AGENT SMITH: (starts recorder) Do you know why you are here, Mr. Jones?
MR. JONES: I, I don’t. Who, who are you? And where is here?
AGENT SMITH: Oh, Mr. Jones, I do not have time for this playful banter. You know why you are here. Otherwise, why would you be here?
MR. JONES: But I don’t know why I’m here. I.. Please, can you please explain?
AGENT SMITH: Once again, Mr. Jones, I do not have time for this, and you do not have time for this either. The clock is ticking.
MR. JONES: Is this about a clock?
AGENT SMITH: Perhaps; or perhaps it is about something all together different, Mr. Jones.
MR. JONES: Why are you being so cryptic? If you don’t have time for this, then why are you wasting your own time? If you want to know something, just ask.
AGENT SMITH: Blunt it is. (silence) Who are you, Mr. Jones? Who are you… really?
MR. JONES: My name is Jonathan Jones… I own a used car dealership…. I’m a Sagittarius…
AGENT SMITH stares at MR. JONES.
MR. JONES: Umm… I like cheese, and cats, and, uh, well… What do you want to know about me? I’m sorry, I just don’t understand.
AGENT SMITH: Could it be that I know more about you than you know yourself? (silence) Mr. Jones, are you married?
MR. JONES: Yes… I mean no. I’m not married.
AGENT SMITH: Mr. Jones, do you live in a house or an apartment?
MR. JONES: Um, an apartment?
AGENT SMITH: Are you sure, Mr. Jones?
MR. JONES: Uh, I think so. All this pressure is confusing me.
AGENT SMITH: Mr. Jones, are you nervous?
MR. JONES: Who wouldn’t be nervous if they were kidnapped, blindfolded, brought to some… place… and—
AGENT SMITH: Yes, Mr. Jones, who would not?... You would not.
MR. JONES: I don’t understand. You don’t make any sense! I shouldn’t be nervous because I live alone in a studio apartment?
AGENT SMITH: I would say it is because you are a grown man not afraid to say that he loves cats, but we both know that is not the reason. You have a better reason than that, Mr. Jones. You—
MR. JONES: Look. I DON’T know what you are talking about. Why are you doing this to me? Am I a threat to you? Am I? Are you afraid of used cars or something? (silence) Wait, that must be it! It must be about a used car sale… You know, I only own the place. I don’t sell them. You should be talking to one of my salesmen. Probably Steve. Yah, Steve. I never liked him. He can’t be trusted.
AGENT SMITH: It looks like we are getting somewhere, Mr. Jones. Let’s talk about your business. What rules do your staff have to follow?
MR. JONES: Report all sales, no stealing each other’s customers, be kind and courteous at all times, and be loyal to the company.
AGENT SMITH: What is your policy for using a company car, Mr. Jones?
MR. JONES: Um… we don’t really have company cars but—
AGENT SMITH: Forgive me, Mr. Jones. What is your policy on borrowing a car from the lot?
MR. JONES: What does this matter?!?
AGENT SMITH stares at MR. JONES.
MR. JONES: Well, they can borrow any car they wish for a period of no more than 24 hours and they must sign it out to get one of the dealer plates. Any damages come out of their pay and they are the only ones allowed to drive it… oh, and the tank needs to be filled when it gets back… and they aren’t allowed to sell it while they have it out.
AGENT SMITH: Do you also follow these rules, Mr. Jones?
MR. JONES: …Yes
AGENT SMITH: Then, Mr. Jones, how do you explain this? (pulls out photo and shows it to MR. JONES)
MR. JONES: A car?
AGENT SMITH: Yes, Mr. Jones. A car. Do you recognize the plate?
MR. JONES: Wait, that’s one of my dealer plates. So this is about a car?
AGENT SMITH: Mr. Jones, this car, your car, was seen parked outside of a young woman’s apartment two months ago. Do you know what happened to that woman?
MR. JONES nods “no”.
AGENT SMITH: She was tortured and killed, Mr. Jones. By you. (pulls out photo and shows it to MR. JONES)
MR. JONES flinches and looks away.
MR. JONES: Oh, God, that’s… that’s… disgusting.
AGENT SMITH, photo still in front of MR. JONES, walks behind MR. JONES to speak.
AGENT SMITH: Mr. Jones, do you enjoy your work?
MR. JONES peaks back at the picture and a grin flashes across his face, ever so barely. He once again averts his eyes away from the picture.
MR. JONES: I, I, I do enjoy my work. I enjoy selling used cars.
AGENT SMITH: Now, that’s definitely a lie, Mr. Jones.
MR. JONES: OK, so I don’t enjoy selling cars. I don’t even actually sell them. But it’s a living.
AGENT SMITH: Yes, back to living, or should I say killing. Mr. Jones, are you a lefty or a righty?
MR. JONES: Righty.
Silence
AGENT SMITH: So you had a partner, Mr. Jones. Who is he?
MR. JONES: A partner? You, you think I did this?
AGENT SMITH: Yes, I do think that you did this, Mr. Jones. Or, at least part of this. (leaning over MR. JONES’ shoulder) See, these cut marks show a distinct left to right motion, from a righty like you, and these others show a right to left motion, from your left handed accomplice.
MR. JONES: Why do you think I did this? There are several righties that work for me. Couldn’t one of them do this? You have no proof that I did this!
AGENT SMITH: Oh, Mr. Jones, you must think so little of me. Do you recognize this? (pulls out a small stack of papers)
MR. JONES: This is the sign out log from my dealership. Wait, this is the sign out log from my dealership! How’d you get it?
AGENT SMITH: Nervous, Mr. Jones?
MR. JONES: Yes, again, I am nervous. This is a very stressful situation. Why do you have my log and how did you get it?
AGENT SMITH: I have my ways, Mr. Jones. But you do not have to worry about that. You need to worry about this. (leans over MR. JONES’ other shoulder and points to a name on the log) Whose name is this, Mr. Jones?
MR. JONES: That’s… my name… So what?
Silence
AGENT SMITH: In the interest of time, Mr. Jones, I will explain it to you. You have a friend that I have been looking for for quite some time. He is a sinister fellow… and this log shows that you, a righty, signed out the car that he was seen driving on the night that this poor girl was murdered. I have proven that this is your handwriting so there is no disputing this fact. Now, I am sure at first that it was just a car here or there, but something changed and he wanted… no needed… your help. (taps the photo with each word) So… you… helped… him… I just need you to tell me where he is now. That is all, Mr. Jones. That is all.
MR. JONES: I don’t know who you are talking about. I swear. I only take cars out for myself. I use them to pick up girls.
AGENT SMITH, standing behind MR. JONES, takes out his gun and cocks it. From here on out the intensity of the situation grows immensely.
MR. JONES: Is that a gun? I swear, I swear on my wife’s life that I don’t know who you are talking about.
AGENT SMITH: I thought that you weren’t married, Mr. Jones. (puts gun to the back of MR. JONES’ head)
MR. JONES: I’m not! I’m not!... I meant my mother.
AGENT SMITH: Are you sure, Mr. Jones? All I need is for you to tell me where he is.
MR. JONES: Please, please don’t kill me. I swear, I only use the cars for myself. I don’t kill people, Agent Smith, I swear!
AGENT SMITH: (clearly shaken) How’d you know my name? I never told you my name.
In one smooth move the cuffs around MR. JONES’ wrists fall to the ground, MR. JONES leaps from the chair, takes the gun from a stunned AGENT SMITH, holds it in his left hand, and shoots AGENT SMITH square in the chest. AGENT SMITH falls to the ground stunned and dying.
AGENT SMITH: (gasping for breath) You… (Looks at the gun in MR. JONES’ left hand) You’re ambi—
MR. JONES shoots AGENT SMITH in the head, puts the gun in the swell of his back, unrolls his shirt sleeves, takes AGENT SMITH’s suit jacket and tie, puts on both, adjusts his sleeves, smoothes out his tousled “used car salesman” hair, and leaves. The recorder stays on.
