Not a Fan of the Bittersweet

Chapter 9

The Simplest Truth

"Every decent con man knows that the simplest truth is more powerful than even the most elaborate lie."
― Ally Carter, Uncommon Criminals

.

Agent Burke stood there watching as Flynn and Carlson departed, then looked down at the bag containing Neal's belongings. Observing him, Blake started to say something, but then Jones's words echoed in his mind—the part about keeping his mouth shut.

So he did.

The moment dragged on, though, with Agent Burke still staring at the bag in his hand. Blake wondered nervously what he was thinking. Wondered whether he should interject something after all. Not for the first time, he wondered what Agent Jones would have done.

"There's a separate area for patients in surgery," Agent Burke finally said, as if he hadn't just mentioned that very point. "I'll be going there to wait."

"Right," Blake said, carefully attuned to his boss's use of the word I (as opposed to we).

Agent Burke checked his phone and then looked up at Blake, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Here it comes, Blake thought.

"Agent Blake, I appreciate your coming down here. But the nurse said it could be a long wait. Very long, and there's no point in you sitting here that whole time. You might as well head back to the office."

Again, Blake heard Jones' words in his mind. He won't want you there.

He took a moment to gather himself. "Yes, but I—I think I should stay here, sir," Blake said, feeling uncomfortable at challenging a senior agent—and not just any senior agent, but Peter fucking Burke, for God's sake.

"Stay here to do what?" Peter asked bluntly. "Babysit me?" When Blake didn't answer right away, Peter added, forcing patience into his voice, "All right. What were you working on? Before you came down here."

"Reviewing documents on the Hamilton case."

"And you don't feel that's important?" Now Agent Burke's voice was almost frightening. There was a warning note in there that no probationary agent ever wanted to hear.

"No, of course it is." Blake took a deep breath. "Just not as important as being here."

Agent Burke's mouth tightened, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Except there's no work to be done here. You could be much more useful back at the office."

"I, uh, have to disagree with you, Agent Burke. Respectfully, of course" Blake added hastily. "And I was—ordered to stay here with you."

Seizing on that. Agent Burke narrowed his eyes. "Ordered?" Then he remembered. "Oh. Jones."

Blake nodded and watched Agent Burke blow out a breath, long and slow, like he was mentally counting to five or something. Just the kind of thing Blake had seen him do with Neal, a time or two.

"Okay," Burke said finally. "You do realize that I'm Jones' boss. So any order he gives you, I can countermand."

"Yes, sir."

"But you're not going to leave, are you?"

"No, sir. I—I gave my word that I wouldn't." Blake paused a moment before quietly adding, "And you wouldn't."

Agent Burke eyed him sharply. "What's that?"

"If the positions were reversed. You wouldn't leave."

'I'm not in the habit of disobeying direct orders from supervisors," Agent Burke shot back, neatly sidestepping the point.

Blake regarded him with a speculative air. "You've never disobeyed an order?"

"Oh, I didn't say that." Agent Burke's gaze was shrewd. "And nice job trying to change the subject to my behavior, but that's not what we're talking about here."

"Look, Agent Burke, can I be honest with you?" Blake looked him straight in the eye, letting a little nervousness show. It wasn't hard, given that this whole discussion nearly had him breaking out in hives. "If you insist that I leave, I guess I might have to. But Agent Jones . . . he won't be happy. And he strikes me as one of those really affable types, until you piss him off, and then you need to duck and run."

Agent Burke thought for a moment, before his expression shifted from impatient to impressed. "You've got him pegged, all right," he said, shaking his head like he was remembering something.

Blake hoped he'd get to hear that story sometime. He'd have to ask Agent Berrigan.

Or Neal . . . hopefully.

"I thought so," Blake said. "So I'm asking you, Agent Burke, to please not make Agent Jones angry at me."

Agent Burke stared at him and Blake met his gaze steadily, wondering what he'd do if Peter really did order him to leave.

Fortunately, Blake didn't have to make that decision.

Because after a long moment, a ghost of a smile flitted across the senior agent's face, and Blake knew the combination of emotion and logic had won the argument.

"Fine, you can stay," Agent Burke muttered, sighing. "But I'm on the record as saying it's pointless."

"Yes sir," Blake acknowledged. He kept his face solemn.

Only when Peter got up to pace, turning away for the moment, did Blake allow himself a small (but triumphant) smile.


"Rita, if you want to go over the presentment on the Danielson case, let me know. I've got some time."

Rita Karstens, Assistant U.S. Attorney, looked up from the brief she'd been struggling with for the past forty-five minutes, appreciating the distraction her colleague was providing. Drew Talley was one of the recently hired attorneys in the office, and Rita already knew he was sharp, a superb addition to the staff. She just hoped he wouldn't be snapped up too quickly by one of the big white-shoe firms; it happened with so many of their best young lawyers, once they'd gained a little seasoning. "What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting with the FBI this afternoon."

Leaning languidly on the doorjamb, Drew nodded. "Supposed to. But they just called to cancel. Somebody got shot," he waved a hand in the air, "and the office is in an uproar."

Rita sat up with a start. "Jesus Christ. Who?" Before he could answer, she cut in, "Wait, you were meeting with White Collar, right?"

White Collar agents don't get shot.

"Yeah," Talley confirmed. "Umm . . . it wasn't anybody I knew," he said, looking apologetic. Drew was too new, she realized. He hadn't had time to form any real relationships yet.

"Not Burke, I hope?" Rita knew Peter Burke well. She'd prosecuted several of his cases over the years, including a big one quite recently, and considered him a friend. A good friend.

He shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, I don't know."

Rita swore. She whipped open her desk drawer, muttering under her breath, and grabbed her cellphone out of her handbag. Yes, Peter's number was in there. She jabbed at the screen to dial him and swore again when she got Burke's voice mail. Taking a deep breath, she waited impatiently as Peter's calm, authoritative voice told her to leave a message.

"Peter, it's Rita Karstens. I heard someone got shot over there. It sure as hell better not be you." She paused before adding, "Call me as soon as you can," and then hung up.

"Rita, I am sorry," Drew said, eyeing her nervously. "I can—"

She held up a hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll find out."

Drew left, still muttering apologies, while she rummaged in another drawer, taking long moments this time to find an old, dog-eared FBI phone directory under a stack of crumpled receipts and random business cards. I really need to do something about this drawer, she thought, mind racing as she ran her finger down the alphabetical list of White Collar agents, looking for members of Peter's team that she knew. She found Clinton Jones and called the number. No answer. Diana Berrigan wasn't listed.

Finally she gave up and dialed the main office line.

"White Collar Unit, may I help you?"

"I hope so. This is Rita Karstens from the US Attorney's office. I understand one of your agents was injured. I was hoping you could give me details."

The woman on the other end—probably a secretary—didn't answer right away. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to give out any information."

As an attorney, Rita knew all about HIPAA and privacy and legal obligations. But she'd never been more determined to convince someone to go against policy in her entire life.

"Look, I know. I'm a lawyer, for Christ's sake. But right now, I'm just a friend of Peter Burke's and I need to know if he's okay." She stopped and then added, "Please."

It wasn't hard to make it sound desperate. Since she was.

Another moment of silence on the other end. Rita could hear the faint chatter of many voices, indistinct but clearly audible in the background. She could only imagine the atmosphere of controlled chaos there right now.

The woman finally responded. "Agent Burke wasn't hurt."

Rita closed her eyes, breathing an involuntary sigh of relief. "Thank God. I appreciate your telling me. Do you know who was—"

"I—I'm afraid I can't say."

"Well, then, maybe you could transfer me to Agent Jones or Agent Berrigan."

"They're not here at the moment."

"I know all of them!" Rita fairly shouted, knowing even as she did so that she was browbeating a defenseless secretary who was just doing her job. One of the IT guys, walking by her office, heard her exclamation and paused to give her a curious look. She glared back at him and he walked away hastily. With an effort, she lowered her voice. "Look, please, I have to know."

True desperation must have made an impression, because the secretary lowered her voice and said, "One of our . . . consultants was shot."

Rita felt her eyes widen in horror. Oh, God.

Peter's words echoed in her mind. He's my consultant. And he does good work for us, Rita.

She was pretty sure White Collar had only one consultant.

"Thank you," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm and instinctively feeling she had gotten all the information she could out of this woman. "Can you please put me through to the agent in charge?"

The secretary transferred her to Rick Graham, who, bless him, was there to pick up the phone and took just under a minute to tell her the whole unbelievable, infuriating story.

"The goddamned Canadians just let this—this killer—go?" she exploded. "What happened to interagency communication? Somebody needs to—"

"Don't worry, somebody has already made our feelings known," Graham said tightly. "And will continue to do so."

"The hell with that. Not good enough. Somebody needs to put a boot up some Canadian ass."

"It's on the agenda."

"Where's Caffrey now?"

"At Kings County. I've heard it's not good, Rita. Peter's with him. I've got another agent on his way there. We don't know anything yet."

Rita's Outlook reminder dinged. Damnit. Departmental meeting and she was running it. She had to be there.


The hellishly long cab ride over, Elizabeth shoved cash at the driver, heedless of the change she was due, and jumped out at the hospital's ER entrance. She'd ordered Peter to call her with an update and he hadn't, so . . . that must be good news right?

Not really, she knew. No matter what promise Peter had made to her, if the news were bad, he'd be hesitant to tell her on the phone. The thought frightened her anew.

She walked as quickly as she could into the bedlam of the ER waiting room, winding her way around serious-looking people talking in groups or on cell phones as she searched for Peter. Somewhere a baby was wailing—loudly. A tall man, his weather-beaten face lined with despair, was trying to console a crying woman, holding her against his chest and talking to her, low and soothing; she caught snatches of it as she rushed by.

"—hope for the best," he was saying. "Please don't cry."

Elizabeth swallowed hard, not wanting to think about the parallels to her and Peter, worrying about Neal. She looked away and kept going, eyes roving around the room as she searched for her husband.

When she saw him, from perhaps fifteen yards away, her heart dropped.

He was in profile, seated and leaning forward, hunched over a bit. He was staring blankly at the floor. Even from this far away, she could see the tension in him, the worry, the fear. Oh God.

She raced to stand in front of him. "Peter?"

Reverie broken, he looked up at her and she saw his relief. He managed a weak smile as he stood and opened his arms; she folded herself in. Elizabeth had always loved how nicely they fit together, despite the difference in height, and it had never felt better than right now. She rested her head on his chest for a second, reveling, as she always did, in the warmth and solidity of him. His arms were tight around her, more than normal, and she could practically feel the tension thrumming through the muscles as he held her close.

"Oh, it's good to see you, hon," he said roughly, resting his head on top of hers for a moment.

"You too," she said, as he released her and she pulled back to look into his eyes. "Any word?"

The smile, wan though it had been, was gone from his face. "I was about to call you. I just talked to the doctor. They're taking him into surgery. Someone will be out to take us to another waiting room."

Watching his face, Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. "It's almost . . . like it's not real, somehow."

"I know. I felt that way, too. Like it wasn't really happening," Peter said grimly. "Until I saw him."

"You did?"

"Only for a minute, before they took him away." Peter looked away. "He looked . . . God, El, he looked bad. He was so pale, he looked like he . . . ." Peter's voice faltered and she felt as if her heart were breaking at the sound of the helplessness there.

"Did you talk to him?"

"A little, but he couldn't hear." Peter's expression was bitter. "He was unconscious."

"Did the doctor say anything else?"

Peter nodded. "He was shot twice in the abdomen. He might have—he might not have made it to the hospital if not for Sara." Peter hesitated. "She kept pressure on the wound, but he's lost so much blood, El. He went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance."

"Oh, God." She couldn't help herself from gasping in horror. Automatically, Peter's hand found hers and she grabbed it tightly.

He leaned down and murmured into her ear. "You know how I told you not to come down here?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"Well, I was very, very wrong," he admitted, wrapping her smaller hand in his.

"Good thing I know when not to listen to you," she replied, smiling – and glad that she could glimpse a vestige of an answering smile on her husband's face. But it faded quickly.

"El, if he doesn't make it—"

His voice was anguished. As she watched him, watched him struggle to finish that sentence and fail, it was as if something in his face crumbled. And now she was the one reaching for him, holding him fiercely, trying desperately to transfer some measure of comfort, of strength to him just by virtue of simple body contact.

"Don't think about that Peter. Don't."

"Oh, hon, I don't want to. It's the last thing in the world I want to think about." She could feel a hitch in his breathing as his chest was pressed against hers. "And yet, part of me says maybe I need to. That I need to . . . prepare myself for the worst because . . . ."

Because it will be unbearable, she thought to herself when Peter didn't finish the thought.

"No," she said firmly. She let him go, but kept contact by sliding her hand down to take hold of his, and gazed into his eyes. "We don't think about the worst until . . . until we have to. Until there's no other option and if it comes, then we'll deal with it together. But right now we need to try to think positively. Promise me you'll try. That when you start thinking about the worst, that you . . . you don't let yourself."

It took a long moment before he answered; when he did, Peter's voice was low and hoarse with emotion. "Yeah. But I'm gonna need you to help with that."

"Well, that's a given," she said, smiling and pulling him down for a soft little kiss, to which Peter responded with a little more intensity than he normally would in public. With that taken care of, she indicated the chairs behind him. "Let's sit down til they get here."

She kept a tight grip on her husband's hand, encircling it with both of hers and caressing gently. "So . . . how did you find out?"

Elizabeth was almost afraid of what the answer would be, but she needed to know. Needed to know what Peter had been through, what the trajectory of events had been for him, because that was how it was with her and Peter. They shared everything.

And the worse the burden, the more it needed to be shared.

"We'd just arrested Halbridge—well, Price really."

Elizabeth nodded; Peter had explained his theory about the identity switch during one of their bicoastal phone conversations.

"We were doing a routine sweep of his limo when Jones found a wrapper from a chocolate bar in the back seat. The same brand the killer had had on him when he was taken into custody. It was easy to remember, because Neal had made a point of saying how he didn't like it. It was German. Bittersweet chocolate . . . ." he stopped and looked away, like he was recalling something.

Elizabeth watched him quietly, her heart aching.

A few seconds later, Peter resumed. "That was when I realized what we were dealing with. That, in all likelihood, the killer had recently been in that car. And the driver confirmed it. Of course, at the time, I was just worried about Sara." He shook his head.

"We called the office and found out that she'd already left—with Neal. We couldn't reach them, either of them. We kept calling and texting but . . . there was nothing."

A little knot of fear had formed in her stomach.

"I was afraid, then, that something bad had happened." Peter's voice dropped and she leaned in closer. "Then we turned on the police scanner."

The knot in Elizabeth's stomach twisted painfully and she felt sick.

Lost in the memory, Peter had a haunted look on his face. "We heard the dispatcher say there'd been a shooting at Sara's address. They don't identify the—the victims over the radio, but she said there was one dead and one wounded."

El closed her eyes, just for a second, unable to even fathom the enormity of terror Peter must have felt in that moment.

"I knew, then. Knew that one of them was dead and the other one probably close to it." He let out an ugly little sound that might have been a laugh, except it sounded so far from Peter's normal laugh that it nearly made her flinch. "So there I am, praying that Neal's okay and then, a second later, hating myself for even thinking it. Because that would mean that Sara was dead."

"So we drove there. Diana drove, as fast as she could, but it still took fucking forever." His voice was vicious. "And the whole time, I'm trying to come to grips with the fact that both of them might be gone. It was just . . . ." Peter wasn't looking at her, he was looking out, across the waiting room, reliving it all. His voice faltered, as if he couldn't come up with words to describe how horrific that ride had been.

"I can't imagine," she said, because, really, she couldn't. She could hear the quaver in her own voice.

Peter gave a little head shake, as if to bring himself back to reality and met her gaze again. "When we got close, we were stuck in traffic, so I jumped out of the car and ran the rest of the way. When I got there, I saw Sara. She was in shock, basically, and she had blood all over her. It was Neal's."

Elizabeth nodded, her heart in her throat as she pictured it in her mind.

"She told me what happened. That Black had shot Neal and she'd killed him. She called 911 and waited with Neal, kept pressure on the wound. Wounds."

Peter paused and she prompted gently, "Neal wasn't there, right?"

"No, he'd already been brought here. But—" Peter hesitated, "I saw where he'd been. The—the blood on the floor."

Elizabeth felt a little chill snake down her spine at the image. At the agony in her husband's voice.

"And then you—you came here?" she asked.

"Yeah, one of the NYPD officers drove me—her partner was with Neal. We waited until I finally got to talk to the doctor and she said he was going into surgery. When I asked her what his chances were, she said, we're doing everything we can."

She nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. Like Peter, El knew it wasn't an answer that inspired confidence. But she ignored that as she said stoutly, "Neal's strong, Peter. And young. And healthy. If anyone can make it through something like this, it's him."

The corners of his lips turned up in a small smile. "Think positive, right?"

"You're damn right," she shot back, which made him smile just a little bit more.

A young, enthusiastic-looking man appeared out of nowhere. Elizabeth saw Peter register him with a sort of resigned affection before he said, "El, this is Agent Blake. Agent Blake, this is my wife, Elizabeth."

Blake gave her one of those bone-crunching handshakes that always made her fight back a wince. "Mrs. Burke, it's nice to meet you. I'm sorry it has to be under these circumstances."

"Likewise," she said, dredging up a smile for him.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked eagerly.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

Blake nodded and gave them both an expectant look, followed by an awkward smile. Then, with an excuse me, he drifted away, as if realizing he should give them a chance to talk.

Elizabeth watched him walk to the other side of the room, take out his phone, and make a call. "He's the probie you told me about?"

Peter nodded. "Jones sent him. He—he means well."

"Well, of course he does. And I'm just glad you weren't here alone," she said, almost to herself, but Peter heard her and shook his head.

"Yeah, well, while he's sitting here, doing nothing, he could be back at the office, working," he sighed.

"I doubt there's much work going on at the office right now."

"The world doesn't stop just because . . . because something bad happens," he insisted.

Let's hope not, Elizabeth thought, watching the worry that shaded his face.

Just then, a hospital staffer came out to the waiting area, heading straight for Peter. "Agent Burke, if you're ready, I'm going to take you to the surgical waiting area."

Peter nodded and got up. Elizabeth followed suit and suddenly Blake was there, too. The three of them followed the aide out.


The surgical waiting area was smaller and calmer, though still with the same population of anxious people talking in quiet tones. Blake was off in a corner, phone in hand, probably busying himself by calling and texting various FBI personnel with updates.

Elizabeth, returning from a trip to the restroom, noticed Peter had his phone out as well. "Who're you calling?"

"What? Oh. Rita Karstens," Peter said distractedly, thinking. "Just leaving her a message."

Elizabeth frowned and shook her head. "Don't know her. Does she work in your office?"

"No. Do you remember how Neal testified in court for the first time recently?"

She rolled her eyes. "Do I remember? Honey, you were a basket case."

"I was justifiably concerned," he corrected.

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to," she retorted, shrugging.

"Well, Rita was the prosecutor."

"Ah," El said, eyes lighting up as fragments of memory began to return. "She wasn't really on board with the idea, was she?"

Peter chuckled, "You could say that."

...

Putting Neal on the stand to make a case was something Peter worked hard to avoid. Usually it wasn't an issue—most defendants plea-bargained, anyway. For the few who didn't plead, the FBI usually able to marshal enough evidence without testimony from his CI. But in very rare cases, particularly when Neal had been undercover, it was necessary.

The Petrocelli prosecution was the first such case.

Neal had been thrilled at the mere suggestion that he'd get to testify in court, which wasn't surprising given his almost-pathological need for attention. But while Neal looked forward to it, Peter couldn't help worrying about the many ways this could go wrong. And Neal's obvious eagerness had done nothing to allay Peter's fears.

Quite the opposite, in fact.


Peter called the US Attorney in charge of the case, Rita Karstens, whom Peter had known for years. Rita was no-nonsense and brilliant, and, once you got to know her, proved to have a wicked sense of humor. All of those qualities combined to make her one of Peter's favorite prosecutors ever. Naturally, she groaned—loudly—when Peter broached the topic of Neal appearing in court, but eventually he'd convinced her that his CI's testimony could be important in this particular case.

He hadn't voiced any of his doubts, of course; Rita did all of that for him. After they'd gone back and forth a while, she finally acquiesced.

Though only a little.

"All right, Peter. If you really think so, then your felon and I need to have a very long talk," she said, with her usual Rita-candor. "Then I'll decide whether he'll help more than hurt."

So Peter set up the prep session/audition (which he was secretly looking forward to a lot more than he should). He'd had already decided what his role in this meeting would be: make the introductions and step back to watch the sparks fly.

While making sure he was far enough away not to get singed.

Once, when he was younger and a little more reckless, Peter had done the whole "swimming with sharks" thing. Much to Elizabeth's horror, he'd donned wetsuit and scuba equipment, enjoying some time in an underwater cage while sharks prowled nearby. Sharks weren't known for their facial expressions, but you could definitely tell when they first smelled and sighted prey. Peter would never forget that look, that fluidity of movement, then the realization when they understood that they couldn't reach the prey—him.

Rita had that same eager, hungry look as she swept through the doorway of the conference room where Peter and Neal awaited her. Like the sharks, she didn't know—yet—that getting to Neal Caffrey wouldn't be nearly as easy as she thought it would be.

Or maybe she did know—and was just anticipating the challenge. One thing Peter had learned about Rita was that she did love a challenge.

Rita could be something of a bulldozer—as Neal no doubt was about to find out. She was barely over five feet tall, but her outsized personality belied her petite stature. Striking to look at, Rita had short, ice blonde hair and steely blue eyes that even Peter had to admit were as intimidating as hell. He'd had never seen her look anything less than completely put together, never seen her take anything less than full command of any room the moment she entered it. She was smart, she was savvy, and there was a forcefulness to Rita, an intensity that could be downright unnerving. Rita was diamond-hard, with nary a soft edge to be found.

You didn't want to get between Rita and something she wanted. Because she would run you over without thinking twice.

"Neal, this is Assistant U.S. Attorney Rita Karstens. Rita, this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey."

Neal gave Rita his most dazzling grin. Rita's answering smile was cool and measured, and it didn't reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that, if you were paying attention, Peter thought, might scare you just a little.

Unless you were Neal Caffrey—who, Peter knew, surely was paying attention, but who surely wasn't scared.

The two of them shook hands, sizing each other up, then sat down across the table from one other. Peter took a seat next to Neal. This could have been interpreted as taking a side, but it wasn't.

Peter just wanted to be able to see Rita's face.

"So you're the criminal who's going to make my case for me," Rita barked without preamble, her tone challenging. She sat up straight in the chair, the fingers on her left hand drumming on the table as she stared at Neal appraisingly.

Neal didn't rise to the bait, just met her penetrating gaze with a serene expression of his own as he said, "At your service. Give me the chance, and I'll help you nail Petrocelli to the wall."

She rolled her eyes. "Big talker, but then what else would you expect? Excuse me if I'm not overjoyed at the prospect of putting you in front of a jury. No offense, Caffrey, but you're a fricking felon."

"You know, Counselor," Neal said amiably, "I'm sensing a lot of pent-up emotion here. Please don't hold back on my account." He leaned forward then, lowering his voice to that whisper he had, like he was sharing a secret with a trusted confidante. "And if you want to use the F word, go right ahead. I am an adult."

"Okay. Shut the fuck up," she shot back.

Peter, gaze darting back and forth from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match, suppressed a smile, but Neal didn't. He laughed and grinned wide, nodding as he leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied, like someone who'd won a bet.

"I appreciate your . . . frankness," he said, still smiling, but sideways at Peter, now. "And your reluctance. But you need me."

The hell of it was, he was right, Peter knew.

And Rita knew it, too. "I look at you in a courtroom like Mel Gibson looks at anger management class, Caffrey," she retorted. "Something I maybe need to do, but I sure as hell don't have to like doing it."

He winced. "Ouch. Witty analogy, but—Mel Gibson comparison? That shoe does not fit, I have to tell you."

"Caffrey, if we have to have a working relationship—and as much as I hate to admit it, we might—then things will proceed much more smoothly if you accept one key principle: I'm pretty much always right."

"Not to mention, incredibly self-deprecating," Neal said without missing a beat.

Rita glared at him for a long moment, but then she shook her head and—very unexpectedly—laughed.

"Do you know, I think we're going to get along very well," Neal said, pleased.

And he was right, of course. Because, like Rita, Neal was right most of the time.


Rita Karstens was back in her office twenty-six minutes later, and she had a voicemail. It was Peter Burke, who'd dutifully called to tell her what she already knew: he was fine, but Neal Caffrey was not. Peter was at Kings County Hospital, and Neal was in surgery. Though his message was brief, the strain, the barely controlled anger, the worry in his voice made something twist in her gut that wouldn't let go.

Things were quiet in the office anyway. No more meetings today and she was more or less done with the brief, beyond some final editing. She texted her daughter Jenny to tell her that Mom would be late and to start dinner when she got home from band practice. Then Rita explained the situation to her assistant and cut out for the hospital.

Traffic was an utter disaster—hardly unusual for Manhattan at rush hour—and her mind wandered while she traveled at a pace that could be generously estimated at two blocks per minute.

Damn buses, blocking the box.

Nobody ever tickets a bus driver, though.

Was there such a thing as negative miles per hour?

The rush-hour tangle gave Rita plenty of time to think about her first, memorable meeting with Neal Caffrey. It hadn't been that long ago.


When Peter Burke first called her to suggest that convicted bond forger Neal Caffrey testify in the Petrocelli case, Rita had hoped he was kidding.

Except he wasn't.

She'd known all about Caffrey, all about the sweet deal he'd worked out with the FBI. Peter had talked about his consultant a few times, but Rita had never met him. It was probably inevitable that she and Caffrey would have crossed paths at some point, but now the agent wanted to insert him smack into the middle of her case.

Rita positively hated the idea.

As Peter extolled the virtues of Neal Caffrey, superwitness, Rita listened, impatiently tapping her pen on the desk.

"Peter, I understand you're trying to be helpful, but, really—I don't want your felon anywhere near my witness stand."

The agent's sigh was audible through the phone line. "I know, Rita, but I think we need him. I don't want Petrocelli walking on this for lack of evidence. You already told me he won't plead, and that's because he thinks he's got a shot in court. Neal can make sure he doesn't."

"A criminal is going to do that, huh?" Rita idly used her pen to flick bits of dust out of the crevices between the number buttons on her phone, wondering how long Peter was going to bend her ear about this.

"Neal was inside the operation. And he can be pretty convincing when he wants to be."

"Yeah, and so can Clayton Ramsey when he's ripping apart a witness with a shady background like Caffrey." Ramsey was Petrocelli's hired gun, one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the state. Rita didn't like him, not even a little bit, but she had a healthy respect for the man and what he could do—specifically, the way he could cut a witness to ribbons without breaking a sweat. She'd seen it up close and personal more than once.

Peter was undaunted. "It wouldn't be the first time we've put a CI with some issues on the stand to testify."

"A CI with some issues," she echoed, voice thick with disbelief. "That's rich. He's more than that, and you know it better than anyone, Peter. Caffrey's a professional liar. He's a liar with a record who's done hard time. He's a convicted felon. He's—"

"He's also my consultant," Peter cut in, accentuating the last two words just enough to make Rita sit up a little straighter in her chair. "And he does good work for us, Rita."

She could practically hear the sound of his teeth on edge. She wasn't imagining it. And, apparently, her insistence on referring to Caffrey as a felon was the reason why.

That was more than a little bit surprising. Rita had known Peter for years—he was one of the very first FBI agents she'd met upon being hired at Justice—and had considered him a friend for much of that time. Peter was as hard-nosed as you'd expect a veteran agent to be. And Caffrey was a felon—no exaggeration there. Capturing him had been one of the highlights of Peter's career; she could remember like it was yesterday the elation in the agent's voice when he'd called to tell her the chase was over, at long last. To top it off, she'd heard through the grapevine that Caffrey had very recently done yet another stint in prison. So he wasn't even totally reformed.

Somehow, despite all of that, now Peter was getting testy because she dared to refer to Caffrey as the criminal that he was.

Rita filed that one away for future thought. Then, she let Peter convince her to meet Caffrey so she could decide whether he was worth the risk.

She agreed to it as much out of curiosity as anything. (Well, curiosity coupled with the once-in-a-lifetime chance to take the infamous Neal Caffrey down a peg. Because that kind of lure, she really couldn't resist.)

When she did meet Neal, a few days later, she'd expected the same kind of sensitivity she'd seen in Peter. But she got another surprise. Where Burke had bristled at the word 'felon,' Caffrey merely laughed.

Rita would never have expected that Burke would be more protective of Neal's reputation than Neal was.

Then she'd done her best to get under Caffrey's skin (the way she'd unintentionally gotten under Peter's).


As the session progressed, Rita had explained that, if he testified, Neal could expect multiple questions on his criminal history. And he'd need to employ an abundance of caution to survive an encounter with a clever bastard like Ramsey.

"I understand," Neal answered. "I'm prepared for that."

"We would explore it on direct, of course," she told him. "We'd have to lay everything out. Blunt the impact."

Neal nodded once more, undisturbed.

"Ramsey would hammer you on it, though," she added, waving a hand for emphasis. Neal's apparent carelessness on this point was disquieting.

"I'm sure he'll try."

She eyed him speculatively. "You don't seem concerned."

His smile was knowing, but carefully muted—several notches below the mega-watt one he'd greeted her with (the one she'd instantly decided she couldn't trust). "Then you're reading me right. No, I'm not overly concerned," Neal said.

He must have sensed that she wasn't reassured, because he added, "I'm pretty good at thinking on my feet. And I do have some experience in getting people to believe me."

"This isn't a con, Neal," Peter interjected, probably sensing Rita's frustration and thinking he ought to say something (after remaining mostly silent throughout the proceedings).

Rita followed on, ignoring Peter's comment. "You get people to believe you, Neal? Like at your trial?" she demanded, in her best 'cross-examining a hostile witness' tone. "When a jury convicted you of bond forgery?"

Neal's gaze sharpened. "Actually, the jury never got the chance to hear from me at my trial. I didn't testify."

"That's one smart thing you did," she muttered. "Or, more accurately," she said, watching him shrewdly, "your attorney did. Kept you from adding perjury to your list of crimes. Which I'm sure took a superhuman effort."

Neal rolled his eyes, but wisely said nothing.

Rita caught the eye-roll and shook her head. "You don't get it, do you?"

"You know," Neal said, looking wistful and glancing at Peter, "I don't have many regrets in life, but taking the Fifth at my trial is one of them."

"Your attorney convinced you," Rita stated. "Fortunately for you."

"Not so fortunate," Neal shot back with a touch of venom that seemingly took Peter aback and made him look up sharply. "I did four years."

Rita stared at him; she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "One count, Neal. You were convicted on one count of bond forgery. In case you've forgotten, you were indicted for a hell of a lot more than that. You could have gone down for a lot more, and a lot longer."

She shook her head. "You really think getting up there spinning some tall tale to the jury would have helped and not hurt?"

"Maybe the jury would have realized they were convicting an innocent man," Neal said, but he didn't sound like he really meant it—and now the makings of a smile played around his lips.

"Oh, please," Rita said, and now she was the one rolling her eyes vigorously. "Agent Burke here had you dead to rights on the forgery count."

"Ah. You've done your research," Neal said, sounding impressed. His rancor—if that was what it had really been—had disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Always," Rita said, displaying a sly smile. "Read the transcripts, reviewed the evidence. You didn't have a prayer on the bond forgery, Caffrey. Taking the stand and denying it would have only proved you a liar to the jury. Who knows what else they might have pinned on you at that point? Which is why your attorney didn't want you up there, no matter how much of a charmer you are."

Neal shrugged. Now he looked almost bored.

"Honestly," she said, almost to herself, "I don't know why the hell you didn't plead out on the forgery—we might have dropped some of the other—" Rita stopped in the middle of her sentence, staring at Neal as he looked away.

"Ah," she said, a note of triumph in her voice. "Your attorney tried to get you to plead, but you wouldn't. You refused. Tell me I'm wrong."

Neal met her eyes coolly. "The deal wasn't to my liking." Peter scoffed.

"What?" Neal said, affronted. He glanced at Peter. "It wasn't."

The agent waved a dismissive hand; Rita knew exactly what he meant. To someone like Neal, who'd been convinced he would walk, no deal in the world would have been sufficient. And, of course, he'd have had to plead to a lot more than one count to get any kind of deal . . . .

"Anyway," Rita said, taking control once more, "let's get back to today. Now, Neal, I get it. You're a con artist, and you're telling me that persuasion is your stock-in-trade. I'm telling you that things didn't go so well last time you were in a courtroom. So: Don't. Get. Cocky," she finished emphatically, spearing him with a piercing gaze.

"Point taken," Neal said, conceding with a sigh. "But as you said, that was then, this is now. Plus," he added face brightening, "that time, Peter was testifying against me. Won't have to worry about the paragon of truth, justice, and the American way being on the wrong side this time around."

Neal shot a grin at Peter, who rolled his eyes and apparently decided to provide Rita a little moral support (not that she needed it).

"She's right, Neal. Don't get cocky. If you blow our case . . . ."

"I go back to prison?" Neal suggested. His grin had faded just a bit.

Peter gave him a pointed look, clearly not liking the implication. Rita sensed there was more to this exchange than what was on the surface and wondered, curiously, what it was. "Did I say that?" Peter countered. "No. I'll just be extremely unhappy. You don't want that."

Rita embarked on a little role-playing, then, firing the kinds of questions at Neal that Ramsey would throw at him during cross examination. Questions about his criminal past, his record, his trustworthiness. Neal handled them all with perfect aplomb.

Until the last one.

"Now, Mr. Caffrey," Rita said, "you've stated that you were convicted of bond forgery and sentenced to four years."

"Yes, but—"

"No buts on that question, Neal," she corrected, stepping out of character for a moment. "No matter how many times it's asked. We'll have explored your record during direct examination. In fact, be very careful in general about trying to extend your answers on cross. Don't give Ramsey a chance to object and make you look belligerent."

Neal nodded obediently.

Rita returned to the role-play. "And then you escaped, were recaptured, and sent back to prison."

"Yes." Neal's calm demeanor was undisturbed.

"Other than that, though, you haven't served time for any other offenses?"

"No, I haven't."

"Well, that's strange, Mr. Caffrey. Or maybe it all blurs together when you've been locked up that many times," she said innocently before delivering the coup de grace. "Because according to federal penal records, you were sent back to prison very, very recently."

Neal's expression didn't change, but he froze, his eyes boring into hers.

"Perhaps," Rita continued, relentless, "perhaps that was . . . some other Neal Caffrey?"

Neal had recovered enough to answer, albeit through nearly-gritted teeth. "No. I did spend two months in custody earlier this year."

"So when you said you hadn't served any additional time—that was a lie, wasn't it?" Rita let a little triumph bleed into her voice; Ramsey would do far worse. And she had to admit: catching a consummate smooth-talker like Caffrey in a lie (or mistake, whatever) did give her a moment of private exultation.

Her jubilation began to fade almost immediately, though—as soon as she glanced over at Peter.

The agent was frowning and his whole body had tensed, like he wanted to jump up and object to some nonexistent judge that Rita was badgering the witness. And Neal didn't look relaxed any more, either. He'd gone a few shades paler, and his eyes blazed with an intensity that was a stark contrast to his placidity earlier. Even though his expression was still composed, the change in his manner was startling.

There was something more here—something beyond a mere lie or gaffe. She'd definitely struck a nerve. Not just with Neal, but with Peter as well.

What Rita didn't quite know was why.

After a long moment, Neal resumed, sounding more like himself, except that the nonchalance was gone. Now he spoke with clipped precision; Rita could sense the effort he was expending to maintain control—whereas before it had been effortless.

"You asked whether I had served time for any other offenses." Neal carefully emphasized the last four words. "When I was recently taken back into custody, I wasn't charged with a crime."

Rita gave a mental nod of approval at his phrasing—'custody' sounded so much better than 'prison'—and his meticulousness in responding. As thrown as Neal clearly had been by the question, he was still paying very close attention, and that quick-thinking mind of his was still in high gear. All of that boded well.

"So you were incarcerated for no reason?" Rita asked sarcastically. "Just because the FBI felt like it?"

"No," Neal said, and his voice dropped an octave. He cleared his throat. "My girlfriend was . . . was killed in an explosion, and I was a witness. Given that I was on work-release, there was . . . some confusion about how to proceed."

And with that, Rita officially stopped exulting. Jesus Christ.

She hadn't known any of that part, but she kept her face carefully blank and asked the obvious question, the one Ramsey would ask. "I see. So you were a suspect?"

"For a time," Neal responded, voice very even as his gaze flicked for an instant to Peter and then back to Rita's face. Rita glanced over at Peter, too. He looked like he wouldn't mind hitting someone.

She hastily returned her attention to Neal, swallowing hard. The last thing she felt like doing was continuing this line of questioning. But, God knew, Clayton Ramsey would have no such scruples.

Just the opposite, in fact. He'd go for the throat.

"Did you kill your girlfriend, Mr. Caffrey? Decide you wanted to be free to—"

"No." Neal almost spat out the word. He was angry now, but that was fine. And he way he'd interrupted her was perfect. No innocent man in the world would have let her finish that sentence.

"Did you have anything at all to do with the explosion, Mr. Caffrey?"

Again his response was fierce. "No. No, I would never . . . ." His voice trailed off and he hesitated. When he continued, as hard as he tried to hide it, now you could hear a note of something in his voice that was very close to anguish. "I was . . . I was supposed to be on the plane with her when it . . . exploded."

Rita blinked. Holy shit. The circumstances of Caffrey's recent incarceration had been shrouded in mystery; she'd only found out by chance and even then, no one knew any details. As a result, with no hard facts to go on, Rita had gone with the simplest explanation. She'd just assumed Caffrey had had a moment of weakness and had gone on the run or something. That Peter had somehow smoothed things over with the Marshals and the DOJ, but not before tightening the leash: making sure Neal did a short spell back inside first, just to impress on him the importance of staying put.

She'd never imagined anything like the tale Caffrey was now telling. Not that she doubted it even for a second. Who the hell would make up a story like that?

Not to mention, she didn't think even Neal Caffrey could lie that well.

And Rita could only imagine the kinds of strings Peter and his boss must have pulled to keep this thing quiet.

Caffrey's expression was still undisturbed. But when Rita looked into his eyes, she glimpsed a hint of the pain there and realized that, essentially, she'd laid him open. She'd exposed a vulnerability that was none of her business, that Neal didn't want anyone to see. The human part of Rita felt like the world's biggest heel for doing this. But the prosecutor in her was grimly glad to get it out there now, rather than have it happen for the first time in front of a jury.

And now she understood a little better that protectiveness Peter had displayed on the phone earlier, bridling at her comments about Neal. Because, apparently, just a few months ago, Neal Caffrey had watched his girlfriend die—and then been thrown back in prison because no one knew what the hell else to do with him.

Uneasily, Rita looked over again at Peter. His face was filled with worry as he studied his consultant. She saw Neal meet his gaze and give a little nod, upon which Peter relaxed fractionally.

"Do you—do you know who was responsible?" she finally managed. This was probably not the way questioning would proceed in court, but Rita couldn't help asking.

"Not yet," Neal said in a voice that was all the more frightening for its outward calm, because you could sense what raged just beneath the surface. Now the look in his eyes was dangerous. "But I will."

After that, Rita was smart enough to let it lie.


"That's awful," El said sympathetically. "Dragging all those horrible memories up again for Neal . . . ."

Peter sighed. "Yeah, Rita didn't know what she was getting into. But she was right: it's better to know the worst in advance. And things got better after that."


When Rita moved back to safer topics, Neal's equanimity returned with surprising suddenness; his moods could be mercurial.

Peter observed quietly as the two of them spent another half hour addressing the substance of his potential testimony and rehearsing a few more responses before Rita declared the meeting over. She instigated a round of good-byes, and unceremoniously shooed Neal in the direction of the door.

Already on his way out, Neal was reaching for the door knob when Rita spoke.

"Neal," she said peremptorily. Peter was willing to bet that she'd planned it to happen exactly this way—letting Neal think the encounter was over and then springing something else on him when he wasn't expecting it. "One more thing."

Neal stopped on a dime, turned, and looked at her politely. "Yes?"

"That, uh . . . expression—" she flipped a hand in the air for emphasis, "you had on your face when I first came in . . . . What was that?" Rita inquired.

For the first time since the session had started, Neal's face registered actual bewilderment. "My expression? I take it you're referring to my . . . smile?" He eyed her, smiling again, but warily now. "That was just my . . . meeting-someone-new smile."

Peter watched Neal trying to figure out where Rita was going with this (even as Peter tried to figure it out himself). He could almost see the wheels turning in Neal's head.

"Oh, so that's what you call it," Rita countered. "You want to know what I call it?"

"I believe that's what you lawyers call a rhetorical question," Neal commented. He shot Peter a quick glance. "But, if you want an answer, I'm guessing that you'd call it . . . something a bit more negative."

"I call it pulling out a bazooka to kill a fly. Or dumping a whole box of Splenda into your cup of coffee."

"Well," Neal quipped, pretending to consider it, "I don't use Splenda, but—"

Rita gave him an impatient look. "But you know what it is."

"I do." Neal's gaze was filled with admiration. "And may I just say that you have quite the treasure trove of colorful analogies at your disposal, Counselor. Juries must love those."

Rita ignored the comment, refusing to be baited (or diverted). "It's called overkill, Neal. Though I sense you're not familiar with the concept, there is such a thing, believe it or not."

Very prudently, Neal remained silent—though now Peter could see a touch of amusement in his eyes.

"If—if—I decide to put you on the stand," Rita continued, her tone forceful, "I don't want to see that smirk on your face at any time during the proceedings, understand? It's too much. Way too much. I'm not the only one who can see through it." She stopped to think for a moment.

"Now, there may be some women on the jury who appreciate it—hell, maybe some men, too, for all I know—but you're not auditioning for some cheesy reality dating show here. Remember that."

"Right. Yes. I understand." Neal nodded. He smiled wide. Then, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing, Neal widened his eyes in an exaggerated look of alarm. He flicked his gaze from Rita to Peter and back again, waited a beat, pressed his lips together, and then carefully schooled his face into an expression of deepest solemnity.

"Is this better?"

"Good God, what an unbelievable smart-ass." Rita sighed. "Just . . . go."

"Going," Neal said agreeably, shooting Peter a last look and exiting with alacrity. "Such a pleasure to meet you, Counselor."

Still shaking her head, Rita began to gather up the papers she'd spread out on the table. Which meant (fortunately) that she didn't see Neal outside the door, staring right at Peter and waiting until the agent looked back at him through the glass wall. Neal wore a gleeful grin that was so big Peter thought his face might break. It made the smile Rita had just been complaining about look positively feeble by comparison.

When he caught Peter's eye, Neal nodded vigorously, pointed at Rita and mouthed three words: I love her.

Peter had to bite back a groan, so Rita wouldn't hear. He gave Neal his sternest glare, but his consultant wasn't intimidated. Instead, he threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as he strolled away.

Rita was right; he was an unbelievable smart ass. Not that that was any sort of news flash to Peter.

At that moment, Rita looked up, but thank God, Neal had already turned away and Peter had gotten his own expression back to normal. They watched Neal go, observing as he stopped to chat with a youngish agent at the top of the stairs. Both men were laughing, the agent appearing to protest vigorously before finally taking out his wallet and handing Neal what looked like a twenty-dollar bill.

Rita swiveled back to glance at Peter. "Do I want to know why money's changing hands out there?"

"What money?" Peter asked innocently. He'd already averted his gaze.

"And here I thought FBI agents were trained to be keen observers of the world around them."

"Oh, we are. But we're also trained to employ discretion when circumstances call for it."

That got a real laugh out of her, before she turned serious.

"Peter, look, I didn't know the backstory about why Caffrey ended up back in prison." Peter knew Rita well enough to realize that this wasn't an apology per se—but that she did regret forcing Neal to relive something that was obviously still quite painful.

He gave her a wry look. "I figured. Very few people know the details. Which is exactly how I wanted it." Peter appreciated that she didn't ask for any information, either, in spite of how curious he knew she must be. After a pause, he added, "It's okay, though. You're right: if Neal's gonna testify, he has to be prepared for anything. Obviously, you think Ramsey would ask about it."

"If he knew, sure." Rita let out a long sigh. "He does his homework, too. But you did a hell of a job keeping things under wraps. I only know Neal went back in because I work at Justice. And even if Ramsey does find out . . . well, Neal handled it pretty well."

"In fact," she mused, thinking out loud, "it might even help him with the jury."

Peter frowned with displeasure at the idea of Neal's recently-deceased girlfriend being used to score sympathy points in public.

"I know it's not pretty, but that's how we prosecutors think, Peter." When he shot her a forbidding look, she said quickly, "Take it easy. I'm sure as hell not gonna bring it up."

He nodded and then brought it back to the larger question. "So does that mean you're sold?"

It took her a few seconds to answer, which was unusual because Rita hardly ever hesitated. For a moment Peter really thought she was going to say no.

"I'm sold," she finally said. "To a point. I'll give him a shot. I just hope I don't regret it."

Peter glanced out through the glass again, watching Neal glide down the stairs, shrug out of his jacket, and sit down at his desk. "He'll be okay. He'll probably surprise you."

"In what way?"

"In how smooth—and earnest—he can be when he puts his mind to it," Peter told her. "And, as you saw, he doesn't get rattled. He doesn't need to hear me say it, but . . . he can be pretty damned impressive."

She nodded thoughtfully, checking her phone and slipping it into her briefcase. "As long as he's not too smooth, if you know what I mean."

Peter did know. "Yeah, Neal doesn't normally lack for self-assurance."

"I noticed," she said dryly. "And now that I've seen him up close, that's what worries me the most."

"I'll talk to him," he assured her. "You know, warn him again about being overconfident. Explain the importance of restraint."

Rita gave him a pitying look. "Yeah, well, good luck with that."

Less than an hour with Neal and she already had the man pegged, Peter thought admiringly. That was Rita for you.

"'Clever as the devil and twice as pretty,'" Rita murmured, almost to herself.

"What was that?"

"Oh nothing—just a line from a book my daughter was reading. One of those YA novels, you know, but not half bad. The lead character was a con artist and described as 'clever as the devil and twice as pretty.'"

Peter chuckled. "It kind of fits."

He walked her out to the elevator as they chatted about summer vacation plans and Rita's daughter's college search. Because Rita was in charge, the search was being conducted with all the precision and planning normally associated with a major military campaign.

Yep, that was Rita for you.


"I would love to have witnessed that," Elizabeth remarked after Peter had finished recounting the story.

"It is fun watching Neal work," Peter admitted. "He basically had Rita eating of his hand in no time, and she's no soft touch."

Elizabeth chuckled. "Well, Neal has a way."

"Yeah, he has a way, all right," Peter sighed. "And he knows it. So I did give him a mini-lecture on that very point."


When Peter returned to the office after Rita's departure, Neal was no longer at his desk, but he reappeared shortly thereafter. Perhaps he'd been extracting more cash from some other unsuspecting coworker, Peter thought with a sigh. If so, at least Neal had had the decency to do it where Peter couldn't see. Or pretend not to see. Whatever.

"Neal, got a minute?"

"For you, always," Neal said gravely.

Peter just sighed. Neal beamed at him in return and followed him up the stairs. When Peter looked back over his shoulder, he realized that Neal was practically bouncing.

Peter sighed again, loudly, and adding a head shake for good measure. He heard Neal chuckle quietly.

Once inside Peter's office, with both of them seated across from one another, Neal studied him, a glint of undisguised excitement in his eyes. "Peter, is Rita married?"

"As if I would ever, ever, even consider answering that question," Peter groaned. He leaned back in his chair, addressing the words to the ceiling, rather than to Neal.

"Because, like I said earlier, I think I might love her," Neal said earnestly. "You know, just a little bit."

"Please tell me you did not just say that. Because—"

Neal's smile was one of pure joy. "She gets me, Peter. Right away, she just . . . got me."

Peter, recognizing the telltale signs of Neal being thoroughly captivated, sighed one more time.

"And I love that. I always love that. You know—" here Neal paused to throw a meaningful look directly at Peter— "that's one of the secrets to our success—how much you get me. Rita's the same. Also, just like you, she's not easily charmed, which I admire. I do appreciate a challenge."

Peter stared at him. "Yes, I'm aware. And by the way, if this is a prelude to you saying that you love me," he added, "then we need to end this discussion right now."

"'Love' is a pretty strong term, and not one I would apply in your case," Neal assured him, looking alarmed. "Let's just say 'respect.'"

At that, Peter had to chuckle.

"So," Neal said, face alight with anticipation, "enough with the small talk. Did I pass?"

"You did," Peter answered. "Rita's on board. Now, are you ready for this?"

Neal's triumphant smile had quickly given way to a pained look. "You really have to ask?"

"Yes, Neal. I do. This is serious."

"No one's more acutely aware of the consequences of what goes on in a courtroom than I am," Neal reminded him.

Peter nodded. "True. And I know you can handle yourself."

Satisfaction spread across Neal's face. "Thank you."

"So I'm only going to give you one piece of advice."

Neal's expression shifted just a fraction, satisfaction fading a bit, but he waited patiently.

"It's more or less what Rita said. Don't give them the full Neal."

Neal raised an eyebrow and looked a question at him.

"You know what I mean," Peter said, frowning.

"I'm not sure I do." Neal frowned back.

"Most people are a little . . . nervous when they testify in court. They at least show some evidence of being appropriately anxious in the presence of the judge, the jury, standing up in front of a bunch of people. Not to mention the whole 'I could go to jail if I lie' thing."

Neal pursed his lips, apparently taking this all in. Almost as if the very idea of being nervous about appearing in court was new to him.

Maybe because it was, Peter thought, sighing inwardly. Nervousness was not an emotion one normally associated with Neal.

"I know, because you're you, that you don't feel that," Peter continued. "But you might want to consider . . . I don't know . . . faking it."

The younger man chuckled. "Peter, I can be pretty convincing when I want to be. I think you know that."

Peter let out an exasperated sigh. "Like I said, this isn't a con, Neal. And the jury's going to know you're a criminal with a predisposition to lie. That's gonna make them harder to convince."

Neal narrowed his eyes and considered it. "You're saying I should fake being nervous to make myself more credible? Interesting strategy." He smiled. "And a touch devious, coming from you."

Peter ignored the last bit, because it was kind of devious, but he didn't want to think too hard about that aspect. "It's a short trip from charming and confident to smug and arrogant. You look too calm, too slick, you look like a professional liar. That's just what we don't want."

"I'll take it under advisement," was the most Neal would allow, nodding thoughtfully.

Peter couldn't help thinking: Clever as the devil, indeed.


Stuck in her car, cursing, Rita tried not to think of Neal as he must be right now. It hadn't taken long for her to see a little of what Peter saw in Neal. It hadn't taken long her to be impressed—wholly in spite of herself.

To distract herself from obsessing over Neal's current state, she thought of what he'd been like in the courtroom that day.

Of how frighteningly easy the bastard had made all of it look.

The trial didn't happen right away. Because his client had gotten bail, Ramsey didn't hesitate to file numerous pre-trial motions (the standard, bordering-on-frivolous tactics), and then requested a continuance to delay the trial. Rita's caseload was heavy enough that she wasn't going to complain about a postponement. Her evidence wasn't going anywhere.

As long as Caffrey didn't either escape or get himself thrown into the slammer again, that is.

So it took a while, but a few weeks later, it was showtime. Rita had been a prosecutor long enough to know just how apt that description was. A trial was a carefully orchestrated production, with everyone playing their pre-determined roles, repeating the lines they'd rehearsed, and hoping to impress the audience—the jury. The question that nagged at her was whether Neal could stay on script—and how good his improv skills would be under pressure.

Because with Ramsey conducting the interrogation, Neal surely was going to need them.

For his very first courtroom appearance (well, as a government witness, anyway), Neal was wearing a suit-and-tie combo that, as the kids would say, killed. Nothing too flashy, nothing too eye-catching, but he looked . . . well, basically he looked like the perfect witness. Serious and upstanding and trustworthy. Well dressed, but not overdressed. Like he knew the occasion was important but he wasn't trying too hard.

And handsome as hell, too. Which, Rita had to admit, didn't hurt.

When she called him to the stand, Neal walked to the front of the courtroom, made immediate eye contact with the jury after he turned, swore his oath, and sat gracefully. She was pleased to see that he'd heeded her warning about that over-the-top smile of his—the expression on his face was perfectly sober. And Neal's manner as he answered her questions was affable, earnest, relaxed. Maybe a little too relaxed, Rita thought with a flicker of worry, but she pushed that thought out of her mind as she put Neal through his paces.

Occasionally she'd switch from watching Neal to observing the jury watch Neal. Good litigators were attuned to the mood of the jury at all times. There had been a noticeable uptick, as if a jolt of electricity had shot through the room, when Neal took the stand. The jurors, who'd been collectively slumped over after some dry-as-toast testimony from a document expert, sat up straighter at the sight of Neal. Not surprising; Neal was the kind of person who could wake up a room just by walking into it. In fact, that was exactly why Rita had scheduled Neal after the expert. She was counting on him to refocus the jury, and she'd been right.

Every single juror was fully engaged from the moment Neal walked to the witness stand.

The assembled citizens had reacted with predictable looks of surprise (and some disapproval) when Rita asked Neal to detail his criminal record. She quickly balanced that out with an exploration of Neal's successes as an FBI consultant. Neal, for his part, displayed what seemed to be an ideal mixture of remorse over his criminal past (regret that Rita suspected was completely manufactured but nonetheless appeared sincere to the untrained eye) and eagerness to talk about his work on the right side of the law.

As an officer of the court, Rita tried not to think about how closely Neal was skirting perjury when he talked oh-so-earnestly about seeing the error of his criminal ways. Neal was so damn good, though, that she and Peter Burke were probably the only two people in the room who would ever even think to doubt that Caffrey was speaking anything but the truth.

And when he talked about his consulting job, Neal actually sounded almost . . . proud. That part, she found easier to believe.

Well, a little easier.

Just like they'd discussed, at the end, she served up one last, open-ended softball of a question to Neal about his position at the FBI. This gave Neal a chance to talk a bit more about his role, the kinds of cases he worked on, and a few of the successes he'd contributed to. Again, just like they'd planned.

Satisfied with the answer—it was right out of the script—Rita was about to move on to the specifics of Petrocelli's operation when Neal signaled her to wait, leaning forward a bit, every bit of his body language saying this was important, this meant something.

"You know, given my history, I didn't know if anyone could believe that I could change, that I could do the right thing," Neal said, and you could hear what sounded like genuine emotion in his voice. He looked away for a few seconds before continuing.

Okay, this had definitely not been in the script.

Rita watched him warily. Neal responded with just the smallest of eyebrow raises and a half-smile which probably looked to the jury like he was embarrassed at revealing more than he'd meant to (but Rita knew was really a mini-apology aimed in her direction).

And Neal wasn't finished.

"Fortunately for me, one person did believe it. Special Agent Burke"—here Neal paused to look straight at Peter—"took a chance on me. He's given me an opportunity to make up for what I've done, to make a real contribution. And that has meant the world to me."

Rita turned slightly, following Neal's gaze so she could look at Peter. Almost as one, the judge and jury did the same.

Peter sat very still, aware, of course, that everyone was watching him. As he looked back at his consultant, the corners of Peter's mouth turned up at this unforeseen bit of praise, and glancing back at Neal, Rita saw him respond with a small, knowing smile of his own.

From Rita's perspective, the whole scene was all very calculated—frighteningly so, if she were honest about it. But the jury appeared to be buying it. Neal had apparently heeded Peter's warning to dial things down, and, coupled with this little display of emotion, it was working. So far, overall, she thought, the jury liked Neal. Liking wasn't the same as believing, but it was often a prerequisite.

Satisfied, Rita shot a quick glance at Clayton Ramsey, who had also turned to stare at Peter. Ramsey had the look of someone who was eager to start his cross-examination. He turned back to Neal, eyeing him like prey.

Returning to her witness, Rita let the moment sink in before moving on to her next question. The rest of Neal's direct examination went as planned.

Both Rita and Peter had been worried about the cross examination, of course. Neal could make virtually anyone like him. But that was a whole lot harder to pull off when the jury knew about your criminal record. And defense attorneys like Clayton Ramsey drove BMWs and had lavish second homes in the Hamptons in large part because of their ability to trip up witnesses.

From the beginning, Ramsey peppered Neal with the expected questions about his record, his past, anything to impeach him in the minds of the jurors. Neal parried them smoothly, with the perfect mix of humility and rueful regret.

"And you typically associate with criminals?" the attorney asked at one point.

Neal's tone was earnest, the look on his face utterly innocent. "If we were all judged by our associations . . . well, we'd all be a bit tarnished, wouldn't we?"

Rita blinked, fighting to keep her expression neutral. Clayton Ramsey was well-known to defend some of the biggest mobsters in the city. Neal had done his research.

The attorney had objected, the judge had ordered the non-responsive answer stricken from the record. But the damage was done, judging from the knowing looks on several jury members' faces. Neal had made his point.

And it was only the start. By the end of the cross-examination that Ramsey had clearly thought was going to cinch things for his client, the man looked utterly harried. Even though she'd been dealing with Neal for only a short time, Rita could sympathize better than anyone (well, better than anyone except Peter, of course).

Rita's favorite part came when Ramsey used a standard litigator's trick of abruptly switching topics. He'd been forcing Neal to detail every charge that had been leveled against him. Rita was annoyed that the judge was giving Ramsey the leeway to engage in what she thought was repetition, but she didn't want to object unless she had to; Neal certainly didn't need the help. She'd been making a note about the next witness and waiting for Ramsey to ask Neal about the racketeering charge, the only one he hadn't listed yet. But Ramsey's next query turned out to be a complete non sequitur.

"How would you describe the man who caught you—Agent Peter Burke?"

Looking up sharply, Rita felt a quick flash of worry. Neal had opened himself up to this with his little speech about Peter earlier. Ramsey probably would have gone down this road anyway, but Neal had pretty much guaranteed it.

If the sudden shift in questioning surprised him, though, Neal didn't show it. He really was a cool customer, one of the coolest Rita had ever encountered.

"As I explained earlier, Agent Burke is my . . ." Neal paused for a beat, searching for a word and appearing not flummoxed but contemplative, "supervisor with the FBI."

Rita almost smiled. There were so many words Neal could have used to describe Peter; she wondered if he'd already anticipated where Ramsey was going with this.

Ramsey raised an eyebrow and, in a bit of theatrics, turned to make sure the jury could see his skeptical expression. "Oh, I'd say he's a bit more than that," he observed. "I mean, based on what you've told us here today, Agent Burke sounds more like a . . . benefactor." Ramsey laid a heavy, scornful emphasis on the last word, making it sound like an epithet.

Neal tilted his head, looking thoughtful and waiting for the attorney to finish. When he didn't, Neal said, "I'm sorry, is there . . . are you asking a question?" His tone was polite as he glanced over at the judge. With approval, Rita noticed that the jury was following suit.

Judge Harmon sat up, apparently a little startled at suddenly being the focus of attention, and intoned, "He's got a point, Counselor. If you've got a question, ask it. Otherwise, save the commentary for your closing statement."

"Of course, Your Honor," Ramsey said, perfectly agreeable, but his smile was, to Rita's experienced eye, hollow, and she could hear the almost imperceptible edge in his voice. He was irritated that Neal had scored a point, however minor.

Watch out, Neal, Rita couldn't help thinking. Recognizing the telltale signs of Ramsey about to go in for the kill, she stared at Caffrey, trying to warn him with her gaze.

Neal wasn't looking at her, though. Ramsey had taken two steps to stand right in front of him, coming close and leaning in. Trying to reassert control, no doubt. Neal met his gaze with complete calm, not flinching, not even blinking.

"Do you get paid for your FBI servitude, Mr. Caffrey?"

Neal smiled faintly at Ramsey's portrayal of his position, but he didn't challenge it. "No."

"You don't like the word 'servitude,'" Ramsey remarked, his voice derisive. "But it fits. I mean, you don't do this out of the goodness of your heart, do you?"

"Well, as I explained earlier, my work is a condition of my release," Neal said, adding quickly, "But I find it very satisfying—surprisingly so."

Ramsey let out an unpleasant little laugh. "Surprising? I don't find it surprising that a criminal such as yourself would be far more satisfied roaming the streets of New York than you'd be pacing in your six-by-eight cell in supermax."

"Oh, I think that's a given," Neal agreed tranquilly. "But that wasn't what I meant. I was talking about how satisfying it is to do something good." He looked over at the jury, an almost sheepish expression on his face. "I know it sounds clichéd, but I never would have thought I'd get such a real sense of fulfillment from this work, from . . . helping people."

"Because you've spent your whole life cheating people," Ramsey observed in a caustic tone.

"I have done some of that, yes," Neal allowed. "In the past. But I don't think I'm that person anymore."

"What a touching tale of redemption," Ramsey retorted sarcastically. "And what about Agent Burke? Does he buy this story?"

Rita could have objected, since this question should properly be addressed to Peter, but she held her tongue, trusting Neal to handle it.

Neal smiled. "Well, you'd have to ask him. But I will say that one of the things I admire most about Agent Burke is how smart he is—and how difficult it is to pull anything over on him. More than anyone, he sees me for what I am."

Damn, Rita thought, admiring how adroitly Neal had used the question and answer to build Peter's credibility.

Neal really was every bit as good as Peter had assured her he would be.

"Well, apparently, Agent Burke sees you for a man who has to wear an ankle bracelet twenty-four hours a day," Ramsey countered. "A man whose movements are highly restricted and constantly monitored. Because you can't be trusted not to run the first chance you get."

"Actually, it's standard procedure for someone in my situation to be limited, since I'm still serving my sentence," Neal observed. He sounded like he was trying to be merely helpful and Rita mentally applauded. "And the conditions of my work release were established by the Justice Department, not Agent Burke,"

Ramsey shook his head. Though he gave no outward sign, Rita could well imagine how pissed he must be at how this was going. "Given your extensive criminal history, it sounds as if you'd be locked up—many times over—if not for Agent Burke."

Watching Neal intently, Rita saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. That last comment of Ramsey's had triggered a reaction. All she could think was, don't blow this now, Neal. Don't challenge him. Just let it go.

"That's probably accurate," Neal said after just the slightest hesitation. Rita let out a small sigh of relief.

"So, would it also be accurate, Mr. Caffrey, to say that you owe Agent Burke quite a bit?"

Neal thought about it. "I suppose you could put it that way."

"And you don't want to go back to prison, do you, Mr. Caffrey?"

"I would prefer to serve the remainder of my sentence on work-release, yes."

"Who wouldn't? Which makes me wonder how far you'd go to stay out of prison," Ramsey mused. "Would you be willing to, oh, I don't know, lie in court to assist your patron, Agent Burke, in making a case against my client?"

The incredulous look on Neal's face was a sight to behold; anyone watching might have thought Ramsey had just asked Neal's opinion on the existence of extraterrestrials. "If you're implying that Agent Burke would ask me to lie on the stand, that's preposterous. Agent Burke is . . . a Boy Scout. He would no more ask me to lie in court than you w—" Neal stopped mid-word, as if realizing that was not the best analogy in the world before resuming, "than any upstanding officer of the law would."

Keeping a straight face after that delicate-but-devastating dig at Ramsey was one of the hardest things Rita had ever done.

And how brilliantly Neal had calibrated that answer—so that it was all about Peter's trustworthiness (and not his own). With Neal's background, it was easy to believe he might lie. But it was much harder to believe that Peter would ask him to, and thanks to Neal's response, that's what the jury would be focused on.

The cross-examination went on like that for some time. Ramsey came at Neal hard. He came at him repeatedly. He came at him with everything he had.

But Clayton Ramsey never laid a glove on him.

.

When Neal's testimony concluded, the judge called for a recess. Rita and Peter waited in a tiny conference room for court to resume. Neal had excused himself, either to go to the restroom or to make a triumphant phone call to Mozzie (maybe both, Peter thought).

"So, is Caffrey available for consults?" Rita asked as she closed the door to give them some privacy. "As an expert witness, maybe? Hell, after that performance, I'd like to use him on all my cases."

Peter groaned. "I don't need that kind of stress in my life."

"Hey, you were the one who told me from the beginning there was nothing to worry about. That Neal could pull this off like a pro."

"Yeah, well, the reality of it is still pretty damn stressful. Neal can be . . . unpredictable."

"Like when he went off on that little tangent about you," Rita commented. "We didn't rehearse that, you know. That was Neal speaking off the cuff."

"Oh, just because the two of you didn't rehearse it does not mean it was off the cuff." Peter's voice was definitive.

Rita eyed him thoughtfully, saying nothing.

"Neal has an almost limitless capacity to pull stunts that are so crashingly, stupidly impulsive they'll make your head spin," Peter explained. "But, putting aside those moments of sheer insanity—which tend to involve something illegal—he's actually very careful about most of what he does. Neal likes to cultivate the appearance of spontaneity, but there's a lot more premeditation than he lets on."

"Well, premeditated or not, when Neal talked about you—that was a great moment," Rita noted. "The jury really liked it."

Peter gave a little shrug and said, his tone carefully light, "This is Neal we're talking about, though. Odds are, he doesn't really mean it."

"Agent Burke!" Rita sounded scandalized. "Are you telling me you don't buy this 'touching tale of redemption'?" They both laughed as she added, sober now, "You're being a little cynical, Peter."

A small smile was Peter's only response.

"You're actually serious." Rita stared at him. "Look, Peter, I've been in enough courtrooms to know when a witness is lying. Or fudging. And Neal wasn't."

She paused before continuing. "Did he know what effect it would have on the jury? Absolutely. But that doesn't change the fact that he was speaking from the heart. Simple truth, Peter—more effective than any lie. And before you try to argue with me—do you remember what I told Neal that first day we met?"

The agent chuckled. "You told him you're always right."

"Bingo," she retorted. "And don't you forget it."

….

On the matter of Neal's courtroom usefulness, though, Peter was the one who'd been right. Rita's initial doubts had been proven unfounded, and she'd never been so happy to be wrong.

Petrocelli went down on every count. The trial—featuring Neal's first appearance as a government witness—was a smashing success.


Peter was staring off into space, lost in thought.

"In the end," Elizabeth said gently, putting her hand on his arm to draw his gaze back to her face, "you told me Neal did just fine in court. He helped you get a conviction. And you told me what he said about you. How appreciative he was."

"I also told you that I didn't know whether to believe that or not," he reminded her. He hadn't told Rita, but the truth was, he'd been surprisingly affected by that little speech of Neal's. The rush of pleasure he'd felt had been wholly unexpected.

Elizabeth just shook her head. "You said Rita believed it."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You don't even know Rita."

"But you do, Peter. And you trust her. Which is good enough for me."

They exchanged a smile, but Peter thought, with a pang of regret, about how he'd wished he could ask Neal about what he'd said in court that day. Maybe approach it jokingly, try to see how Neal reacted.

Try to gauge how much of it Neal had really meant.

Peter had never done it, though. And now . . . now he might not ever get the chance.

TBC . . . .

A/N—The line "clever as the devil and twice as pretty" is from the novel White Cat by Holly Black.

Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing. With regard to this chapter – several of you have commented how much of a presence Neal is in this story, despite being out of commission. But I kind of missed him actually being there (not to mention Peter and Neal together) – hence the flashback this time around. For those of you growing impatient: remaining chapters will be back to the present day, I promise. And I'm sorry for the length of time since the last post. In the past, I've been one of those authors who keep readers waiting too long for that next chapter, and I really didn't want to be one of those authors again. So I'm striving to do better this time around (but I had laptop battery issues to resolve before I could get this chapter up). Will try to keep on pace in the future. Finally, if you have time to leave a comment, I hope you will! I'm always insanely curious as to what resonated with you as a reader. All reviews are greatly appreciated and will be answered . . . .