Ricin poisoning suspect said he didn't like rice

It wasn't about rice.

The funniest exchange - if you can find any humor during the interrogation of Kevin Curtis - occurred when they asked him about the poison:
A Homeland Security agent asks Curtis point-blank, “ ‘Are you familiar with ricin?’

“And I say, ‘I don’t like rice. I don’t really eat rice. If y’all look in my house, you won’t find any rice.’

“He’s like, ‘Ricin, Mr. Curtis, ricin. Like anthrax.’

“I say, ‘I’ve never heard of that in my life, sir.’
The magazine GQ published a story about a guy charged with trying to poison the president and others using ricin. They called it: "The Elvis Impersonator, the Karate Instructor, a Fridge Full of Severed Heads, and the Plot 2 Kill the President". 

It's an instructive lesson on why you should never escalate a feud, because you never know how crazy the other side is going to get.

It's worth a read. Here's an excerpt, where we join Mr. Kevin Curtis in his SUV:
Curtis, 46, lives alone with his dog, Moo Cow, a Holstein-spotted Chihuahua–Jack Russell mix. Tonight, Wednesday, April 17, he and the dog are due at Kevin’s ex-wife Laura’s house for dinner with the kids. Out on his street, something weird is in the air. Kevin’s neighbors are the kind of people who tend to hide out in their houses, but tonight they’re out on their lawns, “pacing like ants.” He waves at a few of them, and they look at him queerly, like maybe they want to wave back but they’re afraid something bad might happen if they do.

With Moo Cow riding on his lap, Kevin slows his white Ford Escape to check his mailbox when all of a sudden—skreeeeeek! A whole fleet of cars and SUVs—maybe twenty, twenty-five—comes swarming in around him at eighty miles an hour. A frightening parade of G-men pours out of the cars. FBI, Homeland Security, local cops, Secret Service, Capitol Police. Rifles, pistols, machine guns, all of them aimed at Kevin Curtis and his dog. Kevin swivels in his seat. He figures a serial killer or somebody must be lamming it down the street behind him.

"Freeze! Do not move! Do not resist! We will shoot you!” an officer screams at Kevin.

Kevin is confused. “Me?”

“Shut up! Get out of the car and get on the ground!”

Holding Moo Cow in his arms, Kevin steps from his vehicle into a thicket of loaded guns.

He does not immediately get on the ground. “I’ve got my little dog, Moo Cow,” he explains to the G-men.

“Drop the dog! Drop the dog!”

“Can I just take her back inside and secure her?”

“Definitely not!”

He drops Moo Cow in the driver’s seat.

The agents cuff Kevin’s hands, shackle his feet, and latch his wrists to his waist.

“Am I being arrested?”

“Don’t ask questions. We’ll ask the questions.”

“What about my dog?”

Some guy with a machine gun goes to Kevin’s car, opens the door, and tries to take hold of the lapdog. Moo Cow spooks. She growls at the machine-gun guy, leaps, and hauls ass down the street.

“My dog! What about Moo Cow!” Kevin yells.

A hulking officer with arms like bowling pins smirks at Kevin through dark glasses. “Your dog will be fine,” he says.

This is not Kevin’s first tussle with law enforcement. He knows when he is being played false by men in uniform.

“Sir, can you please take off your sunglasses so I can see your eyes?” Kevin asks the officer.

“Excuse me?”

“I want to see your eyes when you tell me she’ll be fine,” Kevin says, “because I don’t think you give a damn about Moo Cow.”

With Moo Cow still on the loose, Kevin Curtis is hustled into a van bound for the Lafayette County jail in Oxford, where he will be held on suspicion of sending letters tainted with the poison ricin to a local judge, a Mississippi senator, and Barack H. Obama.

On the ninety-mile ride to the jail, Curtis begs to know what he is supposed to have done. The G-men will not tell him. They do not say a word about ricin or Obama. They offer up no clue as to why an army descended on his neighborhood.

In Oxford, Kevin spends three hours chained to a chair in an empty interrogation room before anyone so much as speaks to him. After a time, he is in need of the commode. “Three agents walk me to a restroom, open the stall, and they say, ‘I know it’s uncomfortable, but we have to watch you have a bowel movement.’ I say, ‘You gonna wipe me, too?’ ”

Late in the evening, the interrogation begins in earnest. Kevin is told, untruthfully, that a young girl is “clinging to life in the Tupelo hospital” because of what he’s done. One of the agents summons tears over this fiction. “They say, ‘You want her death on you? You tell us what was in there,’ ” Kevin recalls. “I’m like, ‘What was in what?’ They won’t tell me. They want me to say it.”

After a long and pointless back-and-forth, they put their cards on the table. A Homeland Security agent asks Curtis point-blank, “ ‘Are you familiar with ricin?’

“And I say, ‘I don’t like rice. I don’t really eat rice. If y’all look in my house, you won’t find any rice.’

“He’s like, ‘Ricin, Mr. Curtis, ricin. Like anthrax.’
“I say, ‘I’ve never heard of that in my life, sir.’

“He says, ‘You’re a liar.’ ”

At the end of a seven-hour grilling, the agents are beginning to suspect that they’ve picked up the wrong man. “Finally, they know they aren’t getting anywhere, and they ask me, ‘Do you have any enemies? Do you know of anyone who wants to harm you?’ I say, ‘Yeah, Everett Dutschke.’ ”

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