The man who walks into the room is not the media stereotype of a cop. He’s well-dressed, clean-shaven, in good health for a man in his fifties.
The detective has cleaned up after getting wet in the rain. He obviously keeps a change of clothes at the office.
He smiles warmly at me as he closes the door to the interview room behind him.
I’ve been sitting in this room for four hours, but they’ve put the radio on in the room to keep me awake. It’s now nearly five in the morning, and I haven’t been able to catch a wink. I know they do it for a reason, to get you tired so you might blurt something.
There’s water and food on the table, and I’ve helped myself liberally. If they’re going to keep me up, then I need to keep my strength up.
“Ms. Marino,” he says, looking down at his file and then back up at me. “Deidre Marino?”
I nod.
“We found an image of the real Caroline Sax.”
“Am I being charged?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
“Am I being detained?”
He pauses briefly. “Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Eight hours, but we can get that extended to twelve.”
“And how long can you question me for, legally?”
The man sits down opposite me, and gives me a curt smile. “Four hours.”
“You’re required to give me your identity.”
“Detective Inspector Mike Grayson,” he says. “Would you like to see my identification, Ms. Marino?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He sighs, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a worn leather wallet. He flips it open, and there I see his badge. He pulls out his identification card and slides it over the desk to me.
I look at it – it’s him.
“I have the right to be told what I’ve been arrested for, Detective Grayson.”
“Ms. Marino, you should know that being hostile is only going to make this last longer.”
“My right to know what I’ve been arrested for, please,” I say. I try to keep my face as calm as possible on the outside, but inside my heart is racing, and my nerves are threatening to undo me.
I remember reading about the process of events when you’re arrested in Australia when I first got to Melbourne, but four months later, my memory is hazy at best.
“Accessory to murder before the fact.”
I swallow. Murder. They must mean Frank.
“What is the maximum sentence?”
“Life imprisonment,” he says. “In Australia.”
“Will I be extradited?”
“You haven’t even been charged yet.”
“So I’m being interviewed as a suspect?”
“Yes,” he says. Then, almost awkwardly, he adds, “Formally.”
I ponder the addition. What’s his angle?
“Then I have the right to be given a reasonable chance to communicate with a lawyer.”
“You do,” he tells me. “But Ms. Marino, I think you should let me speak for a moment.”
I nod slowly. I don’t have to say anything if I don’t want to.
“You, Duncan Malone, a man who we cannot yet identify, and Johnny Marino were all arrested tonight. We’ve got video surveillance from the school sports hall, however, that will be entered as evidence should any one of you be charged with a crime.”
I blink. Video evidence. The gym had cameras!
“Nobody has been charged yet?”
“No.”
“Not even my father?”
Grayson raises an eyebrow. “Why are you concerned with him in particular?”
I shrug. “He’s my dad. What daughter wouldn’t be?”
“Look,” he says, clasping his hands together on the table in front of me. He wears a silver wedding ring. His hands have the texture of weathered leather. “The truth is I don’t think you had anything to do with this. I think you were the victim here.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask.
“Yes. We have you entering Australia with a false identity presumably under duress. You are pregnant, obviously, and soon after Duncan Malone entered the country, followed by your father and the big bloke, who we learned about after a tip-off. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you were running away. The question is, from whom?”
My eyes widen. Do they suspect Duncan of anything?
“Did you watch the tape?” I ask.
He nods. “Of course.”
“Then you know Duncan and I were both the victims.”
“Let’s talk about you,” he says. He gets up, walks to the door, and then pokes his head outside. A few moments later a television is wheeled in. He thanks the man who brought it in, then shuts the door.
He empties his pockets then, onto the table.
“What are you doing?”
“In my pockets I have my wallet, a stick of gum, and my mobile phone.” He picks up his phone, unlocks it, then holds it out in front of me. “Please turn it off.”
I would think that he’s just trying to get my fingerprints, but they already printed me. I’m too on-edge, too paranoid. My mind is racing through every possibility, but I can’t figure out why he wants me to touch his phone.
I reach out, turn off the phone.
“As you can see around the room, you are not being watched, listened to, or recorded. There are no cameras in here as this is just an interview room. No two-way mirrors. It’s not like the cop shows on telly.”
“So?” I ask.
“In my pockets I have no recording devices, and my phone is off.”
“You could be wearing a wire,” I say, but it sounds stupid even as I say it.
He doesn’t laugh at me, to his credit. “You’re right. I can take off my shirt if you’d like.”
“Just get to the point,” I say.
“Right now what you say to me can be admitted as evidence. However, I am not recording you, as a gesture of good faith because I believe you are a victim.”
“You can still testify against me.”
“Which is why I’m going to ask you a series of yes-or-no questions. You simply nod your head or shake it. That testimony would not stand.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“I’m only interested in catching the bad guys, Ms. Marino. I have no desire to see innocent people charged incorrectly.” He gestures at my belly. “I have three children myself, and I can remember the first pregnancy like it was yesterday. I know how tough it’s been for you. I’m only interested in the truth.”
I let his words roll off me. I don’t trust him.
He flicks on the television, and the recording of the gym buzzes to life. It’s black-and-white, more blurred than sharp, but it is unmistakably the events which occurred just earlier tonight.
The camera is obviously positioned behind us. I can see Frank… and myself sitting just in front of him. I can see Dad, too, his pistol gleaming with reflected light. Farther out in the image are Duncan and Bullock, standing opposite each other at the half-court line of the basketball court.
“Is this you?” he says, pointing at me.
I nod.
“And this is your father? Yes? Okay. Frank, Duncan, and the big guy, right? Good.”
I take in a breath. There’s no harm in identifying them.
He plays the video. I watch Duncan and Bullock fight, and wince at the narrow misses as Bullock swipes his knife at Duncan.
Grayson pauses it. “Does this man, the big guy, have a weapon?”
I nod.
“Is it a knife?”
Nod.
“And is Duncan being forced to fight?”
I nod again.
“By your father?”
Nod.
“Are you being threatened?”
Nod.
Detective Inspector Grayson scribbles down some notes in a pad. “These are just for me, personally, to remember your responses. They will be inadmissible.”
He plays the video again. I watch as Duncan and Bullock fight, as Dad paces the floor, gripping onto his gun, eagerly watching.
Then Frank stands up. The camera, from its position, only shows Frank’s back. There’s no way to see what is in his hands.
Grayson pauses the video. “Is Frank telling your father to stop the fight?”
I nod.
“Does he have a gun pointed at your father?”
I meet Grayson’s eyes, but don’t give a response.
“Did he have a gun pointed at you when he was still sitting?”
I… shake my head.
Grayson plays the video again. I watch Dad’s arm twitch. I watch Frank hit the floor dead. I watch myself sprint away. Duncan whirls on Bullock, takes him down, stabs him in the leg then breaks his arm.
Frank’s body is lying away from the camera, and we can only see him lengthways. Still his gun isn’t visible. My sigh of relief exits through my nose.
The sprinklers start, muddy up the image, but I see that I come back into the gym, and then Duncan moves on Dad, and I kneel down beside Frank.
Grayson pauses it again. “At this moment, are you feeling for Frank’s pulse?”
I nod.
“And did you do anything else?”
I shake my head.
“Did he have a weapon?”
I shake my head.
Grayson leans back in his chair and regards me. I struggle to keep myself as calm as possible.
I just lied to the police… I lied to get Dad locked up. If I tell them that Frank had a gun, then Dad will have been under duress, self-defense, whatever.
Dad’s going to go to prison for a long time because of me.
“So are you telling me that as soon as Frank stood up and asked your father to stop – I presume that’s what he’s doing – your father shot him without provocation?”
I nod.
“He murdered Frank Marsh in cold blood?”
I take a deep breath, and nod again. A tear leaves my eye, and I wipe it away quickly, but I’m unable to stop my lips from trembling.
I don’t want to cry right now, but it all seems to be trying to come out right now. I don’t want to give myself away first and foremost, but I also don’t want to regret this decision.
I had to do it. I had to.
“Will you testify to this?”
I consider it, then shake my head.
Grayson sighs. “Let me tell you how this will go down in court. The jury will see this video, will see your father shoot Frank. In the absence of any mitigating factors, your father will be convicted for murder charges, and will be sentenced to life imprisonment as per sentencing rules in Victoria. Or, if he is extradited, he will likely serve a similar term in the United States.”
I nod, showing my understanding.
“If Frank had a gun,” Grayson says, leaning forward. “And if you took it, then you are liable to charges of obstruction of justice. You can go to jail for that. If you lie under oath, you risk yourself to charges of perjury, which you can also be jailed for.”
I nod.
“If Frank had a gun, your father will have been acting under provocation, and possibly self-defense. You understand that he can be acquitted of all charges in that event?”
I nod.
Grayson pinches his brow, sighs, then taps his pad idly with his pen. “You’re free to go, Ms. Marino. Stay in Melbourne, please. We’ll contact you if we need to.”
I blink. “I can go?”
“We won’t be pressing charges.” He rubs his brow. “I see no reason to.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe you were a victim. As for the events that transpired tonight…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“What about Duncan?”
“He’s free to go as well,” the detective says. “All he’s guilty of is trespassing, but that was under mortal threat.” Grayson walks to the door and opens it. “We’ll be in touch.”
I get up, walk past him, and in the hallway see Duncan. I rush to him, and he to me, and he wraps me up in his arms, kisses my forehead.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, my voice wavering.
“Yeah,” he says. “They stitched me up. Come on, let’s talk outside.”
Together we leave the police station, and Grayson watches us all the way out, chewing on the end of his pen.