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>“Ed,” I said, “surely you don’t think I’d come in here without some method of defending myself, do you?”
>“Don’t shit me, Ressler. They wouldn’t let you up here with any weapons on you.”
>Kemper’s observation, of course, was quite true, because inside a prison, visitors are not allowed to carry weapons, lest these be seized by inmates and used to threaten the guards or otherwise aid an escape.
>I nevertheless indicated that FBI agents were accorded special privileges that ordinary guards, police, or other people who entered a prison did not share.
>"What’ve you got then?” Kemper asked me rather aggressively, “I’m not going to give away what I might have or where I might have it on me.” I replied
>“Come on, come on; what is it – a poison pen?” he continued. “Maybe, but those aren’t the only weapons one could have.”
>“Martial arts, then,” Kemper mused. “Karate? Got your black belt? Think you can take me?” With this, I felt the tide had shifted a bit, if not turned.
>There was a hint of kidding in his voice – I hoped. But I wasn’t sure, and he understood that I wasn’t sure, and he decided that he’d continue to try and rattle me.
