me. I shuddered. I was creeping myself out and this whole thing was creepy enough as it was.
I sat for awhile. Then I sat some more. My ass and back began to hurt from the crappy chair and the cold began to settle into my bones. I walked around the room and hugged myself in hopes that whoever was watching me from above would realize I was cold and turn up the heat. They didn't. After awhile my mind began whispering to me, "They forgot about you and nobody is going to come." That got me moving down the road to panic. I tried whispering it back down, telling myself this was the FBI, they didn't do stupid stuff like that. I was about ready to start pounding on the door and yelling for someone when he came in.
He did not look like a FBI agent. Instead he looked like someone in IT or a grad student who hoped to get a job in it with the Feds. In fact he looked like an intern at first or even worse, Harry Potter with about ten extra lbs around the gut. I thought, at first, that he was going to apologize and back out of the room. He didn't. Instead he settled into the other chair, squared his file folder off n front of me, and said, "I'm Special Agent Johnson and you're in a world of shit Mr. LaFarge." The panic I had felt a few minutes ago about being abandoned came racing back behind those words.
"I'm not guilty!" I didn't like how my voice sounded as I said it and I liked even less the expression on his face which went from neutral to mild contempt. He didn't say anything, he didn't really have a chance. I proceeded to vomit out my story and how this was all wrong. I ended with a lame, "I'm being setup!" That was probably not the best statement to end with as his face got very cold, his voice even colder, as he told me, "The FBI does not set people up Mr. LaFarge. We don't need to. People like you do it for us."