Title: High Society

Chapter 37: Train Wreck

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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J.T. Morrison lay curled on his side on the thin mattress in his holding cell, ignoring the only other occupant mumbling in the upper bunk, who apparently was too high to know he was there. Footsteps sounded in the corridor, followed by the catcalls from some of the inmates, and J.T. lifted his head; then rose quickly to a sitting position as he recognized his lawyer, Martin Van Clefe. The guard unlocked the door and jerked his head at J.T. "Come on," he said, "your lawyer's here. We're going down to the room at the end of the block."

J.T. was on his feet, relief flooding his face. "Martin, thank God. I've been here since yesterday afternoon – where were you? I need to get out of this hell hole."

The guard let them into a tiny room, sparsely furnished with a laminate table and four chairs, then stepped outside to wait. As soon as the door closed, Van Clefe hefted a bag onto the table, and spoke. "I brought you a suit. We have an audience with the judge in four hours. LAPD plans to formally charge you by then – they have to; they can't hold you without charging you for longer than 24 hours. The feds are pursuing charges of their own. They obtained a warrant for your property yesterday, and went through your estate last night. They are still processing evidence this morning; as soon as they are done, they will bring formal charges."

"For what?" J.T. proclaimed; his eyes wide and too innocent. "I was merely a victim of circumstance – I swear, it was the first time I'd been to the compound. I came at Markus' invitation – I had no idea what went on there!"

Van Clefe spoke coldly. "Save it, J.T. We both know better. I warned you about pushing a relationship with Dr. Eppes the first time he visited your estate. Markus Topov is talking, and they have DNA evidence, for God's sake. You're finished – and so am I. I will represent you today, and attempt to get bail for you – I believe I can get you put on house arrest until the trial. After that, I am resigning as your counsel – you'll have to find another lawyer. I'll be damned if I ruin my reputation over your stupidity."

J.T. gaped at him; the handsome features turned almost clownish by his overly theatrical expression of surprise. "But Martin, we've been together through so much! And I'm innocent – I'm not denying that I had physical relations with Charlie, but it was consensual."

Van Clefe snorted. "Good luck with that one, J.T. He'd been tortured; he was covered with cuts and bruises; he still was wearing restraints on his wrists when they found him. Of course, you know all that."

Morrison looked affronted. "Charlie and I had a wonderful time with each other. As I told the FBI, we dropped him off at home. If Markus' goons had picked him up after that and beat him, that's outside of my control."

"The feds have the video, you idiot," hissed Van Clefe, baring his teeth in a grimace. "I spoke privately to Ramon at the house today, and he told me about it. They don't know what they have yet, but he saw them take it. As soon as they get a chance to go through it, they'll have proof."

J.T. paled, struck suddenly silent, and Van Clefe rose, distaste on his face. "Don't forget the case that I settled for you, out of court, five years ago. That will come to light, too. I warned you then that you'd gone too far. I thought you'd gotten some control over yourself. Unfortunately, it appears I was wrong." He turned and strode out of the room, leaving J.T. staring at the table with a stunned expression.

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Don ran a hand through his hair and glanced at his watch, then at the pile of documents on his desk. They'd spent a long night at Morrison's estate the night before, and had come out with loads of documents, some on paper, some on disk. They'd left crime scene experts combing the house, still looking for other types of evidence. Among other things, they'd turned up drugs – enough cocaine for recreational use, sedatives, Ecstasy, a bit of meth, and two different types of date rape drugs. A copy of Charlie's book, found on Morrison's nightstand, was collected; the back turned face up, displaying Charlie's publicity shot. They found some firearms, too, two handguns, both registered to Morrison. Ramon Mendez also owned a firearm. He too, was under arrest, with charges being prepared for obstruction of justice, at the very least.

They'd spent part of the night going through evidence, and started early again the next morning. Don had stopped in at the hospital briefly, but Alan, who had stayed the night, told him that Charlie had been quiet, uncommunicative, and that he'd slept most of the night, obviously still exhausted from his ordeal. He wasn't awake yet, but Alan and the doctors were hopeful that they would get some more response from him that morning.

So Don had gone into work again – no, make that, fled into work. He told himself that he wouldn't rest until Morrison was charged and behind bars, but that was only part of the reason for his escape to the office. There was another part of him that couldn't deal with it all – that couldn't deal with what had happened to Charlie - that couldn't deal with the fact that Charlie wouldn't have been there, if it weren't for him. Charlie had gone in there thinking he was saving Don's job – he'd been ready to back out until he heard that. And God only knew, his brother probably wasn't thinking straight after the fight in the office. Maybe if Charlie hadn't been preoccupied, he would have been more observant – he would have read the warning signs, gotten out in time. Maybe …

A movement in the hallway caught his eye, and he looked up to see Colby emerge from the viewing room, where he'd been going through any non-paper media they'd found at the estate – tapes, disks, flash drives. He looked green, and he just stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths.

"Colby – you okay?" Don called. David looked up from his pile of paperwork.

Colby's eyes darted nervously toward Don, and then over to David. "David, could you come here for a minute?" he asked.

David cast a confused look toward Don, but said, "Yeah," and rose from his desk.

Don's eyes narrowed; and he rose also, and made his way over with David. Colby obviously had some kind of issue, and invited or not, he was going to find out what it was. "What's up?" he asked, his eyes on Colby, who moved his muscular frame to block the doorway to the viewing room.

"Uh, Don, I'm not so sure you should – uh -,"

Don scowled at him. "Not so sure I should what? What did you find?"

Colby looked desperately at David, who looked just as bewildered as Don did. David shook his head and shrugged. "What is it, man?"

"Uh," Colby's shoulders sagged a little. "I found a video." He looked utterly miserable. "It's Charlie. Remember that room we found at the Fantasy site, where we found the blood sample that belonged to Charlie? It looks like the same room. It must be – there's a date code on the video as it starts – it was taken last Saturday night."

Don started toward the room, grimly. "So, let's see it."

Colby sidestepped quickly, blocking his way, his face assuming a pleading look. "Don, really, you shouldn't – in fact, no one else has to watch it. I can handle this."

Don stared at him. "So can I."

Colby shook his head. "It's Morrison, Don." Don's lips tightened, and he stepped quickly to Colby's other side, shouldering his way through the door. "Don -," Colby stopped, and looked at David helplessly.

Don approached the screen on the desk across the room and shot over his shoulder. "Get out of here. Go do something. Take a break - and shut the door."

He stood for a moment, waiting, not turning, and the door shut behind him. The screen was on, but blank - a flat expanse of silver blue. He pressed the eject button, experimentally, and the disk slid out. He pushed it back in, and hesitated. Maybe Colby was right. He probably shouldn't watch this. His finger hovered over the play button, and he pushed it and sat back in the chair, his elbows on the arms, his fingers tented in front of his face.

The very first image made his heart plummet. Charlie, nude, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, obviously drugged. He was coming to, and Morrison was speaking to him. Charlie looked bewildered, and as the first blow came from the leather strap, he gasped, and Don gasped with him. "Oh, God," Don whispered, closing his eyes, only to open them again at Charlie's exclamation of agony. "Aw, Charlie."

He sat there, through each blow, each cry of pain, each fruitless struggle to escape the devices, the weapons, Morrison's hands. He stared, transfixed with horror, as Morrison dragged a half-conscious Charlie toward the metal framed bed, with its sheet-covered mattress.

Finally, it was over, and still he sat there, motionless, staring at the blank screen with tears in his eyes, his brother's cries resonating in his brain.

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It was afternoon before he got back to the hospital, and dragged himself up to Charlie's room, wondering how he was going to look his brother in the eye, after what he had seen. He told himself it was good to know what Charlie had gone through – and he had to know to work the case against Morrison effectively.

At the same time, he knew, without question, it was also bad – really bad - to know what Charlie had gone through. Don couldn't get the images out of his head, and to know that what he had seen was only the first of many visits by Morrison… he shuddered, and with a deep breath stepped into Charlie's room.

And stopped, staring stupidly. The room was bare, the bed stripped, remade. He whirled around in confusion, and caught a young woman in scrubs walking down the hall. "Hey – my brother was in this room – Charles Eppes – do you know where he went?"

She raised an eyebrow, and he was conscious of getting an appraising once-over, then she dimpled at him. "No – I just came on. I can check for you though, Mr. -?"

"Don Eppes," said Don, "I'm his brother." In ordinary times, her interest would have generated an automatic smile, and an appraisal in return, but the knot in his gut generated by Charlie's absence pre-empted that. He trailed after her to the nursing unit, and stood a polite distance away while she conferred with an older nurse.

After a few seconds, both of them walked over to him. 'Shit,' he thought, 'this can't be good.'

The older nurse spoke. "Your brother is still here – he's been moved to Resnick into another room."

Don's brow furrowed. "Resnick?"

"Resnick Neuropsychiatric Hospital," said the nurse, whose nametag said 'Joy.' Don couldn't think of a less appropriate name for the circumstances. Joy continued. "Dr. Smithfield moved him. It's easy to get to – it's part of UCLA Medical Center, and is attached to this building. Simply go down to the main lobby and follow the signs. When you get to the main desk in Resnick, ask the attendant to look up his room number."

"Do you know why he was moved?"

Joy shook her head, but Don thought he saw her exchange a quick glance with the younger nurse. "You'll have to ask him, sir."

"Thanks." Don gave them a quick nod, and strode down the hall, oblivious to the admiring gaze directed at his back. He followed Joy's directions, and in short order, found himself at the main desk in Resnick. He had to produce ID, but then he was given Charlie's room number, and moments later, as he made his way down the third floor hallway, was rewarded by the sight of his father.

Alan was standing in a doorway, looking into a room, and as Don registered in his peripheral vision, he turned, and his face flooded with relief. "Donny! I'm glad you're here. They just got him situated. I was going to call you, but I see you've found us." To an unfamiliar observer, his tone and face appeared normal, but Don could see the concealed stress in the lines in his face, in the tightness in his shoulders, as he moved to stand next to him.

"What's going on?" he said, with a quick glance inside. Charlie was lying on his side, turned away from them, much as he had been when Don had left yesterday. "Why'd they move him?"

Alan drew him away from the doorway out into the hall and lowered his voice. "He isn't responding," he said, and this time, Don could hear the definite worry in his tone. "He won't eat, he won't talk. He just lies there. They brought a shrink in – Dr. Smithfield. He said Charlie's suffering from extreme psychological trauma, and he ordered him to be brought here to Resnick. They're going to bring in an expert in counseling rape and assault victims."

"And that would be me." At the voice, both of them turned to see an attractive black woman in a neat pantsuit, wearing a white coat. She held out her hand. "I'm Dr. Sondra Shaw. Dr. Smithfield asked me to look in on Charlie's case. My degree is in psychology, but I specialize in victims of assault."

Alan took her hand. "I'm Alan Eppes, Charlie's father, and this is his brother, Don." Don shook her hand with a polite murmur, feeling as though he was being assessed for the second time in minutes.

Dr. Shaw had apparently finished with her initial inspection, because she inclined her head, slightly. "Why don't you come with me? I'd like to get some particulars before I try to talk with him."

She led them to an office at the end of the hallway, ushered them inside, where she sat, not at the desk, but at a table, and invited them to sit across from her. She opened a folder, and glanced at some notes. "Please know that anything that we discuss here is confidential. I see here that Charles is a recently recovered kidnap victim."

"He prefers to be called Charlie," interjected Alan.

Dr. Shaw nodded, and went on. "During his exam, the doctors uncovered evidence of multiple sexual assaults, beating, and signs of torture. Charlie himself has not spoken of the experience, so the exam evidence has not been corroborated."

"Yes, it has," said Don quietly, his jaw clenched. "There is video evidence of the first assault."

Alan jerked his head to look at him, astonished, and Sondra Shaw took in his expression out of the corner of her eye as she addressed Don. "And you know this how?"

"I'm FBI - SAC of the Los Angeles office, who, along with LAPD, is investigating this incident."

Dr. Shaw's gaze intensified. "Isn't that a little irregular – investigating your own brother's case?"

"It's being allowed," said Don stiffly. "It's being overseen by the Area Director."

"Mmm," she replied, and the sound was laced with speculation. "And were the exam results accurate?"

Don swallowed. "Yes." The word came out roughly. "It was pretty bad."

"You watched it?" exclaimed Alan, in a shocked voice.

Don looked at him and scowled. He was getting the impression from both of them that they thought he was overstepping his bounds, and it irritated him. "Yes, I watched it. I'm gonna make damn sure that sick excuse for a human being gets what's coming to him."

He looked back at Sondra, defensively, and was met with a cool, appraising gaze. "Meaning his attacker," she said.

"Of course," replied Don, shortly. He'd almost slipped and used Morrison's name, which was technically not allowed, since the man hadn't been even been charged yet.

"And did Charlie know his attacker?" Dr. Shaw was jotting more notes.

Alan jumped in. "Yes. The man befriended him weeks ago – he's a respected member of the community. None of us ever dreamed he was capable of this."

Sondra looked up at him. "Befriended him. So Charlie's gay?"

"NO!" The word erupted from both Alan and Don at the same time, and they looked at each other with identical shocked expressions. "He's engaged to be married," sputtered Alan. "To a woman. Amita."

Don's reply was a bit more composed. "His attacker is, apparently, but Charlie didn't know that. The man throws lavish parties and looks for interesting guests to invite." His mouth twisted, bitterly. "He apparently thought Charlie was interesting."

Dr. Shaw was frowning in confusion. "And this man is an upstanding member of the community – apparently wealthy, you say. Why would he risk his wealth and reputation with a kidnapping?"

"He was involved in some illegal activities. Charlie was working undercover when he was kidnapped, and the man took advantage of that," said Don. "I can't tell you any more; it's an ongoing investigation."

She stared at him for a moment; then nodded, briefly. "Of course. Charlie works in law enforcement, then."

Alan shook his head. "He's a math professor. He consults on cases for Don on occasion, although this one was for the DEA, if I'm not mistaken." He looked at Don for confirmation, who nodded.

Dr. Shaw stared at them, then down at her notes; then she sighed, and laid down her pen in surrender. "This is as clear as mud," she said wryly. "The bottom line is, Charlie was attacked and raped by someone he knew – someone he trusted, perhaps liked?"

Alan nodded. "That's correct."

"And what is Charlie like?" she asked. "Personality traits."

Don and Alan looked at each other; then Alan turned back to her. "Well, first of all, he's considered a genius," he said. "He graduated from high school at thirteen, and attended Princeton and Oxford. He's only thirty-three, and he's a tenured professor at Cal Sci; he's been published many times, including a current bestseller on relationships. He's led a somewhat sheltered, academic life, at least until the past few years."

"When he started working with me," muttered Don.

"I didn't say that," protested Alan.

"You didn't have to."

"Gentlemen!" interrupted Sondra, and they looked at her a bit sheepishly. "I have to admit, this is all very interesting, but I'm trying to find out more about Charlie, so I can figure out how this will affect him. So, he's somewhat introverted?"

Alan hesitated. "Not exactly. He isn't a 'people person,' by any means – he gets along well enough socially, but he's not exactly comfortable with people, with one exception – when he's talking about math. Then he's a different person – confident, sometimes a little too confident – he just brims with excitement when he's trying to get a concept across."

"Intense," said Dr. Shaw.

"Exactly. That's a good word for him. He's also a perfectionist – he hates to make mistakes, and he tends to see things in black and white – if it can't be explained mathematically, then he tends to distrust it."

"Mmm," said Shaw. She had begun taking notes again, and she paused, her brow furrowed; then sighed. "All right. I'm talking to you now for two reasons – one is to get background information on Charlie and on what happened to him, which we just accomplished. The second thing I'd like to do is educate those closest to him, so you can help him through this. If there are other family members, such as his mother, who should be present for this discussion, it can wait."

"You might as well go ahead," said Alan. "His mother passed away a few years ago, and Don is his only sibling."

"His fiancée?" Dr. Shaw reminded them, gently; then stopped herself. "Never mind – I can speak with her separately, if she likes. Rape often has an impact on how the victim views physical relationships." She looked at their somber faces. "Male rape is one of the most under-reported, misunderstood crimes in the United States – on top of the feelings of helplessness and humiliation that women victims feel, men often feel that it strikes at the roots of their manhood. It can be extremely difficult for a man to accept and to deal with it, no matter what the circumstances are. The responses can range from withdrawal to anger, and often the victim will cycle through several of them. Charlie is here at Resnick because it has already been perceived that he is having extreme difficulties with what happened to him. Emotionally, he's a train wreck. Based on what you have told me, his personality is such that it may make it more difficult for him to deal with this. Intense, intelligent, perfectionist – those characteristics will exaggerate the impact of this on him. Make no mistake – he's in for a very bumpy ride. The next few weeks will undoubtedly test your patience and the limits of your feelings for him – but it's imperative that he have your support. Can you pledge that?"

"Yes," Don answered quietly. Alan had answered her questions with a semblance of control, but his self-containment had begun to crumble as she spoke, and his 'yes,' followed only after he was able to choke back the emotion.

Sondra Shaw nodded at them, approvingly. "Good. Now let's go see Charlie."

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End, Chapter 37