“Who are you, where am I, and where the hell is my solicitor?”
“Right now Ms. Parker, my name and your location aren’t important and frankly neither are your so-called rights. Our records indicate you are guilty of virtually every computer crime we have a law for, so you might want to be a bit more civil.”
The African-British gentleman, for that’s the image he had so carefully crafted, was sitting across a metal table from his prisoner, a young woman in her late teens. The most obvious aspects of her appearance were dominated by black attire, tattoos and body piercings.
“I want my solicitor.”
“This isn’t Scotland Yard, Danae.”
“I don’t care if it’s fucking MI6, I want my solicitor and I’m not saying a damn thing until I see one.”