Manassas, Virginia
June 7, 1999
6:30 AM
Chris emerged from his bedroom clothed in black dress pants and a white button-up shirt. He frowned at himself as he matched the lines of glinting plastic buttons to their holes from the shirt tails up to his neck, the deftness of his fingers handicapped by the slender cast around his wrist. It was strange to see him so formal, and his face suggested it was wildly uncomfortable, like trying to figure out how to put on a complicated Halloween costume. Claire had never seen him wear anything you couldn't build a house or win a street fight in, outside of a single day ten years ago. A day of dark, smoky churches, the smell of lilies and car exhaust and freshly churned dirt. Maybe it was the same idea. Wearing your Sunday best to bury something. Suiting up for the occasion.
"You look fancy," Claire said, tried for breezy but just sounded cautious, edgy. "Going somewhere?"
She knew he was. They'd talked about this until they were both blue in the face. Claire knew her brother enough to know that her suggestions were just that, summarily discarded at whim if he thought he knew better, which he often did.
"I should be down there." Chris said. He'd said the same thing to nobody in particular just half an hour ago, but had already forgotten. He hadn't touched his breakfast, let the eggs and toast get cold without even looking at them. Broken records spinning on their players had mouths but no need to eat.
"I know. I know. Me too. I know Sherry would like to see Leon." Claire paused. "But..."
"'But' what?"
Claire was emotionally tired; threadbare, even. Caring for another human being was a hard job when the person had physical issues, but this… this was a whole other host of tired. "Look, I… it's just this is your whole trigger, okay? Like the doctor said."
"Don't use that word." Chris' eyes were on the television, half in this world and half in theirs, losing the fight as the minutes ticked by. "I'm not some kind of psycho."
"I know. I'm just trying to help." Claire had said that more times this past month than she cared to recall. A whole family of broken records, struggling to play on the same beat up turntable. "You've been doing so good and this seems like it'd be… poking the bear, you know? Backslide city."
"I'm fine, Claire. I'm over it."
"Its been less than a month. You have to give it more time. Go to more than one appointment, maybe?"
"We don't have—" Chris raised his voice, a snap of anger just waiting for a target to be taken out on, then stopped, took in a deep, stilling breath. "—we don't have more time. This is happening now. I can't just not be there. I have to."
"If we go, Sherry will have to come with us. She's been through a lot already. I don't know if I want to take her in there."
"You can't just hide her from what they did. She was there. She should see this."
"She's ten, Chris."
"So what? They don't care how old the people they hurt are." Yelling, now. No attempt to control it. "This is the world she lives in. She saw it up close and personal. She should get to see them get put away."
Claire was the level-headed one, or so she thought, so much so that she didn't notice her own volume creep up in retaliation. "But what if they don't? What if they don't get put away? What if they get away with this, too? Do you want to show her that? Do you want to explain that to her? Because I don't."
"That's what happens when you adopt kids, you explain hard things to them. You better get used to it."
"You're a fine one to tell me what I should get used to when you don't even listen to your doctors."
Then, the pat of bare feet on lanes of hardwood leading from the back of the house. The rub of a puffy, sleepy blue eye with a knuckle, and a soft voice. "If who gets put away?"
"Oh…" Claire said, her tone suddenly gentle, maternal. "Nobody. We were just talking, Sherry. Go back to bed. Okay?"
"You guys were yelling at each other. I can't sleep when you're yelling at each other."
Claire shook her head. "Everyone's emotional right now, sweetie. The police and the government are asking questions about the bad people who did the bad things last year. Back in…"
"Back at home?" No hesitation.
"Yeah," Claire said, softly, "back at home."
"Are they going to go to jail?"
"Probably. Maybe. We don't know yet."
"But we saw it. It's the truth. Why aren't they going to jail?"
It was a good question, posed with a child's understanding of how the world worked, no doubt gleaned from candy-colored pages of storybooks that taught fables about personal responsibility and truth. Where the smiling police officers were always there to help and nobody ever got hurt if people just Did The Right Thing, where anyone could be redeemed if they just asked for it — but said nothing about how so many people didn't ask for it because they didn't need it when they had unlimited money. The metal clanging of a cash register was all the saving any of them needed.
The confusion in Sherry's eyes rendered all of Claire's explanations weak, transparent, like a lie she'd thought up on the spot in the face of such genuine, formative questions. Finally, Claire glared at Chris and gestured to Sherry, as if to say, Well, go on, you want her to see it so fucking bad, you explain.
Chris watched Claire with folded arms and then shook his head. "The law is set up in a way so people who didn't do bad things don't go to jail," Chris said, his voice gentler but still charged with an edge of anger, "but sometimes bad people take advantage of that and use it to keep them from going, too. That's what they're trying to do right now, but we're not going to let them."
Claire sighed. "Chris—"
"You can't go into a war thinking you're going to lose, Claire," Chris looked back to her. "Because that's how you actually lose."
"This isn't a fucking war. This is lawyers and politicians and all kinds of cloak and dagger bullshit. It's not that honest."
"It is a war," Chris hit her volley back with no failure of energy, as if he were ready for it, "and if you don't see that, maybe you should stay home and let the rest of us fight it. This is how Umbrella works. They bank on people not having the balls to refuse the money, to write the reports, to go to the trials. They bank on intimidation, on their victims thinking they can't win, so they don't even fucking try — and then they don't win and everything just goes on like it has. I'm not sure where your fucking family pride went—" at this Claire gasped, her mouth wipe open in shock, "but we don't come from a line of cowards. I'm going to see this through, whether you like it or not. This conversation is over."
A flare of rage, offended and wounded on her own behalf. "How dare you call me a coward, when I—"
"I want to go," Sherry interjected in a loud voice, "if it will make you guys please stop fighting?"
The silence was an embarrassed one, and both Claire and Chris looked to the floor.
"Look—" Claire started, "look, we can compromise. Okay? Just… take some extra of your nerve medicine before you go. Then… if Sherry wants to go…"
"Can we go with him? I want to. You said Leon is there. I want to see Leon."
Claire exhaled. Not quite a sigh. A sister to one, perhaps. "If he promises to take his medicine, yes. We can go."
Sherry's plaintive eyes, bright and watery, were hard to look at. Even harder to say no to. "Fine." Chris said. "You know, it's a pretty sad state of affairs when your adopted kid is more of a Redfield than you are." His tone could have been contempt or damnable pity. Claire wasn't sure which was worse.
Claire balked. "I'm trying to keep you safe! All any of this was for was to keep you both safe! I left my life behind, on hold, to—"
"There has never been any 'safe'. It's bullshit. You have to continually fight for whatever kind of peace you've got, or it goes away. And this—" he jabbed an angry, pointed finger at the television, "is us fighting for it. I'll be in the truck. If you're not in it in five minutes, you can find your own way." Chris exited through the front door, slammed it on his way out.
There was silence again, ringing and complete. In a grease fire burst of explosive anger, Claire kicked the cupboard by her leg, put her foot through it in a shatter of splinters. "God damn it!"
Claire put her hand over her face. It trembled as she tried to still her breathing. Slow and tentative, the warmth of Sherry's small body leaned against Claire's leg, thin arms around her waist.
"You're not a coward," Sherry said, softly. "I think that was mean of him to say. He should say he's sorry."
"Sometimes…" Claire swallowed hard. "Sometimes grown-ups say things they don't mean to each other when they're mad, or sad, or… or sick." Especially when they're sick. "It's not his fault. We shouldn't have yelled like that in front of you."
Sherry hugged onto Claire's side. "My mom and dad never yelled."
"That's how it should be."
"No," Sherry said. She sounded frail and very, very young. "I don't remember them ever really talking to each other at all. I think I like the yelling more than that."
They looped the block looking for a parking space twenty times if they looped it once. A lucky break: a delivery driver in a beat up rust-red Honda Accord pulled out of a parallel-park space on the other side of the street. Chris wedged his truck into the space in aggressive, short movements, the way a man might hammer a chisel between two pieces of rock. Chris shut off the ignition, yanked the keys out, and shoved them in his pocket. His hand was on the smooth metal of the door handle when Claire nudged him hard with the ridge of her knuckles.
"You need to take these before you go in there." Claire's fingers were looped around something, obscured it from view. Chris knew what was hidden — an orange-and-white bottle of what the head shrinker had called anxiolytics, little mint green tablets that made the world swim around him like he had camped out on the rocky substrate of an aquarium. Chris needed precious little reason to make enemies, and he had decided early that the pills were his. He hated them. Hated giving up the control they took away.
"I don't need it." Chris turned to push the door open again and Claire nudged him, harder. It felt more like a punch, this time. Chris turned to her, angry and ready to fight. Raised in a home where Chris' flashes of anger were as regular an occurrence as rain, Claire stared right back, unimpressed.
"If you don't take your fucking medicine, you're not getting out of that door."
"Really."
"Really. I'll call in a damn bomb threat if I have to. It's better than you getting thrown in prison for the rest of your life for hopping a barricade and breaking someone Umbrella stooge's neck on live TV." Claire met his eyes. "Don't test me on this, Chris. This is the least you can do. You're supposed to be taking these anyway."
Chris opened his mouth to retort when Sherry, from the backseat, reminded him:
"You promised. I heard you."
They shared a test of wills, Chris and Claire, their glares hard and unblinking. Chris made a sound of frustration, grabbed the bottle, popped the lid, and dry-swallowed two of the pills. He handed it back.
"There. Happy?"
"Yes." Claire tested the cap to make sure it was secure, then stuffed the bottle back in her calfskin handbag. "Was that so hard?"
Chris said nothing, got out, slammed the door. Claire rolled her eyes so hard she could feel their lids. She exited her side, and opened Sherry's door to help her down from the truck's lifted carriage. "Everything has to be a fucking battle…" she mumbled under her breath, while Sherry pretended not to hear.
Chris left them behind, checked both ways across the street and started up the pile of white stone steps, his head hung low and his hands in his pockets. This was a shitty way to start what would no doubt be a shitty day. A shitty few weeks. Chris tried to take a deep breath, but decided he wanted a smoke instead. He was rifling through his pockets when a voice called for him.
"Hey, hey buddy," it said, behind him, somewhere between paternal gentleness and the boom of an overpowered car stereo. "Excuse me. You got a dollar I can borrow? " Bore-o.
Chris turned around to tell whoever it was to fuck off, to spit the poison welling in his chest at someone who deserved it without realizing that when he was in one of these moods everyone deserved it, somehow. He turned, opened his mouth — and stopped. The man behind him had managed to find a suit he could squeeze over his bear-like frame, thick arms and shoulders and the muscular heft of a pot belly he couldn't ever seem to get rid of, fueled by too much beer and too much hearty food. His hair was a little more gray, still slicked back in its customary style, but he'd grown a full beard to match it — something STARS regs would never allow them.
"Damndest thing, these parking meters." Barry said, smiling. "Only take American quarters."
"Holy fuck…" Chris said in disbelief, anger temporarily forgotten, "holy fuck, Barry!" Chris yelled, with a laugh. "When'd you get here?! I thought you were in Canada!"
"I was. Well, am. But you think I'd miss watching these jackasses get their teeth kicked in? Not for the world."
Claire and Sherry drifted to Chris' side. Claire's eyes were expectant, asking for an introduction.
"Barry, this is Claire, and this is Sherry. My sister and niece. Girls, this is Barry. We worked together on STARS."
"Nice to meet you!" Claire shook Barry's hand. She was not a small woman, five-nine or five-ten, but just about everything about her was dwarfed by the man; her height, the width of her shoulders, the size of her hands.
"Well, it's nice to meet you both." When Barry looked down to the small girl at Claire's side, she pulled back just a touch. "They're still seating people, so we should be good if we hustle."
Just then, Chris' face grew hard. His eyes glinted with a look Claire knew well, like one of those hunting dogs that pointed, stock still, at their downed target to alert their master where it had landed in the brush. Claire followed Chris' eyes — a guy, tall and wide at the shoulders with half his weight supported by a crutch, bobbled past them. Chris' eyes followed him down the stairs, his good cheer depleted. If the man felt the intensity of Chris' stare, he didn't notice or respond.
"You okay?" Claire asked, her own anger lost in favor of her caretaker's instincts. "You see someone you recognize?"
Chris shook his head. "I'm fine. Let's go sit down."
Chris wasn't sure what he was expecting, but what they were presented was not it.
It was hard not to be offended by how small the room was. Something so important surely deserved the wide-open official cavern of the Senate chambers themselves. The proceedings had been shuffled to a room about the size of a small high school gymnasium, painted a demure shade of eggshell white, its moldings and door frames carved from an expensive-looking glossy red wood. There were large paintings of American historical figures in gold frames hung every few feet. The back half of the room was occupied by a wide, two-tiered desk that looked to seat about thirty people on both of its levels, black leather seats and microphones and name placards set out before the empty spaces. Across the carpeted aisle, a long table that looked like the ones they'd had staff meetings around at the police department stretched in front of an expanse of cushioned folding chairs. Though only a few lawmakers were present, five figures were seated behind that table, ready to go, the folding chairs behind them mostly occupied. Ten of the chairs were set apart from the rest of them, occupied by men in dark suits and briefcases. Umbrella's men had to be separated from the rest of the crowd. Chris had the distinct impression it might have been their idea.
A low, conspiratorial mumble pervaded the place, and it smelled like nothing at all in here — the clean, lifeless smell of carpet and empty air. Chris and his group took their seats at the very end of the front row. With the absolute lack of decorum native to small children, Sherry hopped down from her chair and sidled down the aisle before Claire could vault out of her seat to collect her. Sherry tipped onto her toes and tapped her small fingers on the shoulder of one of the men seated at the table ahead of them. The man turned; he was an extremely handsome kid and very young, with straw-blond hair and eyes as blue as an ocean stormcloud. He smiled in quiet surprise, affectionately scruffed Sherry's hair, leaned in close to her level to speak. Claire apologized to the group at the table with the embarrassed, hushed tones of a mother asking clemency for an unruly child, but the man in their center — a politician, probably — waved her worries off with a polite gesture.
"Guess that's Leon," Chris said, settling back in his seat to watch.
"Who?" Barry asked, turned his head and leaned to catch a glimpse of what Chris was seeing.
"Leon Kennedy. Blond the kid at the table. Claire's RC partner." Chris said. After a pause, he added: "Think she's sweet on him." That was an understatement, of course. Claire talked about Leon constantly, then not at all, the way young people did when they realized they mentioned someone too much in conversation and then oversteered in the other direction as to not look too interested or desperate. Chris couldn't remember the last time Claire had mentioned whatever the fuck her hippie art school boyfriend's name was, Joel or Joey or Jordan.
Though Sherry was the catalyst, Claire crouched beside her long after Sherry had lost interest in their conversation, conversed with Leon in excited, smiling whispers until the man beside him tapped his shoulder and whispered something into his ear. Claire gathered Sherry up and they took their leave. Leon watched her go, and when he noticed the two men looking at him, turned back around.
Barry just laughed, low and paternal. "Uh oh. You better watch out, Chris."
Jill looked back over her shoulder. The straight, glossy shift of her chestnut brown hair caught the light as she scanned the crowd, searched for someone. Her eyes, concerned and darting, fell upon Chris first; she gave him a defensive once-over like she was looking at something unexpected and unpleasant, the sort of procession of expressions one would wear upon opening the door for a visitor and seeing someone trying to sell you something instead. When she spotted Barry, the apprehension in her face faded. Her eyes went wide and she smiled at him, all white teeth and sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. The immediate difference in her reactions were too much. Chris looked away, heard the shift of Barry's suit material, the wet sounds of him moving his mouth in silent greeting.
One by one the lawmakers filed down the carpeted aisle and into their seats. In the center of the double-level desks sat a man dressed in a goofy outfit that looked like a huge white shirt collar over a black cape that draped about his entire body. The man slammed a gavel — Chris supposed he was a judge of some kind, for he had never seen a Supreme Court Justice in person and couldn't tell you who was currently on the bench if his life depended on it — and called the hearing to order.
"May the defense and the prosecution please stand," the judge said. The man who had whispered to Leon stood, turned to push his chair back. The lapel pins on the black field of his suit jacket reflected the overhead lights like stars.
"Let the record reflect Congressman James Philip Graham of Ohio's fourth district has stood to represent the prosecution. As this is a Congressional investigative hearing of United States v. Umbrella Incorporated, a private attorney has been appointed on the defense's behalf." The judge introduced him by name, Arthur J. Miller, a name Chris didn't recognize but seemed to pique the attention of a few of the lawmakers. A stenographer tapped away at the keys of a word processor, her fingers a blur. "After the hearing has concluded, the matter will be introduced to Congress for a vote on dissolution. The rules are as follows — each question period is to last ten minutes, and after each question the witness will have one uninterrupted minute to respond. Time stops when the witness begins to speak and begins when the witness has finished their answer. Each party will have a chance to redirect after the questioning is finished. Do you agree?"
"We agree, your Honor."
"Good, then we can begin with opening statements."
Chris listened to politicians make their politician's speeches about the keystones: freedom and justice and liberty and fairness. On and on. Chris wasn't sure if the speeches or the drugs were making him nod off, but the urge was strong. Two pills was a bad idea, but it had gotten the point across.
Somewhere Across Town
Washington, D.C.
11:42am
They filed into the diner in their black tactical gear, heavy boots and somber expressions, and the people already seated turned away from their food to look, regarded the group with shock and pause. More than one patron did the panicked mental calculus of what role they would take now that the place was being robbed.
The men clomped to a booth across the checkered floor, threw themselves against the cracked red vinyl seat with the sort of fatigue that made plain even if they had wanted to shake this place down, these guys probably didn't have the energy to rob a lemonade stand. One by one the strange sets of eyes turned back to their coffees and their hash browns.
The group in black was silent. They stared at the plastic tabletop menus, looking but not seeing, drumming their fingers, rocking their feet.
"I'm getting the french toast," said one man, "fuck it."
Carlos looked up to the television mounted on the wall, its picture slightly fuzzed with a thin layer of grease. A Nascar race played over and over on a sports channel, rocket-shaped cars spinning in concentric oblong paths to nowhere. A waitress drifted in their direction, legal pad and pen in hand. She shared none of the anxiety of her patrons; she looked tired and bored. Genghis Khan and Hitler could have gotten a coffee together here and she probably wouldn't have been able to produce a single, solitary fuck about it.
"Hi boys," she said to the table in a flat, nasal drone. The frizz of gray hair that had escaped from her bun caught the light like a halo. "What'll it be?"
"Coffee," Carlos said, rubbing his face, "just bring the whole pot and some mugs, please."
"You got it hun. Cream, sugar?"
"Might as well bring that too," Kevin supplied, "we're not feelin' too sweet today."
They ordered food. Nothing sounded good to Carlos, just another anomaly in a day of topsy-turvy alternate universe bullshit. They'd spent the majority of the morning around a table being grilled not by their CO, that slimy bastard had flown the coop, but by his CO, a hard-faced woman in her mid-50s who demanded answers they didn't have. She'd yelled and threatened and questioned for almost two and a half hours, eventually let them go when she realized nobody knew what the fuck was going on, or rather, there was no good way to spin Harris going AWOL not being Harris' fault, and therefore it was now her ass on the line. Political bullshit. Carlos' brain was tired and his head hurt.
All this place offered was Southern stuff, anyway; biscuits and gravy, some sort of sandwich called a "hot brown", whatever the fuck that was. Grits, fried okra. It all sounded like dirty euphemisms to him, something you'd tell someone to kiss if they'd pissed you off — Yeah?! Fuck you, buddy, I've got some grits for you right here!
Carlos settled on tried-and-true standbys, enough bacon to choke an elephant, and some toast. Maybe he was coming down with something.
The waitress turned to depart and Carlos called for her. She turned back to the table.
"Hey. Can you put the TV on CNN?" He asked.
"We don't do politics in here, hun," she said.
"In D.C.?" Kevin asked, confused.
"'Specially in D.C.," she answered.
Carlos beckoned her close. She smelled like cigarette smoke, baby powder, and the thick choke of griddle grease. "If you turn it to the trial," he said, quietly, "Kevin here'll give you a $20 tip."
"Wait, what?" Kevin protested.
Wordless, she spirited away as if on a set of wheels under her skirt, back towards the bar. The channel flipped and the race cars disappeared. A pile of expensive-looking redwood desks and podiums appeared opposed by a crowd of people packed into room that was surprisingly cramped.
"Hey, where'd the race go?!" Protested a patron in a mesh baseball cap and a plaid shirt.
"TV's broke," the waitress replied, as if in afterthought.
The men in the booth turned and watched the television, their conversation forgotten. In the front row of the proceedings behind a man Carlos didn't recognize, there was a line of usual suspects: Kennedy, who was trying to look neutral but just read as pissed off. Some girl, skinny and pale, with one of those short pixie haircuts that seemed to pop up on every other woman, these days. A guy who kind of looked like an asshole, expensive suit and a facial expression that implied unspoken authority. And then there was Jill, like a bookend carved of some precious material, the best for last. The shitty lighting and the stress didn't even touch her. Carlos found himself staring, lost in thought.
Behind them was a host of people, all strangers, divided down the middle. One side with expensive haircuts and straight postures and Rolexes, the other a sea of people with hardened, solemn faces, cheap suits and enough reproach rolling off of them that Carlos could sense it across town. It wasn't hard to place which side was which. Despite the small size of the room, those hardened people clustered together in the first three or four rows. Carlos wondered for a moment where everybody was — and then it occurred to him that this, save for stragglers like his group… this probably was everybody. Carlos glanced back to Jill's face and said an inward apology for things already long past and buried, now excavated under the brutal clarity of a single wordless image. He thought he understood — but he didn't. Not until now.
His heart hurt for her.
"Hey, look! There's Kennedy's goofy ass. You see him?"
"Poor kid looks terrified. Look at his face."
"That his dad's suit?" Laughter.
"Which one's Jill? Can you see her? I wanna put a face to the legend."
"The one with the uh…" Carlos said, then gestured to his neck to pantomime the level of her hair, "that one. All the way on the left, front row. White shirt."
A moment of quiet, interrupted with a low, impressed whistle. "Hea-vy. My man." Ow-ow!
Carlos smiled, allowed himself a touch of self-satisfaction. "She likes slummin' it, lucky for me."
"And there's Becky, too, and…" Something low and sentimental hung in Kevin's voice, a tone that reminded Carlos of looking through old photographs of family reunions. Then it was lost, turned to excited disbelief. "Holy fuck, is that George?"
"Who?"
Kevin paused. "Friend of mine. Man…" then, sudden dawning realization, "we should go down there. We gotta go down there."
"I'm in," another replied after shoveling a forkful of french toast into his mouth, "let's do it."
"Will they let us in?"
"Maybe. One way to find out."
Carlos watched the television, then realized they were all looking at him, silently, waiting for him to weigh in.
"I don't…" he replied to their silence, "I dunno, man. You guys should go. I don't think if people knew, that… you know…"
"Dost my ears deceiveth me?" Kevin asked. "Heavy… is… is that… insecurity I hear?"
"Shut up," one of them said, "you're honorary RC now. Don't make it weird."
"Yeah," said another, "if you feel weird about going… maybe go for Keith. In his stead. You know?"
Carlos considered this. He looked up to Jill's face on the television; she blinked, looked aside for a brief second, as if searching for someone in the crowd behind her. She turned back around and faced forward.
"Yeah…" Carlos said, nodding, like the idea became a better and better one as the seconds ticked by. He slammed the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth. "Yeah, alright. Let's go crash the party."
Jesus Christ could these people talk.
The judge interrupted the cavalcade of bullshit, ordered them to break for lunch and return at 1:30. Banged his gavel. A sighing rumble rippled through the crowd. People stretched their legs and their spines and their brains, the silence a welcome reprieve. Chris had long ago stopped listening. Everyone's voices were reduced to a trombone ramble much like Charlie Brown's teacher from the cartoons of his childhood: wah wah wah wah. He looked aside at the stand of Umbrella suits, who had clustered together in laughing conversation. Like it was a joke.
The table of witnesses before them stood. Jill was the last, pushed to her feet with a gingerly sort of care and shook her legs one-by-one as if they'd fallen asleep. Rebecca turned and asked her something — are you okay? — blinked her huge eyes. Jill nodded, said something Chris couldn't hear.
Claire and Sherry split off without another word once Leon was disentangled, everyone else summarily forgotten. Sherry charged to Leon in a run as he crouched for her at the end of the empty aisle, his arms spread open. Chris had never seen Sherry so happy to see anybody, and in that moment Chris wondered exactly why his sister didn't pursue this kid instead: he was clean-cut, by all accounts came from a good family, had a good head on his shoulders. If he hadn't known better, Chris would have assumed they were a family, unafraid of physical proximity or public displays of affection.
Jill and Rebecca found their way over, and exchanged their own hugs, their own effusive exclamations of surprise and joy at Barry's unexpected presence. Rebecca had some of that for Chris, too — she even kissed him on the cheek — but Jill was conspicuously sedate, her hands folded with demure politeness in front of her skirt.
Chris wanted to be angry at her for so many things. Things he could identify and things he couldn't, but the drugs didn't let him, cut it off at the knees. A more lucid man, a man more interested in the mechanism of emotion might have placed those feelings as jealousy — but to Chris, anything other than anger and its family seemed strange and harder to parse with each passing day. It was just a tepid haze of discomfort and apprehension, without a face or a name, but with a voice that wouldn't shut the fuck up when he was trying to concentrate.
"How have you two been doing?" Rebecca chirped, yanked Chris back out of his own head, her face all smiling, expectant happiness.
You two, like they were a unit. Chris glanced at Jill, prepared himself to say something, but she beat him to it.
"I've been good," Jill nodded, her voice quiet and sweet. "Just trying to hang in there. You know?"
"Same thing here," Chris agreed, "its been… rough. But hopefully this marks the end of it."
"I'll drink to that," Barry said.
"W-well, that's great." Rebecca said with an awkward stumble, as if realizing her faux pas long after the moment to correct it had passed. "I'm glad you're both getting by okay. I was worried about you."
The Congressman said something to Leon, again, leaned into his ear and then headed for the door. When Leon said his goodbyes, Sherry seemed hesitant to let go of his hand, and his arm trailed behind him until their contact broke.
"I think that's our cue," Jill said, "it was good to see you, Barry."
"Of course. We'll see you later."
They followed Congressman Graham out of the chambers in a loose, trailing group. Claire watched them go, and her smile faded.
"So when's the wedding?" Barry asked, with a laugh.
"Wedding?" Claire blinked back to reality. "What wedding?"
"You might wanna clean up that little spot of drool on your chin." Chris poked her under her mouth. "It's okay, he's out of the room now."
"Oh, shut up," Claire's fair, freckled complexion washed a deep beet red. "Come on Sherry, lets go get some lunch."
"Are you and Leon getting married?" Sherry asked, excited, as they departed.
"No. No," Claire's voice was forceful, "they're just being jerks. Do not say that to him."
"But why are you blushing?"
Barry chuckled and shook his head. "She seems sweet."
Chris scoffed. "Yeah, sweet like a fucking barracuda. Don't let her fool you."
"Well, she comes by that honestly. She's a Redfield, isn't she?"
To that, Chris had nothing.
"Looks like it's just us," Barry continued, "lunch sounds good. You want a sandwich?"
"Sure, may as well. Give us some time to catch up."
"Right," Barry said.
They sat together on high stools at a table against a window. To Barry's credit, he waited for them to finish eating before he got down to brass tacks.
"So…" Barry's accent didn't really come out until he made vowel sounds. Chris hadn't noticed it before, but given a year's distance, he could hear it now. So became sooou. "Forgive me if I'm poking a sore spot, but I couldn't help but notice you and Jill didn't… say much. That's new."
"Haven't exactly been on speaking terms," Chris said, "for a while."
"Ah. Well, that's a shame. You guys were joined at the hip there, for a while. I thought…"
Chris nodded, gently cut him off. "It's been a long year. For everybody, I think." The silence between them was awkward, and perhaps a touch sad. With the new air of someone changing the subject, Chris asked, "What are you doing in the Great White North? Police work, or you go civvy?"
Barry left the previous questions where they lay. "Little bit of both, I suppose. I'm not just here personally. I would be — wild horses couldn't drag me away from this one, by God — but I was made to come in a more official capacity by our organization."
"What organization is that?" Chris took a drink of his soda. "The RCMP?"
Chris was being serious, but Barry laughed anyway. "Close." Barry reached one large, meaty hand into his pocket, rifled around in his brown leather wallet before locating the correct business card, and slid it across the table to Chris. "Think a bit bigger."
Bernard "Barry" Burton
Director General, Canadian Operations
Bioterror Security Assessment Alliance
"Never heard of them," Chris said. "This is your company?"
"Not mine — I helped start it, but it'll never belong to any one person, I don't think. We're a multinational alliance of countries, solely dedicated to rooting out bioterror. Totally apolitical. Infant stages, though. We're still cutting through the red tape, but we're starting to secure funding."
Chris made a face that implied he was impressed. "Sounds like a big deal. You've been busy."
"God, you've got no idea. But it is. We've got arms everywhere — France, Britain, West Africa. Everybody saw what happened in Raccoon City, and it struck the fear of fucking God into them, Chris. Especially after that documentary. Even China."
"But not the USA," Chris said. "Umbrella holding it up?"
"I wish that was it — then I'd have someone to blame other than myself. It's protectiveness, more than anything. I don't want someone else to fuck it up, I guess."
Chris squinted. "Why don't you do it? You're still legal here, right?"
Barry laughed again, this time a sound of disbelief. "Well, smashing the wine bottle on the Canada branch nearly killed my fucking marriage, for one. I've got dual citizenship and I'd love to get a branch running here, too, but… that's two at once. Maybe if I didn't have a family. It's a lot of work — paperwork, field operations, hobnobbing..."
It sounded like a pipe dream to Chris, but he didn't say as much. Chris wiped his mouth. "Sounds like a big job," he said, "almost like a politician."
"It can get that way," Barry said, helped himself to another bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed, then pushed the plate away. "Sometimes. We need a foothold in the U.S., but I'd have to find the right person to do it who we know for a fact isn't in Umbrella's pocket. Hard to find someone with enough passion to carry that weight — whatever way public opinion goes." Barry looked up in a casual enough way that realization didn't sink against Chris' brain until their gazes locked in an extended, tense silence.
"You know anybody like that, Chris?" Barry asked, light and conversational.
Chris crossed his arms, suddenly uncomfortable. "Don't know. Some people might… believe in the mission and be good at the field ops, but not at the paperwork or the political side of things. Those seem like deal breakers for a candidate."
"On the contrary, that's exactly the sort of person we're looking for. The paperwork is just practice. That can be taught, but the kind of conviction I mentioned? You can't teach that."
"Big ask." Chris said, after a moment. "Person like that would have to think about it before committing."
Barry nodded, stood, put down a dollar bill large enough to pay for both entrees and a handsome tip. "I think it's about time. We should be getting back. If you find anyone you think fits the bill, you should let us know. Sooner, rather than later. I'll see you back at the court house." He patted Chris on the shoulder, and then left him alone with his thoughts.
Chris sat at the table a few more moments, his arms crossed, staring at the remnants of Barry's lunch. Chris had never done any sort of drugs outside of caffeine and enough nicotine to kill a horse, not even smoked trash weed as a teenager, but he knew with elemental intimacy the power chemicals had over one's brain; how intoxicating the bath of hormones could be when you were engaged in a fight, when you had some sort of crusade to march off on. That same chemical was as addicting as heroin or opiates or methamphetamine ever was. People throughout history had chased that high and didn't care how many people they'd had to run through to get it. Victory wasn't the point: victories were thin and fleeting, interchangeable. Conflict was the real bump. Once you got good at it, you had to keep getting hits of it to stay straight and keep the shakes away.
It was what drew him here today, down to this very courthouse. The two parts of Chris' brain fought one another, a tale as old as chemicals themselves: No, no, no, this very thing has turned you into someone who hurts everyone, not just the people who deserve it. It almost ruined your fucking life, put you in the hospital — you've been doing so well, don't you think this is a bad idea?
And then:
You can quit whenever you want — you're strong enough to know if this is too much for you, just checking it out wouldn't hurt, right? When'd you get so scared? Don't you deserve this for everything you've been through?
Chris looked down at Barry's business card, tilted it to read the text again without the gloss catching the overhead light. Chris already knew what part of his brain had won, and won as soon as Barry had asked. The sticky business would be justifying his relapse.
The back of Leon's neck felt hot. The underarms of his suit shirt were soaked and clung to him uncomfortably under his jacket. His stomach wouldn't settle, no matter how much water he drank or how he'd tried to distract himself, and now that stomach was roaring at him, turning like a small craft on the violence of ambivalent waves. Leon coughed again, felt his throat open and his stomach brace, but nothing came up. The toilet before him ran, a little humming noise of water through pipes, as if to offer comfort.
He'd been in here too long. He'd knelt here long enough for the cold tile to bite into his knees through the fabric of his pants. He had to get back, or they'd come looking. He didn't want them to see his weakness, the way his joints had turned to water against his bones, the cold sweat as time grew closer.
I know you hate this, his father's voice, gruff but somehow always with that shrugging sigh of "well, I told you so" curled around its edges, but hating having to do something has never stopped that thing from having to be done. Not once.
It was one of those nuggets of wisdom fathers liked to drop on you, the ones that always seemed to apply to doing chores or taking a punishment quietly, like a good, obedient child. Where was the little pearl of truth about puking your guts out in a Capitol Hill bathroom before being watched by millions of people? Ol' pops didn't have anything for that as Leon could recall.
A water faucet turned on outside the stall and Leon knew he wasn't alone. He cleared his throat, coughed, swallowed. Stood and flushed the toilet. He opened the metal door that blockaded the rest of the bathroom. The brown tweed of a suitcoat faced him, its span over a set of athletic shoulders. A head of thick, dark hair just starting to gray was set atop the suit's starched and ironed collar. In the mirror, Doctor Hamilton's eyes were politely averted to his hands. He scrubbed them in the basin, paid great attention to his fingernails. Leon glanced to him, unsure, and then drifted to his own sink. He thought he might get out of here without a conversation. Without comment. Then, the man beside him spoke.
"Are you not feeling well?"
Leon supposed it was a fair question — he was a doctor, after all, presented with a person who'd been gagging and heaving and carrying on before emerging pale as a ghost from his watery crypt.
"No, sir." Leon said. "Just nerves, I think."
The doctor's dark eyebrows fluted up, as if this was of note but not worth commenting on. He was a handsome enough man, though most of his charisma sprouted from his bearing rather than his looks; his back was always straight, his gestures polite and measured, and though he spoke scarcely, his few words were mild, considering, and comforting.
"It's a lot, what they're asking you." Doctor Hamilton said. He looked at Leon's reflection in the mirror. "I wouldn't want to go first."
Leon stood with his hands on the cold marble. "It's fine," His voice still sounded froggy, clogged with fluid. "Someone has to." He turned on the faucet and was vaguely aware the of the doctor's eyes, still watching from their reflections.
"How old are you, son?" The doctor asked.
"Twenty-two." Leon felt much older. Older than dust. His shoulders hurt and his jaw was tight, stiff as a board. The cords of muscles down the sides of his neck ached.
"Hm." The doctor said. "I'm sorry."
Leon laughed; a sarcastic scoff. A nervous habit picked up from his days in his home state of Massachusetts where the jokes were drier and the conversation less invasive. "Sorry for what, my stomach problems?"
The doctor shook his head, his expression serious but not without sympathy. "For what they've taken from you. Are… taking from you."
"And you know what they've taken from me?" Leon asked, and turned to him. It wasn't meant as a challenge when the words formed in his brain, but between his tense body language and the quick backhand-slap of his words, it came out as one.
"Time." The doctor patted at his hands with a thin, scratchy layer of paper towel. "It's all any of us has. You should be… at a party. Falling in love. Traveling, maybe hiking some trail in South America before you take your first serious job. Making mistakes. Not fixing the mistakes of people twice your age."
Leon was quiet. A wounded sort of quiet, the silence of having your guard knocked off and not having a ready-set response.
I'm not the hero they think I am, he thought, I'm not the hero I thought I'd be. And they're all going to see it. Everyone is going to know.
"We're the same," Leon said to the doctor, "they took your time, too."
Doctor Hamilton looked at the paper towel in his hands with a smile. "My time would have been gone either way. Funny what we're prepared to give up when we don't realize its value, isn't it?"
"I don't understand," Leon said, but he did understand. He understood so acutely that many things — some feelings without names or faces to identify them, just endless yawns of pain; some just names, names he hadn't spoken in years and some he'd made a promise to never speak again; some just filling space, where he knew something important went but didn't remember its shape — came rushing back and became nothing, clogging his brain all at once, both the overflow and the dam.
The doctor remembered himself, then, balled the towel and shot it into a silver trash can a few paces away. "Never mind me. Just talking to myself, I suppose." He turned to leave and on his way out, he stopped. "Good luck out there, Leon."
Leon was left with the tapping of shoes against tile and the polite creak of a door. He searched his own face. He looked tired. Ragged.
Everyone is going to know.
They piled shoulder-to-shoulder in Kevin's shitbird-red Camaro. It smelled like hot plastic and cigarette smoke, a noxious mixture baked into the upholstery fabric. One of the men demanded Kevin turn on the AC.
"Hah! That's a good one. AC in this thing hasn't worked since the fucking Gulf War." Then, "No offense, Heavy."
"None taken." Carlos cranked his own window down by its plastic handle before he closed the door. He knew the drill in the Rymanmobile; buckle up, driver picks the music, and don't ask about climate control.
"Are you serious?! It's like a fucking sauna back here!"
"Then roll a window down, you god damned sissy." Kevin's words were muffled around an unfiltered cigarette. He twisted one of the radio knobs until the squealing static of dancing stations settled on a song he approved of — something by Motley Crue. Carlos wasn't a metal guy, much less a hair metal guy, but after repeated exposure in this very car, he knew Vince Neil's voice through a sort of shameful osmosis. "Alright kids, the ride don't move until everyone's buckled up!"
They drove through chokes of indecisive traffic, at times free and easy and then hopelessly gridlocked. As a way to pass the time, one of the men opened the floor for one of the team's eternal debates: This Girl vs. That Girl. They'd run the gamut in the hours spent huddled together in airplanes or choppers — Maryanne vs. Ginger, Monica vs. Rachel, Kelly Kapowski vs. Lisa Turtle — but they always pulled a new one out of nowhere. This particular teammate had seen a movie recently that had really gotten under his skin, and the debate was an opinionated one that lasted through traffic, up the white stone steps of the building, and to the mouth of the metal detector within its front doors.
"Wait," Kevin said, at one point, "you're tellin' me you prefer anyone to Neve Campbell?"
"Yes. Have you seen The Waterboy?"
"Have you seen Wild Things? Are you fucking insane?"
The group collected their belongings from plastic bowls and left Carlos behind to wait, for the second time today, for his crutch to pass the machine. He smiled at the guard, who, for the second time today, looked at him with boredom. Carlos scooted on his good foot to the other side of the machine and accidentally bumped a smaller man with the pack of his shoulder. The man jostled and lost his balance, almost fell.
"Shit. Sorry, man. You okay?"
"Whoa," the smaller man said, in a heavily-accented voice that struck Carlos in a part of his brain that was both familiar and startlingly unpleasant. "No, no, I'm fine, I—" Doctor Behara stopped, blinked, his mouth open. His tiny, dark eyes set in his deep brown face flickered across Carlos' own like he expected danger. "W-well… fancy seeing you here, Mister Oliveira. What are the odds?"
"Pretty good, considerin'," Carlos said, accepted his crutch and tucked it under his arm once again. "I'm alright if you ignore the flat tire. How 'bout you?"
Doctor Behara's flinching wasn't without warrant, of course — there was a time not so long ago the chance of that implied danger might have been pretty good, had the two men found themselves without a glass barricade between them.
"As well as can be expected," Doctor Behara said, and pulled a leather briefcase from the rotating belt. He eyed the cast on Carlos' leg, hidden with a black stocking. "Do you need some help? I can walk with you."
"Good of you to offer, but my guys are just up here." Carlos reached down deep into the darkest recesses of his social graces, and with Jill in mind, presented an olive branch he didn't much feel like extending. "But if you don't mind some company, we're probably goin' the same way."
"Of course." Carlos' team meandered ahead, gesturing and arguing and shaking their heads in disbelief, no doubt still entrenched in their debate. "They seem… spirited."
"You can say 'dumb'. It's fine."
Doctor Behara slowed his own pace to match Carlos', realized that he didn't need to, and fought to catch up. "In your retelling of this conversation, I'd like you to include that you said it, not me." His laughter faded and then stilled. "I heard what happened. I'm very glad you're alright. All of you."
Carlos wasn't used to being looked upon with sympathy. Wasn't used to needing it. There was a tentative feeling between he and the man beside him of offenses calming down into some semblance of water flowing under a bridge where it belonged. Behara's sympathy made that water buck against its shores and Carlos bristled, before realizing he was being the dick this time. He may never get around to being this guy's friend, but he would have to be okay with being right, accepting that things had happened the way they had because they couldn't have happened any other way, and shutting up about it. He needed to chill out.
"Yeah, well," Carlos said, "we're tougher than we look. I guess you heard about Harris too."
"I did. After all that's happened, I'm somehow… unsurprised he'd refuse to be in a room with you, no matter how official. Or filled with guards."
"Yeah, you're givin' me too much credit. It's Jill he's probably afraid of."
Doctor Behara laughed at that; not his normal social chuckle, nervous and deferential, but an actual human laugh.
"That had occurred to me, as well." He said. "She can be quite forceful."
"Think you win for understatement of the century, doc."
They arrived at the set of wooden double doors. Two stern-faced guards in dark uniforms studded with golden buttons and badges had stopped the group, and were currently engaged in a lively conversation about it with Kevin. Carlos had a sinking feeling this wasn't about Faruiza Balk vs. Neve Campbell, and hurried his pace to investigate what sort of issues had cropped up in the thirty seconds he'd left them alone.
"There you are," Kevin said as Carlos approached, and gestured to the guards, "this upstanding gentleman wants to talk to our CO and see if we're supposed to actually be here."
"It's just orders," the guard said, "we've been told not to allow entrance to anyone from the FBC without prior clearance. Raccoon City victim or not."
"Well isn't that convenient," said one of the men, "wonder where that order came from."
"And it's Raccoon City survivors," Kevin corrected the guard, a trifle sharply. "I ain't never been a victim and I ain't about to start now. You wanna use titles, use the right ones."
"I'm their CO," Carlos cut in, in his best okay okay everybody calm down sort of voice. It would never not feel weird to be depended upon to speak for the group; as much physical and social heft as he carried, he very much disliked throwing it around unless absolutely necessary. "And yeah, we're all survivors from the outbreak."
"Alright, CO," almost mocking, "let's see some I.D."
Carlos presented it and the guard squinted at the card, as if willing it to be untrue or inaccurate, perhaps searching for a disqualifying piece of information.
"If there's an issue," Doctor Behara piped up, the dips and inflections of his Indian accent a lyrical contrast to Kevin's Midwestern chirping and Carlos' clipped New York baritone. He extended his own I.D. card between his fingers. "I'm also from the FBC. I'm a witness on today's docket, and I'd be happy to vouch for the gentlemen on my team, here. If that doesn't suffice — perhaps Congressman Graham could say his piece? I'm sure he'd be very happy to be pulled away from his tiny little Congressional trial to settle a squabble about I.D. cards."
All eyes shifted from Behara to the guards. The guards too looked away from the group, towards each other. They said nothing, then waved the men forward and proceeded to roughly pat them down. When they found nothing but the squat, hard rectangle of Kevin's Zippo lighter and a few cell phones, the first man sighed.
"Find a seat on the right," he said, "left's reserved for defense lawyers."
They continued into the room, past the guards; Kevin scouted and found a copse of empty chairs on the side of the room, indicated them with a point.
"Thanks, doc." Carlos laughed, disbelieving. In his mind he had offered a tense sort of peace; now he accepted one, as well. "Seems like we owe you one."
"Oh. Of course, of course. We're on the same team, yes?" The doctor said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must go have an anxiety attack in front of twelve television cameras. Say my apologies to your men, please."
There were more lights now. Television lights, hot and bright overhead like mutant fireflies, their split metal jackets like wings, spread against the off-white sky. Leon looked at them unhappily as the witnesses entered the room again in a straggling line.
"It'll be okay." From beside him, Jill's voice, serious and resonant. "Don't let them see you sweat. You've got this."
"Wish I shared your confidence," Leon said.
"Well — if you can't find your own, maybe you can borrow it from them," Jill nudged him, soft, with the line of her body, then pointed past Leon's chest into the crowd. A group of men in black suits were trying to get his attention. Chief among them, Kevin, who pointed to his chest, mouthing the words "Sign my boob". Leon shook his head in bewilderment; you really just couldn't take him anywhere.
"Those your guys?" She asked, with the ghost of a quiet giggle.
"I think he's talking to you," Leon laughed, "but… yeah. That's my group."
"With friends like that, who needs a cheering squad?" Jill asked, and brushed past him, on her way to the front row. "See you up there."
The front table was empty save for Congressman Graham, who sat by his lonesome, reviewing a paper. Leon took his seat at the table, pulled up his chair. There were two name placards before them; Leon tipped them back to read them. Mr. Leon S. Kennedy, said one, and the other, Cong. James Graham, Chief, House Intelligence Committee. By himself up here with nobody but a lawyer and a water bottle for company, it felt real now, and Leon's stomach started to tip again. His blood felt like it fell to his feet and he stared at the table's lacquered varnish.
"Just remember — you're not the one on trial here." The Congressman said. "Just tell them what you know."
It didn't make Leon feel better.
The Congresspeople shuffled in, lackadaisical; no big rush. They took their seats in the black leather chairs, pulled themselves up to the desks, ignored him. In the center in his lifted seat, the Justice settled in, smoothed his robe underneath him like a skirt. Leon had to tilt his face up to look at them, like a jury from old cartoons where they'd point down and scream the guilt for all to hear. He didn't hear much over the blood rushing in his ears; they asked him to stand and swear on a Catholic Bible, as he'd requested, and he swore to tell the entire truth to the best of his ability. Camera shutters clicked and flashed, and Leon felt like his knees might give out, but he was determined to stand anyway. Once the Justice was satisfied, he sat back down behind the table.
"The first is Congressman Bateman of New Jersey," the Justice said, "Mister Bateman, you may begin."
"Thank you, Your Honor." Said a man with dark hair, combed precariously to cover a bald spot. He had a thin, hawkish nose, and tiny dark eyes. "May the witness state his name and title, please?"
"My name is Leon Scott Kennedy." Leon said. "I'm a specialist with the Federal Bioterror Commission."
"What sort of specialist?" A tone of piqued interest.
"Field operations."
"That's a very important position. A very dangerous one as well. You have my thanks as well as the thanks of my colleagues on this panel."
Leon nodded, uncomfortable, unsure what to say. "Thank you, Congressman."
"And can you tell us what your role was in the Raccoon City Incident that dated September 27 to October 1, 1998?"
"I was an officer with the Raccoon City Police Department, sir."
"So, something curious I notice as I read through your record…" the Congressman said, "is that you don't really have one, Mister Kennedy. Aside from your service with the FBC, of course. A Bachelor of Arts in Criminal Justice and Sociology from Boston University, quite a bit of volunteer work, but no prior military or law enforcement experience. Calling yourself a police officer from Raccoon City…" the man said, and rubbed his forehead, "perhaps in title? A bit generous for one day of work, wouldn't you say?"
Any foolish hope of a smooth experience disappeared in a blink, and Leon swallowed.
"Objection," Congressman Graham said, with a sigh. "Mr. Kennedy was sworn in by Lieutenant Branagh of the Raccoon City Police Department, as is detailed in his statements. Whether or not it was for a day or a year, he was a part of the RPD."
"Sustained," the Justice said. "Rephrase, Mr. Bateman."
"Right, right," Congressman Bateman said, but didn't seem sorry; not in the least. "I'll rephrase. Thank you, Your Honor. Are you from Raccoon City, Mister Kennedy?"
"No. My family is from Boston."
Congressman Bateman's face was impressed. "Boston is quite a way from Indiana. Explain?"
"My mother was originally from Raccoon City. She met my father in Boston, at college. That's where they settled down and raised myself and my sisters. My father died when I was ten, and my mother had to move us closer to her family for help."
"Back to Raccoon City."
"Yes, sir."
"That's quite a move just for babysitting help. You and how many other children?"
"Three, my sisters. One older and two younger."
"And your father was a police officer with the Boston PD."
"Correct, sir."
"And he died in the line of duty, did he not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you say it's fair that you became a police officer to… pick up where he left off?"
"I would say that's fair."
"Good. So, if you'll forgive me for asking — that seems a proud lineage to carry on in his stead. So why did you become a police officer in an entirely different city?"
"To be close to my family."
The Congressman nodded. "And you lost that family in the Raccoon City Incident, then?"
Leon shook his head. "No. They evacuated to South Bend in the beginning of September, when riots started to break out."
"And the Raccoon City Police Department called you in despite knowing you had a family to protect?"
Leon shook his head again. "Nobody called me in. I was supposed to start a week earlier, on September 21, but I was told to stay back until the riots were under control."
"But you went anyway."
"I wouldn't make a very good police officer if I ran the other way when people were in danger."
"Do you also think police officers who disobey direct orders are good police officers?"
A mumble in the crowd behind Leon — perhaps of offense, perhaps of agreement, he couldn't tell. He waited for the noise to die before he responded.
"It would depend on the order they're disobeying," Leon said, "upholding the law and upholding orders aren't the same thing, though they should be."
Somewhere in the crowd, Kevin smiled his wide, rakish smile, and nodded in agreement. The Congressman made the mistake of looking into the crowd behind his witness; more than a few of the people glared at him, some pointed and some cool, as if a sacred oath had just been foolishly questioned and the answer stapled to his forehead.
"So, Mister Kennedy, if you'll forgive me — clarify something. You wanted to be close to your family but you didn't evacuate with them. You actually… went back to Raccoon City, despite having no military or law enforcement training at the time, even though you were told to stay away. Almost like someone with prior notice that an incident was going to happen had let them know. Someone who might be suited to a job fighting bioweapons?"
Leon felt his eyebrows knit together. "If someone did have prior notice about what was happening in the city, they didn't tell me."
"Can you state your age?"
"I'm twenty-two years old, sir."
"Hm. You're a bit young for the FBC. The average age of those who apply and are accepted is…" the Congressman looked at his paper, "thirty-two?"
Leon didn't respond, unsure what to say. The Congressman let it hang in the air. "You're aware of that, correct, Mister Kennedy? That you are, in fact, the youngest FBC operative on record?"
Leon shook his head. "I wasn't aware. It hadn't crossed my mind."
"Interesting. That's quite an achievement to not realize you've attained. Any reason why that you'd like to tell us?"
No objection came from the Congressman beside him, this time. Leon glanced aside to him, and without looking back, Congressman Graham nodded; a nearly imperceptible twitch of the head.
"I wasn't handed anything," Leon said, "I was conscripted against my will by Captain Benjamin Harris and forced into service on his team after the events of September 1998. I didn't have a choice. They threatened the lives of my friends if I didn't comply. Specifically Sherry Birkin."
A concerned mumble washed over the crowd, but it was no stately oh my sort of mumble; it was an exclamation of dismay, an are you fucking serious amplified through almost a hundred voices, exhausted outrage and consternation mingled into one undulating wall of sound. Among them was Carlos' quiet whisper: Jesus Christ.
"Order," the Justice said and banged his gavel against a small wooden plate on his desk. When the sound died, he said, "The record will reflect the witness refers to Captain Benjamin Harris of the Federal Bioterror Commission."
"Incredible claims require incredible evidence, Mister Kennedy," Congressman Bateman said. "Where is your proof? If something so… Shakespearean had happened to you, why didn't you tell anybody?"
"Mister Kennedy's proof has been submitted to the office of the House Intelligence Committee," Congressman Graham said. "You are free to peruse of course, but it is… exhaustive."
"Dating back to when?"
"October 1998," Leon said. "As soon as I was placed on the team, I made contact with Congressman Graham. I submitted whatever evidence I found to him from that point on."
"So… you blew the whistle and revealed classified government information, you mean."
It was a serious charge. Leon could walk it back, of course — do damage control. It's what they wanted; to get him to recant, to poke a hole in his own story because he was scared. Leon considered this and came to the conclusion that he didn't care what happened to him. The weight of sacred institutions and titles — Chief, Captain, Congressman — they didn't matter, either, not if the person holding them demanded the impossible. They were no longer icons to Leon, no longer symbols of honor and trust, and they deserved jack shit if they didn't operate on the same brazen honesty he did. Not if they didn't earn it. The room seemed to come into clearer focus, the lines and angles sharper, colors brighter, like a filter removed from a camera lens. Under the weight of the lights, the stares, the questioning, a single seed of rebellion cracked open and sent its first sharp shoot plunging up through the dirt.
"Yes," Leon said, plainly. "I did." His voice was calm, almost challenging — Yeah. What are you going to do about it?. As the years ticked by, those that knew Leon closely would remember that tone for how strange it seemed then. How out of character. But as strange things do, it became normal, and they would have difficulty remembering a time where he displayed anything other than that cool self-containment, Leon's trademark naivete permanently retired for something more sustainable, shut off behind a protective set of blast doors somewhere in his chest.
Another roiling of mumbles and whispers from the crowd.
"Holy fucking shit," Kevin mumbled, "Kennedy was a god damned plant the entire time?"
"Sounds like he was there to watch Harris, not help us," Carlos mused, "always wondered he took so much extra time collecting the evidence when we were in the field." And why Harris threw such a fit when I suggested Kennedy lead the team, maybe. Jesus.
"Motherfucker. Just getting 'boozled from all sides today. Shit."
"Chill," Carlos said, "we're all on the same side. We'll let him explain, first."
"Just… makes me uncomfortable, is all," Kevin said, and crossed his arms.
"Order, please." The Justice banged his gavel again. "I understand we are touching on emotional topics, but this will be a long trial if we have to stop for noise control every few minutes, chambers."
There was silence once again, and Mister Bateman spoke.
"Perhaps later when a judgment requires we review exhaustive evidence, as you so eloquently put it, Chairman, we will."
Congressman Graham just nodded, smiling. "Thank you."
"So…" Bateman continued, and Leon thought he sounded… unsure. Shaken, perhaps. "We have your account, but if you would, please recount your experiences in Raccoon City from September 29 to October 1, Mister Kennedy. I'd be interested to hear them from you personally." He gestured, vaguely. "As a refresher."
He's trying to catch me in a lie, Leon realized, they don't think I made it up — but they're trying to find differences in my accounts. Make me look like I embellished it.
Then, clear as a bell as if he were sitting at the table and not in a six-foot burial plot in the Northeast, the same sigh of his father's voice fluttered through Leon's head. The truth knows what to do, kid. Don't touch it — just let it off its leash.
"I'd be happy to," Leon said, and settled in for a long afternoon.
Leon told his story as dispassionately as he could, but we cannot deny our natures, and he was a young man with blood not yet cooled by time or temperance. That blood carried very strong opinions about fairness and justice that were — at least at this juncture of his life — impossible to disabuse.
Leon spoke for hours, his accounts interrupted with questions that were often disingenuous and sometimes outright misleading. Leon corrected these as best he could, but there were a handful of times his accounts painted him in a poor light. This led to needling over minutiae that made Leon's head hurt, and sometimes to bitter regrets that were hard to recall without the shakes in his voice betraying him.
"I notice," said one Congresswoman, deep into the vault of the fourth hour, where Leon's brain felt smooth from use and his tongue heavy, "that you are committed to telling the committee about things you did… wrong. Almost like a tell, perhaps. Why is that?"
Leon blinked, as if wary of wandering into a trap that had been laid at his feet, the question so simple after hours of verbal tripwires that it must be deception.
"The only thing I'm committed to is the truth," Leon said, "whether or not it makes me look good isn't the point."
The courtroom sketch artist, in his swooping scratches of pastel colors, captured very few features more important than the earnest, open look on Leon's young face. That same artist glanced back later that day at his works and wondered if the witness had really looked so much older than his age under those lights, or if it was a simple artist's inaccuracy.
They broke for the day. The Justice banged his gavel one last time and the Congresspeople, arms full of papers and briefcases, stood and shuffled off like schoolchildren who had waited overlong for the final bell to ring. There was a mumble of sighs and conversation from behind him, but Leon heard nothing. He was exhausted, his shirt soaked; slippery sweat, not content with only claiming the underarms of his shirt, had trickled all the way down his sides. His mouth was tired and his throat dry despite an entire bottle of water. Where just a moment ago his mind was full of so many facts and emotions and the keeping of both like a high-wire act over a canyon, now it felt deflated, and he was happy to think of nothing.
After a few moments of companionable silence, Leon said to Congressman Graham: "Sorry. I don't feel like that was a victory. It felt like barely holding my ground."
Congressman Graham placed a hand on Leon's shoulder. "Well, good," he said, "because we weren't after a victory. You did hold your ground, and that's all we needed."
Leon looked to the Congressman, his summer-tanned skin creased in sleepy laugh lines, the way he looked at you like he was expecting you to answer a question, even if you'd just asked it of him, but laughing all the while, a quiet mirth never far away.
"You can't have actually wanted a stalemate." Leon said, disbelieving. "The stakes are too high for that."
The Congressman nodded. "I can see why you'd think that. But when you're boxing Mike Tyson, a tie is a victory," he said, "especially if nobody knows who you are. I've been doing this a very long time, Leon, and if I were Umbrella… against who I tried to characterize as a wet-nosed rookie cop, I would have been expecting a slam dunk. And I'd be very concerned I didn't get one. But for now — it appears you've got a welcoming party waiting for you."
Leon turned and looked over his shoulder to the door. Most of the people in the chamber had risen from their seats and departed into the noisy sea of bodies in the hallway, the room surprisingly open and empty compared to just moments before. Just outside the door, away from the crush of foot traffic, stood a small group of people; Claire. The FBC guys. Jill and Rebecca. At one point Kevin said something that made the entire group burst into a fit of laughter and Claire pushed him by the shoulder. Kevin leaned towards her and said something else aside and she pushed him again. It was a strange series of gestures — Leon was unaware they knew each other, let alone that well — and it quirked something deep in his brain. Interested, Leon pushed to his feet and headed over to the group.
As he walked down the carpeted aisle toward them, Leon caught a hint of strangeness in the air. Perhaps in the wild it would have made an animal turn and bolt the other way, a chemical signal that only danger lay in that direction. The girls turned and welcomed him with warm expressions and waves. The men in the black fatigues also watched him, unsmiling, waiting for him to approach. Kevin and the boys looked at him pointedly, hard and unhappy, like a disapproving clique of popular kids in a high school hallway. Heavy just looked… neutral. Maybe a touch sympathetic, as was his way.
Leon took a deep breath and braced for impact.
"You did so good!" Claire led the charge, enthusiastic and cheerful, her hands clapped together before her chest. "That was amazing!"
"You think so?" Leon smiled, weak, his own doubt overwhelmed for the moment.
"She's right," Jill said from where she stood across the circle at Heavy's side; the Staff Sergeant looked down at her with a mild expression then back up at Leon, a silent assent she spoke for them both. "They tried to throw you off and you held the line. That's not easy. I'm really impressed."
"Heavy," Kevin said, though his eyes were on Leon; slate gray, and… estimating. No laughter in their edges. "Do you think we might call a team meeting to discuss some stuff? Later?"
"Probably a good idea," Heavy said, not unkindly. This time Jill looked up to him as he spoke. "For now, I think everyone needs some rest. Its been a long day."
"Oh God," Jill laughed, "I would pay for a solid nap right about now."
"Truer words never fuckin' spoken," Kevin rubbed his eyes with one hand, pinched their lids together towards his nose with his forefinger and thumb. "There's about six beers with my name on 'em, and I was just listening. See you guys here tomorrow morning, same Bat time?"
"Sounds good," Rebecca agreed as she too pulled away. "You guys be careful going home, okay?"
Something happened, then, that turned Leon's interest into something… harder. Maybe darker. Kevin gestured to Claire to catch her attention as he left. "Talk to you later?"
Claire nodded, cheerful. "Sure thing! Have a good night."
Exactly what the hell does that mean? Leon thought, suddenly, then wondered exactly what the hell he meant. He watched Kevin turn and walk away down the tall, polished hallway — his stupid jokes and complete disregard of seriousness in the majority of circumstances had marked Kevin as persona non grata to Leon's task, long ago — someone to be avoided if possible, rarely taken seriously. A time waster. But now he seemed like danger for reasons unclear.
"Hey," Heavy nudged Leon out of his thoughts with his free hand, which he extended in a fist. "Good job today."
Leon smiled again and bumped his knuckles against Heavy's. "Thanks. That means a lot."
The group dispersed, drama and lights and grandstanding packed safely away for another day, and once again Claire stood alone by Leon's side, as if leaving him by himself didn't apply or occur to her. She simply smiled at him, fair and bright and dimpled, the thick sheaf of her red hair tossed over one shoulder.
"You really did do good," she said, "amazing, actually. I'm really proud of you. We both are."
Something in her face made Leon avert his eyes. He looked around. "Where is Sherry, anyway?"
"She fell asleep about an hour ago," Claire laughed, "Chris took her home as soon as we broke. She's too big for me to carry now, so he gets kid-hauling duty."
"So you and the guys became friends fast," he said, tried for teasing but only reached sarcastic, drier than he intended. "You and Kevin know each other?"
Claire nodded. She blinked and her smile faded for an expression more thoughtful. "Oh yeah. He's really nice. He stayed with Chris when he had his accident. Did I tell you about that?"
"You didn't."
"Oh! Yeah. When Chris had his… thing… and he fell and broke his wrist. Kevin stayed with him in the hospital until we got there. He's a really good guy." A pause. "Something has been bugging me, though."
"What's that?"
"Did you ever notice that your entire team is like… super good looking? You guys should make a calendar for charity or something. Put it to good use." Claire nudged him.
"Good to see your eye is on the prize. Or prizes."
"Can't blame a girl for looking…" Claire trailed off, as if unsure where the conversation was going or why she was defending herself. "You okay?"
"Yeah, sorry." Leon was aware, with a strange distance like he was listening to someone else speak the words, that he was being an ass. He wasn't trying to be. He chalked it up to fatigue and frustration, even though a deep part of him knew this wasn't the explanation, and shook his head. "Just tired."
"I bet," Claire touched his upper arm. "Walk you outside?"
It was an innocent gesture, one of support and sweetness. The warmth of her touch after such an arduous afternoon was a respite; it piped something directly into Leon's blood, and he realized with suddenness just how empty his own hands were.
"Sure." Leon said, confused at himself.