Read It Back

Four-forty in Interview Two. The tape wheel turns. The detective sets his coffee on the suspect's coat. My job is every word they give me, clean margins, carbon underneath. He says, “Start where you saw the Buick.” The kid says, “I never saw a car.” The detective taps the tabletop, once for yes and twice for names. I strike each letter without looking. The ribbon leaves its little bruise. Then he leans across the microphone: “Let's make the record clear.” The kid watches my hands, not the man beside his ear. Read it back. Make the crooked sentence stand up straight. Read it back. Put a clean white margin round the blame. If the paper says he said it, who will ask what happened first? Read it back. Let the ribbon do the worst. At five-oh-six, they bring the ledger, Pawn Shop, Mercer, Tuesday night. One line wears a different blue ink. One time has been overwritten twice. The kid rolls up his left shirt cuff: fresh plaster dust, a bakery stamp. The detective covers both with coffee, then slides page seven to my lamp. He says, “Now tell her where you put it.” The kid's chair scrapes the floor. I hear my carriage reach the sentence I have heard somewhere before. Read it back. Make the borrowed details sound like fact. Read it back. Keep the questions off the numbered page. If the paper says he knew it, who will count the missing words? Read it back. Let the ribbon do the worst. Here is what the tape won't tell you. Here is why he watched my hands. Before the detective named the alley, before the kid could understand, I had typed: “I left it by the furnace.” Full stop. New line. No mistake. He did not give me that confession. He only read the one I made. Read it back. Make my crooked sentence face the room. Read it back. Put my name beside the borrowed blame. The paper says he said it, but the carbon knows the order. Read it back. I was not the stenographer. I was the author. Read it back. The kid looks up. I strike the bell. Back.