SEGREGATION UNIT, US DOJ METROPOLITAIN DETENTION CENTER
Don awoke slowly, relaxed and savoring a comfortably warm and sleepy state for a while longer. It was the soundest night's sleep he'd gotten since his arrest, blissfully free of tension and of the hyper-awareness of every sound outside his cell. Free of the sick sensation of being wrongfully accused.
Peaceful. Yeah, that was it. His eyes drifted open. Nothing had changed; he was still locked in the same cell, and it looked exactly as it had during the previous eighteen days.
No, everything had changed.
It was slow and imperfect and occasionally horrific, but the system, his system, was working. He hadn't realized until this very moment how important that was to him, how shattering it was to feel betrayed by it.
There were leads on his case; David and Charlie and all the others were doing what they did best, and it was working. A suspect had gone through a hell nobody intended, but the right people had cared enough to fix it. That there was enough to make Don relax and close his eyes again.
Faith, huh? Okay, I give.
There were footsteps approaching, and Don listened intently. They stopped outside the door to his cell. Don's muscles tightened, and he stopped breathing as he sat up and ditched the blanket. He didn't fear the detention officers, but despite the high security there was always a dogged survival instinct running "what-if" scenarios in the back of his mind. If it should ever be a prisoner with a handmade gun or some other assault outside the door, he wasn't about to be caught napping.
"From your lawyer," said an officer in a bored voice. He stuffed a manila envelope through the access hatch in the door. It fell to the floor and he walked on.
Don picked up the envelope and removed the contents.
So much for breathing. He sat heavily on the bunk, the disconnected part of his brain marveling at how much this felt like going into shock from an injury. His head was spinning, tiny spots obscuring his vision. His heart was racing, and he felt cold. And sick.
This doesn't change anything, Eppes. It was coming. You knew it was coming, get it together. He braved another look at the official documents that so simply and plainly shoved a dagger right into his heart.
He'd seen so many of these. It was a simple notice of a criminal jury trial date, in this case nearly two months in the future. He'd never seen one with his name in simple black capital letters as the defendant.
Breathe, Eppes. Get over it. Move on, adapt, deal. You know the drill. Fear does nothing, grief does nothing, you deal with what's in front of you and right now, this is it. Breathe.
His breath was coming in deep, gasping breaths, but finally his heart began to slow, and through sheer force of will his vision cleared. He still felt sick, but he forced himself to stand, propping up the papers on the narrow metal shelf above the bed. He left the damning black text visible. It would stay there until it lost its power over him.
He prowled back and forth, staring at it. Ran the water in the sink and splashed it on his face, drank several large gulps from his cupped hands. Another look at the damn papers.
It was a hell of a time to be locked in a cell, when he wanted to run, kick the living daylights out of a punching bag, or at the very least drive too fast to the shooting range. Shock was finally giving way to adrenaline and anger, and he dropped to the floor and started doing pushups.
He didn't stop until his muscles gave out and he collapsed on the floor, gasping for air. His lungs were burning in protest, and he remembered his own words to Lobell about using physical pain to distract from emotional pain.
You're not painting in your own blood, Eppes, it's a damn workout. Big difference, okay?
Yeah, sure, this is healthy.
He opted to quit snarking at himself and launched into another round of pushups. When it became not a conscious decision to stop but a state of sheer physical collapse, he left himself splayed on the cool concrete floor. He was soaked with sweat and his entire upper body was quivering in fatigue, so he took another look up at the document.
His heart rate didn't change. It was impossible. His breathing, too, was out of the control of his freaked-out mind, and that meant he won. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the floor, struggling for breath, his mission accomplished.
WAR ROOM, FBI OFFICE, NINETEEN DAYS AFTER THE ARREST
"How'd it go at the crisis center?" asked David. "Any chance of a confession any time soon?"
Colby shook his head. "You had to send him to a private facility, didn't you?" David's frown prompted him to elaborate. "Nothing like being treated like the incarnation of evil. They blame everyone with a badge for putting him in jail as well as for not preventing his father from abusing him. I'm sure they'd like to pin global warming on me too."
"They know he did this to himself – right?" asked Charlie, his frown matching David's.
Colby sighed. "Yeah, though to be fair, Lobell does look like someone worked him over with a two-by-four. I'm thinking they're just not fans of law enforcement. Anyway, he's pretty much incoherent, and they think it'll be a week or two before he's in any state to talk to us."
David gave a frustrated groan. "Okay. Handwriting Analysis says the note wasn't written by our kid, let's get them working on who did write it."
"It wasn't Traxler Lobell," said Liz. "Nychev already checked, and he's having the lab search for a match right now."
US DOJ METROPOLITAIN DETENTION CENTER
"What's the matter, Don?"
He drummed his fingers on the table, finally meeting Charlie's gaze. "I got a trial date. Couple months from now."
"You –" Charlie's heart sank, and he closed his eyes. "God, it's really happening, isn't it? All this?"
"I wish it weren't," admitted Don. "But – here's the thing. I don't want you to feel like there's a deadline, and after that they line me up against a wall and shoot me. Even if this thing goes forward, a conviction can be overturned, okay?"
Charlie nodded, braving a look at Don out of the corner of his eyes. "If it goes forward – you will be convicted?"
"My lawyer says so. The AUSA wants to plea bargain for information. One of those situations where it really messes you up to be innocent," he said, well aware of the irony.
"Don…" Charlie's voice trailed off as words failed him. Five years ago, he wouldn't have recognized the stoic, only slightly off-kilter expression as what happened when Don Eppes got hit with the emotional equivalent of an armored truck. His brother's phrasing of the trial as an execution was anything but accident.
He took a deep breath. "Hey – even if twelve of your peers don't know you well enough to ignore the evidence, there is no way any of us are going to stop believing in you. We'll find the answer."
There was gratitude in Don's return gaze. "I know."
"We – we have leads now -" said Charlie finally, trying not to reach the emotional point of no return. It was finally starting to rub off on him, that graceful way the FBI agents stepped in to take the emotional lead when a colleague was pushed to the breaking point. The way they almost always managed to keep one cool head in the room.
Don's forehead creased in a thoughtful frown. "I dunno. The idea of Traxler Lobell setting me up – it just doesn't set right."
"Why not?" asked Charlie.
"It's – it's like career suicide for the guy. There's a reason mobsters and gangs generally avoid putting hits out on law enforcement, and this isn't much different." Don shook his head. "You take it out of the league of criminal against criminal and target a federal agent, that's not going to get your case dropped. That's more like deliberately putting yourself under a really pissed-off microscope."
Charlie nodded slowly, thinking it over. "Sam – do you think he made the recording?"
Don nodded. "Pretty sure he did. Or knew about it, at least. Maybe it wasn't Traxler that hired him. Could be someone with a more personal motive."
WAR ROOM, FBI OFFICE, TWENTY DAYS AFTER THE ARREST
Vic Nychev walked in and greeted them, flopping a file down on the desk. "It's your favorite bearer of bad news. These are the lab reports from the technicians who've been going over the audio equipment at Starscape Studio. They say there's no way it produced our recording."
David's head drooped. "That really wasn't what I was hoping to hear."
Charlie twisted his tie, unable to look at either of them. The patterns intertwined, stripes on one side and spots on the other creating an entirely different fabric.
"Don doesn't think it was Traxler Lobell who set him up." Charlie wasn't prepared for how faint his voice was.
"Did he have a better idea?" asked David.
"No," Charlie admitted.
"Then we'll keep chasing this, and see where it goes," said David. "I still want to know who wrote that note. And I want to see Traxler Lobell investigated for what he did to his family, even if he had nothing to do with Don."
"That was Don's point," said Charlie. "Lobell messes with an FBI agent, he comes under scrutiny he never would have been under before. You never would have even known about the missing mother if you hadn't pulled background on Sam."
"Yeah – well, nobody said criminals were smart," said Nychev.
"Don is," said Colby.
"I'm not sure I like how that came out," said Liz. Colby rolled his eyes and looked halfway tempted to stick his tongue out at her.
