Title: Mistaken Identity

Chapter 10: Get Me Outta Here

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Charlie walked slowly in front of Montero, each footstep provoking new pain in his neck. He breathed shallowly, jerkily, trying not to inhale too deeply and irritate his damaged rib cage. Montero stopped at a communal bathroom, empty at this hour. It was the same place he had taken Charlie to shave the day before. He held out the shaving apparatus and Charlie shook his head slightly, wincing, trying not to jar his neck. "I don't want to shave." I hurt too much.

Montero thrust the razor and shaving cream at him, angrily. "You will make yourself presentable, or you will not have your visit."

Charlie looked at him, miserably, and took the toiletries from him. He could barely stand to lift his arms. Painful minutes later, bearing a less-than-immaculate shave, he stepped carefully toward the door, where Montero was waiting. He held out a clean jumpsuit. "You will change."

Charlie hesitated. After what had happened the night before, the last thing he wanted to do was strip in front of another man. He took the garment slowly, carefully, and shuffled to the other side of a wall that sectioned off the communal shower, and painfully stripped out of his torn jumpsuit and donned the clean one. Finally, he met Montero's approval. He stepped out, the handcuffs were applied, and they made their way down the hallway.

He had to stop once, swaying with dizziness. The piece of bread yesterday morning was all the food he'd had in over two days, and he was feeling the effects of the lack of nourishment. In spite of the dizziness and the pain, however, Charlie's short steps began to lengthen and quicken, as he drew nearer to the interview room. It had seemed almost like a dream, but he really was going to get to see them – his family was on the other side of the door.

As much as he wanted to see them, he was afraid – afraid he wouldn't be able to hold in the emotion, the fear. They would see it and know what happened. They would protest to the warden, and Montero would hand him over to the other prisoners. He would be violated and killed before he could be freed. Even worse was the pervasive sensation that he was dirty. It would disgust them to know that another man had touched him, especially Don. Can't let them see how afraid you are. Can't let them know what happened. Keep yourself together. An odd mix of joy and terror swirled inside him, as Montero opened the door.

Alan caught his breath and rose from the table as the door opened. Charlie stepped through slowly, carefully, his face pinched and white, and Alan stood and moved toward him automatically, as if to embrace him. "Charlie -," he said brokenly.

"Stop," commanded Montero, stepping forward. "No contact with prisoners. Stay on your side of the table."

Alan paused, his eyes filling with tears, and Charlie froze for a moment, just staring at him; then glanced with trepidation at Montero.

As his eyes moved, they met Don's, and Don tried hard not to react. His brother's face was filled with despair and fear. As Charlie glanced sideways at the guard, Don knew without question – his brother was clearly terrified. His heart sank, as he watched Charlie shuffle slowly to the table, and sink carefully into a chair, his slight figure tense, nearly swallowed by the hideous mustard-yellow jumpsuit.

Charlie's heart dropped at the guard's words; he wanted more than anything to be held by his father right now, for someone to tell him it was going to be okay. He could see the commiseration in Alan's eyes, the obvious love there, and he clung to the sight mentally, trying to draw strength from it.

As he glanced at Don, however, his heart dropped even further. There was no such expression in his brother's eyes; they were dark, and he had his game face on – nearly expressionless except for a slight scowl. In spite of himself, Charlie felt doubt creep into his mind; doubt generated by his brother's recent decision to develop the FBI course without him. Don looked angry, irritated. He wasn't here because he wanted to be, Charlie realized with a pang; he was here because he had to be. Don was here for Alan's sake – to help him bail out his disgrace of a son. Even if Don knew he wasn't guilty, he had to be exasperated by Charlie's inability to stay out of trouble – the gullibility that allowed him to get into this mess.

Don watched Charlie sit slowly, and saw his eyes flicker toward him, then away. He was trying hard to control his emotions, the anger he felt at seeing Charlie so helpless, so afraid. He still couldn't tell for sure if Charlie was hurt, or if his reactions were slowed by the fear, the despair. He took a chair at the end of the table, unconsciously picking the seat nearest the guard.

Tolliver muttered in Reyes' ear as the Eppes family exchanged greetings. "He looks worse than yesterday."

Reyes studied the young man, his face outwardly composed. Dr. Eppes was younger-looking than he expected, and his heart sank as he looked at his client's slight build, the head of curls. Eppes would be a natural target in this hellhole. Reyes' request that they talk to Charles Eppes alone had been denied, and he could only imagine why. He glanced at the guard, trying to figure out a way to communicate.

He held out his hand, and Charlie took it, awkwardly. 'Was the awkwardness generated by the handcuffs, or something else?' wondered Reyes. His client was sitting rigidly, moving stiffly, as if he was in pain, but he could see no apparent injuries. "I'm Jaime Reyes, your attorney," he said.

Charlie looked at Alan, then at Tolliver. "How is Amita?"

Tolliver shot a warning glance at Alan, who had opened his mouth. He hadn't had a chance to tell them that he had glossed over her condition a bit. "The same," Joe answered, before Alan could speak.

Charlie's face fell. "Still unconscious? She hasn't woken up at all?"

Alan had picked up on the fact that Charlie didn't realize how bad her condition was, and he kept wisely silent, as Tolliver answered with a quiet negative.

Reyes started shuffling through his briefcase suddenly. "I had your father sign a form that retains me as your attorney," he said, "but I need you to sign it also." He was making a show of plowing through the papers, and Don scowled in annoyance. He could see the paper right there on top. Maybe this guy wasn't the hotshot everyone said he was.

"It's right there," he said, irritation in his voice.

Reyes smiled and glared at him, speaking through clenched teeth. "That's not it." He pulled out a pad and began to write on it, speaking to Charlie. "I'll just write one up quickly, and have you sign it."

Don glanced idly at the tablet, annoyed that the man was so caught up in paperwork; then did a double take. From his angle, he could see what Reyes was writing.

I'm going to ask you some questions. I know you can't answer truthfully with the guard here. Whenever you respond with a lie, tap the table with your finger.

Don looked across the table, and met Alan's eyes. His father had read it, too. Alan's gaze shifted unconsciously to the guard, then away. 'Don't look at him, Dad,' thought Don, trying to fight the urge to glance at the man also. He looked instead at Reyes, with new respect. Maybe the guy had a brain, after all.

Charlie had grown silent, staring at the table after receiving news of Amita, and dejectedly took the pen the attorney offered him. He moved his hands in a position to write; then stopped as his eyes fell on the words. His eyes lifted briefly to Reyes' then he gave a slight nod, and signed the tablet.

Reyes took the tablet and the pen and looked at Charlie. "How have they been treating you?"

"Okay," answered Charlie, looking back at him. His cuffed hands were resting on the table, his body blocking them from Montero's view. His left forefinger tapped the table, twice. Alan swallowed. The taps said his son was lying – he wasn't okay. He could see the fear, the unsaid messages, in his son's dark eyes.

"Have you been getting enough to eat?"

"Yes." Tap, tap. Reyes began taking down his responses on a second sheet of paper. Montero stood, impassively observing them. Alan wondered frantically if he had any food, and began to fumble in his pockets.

"You were in the general population yesterday. They were supposed to take you out and put you in a cell of your own. Did they?"

Charlie's eyes bored back into Reyes'. "Yes." Tap, tap. Don felt a slow burn start, a simmering fury in his gut. He set his jaw, and he saw Charlie glance at him, fearfully.

"While you were in the general population, were you assaulted physically?"

Charlie shot a quick glance at Montero. "No." This time he tapped with not one finger, but two. "Twice," thought Reyes, and he exchanged a glance with Tolliver. Beyond Tolliver, he could see Alan Eppes, mightily trying to hold back tears, rubbing a hand over his face as if from fatigue. To Reyes' left, Don Eppes sat with one leg crossed, and from Montero's viewpoint Don's arm rested casually across it, the hand apparently hanging out of sight under the table. From where Reyes sat, he could see that hand – Agent Eppes was grasping the leg of the table so tightly that his knuckles where white, his eyes dark with fury.

Reyes turned his gaze back to his client, and tried hard to hide the concern in his own eyes. The man was probably injured, or worse…

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly less confident. "While you were in the general population, did anyone assault you sexually?"

Don watched, his heart his throat, as Charlie froze, raw pain in his eyes. He glanced quickly at Alan, then at Don himself, swiftly averting his eyes, refusing to hold their gaze.

Charlie's stomach churned, as a feeling of horror and shame engulfed him. Had the act been completed, or not? If it hadn't, then it didn't count, right? He tried to ignore the memory of the pawing hands ripping his clothes, the hot breath on his neck. Didn't count, didn't count…

Reyes watched him, his brow furrowed. "Dr. Eppes?"

"No," said Charlie quietly, staring at the table. No taps.

Don stared back at him, scarcely daring to breathe. Charlie? Please, no…

"You're sure," said Reyes.

"I'm sure." The hands were still. Charlie's eyes flickered toward Don, then away, and Don knew. He could see the relief in his father's face, but he knew better. After years of questioning witnesses and criminals, he could tell when someone was lying, finger taps or not. Charlie was lying – dear God, he was lying… He rose suddenly. He couldn't stay in that room – he was going to explode. "I need to use the restroom," he said gruffly, and Montero inclined his head toward the door.

"Go to your right, second door on the left."

He barely made it out, before the tears came.

When he came back in, moments later, Alan looked at him with a hopeful expression. Don walked past the guard, fighting down the urge to strangle him. "Donny," Alan said, "Charlie thinks he knows who planted the drugs."

Don sat, his face set in flint, because any other expression would give him away. Charlie looked at him uncertainly. "I don't know who planned it, or why," he said quietly, "but I do know that one of the flight attendants had my bag, with no good explanation for it, and she was also the one who gave Amita and I our drinks. I think she spiked them, and planted the drugs in my bag."

Reyes looked at Don. "We should check out the flight crew."

Don nodded. "Already being done." He watched Charlie, who was sitting, ramrod straight, staring at his hands in his lap. "Colby's on it," he added softly, for Charlie's benefit. His brother had glanced up as Reyes spoke, without lifting his head, and Don suddenly knew the reason for the rigidness, the odd posture. He remembered moving that way himself once, years ago, after he rolled a car in a chase. Charlie wasn't moving his head. His neck – he must have hurt his neck.

Charlie glanced at his brother, almost against his will. Don knew the truth about the sexual assault – his reaction when Charlie answered Reyes' questions made it clear. Don was disgusted with him – so disgusted he had to leave the room. Charlie was suddenly, keenly aware of his position in his brother's life. His brother's willingness to do the course without him had made it perfectly clear. All of these years, Don had barely tolerated him, for his father's sake, interfacing with him only when it was convenient, when he needed a case solved. Now that Charlie was a hindrance instead of a help, it was painfully obvious – Don couldn't stand him. He could read it in his face. The only reason he was here was for Alan, and to keep the family name from being dragged into the muck. The thought generated such despair; he almost didn't hear the lawyer's next words.

Reyes looked at Charlie. "I told your father and brother I entered a motion to have you released on bail this morning." He glanced at the clock on his cell phone. "We should be hearing from them any minute. I'm hoping if they call soon, we may be able to take you with us."

Charlie stared at him, incredulously. Bail. He hadn't thought about bail. Granted, this was another country; he didn't understand their legal system, but apparently they had a bail system here too. He could feel a knot start to unravel in his gut. He might get out – hell, he might not have to go back in at all…the thought brought a surge of relief that was so intense it was almost painful.

Alan's eyes misted at the look of hope in his son's eyes. They could get Charlie out, get him to a doctor, get him some food…He glanced down and spotted a candy bar in Reyes' briefcase, and grabbed it. "Here, Charlie, eat this while you wait."

Montero scowled. "No food -," he began.

Don swiveled to face him, his eyes furious. "Stuff it." Montero regarded the naked hate in the other man's eyes for a moment, and then shrugged. He knew when to pick his battles.

Charlie took the candy, realizing that his appetite was returning along with the sense of relief. He fumbled with the wrapper, and as the aroma of chocolate hit his nose, he thought nothing had ever smelled so good.

Don watched, with rising nausea, as his brother devoured the candy bar. Charlie was obviously ravenous…unfed…mistreated… beaten...sexually assaulted…his thoughts swirled in a misty blackness, fed by rage. He realized dimly that a phone was ringing, and came to his senses as Reyes flipped opened his cell phone and rose from the table, stepping across the room.

All of them watched anxiously as Reyes spoke in rapid Spanish, his voice rising – except for Charlie. His neck hurt too much to turn his head or his body, and so he sat there, rigidly, watching the other's faces. He saw Tolliver, who could understand the Spanish, frown first. Don knew Spanish too, and Charlie looked at him; he wore an identical expression. He heard Reyes' voice rise in frustration; and saw the look of concern cross his father's face. His heart had begun a steady descent, even before Reyes clicked the phone shut, and walked back around the table to face him.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Eppes," said Reyes, his eyes radiating compassion. "Bail was denied. The judge thinks you're a flight risk. Don't worry, I'm going to appeal – I will file a new motion to have you put on house arrest instead. It will just take a little time…"

Charlie sat numbly, as voices swirled around him, his father and Don erupting in outrage. His eyes traveled sideways, as if possessing a dark will of their own, toward the guard, and he caught Montero's evil smile. Montero held Charlie's eyes, the angry voices faded as the guard's gaze consumed him, and Charlie knew, with awful certainty, that there was nothing, once again, between him and hell.

End, Chapter 10