I’m sitting in a dark, empty concrete room with a single small, dirty window. My hands are tied to a heavy, old wooden chair in the center of the room. Two uniformed guards with automatic weapons are behind me on either side of the chair. In front of me, a tall, mustached man with a worn, hardened face paces back and forth staring at me out of the corner of his eye. He carries a wooden club in his right hand. His has a frustrated look on his face. He finally speaks to me with a foreign accent. I’m not sure If it’s Canadian or New York (I always get those mixed up).
“It’s just a matter of time before we get you to tell us what we want to know. Why not save yourself from all this suffering and simply answer me now? If you don’t tell us, things will only get worse for you.”
“No,” I say my voice cracking after hours of interrogation. “I have nothing to say to you. I’ve already spoken to my wife earlier today.”
“Why not just tell me what you told her? No one else has to know,” he says pretending to soften his voice.
“I can’t,” I claim. “I made a promise.”
At that moment, my overly-dramatic m...