Question: “How many police officers escorted you and your friends during your investigation at the shore of the Anacostia River?”
Answer: “Huh? One, five, ten, I don’t know.”
Some of the questions are slightly confusing.
Question: “How would you describe the man who was holding the victim?”
Answer: “Huh again? Didn’t they arrest the guy and bring him down to the station? Don’t they already know what he looks like?”
Anyway, the whole interview takes about a half hour, and Detective Sampson agrees that some of the stuff he has to ask was a little foolish, but he also says that accuracy and fairness are “imperative in the pursuit of justice.” I tell him that I absolutely agree, and who am I to stand in the way of the pursuit of justice?
As I expected, Detective Sampson is really nice about everything. And Nana Mama’s marshmallow brownies help the situation a lot. Detective Sampson keeps asking me if I’m nervous. Do I want to take a break? Do I need to go to the bathroom? Do I want half of his second brownie?
And so we finish the interview. And we also finish the brownies. But Detective Sampson makes no move to get up from the kitchen table and leave. This is fine with me because I was expecting something more interesting than the boring interview, and I really like John Sampson, and, not to be obsessive about the brownies, but… if Nana Mama gave us four brownies, there’s got to be a lot more left somewhere in the baking pan. I’m hoping, of course, that he’ll be willing to discuss some interesting cases he’s working on. I’m hoping he’ll spill some gossip about who’s doing what down at the station. I’m even hoping that he’ll forget who he’s talking to, and tell me something I don’t know about my dad and his job.
That’s not what happens.
As I’m considering all this, Detective Sampson says, “Ali, there is a whole other reason why I wanted to come here and talk to you today in private. And it’s a fairly serious one.”
When I hear him say “serious” I get scared. Really scared. He sounds like he’s about to break some bad news.
Who’s dead? Who’s sick? Who’s almost dead? Who’s been fired? Who’s in trouble?
Oh, shit, man. Jannie? Gabe? My dad?
My brain is going wild with horrible ideas.
“Here’s what I want to talk to you about, Ali.”
Hurry the hell up, Detective Sampson. I think I may have to go to the bathroom.
“Our police communications officers have detected that someone has been using a custom-designed smartphone application to intercept and transcribe DC Metro Police emergency radio transmissions,” he says. “We traced the cell numbers. And one of them… belongs to you.”
He pauses. I’m not sure if he’s waiting for me to confirm or deny his statement, but all I can think is… I’m going to jail… or reform school… or what I’ve heard some guys in school call “baby prison.”
Then Detective Sampson says, “I’m right about this. Aren’t I, Ali?” I freeze—not on purpose—for a few seconds, or maybe even a few minutes.
But, hey, there is absolutely no point in lying (although I actually do consider doing that).
“Yes, sir,” I say. There’s nothing else for me to say.
“I’m sure it crossed your mind that police scanner apps aren’t, oh, let’s say, legal?”
“Uh, well, we thought that… maybe…” I say. “But…” I stop talking.
But not talking is no problem; Detective Sampson finishes the sentence for me.
“But you thought you would never get caught,” he says.
Of course, he’s right. He knows that. And I know that.
“Listen, you guys are not the first ones to do this, but here’s the deal. STOP IT!”
And just in case I didn’t realize that he was really pissed, he says, “And I mean that. You jokers have to stop it right now.”
He knows he’s made his point. I’m spooked enough by his “police voice”; I’m used to a much goofier Detective Sampson, one who likes to joke around.
“At the moment we’ll consider this whole thing private information just between you and me,” he says.