Just a little clarification. Emily goes to prison in Season 6 and gets out in Season 11.
As the car roared its way up the highway to Washington DC and home, Emily gazed out the passenger window. Her eyes weren't taking in the passing scenery, thinking how sharp and crisp everything looked after years of looking at institutional white walls and fences topped with razor wire. They were turned inward, as she pondered, not for the first time, how she had ended up in prison.
With a deep breath, Emily, eyes closed and still half asleep, went to stretch only to have a force stop her. "Ow. Crap," she groaned.
Her head felt heavy and her body sore. "Damn. I feel like I got hit by a car." She felt horrible and she realized she was stuck to the bed, a metal cuff ratcheted around her wrist.
"You wouldn't be far off," a voice responded.
Emily's blurry eyes and pounding head moved to find the speaker. "Hotch?" she croaked.
An unfamiliar woman stepped briefly into her line of sight and scowled at her. "No. I'll get him," she said gruffly and disappeared.
Puzzled by the woman's reaction, Emily looked around. She was definitely not in her own home, in her own bed. A hospital, she determined. Then she turned her attention to her left arm and frowned in confusion at the handcuff securing her wrist to the bed rail.
"Emily," Hotch said coolly, entering the room and stepping up to the bed.
She held up her arm. "Hotch, what happened? Why am I cuffed? Did Morgan do it? Because if he did, it's not funny."
His eyes narrowed as he monitored her response. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" she answered.
"They said you might not." He stood intimidatingly tall above her bed and looked her dead in the eyes. "How much did you have to drink last night, Emily?"
"I…nothing…I didn't drink."
"That's not what your blood levels say."
"Hotch…" she looked at him confused. "What's going on? I feel horrible, but I didn't drink. I was home last night. I think I went to bed early."
"You didn't have any wine or anything?" he asked skeptically.
"No. I was exhausted. I got home, took a hot shower and went to bed. What happened to me, Hotch?" she asked again. Everything about her felt off: the nauseous feeling in her stomach and the pains all over, just pieces of the puzzle.
"Emily, last night, two people were killed in a hit and run."
"Oh no…who? Do we know them? Is that…is that what happened to me?" How that could have happened, she had no idea, but there had to be something she was missing. Why wasn't he being straight with her?
Hotch studied her, noting the messy hair, the pale and drawn face, the tired and bloodshot eyes and the bandage on her forehead. Beneath the hospital gown he was sure she was covered with bruises.
"You were the driver," he said bluntly. "You were drunk and you killed two people as they were crossing the street."
Emily stared at him in shock, eyes wide and brow furrowed. "What…no…that's not possible," she stammered.
"It's true."
"It's got to be a mistake. I was home sleeping," she protested. "It had to be somebody else."
"You were found unconscious in your car about a mile from the scene. You had lost control and smashed into a tree. When you were brought in you were almost three times over the legal drinking limit and suffering from alcohol poisoning."
"But how? Hotch I swear I wasn't drinking. And I... I would never do that. Never, Hotch."
"The blood found on the front of your car matched the victims."
"I don't know how that's possible. Maybe I…I was set up…"
Hotch blinked. "Why would someone do that?" All the evidence pointed directly to her. From what he could see it was rock solid.
Emily could see the disappointment in his eyes and groped for anything that would explain this horrible thing away. "I…I don't know, but someone has. I would never drink and drive. When I know I'm going to have a couple of drinks, I always take a cab. I didn't do this, Hotch. You've got to believe me."
He sighed. "I've called the detective in charge of your case. He'll be here shortly to officially read you your rights."
"My rights?" she exclaimed.
"I hear they may be going for aggravated vehicular manslaughter," he said, all business again. "I would recommend you keep your mouth shut and get yourself a good lawyer. Preferably one who specializes in DUI's."
From that day on, the months passed in a blur for Emily. A few days after the accident she had been escorted out of the hospital in handcuffs to a waiting police cruiser, that, in turn, took her to the police station where she was officially charged and booked. At her arraignment, she pled not guilty against her first lawyer's advice. He had suggested she plead guilty or no contest to the charges, but Emily refused to accept responsibility for a crime she didn't committed. Bail was set at $400,000 and she was able to post it by liquidating part of her trust fund though she had to sit in jail for a couple of days until it happened.
Emily's second lawyer was willing to go to the mat for her. He told her point blank that they were probably going to lose, that she was going to end up doing some time, but he was willing to try. He fought hard every step of the way, but without any proof that she hadn't left her apartment of her volition, or of the actual perpetrator, the case was hopeless. After two days of trial and a short deliberation, the jury found her guilty of two counts of vehicular manslaughter. The judge threw the book at her because she was law enforcement and knew better about drinking and driving. He sentenced her to the maximum of ten years for each count to be served concurrently with the possibility of parole in five years if she kept her nose clean. Appeals were filed, but all had been denied.
The team had been present in the courtroom during her trial, but Emily hadn't been sure if they were there to give her moral support or simply to see the outcome of her case. Once she was released on bail, she only saw them occasionally. Each of them wished her well and said they were there for her, but often those words rung hollow. She saw the disappointment in their eyes; she had let them down by her actions. After her conviction and incarceration, the team's visits became sporadic. Some of them never came at all, one of them, she felt, came only out of obligation and the rest of them came at first, but the visits dwindled as her sentence had gone on.
Still there had been one constant in her sad life. Emily glanced at the man next to her. Sensing her eyes on him, Dave took his eyes off the road long enough to look at her and give her an encouraging smile that she returned. Dave had been her rock during her incarceration, her only contact with the outside world. She knew he thought she was guilty and had to do the time, but that didn't mean that she had to go through it alone. Every two weeks Dave drove over an hour for five years to visit her and when he couldn't make it due to a case, he would send her an email so she wouldn't worry why he didn't shown up. He also deposited money in her account every month so she would be able to buy necessities and a few luxuries, like her mp3 player from the commissary. Emily didn't know what she would've done without him. His friendship made the past five years more bearable. They had been hard, but they would have been a lot worse without his visits to look forward to. Now if she only knew how to repay Dave for all his kindness.
Emily wasn't the only one being reflective. Dave was also lost in his thoughts while driving on automatic. He, along with everyone else, was disappointed that Emily had kept her drinking problem a secret and instead of turning to them, her family for help, she continued to hide it until she made a fatal mistake. It was bad lapse in judgment that changed the course of her life for the worse. He was a firm believer that if you break the law, which Emily most certainly did, you pay the penalty. But he also believed the ten year sentence the judge handed down had been much too harsh for a first time offense. He thought she would have gotten a year in jail followed by a period of probation and community service. Apparently the judge decided to make an example of her, basically telling everyone what he thought about drinking and driving.
But regardless of what he thought about her past decisions, he was still her friend. He wasn't about to turn his back on Emily in her greatest time of need like many of the team had. She needed one friendship in her corner to get through the long years ahead. So he set aside his prejudices and went to visit her the first chance he had.
Dave sat at his assigned table, idly drumming his fingers on its surface. This felt so odd. Normally he visited a prison to conduct inmate interviews, but this was the first time he was here to visit a dear friend. It had been a little over two months since he last saw Emily at her sentencing hearing. She had spent forty days at the intake reception center for processing before being assigned to this facility. Then there were no visitations for new inmates for one month.
The buzz of the security gate sliding open caught Dave's attention. He glanced over to see Emily being escorted in. She was dressed in khaki prison scrubs with GCFW stenciled down the front of one pant leg. Beneath the scrub top she wore a white long sleeved tee shirt and on her feet a pair of very new, very white sneakers. From the scrub top pocket hung her prison ID badge with her picture, name and inmate number.
The welcoming smile on his face faded the closer she got. Emily was limping and had one arm wrapped around her body as if she was cradling her ribs. But what drew his attention was the nasty looking black eye. Emily's eye was fully open, but the skin surrounding it was a colorful array of blues, purples and greens.
"Hi, Dave," she greeted him with a combination of a grimace and smile as she eased down on the seat across from him.
"Emily, are you okay?" he asked worriedly, skipping his own greeting as he studied her face.
"I'm fine," she said, shrugging dismissively. "It's no big deal."
"Yes it is," he countered. "What happened to you?"
Emily shot him a look begging him to drop it, but Dave wasn't going to back down. He continued to gaze expectedly at her until she started to squirm on the metal seat. She blew out a breath of frustration, took another one and locked eyes with him.
"I was in a fight," she admitted. "Two inmates cornered me in the showers and tried to beat the crap out of me for being a Fed."
"You're in with the general population?" he asked in shock. "Shouldn't you be in protective custody?"
"I asked not to be placed there."
"For god sakes why?"
She transferred her gaze to a spot over his shoulder. "Because protective custody is basically like solitary confinement. I didn't want to spend the next ten years with only my thoughts for company. I couldn't take that. I would rather take my chances with the general population."
Dave remained silent, knowing there was more to come. Emily's eyes drifted back to his and he saw determination in them.
"In here, your image is everything. Being in protective custody can label you as a snitch or weak. I'm not weak, Dave. I could spend the next ten years with a target painted on my back or I can show them that I won't take anyone's crap. I won't back down. I won't let people bully me. I don't want to be a fighter, but I'll do what I have to do to make it known that I will fight back. I will earn their respect and then they will leave me alone."
On the table Emily's hands were clenched in anger, allowing Dave to see the bruising on both sets of knuckles. She might have been on the losing side, but she had gone down fighting and Dave found himself rather proud of her. To give her a little time to collect herself, he rose and gestured to the vending machines.
"You want anything?"
Emily followed the sweep of his hand. "Uh…sure," she stammered, thrown off a little by the sudden change in conservation.
Dave nodded and went over to the machines to make his selections while making a mental note to bring more ones and fives when he visited again. When he returned, he was pleased to see that Emily had relaxed some from the way her hands were resting palms down on the table. Dave set down two cans of Coke, a bag of mini Chips Ahoy and a Hershey's bar. He kept one of the cans for himself and gave the rest to her.
Emily picked up the candy bar, unwrapped one end and broke off a piece. She took a moment to enjoy the chocolate melting in her mouth. "Would you believe they sell stuff like this in the commissary?"
"They do?"
"Uh huh," she said, breaking off another piece and popping it into her mouth. "That would be nice, but I have to be careful with the money in my account. I don't have a lot and it's all earmarked for the necessities I'm going to need down the line."
I can remedy that, Dave thought and was about to offer when he realized she wouldn't accept. Emily was a proud woman and would consider it charity. But that wasn't going to stop him. On the way out he would inquire about the procedures to put money in an inmate's account. Once it was deposited, there would be nothing she could really do about it, only yell at him about it later. Of course he would be unrepentant.
"That's understandable," he said instead.
Emily's eyes narrowed slightly. She had been positive he would offer to help, but Dave just sat there sipping his Coke with a perceived nonchalance look on his face. She was actually relieved that he didn't because she couldn't possibly accept. It was her problem, not his. And she did have her pride after all.
Dave's eyes went to Emily's spectacular shiner. "It looks worse than it is," Emily quickly said.
"Right," he drawled, not believing her for a minute. "What else is wrong with you, Emily?"
She sighed and went to wrap one arm protectively around her body, but remembered she had to keep her hands where they could be seen. Instead Emily had to settle on putting them around the soda can and slowly turning it. "I've got two broken ribs and a bruised kidney from a kick to the back when I rolled at the last minute to protect my side."
"Were they disciplined?" he asked sharply, angry that she had been assaulted.
Emily nodded. "Yeah. They both got ninety days in disciplinary segregation, the political correct way of saying solitary confinement. I got my own version of it," she said bitterly.
"What? You weren't the one who started it."
"I'm on what they call convalescence until my ribs have healed enough for me to return to work." Emily squeezed the Coke can until one side caved in. "I still have all my privileges, but I'm confined to my cell during working hours. It's like spending eight hours in solitary every day except weekends."
She didn't mention that she wasn't allowed to lift anything including food trays so her meals were delivered to her cell. She couldn't go to the cafeteria for a change of scenery for twenty minutes. She had also been temporarily forced to switch bunks with her cellmate because she was physically incapable of climbing into the top one and she really disliked sleeping under someone.
Dave wanted to offer her comfort, but there wasn't much he could do. She was in a bad situation and offering his apologies or pitying her would do nothing but make it worse for her. That was the last thing he wanted. So, as their visiting time was coming to a close, he changed the subject. They talked for the remaining time and he made a promise to himself to see her through this, to help her even when she was too proud to ask for help, and to visit whenever he could.
He kept that promise. He visited every two weeks and when a case took him out of town, he made sure to come as soon as he returned. Each time he would have the snacks and soda waiting at their assigned table for her when she was eventually escorted in. They would talk about the current case and the revolving door of temporary agents and what they had done to annoy the hell out of Hotch. When an interesting consult crossed his desk, Dave would run it past her just to get her opinion. Just because she has a drinking problem didn't meant she still wasn't an excellent profiler. Emily was resistant to the idea at first, but as the months passed she had welcomed it as a way to keep her mind sharp. And for the remainder of the visit, sometimes an hour and sometimes longer depending on how busy the visitation day was, they would discussed a current event she had seen on the television or had read in the newspaper.
Given her situation, Emily had her good and bad days, physically and mentally. Some visits she talked his head off and others she was withdrawn and barely spoke. He didn't push her to talk, instead lending her his support through his own silence and presence. Physically, the fight at the very beginning of her incarceration hadn't been her only one. Throughout the years she sported a variety of bruises, black eyes and once a broken hand mainly from the newbies to the prison trying to establish their place in the pecking order by beating up the resident ex FBI agent. Normally ex-law enforcement was at the bottom of the pecking order with the child molesters, but not Emily. She had earned her fellow inmate's respect and quickly put the newbies in their place. Her life had been hard, but she served her time and was now sitting next to him enjoying her first hour of freedom.
Emily speaking snapped Dave out of his ruminations. He glanced over at her to see she was holding a piece of paper. "I'm sorry, Emily. What did you say? Apparently I was woolgathering."
"A lot of that is going on in here," Emily said with a soft smile. "I was saying that I have the address of the halfway house I'll be staying at. You can just drop me off in front."
"I don't think so," he replied casually, looking back at the road.
Emily's brow puckered in confusion. "Huh? But I have to. I would be in violation of my parole if I don't have a place to stay."
"Actually you do. You'll be staying with me."
"What? No. That's very generous of you, Dave, but I couldn't impose on you. You've already done way too much for me," she begged off.
"No friend of mine is going to stay in some crappy halfway house when I have a perfectly fine guest room available."
"I'm used to crappy living conditions."
"Well that's about to change," he remarked with a smirk. "Argue all you want, Emily. I'm not taking no for an answer."
She was about to argue, but she snapped her mouth shut and stared moodily out the window. Dave was right. His guest room would be a vast improvement over a seedy one-room space at the halfway house or the cell she had shared with another inmate for five years. She just didn't want to do it because she would be accepting more charity from him.
"Fine," she conceded with a sigh. "But only until I'm back on my feet and can afford a place of my own."
"That works for me," he agreed. He knew it would motivate Emily to get her life back in order. But as long as she stayed with him, he would enjoy her company.
They drove several more miles in companionable silence before Emily spoke again in a soft voice. "Thank you, Dave. For everything."
He nodded. "That's what friends do."
