Hello again. Thanks a lot for the reviews and messages, as always. It keeps my motivation to write up.
I focused this chapter on Steve again, so let's check on him.
"What do you mean he isn´t here?" Danny slammed the palms of his hands to the desk in front of him.
"Sir, please, you need to calm down," the police officer said.
Danny huffed an angry snarl. "I am calm so far, okay?" he said. "But I won´t stay that way unless you tell me where is Steve McGarrett."
"Is there any problem, John?"
Danny turned his head to the side and saw a young female police officer walking toward them. D. Harrison was the name on the tag.
"No. I think Detective Williams was just leaving."
Officer Harrison turned to Danny and frowned. "I suppose you´re here to see your partner, Detective," she said.
"That´s right. But John here keeps telling me he´s not here."
Harrison crossed her arms over her chest. "It´s officer Porter for you," she said. "And yes, he is telling you the truth. Your friend had been transferred when the feds decided to take over my case. He´d been moved to the federal detention center for further interrogation and considering the situation, I´d say he´ll be booked and won´t be offered bail under no circumstances, so you´re wasting your time. Immunity and means doesn´t mean he can get away with murder."
Danny stared at her, anger bubbling inside him. "Steve´s not a murderer, okay?"
"Unless you know something we don´t, it certainly does look like he is. I found him standing over the dead body of his ex-girlfriend. There was no one else in the room."
"You were the one who arrested him?" Danny snapped. It took him a moment to realize she was just doing her job, but he had to try hard to keep the emotions at bay anyway. "What did he say?"
"I can´t tell you that, and you know that very well, Detective."
"Listen. I know what it looks like, but I´m telling you, he hadn´t done that, okay? You got the wrong person. There must be another explanation."
She shrugged. "It doesn´t matter. It´s not up to me to find out what had happened anymore. It´s FBI´s case now anyway."
Danny curled his hands into fists and stared at her for a moment before realizing she was right. She had nothing to do with this anymore and arguing about Steve´s innocence with her wouldn´t make any difference.
It was impossible not to think about how Steve was handling this. Like it wasn´t enough he was being framed for murder after all he´d been through, it was someone he used to care about who had been killed. No doubt Steve´s mind must´ve been a mess right now.
Desperately in need to know his friend´s side of the story in order to help, he turned around and walked away without saying another word.
He needed to talk to Steve.
Now.
Steve went through the same process with the feds. The questions he didn´t have the answers for were filed at him over and over again and trying to reach for his memories only multiplied his headache without any tangible result.
It was still hard to believe it.
A horrible feeling of deja vu rushed through his veins with the memory of Wo Fat setting him up all those years ago. At least back then he had known it wasn´t what it looked like. But now… he had no idea what the truth was.
He had other questions too, but no one seemed to care enough to answer.
After the interrogation, one thing was clear, though. Apparently, all the evidence pointed out at him being guilty, and he had nothing that would help anyone think otherwise.
The fact Lynn was the victim didn´t make things any easier. He used to care about her. Maybe he hadn´t loved her the way he´d loved Catherine, but there had been feelings once. To know she was dead and that in some way he had something to do with it, made him feel sick.
The feds gave him enough time alone to think about it, but the more he got lost in thoughts, the more desperate he was to find out why was this happening.
It took a long time before someone came for him after taking his blood and swabs from his mouth again. Finally, Hoffman, the special agent who was in charge of the case, entered the room with a smug smile stretched over his face. Two armed guards soon followed him inside.
"All right," Hoffman said. "I just got the results back and it´s not looking good for you. There was no one else in the room, no witnesses either. And according to the level of alcohol in your blood, I´d say you partied hard. Too bad it got out of control and Miss Downey paid with her life. So, unless you tell me something I don´t know yet, you´re going to be charged with murder."
Steve´s jaw dropped. So it was the truth? He´d been drinking and… He shook his head. Drunk or not, he hadn´t kill Lynn, the feeling in his gut told him that much. He was about to say that, but he stopped himself. Hoffman wouldn´t believe him anyway. Not without evidence. "I told you everything I remember," he said instead.
"In that case, I suggest you get a lawyer. I know you didn´t want one, but you sure don´t want to face a trial on your own, even as an ex-cop."
Steve nodded, ignoring the agent´s suggestion his career was over, and swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Hoffman was right. It definitely didn´t look good and if he wanted to stand a chance at the trial, he had no other choice.
"Okay, I´ll have someone arrange that for you today. If you have a particular one in mind, let my colleagues know, otherwise, you´ll be assigned one."
He nodded absently again, but there was a more pressing concern on his mind than calling a lawyer. "I need to call my son first," Steve said.
Hoffman shrugged. "I´m afraid that won´t be possible. I was told you got your phone call already."
Steve´s eyes widened in surprise. "What? Who told you that?" he snapped. "It´s not true."
Hoffman ignored him and gestured to the guards to move in.
"You can´t do this." Steve stabbed his gaze to the agent, anger replacing the confusion on his face as one of the guards indicated that Steve should stand up.
He had to let Jamba know he was okay and tell him he´d stay with Danny for a while. To remind him he loved him no matter where he was. The poor kid had been through enough and the last thing he needed was Steve, the only person who had managed to get through to him, being taken away from him without an explanation.
But none of the guards nor Hoffman cared about Steve´s objections.
"Stand up!" the guard ordered. "And don´t make me repeat myself."
Steve did as told, but didn´t let his eyes off Hoffman, who stood aside and watched him with an amused sparkle in his eyes.
"What is this really about?" Steve asked after a moment. The weird feeling in his gut told him something wasn´t right about this. Why would they deny him his rights? Why FBI? Why was everything so perfectly clear that they could charge him with murder so fast? Were there no doubts at all? Did no one question anything? And even if he did drink, why the hell couldn´t he remember a thing? He had never had such a blackout before, no matter the amount of alcohol. He had so many questions and zero answers. "Huh? What´s going on?"
The only answer was the rattling of the chain in the guard´s hands.
The guard held a pair of leg irons, and he bent and closed the shackles around Steve´s ankles. They were attached to a chain with just enough play to allow Steve to take a step. A second chain was attached to his handcuffs, and with Steve dully trussed up, the guard indicated that Steve should go through the door into the corridor.
With a jab into his back, Steve moved on reluctantly, leaving the smug agent behind.
He paid close attention as he shuffled through the ground floor of the twelve-stories building to the main prison compound. Every forward step took him farther from his liberty, but he was already beyond the point where he could have done anything to go back.
He was shackled and the guards were armed. What was he going to do? Even if he did manage to get out miraculously, what next? The whole island would be looking for him. He´d be a fugitive and that certainly wouldn´t help his cause.
No. He needed to be patient this time. To trust Danny and the team they would find something that could get him out of this place.
This part of the building was evidently dedicated to the processing of new inmates. Papers were handed over to a man sitting behind the desk. He looked up to regard Steve, and, with a disdainful flick of his hand, he indicated that Steve should continue into the gloomy room beyond.
Steve was shoved in the back and nearly tripped, the chain clanking as it went taut and then loose once more. The guards followed close behind him as he emerged into a wide space. There was a long table with a stack of prison uniforms wrapped in plastic sheaths. In the middle of the room was a pile of shoes, each pair tied together by the laces. There was a mirror on the wall and, opposite it, a coiled fire hose with a dripping nozzle.
He was delivered into the custody of two guards. They were also armed, with pistols holstered on their belts. One of the guards stepped around and unlocked the cuffs that secured Steve's arms and legs. The man removed them, the chains ringing against each other, and Steve took the opportunity to massage his wrists.
The nearest guard looked at him with unmasked contempt. "Take off your clothes."
Steve knew that he had little choice other than to comply. He undid the buttons of his shirt and took it off. He took off his cargo pants and underwear and stood his ground as he was searched. The guard paused, perhaps unnerved by Steve´s poise and lack of fear.
Steve had seen the dripping hose and, from experience, knew what was coming next. The guard pointed his finger. "Against the wall."
Steve crossed the room. The floor was sodden and the paint had been scoured off the wall. The guard took the hose, aimed it squarely at him, and cranked the tap. A torrent of freezing cold water rushed out. It pummelled Steve in the chest, driving the air from his lungs and shocking him with the sudden drop in temperature. Steve clenched his jaw, unwilling to give the guards the pleasure of seeing his discomfort. They laughed anyway, the guard with the hose training it down at his genitals and then up to his face. Steve closed his eyes and turned away so that the jet thrashed against the side of his head.
The tap was turned and the flow stopped. Steve stood where he was as the water sluiced off his body. His skin tingled.
The guard assessed Steve's size, selected a uniform from the pile, and tossed it down onto the floor in front of him.
"Dress up."
The uniform was orange. Steve tore the pack open and took out the familiar jumpsuit. It was made from rough denim and it scratched his damp skin as he put it on. The guard took a pair of sneakers from the pile and tossed them over. Steve put them on. They were a little small, but not unbearably so, he decided that he would make do rather than invite them to give him a pair that was even more uncomfortable.
There were other items on the table, and Steve was instructed to take one of each: he collected a plate and mug made out of cheap, pliable tin.
The guard grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved. "This way."
They led Steve deeper into the prison. They passed through the outer door of the administration building and followed a dim corridor. There were barred partitions at regular intervals; the guards were able to open these with the keys on their belts. Steve looked left and right; everything he saw reminded him that his freedom had been removed: the cage doors through which they progressed, the barred doors on either side - secured with thick sliding bolts, the guards in their dark uniforms, with holstered pistols.
They reached the third barrier and, rather than unlock it, this time the guards were required to speak into an intercom. Steve glanced up and saw a camera, its unblinking black eye staring down at him. After a brief conversation, there was an electronic buzz as the gate was unlocked. The guard opened it, stepped to the side and indicated that Steve should make his way through.
This new room looked to be the final one before the start of the main compound. A guard wearing the same uniform was positioned behind a lectern that bore a clipboard full of papers.
The man collected the transfer papers from the guard and assumed custody of Steve. He looked at the papers and typed details into the computer terminal that was on a small desk next to the lectern. Once he was finished, he gestured that the guards should bring Steve around to him. He took Steve's right hand, pressing his fingerprints against an ink pad, and then recorded the impressions on a slip of card that would accompany his details in a filing cabinet somewhere within the prison's bureaucracy.
He was moved to the wall and given a black strip of card that he held up to his chest. It bore a series of numbers: 95766-022.
"That is your name. Not McGarrett. You are 95766. Understand?"
Steve didn´t answer.
The guard nodded behind him to a small gate that had been opened from the inside.
Steve went through.
Another guard was waiting for Steve on the other side of the gate. He was obese, his belly straining against the buttons of his shirt.
"Welcome to our detention center, 95766." The man laughed at that, as if he considered it to be a particularly choice joke.
"You are a murderer." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "A cop, huh? And you murdered a woman. Better hope that both those facts stay secret."
"I didn´t murder anyone," Steve blurted out before he could stop himself from a pointless comment.
"Sure." The guard shrugged. "That´s what they all say."
Steve didn´t reply this time, decided not to waste breath.
The corridor was dark and it took Steve a moment for his eyes to adjust. There were other men here: a guard, his hand on the butt of his pistol, guided an orange-clad man into an adjoining room; another inmate pushed a trolley that carried a bucket and mop; another prisoner was on his knees, bent close to the floor so that he could scrub it with soapy water and a brush.
Hiding the uneasiness caused by marching him down the corridor lined with cells even though the guard knew he was a cop, Steve kept walking, wondering what would happen if someone recognized him.
"You´re used to nice things, right? Clean clothes, comfortable bed, good food, and drink?"
Steve kept his mouth shut and walked on.
The man turned his head and spat at the wall. "You have nothing like that here. It is dirty, it smells, and the men here will kill you if you let them. We might not be able to stop them. Even the protective custody might not be enough if they decide to come after you."
Once again thanks to his experience, Steve knew the guard was right. The last time he´d been held in Halawa prison he´d been in protective custody as well, yet he ended up stabbed into the abdomen by the man who had killed his father.
This was a different prison, yet there was no reason to believe it would be any different. He knew he´d have to sleep with one eye open all the time.
"You will have a trial soon. And then, when you have been convicted, you will be moved to Halawa prison for your sentence. You should pray for a death sentence. Life there, if that is what you get, will be bad in comparison."
They reached the door at the end of the corridor. The guard rapped his knuckles against it and then stepped back as it was unlocked and opened. He led the way to the stairs and then climbed them to the second floor. Steve was shoved along the landing until he reached a cell on the right-hand side. The guard unlocked the door and pulled it open, then stepped aside.
Steve didn't resist. He felt a hard shove in his back and stumbled into the darkness beyond.
*to be continued*
I apologize if I got something wrong. I did do some basic google research, but I'm still not 100% sure about many things, so I made those up.
Hopefully, this chapter wasn´t too boring. I thought it might be nice to write this part too to show how uncomfortable of a process Steve is going through already. It s not going to get any better for him from now on. *evil chuckle*
And in case you ask - yes, I did the "alcohol levels in the blood" thing on purpose.