Millennials are killing
"This is bullshit! Where's my lawyer! Where's my phone call!"
"Typical," the cop said, "always wanting to be on your damn phone."
It was an air-conditioned, fluorescent-lighted room with a mirror, a chair, and a short folding table. Was probably in the early evening, not that there was a clock or a clue about the outside world from the interrogation room. I was seated in front of the two cops who had brought me in, one balding and seated, and the other heavy-set and standing menacingly at my back.
"I know my rights. You have to charge me or let me go."