Free California Fire and Life by Don Winslow Page A

recorded statement?” Nicky asks. “Why?”
    “Routine with any fire,” Jack says.
    One of Goddamn Billy’s rules in this cynical world: Take a statement as soon as you can. Get their story on the record so they can’t walk away from it. If they’re not involved with the fire, it doesn’t matter; if they are … well, Billy’s right again. Get a statement. Get it in detail. Get it early.
    (Another Billyism: If you’re planning on getting in a fight with someone, it’s a good idea to first get their feet stuck in concrete.)
    Nicky’s looking at him with his charming smile.
    “Did you bring a tape recorder?” he asks.
    You bet.

20
    “This is Jack Wade from California Fire and Life,” Jack says into the tape recorder. “The date is August 28, 1997. The time is 1:15 p.m. I am taking a recorded statement from Mr. Nicky Vale and his mother, Mrs. Valeshin. I am making this record with the full knowledge and permission of both Mr. Vale and Mrs. Valeshin. Is that correct?”
    “That is correct,” Nicky says.
    “Correct.”
    “And will you validate the date and time for me?”
    “It is correct as stated,” Nicky says.
    “Then we can proceed,” Jack says. “If at any time I turn off the tape, I will make a note for the record of the time we go off record and the time we resume. Now, could you each state and spell your full legal names for me?”
    It’s a delicate thing, taking a recorded statement. On the one hand, you have to observe the formalities so you get a useful record that will stand up in court. On the other hand, it’s not a sworn statement or a legal proceeding, so you have to walk a fine line between the formal and the casual. So after they state and spell their names, Jack flips back into talk show mode and says, “Mr. Vale—”
    “Nicky.”
    “Nicky, why don’t you start by giving me a little background on yourself?”
    Because Jack knows that the first thing you do is get the subject talking. About anything, it doesn’t matter. The idea is to get them into thehabit of responding to your questions and just plain talking. Also you learn something right off the bat: if your guy balks at talking about himself, he’s going to balk at everything else and then you have to wonder what he’s protecting.
    There’s a more cynical reason. Jack knows it like every other investigator knows it—the more a subject talks the more chance he has to lie. To fuck up, give inconsistencies,
lie
on the record. Get his feet stuck in the concrete.
    Most people hang themselves.
    It’s a basic truth that Jack knows: if you’re dragged out of your bed by the cops at four in the morning and they want to talk to you about the Kennedy assassination, the Lindbergh kidnapping or aiding and abetting freaking Pontius Pilate, what you do is you keep your fucking mouth shut. Doesn’t matter if they ask you your height, your favorite color or what you had for breakfast that morning, you keep your fucking mouth shut. If they ask you if night is darker than day, or whether up is higher than down, you keep your fucking mouth shut.
    There are four words, and only four words, you can say.
    I want my lawyer.
    When your lawyer gets there he’ll give you some sage advice.
    He’ll tell you to keep your fucking mouth shut.
    And if you do that, if you follow that sage advice, you will in all probability leave the police station a free man.
    There are usually three reasons people talk.
    One, they’re scared.
    Nicky Vale isn’t scared.
    Two, they’re stupid.
    Nicky Vale isn’t stupid.
    Three, they’re arrogant.
    Bingo.
    Nicky Vale starts talking about himself.
    He was born in St. Petersburg, which was Leningrad when he was born but now is St. Petersburg again. This name thing matters like shit to Nicky Vale, because it wasn’t any more giggles being a Jew in Leningrad than it was being a Jew in St. Petersburg.
    You can change your name as often as you want (“I should know, right?” Nicky adds), but you can’t change