The Jade Dragon

With a barely audible click the door opens. The investigator makes his way into the narrow room, he’s portly and the proximity of the table is clearly giving him issues. I would move the table for him, but it’s bolted into the ground. He squeezes his gut in and sits down glaring at me, his anger for me is so pure and vitriolic and I can’t even fathom this level of hatred. He stares at me for what seems like hours, though I know it to only be seconds. He slams a folder onto the table and photos slide out, the order seems prearranged, but I don’t comment. “Do you see these?” He gruffly asks. I don’t respond, I know that I’m not supposed to, Fifth Amendment and all that jazz. “Where were you the night that the Jade Dragon blew up?” His mustache, gleaming with the sweat pouring down his face, is quivering. This is a man who is truly angry, truly upset. Once again I do not reply. I could have answered his question, I know where I was, but I value my freedom so I remain silent. He sighs and pulls out his wallet, I know what he is about to show me, although I sympathize with him I cannot afford to mess up. He opens the wallet slowly, almost with reverence. Flipping through the photos inside, he stops on one of a middle aged woman. She is pretty, in a dull sort of way. If you had pointed her out to me on the street I wouldn’t have recognized her but five minutes later. She was utterly unremarkable. The investigator looks lovingly upon the photo but does not speak, so we sat in silence. After an indiscriminate time has passed he reaches back into the folder and grabs a “more updated” photograph of this woman. It is a crime scene photo. She is clearly dead, her arms and legs bent at an impossible angle. Her face, once pretty, is half stripped to the bone. If the photos weren’t juxtaposed I wouldn’t even know who the deceased woman was. The investigator gives me time to compare these photos. I need to assure this man that I did not hurt anyone. I’m not guilty of this crime, but I can’t talk. If I talk, then I have to reveal why I was in the Jade Dragon that day, and if I do it will be years before I step onto free soil again.
In the “business” I am known as a mule. I transport hard to obtain items from producer to purchaser. In that day in the Jade Dragon I was transporting a bomb. Not a big bomb, mind you, it was just large enough to fit into the sole of my shoe. I am not responsible, I just deliver the goods. Whatever happens after I drop the materials off is the fault of the buyer, not me.
That day, I never even saw the buyer. I was instructed to leave the package in the garden behind the Jade Dragon Tattoo Parlor. The exact drop point was marked by a briefcase. Inside was 3,000 dollars and a carnation. The money was good for a few hours of work and I guess that the carnation was the calling card of the buyer. I was done; I was a block away when the building blew. The police arrested everyone in sight and I was the only one who had explosive residue on them. Thusly I ended up in front of this investigator.
“I’m going to try one more time,” he said, ”Why did you blow up the Jade Dragon?” I don’t respond. “Fine, as of right now, you are classified as an enemy combatant to the United States, your rights are forfeit and I am personally going to send you to Guantanamo Bay.” I couldn’t remain silent any longer. Weapon trafficking charges were far less serious than terrorism.
“I DIDN’T DO IT, and I just dropped off the bomb I hadn't detonated it,” I yell at him, hoping that he will believe me. The investigator smiled and reached into his right hand pocket. He removed a small tape recorder and clicked play. “I DID IT, I dropped off the bomb and I detonated it,” the words were mine but I had never said them in that order. This was all a set up. The investigator stood up collected up his folder and flipped the image of the woman over. The back of the picture read Getty Stock Images, this was a bought photo! He leaned in to me, “Thank you for your time. As the upcoming hero of the public it’s a shame I have to tarnish my golden reputation by shooting you, but you did steal my gun.” He pulled out his gun and shot me in the head. I had always pictured a bullet wound as painful, but I felt nothing. Before I drifted into the sweet embrace of death I watched a small carnation fall onto my lap.