A/N - according to Breaking Dawn, J Jenks/Jason Scott was the attorney who had been providing fake ids for the Cullen family for years, having inherited their business from his predecessor. I somehow ended up with a head canon that somewhere along the line, he's done business with hunters as well.
As he left his last hearing of the day, Jason finally looked at the text message which had been causing his phone to vibrate in his pocket for the last two hours.
Hey boss, some guy actually came here looking for Jerry.
He waited until he was in his car, with all the doors and windows rolled up, before calling his assistant.
"Max. What? Somebody came in looking for Jerry? What did you tell him?"
"Yeah, really!" Max said. "Old guy, came in with a younger guy, probably his son. Said he'd been gone a while. Looked like he'd maybe been doing some hard time. But what was weird, is that he said he had done business with Jerry for years, but he looked about your age."
"Did he leave a name?" Jason asked, trying to remember if Jerry had mentioned anyone who might be back after prison.
"Samuel Campbell." Max answered. "Told him to check back in the morning."
"Samuel Campbell." Jason repeated. "Sounds familiar. But I don't know. Lots of names over the years. When he comes tomorrow, send him to the Oak Street office.
At four minutes before ten the following morning, two men entered Jason Scott's lobby. They were pretty much as Max had described them, an older man, late 50s or so, bald, with a long haired man in his late 20s. Both were tall, the older man over six feet and the younger probably 6'5".
Both held themselves like military, ramrod straight and aware of their surroundings without being obvious about it.
Jason watched them on the hidden security camera routed through his laptop. They both kept their faces turned from the prominently mounted dummy camera above the reception desk. He clicked to hear the audio from the microphone discreetly tucked into the potted plant in the corner beside the chairs.
"...telling you this is a mistake." the younger man hissed.
"But there's no telling when we may need a passport, and Jerry Jenks was the best. If Jerry chose this guy to take over his operation, that's good enough for me." The older man replied.
"What about not associating with anyone from your previous life, to keep from having to explain your return?"
So, jailbreak it was. Jason wondered from where.
"Trust me, this guy isn't going to say anything. With some of his clientele, he wouldn't have lived very long if he ran his mouth."
"Yeah, but this can't be the only shady lawyer in the country who can make fake passports."
"Jerry's stuff was the best. Not just passports, whatever you may need. He could get any kind of documentation. He made my FBI badge for me. He had the names, legit names that any law enforcement agency could look up and they would pass. I didn't have to hope some grumpy old hunter was around to answer a phone."
"Jerry did. Not this guy. Coming here is just sloppy. You might as well advertise you're back in the New York Times."
"You can leave. No one making you sit here, son."
The younger guy snorted. "Not gonna leave you here to get busted. Not when it's probably gonna take both of us to figure out how all this happened. Not when you're still trying to dial zero for an operator."
Jason figured he had heard enough to know they were legit.
Well, as legit as his clientele ever got.
He closed the laptop, buzzed Tracey to send them in, and met them at the door.
The older man approached first, his handshake warm and solid, his hazel eyes meeting Jason's with guarded cordiality.
"Samuel Campbell." The man introduced himself with a tight smile, and gestured over his shoulder. "My grandson, Sam."
"Jason Scott. Pleasure to meet you both. Please have a seat." He gestured toward the chairs facing his desk.
The younger man shook Jason's hand as well, his grip firm to the point of almost compressing, his skin cool to the touch. His lips pressed together, as he were resisting the urge to scowl.
His eyes were similar in color to the other man's, but lacked all humanity, as cold and calculating as a wolf.
If Jason hadn't been dealing with felons for the past thirty some-odd years, he probably would have pissed himself.
The request was straightforward. They just wanted passports, American or Canadian, no other documentation needed. They didn't have any special requests for the names or need the two to be related or even from the same town.
The old man did all the talking. He was personable, not quite friendly, but direct and polite. He expressed his condolences on Uncle Jerry's passing even though it was about 27 years late.
The younger man remained silent, discreetly scoping out the office and Jason himself with the shrewd appraisal of a predator.
Jason quoted them the usual rate and turnaround time, two weeks from Friday. The old man offered an extra twenty percent to get them in ten days. Jason negotiated it up to a third more, and asked for a contact number to notify when the items were ready.
The younger Samuel spoke for the first time, giving the number of an obvious burner phone. He told Jason not to worry about pictures on the passports, that they would handle it.
Pleasant farewells were exchanged. Well, at least between Old Samuel and Jason. Young Samuel just glared a little more and shook hands again.
Jason took one more quick look at his notes before tucking them away and skimming over the file for his next client.
Something was definitely off in this whole situation, besides the fact that Samuel was not old enough to be Sam's grandfather.
After dinner that night, Jason turned on the TV for background noise, propped his feet on the coffee table and opened the laptop. He loaded the security footage of Samuel and Samuel, selected the best frames for still shots, and cropped them in Photoshop. He then ran the older man through Google Image Search first, but didn't find any matches. He then searched for the name Samuel Campbell and prison breaks. He still didn't find anything. Using just the name, he found several politicians, a prominent physician during the Civil War era, and a professional baseball player, none of whom would be in right age range.
He then ran the younger man's photo through the image search, and information overflowed. Samuel Winchester. Maintained a 4.0 GPA at Stanford before leaving in his last year to become half of a suspected pair of drifting serial killers with his older brother, who had once graced the FBI's Most Wanted List. There were nearly two dozen misdemeanor arrests, scattered all over the country. A few felony arrests, but he had bonded out and disappeared or escaped custody before ever going to trial. There was apparently some sort of glitch, because the criminal history showed he was arrested by the police departments of three different towns in Broward County Florida and arrested twice by the Broward County sheriff's office, all on the same day, February 12, 2008.
Two weeks later, Samuel and Dean Winchester had been declared dead after an explosion at some podunk police station in Colorado killed everyone inside, including the FBI agents who had arrived to transport the Winchester brothers to maximum security. Their bodies had never been identified, but several of the bodies had been reduced to bits and parts.
Hmmm. Over the top escape plan, or an outside attack?
He pulled the FBI's profile on Winchester, and scanned through. Parents were John Eric Winchester and Mary Ann Campbell Winchester.
Maybe they weren't lying about being grandfather and grandson.
Using the details from the FBI file, he ran a few more searches.
Mary Campbell Winchester's father was named Samuel Campbell. Apparently faking death ran in the family, because Samuel Campbell's records were marked as deceased as well.
To Jason's surprise, Campbell had never been convicted of a felony. He had a handful of misdemeanor arrests around the Midwest and Plains states and one count of breaking and entering that had never been prosecuted. He had never spent more than a night in jail. There was nothing that would have sent him to prison for thirty years, or at least nothing under the name of Samuel Campbell.
Campbell's wife had been murdered in their home, and his body found nearly two miles away as he apparently had escaped the killers after being mortally wounded and was trying to get to his daughter. The motive was believed to be robbery, as the daughter reported cash and guns normally kept in the home were missing. The killers were never found.
Samuel Campbell was 61 years old when he died in 1973.
Just for shits and giggles, Jason pulled up the booking photo from Campbell's last arrest, a disorderly conduct from a few months before he died.
He stared at the photo for ten full seconds before slamming the laptop shut, shoving it toward the far end of the couch, and bounding across the room toward the liquor cabinet.
Samuel Campbell looked exactly the same as he had in 1973, despite the fact he would now be 98 years old.
Oh dear god, I've got another Cullen.
By the time he had the passports ready nine days later, Jason had convinced himself he had blown the whole thing out of proportion.
Surely there was a reasonable explanation. Maybe the older man was Samuel Campbell's previously unknown son claiming to be his father. Maybe there was an error on his records and he was younger than stated. After all, to be 61 in 1973, he would have been 42 when his daughter was born. That was older than normal for a first time father. And it wasn't unheard of for men in their 80s to be in great physical condition. Look at Hugh Heffner and Stan Lee.
Besides, the younger Samuel noticeably aged in his pictures.
He had talked himself through the whole matter so much that he was only slightly unnerved at the gruff tone on the voice mail that barked. "It's Sam. Leave a message."
"Jason Scott here. Got those documents you were looking for. If you'd give my office a call, we can make arrangements to meet."
An hour later, Samuel Winchester strode in, wearing a department store suit and shiny leather shoes. If it weren't for the length of his hair, he could have passed for detective or fed. Winchester smiled sweetly at Tracey, who sounded a little short of breath when she rang to announce his visitor.
"Tracey, I ... " Jason paused, not sure what to say.
The secretary didn't know about the additional services he provided to certain clients. She thought he was providing off the record legal advice pro bono to the clients he didn't keep files on. She didn't even know he was also Jason Jenks with the fancy office uptown where he did wills and trusts for the elite.
Against his better judgement, he decided just this once to break his cardinal rule and deliver the documents in the office. After all, it's not like a dead serial killer is going to turn him in to the Bar.
"How long before my next appointment?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Twenty ... three minutes." she answered, stifling a giggle.
"Okay, send him in."
Winchester was as cold as he had been on their previous meeting. He shook hands, sat down, and met Jason's attempt to talk about the weather with a glare.
"Well then," Jason smiled, willing down his nervousness. "We'll get down to business. Two passports, one for a male aged 58, and the other for a male aged 27. The names are completely legal and will stand up to Homeland Security checks, but you won't ever have to worry about running into these guys in the airport."
Winchester picked up the first one, flipped it open, and nodded to himself. He tossed it back onto the desk, and picked up the other.
He went completely still, and Jason's hand automatically reached for the emergency button under the desk.
"Is this a fucking joke?" Winchester growled, his eyes narrowed and his voice as hard as steel.
The hair on the back of Jason's neck stood up as his mind frantically scrambled for any reason Winchester would be this unhappy with the passport.
"Um, no?" Jason hoped he didn't squeak. He really hoped he didn't squeak.
"Who told you to use this name?" Winchester threw the passport onto the desk and leaned forward.
"I ... I, uh, just picked it at random." Jason held his hands out in what he hoped passed for a peaceful gesture. "I have a database of identities, and I just picked out one about the right age."
Winchester tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "You mean to tell me that you just picked out the name Michael Adams at random? No one told anything about me for you to come up with that name?"
"N-no," Jason shook his head. "As far as I know, the only common acquaintance we have is your ... Samuel, and I've not spoken with him except for the day you were here together."
"Seriously. Out of the blue." Winchester looked at him skeptically.
'Out of the blue. Honest." Jason held up a hand as if making an oath.
"God has one hell of a sense of humor." Winchester said, more to himself than Jason. He picked up the passport and looked at the name again. "Fix it." He shoved the passport across the desk. "You've got 48 hours."
He rose to his feet as silent and graceful as a tiger.
"What name do you want on it?" Jason asked hurriedly. "I ... I mean, since you don't like Michael Adams?"
Winchester paused, frowned for a moment. "No Michael. No Adam. No Dean. No John. No Jesse. No variations of any of those. Other than that, I really don't care."
He turned toward the door.
"The other passport?" Jason continued. "That name is all right?"
Winchester shrugged. "Yeah. George Howell is fine."
Jason watched on the security camera as Winchester paused at Tracey's desk on the way out, leaning in to say something with a teasing smile. She laughed, tipping her head to look up at him through her lashes.
Winchester straightened, looked straight into the real security camera and smiled ferally.
Jason almost pissed himself.
Jason blew off his standing date for Tuesday evening happy hour and trivia with a city councilman to work on the replacement passport. A quick phone call determined that Winchester didn't have a preference between the names Christopher Ryan Wilson and Joshua Lee Garrett.
Winchester's ultimatum meant Jason had to shell a lot out more than usual to his print guy.
It was a better alternative, he decided, than further upsetting a six and a half foot tall serial killer.
The printer called on Wednesday afternoon to say that the new passport would be delivered to the Oak Street office by 10:30 the following day. Jason figured that meant Samuel Winchester and his undead grandfather would be taking the family freak show back on the road soon.
Five minutes ago wasn't soon enough in Jason's opinion.
Of course, since nothing had gone right since Samuel and Samuel had walked into his office, one of his long term repeat clients called and asked to meet the following day. She was the only one of his documentation clients he ever sent to the high rise office, but she was only available on Thursday, as she and her husband were leaving Friday to go out of town for several days. The other alternative was that her brother in law could come meet with Jason, an option Jason tried to avoid at all costs. If there was any one other client Jason had ever worked with that was more frightening than Samuel Winchester, it was Mrs. Cullen's brother in law.
Jason had a suspicion that Samuel Winchester might follow him, so he really didn't want to go to the other office. He ended up asking Mrs. Cullen to meet him at Oak Street, cautioning her to tone down her appearance to prevent unwanted attention. He also penciled in her appointment a half hour before they normally opened for the day, without telling Tracey. The fewer people who saw this particular client, the better.
It was a simple, straightforward plan.
Jason should have known nothing in his life was ever simple and straightforward.
Jason had just gotten into the office, turned on the copier and computers and started the coffee when the door opened.
Tracey came in, wearing what looked like the same outfit from yesterday, with a dark red mark on her neck that Jason was sure hadn't been there before.
Then the door opened further and Samuel Winchester appeared, his hand at the small of Tracey's back.
Tracey flushed and stammered, something about not expecting Jason to be there yet.
Jason was saved from having to make an equally awkward statement by Winchester.
"So will those papers be ready today, Jason?"
"Um, yes, yes!" Jason nodded vigorously. "They should be delivered by courier later this morning. I can call you as soon as they arrive."
"Sounds good." Winchester said. "See you after while." He winked at Tracey, who flushed again, and turned toward the door.
He stopped and pulled the door open wider. Jason held his breath.
"Sorry, ma'am." Winchester smiled. "Didn't mean to startle you."
Mrs. Cullen walked in, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, hair in a simple ponytail, looking like the late teenager Jason knew she wasn't, smiling pleasantly. As she passed Winchester, both of them seemed to sniff the air and halt for just a fraction of a second to look at one another.
"Mr. Scott," she reached out to shake his hand, her voice as sweet as her skin was cold. "Nice to see you again."
"See you later." Winchester repeated as he left, with one last look at Mrs. Cullen.
Jason shoved down his unease, smiling and beckoning her into the office.
She made the same request again, a full set of new identities for a set of thirty-something parents and eight teenage children, needing them ready so that their family could relocate soon after vacation.
As usual, she was willing to pay top dollar for quality work done promptly, and insisted on paying up front, although Jason had been telling her for years that it wasn't necessary. He knew the Cullens were good for the money.
They arranged a meeting at their usual restaurant after her return, and he insisted on walking her out to her car afterwards. He said it was due to an unsavory character that had been seen around the area lately. She smiled and thanked him for his concern.
He didn't tell her it was the man she had seen on the way out of the office, the one who had looked at her like a hawk looks at a young rabbit.
At 10:11 am, the fake passport arrived by courier. Jason called Winchester, who arrived in under four minutes to pick it up, confirming Jason's suspicion that the man had been watching the office.
As soon as Winchester was gone, Jason locked himself in his office. He poured himself three fingers of the Glencraig he saved for special occasions, toasting the fact he would never see Winchester again.
The only indication of a problem came on Tuesday of the following week, the first time Jason turned on the speaker for the lobby microphone since the first time the Winchesters had been there. The office was instantly filled with the screeching of feedback, which he quickly tracked to a listening device discreetly stuck underneath the overhanging lip of the desk, facing toward the clients.
More than twenty people had been in that office over the past two and a half weeks.
Jason would bet everything he owned Winchester was the one who put it there.
Eight days later, Jason arrived at Oak Street after lunch, having been at the high rise office all morning.
Tracey was grinning like an idiot, her hair slightly mussed, another dark red mark on her neck, and smelling faintly of men's cologne.
"Sam Winchester was here." Tracey informed him as he headed toward his office. "He brought you a box. He said that you were so helpful in getting those documents replaced for him, that he wanted to return the favor by bringing you some forms you could recycle."
Jason paused, his hand on the doorknob, heart dropping to his feet as he was certain what he was going to find in his office.
The box on his desk was the kind you would get at any office supply shop, one that ten reams of paper came in.
He pushed the door closed and locked it before taking the four steps that carried him to the desk.
Inside the box were ten sets of identification, for two parents and eight teenage children. Only the birth certificate on the very top had blood on it.
An hour later, Jason had transferred all of his available cash to his offshore accounts and was waiting for the flight to Costa Rica he had booked in the name of Larry Gant. The TV over the bar in the airport lounge showed firefighters spraying water on a burning mansion in Northern California where ten beheaded bodies had been found.