It had already been a long day in the District Attorney’s office and Assistant D.A., Donald Spearman, was looking forward to getting out of the office and knocking back a few cold ones. The Whiteman case was almost sewed up but they needed one more name to lock it down airtight. Spearman was on his way to Interrogation Room Three to talk to an old-time wise guy, Eddie “The Cliché” Samoza.
Samoza was always a good suspect and he had spent a lot of time in interrogation rooms. He was well known for giving useless answers to serious questions, but as he was also usually involved, he had to be questioned. Samoza was known to undergo a brutal police grilling for hours waiting for his lawyer to show, talking continually without giving up an iota of useful information. As they weren’t after Samoza directly this time, just some information, the D.A. thought that with nothing to lose Samoza might be helpful. Spearman entered Room Three and took a seat across the table from Samoza.
He began with a direct question, “Okay Samoza, who are you doing business with these days?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Samoza answered.
Maybe a little bait would help so Spearman offered, “Look, we’ve already got DiPonio cold—prints, DNA, and a witness,”
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” Samoza chirped.
“I don’t like this any more than you do, but you gotta give me something,” Spearman implored.
“Don’t get your nose out of joint—you gotta break the ice before you get down to brass tacks,” Edward Samoza suggested with a smile.
“I’m serious, your testimony is crucial,”
“Relax, it’s not what it’s cracked up to be, and besides, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Samoza sneered.
“That’s not what Skylar tells me,” Spearman lied.
“Yeah, well he’s nuttier than a fruit cake—he’s off his rocker,” Samoza protested.
“I thought you liked Skylar,” Spearman guessed.
“Sure, it’s a marriage made in heaven, the blind leading the blind,” Samoza responded with sarcasm.
“Come on. Skylar’s lookin’ at five years,” Spearman reminded.
“Misery loves company. You gotta take the bitter with the sweet,” noted the gangster.
“He tells me you know all the players. Come on, talk!”
“You want me to jump out of the frying pan into the fire?” Samoza asked.
“Maybe you should. The DA can make things hard for you,”
“I wouldn’t touch that line with a ten foot pole,” Samoza taunted.
“I’m looking for some answers, damn it! Talk!” Spearman reacted.
“Pal, you’re in over your head,” Samoza explained, “Look, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing--in a nut shell, you’ve got a tiger by the tail. A distinction without a difference—you can make nice all you want but you’d better lay your cards on the table; it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity! It never rains, but it pours, but it’ll all come out in the wash. You can let the cat out of the bag now or let the chips fall where they may; hey--I’m not my brothers keeper!”
Spearman saw that any further questioning would be a waste of time so he got up and left the room. As he walked down the corridor he could hear Samoza’s voice continuing,
“I need this like I need another hole in my head! What he’s got ain’t worth a hill of beans. Sure, he’s got a heart as big as all outdoors but he can’t have his cake and eat it too! A friend in need is a friend indeed but forewarned is forearmed…”
Spearman closed the door at the end of the corridor and heard no more. Eddie “The Cliché” Samoza was released after twenty more minutes, spewing tired clichés to anyone willing to listen.
He had gotten his nickname the old-fashioned way—he earned it!
©2010 Tom Roy
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