IF THE FOUNDATIONS BE DESTROYED, WHAT CAN THE RIGHTEOUS DO?
I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.
Please note that violence will occur in this story, and that less offensive words like "damn" will be used, but more offensive words will be "asterisked" out. Some sexuality will occur but never anything explicit. As of now this story is rated "T"—if any readers feel the rating needs to be raised, please contact me accordingly and it will be.
Here's the other half of last chapter. A lot is happening here, sorry, so you'll just have to pay attention. :(
Chapter Twenty-Five: Runner
Friday, 4:43 A.M.
"What do you mean, 'lockdown'?"
Huerta heard Garcia sputtering as she rounded the corner into the Mayor's former bedroom and now makeshift office. She stopped short when she saw the room was practically overrun by policemen. They were engaged in what looked like a thorough search of the premises: tapping on the walls, tearing off the sheets of the bed, dumping out the contents of Garcia's desk drawers, even poking and prodding at a very unhappy and exhausted-looking old man sitting in Garcia's desk chair.
Well. A dozen policemen ripping apart the Mayor's bedroom. This was a sight you didn't see every day.
Something about that old man was familiar, though. Where had she seen him before? Huerta paused to consider, before realizing that it was none other than Bruce Wayne's butler. What a lucky man he was, being around Wayne all the time. She'd switch jobs with him in a heartbeat. Yes, it was strange that she, a highly educated and well-respected lawyer, should be jealous of a servant to the rich and famous—but when it concerned one particular rich and famous individual, she was jealous of everything from the butler to the speck of dust on Bruce Wayne's shoe. It seemed like everyone—including the Joker—got to be closer to her great obsession than she did, these days.
As disappointing as her life was, she had come into this room for a reason. Yet when she tried to address the Mayor, who was too busy complaining about the policemen's conduct to notice her entrance, almost immediately several firearms whirled around to train on her.
Well. Weren't they trigger-happy tonight?
"For goodness sakes," Garcia objected, "That's the DA, for crying out loud."
"Do you have identification?" one of the policemen snapped. Huerta looked at him like he was an idiot.
"Didn't you vote for me?" she countered, pushing past him. He must have felt the strength in her arms, because he didn't try to stop her again. Wuss.
"Sir," she addressed the Mayor, "as helpful as these men are, I really must speak with you in private. Could you send them outside for a few moments?"
Garcia, always a gentleman, raised a fine eyebrow. "What do you think I've been doing? I've been trying that ever since they got here, but they won't listen!"
What a fine legal mess. The police won't even listen to the Mayor of the entire city any more. Gotham had gone to hell in a hand-basket. And she, with the information she was bringing, should know.
"Sir," she insisted, as Garcia turned his attention from her to an officer who was busy uprooting a potted plant on the windowsill, "This really cannot wait."
"Then tell me whatever, Alejandra," the Mayor sighed.
Ha. As if she'd reveal this to an entire room full of policemen. Although Huerta knew she could be flighty, but even she was not this bad.
Rather than try to argue with him, she quickly stole over to his side, whispering in his ear, "It's about the Dent cases."
Immediately the room fell silent. Huerta wanted to smack herself. No matter whether it was whispered or not, the name of "Dent" was always overheard. It was a sacred name, like that of some secular saint, and everyone treated it with respect. The former DA's death had done more than catapult him into perpetual stardom: it had made him divine, no less than Julius Caesar being murdered by the Senate.
She suddenly remembered why she did not generally share the public's enthusiasm for Dent. His shoes were too hard to fill. Everywhere she went, she was regarded merely as his replacement, a failed attempt at copying the original. Her term of office was like the king who ruled Israel after Solomon—everyone remembers the wisest man who ever lived, but his successor is forever overshadowed by his grandeur. How to live up with expectations? No, no—Dent was hated while still alive, regarded as a martyr while dead: and she, Alejandra Huerta, would leave office being regarded as a failure compared to his greatness, live the rest of her life as a failure, and then, once she was old and dead herself, maybe history would finally recognize her as someone of importance. More important than Dent, anyway. She was like an artist, hated and despised in her own time, revered once gone.
Or, at least, she would be—if the Dent cases weren't in as much trouble as she thought they were.
The "Dent Cases"—even her own work was saddled with that man's name. They were the legal cases of some two hundred mobsters, each charged with enough crimes that could put them away for twenty lifetimes, which remained at court after the fiasco with Lau and the mob's money. For all the trouble that Gotham was currently going through, trying to recover from the Joker's original rampage, the mob currently re-coalescing, and not to mention that Batman character—it was not quite as bad as it could have been, seeing as many of the former mobsters were locked away, unable to contribute their two cents' worth to the violence on the streets.
That was just why she had to see the Mayor.
Without any other prompting, Garcia followed Huerta from the room, and shut the door. The last glimpse inside she saw was the tired, worn face of the old butler in the chair. Now she and the Mayor were alone in the hallway.
"What about them?" Garcia was breathless. He had obviously recognized something was wrong due to her tone of whisper. That was what she liked about her boss: he always came through when times were tough.
"It's just… the Mayor's building," she told him, as quietly as possible. "I had a lot of the information and evidence in the offices up there, the testimonies of Lau, stuff like that. I was looking over them and such… but the Joker blew the place up."
"And?" Garcia prodded. She sighed.
"A lot of it was destroyed."
Garcia sucked in a deep breath. "And?"
"And so…" Huerta hesitated. She really couldn't be blamed for this. How was she supposed to plan for a psychotic clown attack? If not in the Mayor's building, where could that information have been considered safe? So she took a deep breath, prepared for an explosion, and blurted out,
"Some of them are going to walk."
The expected outburst did not occur. Instead, Garcia stared numbly at her for a few moments, before turning his gaze away, rubbing gingerly at the bridge of his nose in a pinching motion.
"How many?" he fairly moaned. "Ten? Twenty? Thirty?"
"Actually it's around eighty. Maybe more… I can't quite be certain yet."
The true number of missing case files was more like ninety-three, but she was counting on some of the information to be found, and some of the cases were far enough argued to gain a conviction—any conviction—either way. Eighty-two, however, were in a legal limbo. It was possible that a lot of the information had survived, somehow… but if not, that meant nearly one-hundred hardened mob criminals, with their network of pre-established connections, would be loosed onto the streets of the city. She could not detain men without evidence. This was the great curse—and the great blessing—of the American legal system.
Garcia took a deep, aching breath. For a second Huerta wondered if he might burst into tears—but no, that was far out of character for Gotham's great leader. Then he came close, so close that for a second she had the bizarre notion that he would kiss her. She never wanted to be kissed by a man… except maybe Wayne.
"We can't do this," he said. His voice was barely above the sound of a whisper.
"We don't have a choice," she responded, in the same tone. "No evidence, no cases, equals no incarceration."
The Mayor sucked in another breath. "How long?"
"What?"
"How long can you hold them? Long enough for us to catch that mad clown?"
Huerta considered. "Maybe a week before their lawyers start lodging complaints. Then it will be a case-by-case basis… they'll probably all be gone by this time next month. Some much sooner than that."
Fortunately, the two major cases scheduled for later this week were ones that she had information for. The troublesome ones began next week… and she'd have to explain to the judge why she no longer had any evidence.
"Keep it quiet," Garcia said, almost immediately.
She stared at him. The only word her mouth could form was, "Huh?"
"I said keep it quiet. Imagine the public outcry… the panic if this information were to get out. Eighty mobsters on the street? Dent's legacy destroyed?" Garcia began to ramble, but Huerta was insulted.
Dent's legacy? These were her cases. She'd come in, she'd argued them, she'd fixed the loopholes and the gaps of testimony, and she'd done it without any involvement from that shady Batman character. She, Alejandra Huerta, was going to put the Bat Man on trial, not pander to his psychotic schemes and play along with his little game; it was she who went by the letter of the law. And yet even Garcia didn't seem to appreciate that.
Huerta wasn't quite sure what she was about to do. Maybe correct the Mayor? Maybe stomp out and reveal the whole mess to the press parked outside? Quit her job and leave Garcia scrambling to find an assistant district attorney willing to work while the Joker was loose? These rebellious thoughts swirled in her head, but it was not long before she quashed them.
At that moment, however, another police officer entered the house. She was a short, squat woman, with slightly graying—and balding—hair. Her lips were frozen into a perpetual grimace, and her face was devoid of makeup or upkeep. While Huerta and Garcia were yet standing in the hall, she shuffled through the doorway, her feet banging the floor like terrible fleshy bricks on concrete. The officer stopped before the both of them, eying them warily. Just as disconcerted, they ceased their conversation and eyed her back.
"Marl Rena Jones," she introduced, chomping on a thick cigar. "You the DA?"
Though she didn't quite know what to think, Huerta decided she would be direct with this woman. "Yes?"
"There's been a threat lodged against you by the Joker," the officer drawled. "Do you know where the Joker's defense lawyer is?"
"Peter?" Huerta asked, then frowned. "I'm afraid I don't."
The squat woman turned away, muttering under her breath, and Huerta had the distinct notion that most of her words consisted of four letters or less.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
Friday, 5:08 A.M.
At the third knock, Baldassare was surprised when the door burst open.
"Honey?" the word fell from the woman's lips before she even saw who was calling. When she did, her eyes widened somewhat comically—but Baldassare didn't miss the disappointment contained within them.
"Officer John Baldassare," he offered a hand. "I take it this the Varnham residence?"
"Yes…" the woman said, hesitantly. As she shook his hand, declaring herself to be "Carol Varnham," her free fingers trailed along the door's rim—an anxious, unconscious habit, somewhat akin to the teenage girl biting her nails.
"Is this about my husband?" she asked. "Has something happened to James?"
"Not that I know of," the policeman responded. "Do you mind if I could speak to him? Is he home?"
"I… he… well," she faltered. "No, not now."
At this Baldassare raised an eyebrow. Too many times, in his short yearlong tenure as a police officer, had people attempted to end conversations with that line. Aware that he didn't have a warrant, but also realizing that the woman seemed genuine, he tried to sound unsuspicious as he asked, "May I come in?"
No resistance met his request. The woman brushed her dark brown hair over her shoulder in another unconscious habit, and quickly stepped aside, stuttering a nervous, "Oh, of course!"
The house was quaint, Baldassare decided. Charming. From the entrance foyer he could see a hallway on the right, leading to a living room with a square wine-colored rug. On the left was a set of stairs that obviously led up to bedrooms and other more private living areas. Art on the walls, specific and autumn-themed with the season, seemed to suggest the presence of a housewife who took her home's adornment seriously.
Leaving his fellow officer outside with Quinzel, Baldassare allowed himself to be ushered into a kitchen. The walls there were a pleasantly soft blue, and the tile tabletops clean. Tacked onto the refrigerator was a couple drawings of what looked like animals, but the paper was turning yellow from age, and the artwork was accompanied by a note written in loopy pink marker: "MOM – went out with Mike, back by curfew."
Seeing his observation, the woman flushed slightly. "She… uh, is still out. My daughter, I mean."
Great, thought Baldassare, just great. How can I tell you that your family is in danger while your kid is running loose in the town?
"I'll just get to the point, Mrs. Varnham," he began, "Do you know where your husband is at the moment?"
"No—I, he…" she sighed. "You are going to think this is odd, but then again so do I. James came home maybe… six hours ago or so—he's a psychologist," she added quickly, as if afraid he would think it odd for her husband to have been out at such a late hour, "and he spends late nights working with patients, paperwork too, you see."
"I know that he's head of Arkham asylum," Baldassare told her, "Don't worry—he's not in any sort of trouble. It's just imperative that we know where he is."
"That's just the thing," she said. "It was strange, even for him… he came home, undressed, and came down to the living room to watch a bit of news before bed… but then when I next came downstairs, he was saying something about having to leave, and he just kind of… took off."
Baldassare had started to have a sinking feeling in his stomach at the beginning of her explanation—and the woman's last few words confirmed his dread. Varnham had obviously seen the Joker's threat on the broadcast. He had run.
Hell, the cop decided, if I had that clown after me, I might've run too.
Yet as his eyes strayed from the chocolate-haired woman before him, back to the loopy pink script on the fridge's door, a cold sort of feeling settled in his chest. Baldassare had a family of his own: a beautiful wife and a little boy. If there was ever the remotest chance that either of them were in danger… he'd joined the army to fight not only for his country, but also for them, and he'd be damned before he simply ran and left them behind, threat or no threat. What kind of man left his family alone at a time like this? The Joker didn't seem like the sort of person who would think twice about harming innocent civilians.
Still, he had never met this man—it was best to withhold judgments on complete strangers. It wasn't Christian to blame someone you had barely heard of, and Baldassare figured that God had given him enough charity for his reckless actions in the past forty-eight hours. When confronted with such a troublesome revelation, he decided that it was probably best to believe that Varnham, as the Joker's doctor, had gotten enough insight into the clown's psyche for the psychologist to believe that his family wasn't in any serious danger. As… odd as that sounded.
"I think he had some business at the hospital, or something," Mrs. Varnham said, in an obvious attempt to rationalize her husband's rapid departure, although it was clear she wasn't aware of the true reason herself. "He had his cell phone with him… maybe he received a call, an emergency or something."
"Do you have the number?" Baldassare asked, immediately. The woman nodded, somewhat forlornly.
"He… um, hasn't been answering. I was thinking… thinking maybe the battery was dead."
Well. Baldassare might choose to believe the best in people, but he also wasn't foolish enough not to prepare for the worst.
"Did you see any television yourself, Mrs. Varnham?" he asked, a preliminary question to breaking the news of the threat to her.
"No," she said, and her brown eyes clouded with confusion.
With a deep breath, Baldassare proceeded to explain the Joker's broadcast, including the threats lodged against Quinzel and Dr. Varnham. The woman took this information the way he thought she would—shock, followed by a slight panic attack, but then she surprised him: instead of anger at her husband for leaving, she seemed entirely forgiving. Indeed, she even seemed to be concerned that he was in greater danger.
"Oh, my poor James," she kept muttering, so softly and lowly that Baldassare had to wonder if the stress of the situation hadn't overwhelmed her. He managed to convince her to collect her things, and to come with him, Quinzel, and the other officer to the station, where they hopefully could set about finding a way to protect them all from the clown's possible attack on their persons.
As Mrs. Varnham was packing, her daughter—"Michelle"—arrived home, obviously shocked to see a parked police cruiser in the driveway. She took a bit more convincing than her mother: fortunately, although obviously headstrong, she was not idiotic enough to argue with both a parental unit and an insistent policeman.
Together all three headed out to the car, where the mother and daughter squeezed into the back with Quinzel, and Baldassare drove off with his fellow officer in the passenger seat. It was a relatively short ride to the station—not for lack of mileage, but for lack of traffic. The streets were eerily deserted. Strangely enough, it was as if the Joker's re-appearance had triggered some sort of survival instinct in the residents of Gotham: all over the city, workers were calling in sick days, bosses were sending word that the offices were closed, and everyone was checking their locks and loading their home firearms. Gotham was hunkering down for the coming storm—digging in like islanders in preparation for a hurricane. Everyone was waiting for the first shot, the second shot to be heard 'round the world, and all—criminal and innocent alike—were dreading the coming blitz.
For once, it felt like the citizenry were of a united mind… whether this was a good thing, however, Baldassare was unsure. Although the streets looked peaceful in their continual abandonment, underneath this deceptive sheen there was a layer of seething, writhing unrest, like the inner psyche of a dangerous, hot-blooded woman at her wit's end with her verbally abusive lover. Was she ready to walk out the door and begin a new, better life? Or would she shoot him in the head? Which was better for her peace of mind? Which was better for her sanity?
Even the police station was somewhat empty, but this was not for lack of cops currently serving. No sooner had they arrived than Baldassare received a phone call. Marl Rena Jones—she proceeded to explain how the Mayor's building was secure, and that Garcia and Huerta were likewise safe. As for the Joker's defense lawyer, she claimed, nobody quite could say—he was missing, and his whereabouts had probably been recorded down somewhere, but he wasn't in the phone book and the data in the Mayor's building had been largely destroyed or scrambled. They were trying to piece together where everyone was: it simply, hopefully, was a matter of time to find the fellow.
Not the news he had been hoping for, but Baldassare wasn't going to complain, for they were all doing as best they could. As he ended the call on his cell phone, he glanced quickly at his watch. The little seconds hand tick, tick, ticked, and suddenly it was six o'clock in the morning. He sighed. Hartridge was on duty.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
Friday, 6:03 A.M.
Lucius Fox was a sound sleeper, and by force of habit he didn't listen to the radio while driving. As a result he'd gotten quite the shock of his life, yesterday, as he had headed into town. It was hard not to see the wreckage of the Mayor's building, and be stopped by the roadblocks. He learned of the misfortune of Councilman Barnes' home, and its odd collapse, through the frantic headlines of the morning newspaper. His favorite column of that day had been typed up by none other than Montana Payton, who seemed hysterical that she had been at that party, and that if she hadn't left when she did, she might have been hurt, too. Such a selfish woman.
Today, however, the streets were uncannily empty, with the exception of some rather brave cab drivers. There was a tension about this situation that Lucius didn't like: he knew that the Joker was rumored to have caused the devastation of the Mayor's building, but he didn't want to believe gossip. Everyone else seemed to have taken the rumor for fact, though, and were acting accordingly.
Not that he could blame them—at the same time, however, he couldn't help but feel surprised that Gotham's citizenry had resorted so quickly to avoiding the threat, rather than facing it straight on. Everyone had witnessed the Joker's acts before, and despite the maniac's best efforts he had been defeated. Lucius, as the Bat Man's accomplice, and the one who had been forced to use the cell phone sonar, knew the price of that victory more than anyone—yet he was confident that the Joker could be stopped yet again. In any case he simply wasn't willing to think that the madman was out and about—regardless of the "Mayor's conspiracy of silence" that Montana Payton had been writing constantly about in the papers. While the collapse of Barnes' home had been startling, that in and of itself was not proof of a psychotic clown at work.
When Lucius stopped at Wayne Towers, however, he had the biggest surprise of his morning.
A very nervous Colman Reese was waiting for him.
000 Author's Note 000
Ahhh… a shorter chapter, for once. I about died typing it.
Not really. It just was sort of hard to finish.
Lucius fans may now rejoice. He is officially part of the story. :D
Many thanks to my reviewers: Taluliaka, immortalisforever, Rednex, Almost Funny, Ems, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Mickerayla, Haladflire65, Lady Padfoot21, Padfoot n' Moony, Shmellington, Vanafindiel, CountryPixie, & Heir to the World. I can only say I'm sorry this wasn't up a bit sooner. C;