Leinney was quite surprised to learn Goren's eyes were such a light shade of brown—all the actor profiles described d'Onofrio as having "dark brown" eyes. The caramel coloring was quite beautiful. It distracted her briefly from the situation at hand. She could kick herself for running, but what else can one do when the characters spot you before you have a chance to figure out where you are? While Lecter might have been responsible for yanking her into the scenario, as only He could do, she couldn't blame Him for the pickle she had put herself in by running. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She liked Goren and Eames too much to bear having them see her as a suspect. She hoped she could think fast on her feet and not blurt any of this craziness out to them—that would not fit with canon. It's impossible to believe that one is just a character in a story someone else is writing...


"Why are you running?" Goren demanded as he handcuffed her and quickly patted her down for any weapons. Getting no immediate answer, he finished, finding nothing but an unopened packet of clove cigarettes in the back pocket of her jeans. He darted back to join Eames, holding onto the suspect's elbow while stooping slightly down to eye-level. "You were scared," he prompted further. He gave her a moment to answer, smiling at her in encouragement.

"Am I," she caught her breath, "Am…I under arrest?" she asked quietly, disregarding his smile.

Goren's head twitched in annoyance. "Uh, yeah," he raised an expectant eyebrow, willing her to answer his question in return.

"Why—on what charge?" she asked politely, ignoring his tone and tacit intimation. She seemed slightly in awe, as a deer-in-headlights expression never quite left her face. At first he assumed it was subconscious infatuation, but her expression didn't change when she looked at Eames. Perhaps she wasn't used to strangers talking with her, but that would be quite odd to find here in New York City.

"Resisting arrest," Eames answered firmly.

"But, I didn't resist when you stopped me," the woman pleaded calmly with them, "Why would you arrest me in the first place? I wasn't doing anything illegal." Goren saw the emotions roiling beneath the surface, although she maintained an even voice.

"You ran away from us. We don't need any other reason," asserted Eames.

The woman stared at Eames and then back at Goren. "What about habeus corpus? What's your, uh, probable cause?"

Goren and Eames exchanged humorous glances. Goren jerked the suspect's elbow loosely, inviting her to join in the joke. "What? Are you a lawyer?"

Instead of smiling with them, her face started to turn green and she swallowed before answering, "No, I just paid attention in history class. You need a reason to arrest me." She shifted uncomfortably, seemingly certain of history, but not so much of the current situation. Goren thought there was a curious lack of defiant attitude to go along with the words—cooperative in tone, but not in deed.

"She's not a lawyer," Eames declared to Goren, although aiming her words pointedly at the suspect. "If she was, she'd know that we don't have to make a primary charge stick in order to get her on resisting arrest." Eames turned her focus squarely on the woman, who listened politely, returning eye-contact. "It's a Class A misdemeanor—you can get up to a year in jail for it. Resisting arrest is more than just fighting when we're handcuffing you. It also includes fleeing—and lying to police. But…" Eames paused, changing to a slightly friendlier tone, "the statute also allows us to let you go without charge if we're convinced of your innocence." Goren knew that Eames was playing hardball, then softening to point the easy way out through cooperation.

The woman's shoulders slumped. "Look, I'm just a waste of your time here. I was just sitting on that bench, resting, thinking… I was going to jog down that street when I saw it was blocked by all those cop cars and ambulances. I was trying to figure out my route. I'm very sorry I wasted your time." She looked back and forth at each of them anxiously, clearly hoping they would let her go.

Goren laughed, "C'mon, you expect us to believe you were out jogging in these clothes? A fine knit sweater—what is that? Mohair?—you want Merino wool for sports, not Mohair— and jeans?—and those Rocketdog sneakers are meant for fashion, not running."

She glanced down at her clothes as if in surprise, then, looking back and forth at Eames and Goren skeptically, she shrugged. "And you're…both wearing…business clothes," she joked drily with a slight twitch of her nose, a brief twinge of an eye, but not even a hint of a smile. "Apparently, none of us needs the latest Stepford jogging suit to get some exercise."

Goren sniffed noncommittally; he actually enjoyed her dry humor, but something still bothered him. "No, it's more than that. You know us, don't you," he stated, carefully watching her reaction. He wasn't disappointed; her shocked blink told him the truth, along with the dawning realization that she had given herself away.

"Detectives…Eames and Goren?" she breathed out courageously, as if dreading the truth. To Eames' startled affirmation, Goren detected a flash of the same terrified expression he'd seen from across the street. Curioser, he thought, cocking his head at the suspect.

"So, why do we terrify you so?" Goren asked gently, before Eames could react. It was an odd terror, peeping out only at unexpected moments. And why did this woman calm down so much when Goren pegged her with his normally off-putting stare?