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Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.
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"Justice is coming to all of us. No matter what the fuck we do." —The Comedian (movie)
The Dreibergs insisted that Walter and Chloe stay with them. Mona was kind enough to offer her room to the couple while she slept on the couch. After spending most of their first day sleeping off the exhausting trip, the newly arrived pair went to their appointed visit with the DA.
Chloe didn't know what to expect. The District Attorney's office was cluttered, yet there was an impression of order to it all. There was a large desk hidden somewhere under the mounds of case files, behind which sat a surprisingly diminutive Asian woman with silver-streaked raven hair cut sensibly short and intelligent almond-shaped eyes behind a pair of rimless spectacles. Upon the couple's entrance she flashed a welcoming smile and rose (standing, she was only a couple of inches taller than when she was seated). "Mr. and Mrs. Charleson, I'm District Attorney Nora Toshiro."
Each shook the woman's dainty out-thrust hand. A firm, dry grip. Short nails. That same hand indicated two comfortable-looking, if slightly aged, chairs. "Please, take a seat."
Toshiro resumed her own seat as the couple lowered themselves into the proffered chairs. She rested her hands before her on the desk's single cleared space, fingers interlaced, and leaned forward with an expression of professional earnestness. "Now, have either of you ever been involved in a trial before?"
Walter shook his head. Chloe shifted in her seat, feeling as if she were visiting the principal's office. "Um, I was called in for jury duty a couple of years ago." It was for a possession charge. When the judge indicated the accused and the young man turned to look at all the potential jurors, Chloe experienced a sudden, absurd impulse to wave at him. "Never got on the jury, though."
The DA's mouth creased in a tight little smile that was just shy of condescending. "Needless to say, this trial is considerably more high-profile. Unless the judge instructs otherwise, the courtroom is likely to be crowded with reporters. Their presence, along with the questions the defense is apt to throw at you, would create a highly stressful environment. Are you both certain you can handle this?"
"Would it make any difference if we said no?" Chloe asked.
Another smile, this time slightly rueful. "I'm afraid not. The evidence we have against Veidt is solid, but the most effective method to sway the jury is firsthand testimony. The defense is most likely to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. Having the two of you tell your side of what happened that day might help to eliminate any misplaced sympathies the jury might hold for the accused."
The couple looked at each other. "We'll do whatever's needed," Walter said.
Toshiro nodded. "There is a matter of some delicacy I must address."
Here it comes, Chloe thought.
"I have to ask, is there any truth whatsoever to the rumor that you are Walter Kovacs?"
"Since when does the DA care about baseless rumors?" Chloe deflected before her husband could respond.
Toshiro ignored her, regarded the silent redhead who unflinchingly returned her level stare. "I can assure you," she told him, "that if you are indeed Kovacs, and you cooperate fully—"
"I won't have to do any time?" he asked in a monotone voice that managed to convey a great deal of skepticism.
The attorney shook her head. "I'm afraid not. What we can offer is an extremely lenient prison sentence. One short enough that you would only have to miss a few years of your daughter's childhood. It's far better than what you could expect otherwise."
Walter frowned; every year of his child's life was far too precious to miss. He shook his head. "I am not Rorschach." Out of the DA's sight, Chloe squeezed her husband's hand. Walter squeezed back, grateful for her unspoken support.
Toshiro nodded, accepting his statement. If she experienced any disbelief, she kept it exceptionally well hidden. "I would like to run some questions by you, both ones I plan to ask as well as those the defense are most likely to cross-examine you with. Veidt's attorney will try to rattle you, and it's best to be prepared."
Both Chloe and Walter nodded.
Hours later, they exited the sterile warmth of the DA's office building for the frigid noise of the teeming city streets.
"That wasn't so bad," Chloe muttered, clutching Walter's arm with a tight grip that belied her statement. Some of the questions Toshiro threw at her bordered on offensive, implying such things as extortion and grabbing at fame without actually making any outright accusations. More than once both he and his wife had to bite back angry responses. Walter could only imagine how much worse it would be when they confronted Veidt's lawyer.
"You handled it well."
Chloe snorted. "Sure. I was about five seconds away from smackin' her. And she's supposed to be on our side!"
Walter pursed his lips. "Do you think I should have taken her offer? Told her who I was?"
She threw him a look of disbelief. "No. We already decided."
He sighed. "But a few years in prison instead of decades—"
"It's not going to happen." Chloe frowned at her husband's troubled profile. "Are you having second thoughts?" she asked quietly.
"Aren't you?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what it is. Maybe Danny's weird optimism's rubbing off on me, but I'm really starting to think everything will be okay."
Walter uttered a short, humorless laugh and tilted his head back, looking up at the cloudy sky. Why was it that his memories of the city were filled with cloudy days? He lowered his gaze and his eyes caught sight of something that made him pause mid-step. It was so sudden that Chloe accidentally gave his arm a yank when she kept going. She frowned at his odd behavior. "What is it?"
Instead of a response, Walter started to walk in a different direction, towing his puzzled wife along. They crossed the semi-busy street in a diagonal path, earning themselves one or two irritated honks from passing motorists. Walter seemed intent on a particular brick wall ahead of them, its weathered facade a mishmash of overlapping graffiti. He reached out with a gloved hand and traced the edge of a large blot that might once have been black but faded over the years to a grayish patina. Only when she watched the movements of his fingertips did Chloe's eyes discern the shape. She gasped. "Oh! They're…"
Walter nodded. Underneath the more recent colorful slashes and lines of unintelligible gang emblems was the faded image of a silhouetted couple. "Started showing up all over the place at the height of the last nuclear scare. Thought they looked like ghosts."
"Like those shadows left behind in Hiroshima," Chloe sighed. She leaned against her husband. "Y'know what I think they are?"
He shook his head.
"Two strangers passing by each other on the street, neither one of them knowing or caring about the other, until the Bomb suddenly falls." Walter could hear the capitalized B, just the way older generations pronounced the dreaded nuclear weapons; The Bomb. "They jump at the sudden flash of light," Chloe continued, "and turn to see the mushroom cloud blooming in the distance, roaring like an angry god, and they both understand at the same instant that it's the end. They turn to each other, see the exact same fear in each other's eyes; the fear of dying alone. So they rush into each other's arms, just before the shockwave hits, for one last moment of human contact."
Walter smiled at her. "Such a romantic."
Chloe laughed, somewhat embarrassed by her flight of fancy. "Well, what do you see?"
"At the time," he stared at the wall with remembered sadness, "I saw what I couldn't have."
The melancholy in his voice, in his ice-blue eyes, brought Chloe a sense of the loneliness her husband once experienced. She bit her lip, swallowed a lump in her throat. "And now?"
Walter turned to her, looked at her with an intense love that robbed her lungs of air. Her hand went to his rough cheek, his skin ruddy with the cold. He put his hands on her waist, stepped close to her. Smiling, they leaned into each other until their mouths met in a lingering kiss. They stood in a shared embrace amidst the indifferent passersby, echoing the ghostly image painted on the wall by frightened youths now long dead.
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A strange routine developed between Veidt and his guard. Every few days Roberto Silva tossed a novel into Veidt's cell. When Adrian finished with it, he left it resting in the slot where his food tray wash pushed through. Silva picked it up, and then the cycle began anew. Neither one of them spoke during this odd exchange. Silva continued with his smarmy remarks and Veidt continued to ignore them. He had no idea why the corrections officer brought these random literary offerings and he was not about to give the man the satisfaction of asking.
He was reading Only Begotten Daughter by James Morrow when his lawyer arrived. Veidt marked his place and set the novel aside as Charles Vanderberg entered the cell. "Hello, Van."
"Adrian." Vanderberg took a seat on the cot beside his client and set his briefcase on the floor by his feet. He rested his hands on his knees, regarded the silent man beside him with serious gray eyes. "They arrived yesterday."
"Rorschach and his wife."
The lawyer nodded. "They've already been to the DA's office."
Veidt's eyelids lowered a moment in thought. "I would like you to arrange for us to meet."
Vanderberg blinked. "You and Charleson?" He persisted in using the name unless and until his identity was proven otherwise.
"Yes. An informal meeting. No lawyers." Veidt regarded his attorney with a dispassionate eye. Though he was capable of extreme charm when circumstances necessitated it, the times when Adrian simply conversed with someone he did so with a coolness most found off-putting. It wasn't that he kept his emotions hidden—a necessary survival trait for anyone in the public eye—so much that one got the impression that he didn't have any emotions. Even Vanderberg, who'd known and worked with Veidt for many years, was not immune to this discomfiture, though he was skilled at keeping it hidden. But many times when he left his client's presence, the lawyer would shudder with the memory of that cold stare.
"I hardly see how such an encounter would be beneficial, assuming he even agrees to it." It was a halfhearted protest; Veidt was not prone to changing his mind once a decision was made.
"I'm certain you can persuade him," Adrian smiled, an expression as lifeless as that of a mannequin. Vanderberg would be shuddering extra hard later on.
"I'll see what I can do," he sighed, "But I make no promises."
Veidt nodded, satisfied as always in his attorney's obedience.
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Danny ran, holding the red plastic sled before her like a shield, leapt, and landed heavily on the slope. The sled skidded rapidly down the snowy hill. The trees at either side of her sped by in a dark blur. The icy wind whistled past her ears, carrying her elated whoops in a long trail behind her like the flapping scarf at her neck. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed Seth on his dark green sled racing her to the bottom of the hill. "I'm gonna beat ya!" she declared, her words torn away by the blistering wind. Seth grinned, a flash of white against his brown skin, and shook his stocking-capped head.
The steep hillside swarmed with children and even some adults, riding sleds and toboggans of every color and description. The hill was located on Craig Danvers's and Adam Leonetti's property and had been the town's main sledding choice for many years. It became a tradition for the partnered men to provide various hot beverages and pastries to the chilled participants. Elsie sat within the warm confines of their house, a mug of cocoa in her hands, watching her grandniece and the other kids playing in the snow with a wistful smile on her face. In a fair world Chloe and Walter would be out there with their daughter, sledding and tumbling down the hill, laughing their heads off, cheeks burned from the cold. It always gave the old woman such joy to watch her family at play, their pure and innocent joy. If anyone deserved such experiences, it was Chloe and Walter, considering the tragedies of their pasts. Especially Walter. It always brought Elsie a rush of maternal warmth to see the emotionally scarred redhead regress. They were rare and precious moments when he reclaimed the childhood so long denied him.
A few nights before he and Chloe left for New York, Walter came downstairs in his sweatpants and T-shirt to find Elsie sitting quietly on the sofa, watching the muted television. The two insomniacs had regarded each other in silence for a moment, then Walter moved to the couch. Without a word, he lay down and rested his head on the older woman's knee, seeking comfort which could only be found in a mother, or a mother-figure. Smiling, Elsie had stroked his graying hair and hummed a slow tune until his even breaths told her he'd fallen asleep. Part of her always regretted not having children. With her niece's family living with her, she managed to experience some aspects of motherhood she would not have been able to enjoy otherwise. It made their current absence all the more painful to her.
"Mind if I share your view?"
Elsie turned to find Adam behind her, a steaming cup in his hand. She smiled, shrugged. "It's your house."
Adam dragged a chair over beside hers and sat down. The vapor emanating from his mug carried the spicy scent of hot cider. He blew away some of the steam, took a careful sip. "I can never pass up the chance to see Craig make an ass of himself."
As if on cue, an unmistakeable bulky form appeared on the hilltop carrying an old yet sturdy wooden sled. Craig set the sled on the ground, straddled the antique conveyance, and pushed off with his powerful legs. For a moment it seemed he might reach the bottom without mishap, but then the sled made an unexpected swerve onto a pronounced bump and Craig went tumbling off like a human avalanche. Adam and Elsie laughed as Craig's distant roar reached their ears and they watched the burly schoolteacher roll down to the foot of the hill, his riderless sled bumping into his inert form seconds later.
Adam chuckled. "He is dead set on making it down that hill one of these days." He gave the old woman a sidelong glance. "How's Danny?"
"Handlin' things better than I am." Elsie took a sip from her mug, grimaced at its tepid contents.
"Walt and Chloe been calling?"
"Yep. Every evening before Danny's bedtime, like clockwork."
Their eyes remained fixed on the activities outside. Craig was struggling up the hill, dragging his sled behind him. At one point he lost his balance and fell flat on his face, earning a fresh round of laughter from his fellow sledders. He regained his feet and continued his climb. Elsie grinned; she could almost hear his swearing.
"Trial's gonna be starting soon," Adam remarked, "Got anything planned?"
Elsie hesitated; she knew what he meant, though she kept the family's plan to reunite and run off should Walter's identity get out to herself. The townspeople didn't need to implicate themselves any further. Still, there was something she needed to ask of a friend.
"If you wouldn't mind," she began, "Danny and I might have to leave for a while. Would you and Craig look after the dogs in the meantime?"
Adam met her gaze, and she saw in his eyes that he understood. He nodded. "Sure, Els. We'd be happy to."
"Thanks."
They watched as Craig and the kids lined up for another race down the hill, all of them lost in the moment, their worries forgotten for a few precious hours.
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They heard the phone ring when they entered the Dreibergs' home. Mona answered it as the couple put away their coats and removed their snow-encrusted boots. "Hollis residence."
"Good evening," a proper voice sounded on the other end, "Would Hiram Charleson be available?"
The nanny rolled her eyes. Another reporter. They'd been getting calls like this off and on ever since Walter's and Chloe's arrival. So much for keeping a low profile. "I'm afraid not. Could I take a message?"
"Yes. My name is Charles Vanderberg. I am Adrian Veidt's attorney."
Mona's eyebrows shot up. "Er, just a sec. I need to find a pen." She balanced the receiver on her shoulder, grabbed a pencil from the cup by the phone, scribbled a quick note on a piece of scratch paper. Her other hand beckoned Walter over. Puzzled, the redhead approached as Mona held up her note: Veidt's lawyer!
Walter frowned. He held out his hand.
"Wait! He just stepped through the door." Mona passed him the phone.
Walter pressed the receiver to his ear. "Hello."
"Hello, Mr. Charleson. I'm Charles Vanderberg, Adrian Veidt's attorney."
"What do you want?" Beside him, Chloe leaned in to catch the other half of the conversation. Walter tilted the receiver slightly to accommodate her. The lawyer's tinny voice issued forth.
"Mr. Charleson, my client would like to request a private meeting with you. It does not pertain to the coming trial. There will be no legal representatives present, only yourself and Mr. Veidt."
Walter frowned. "What for?"
"I cannot answer that," was Vanderberg's cool response, "Mr. Veidt made it clear that this is a private matter."
Walter pursed his lips. His first impulse was to say no or simply hang up without the trouble of a response, but his curiosity nagged at him. "Need to give it some thought."
"Very well. When you've decided, call me back at this number…"
Walter scribbled down the number, then hung up the phone. He looked at his wife, who stood with her arms crossed. "What's to think about?" she asked, clearly vexed.
Mona decided to make a tactful exit while the two of them discussed this. The couple didn't even notice.
"Shouldn't dismiss anything Veidt says out of hand," Walter reasoned.
Chloe snorted. "Please! He's either gonna threaten you or try to weasel some kinda deal."
"Maybe," he conceded.
"And?"
"And…I still think I should see him."
"What the hell for?" Chloe snapped, "You know what kind of manipulative bastard he is! Going to see him's the worst thing you could do."
Walter took hold of her shoulders. He could feel the tension running through her, saw the fear and anger in her eyes at the memory of what Veidt did to them. "You're probably right."
"I am right," she said stubbornly.
"But I still need to know why he wants to see me."
"No you don't." Now Chloe's voice held an edge of anxiety. She gripped her husband's arms, his hands still on her shoulders. "Nothing he'd say could possibly make any difference. He just wants to screw with your head."
Walter pulled her into a hug. She clung to him, her head against his shoulder. It occurred to Walter that they might very well be coming to the end of the times they would be able to hold each other, and the thought made him tighten his grip. "If you don't want me to go," he told her, "then I won't."
Chloe let her breath out in a long, shuddering sigh. "You wanna know what really sucks about this? If you do turn him down, we're both gonna kick ourselves for it later on, wondering if it might've made a difference."
Walter smiled. "Yeah."
"It's just," Chloe blinked her stinging eyes, "I'm still afraid of him."
"I know," he rubbed her back in soothing circular motions, "I am, too."
He called Vanderberg to accept Veidt's invitation.
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This is a mistake, Laurie thought, steering the car into the prison's parking lot. She'd offered the ride when she saw how nervous Chloe and Walter were. Well, she could only assume Walter was nervous; Laurie was damned if she could read the guy. Nevertheless, they accepted her offer. When she and Dan came home after spending the afternoon with their son in the park, they were shocked to hear about the lawyer's call and even more so when Walter told them he was going to see Veidt.
"You sure you wanna do that?" Dan asked.
Laurie was more blunt. "That's crazy! What the hell are you thinking?"
But Walter's mind was made up. His friends had to resign themselves to that fact, as Chloe had.
The last time Laurie was inside Sing-Sing, she was in costume and beating the hell out of rioting prisoners. Now she was in street clothes and languishing in the drab waiting room with Chloe while Walter was taken to the visitation room. Laurie picked up a tattered Reader's Digest and leafed through it while Chloe sat with crossed arms and stared apathetically at the waiting room's green-tinted TV, her right leg jiggling.
Walter was taken into a small room where he was patted down and run through a metal detector. He also had to sign some paperwork stating that he was aware the conversation he had with the prisoner might be recorded. Once that was done, a bored officer handed him a visitor's badge to wear around his neck and indicated the door on the other side of the room. "You got half an hour. Not a second longer."
Walter doubted he needed that much time. He stepped through the door and into the visitation area. The room was divided in half by a long counter and wire-reinforced glass, a row of chairs on each side of the divide with small side partitions to give the illusion of privacy. There were no other visitors in the room. The walls were dirty off-white, the headache-inducing fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, and the air smelled of industrial cleanser and hopelessness. Walter hated it. It reminded him of his brief stay in this very prison. He resisted the urge to look up at the security camera that he knew was situated in the upper corner of the room and wandered over to the nearest seat. No sooner did he lower himself into the uncomfortable chair than the door on the other side of the barrier opened and Veidt strode in, accompanied by an apathetic guard who lounged against the wall as the prisoner went to take the seat opposite Walter.
Veidt held himself with his usual dignified poise which somehow managed to make even his drab prison garb look fashionable. Like Walter, his injuries from their confrontation had healed, the cast on his arm removed. Veidt smiled serenely and picked up the black telephone receiver from its cradle on one of the side partitions. Walter did likewise, glaring suspiciously.
"Hello…Hiram," Veidt's mouth quirked at the use of Walter's alias, "You're looking well."
Walter snapped, "What do you want?"
"You must have met with the District Attorney already. I trust you were forthcoming." Veidt's voice crackled faintly over the poorly maintained intercom.
"I told the truth."
"All of it?" the former mask smirked, "That would certainly be the wisest course of action. They could offer you a more lenient sentence."
"Sentence for what?" Walter asked dully, thinking of the recording taking place at that moment, "You're the one who committed the crime."
Veidt seemed amused by the redhead's continued secrecy. "That's good. Because, hypothetically, if any of the rumors about you are true, the authorities are bound to find out. All it would take is one little suggestion put forth by my capable attorney…" He pressed his fingertip against the transparent barrier between them, leaving a smudged fingerprint on the glass. "…and the cozy little life you've built with that lovely wife of yours would tumble down like a house of cards."
Walter stared at the fingerprint on the glass, heart pounding. He thought of everything he'd touched since he entered the building, the fingerprints he was leaving on the telephone receiver at that moment. He stamped down the impulse to start wiping everything. His hand clenched around the receiver, white-knuckled. If Veidt's lawyer did request Walter's fingerprints be taken, the police would make the comparison while he was still in the room, surrounded by cops. They'd find out the truth within minutes and arrest him at once. Escape would be impossible. His only chance would be to take his family and run off before the trial even started, but that would only confirm the rumors and make Veidt look like a hero rather than a villain.
Walter squeezed his eyes shut. Why did he believe there was ever a chance that Veidt would be punished?
Veidt continued in a conversational tone, ignoring the other man's obvious distress. "I must admit, you were the last person I ever expected to have a family. What must it be like for someone like you? To have a child when you know all the dangers this world holds, the terrible things that can befall an innocent such as her. How much worse it would be without a father's protection."
Walter's eyes popped open. He glared at the man across from him, muscles writhing in his jaw, fists clenched. Veidt tilted his head as if in curiosity. "You must be thinking about her now, that innocent little girl who looks so much like you. It would be worse than a tragedy to miss out on her life. Will you be there when she has her next nightmare? See her blushing over her first crush? Comfort her when her heart is broken? Watch her grow into a young woman, fall in love, start a family of her own? It would be difficult to experience all that from my side of the barrier, assuming she would even visit—"
Walter slammed down the receiver and stood. The guard saw the sudden movement and straightened, wondering if the visit was over. But Walter hadn't actually hung up his receiver, and he wasn't headed for the door. For a moment he felt Rorschach's rage surge in him, telling him to smash his way through the reinforced glass and tear Veidt's goddamned throat out. Instead, he turned away and began pacing in hard, jerking steps, hands trembling at his sides. Veidt rested his receiver in the crook of his arm and calmly watched the redhead pace up and down the echoing room. Several minutes elapsed. The guard returned to his earlier slouched position against the wall. Finally, Walter sat back down and picked up the discarded phone. Veidt pressed his own receiver to his ear and continued as if the interruption never happened.
"The family you've built in that little town must be so very precious to you, especially considering what your life was like before. So much to lose. Unlike a certain individual I once knew, who had nothing but his obstinate integrity. He never compromised; held on to the bitter end." He stared at the trembling redhead before him. "What about you? Hmm? What would you do to keep your family?"
He was beaten. Goddamn it, Veidt beat him again. Just like Antarctica; always a dozen steps behind the world's smartest man. The faces of Walter's family flitted through his mind. Elsie, the mother he should've had. Chloe, the missing half of his soul. Danielle… His little girl. His baby. Oh please, God, he couldn't lose them. He would do anything. He would lie and say it wasn't Veidt who attacked him after all. He would say it was all a mistake. Anything!
"Anything." The word came out in a ragged whisper. He felt the bitter tears threatening to overflow. "I'll do anything."
The former mask licked his lips. "Could you guarantee that a certain secret would remain secret?"
Walter's heart sank. He thought about the journal in Godfrey's and Roth's possession, soon to be published and unleashed on the world. He rasped hopelessly, "No."
Adrian nodded as if he expected as much. "There is something else you can do for me." He leaned in close as if to whisper through the glass. Walter leaned in as well, face haggard with desperation. Was it a reflection, or was there a sheen to Veidt's eyes?
"What is it?" Walter all but begged.
Veidt's soft, almost feminine lips parted. "Please convey my apologies to your family." And with that, he hung up the receiver, stood, and walked away.
The redhead watched in dismay as the man in the prison grays left the room, accompanied by his guard. The phone receiver slipped from Walter's slackened grip, forgotten, and clattered against the scarred countertop. He rose from the chair in a daze, shuffled through the narrow hallway. The corrections officer who'd processed him earlier quirked an eyebrow at the redhead's state. "You alright, buddy?"
Walter blinked at him. "Bathroom."
The guard indicated the direction with a jerk of his chin. Walter drifted to the door marked RESTROOM and pushed through. The room stank of poorly cleaned toilets and chemicals. He went to the nearest sink, turned the tap. Cold water gushed out in a sputtering stream, overflowed in his cupped hands. Walter splashed the cold water on his face. Its icy coldness barely registered. He raised his head and stared into the spotty mirror, water dripping from his chin and the end of his nose.
Chloe was right. He never should have agreed to this meeting. Even ensconced behind a plexiglass wall Veidt toyed with him like a cat with an injured mouse, batting him around until he reeled from disorientation, teasing him with the illusion of escape and then dragging him back with a savage jerk. Walter knew he hadn't escaped from this encounter; he was let go because he had nothing left to bargain with, and Veidt simply lost interest.
Despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it down. He'd already let its destructive influence into his life too many times before. He would not do so again. Even if it was only a matter of time before he was captured and imprisoned, he would not let that eventuality overshadow what little time he had remaining with those he loved. Whether he and his family managed to escape or found themselves forcibly separated, Walter was resigned to the fact that it was no longer in his control. If it ever was.
A memory rose in his thoughts; the very first meeting of the Watchmen. The Comedian's open disdain for the younger generation of masked adventurers' grand ambitions. He said none of it mattered. And Rorschach, younger, more naïve in his idealism, retorted, "Justice matters."
"Justice!" Comedian scoffed. Then, though his face still showed his mocking grin, his tone took one a somber note, "Justice is coming to all of us. No matter what the fuck we do."
Rorschach hadn't understood then, but Walter understood now.
He straightened, dried his face with an abrasive paper towel, and exited the bathroom with calm acceptance.
Chloe stood the instant she saw her husband step through the door into the waiting room. His face was even more pale and drawn than it usually was. She hurried to him and wrapped her arms around him in a comforting embrace. "What happened?"
Drawing comfort from her closeness, Walter replied in what he hoped was a steady voice, "Nothing important." An obvious lie, but he couldn't bring himself to share his emotionally jarring conversation with Veidt and thus shatter Chloe's fragile optimism.
Chloe knew he was holding back, but decided not to press the issue. Whatever Veidt said to her husband could not have been good.
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Adrian requested a phone to call his attorney. Silva brought him one, grumbling that he was not a goddamn secretary and Veidt could use smoke signals in the future as far as he was concerned. Veidt ignored the guard's remarks as always. As he dialed the number, he kept his back to the bars. After a single ring, the melodious voice of Thoth answered, "Good evening, Adrian."
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The morning of the trial. Dan and Laurie, Chloe and Walter, all arrived at the courthouse together. They entered the proud, austere building, found their way into some seats. Already the courtroom was crowded with row upon row of reporters and journalists. Among them were Doug Roth and Hector Godfrey, each seated far from each other, media rivals to the end. Laptop keyboards clacked, cameras flashed, tape recorders hummed. People muttered into microphones and scribbled on notepads.
Chloe grasped her husband's hand, sharing his anxiety for the uncertain future. Neither one of them had slept the previous night. They lay awake in the dark of the unfamiliar room, their silence ringing with unspoken fears. Still, the moments their eyes met Chloe managed a hopeful smile. She had little idea how painful it was for Walter to see it. He still hadn't told her what happened during his visit to the prison the previous day because he didn't want her to panic, but now he felt as if his resolve to remain silent might crack at any moment. He opened his mouth to speak to her.
"All rise."
His jaws snapped shut. The room was filled with the sound of shuffling feet as everyone rose from their chairs.
"Court is now in session," the overweight bailiff proclaimed, "The Honorable Leland Pryce presiding."
A middle-aged black man made his stately entrance, resplendent in his flowing black robes. He mounted the steps to the dais on which his chair rested, and lowered himself into it. "Be seated."
More shuffling as all in the room sat. There were the sounds of riffling papers, the occasional muffled cough. The judge slipped on a pair of reading glasses and perused the pages arranged before him. A moment later, his basso voice rang out. "Would the defendant please stand."
Veidt and his lawyer both rose to their feet. From where he sat Walter could just make out the accused's profile. As expected, Veidt's face revealed nothing but total aplomb.
"Adrian Veidt," Judge Pryce spoke, "You stand accused of multiple assaults and attempted murder in the first degree. Do you understand these charges?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Veidt replied calmly.
"How do you plead?"
Walter squeezed his wife's hand. The reporters' eyes were riveted on the back of the defendant's blonde head.
Lips curved in the faintest serene smile, Adrian replied, "Guilty."