The Inquisitor

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The client sat in an eight-foot-square room staring at a large one-way mirror that offered a view into flat, smooth darkness. An audio track of a nervous laugh continually interrupted by a dry cough came through the speakers in the walls, but he couldn’t hear it because he had put in the earplugs that had been left out for him.

He glanced at his watch. Eleven-twenty P.M. He’d been here three hours and was nursing a second scotch. The windowless room was old wood with a soft gray finish, and expensively appointed. The chair was an Arne Jacobsen, the rug an antique Persian. The chrome bar was stocked with expensive liquor, a pinot noir, and a Sancerre in a dewy bucket. Four conical, brushed-nickel pendants hung from the ceiling, and the etchings in the crystal scotch glasses caught their light and held it captive in brilliant, star-shaped designs. On the bar’s lower shelf, a DVD recorder’s face blinked with a tiny red eye.

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