A steady clicking arose from the scene. “We think that’s the sofa,” Wright said. “Don’t suppose you could help on that one?”

“No.”

And before long there was a high-pitched heaving sound, and the clicking stopped. Joey moved from the sofa and disappeared. “That’s pretty much the end of the movie,” Wright said. “The video goes on for another twelve minutes, but nothing happens. If the girl, Elaine, ever moved or got off the sofa, then it’s not on the video. We’re almost certain that Baxter Tate and Joey Bernardo had sex with her. There’s no evidence that either you or Alan Strock did.”

“I did not. I can assure you of that.”

“Any idea where you were during the rapes, Kyle?” Wright asked the question, then pressed a key and the screen went blank.

“I’m sure you have a theory.”

“Okay.” Wright was again armed with his pen and legal pad. “Elaine says she woke up several hours later, around three in the morning, naked, still on the sofa, and suddenly had a vague recollection of being raped. She panicked, wasn’t sure where she was, admits she was still very drunk, eventually finds her clothes, gets dressed, sees you fast asleep in a recliner facing the television. When she sees you, she realizes where she is and remembers more of what happened to her. There’s no sign of Strock, Tate, or Bernardo. She speaks to you, shakes your shoulder, but you do not respond, so she hurries from the apartment, goes next door, and eventually falls asleep.”

“And doesn’t mention rape for four days, right, Detective, or has she changed her story again?”

“Four days is correct.”

“Thank you. Not a word to anyone for four days. Not to her roommates, her friends, parents, no one. Then suddenly she decided she was raped. The police were very suspicious of her story, right? They finally showed up at our apartment, and at the Beta house, and they asked questions and got very few answers. Why? Because there was no rape. Everything was consensual. Believe me, Detective, that girl would consent to anything.”

“How could she consent if she was unconscious, Kyle?”

“If she was unconscious, how could she remember being raped? There was no medical exam. No rape kit. No evidence whatsoever. Just the blacked-out memory of a very confused young woman. The cops dropped the case five years ago, and it should be dropped now.”

“But it’s not. It’s here. The grand jury believed the video proves there was a rape.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. This isn’t about rape; this is about money. Baxter Tate’s family is filthy rich. Elaine has found herself a greedy lawyer. The indictment is nothing but a shakedown.”

“So you’re willing to risk the spectacle of a trial, and a conviction? You want the jury to see that video? You and your three roomies drunk out of your minds while a young woman is taken advantage of?”

“I didn’t touch her.”

“No, but you were there, very close by, less than ten feet away. Come on.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“How convenient.”

Kyle slowly got to his feet and walked to the bathroom. He filled another plastic cup with tap water, drained it, refilled it, and drank it. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands. No, he did not want the jury to see the video. He had just seen it for the first time and prayed it would be the last. He had a visual of himself and his three pals sitting in a crowded courtroom, lights dimmed, judge frowning, jurors gaping, Elaine crying, his parents stoic in the front row as the video is played to a rapt audience. The scene made him sick.

He felt innocent, but he wasn’t convinced the jurors would agree.

Wright ejected the disc and placed it carefully back into a plastic case.

Kyle stared at the industrial-grade carpet for a long time.

There were sounds in the hallway, muffled voices, feet shuffling, maybe the Fibbies were getting restless. He really didn’t care. His ears were ringing and he wasn’t sure why.

Each fleeting thought was chased away by the next, and he found it impossible to concentrate, to think rationally, to focus on what should and should not be said. Decisions made at this ugly moment could reverberate forever. For a moment he settled on the three Duke lacrosse players who were falsely accused of raping a stripper. They were eventually cleared of everything, but only after an excruciating trip to hell and back. And there was no video, no link whatsoever to the victim.

“Is she awake?” Joey says to Baxter. How many times would that question echo around the courtroom? Frame by frame. Word by word. The jurors would have the video memorized by the time they retired to consider the verdicts.

Wright sat patiently at the table, hairy hands folded again and motionless on his legal pad. Time meant nothing. He could wait forever.

“Are we at midfield?” Kyle asked, breaking the silence.

“Past midfield, around the forty and driving.”

“I’d like to see the indictment.”

“Sure.”

Kyle stood and looked down at the folding table. The detective began a series of movements that were immediately confusing. First, he pulled his wallet out of his rear left pocket, removed his driver’s license, and placed it on the table. He produced his Pittsburgh PD badge and laid it on the table. From a box on the floor he pulled other cards and other badges and began arranging them in line on the table. He reached for a file, handed it to Kyle, and said, “Happy reading.”

The file was labeled “INFORMATION.” Kyle opened it and removed a stack of papers stapled together. The top one looked official. A bold title read: “Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Allegheny County, Court of Common Pleas.”

A smaller heading read: “Commonwealth versus Baxter F. Tate, Joseph N. Bernardo, Kyle L. McAvoy, and Alan B. Strock.” There was a docket number, file number, and other official markings.

Wright produced a pair of kitchen scissors and methodically cut his driver’s license into two perfect squares.

The first paragraph read: “This prosecution is in the name of and by the authority of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania against the above-named defendants—”

Wright was cutting some of the other plastic cards, all of which appeared to be either driver’s licenses or credit cards.

“Who, within the jurisdiction of this court—”

Wright ripped his bronze badge from its leather wallet and bounced it on the table. “What are you doing?” Kyle finally asked.

“Destroying the evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“Read page two.”

Kyle, who was at the bottom of page one, flipped to page two. It was blank, not a word, letter, period, anything. He flipped to page three, then four, then five. All blank. Wright was busy removing other badges. Kyle held the bogus indictment and gawked at the detective.

“Have a seat, Kyle,” Wright said with a smile as he waved at the empty folding chair.

In an effort to say something, Kyle managed only a dying whimper. Then he sat down.

“There is no indictment, Kyle,” Wright proceeded as if it all made sense now. “No grand jury, no cops, no arrest, no trial. Nothing but a video.”

“No cops?”

“Oh, no. This stuff is all fake.” He waved his hands over the pile of destroyed identification. “I’m not a cop. Those boys across the hall are not FBI agents.”

Kyle rolled his head back like a wounded boxer, then rubbed his eyes. The indictment fell to the floor. “Who are you?” he managed to grunt.

“That’s a very good question, Kyle, one that will take a long time to answer.”

In disbelief, Kyle picked up one of the badges — Ginyard’s, FBI. He rubbed it and said, “But I checked this guy out online. He really works for the FBI.”

“Yes, these are real names. We just borrowed them for the night.”

“So, you’re impersonating an officer?”

“Certainly, but it’s just a small offense. Not worth your trouble.”