The police woman was not a pleasant woman. The interview room was not a pleasant place. Marty had been at the police station for three hours. Half of it was spent waiting in a holding cell where relieving himself proved more candid than he preferred. He had also, in hindsight, drank more tea with leaves than he preferred.
He didn't want a lawyer, because he didn't know a lawyer, and didn't think he actually needed a lawyer. Sure, he couldn't remember anything but being bumped in the head and that couldn't possibly be all that bad at this point.
The other half of the night he sat in a white room with bright lights.
"Here", said the officer, handing him a cup.
"No, thank you"
"Yeah, but the beans, it's fruit. I don't do cherry juice."
The officer had lines on her face beside her eyes that Marty knew were called crow's feet.
"They call those line's crow feet"
Marty had an instant realization that this was one of those times when he had probably been better not speaking. What he did notice, though, is even after such a comment, the lines on the officer's face didn't budge an inch.
"Listen, Tom Cruise, you're in more hot water than you realize, so let's quit rehearsing for Vegas, and tell me your story one more time."
The officer looked sternly at her notepad, sighed, and turned a steely eyed glare directly on Marty. Marty could feel goose pimples pop up like grass on a chia pet.
"Tell me what really happenned, Martin"
"You, can, uh, call me Marty if you want"
Marty forced a weak smile which the officer didn't acknowledge, choosing instead to tap her fingers on the desk between them.
"I'm serious. I'm not sure what else to tell you"
"A frisbee hit you in the head?"
"And a stapler?"
"And a bag of money"
"Listen, Marty. I'm gonna let you go home because I don't have enough evidence yet to toss your amateur ass in prison. Don't leave town. "
"Is there a payphone nearby? I need to make a phonecall."
"Calling a cab?"