Interview Room B

"Goji Okinawa, we're going to have to ask you to come with us to the police station to answer a few questions."

Beverly Hills Police Department, Interview Room B

April 27th, 3:30 PM


He's a cousin. He seems more perturbed by the interruption to his busy 'college' day than the news that something disturbing's happened to his relative. Thing is, the man slouched in the interview chair, his arms crossed over an old, half-stained jersey for a random local team, and his legs stretched as far towards the exit as possible, has no college ID nor registered classes of any kind: no backpack, no books, were recovered with him. Yet he was on campus when the detectives rounded up any of Ken's known hangers-on.

Outside the one-way mirror looking into the room — little better than an interrogation cell, thanks to budget (always thanks to budget), the inexperienced Detective Whelan watches his partner for a cue.

On the other side, Detective Sloan is stretched out on the chair opposite Okinawa, casual as can be. While he slouches with his arms crossed, she leans back against the chair, sliding down so that the small of her back is in open air and her arms are slung off to the sides, free to move since she's unbuttoned her jacket. It's a fine line between looking bored and settled in enough to last all day in this tiny, sad little room with him. "So you like college, huh?" she asks in a conversational, almost lazily wandering tone; filtered through to her partner, the natural grit in her voice sounds like static particles.

Without even shifting a toe inside beat-up Adidas, Goji smacks his lips, "Guess so."

"I can see why you would. I never went to a big college like that, I mean, that's like, a pipe dream where I come from," replies the relaxed detective, a hand lifting and falling with a faint slip of her orange beaded bracelet. "But minus the homework, it sounds sweet. Friiiiiennnds, parties, it's a friggin' stellar place to sell drugs…"

A snort, as if sizing her up as a drug-seller; his eyes blanket her up and down before he leans further into the chair, shrugging. "Guess so."

She shifts a shoulder in an easy roll and lifts her eyebrows at the man, more bored by his answers than inquisitive. "So what'd Ken sell?"

His eyes wander. "Sounds like you know more than me, lady."

"Alright, then what're you selling?" Still the same casual by voice, Liza doesn't beat around the bush. "You're pretty transparent, dude. We know you don't go to college. No one hangs around campus unless they're selling, creeping, or hooking up with someone, and the last two woulda been way too coincidental given that you're Ken's cousin and all and he was into somethin'."

"You find anything on me? No." Crossed arms tighten and Goji settles for the same long-haul as her, although his feet continue to shift door-wise, where, invisible, Detective Whelan stands on deck. "So— whatever."

"Yeah, yeah, we can skip this part, I've heard it like, three thousand times. Thing is, we're not trying to pin you for any drug-related charges — I personally don't care if you sold a whole pound of cocaine to a happy little freshman right now, so you can tell us and chill, unless you happened to kill your cousin," she says — still chill, herself, no threat in her voice except that of experience in how these situations go down: "Then, well, you're screwed. Kinda like if you don't tell us what you're into. Hiding stuff looks a lot like guilt, man." She glances to the mirror, but her gaze is just short of beckoning — she's thinking about cueing her partner.

"I didn't kill nobody," murmurs her living Okinawa, shifting slightly more uncomfortably but otherwise holding his ground. "You wanna skip this part, then, fine, I'll go."

"Nah, I gotta ask you some more questions — it might be awhile. D'you want something to drink?" She smiles and glances to the mirror again and expectantly to Goji, implying that she can totally make that happen with just a look. "I'm glad to hear you didn't kill your cousin … help me sort all this out, yeah? What was Ken like? 'Cause, lemme tell ya, I didn't see his good side…" Liza grimaces; it might be a show, but it sure doesn't take much to summon the memory of that horrendously overheated dead body. "When's the last time you saw him?"

"Somewhere, somewhen, somehow," Goji rattles off, passingly more annoyed than before but easily shifting back into his uncaring. "Look, I don't want your stupid drinks, and I know you can't keep me here." There's a rolling lilt and momentum in his face like he means to say something continuing on from there, but he holds himself back and snaps into the chair.

Liza tips her head to the side, considering his apparent knowledge with an agreeable lift of her brows but — there's a but lingering in her gaze as it wanders away. They can't keep him here forever, but for now… "I'm not the bad guy," she says without defense, just barely lifting her hands up as she smiles. "If you're not the bad guy either, then … no problem, right?" She eases out of her chair, gradually standing to stroll in a room that doesn't allow much room to stretch one's legs. She leans her shoulder next to the mirror. "I get it that maybe you weren't so tight, but doesn't he kinda deserve a few minutes've your time… guy didn't go easy." The woman's gaze is lightly inquisitive on Goji while she taps on the mirror with a knuckle near her face; pointed, to her colleague presumably behind it, but in action, almost idle. For a second, she flashes something like worry for the man in the chair. "Are you scared've something?"

"Scared? Bitch, you crazy." Scoffing has him rustling against his chair again, less settled than before and his eyes jump with overwrought anticipation when the door cracks open to allow Eric Whelan to slip his dainty figure in beside it. He looks inquisitively over at his partner, all but ignoring the subject at hand, while Goji's head tilts quizzically. "This supposed to be your back-up?"

The Okinawa's scoff has Liza smiling rather than offended, and as he assesses her partner, she out-right laughs, amused eyes jumping to Eric and glancing him up and down, seeing what the man in the chair is seeing. "Well I dunno about back-up," she says, moving off the wall to slap the quiet detective on the shoulder as she regards Goji expressively. "But you gotta admit, he's kinda creepier than me, right? White dudes in sweater-vests." She shakes her head with her brows raised high and steps closer to the table, standing between both figures. "Anyway, reason guys sometimes don't wanna talk is 'cause they don't wanna incriminate themselves — if not themselves, then somebody else when that somebody's gonna give them shit about it, especially when you throw drugs in the mix, super especially if Ken was into gang business. No?" She queries Goji for any clue, raising both her hands palm-up between he and Eric as if waiting for someone to explain something.

"He's somethin'…" Goji chimes in quieter during the rail against Whelan, enjoying it but wary to be doing so. Rocking onto the back legs on his chair, he defensively watches them both for signs, seemingly more prickled by the new detective's quiet demeanor than if he'd come roaring in, fists shaking. "Sounds like you got it all figured out and stuff," he jibes at Liza, distractedly, dragging his eyes off of Whelan only afterward to sniff in disdainful boredom at the woman. The second he peels his eyes from Eric, the man slips into deliberate action, sliding his hand up under to that so-mocked vest and unlatching the holster of his gun. Into Liza's outstretched palm, he places the standard issue piece. Goji lands, hard, back down on the front legs of his chair. "Hey— what the fuck now— "

"You can chill." Half cut-off by a screech of chair-legs, Liza's voice is calm but fast, nearly defeating the purpose. As her fingers clamp over Eric's gun and starts to bring it behind her like it's ordinary procedure, she only looks at him, not the man in the chair, trying not to let it show that she's still making up this part as she goes along; working with Whelan is, after all, new and… particular. Her gaze levels watchfully.

Goji's colorfully wary, "The fuck is going on…" slowly narrates Eric's descent into the chair across from him and bland, emotionless stare across the short distance. The suspect's eyes jump up to Liza for some kind of comfort or confirmation but are dragged back down to challenge that relentless concentration across from him. "If this some kinda— "

"I don't fucking wanna be here." It's kind of surreal, coming from her partner, but tempered by his quiet voice, peppered by that odd phrasing, for him. Goji glares him down, telling Eric just how expressively he can leave then, only to be summarily ignored — another time, interrupted, with, "They're going to keep track of how long I spoke to the police." Another breath in and out of Eric, but no twitching of any kind. Goji raises both his eyebrows in challenge,

"This some lame voodoo, man— "

"These pricks aren't gonna get anything outta me— " Eric's next breath almost cuts him off, tight and almost gasping. Besides a slight slump of his shoulders, he seems unchanged as he goes expectantly quiet.

Liza's circled around to Eric's side in the midst of the strange episode. She has no comfort — nothing for Goji at all in the way of explanation — not yet. She watches her partner with a slightly tense combination of fascination and wariness, her eyes dancing here and there to the beat of the uncharacteristic words leaving his mouth. A quick narrowing of her expression judges Eric's state — then she waves her farthest hand off to the side. "Ceeeept— " she says to Goji pointedly, "we have. Yeah, it's weird. We work for the ACRU, dude. The more you don't talk to us, the longer we'll keep you in here and that sounds like pretty bad news for you… so who's keeping track?" The slow raise of her brows matches the incremental little tilt of her head toward Eric, a ticking clock, counting Goji down: either he answers or it might be sweater-vest voodoo again.

Anything but sweater-vest. At least, that's the suggestion made when Goji's chair turns just slightly towards Liza instead of his across-the-way freakazoid mirror. As Eric's feet slide to face the door, Goji eyes the woman detective, "Nobody's keeping track. You're just trying to scare me now. Well, it ain't gonna happen." Even though his eyes flick over to Eric cautiously before finding Liza again.

"He ain't scared." Spoken in Eric's sweet, dulcet tones, it sounds silly, nearly; certainly, like he's not quite aware of the wording he's using: innocent. "But he's… mad?" Eyebrows narrowing, then he throws an arm over the back of his chair and turns his torso in Liza's direction, watching her, "We're mad."

Now this is getting a bit too freakazoid for the detective. Liza's leg starts to shift back as if she means to step away from Eric, but a heel simply scuffs on the floor and she solidifies her stance. She casts a look to Goji that doesn't exactly disguise the fact that he's not the only one who's weirded out; however, she's firm on her job, testing him. "You get mad a lot, Goji? Maybe you were mad at cuz' Ken, too. Rigged an OD."

He clings to that look, even if he's unaware he's doing so, his own fleeing feet shifting towards Liza like the rest of his body language. "I ain't done no such thing!" However his protest remains as coldly adamant — just now, after he speaks, his eyes flash suspiciously to Eric.

"Jesus, Liza," which makes the emotion spilling out of her partner all the more tell-tale; is it what's beneath the surface of that protest — this anger that curls Eric's mouth as he snaps the way Goji might want to, "He's mad at Ken now."

It takes Liza a couple of seconds to process the anger as it's filtered through Eric — after which her sights are solidly on the source. "Yeah?" No real question; she's already taken it as truth. "What for, then, huh? Dying? Or did he get into something he wasn't supposed to?"

Impatience plasters itself across Eric's face even as he struggles to maintain a more professional air long since lost. "That last thing," he snaps immediately off the end of her words, while legitimately snapping his fingers in her direction.

"Shut up!" Goji finally begins to wear, showing a bit of his own anger instead of directing it through the cop, "Just shut— make him shut up!" The plea goes to Liza now, though it's less begging than would be proper in the circumstances.

"Nah," the detective replies, clearly not amenable to Goji's pleas; they're getting somewhere. "Ken got into some weird business. I mean, really out there, am I right? I'm thinkin' he took it a step too far, too personal. Wound up putting a needle to his vein. Why'd he go and do that, Goji?"

"I don't know!" Stress has punctured a hole in that 'nothing, no how' defense, leaving Goji writhing in his chair and seeking Liza; she's been amenable so far, so he magnetizes to her when explaining, "He knew better than that."

Sought, Liza looks Goji deeper in the eye; her searching gaze is strong, but takes on concern as she tries to understand. "He must've really wanted it," she suggests, her whole body leaning slightly closer to the young man, thus slightly away from her partner. "To cross a line like that. What was in that syringe?"

He vibrates against that concern, both wanting and despising. A fervent look is shot over to Eric, who glowers at him apologetically, before he nods to Liza. "It was stupid, but— I don't know…" It seems to let a huge weight off his shoulders, that first genuine uttering of the words. Sighing cleanses him and even Eric appears to soften across the way, blinking more normally. "Something new he wanted to sell. He was all hopped up about it. But we don't take our own stuff, man."

Bearing no judgment in her demeanor for any of the man's honest words, Liza nods along without fanfare for the admittance; they're just having a conversation. "You got the right idea. Better to not touch the goods." The accolade is subdued; it's no leap to think that she's considering what happened to Ken for having the wrong idea. "Especially those goods. That shit's obviously not safe. What's it do, anyway? Some kinda new high?"

Goji's hands spread, backs of them slapping against the table as they drop uselessly. "Something special," he tells her hopelessly, continuing the thread of possible truthfulness when he speaks without defense. "That's all he'd say. Something…" he sags; something that killed his kin. When he twists his head to avoid letting Liza see his face — no matter how shielded it remains, he's still the complication of Eric's drawn sympathy, speaking of what he feels off of the man. "Special. Idiot…"

Her brows draw in softer — softer than the flash of interest in her eyes at 'special' after Goji's turned his head. Looking back and forth between he and Eric, she seems to develop a sympathy of her own. "Goji, do you know who hooked him up?"

Defensiveness, so long ingrained, attempts to flare up, and Goji and Eric cross arms simultaneously, only for the Asian man to shrug in defeat. "Nah." A slim pause where it occurs to him, "But I know where he was hangin' out lately. Not the usual." Possibly meaning: that school he deals illegal things to.

Another look between the other two nearly breaks her seriousness, their sudden identical folded arms striking her as suddenly absurd, but with a twist of her lips down, she she keeps it together, showing her curiosity to Goji. "Where's the unusual?" she prompts, a subtly lighter note to her voice where she's pleased for his help.

They've either broken him, or Goji is simply grateful that Eric's shut his trap. Either way, he leans forward and easily confesses, "Down Fountain, y'know. Into Koreatown." Somewhere they know, they are more likely to stand out — heightened police presence being part of the every day in Beverly Hills, and not so much there.

Liza's indistinct "hmm" is both a commentary on that fact and her wish that Goji, helpful as he's now being, couldn't be more specific, but she expresses her gratitude with smile and a deep nod. "Anywhere in particular down there?" She runs a hand over her hair and, as her hand falls, it forms a pointing gesture at the young man and bobs as if she's delaying while she thinks of something she's just remembered; her smile stretches, discomfited until her words interrupt— "Oh, hey, hey, I have a weird question," she says faintly apologetically, "This special stuff he got his hands on, you ever see it in person? I mean like, how'd it look?"

"No." It's a little too fast, and Eric's eyebrows dip, but he doesn't protest when Goji mutters, "No, I ain't never seen it, a'right." Hands protest innocence before wrapping around his body. As if becoming slowly more aware of his surroundings, he leans away from Liza and his feet return to pointing outward. "It's just— there. Okay? So I can go now?"

She looks to her partner, quiet though he's remained, giving him a little, questioning lift of her eyebrows, passing along her thread of skepticism for Goji's answer before she replies one way or the other.

Leaning in, Eric lays his hands down in front of him then drags them together to wrap long fingers. The man's left eye tics and his chin follows, cocking gently to one side before he slowly, in his own dull and questioning tenor, relays, "I… believe he's not lying… and that the fear is that we're going to bust him." Cemented, perhaps, by Goji's irritated and guilty look away from the both of them, glaring intently at the wall with his upper lip swallowing his lower in protest.

"Nah," Liza's turned back to Goji, "I don't wanna bust you. You have my word. Besides, I think you know not to mess with this stuff, yeah, after what happened to Ken, and that's what I'm interested in. 'Cause there's something about this stuff that's different than other drugs and well, we don't want the same thing to happen to even more people." Even more. It's happened before: those bodies in the morgue. "I just wanna know what I'm lookin' for."

It takes a long while, but Liza's voice has a coaxing, street, quality that eventually has Goji creeping back to eying her, saying, "I swear I ain't seen the shit. Ken wanted me to— " he pauses, eyes flickering between them and the door; he shifts uncomfortably, "you know. Pick it up," he sniffs, rubbing the side of his hand beneath his nose carefully, "But I said no. I didn't go with him."

"Cool," Liza allows. She glances knowingly to the door, but holds a hand up in a plea for just a bit more patience — only to wave the same hand a couple of seconds later, dismissive, though the grain of thought that prompted her stall in the first place still lingers, trying to crease her smooth skin. "Alright, alright," she says finally, smiling. "You can get outta here." Respectfully, the smile fades. "Hey, I'm really sorry about your cousin. We're gonna find out who's pushing the shit that got to him."

"Yeah, uh…" pushing to his feet helps Goji regain some of his swagger, which includes definitively not thanking the police who dragged him here. Instead, he trails off, eying Eric a last time before murmuring, "Stay creepy, dude." His exit is swift, one hand holding up his pants.

A little tic of Eric's mouth that might've been a smile in theory never makes it to fruition. Rubbing his hands on the table like he means to heat them, he pushes up out of the seat abruptly.

Liza makes sure Goji and his pants make it out the door and get pointed in the right direction before she's on the heels of her "creepy" partner — cautiously, craning her neck toward his space rather than stepping into it. "Heyyy, good work with your whole— thing. We got Koreatown out've him," she commends casually, a question in her voice before she's even made it to the words that could make use of it: "You uh. Y'alright?"

Fingers clench and release, as do all the muscles up and down his arms; Eric's clearly itching. "I've gotta— no," he remembers her question halfway through, rerouting with leftover impatience, "I've gotta work this… off. I mean," a hand juts up, and he lets out a hrm of annoyance at himself, lips and eyes thinning, "Yes. I'm alright… but I'm just." His hands shake out to express, well, if you read hands: boogie woogie.

A short-lived bounce of her eyebrows wanted her to be amused at his expressive hands, but Liza's soon caught up in the uncertain concern that comes with eyeing Eric up and down. "Right," she agrees like it's already old news, unlike the genuine attempt to help that comes next. "You need… anything? Space, a punching bag… Valium…" She's balancing on the learning curve of what to do with a partner with Eric's unique affliction, here.

"Bath." After saying so, he seems to flush sheepishly, listening to the way it sounds. "As tempting as the…" he considers, "punching bag sounds…" His drawl, so usually noncommittal as she's begun to pick up, flavored by the jive of Goji's street talk almost gives Eric a personality. Almost. "He really…" here, he drops out, not to choose words but with a dive straight into the very real emotion lingering at his edges. "… Cared." A glance over at Liza, aside. "In his own, angry way." So having delivered, he steps to leave.

After a quick pause, Liza replies; a bit deeper than her usual, a bit more pensive, drawn out by the emotion from Eric — even if it's borrowed. "…well, I'm glad someone cared." Spoken by a cop who's seen numerous dealers and addicts and other kids go down without anyone blinking except to be inconvenienced.

She steps after him and right into her norm. "You're also gettin' space. I don't have many limits, but I draw the line at bath-time."

Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License