Title: Snake in a Silver Corvette
Rating: K+/T for language
Summary: He who cannot lie does not know what truth is. - Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
A/N: I'd like to call this a sequel to Making Progress, but that is not entirely correct. This is not the story of Robert Sartre, the boy. This is the story of Prisoner CR-S01, the man. This is a story of rediscovery, of trying to remember. This is a tale of learning to live and learning to love, even in the face of hate. Put simply, this is the aftermath of Trauma Team. No knowledge of Making Progress is needed to understand this fic, although I highly reccomend reading it anyway. Speaking of MP, an update will be coming soon. It's a Festivus miracle! This chapter is dedicated to Robert, for choosing me to tell his story. Spoilers abound.
P.S. My favorite line in this entire piece is in paragraph 42 (Hey, it's the meaning of life!). Review if you agree.
Snake = A serpent-like individual who stops at nothing to fulfill his own motives, while usually under the disguise of being considerate to others. [Urban Dictionary]. In this context, a derogatory name for lawyer.
Disclaimer: Trauma Team (c) Atlus, and I do not own the characters/plot thereof. I do own the original plot of this story, and all original characters. This story may not be reproduced under any circumstances (expect for personal, private use) without my express permission.
A silver Corvette sped down U.S. Route 1 in southern Maine. The man inside would have been listening to the radio, but there was no broadcasting tower for many miles. He was driving in the middle of nowhere. An endless expanse of trees sped by the window. A charming female voice from his GPS alerted him that he would soon be reaching his destination. The car made a sharp turn onto a well-hidden road marked only by an eroded brick sign reading "Maine State Prison: 1824-2002".
At the end of a lengthy, twisting road, (which the man in the car thought was wholly unnecessary) there was a cracked parking lot. At the front of the parking lot, Maine State Prison loomed. It wasn't at all impressive. It was comprised of a collection of tall, flat brick buildings with concrete roofs, surrounded by high barbed wire fences occasionally punctuated with guard towers. Everything was faded brown and gray.
The Corvette pulled into a spot mostly covered by decaying pine needles, but at least in the shade. Even though it was the middle of August, the man who stepped out of the car wore a smart black coat. He held a slim leather briefcase with gleaming clasps and a well-worn handle. A pair of guards, standing at either side of the iron door that was the entrance to the prison, scowled and watched him intently. The man ran a hand back through his slick, black hair and flashed a charming smile at the guards. He approached the door, and the click-clack of his shoes echoed on the sun-baked concrete. The guards gave him a skeptical look and stepped in front of the door. The man laughed softly and shook his head disapprovingly.
"Now, now, boys. Why so hostile?"
"Who do you think you are, bub?" the guard on the right grumbled.
"Anthony Craft, attorney at law. I'm here to speak to my client." He glanced at his watch and frowned petulantly. "Now if you'll excuse me, time is money, especially for my client. You wouldn't want to waste his money, would you?"
"Haven't heard 'bout anyone hirin' a snake."
"Of course you haven't," Anthony said snidely. "Prisons don't retain reptiles to represent them, now do they?"
The guard growled at him, but stepped aside, and the other guard did as well. Anthony strolled in the prison.
Sterile white walls and glaring fluorescent lights greeted him as he entered. Directly in front of him, a bear of a man in dark blue uniform sat behind a long, straight desk. Anthony strolled to the desk and placed his elbows on it, leaning forward. The guard behind the desk was slumped in his chair, sleeping. Anthony coughed loudly, and the guard opened his eyes. Anthony flicked a card onto the desk. The guard squinted to read it. At last, he looked up at Anthony, blinking slowly.
"Folks here don't need no lawyers. Try a county jail, snake."
"I've already been retained. There's to be an appeal, you see.
"Ain't heard nothing 'bout an appeal."
"Not yet."
The guard scoffed and shook a computer mouse.
"Who you here to see?"
"Prisoner number CR-S01."
The guard dropped the mouse and peered up at Anthony like he was insane.
"S01 don't get no visitors."
"I'm his attorney."
"Ain't no one hired an attorney. 'Specially him."
"I've been retained." Anthony set his briefcase on the desk and cracked it open. He held out a crisp sheet of paper. "Here's the defense request."
The guard ignored the paper. "S01 don't get no visitors."
"May I speak to Mr. Ian Holden?"
"Holden ain't here no more."
"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that I would be speaking to Ian Holden about prisoner CR-S01," he lied. "Who should I speak to?"
"No one. Told you, no visitors."
"Who's in charge of him, if not Holden?"
"Agent Sophia Delora."
"May I speak to her, please?"
"No. She's busy."
"Too busy to chop the head off of a snake? I must tell you, sir, I'm aggressive, territorial, and quite venomous."
The guard sighed and stood up heavily. "I'd like to chop yer head off myself, ya damn bastard." He sulked into a back room. Anthony smiled to himself. A few moments later, the guard came back. "She'll be here in a sec, if she ain't busy."
"Thank you." Anthony looked around, and, spying a row of chairs against one of the walls, took a seat. 'A sec' turned out to be nearly twenty minutes, but he didn't mind. At last, a tall slender woman emerged from a room behind the desk. He hopped up to meet her.
"Ah, Ms. Delora-"
"That's Agent Delora to you. Get in here." She turned around and marched right back through the door she'd entered from. He ran after her. She silently led him past rows and rows of prisoners, some of whom called out to her with lewd names. At last, they came to a bare hall with a single steel door at the end of it, and two hulking men guarding the door. She yanked open a metal door built into the side of the hall, and ushered him into a room he could easily have missed. It was an office (hers, he presumed) and it looked as though she had recently moved there. She walked behind him and stood blocking his way out, her fists resolutely planted on her hips.
"Craft, huh? What do you want with the prisoner?"
"Please, Agent Delora, call me Anthony. As I told the guards, I've been retained in his defense."
One word. "How?"
"You can see for yourself," he replied, handing her the defense request.
She glanced at the names on the sheet. "Cunningham? Wasn't that the scraggly looking doctor who came around here once?"
"He is a bit scraggly, isn't he?"
Agent Delora scrutinized the request, and was finally convinced of its authenticity. She didn't seem happy about it.
"He's guilty, Craft. That's all you need to know. If I were you, I wouldn't take this case."
"It's none of my business if he's guilty or innocent, now is it? I'm only here to get him out of jail."
"You're this close to getting punched in the face. And I'd never get so much as a slap on the wrist for it."
"What's a punch in the face in the name of justice?" Delora was shaking with anger. He quickly redirected the conversation. "Tell me, where has Holden gone?"
Delora smiled smugly. "He's been reassigned. It seems his skills were needed elsewhere."
"His skills of sympathy for the innocent?"
"He should never have gotten assigned to this case. He was too personally involved. He let it blind him. Same with that Cunningham."
"Is that why you refused him access to S01?"
"That kid is a terrorist. He deserves to starve to death in that freezer, and then rot in Hell. No one's allowed to see him anymore."
"Except me, of course. Seeing as how I'm his attorney."
"Listen, Craft. I'm overseeing that kid now, and I'm with the FBI. I make all the decisions. You better start playing nice if you ever want in."
"Oh, I haven't been nice? I sincerely apologize, Agent Delora. You're being delightfully uncooperative, aren't you? I can see why they put you here instead of Holden. I'll be sure to let everyone know how immensely uncooperative you're being. You might even earn a commendation."
Agent Delora screamed and grabbed his collar. Surprisingly strong for her build, she lifted him clean off the floor. "I could choke you to death right here, and easily blame it on the kid. No one would ever know. After all, there's no one to hear you scream."
"You don't honestly believe that, do you?"
Delora's face twisted with rage. She threw Anthony against the wall and spat on the floor in front of him. "I'm not afraid to get blood on my hands, you asswipe. Don't try me again."
"May I see my client now, please?"
She opened the door to her office and glared at him as she stepped out. He followed a safe distance behind her. She planted her thumb on a scanner mounted to the door. A mechanical voice chimed, "Access granted, Agent Delora" as the doors slid open. She shoved him inside the cell.
"See you in an hour, Craft. Have fun with the murderer."