Bail and Bonding
| Bail and Bonding | |
|---|---|
...the part where you yell at a prosecutor and act intractable... | |
| Players |
Colt and Ethan sit in jail after their little test of Ethan's theory at the warehouse. The one that went horribly, terribly wrong. John shows up to get them out, and the trio of them come face to face with Alicia Monrose, Assistant State's Attorney, and try to negotiate their freedom. It's a very strange negotiation, and all three of them are left wondering what the hell just happened. |
Colt still had the card in his pocket. The one that John gave him with his number on it. And he even had the wherewithal to put it in his phone. So the call from the police station asking for 'his attorney' probably came rather sooner than expected. He and Ethan were, at first, in individual interrogation rooms. Colt already told Ethan what to say, not that the man didn't already know: "I refuse to answer questions until such time as I am represented by counsel." No matter what threats they make. And, apparently, someone in the DA's office is having a day. Arson. Attempted arson. Reckless endangerment. Criminal mischief. Breaking and entering. Trespassing. Animal abuse. Abuse of a corpse. And, as a cherry on top of it all -- resisting arrest. Apparently, someone didn't pay attention to protocols. Rather than keeping them isolated and in separate rooms -- so they can't match their stories -- they've decided to move Ethan and Colt to a small holding cell while they wait for John to come. Colt is stretched out lazily on the bench, hands behind his head, looking far too damn pleased with himself. He glances over at Ethan, curious. "First time?" Ethan dutifully repeated the ritual formula, though he'd had a hard time when they added *resisting arrest.* At that point the cop in question got himself an outraged and irritated look, one that said, without words: *we did nothing of the sort, you absolute loon.* And had resulted in him leaning back, crossing his arms, looking at this police officer like he was being rude in church, and refusing to speak *at all,* even to repeat the formula. He figured once was enough anyway, and fifteen recitations ought to have done for it. Colt is all lazily stretched out and looking pleased, Ethan is wandering the cell, such as wandering can be done, sort of pacing around it. He keeps looking over at Colt with his mouth open like he's going to say something, only to catch that satisfied expression, furrow his brow, and snap his mouth shut again. Finally Colt asks his question and he nods. "Yeah. Not much of a hellraiser." Or maybe he just didn't used to be. There's chagrin and apology in the tone. "You think John's gonna bless us out?" "It's not a corpse, it's a pig," John's voice scoffs from the hallway. "It's tresspassing, and that's... Ok, listen, I'm about to talk to them, but listen: it's tresspassing, or we'll see you in court. I'm confident of it." A pause, and then, "John Butler the third, here to see my clients." It's only a moment, and John is in the cell with Ethan and Colt. He's dressed for work in a smart linen suit, pink shirt, and brown leather shoes that are clearly both new and custom. "You ok," he asks, as soon as the door is closed behind him. His expression is serious as he adds, "How are they treating you?" Colt looks like he's almost ready to answer Ethan's questions when John's voice comes from down the hall. That gets him to sit up on the bench a bit, pulling his knees up to his chest as he leans his back against the concrete wall, that smile slowly spreading as he hears the man's admonitions to what is clearly some poor staffer. "Guess we'll find out," he tells Ethan at the question of whether John's gonna be pissed or not. When the other is finally in the cell, he answers John's questions with a shake of his head. "Most people think it's the stainless steel shared toilet that's the issue in jail, but it's the *food* that's the war crime." A nod back down the hallway. "Sounds like Ethan and I --" Notably *not* Moon Moon in this particular context "--ruffled some feathers." Not even a heartbeat passes before he adds, "His record is clean. Mine isn't. If it's one of us or the other, you get him out of here. I'll be fine. Done this before." "I'm fine," was probably the only answer a Storm Lord was going to give, even if Ethan had gone a few rounds with a phone book or something. And it's the answer he gives now, with one of those quick, uncertain half-smiles that he gave so often in that initial gathering where he got introduced to so many of the local wolves. His face is more expressive than he might care for sometimes. His concerned frown at Colt for the man's willingness to throw himself under the bus for his sake is equally expressive, and he rubs the back of his neck slowly, but doesn't argue exactly. Instead he says to John: "I wasn't convicted, but I was briefly a suspect in...a thing. A fairly high profile...thing." He's apparently not sure what he can say even *now.* "I don't know if they're suddenly going to start poking that old bear or what. Even though someone else got convicted for the thing." Someone innocent, at least of that crime. "Let's make sure we get you out of here, so they don't," John tells Ethan, immediately understanding -- at least to some degree. "Let's get you *both* out of her," he amends, nodding. "Get you a decent meal, something not banned under the Geneva Convention, huh?" He crosses the room to sit on the end of the bench opposite Colt, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "The put together quite a jacket, but a lot of it is just in there so they can plead it down for an easy conviction, or drop it so you'll plead to another charge. I just talked to the prosecutor that landed your cases, and told him our position is that we'll consider pleading to a tresspassing charge." He looks from Colt to Ethan, Ethan to Colt, and shrugs, letting the implied question hang in the air. "Getting out of here would be nice," Colt agrees. "Could use a shower. I feel like I'm covered in bacon grease, and I smell like a burnt marshmallow." But he turns his head to Ethan, that slow, sly grin spreading into bright amusement again. "It was so worth it though." Back to John, he adds, "We did, however, find out that the, uh. Proposed plan. For the thing. That we were talking about earlier? Not gonna work as well as we thought it would." A small shake of his head there. "Did some science and stuff." Yep. Science. That's definitely what that was. Still, there's an implied question, and Colt gives it some consideration. "Yeah. I'll cop to that. That's nothing." And then a nod to Ethan. "Can probably get him a walk. Just tell them that I told him I owned the place, and he had no idea what I was up to. No *mens rea*, no crime. They can fucking fine me." Colt’s grin really is infectious. It tugs at the edges of Ethan’s own until his shoulders are shaking and he’s turning his head to direct his grin briefly towards the bars of the cell, eyes closing while he starts to contain the laugh. But then John and Colt are laying it out, and he clears his throat. “That’ll work,” he agrees, in answer to John’s question, even as he flushes in a bit of embarrassment. Clearly poised on this cusp between agreeing it *was* worth it and chagrin over how this experiment *actually* turned out. He rubs the back of his neck one more time before dropping his hand to his side in a way that suggests acceptance of the entire situation, and adds, “Thanks for helping us, John.” "It'll be fines," John agrees with a nod, "Maybe probation, with your history," he speculates. "I'll see what I can do, maybe I know someone who can do a better job of making it go away clean. I'm great at the part where you yell at a prosecutor and act intractable," he confides, "Less so at the part where you negotiate back and fort." At least he knows that about himself. "Either way, I appreciate you both looking into that." His voice is held lower as he expresses his gratitude, looking between the two other Uratha in the cell. "It's good information to have, and in time to let us change our plans, you know? Imagine if we went down there counting on that working out." Colt gives a little nod. "Done, then," he agrees. He's almost ready to say more, when a new sound comes down the hall -- the steady click, click, click of heels on concrete, the buzzer and clang of the door opening, and the rattling clang of it closing again. Around the corner comes a young woman. Blonde hair folded back in a professional style, simple black glasses. She wears a navy pencil skirt suit, just enough makeup to make it look like she's not wearing makeup, and red pumps the color of blood -- a person that knows full well people look at her, and knows how to subtly command attention. She has an iPad, finger flicking over the screen as she reviews the information on it, coming to a stop on the other side of the bars as she looks in at the three werewolves, blinking in surprise. Maybe she wasn't expecting John to be there. Glancing at the two she *was* expecting to be there, she takes them both in, face impassive, cool, before looking back to John. "Counsel?" It's a question, not a greeting. It’s not always possible to see the moment where one person truly earns another person’s trust. But there’s something in John’s kind and charitable reading of the situation over a plan nobody had even bought into yet, in even throwing in an expression of gratitude for trying it out, for choosing to focus on the sensible aspects of their actions instead of choosing to read it as a hairbrained stunt—and it’s a something that causes a subtle relaxation of Ethan’s shoulders. Blink and you’ll miss it, but it’s body language that speaks volumes: of a man whose guard is almost always up and who had little trust to give out even long before he became a Uratha suddenly relaxing that guard and deciding that John Bishop Butler III is a good man who he likes a great deal. A sudden shifting between cautious, low-key friendly politeness to the more open body language he uses when it’s just him and Colt, or just him and his baby sister Miriam. Made, perhaps, all the more obvious by the arrival of the Woman With the Red Shoes, because suddenly that guard is back in place, the body language closed off again, his face betraying no expression. He leans against the bars, hand roaming across his pockets in the universal ‘search for cigarette’ motion before stopping immediately to cross them instead. He studies her, but decides this is a great moment to avoid cracking his teeth, falling instantly silent and visibly alert. John was about to say something. It's clear John was about to say something, because his jaw is stilling hanging open as he stands. There's a pause, and it's clear the young attorney must suddenly realize exactly how he looks. He closes his mouth very intentionally, and his cheeks color slightly as he looks downward, adjusting his tie. It's a lovely tie, sky blue a little pattern of anchors on it. When he looks up to meet Red Shoes' eyes, he is more composed. "Counsel," he answers, as though he had mistaken the question for a greeting, and was returning it. "John Butler." He offers a hand, and keeps his tone as neutral as possible. The woman manages to keep her face schooled. Mostly. There's the tiniest little tells, though, that something else is working there. She gives John a once over, taking that quick mental inventory of someone sizing up an opponent. "Alicia Monrose," she answers in kind. "Assistant State's Attorney." Tapping the screen of her iPad, she looks over it once more, pulling off her glasses and holding them between two fingers on the back of the hand holding the iPad. "Your clients are in a whole world of shit," she says in that bright, sing-song way of someone very confident in what they're doing. "Abuse of a corpse. That'll make a few headlines, I think." A glance between Ethan and Colt, finally settling on Colt. "You must be Mr. Masters." A glance to Ethan, then, and this time her gaze just -- holds for a minute. Not necessarily sizing him up so much as drinking him in. "Mr. Weaver." Even the tone of her voice is different there, losing some of that hard edge to it. The tone of a woman that's seen something she likes. She offers him a vulpine smile. "I bet you're popular. You'll be pretty popular in prison too, I think. You sure you don't want to talk to me about what happened?" Apparently any niceties about going through counsel are tossed out the window now that counsel is *there*. Ethan knows people like looking at him, too. And is apparently not above using that fact, either. He gives a slow stretch as if to show off those broad shoulders of his, and offers Alicia Monrose a lazy smile, looking her up and down as if also seeing something he likes. Not hard, she’s easy on the eyes, and has presence, even if she is as dangerous as an adder in a bolthole. His drawl comes out full force. “Gimme your number and I’ll offer to take you dancin’, darlin’, but I wasn’t born yesterday. My lawyer does the talkin’.” But he gives her this no-hard-feelings wink. "That's me," John says, "I'm the lawyer. Eyes up here." He can't help a glance at Ethan too, though, and he can't *quite* hide the grin as he shakes his head. "Mr. Masters and Mr. Weaver are going to leave with me today -- my associate is posting their bail now -- and we can talk about that headline. Maybe it's that CPD mistook the remains of a pig for human remains? Or maybe it's that they knew exactly what they were looking at, and overcharged my clients. We're negotiable." He looks back over his shoulder to Colt, maybe to confirm that they're negotiable? Maybe just to check the temperature in the room. John is a little charged, and it's hard to miss. "I've told discussed our initial stance on a plea deal with your office. I assume you agree, and I'll hear from you in the next few days?" "It's a free country, counsel," she responds to him easily. "My eyes can go wherever I please. No law stopping me there, as you know." As if to prove the point, she does it *again*, lingering in a few places this time before looking up to meet John's eyes, that smile broadening as he makes his counter to her headline comment. She passes one last look to Ethan, almost disappointed that he's chosen to let John do the talking. A shake of her head, and she sighs. "Mr. Weaver is free to go," she starts, though she gives him a level look. "Try to keep your nose clean. You don't have a record. Don't start one. I can't pin anything to you as it is, but you make a habit of getting yourself arrested and that won't last long." A look back to Colt on that one. "Your friend, here, though. He has a much more interested record." She opens the file. "Aggravated battery. Assault. Possession. *Prostitution*." A glance to Colt, brow wrinkling as she looks to the other two, like someone comparing items at a supermarket. Apparently she doesn't see the appeal. Looking back to John, she says, "Criminal mischief. A misdemeanor, no time. Twenty-five hundred dollar fine. That gets him into the system," she practically purrs. "Then we can let the games begin." “Yes ma’am,” Ethan says, touching one finger just above his brow and drawing it out, half salute, half hat tip for a hat that isn’t there, a gesture that looks unironic. He shifts a little as she lays it all out there, though what that shift means might be a hard read. But for this? It’s not interference time, it’s John does his thing time, and he well knows it and respects it. "I wasn't the one who tried that case," John counters, and now he is piqued. "We can go to court, and you can call Mr. Masters a prostitute while I call him a survivor of sexual abuse." He shrugs, lip curling. "We'll see what a Chicago jury thinks about that." He doesn't look over his shoulder, now. He's worked up, and the color is returning to his cheeks. "It's tresspassing. You can max the fine, court costs, do you want it cash or card," he asks, making as though to reach for his wallet. "Take the charge, or lose the misdemeanor in court, your choice. Decide quick, and you can join us for dinner. I'm thinking Bar 94?" Now he does look over his shoulder at his clients, asking their thoughts on dinner, but it's for show. She considers John for a second, eyes darkening. The dance is already playing out in her head. What it would take to pull it off. How this man, in particular, is going to look in front of a jury. Ethan on the stand, Colt at the table. Apparently, she comes to the same kind of mental calculus that John did -- this isn't a fight she can win. "Like I said," she intones flatly. "Trespassing." Which is not at all what she said. But it's clear enough that she's giving them what they want. She reaches into a pocket on her ipad cover, pulling out a business card. Her eyes go to Ethan -- but the card goes to John. "Some other time," she answers his offer of dinner, tone suggesting that it's an offer, not a declination -- and that it's not necessarily directed at one or the other of them. Colt gets her attention again, all the hidden depths melting away into stony silence. She hands him the pencil and the pad, and gives a simple command. "Sign." Which, he does. Readily, offering the pad back to her. "Gentlemen," she offers by way of parting, turning abruptly to start down the hall -- this time with just a *touch* of extra sway in her step. Colt watches her leave, and then looks to the other two, eyes wide. "What the hell was *that*?" “That…wasn’t how it normally goes?” Ethan asks the both of them, sotto voice. His head swings from one to the other, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. He watches her walk off, but not at all like a man who is scouting for a date. The look in his eye more says that he is trying to decide whether he is seeing a danger or an opportunity worth cultivating at a later date. But his attention is soon back on the other two, concern darkening his gaze. "That wasn't how it normally goes." John's answer is low and slow, and he gives his head a single shake, watching the deputy prosecutor make her exit. His mood breaks, and a sudden grin consumes his features. "Not in my experience." Brows high enough to furrow his forehead, he looks back to Colt, to corroborate that experience. "Bet you two are ready to get out and run," he says, tucking the business card into an inside pocket of his jacket. "Did this fuck up anything you had going on? Or, maybe more importantly, is there anything else hanging out there that we need to clean up?" Colt gives a little shake of his head. Clearly that's not how this normally goes. He mutters something under his breath, then stands up off the bench, stretching. "Yeah," he agrees. "Let's get the fuck out of here before this shit gets any weirder." Though he does give a look to John, considering the man's question carefully. Given that rattle of charges that she ran through, and everything Colt's already told them, the answer to 'is there anything left to clean up' is 'probably'. But instead he gives a shake of his head. "Not tonight, I don't think." As honest an answer as he can give. A look over to Ethan. "You alright, champ?" And then, back to John. "Guess we owe you. Again." And then, a bit more sheepishly. "Thanks." “Yeah, let’s bounce,” Ethan says, distracted, his furrowed gaze at the door saying that he smells a story and wants to know what it is. But not from his current position. Colt’s question gets one of those quick half-smiles. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. Dying to know the answer to ‘what was different about it’ but that’s not a conversation to have here. Thanks for being so cool about everything.” And he nods his head fervently for the owing John again. “Yeah, I won’t forget this,” he says. He’s never that loud to begin with unless through calculated choice, but the tone goes quieter still with his earnest intensity. "We're even," John announces, starting for the door. "I owed you, coming into this." He straightens his jacket before stepping out into the hallway, then pauses to wait for Ethan and Colt before he makes a sharp left turn and heads for the door. The Rahu is notably cold to the jailer the trio passes, and no less so to a pair of sheriff's deputies who greet them as they negotiate their exit. Outside the jail and back under the sky, he relaxes again, pointing toward a perhaps familiar SUV parked a short way out from the door. "I'm over there. You guys want a ride somewhere? Dinner? What's next for you two?" Colt, for once, doesn't try to actively antagonize the cops as he passes, mostly keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets, trying to be as forgettable as he can manage. Once they're outside, though, back in the cool night air, he relaxes a bit, just letting the breeze rush over his face. Maybe he wasn't planning on spending such a short amount of time there, after all. The question about dinner gets that easy smile from him again, that teasing tone coming back. "Oh, I see," he deadpans. "Your first choice for a date turns you down, so now you're calling in the back benchers?" He gives John a wink, then turns to Ethan. "He must be asking you. Our new friend just clearly established what the pecking order is." But to both of them, more seriously, he says, "You could come back with us. Pretty sure that there's somewhere in this town where we can order a couple of buckets of chicken, pick up some booze." A look to both of them. "You'll definitely wanna change clothes, though." He looks down at this simple jeans-and-t-shirt-with-converse setup. "Because I don't even own a suit, and I don't think you wanna eat anything I can afford in that." “Wouldn’t mind a stop-off at the apartment before we all go hunting chicken and beer or similar. I need a shower and a change of clothes,” Ethan says ruefully, looking down at himself as if cataloging just how rough he really looks right now. He, too, had passed by the jail personnel without making eye contact. His lips had twitched at Colt’s teasing, and he says, “Well, that’s how it shook out. I *have* to be the cute one because you got to be the brains of the operation.” ‘The operation,’ such as it may be. "Are we really a brainks kind of operation," John asks good-naturedly, keying the locks "I have a change of clothes in my gym bag," he explains, "I'll be fine. It's been too long since I've had good fried chicken." He slides into the driver's seat, and turns off the radio as car starts. NPR. "She did have an opinion, though," John observes, circling back to their new friend, and the 'pecking order'. "I made the dinner offer being shitty, but for a minute I legit thought she was going to dinner with us," he laughs. "Man, if I'm the brains of the operation, let's just hope that everyone thinks you're pretty. It's gonna be our only hope." Colt moves toward the SUV, grabbing a seat in the back. "Home, Jeeves," he calls to the front. | |