LJ Idol Season 9, Week 25: A man of shibusa modestly exhalts excellence and thoroughness of thought.
Takahashi is forced to sit in a dark, desolate room. The chair he rests his laurels on is metal, uncomfortable and cold; its legs are uneven, causing him to teeter to the right. The air is stale and musty, sticking to the back of his throat as he eyes his interrogator. He does his best to keep his expression unreadable.
“Must we do this?” he asks, resting his back against the chair and folding his arms loosely over his chest. The shifting of metal links can be heard as he does so, and the handcuffs bite into his wrists, though he shows no signs of discomfort. “I’m well aware of my rights, Ms. Samson.”
“Since you’ve been such a fan of following procedure in the past, Mr. Vice President, I assumed the need for this ‘formality’ wouldn’t be lost on you,” Samson says. She leafs through the small pile of paperwork beside her, selects a single sheet of paper, and slides it across the rough surface of the table. Her demeanor changes, a ghost smile evident on her features. “I have done thousands of interrogations, so I am quite used to our chairs and our deplorable coffee -- it’s up to you how long we spend here, tonight.”
Takahashi smiles back and picks up the sheet of paper. “Please, Ms. Samson. This is mere child’s play for me, and you are more than well aware of it,” he says, letting his eyes trail down the jumbled text in front of him. “If you had enough to indict me for treason, we wouldn’t be sitting here in the secret service’s torture chamber.”
Samson frowns and leans back in her seat. The mediocre lighting casts deep shadows on her gaunt, dark face. Her black eyes narrow as she purses naked lips together, and she tosses a pen across the table. “We may not have enough for treason, but first degree murder is a whole ‘nother story, Mr. Takahashi.”
“Dropping the formalities, are we, Amanda?” Takahashi asks, his own smile widening. He reaches across the table and wraps his fingers around the pen, making a show of it. Every move must be calculated, deliberate. “Have you no respect for your superiors?”
“Interesting question, coming from the man who killed his,” Amanda states, quirking an eyebrow.
“Ah, but do you have sufficient proof that I was the one who killed him, Amanda?” Takahashi clicks the top of the pen and scratches the tip along the dotted line, leaving his signature behind. “Let me remind you that your only witness is the President’s husband, and that the First Gentleman isn’t necessarily a reliable witness, given his own grievous injuries.”
Takahashi pushes the paper back towards Amanda and meets her gaze, his expression neutral once again as he resumes speaking. “Let me also remind you that I am innocent until proven guilty by a jury of my peers.”
Amanda’s eyes give away nothing, not even as she drops them to the paper in front of her. “Just so I’m clear, Mr. Takahashi,” she begins, clearing her throat. “You are waiving your right to an attorney, correct?”
“I have no need of one,” Takahashi says with a shrug. He rests his hands in his lap, his restraints the loudest noise in the room. Once again, their eyes meet, and Takahashi runs his tongue over the edge of his bottom teeth before smiling widely. “Let us begin our dance, shall we?”
Amanda’s smiles wryly in return. “Let’s.”
Her questions come slow at first. Probing, but just skimming the surface of the matter at hand. Madame President was hardly the focus in any of them; no, the focus was on Takahashi himself -- a potential analysis of his motivations.
He gives her nothing. Her expression darkens as the tempo of her questions increases. His answers remain empty, hollow, devoid of any information whatsoever. His words are his greatest ally; his words have always protected him, defended him, attacked for him.
He will prevail. He always prevails. Despite the cuffs tightening around his wrists; despite the unevenness of his chair, the metal of both has warmed to the same ambient temperature as his body. The discomfort brought to him by either no longer registers, and Takahashi folds his hands on top of the table, scoots the chair closer, and keeps his expression even as Amanda’s questions continue.
Amanda eyes him, her lips forming a thin line whenever they aren’t parted as she speaks. She licks her lips and leans forward as well, her arms open as she rests them on top of the table. “Mr. Takahashi, is it true that you and President Milon were once romantically involved?”
Takahashi blinks, presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, and furrows his brow. “I hardly see why my previous relationship with her is relevant, Amanda.”
Amanda frowns and eyes Takahashi once again, studying him for a moment. She raises an eyebrow. “How is your previous romantic involvement with her not relevant?”
“It was in the past,” Takahashi says with a dismissive wave of his hand. He purses his lips together and fidgets in his seat. “Madame President and I buried that hatchet long ago; it was her husband that had no desire to do the same. The man was jealous, I suppose, due to my close working relationship with her.”
“For all the years I have worked under Madame President, Mr. Takahashi, I never once got the impression that the two of you were ‘close,’” Amanda says, leaning back in her seat. She keeps her arms open and picks up a pen between two fingers, tapping it idly against the table. “What makes you think that the First Gentleman was jealous?”
Takahashi’s focus closes in on the pen, his fingers itching to snatch it from her. Each movement of the pen grates him, the tapping echoing off the stained, moldy walls. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, frowning. He straightens his back and folds his hands together on top of the table, his eyes lifting from Amanda’s pen to her face. “I am everything the man wishes to be. Stephen Milon is hardly a man of my stature; he is far from a man of authority, such as myself.”
Amanda nods, her lips pursing together slightly. “So you feel as though Stephen didn’t deserve Madame President, is that right?” she asks, ceasing her pen tapping. She clicks the top and pulls a sheet of paper towards her. “Is that why you shot him, too?”
Takahashi tenses, a muscle in his cheek ticking. “I said the man was jealous of me, Ms. Samson, not the other way around,” he murmurs.
“Of course,” Amanda says, nodding. She drops her eyes to the sheet of paper and begins to write something down. “Are you still claiming that Stephen killed his wife, turned his weapon on you, and that the pistol discharged as you attempted to disarm him?”
“There is no ‘claiming,’ Ms. Samson. That is precisely what happened.” His fingers ached, and Takahashi unfolded his hands, stretching each digit against the coarse tabletop.
“So you have no objections to us conducting testing for gunshot residue, then?”
“Of course not.”
Amanda looks up from her paper, her pen pausing in its movements and her lips pulling apart slowly to reveal startling white enamel. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Takahashi. You have given me enough information to work with, for today.”
Takahashi blinks, keeping his expression neutral as another member of the Secret Service slips inside the room and approaches him. As he feels the man’s hands pull him up from his seat, he notices the self-satisfied smirk on Amanda’s face. “I’ve given you nothing,” he spits, his lips twisting into a tight scowl. “You have no evidence.”
“Oh, but I do,” Amanda says, pushing herself up from her chair. She sidesteps the table and folds her hands behind her back, her smirk never leaving her lips. The poor lightning of the room enhances the sharpness of her features, leaving deep shadows across her face. “Stephen Milon has no gunshot residue on him whatsoever, Mr. Takahashi. Not even at the area surrounding the entrance wound.”
Takahashi doesn’t say a word as Amanda’s men drag him from the room, though his fists curl tight and his stomach plummets to the floor.
“Must we do this?” he asks, resting his back against the chair and folding his arms loosely over his chest. The shifting of metal links can be heard as he does so, and the handcuffs bite into his wrists, though he shows no signs of discomfort. “I’m well aware of my rights, Ms. Samson.”
“Since you’ve been such a fan of following procedure in the past, Mr. Vice President, I assumed the need for this ‘formality’ wouldn’t be lost on you,” Samson says. She leafs through the small pile of paperwork beside her, selects a single sheet of paper, and slides it across the rough surface of the table. Her demeanor changes, a ghost smile evident on her features. “I have done thousands of interrogations, so I am quite used to our chairs and our deplorable coffee -- it’s up to you how long we spend here, tonight.”
Takahashi smiles back and picks up the sheet of paper. “Please, Ms. Samson. This is mere child’s play for me, and you are more than well aware of it,” he says, letting his eyes trail down the jumbled text in front of him. “If you had enough to indict me for treason, we wouldn’t be sitting here in the secret service’s torture chamber.”
Samson frowns and leans back in her seat. The mediocre lighting casts deep shadows on her gaunt, dark face. Her black eyes narrow as she purses naked lips together, and she tosses a pen across the table. “We may not have enough for treason, but first degree murder is a whole ‘nother story, Mr. Takahashi.”
“Dropping the formalities, are we, Amanda?” Takahashi asks, his own smile widening. He reaches across the table and wraps his fingers around the pen, making a show of it. Every move must be calculated, deliberate. “Have you no respect for your superiors?”
“Interesting question, coming from the man who killed his,” Amanda states, quirking an eyebrow.
“Ah, but do you have sufficient proof that I was the one who killed him, Amanda?” Takahashi clicks the top of the pen and scratches the tip along the dotted line, leaving his signature behind. “Let me remind you that your only witness is the President’s husband, and that the First Gentleman isn’t necessarily a reliable witness, given his own grievous injuries.”
Takahashi pushes the paper back towards Amanda and meets her gaze, his expression neutral once again as he resumes speaking. “Let me also remind you that I am innocent until proven guilty by a jury of my peers.”
Amanda’s eyes give away nothing, not even as she drops them to the paper in front of her. “Just so I’m clear, Mr. Takahashi,” she begins, clearing her throat. “You are waiving your right to an attorney, correct?”
“I have no need of one,” Takahashi says with a shrug. He rests his hands in his lap, his restraints the loudest noise in the room. Once again, their eyes meet, and Takahashi runs his tongue over the edge of his bottom teeth before smiling widely. “Let us begin our dance, shall we?”
Amanda’s smiles wryly in return. “Let’s.”
Her questions come slow at first. Probing, but just skimming the surface of the matter at hand. Madame President was hardly the focus in any of them; no, the focus was on Takahashi himself -- a potential analysis of his motivations.
He gives her nothing. Her expression darkens as the tempo of her questions increases. His answers remain empty, hollow, devoid of any information whatsoever. His words are his greatest ally; his words have always protected him, defended him, attacked for him.
He will prevail. He always prevails. Despite the cuffs tightening around his wrists; despite the unevenness of his chair, the metal of both has warmed to the same ambient temperature as his body. The discomfort brought to him by either no longer registers, and Takahashi folds his hands on top of the table, scoots the chair closer, and keeps his expression even as Amanda’s questions continue.
Amanda eyes him, her lips forming a thin line whenever they aren’t parted as she speaks. She licks her lips and leans forward as well, her arms open as she rests them on top of the table. “Mr. Takahashi, is it true that you and President Milon were once romantically involved?”
Takahashi blinks, presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, and furrows his brow. “I hardly see why my previous relationship with her is relevant, Amanda.”
Amanda frowns and eyes Takahashi once again, studying him for a moment. She raises an eyebrow. “How is your previous romantic involvement with her not relevant?”
“It was in the past,” Takahashi says with a dismissive wave of his hand. He purses his lips together and fidgets in his seat. “Madame President and I buried that hatchet long ago; it was her husband that had no desire to do the same. The man was jealous, I suppose, due to my close working relationship with her.”
“For all the years I have worked under Madame President, Mr. Takahashi, I never once got the impression that the two of you were ‘close,’” Amanda says, leaning back in her seat. She keeps her arms open and picks up a pen between two fingers, tapping it idly against the table. “What makes you think that the First Gentleman was jealous?”
Takahashi’s focus closes in on the pen, his fingers itching to snatch it from her. Each movement of the pen grates him, the tapping echoing off the stained, moldy walls. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, frowning. He straightens his back and folds his hands together on top of the table, his eyes lifting from Amanda’s pen to her face. “I am everything the man wishes to be. Stephen Milon is hardly a man of my stature; he is far from a man of authority, such as myself.”
Amanda nods, her lips pursing together slightly. “So you feel as though Stephen didn’t deserve Madame President, is that right?” she asks, ceasing her pen tapping. She clicks the top and pulls a sheet of paper towards her. “Is that why you shot him, too?”
Takahashi tenses, a muscle in his cheek ticking. “I said the man was jealous of me, Ms. Samson, not the other way around,” he murmurs.
“Of course,” Amanda says, nodding. She drops her eyes to the sheet of paper and begins to write something down. “Are you still claiming that Stephen killed his wife, turned his weapon on you, and that the pistol discharged as you attempted to disarm him?”
“There is no ‘claiming,’ Ms. Samson. That is precisely what happened.” His fingers ached, and Takahashi unfolded his hands, stretching each digit against the coarse tabletop.
“So you have no objections to us conducting testing for gunshot residue, then?”
“Of course not.”
Amanda looks up from her paper, her pen pausing in its movements and her lips pulling apart slowly to reveal startling white enamel. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Takahashi. You have given me enough information to work with, for today.”
Takahashi blinks, keeping his expression neutral as another member of the Secret Service slips inside the room and approaches him. As he feels the man’s hands pull him up from his seat, he notices the self-satisfied smirk on Amanda’s face. “I’ve given you nothing,” he spits, his lips twisting into a tight scowl. “You have no evidence.”
“Oh, but I do,” Amanda says, pushing herself up from her chair. She sidesteps the table and folds her hands behind her back, her smirk never leaving her lips. The poor lightning of the room enhances the sharpness of her features, leaving deep shadows across her face. “Stephen Milon has no gunshot residue on him whatsoever, Mr. Takahashi. Not even at the area surrounding the entrance wound.”
Takahashi doesn’t say a word as Amanda’s men drag him from the room, though his fists curl tight and his stomach plummets to the floor.