We all hit moments when we feel helpless. The test is how we react to that feeling. We can either learn from it and move forward or let it drag us down. -Travis Bradberry
Helplessness is a mighty power.—Mason Cooley
Helpless
A CM fanfiction
(Reid, Hotchner, Cruz, team) PG
©mccabebabe
What he wanted to do was fly down to DC and help. For the third or fourth time that day, and every day since he'd first gotten word, Aaron Hotchner reached into the desk drawer for his old iPhone and clicked it on. His fingers swiped through to the familiar number. For a long moment, his thumb hovered over the send button before he let out a deep sigh and shut the phone off and shoved it back into the drawer.
Running his hands through his hair, he let out a frustrated sound as he swore, "Dammit." His voice softened, "Reid, what the hell—" he let the thought die on his lips.
He'd been in Witness Protection for just over nine months now and both he and Jack had new names, new identities. Hotch smiled briefly as he thought of his son, away at a friend's house to celebrate their team's soccer championship for the weekend. The boy had already made new friends at his new school and for this Hotch was grateful. He'd found work as a lawyer although there wasn't much work for a criminal defense lawyer in this small town. Hotch had taken to writing. It helped keep him busy, but more than anything, Aaron Hotchner felt helpless. The smile disappeared from his face. He had so many contacts in the legal world and so much knowledge and experience. And. And he sat there helplessly, unable to do a damn thing to help his former colleague and friend.
He made his way to the kitchen and attended to several chores. Brookie, the family's Black Labrador Retriever, lay sleeping on the floor next to the chair normally occupied by Jack. After washing up the breakfast dishes and wiping the table and placemats, he set about making a marinade for the chicken breasts he'd pulled out of the refrigerator. Mundane tasks that kept his mind occupied for a few minutes before his thoughts drifted again to his team—his former team—and more specifically, the predicament of Dr. Spencer Reid. Adding ginger and garlic to the molasses and soy sauce mixture, Hotch snapped the lid in place then shook the plastic container to combine all the ingredients. Opening it again, he laid the chicken breasts -now cut into strips- into the container, replaced the lid and shook it again then returned it to the refrigerator. Why didn't he tell anyone he was going to Mexico? He asked aloud, startling the dog.
"Sorry, Brookie, didn't mean to scare you boy," he bent over and scratched behind the dog's ears for a moment. He straightened up and grabbed a key ring from the hook beside the door. "I'll be right back, Brookie, just gonna go see if there's any mail."
He locked the door behind him and climbed into his car for the short trip into town. Arrangements had been made for any correspondence for Andrew and Jamie Henderson to be picked up at a small compartment in the post office. Their WitSec liaison forwarded mail and messages to the secure box. Hotch had noticed early on that none of their mail ever bore any postmarks, it was all obviously hand delivered. The liaison had been sympathetic enough to relay several messages on the Hotchners' behalf in the past. Hotch hoped there would be word from the BAU about Reid today.
He drove for ten minutes, heading straight north along the gravel road until he came to the main road and turned left towards the small town near the Canadian border. Passing the bank, the gas station and the grocery store, he turned right and pulled into the post office parking lot. The only other car there was the same beat up Ford Focus he saw every time he came; it meant the postal clerk was in, he noted, though he rarely actually went into the building. The post boxes, including his own, were in the front foyer of the post office, situated between a set of double glass doors to shelter them from the weather but apart from the actual post office.
The postal clerk waved from behind her counter when she saw him through the glass. He returned her wave but quickly turned his attention to his post box. Opening it, he withdrew several large manila envelopes and then hastily relocked it and returned to his car.
Experience and force of habit compelled him to check that he wasn't being followed or watched. Once he was satisfied this was the case, he secured the correspondence in the custom built strong box between the front seats and set about returning home, using an alternate route just to be sure.
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Over and over, Reid replayed their last few conversations in his mind.
"Hey, the guy who came to see you, was that Rossi? The one you play chess with?"
"Yeah"
"He showed you how to castle strategically."
"No, that was my friend Gideon. He was killed a couple years ago."
"Damn! I hope that's not an omen for me!"
Was Calvin worried that Frazier would have come after him? Reid wondered. He knew Calvin had lied about not knowing Malcolm. Reid was certain Calvin was actually the one calling the shots amongst the inmates.
"You got too much time on your hands to think of all this. What are you looking at?"
"I'm looking at a fisherman who cannot swim."
"Yeah? Hmmm. Check."
"Checkmate."
Aloud he murmured, "And you're not as good as you think you are at chess."
He retrieved his pencil and notepad from beneath the prison cell mattress and resumed writing in his journal.
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"I'm happy to help, Emily. I want our agent back as much as you all do." He accepted the armload of papers from Unit Chief Prentiss and continued, "I'll get these out this afternoon."
"Okay, Mateo," Emily told him as she left his office, closing the door behind her and pulling her ringing cellphone from her pocket.
"Hey Dave, what's up?"
"Kid's doing okay. Not sleeping well, but in there, that's not surprising. He's keeping a journal, it was suggested by the prison psychologist. Emily," his tone changed, becoming more concerned "We gotta get him out of there."
"I know, Dave, I know. Mateo asked me for copies of all our intel regarding Reid's case. Photocopies. Old school. And he said he'd get them out this afternoon. Got any idea what that might be about?"
"Sounds like he might have a bead on something he's not ready to share with us yet." An idea struck Rossi and he added "Or can't."
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He tossed down the file and pulled a legal pad from the desk drawer, muttering as he wrote some notes.
"This is bullsh—" he let the words die on his lips as he scribbled furiously. "Three trips over the border in a couple months and nobody questioned it?" As he perused another of the files he'd pulled from one of the envelopes, more thoughts occurred to him and more notes were quickly added to the legal pad.
"Kinda convenient she could start work the next damn day," he exclaimed aloud, turning over a new page on the legal pad and adding yet another note. Disgustedly, he tossed the manila envelope and the notepad down on the desk and rose from the chair. Making his way to the kitchen, he checked on the chicken and then quickly made himself a cup of coffee. He inhaled and exhaled deeply several times to clear his head then took the coffee cup, returned to the desk and dove anew into the case files.
He took a fresh piece of paper and read as he wrote:
"1. I recommend immediate security details on all members of the team and their families.
2. Diana Reid should be returned to Bennington's in Las Vegas immediately until Dr. Reid has been exonerated and removed from the prison.
3. Someone should look into the work history of prison guard Wilkins."
Half an hour later, Aaron Hotchner put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes. His list was now up to twenty-two points. He pulled the pages from the legal pad and put them into the manila envelope. Opening the desk drawer, he removed a letter-sized envelope. Hastily, he wrote another note on a fresh page from the legal pad, signed it and sealed it in the smaller envelope. After writing "Mateo" on the front, he placed the smaller envelope inside the larger manila one, then grabbed his keys and headed back out to his car.
After leaving the envelope in his postbox, he took a circuitous route away from the post office and then pulled into the school parking lot to wait for Jack—Jamie he reminded himself yet again—to be dismissed. He sent a quick text to his contact to let him know he'd completed a reply; hoping the man would pick it up and deliver it today.
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"Nobody in here is honest. Not a single person can admit they're terrified." Reid wrote in his journal. "There's a helplessness in here that causes people to do things they would never consider."
He paused and reflected on what Tara had said to him during the cognitive. "You've probably had to do things in here to survive that you would never think of doing in the outside world, things that make you feel guilty or ashamed."
Reid winced, and then released a small sigh of relief. Malcolm and Calvin were going to be all right; of that he was certain. What had happened to Frazier? He wondered. And Duerson? He shook that off. He couldn't afford to concern himself over those two. What about Luis? How was his family doing? Reid promised himself he'd contact Luis Delgado's family and offer his condolences. He'd let them know Luis hadn't deserved to die.
Wilkins had told him it was a bad batch. He knew. He'd sounded almost matter-of-factly, as though this kind of thing had happened before. The thugs hadn't bothered him since the incident.
Although he didn't believe it was really helping him at all, Reid shifted on his bunk and continued to write in the journal until the lead of the pencil he was using was so dull he couldn't make it work anymore. Sighing, he stuck the journal back under his thin mattress and put the pencil in his pocket. He'd ask the guard to swap it out for a sharpened one later.
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Hotch opened the desk drawer and took out his old iPhone. He clicked it on, swiped through the apps until he found the one he wanted.
"It could mean the difference," he steeled himself. He looked around; Jack was upstairs in his room, playing the video game he'd gotten for his birthday. "I can't just stand by helplessly," he rationalised aloud. Hotch spent several minutes pacing around his small office. He knew Cruz would use the information and not connect it to him at all.
He sent his text.
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Cruz smiled and deleted the text before putting away his cellphone. There was a pile of reports on his desk calling for his attention and he took the top one and opened it. Prentiss had completed the case files for several recent BAU cases that now required his acknowledgment. A small smile crossed his face when he saw the Post It note attached to one folder, "completed by JJ because, well." He recognised Reid's scrawl in most of the notes in the folder and the smile widened slightly.
The phone on his desk rang and he reached to answer it. He spoke with Emily Prentiss for several moments before hanging up and grabbing his jacket from behind the office door and making his way to the elevator.
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"Thank you," Reid acknowledged receipt of a pair of sharpened pencils from Wilkins who waved him off nonchalantly as he walked past the block of cells. Lockdown had not yet been lifted. Spencer returned to his bunk and pulled out the pad of paper that served as his journal. He revisited the cognitive interview with Tara and it triggered his resolve. He wasn't going to sit here helplessly any longer. Even if he was distanced from his teammates, they had each in their own way strengthened him. Rossi's visit had bolstered his self-esteem. Emily's unwavering insistence of his innocence intensified his own self-confidence. Even his newest teammates Alvez and Walker had contributed to his wellbeing, just by visiting him and Calvin. Garcia's support and JJ's love restored his faith in himself and in others. And Tara's unflagging perseverance to unlock the memories in his mind revived in him the determination to clear his name and take whatever steps he could to help the process.
"Rossi said I wasn't numb to this because I'm a good person," he whispered to himself. He was bound and determined to show Rossi—and himself and the world—that was true.
Tearing a page from inside the pad, Reid set it on top and began writing a letter to Delgados' parents. Spencer Reid wasn't about to be helpless, he told himself earnestly.
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He ordered a low fat latté and an espresso from the barista and after paying for them, carried them to the far side of the Starbucks and sat in the second booth from the rear of the restaurant. Deliberately, he had chosen the seat facing the front of the building so that he could observe each of the coffee shop's patrons. His choice of seat also afforded him a view of the street outside, and the entrance to the subway station. Several minutes later, a young woman in jeans, a Nationals' jersey and wearing a backpack suddenly stood at the table beside Mateo Cruz.
"Baseball tickets?" she asked him.
"That's what I'm looking for," he told her, "Low fat latte," he indicated the drink on the table across from him. Smiling, she took off the backpack, dumped it on the bench and slipped into the seat beside it. Taking a long sip from the drink, she lowered her voice.
"My dad said you needed these," she opened a pocket on the backpack and took out an envelope, sliding it facedown across the table to Cruz. He looked around to make sure they weren't being watched and then picked up the envelope. His face betrayed no reaction when he recognised the handwriting on the front of the envelope and he quickly slipped it into his breast pocket.
She waited for a moment, took another long sip of her drink and commented on how good it was. They chatted about baseball for several minutes, all the while Cruz kept a close eye on everyone in the restaurant. Satisfied that there was absolutely no interest in the pair of them, he asked, "Is there anything else?"
Out of the main compartment of the backpack, the girl withdrew a familiar looking manila envelope and handed it over to Cruz. He thanked her again, shoved it into his jacket and once again they turned the conversation over to baseball. After they'd finished their drinks, Cruz stood up and saw her out of her seat.
He helped her as she put her backpack on and while she adjusted the front straps, he surreptitiously slid a small key into the side pocket of the bag.
"Tell your father I'll transfer payment for the baseball tickets to his usual account, and I hope he'll have more for me soon."
Moments later, back in his car Mateo Cruz sent a text to his contact, "Tom is the key to success." He was certain the contact, his old college roommate, would understand the reference to the smart aleck nickname he'd given Cruz and make the connection. He'd rented a mailbox at DC's main post office for any further document transfers, and had specifically asked for the box number that matched their old dorm room number.
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Emily Prentiss sat at her desk, partially hidden by the stack of paperwork as David Rossi stuck his head through the open door.
"Chief?"
"What's up Dave?"
"I think it's your turn to go visit Reid, according to Garcia's chart?"
"Prison's still on lockdown. I don't have a good excuse yet. I could send Tara again, but I really wanna see him myself," she sighed.
"Still on lockdown?" Rossi face reflected his disappointment and surprise. "How long—"
He was interrupted by the arrival of their Section Chief.
"Dave, Emily," Mateo Cruz nodded at each of them then entered the office and shut the door behind him. They looked at him expectantly and he gave them a small smile. "We have more help."
He withdrew the manila envelope from his jacket and put it down on the desk in front of Emily. "Some help from outside. Go through this and follow up on anything that supports." He lowered his voice, "and we don't know where it came from if anyone asks."
Prentiss and Rossi nodded their accordance.
"Um, Mateo?" Prentiss began, "What about the rest of the team?"
"No. Not yet. Maybe not at all, Emily. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm hoping you guys find something in there that we can use to help Spencer."
Rossi and Prentiss nodded in agreement as they pulled the papers from the envelope and watched as Cruz left them to it.
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Aaron Hotchner was clearing up the dinner dishes and tidying up the kitchen. Jack—Jamie—had devoured the chicken teriyaki and rice and stir fried vegetables and had disappeared back up to his bedroom.
Hotch poured himself a small measure of Rossi's favourite Scotch and sat down at the desk. As he sipped, his thoughts traveled south to DC and he found himself wishing once again that he could be involved in Reid's case.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his old cellphone beeping a text alert. Surprised, he rummaged through the desk drawer to retrieve it.
"Have forwarded your input to the proper channels. Hopeful. Thanks. MC."
A smile crossed Hotchner's face as he finished his drink. He felt less helpless and more connected than he had in months. Reid was as good as out, he was sure of it.
-fin-
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