A/N: Sooo, sorry I'm so slow in updating things, but finding time to write has proven to be slightly impossible with an impending cross country move.
Hoping to get some other things updated sometime this month, too.
Thanks for sticking around.
-M
The bright white overhead light of the interrogation room is blinding. Fitz has to squint to keep a slow building headache at bay. Worry and fear courses through his vein. He isn't afraid of the detectives line of questioning, he's afraid of Olivia being alone a room away; afraid of what she might say. The last he saw of her before he'd been handcuffed and placed in the back of the police cruiser she'd been catatonic, shock reverberating off her tiny body. He hopes she stays that way for the moment, quiet and unresponsive to all questions. The kill is self-defense, but the law is unkind.
"Mr. Grant. Or should I say Officer Grant?" A stout balding, white man Fitz assumes is a detective asks. He stands in the doorway, pudgy fingers of one hand on the brass knob, a manila folder in the other hand. "You're a long way away from California. Bit of a ways from Norfolk, too."
Fitz nods in response.
"I'm Detective Ben House and I feel like we can get this squared away tonight." Detective House lets the metal door fall closed behind him. He pulls out the chair in front of Fitz and sits. He tosses the folder onto the small metal table.
Up close Fitz can see white whiskers jutting out from Detective House's chin, his skin is a bit sallow and wrinkled, and his eyes are a dull gray.
"The way I see it," House starts, leaning forward on his elbows. He opens the folder and a photo of Russell — a mugshot — stares up at Fitz. "Russell James Robinson, age twenty-three, D.C Native, AWOL from the U.S Army, had that shot coming."
Fitz doesn't respond to the detective's assertion; his expression remains blanks. He doesn't know where House is going with this yet, even if the older man's words are true, although Fitz doubts they share the same reasoning.
"You and Ms." He pauses to flip a page in the file. "Ms. Pope were probably engaged in some kind of transaction, I'm guessing. Which is fine and understandable. We all like to color outside the lines every now and then; get a thrill while away from home."
Fitz's brows knit together and his eyes narrow. He tries to piece together what Detective House is alluding to, but his thoughts are jumbled by the mention of Olivia's name.
"She's very pretty for a colored girl, but son you have to be careful with these nig-negro girls and their pimps. I have a feeling they were trying to set you up, son. You're lucky you made it out."
Anger blooms in Fitz's stomach; heat bursts in his chest. "She's not a prostitute. I was not soliciting her," he hisses.
Detective House chuckles. "There's no reason to be embarrassed son. I've done it before. We've all been curious about colored girls. It's fine. That apartment building is a hotbed for whores."
Fitz's fists clench at his sides. "Her name is Olivia Pope. She is the cousin of one of my shipmates. I walked her home after she'd had too much to drink a few blocks over at an establishment called 'Old Joe's.' Russell was her boyfriend. He misinterpreted mine and Miss Pope's relationship when he returned to their apartment and attacked us. I was unaware that he had a weapon until he discharged it, hitting a lamp in Miss Pope's bedroom. We struggled for the weapon, I must've knocked it out of his grasp at one point. He had his hands around my throat, I managed to push him away and that's when I saw the gun on the ground. Both Russell and I lunged for it, I got to it first and discharged the weapon." He chooses each word with precision, all but omitting Olivia's presence.
Detective House leans back in his seat, the metal chair scrapes lightly across the ground. He stares at Fitz with an eyebrow raised, as if he's taking in all the young man in front of him has to say, before clearing his throat. "Her fingerprints were on the on the revolver."
The image of Olivia, hands shaking as she lowered the gun and large tears rolling down her high cheeks, flashes across his mind. He'd taken the gun from her just moments after the shot had rang out; in all truth, she'd probably saved his life. Russell had caught him off guard with a knee to the lung, and promptly followed it with two thumbs to his larynx. "Like I said, she was his girlfriend. She's probably moved the gun at one point or another."
"Or maybe she'd aimed it at you…"
Fitz chuckles at the man grasping at straws a little too tightly for Fitz's liking. "I think I'd remember that."
"I think you're a bit blind to what's in front of you, kid. She found her mark in you and probably set you up to be killed."
"You have a wild imagination, Detective." Fitz tells House. "Would I be worried about a woman who wanted to kill me?"
House shrugs. "I've seen men who are enamored with jezebels do crazy things in this line of work time and time before."
Once more Fitz clenches his fists. Whore now Jezebel; House is pushing it. "Where is Miss Pope? Is she okay?"
"She's just fine." House answers, tone clipped.
Something in the way the other man answers Fitz's question leaves him unsettled. "Where is she?"
"Somewhere around here."
"Do I get a phone call or should I have a holding cell; how's this go?" Fitz asks, agitation in his voice.
"Look, son—"
Fitz's jaw tightens at the man's use of son, again. House's patronizing tone and willingness to indict guilt in Olivia's unsettling. He doesn't like this and doesn't know what he can do to prevent a witch hunt.
"My name's Fitz."
House gives Fitz a somber smile, leaning forward on his elbows. "Fitz, son; between you and me, once I hand the facts over to the ADA, I'm sure this'll all be chalked up to Justifiable Homicide. Hell, I'm pretty sure we'll be letting you go soon. Don't leave town or nothing like that, but we're given you the benefit of the doubt here. We both know how these people are. I don't see why, once the facts are laid out for the prosecutor, he'd even try and put this in front of a jury."
Fitz feels sick; House is a good ole' boy. It's clear as day why he's letting Fitz off with a slight slap on the wrist. Fitz thinks of the moments leading up to his confrontation with the dead man; the inequality Russell cried about. Then there's Olivia. Her skepticism. It's all suddenly so clear to Fitz.
He lets his eyes drop to the table. For the first time he feels his throat burning, his eyes itching. "Is there a way I can get a glass of water?"
/
Olivia's knees shake as she sits on a steel bench in a cold cell. Bright red blood sticks to her white t-shirt and she gnaws on the inside of her cheek, tears rolling down her cheeks. She's in shock; trying, and failing, to replay the night's events over in her head. She remembers the argument with Russell and after that it all goes blank until she's sitting over Russell, blood pouring between her fingers. She barely recalls being booked.
"You doing okay, sweetheart?" A voice calls out to her.
Olivia looks up to see a woman with light, buttery brown skin dressed in a short skirt, fishnet stockings, a halter top, and long trench coat on with a large afro staring at her.
"You look like hell," she tells Olivia, her painted red nails skimming over the fingerprint bruises on Olivia's left thigh.
The touch causes Olivia to jump, terror in her round eyes.
"Shit, he really did a number on you didn't he? Where were you working?"
"Wha — what?" Olivia flinches, wiping at her eyes, pain exploding in her face.
"God damn it. They didn't even let you put pants on. He beat the hell out of you and they bring you in here…" the woman huffs. She takes off her coat and slips it around Olivia's shoulders. "Jesus, you're a baby."
Olivia's sniffs, bottom lip quivering. "I don't know what happened. I don't remember…" She looks up at the kind stranger, unable to stop the tears.
"Call me Coffee, baby doll. How long have you been on the streets?" Coffee rubs Olivia's back in small, comforting circles.
"I'm not. My-my-my boy…" sputters Olivia, uncertain of what she's even trying to say and of what's happening. Her head is foggy and details are scarce.
Coffee gives her a look of sympathy. "Don't even say any more. I - I think I get it. Piece of shit pigs couldn't even let you clean up. Your man's probably in a cell somewhere else. They'll probably let you go in the morning or something. Shrug their shoulders at him kicking the shit out of you like they all do."
"I told you, Marla, you keep going back to him and we can't do anything about it. You won't press charges…"
Olivia turns as she hears another voice. One the opposite side of the bars, she sees a tall woman with the same shade of deep brown skin as hers. She's wearing a boxy suit and her hair is short straight. There's a badged clipped to her left hip. She carries a paper cup in hand and grey sweat pants in the other.
"I press charges, he ends up back on the street in two months instead of a week; this time he kills me. Wash, rinse, repeat," Coffee shoots back. She brushes a strand of hair away from Olivia's cheek, softly rubbing a thumb over the swollen cheekbone. "Any news on that sick motherfucker kidnapping and dumping little girls on highways, Nina?"
"Not yet, but I'm not letting up. We've got the feds coming in. With all the anti-war shit going on it's been a nightmare," Nina replies. She sighs heavily, leaning against the bars.
"You know if it was little white girls being snatched, the world would've already been stopped. Troopers on the highway. The whole nine-yards."
"I know."
Olivia wipes at her eyes again, sniffling as she listens to the conversation going back and forth, she briefly remembers seeing something on the news about missing Black girls in the area and the whispers of a possible serial killer.
"Miss Pope, I'm Detective Jenkins. I brought you an unfortunate cup of coffee and some sweatpants. I'm sorry my colleagues didn't have enough decency to let you get dressed. Unfortunately, all I have are these pants. You look a few pounds lighter than me, but they should fit you. Might be a bit better to wear than Marla's coat. Who knows what she's done in that." She holds the pants out to Olivia through the bars.
"Bitch," Coffee shoots, though there's a smile on her lips.
Nina laughs.
Olivia looks up at the detective, slightly at ease. She accepts the pants, and slides them on, looking down at her bare feet.
"She's just a baby, Nina. Look at her," Coffee says, folding her coat in her lap. "Put this piece of shit job to use and let her go."
"Hey, this piece of shit job's gotten you out of trouble too many times to count. Miss Pope, please follow me."
Olivia nods, but finds it hard to move her legs. She's unsteady, nauseous. Her head pounds against her temples and she remembers drinking — a lot. It takes her a moment, but eventually she ends up across a small metal table from Detective Jenkins.
The paper cup now full of lukewarm coffee sits between her palms, but she doesn't sip from it.
"Miss Pope, are you of any relation to Elijah Pope, PG County Civil Rights attorney?"
"He's my father," Olivia answers.
"I knew you looked familiar. I'm a PG County girl myself. Laurel. Your daddy did some work for us when the clan came to town in 67' and tried to burn down that church. While the Pastor tried to keep everyone calm, your daddy walked around with a gun on his hip. He offered to teach some of the local boys how to shoot, too."
Olivia nods, knowing exactly what the Detective is talking about. She remembers the summer of 67' all too well. She'd driven up from her home in Hyattsville to Laurel with her father to aid the small community of Grove, in taking legal action against the Klan the summer before she'd started Howard. It was that summer that a white man had spit on her at a gas station and the very Pastor Detective Jenkins spoke about now prevented Eli Pope from putting a bullet between the man's eyes.
"I think it's safe to say you're not a working girl…"
Olivia shakes her head.
"Do you remember anything from tonight? When my partner brought you in, you were hysterical."
Once more Olivia shakes her head.
"What about the man you were with?"
The man? Russell? Is he…
"The white man, Olivia. Do you remember…"
Fitz. The gun. Russell.
Give me the gun, Olivia….
Olivia's eyes fill with tears. Her breathing grows steep and her stomach knots. Panic overtakes her and she starts to shake again. She feels dizzy.
"I. He. I… We. He." Her words come out in spurts, breaking apart on her tongue. Each time she gets close to remembering, her brain sputters out. Her mind goes blank. "Fit...Is..Russ…"
Detective Jenkins is at Olivia's side in seconds, a warm hand on Olivia's shoulder. The older woman tries her hardest to calm Olivia, encouraging her to breathe, and rubbing her back gently.
"Hey, hey now, you've got to calm down, Miss Pope. Please. Do you want me to call your father? I'm going to call your father, okay? I'm going to call him."
Olivia doesn't respond; she simply can't. Her mind's too distracted by the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she's done something terrible.
/
Morning breaks and Fitz wakes to the sound of yelling; he hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep. He's cuffed to Detective House's desk in the middle of the station. A cup of cold coffee sits in from of him. Fitz's back cracks as he sits up straight in the wooden chair, he cranes his neck at the sound of the voice.
He looks up to see an older black man, his features somewhat familiar, storming through the station.
"Where is my daughter? I demand to see her now! What are her charges? What is she being held on? Olivia. Olivia!"
"Excuse me, sir. Sir," House calls out as he pushes away from the coffee pot tucked back off to the corner of the room. "You can't just storm in here and demand…."
The door that leads to the holding cells opens and Fitz watches as a frizzy haired and frightened Olivia, dressed partially in blood soaked clothes and shoeless, emerges; closely following her is a tall, older black woman. A badge hangs off the woman's hip and she points Olivia in direction of the man Fitz is certain is Olivia's father.
"Olivia!"
"Dad!"
The two embrace and Fitz finds himself breathing a slight sigh of relief. Just seeing she's in one piece sends a bit of air rushing back into his lungs.
*Detective Jenkins is actually based off a real life Detective. She was one of the first Black female detectives in the DCPD. The suspected serial killer mentioned is the Phantom Highway Killer, a DMV serial killer never caught who ran rampant during this time period. The real Detective Jenkins was one of the detectives on the case back in 1971.
