To False Confessions

Who would admit to a crime they did not commit? Not just any crime but armed robbery? Or murder?

We imagine ourselves in the room. The empty table between us and the detective. He's asking where exactly we were between 10:40 and 12:05. The precision of the time alone throws us. 10:40? Was the news on? Were we in the kitchen?

We were on the phone. A friend from the west coast. Started a new job. We haven't spoken in a while.

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And the friend will vouch for you?

We think never. Never would we admit to a crime we did not commit. We would never say I did that when we didn't.

It turns. We go from being sure we are innocent, having no idea what he's talking about, to wondering what we can do to just make this stop. Stop the questions; stop the accusations. There's evidence, he says. They know.

We have never been perfect. And, hours or days later, it begins to feel like a gift. He says they will go easy on us if we talk now. We can see our kids again. We can get past this, but we have to tell the whole story. He's right. Maybe not this crime, but we know we are guilty. We did it and never got caught. It was just a matter of time.

We describe the scene. Dark. The victim was young. Never saw it coming. The window was open. Who can resist? Climb in. Take a look around. Take any story that is not your own. It will feel peculiar and familiar at the same time.