Carlos ducked his head low to avoid hitting it against the frame of the car, and held the door for Jill. She scooted on her backside to the end of the velvety seat, knees together, told Rodrigo (the driver—though she didn't know his name, Carlos had passively memorized it, the way he did with just about everyone he came into contact with daily) "thank you", and then swung her legs to the side and climbed out of the cab. The smile she gave Carlos was drawn and tired, the kind of smile that might have accompanied a hung head or uncomfortable conversation.
"How're we doing?" Carlos asked. He clapped the car door shut.
"We're doing." The sky overhead was the color of iron, and Jill's eyes looked a little grayer today than normal. "It's a start."
Carlos nodded, but couldn't bring himself to smile. The distant unhappiness on her face pulled at him, presented him with the sudden, deep need to fix. To repair or cauterize or move or… something. But there were no ragged seams that could be mended with supportive words, no physical bulwarks that could be erected, no punches that could be swung to stem the tide of what was about to happen. Once again Carlos found himself left on the periphery to watch, and hope his support was enough. He heard himself sigh.
"It's okay." Jill said, and touched his hand, her fingers slim and cool against his own. "Go on. I'll wait by the steps."
"I'll be right there." Carlos watched her walk away. With some difficulty, he turned his attention to the cab driver, Rodrigo, through the open passenger-side window of the car. Carlos handed Rodrigo a touch-worn twenty dollar bill, and the man's dark, shining face split in a wide off-white smile, pockmarked with missing teeth. "We good on five, like normal?"
"I get as close as I can. It's supposed to rain like hell today. But I'll be here." In his thick island accent, here sounded like hee-ah, and it took a moment for Carlos' brain to parse what he was hearing. "You tell her to smile or her face will stick like that. She's too pretty to go 'round frowning all day."
Carlos puffed a laugh through his nose. "Yeah, you tell her that and see how it goes."
The car pulled into traffic and when Carlos turned away, Jill stood, staring at the tall metal pole jutting to the sky, straight and proud beside the staircase. Upon it in a fitful, damp summer's wind flapped and rippled an American flag, wound only halfway up its mast. Carlos came to a stop beside her.
"It's not your fault." Carlos said. "None of it. You know that, right?"
"I know. But…" Jill said, gently, after a moment. She blinked, then lowered her eyes to the ground. "Knowing and feeling are different. I'll just feel better when this is over. Whatever happens."
They mounted the white stone steps together in silence. Carlos pushed the redwood door open by its heavy horizontal bronze bar. A copse of people waited inside, dallying and making idle chatter. When he spotted them in their business suits, microphones and cameras and lighting rigs held at their sides, their heads had already turned to the noise of the opening door. It was only once Jill ducked her head under Carlos' arm and strode into the hall that they began to stir, sidling close to the metal detector that separated the entrance from the lobby, jockeying for the closest position like a nest of hungry insects. Carlos frowned.
"They could give you a fuckin' second," he grumbled.
Jill gave him a look of warmth and assurance, then left him where he stood.
A familiar figure split from the approaching crowd. The attorney's expression was not calm, not ringed around the edges with smug like rust in a sink drain. He just looked tired. Unimpressed. Like he was fighting off a headache. He stopped in Carlos' path and proffered another piece of paper from his leather folder. The third this week. Carlos accepted the paper, gave it a cursory glance—the language was more severe, sure, but the message was familiar—then crossed his arms to watch Jill work her magic. The attorney turned as well, and for a moment of brief respite, they watched together as the cameras shuttered and projected their lights onto Jill's small, solid form. The two men looked more like the coworkers they may once have been than generals in opposing armies brought to a momentary ceasefire.
"You know what I'm going to say." The attorney said quietly, aside.
"Probably," Carlos responded. "NDA?"
"Yes. NDA." When Carlos didn't respond, he continued. "You know what you signed. Why make this difficult for everyone?"
It was phrased pleasantly enough, with a gentleman's lilt of professionalism. A nod to the Queensbury Rules of the building in which they found themselves, a white marble mask with glittering gilded edges, one that concealed the bloodiest street fight Carlos had ever been involved in. Carlos knew what the guy really meant to say—me. Why make this difficult for me? Why be a dick? My boss is watching and you're making me look like an idiot. All you need to do is park your huge dumb ass somewhere else for a few days, then I can retire, but no, I had to draw straws and got you. Right at the end.
Carlos thought about what he wanted to say, then indicated Jill with a point. "You see her?"
"Yes."
"And all those people crowded around her?"
A sigh. "Yes."
"Well," Carlos said, and left it. He turned to the man beside him. "So since we're friends now, why're you still here? You've gotta know this isn't going well for your guys. Turned in your two weeks yet?"
The smallest flicker of doubt; a twitch on the corner of a thin, downturned mouth. Then he was buttoned up again, professional.
"Good day, Mr. Oliveira," the attorney said, and was gone.
The olive-green-grey carpet, studded with shapes that looked like diamonds, was worn from years of foot-traffic. Hardwood chairs, mostly occupied, lined an aisle. The room stretched on forever, like walking down a telescoping hallway towards impending doom.
Congressman Graham stood waiting, one hand in the pocket of his dark dress pants. Jill approached, and the faintest trace of a smile tilted his features into an expression that could have been concern or amusement.
"You alright?" He asked.
Jill nodded, a nervy, short jerk of her head. "Let's just get this done."
"You'll be fine. I'll be here with you. These guys are nothing. Just tell them what you know."
From beyond, the boom of an official-sounding voice cut over the clamor and idle chatter of the chamber. "If the witness could please come to the floor for swearing in."
Jill arranged the shift around her and smoothed her skirt. Out of habit, perhaps, she glanced over her shoulder; the line of faces were wide eyed, most of them smiling with encouragement. Carlos' was not; between his dark suit and thoughtful expression, he cut an undertaker's image, uncharacteristically serious.
Jill opened the waist-high wooden door. A man in a black-and-tan baliff's outfit presented a thick gilded Bible upon which she set one hand and pledged to tell the truth. She then sat at the table, pulled herself close, and settled in beside Congressman Graham. The room was huge, the tower of desks before her immense and intimidating, and she felt sick, had to still her breath intentionally to keep from getting dizzy. She folded her hands together on the table.
The Justice spoke. "Mrs. Nelson of Arizona. You may begin."
Beside Jill, the Congressman tucked his lips together in distaste, then straightened his face.
"Thank you, Your Honor. Good morning," spoke a woman with nearly-white hair cut short in a sensible bob around her jaw. She wore rectangular metal glasses and a string of pearls. The seams of a black business sat structured and high over her thin shoulders as she craned her head forward towards a microphone on a thin wire stand by her mouth. "Please state your name."
Jill did. Her voice, projected by her own microphone, sounded strange and alarming.
"Just to touch on your record—it says here you're former US Army. Is that correct?"
"That's correct."
"It says here you trained with Delta Force." The congresswoman's eyebrows fluted up. "Can you explain what that is?"
"Army Special Forces. We were selected to train with G Squadron of Delta Force as a part of my unit's support detail."
"And what was covered in that training?"
"Security and explosives ordinance disposal. I was taught to crack codes, pick locks, and disable explosive devices we encountered as a part of our deployment to the middle east in 1993."
"Very impressive. Thank you for your service." The Congresswoman, with her eyes on her papers, moved on with a speed that indicated the thanks as cursory. "And you were a police officer in Raccoon City, Indiana, for how many years?"
"Four years."
"Can you please state your job duties, official title, and who you reported to."
Jill did.
"So — your service records show you were actually suspended from your position on the STARS team, two months before the incident in Raccoon City. Is that correct?"
"That's correct."
"Can you please tell the committee for the reason for your dismissal?"
"Investigations outside of the bounds of my normal, assigned duties."
"So, you were investigating something that shouldn't have been. Is that correct?"
"I was investigating an incident in which I was directly involved — the initial outbreak at the Arklay estate in the Arklay mountains. We were not briefed on it being out of scope. Only after my report was submitted was it rejected for being so."
"And have you had a report rejected before?"
"No."
"You were a member of STARS - the description we have here is that STARS were a wilderness rescue squad, much like SWAT teams in urban areas. Not a team of detectives. Would you say that's correct, Miss Valentine?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"So it could stand to reason that investigating an incident could be redundant, and perhaps a waste the resources of the Raccoon City police department, if it were already being investigated by another party?"
"In that case, yes."
"Can you tell us whether or not there was anybody else investigating this incident?"
"I don't know. As far as we were told, the investigation as a whole was closed."
"Did you work closely with the detective teams?"
"No."
"So you wouldn't know whether or not they were investigating the incident and if your investigations would have been redundant, then."
"No. We had no way to know it was already underway by another department. The report was rejected with no reason given other than it being out of my scope. Then later the entire STARS team was disbanded. Not just me."
"Would you be told if it was being investigated by another department?"
"That's up to the commanding officer. But yes, we would have been, in my experience."
"And who was the commanding officer who rejected your reports, and then suspended you?"
"The Chief of Police, Brian Irons. Not being told is very strange, especially if there was money being wasted."
"I agree. Very strange. So we're to believe your commanding officer, suddenly, after years of working together just needed to get rid of you? Did Chief of Police Brian Irons ever indicate wanting to fire or suspend you?"
"No. I was sent to the Arklay Mountains because our team was the best in the squad. He would not have sent someone he didn't trust."
"And you have no prior connections to Umbrella."
"Not before July sixth, no."
"If you would be so kind, please explain what happened on July sixth at the Arklay Estate, Miss Valentine, ending with the events of October first."
The table shook. When Jill looked down, it was her own fingers that trembled on its lacquered top. Her throat was suddenly dry as dust, her face prickled with needles, her lips numb. Beside her, a gentle nudge; when Jill looked up, Congressman Graham's freckle-tanned face was closer, his eyes empathetic.
"Do you need a break?" He whispered.
Jill shook her head, quick and brief.
"Of c-course," Jill said to the Congresswoman, and cleared her throat. "Of course."
It was an immense amount of talking, but the talking wasn't worse than the remembering. Sympathetic murmurs and gasps of muted shock echoed at certain points of violence or loss. When Jill's tale ended, the Congresswoman was looking at her with shrewd, scrutinizing eyes.
"It sounds quite traumatic, the way you have told it."
"It was."
"Russian intelligence has a report that you were working closely with the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service during the incident in Raccoon City. Did you have contact with any members of Echo team during that time?"
Jill paused, and then shook her head. "I did have close contact with an Umbrella team, but I'm not sure if it was that specific team."
"Echo team lead by Captain Mikhail Viktor, Miss Valentine. Were you in contact with them, or not?"
"Yes. That team, yes."
"Interesting." The congresswoman said, squinting, as if she was under the impression this was the kicker, the trap, that Jill had somehow strangled herself on the rope she swung from. "So — just for my own recollection — just months before the incident in Raccoon City, from your account, Umbrella committed atrocities so damning they attempted to silence you from investigating them."
"Yes."
"And then you teamed up with them. You're a very forgiving person, Miss Valentine, or so the record would have us believe. Explain."
"A unit of Umbrella's Biohazard Countermeasure Service were rescuing civilians, and asked for my help. Those people were my friends and neighbors, so I agreed, despite my distaste for their employer."
"A full unit of armed mercenaries asked for the help of one, and you'll excuse me saying so… female police officer to evacuate their survivors? That's a little unrealistic, wouldn't you say?"
Carlos and Kevin winced at the same time in the disbelief of men who were watching a fight being picked that they knew would end with sprays of viscera and bloody chunks on the walls. Jill adjusted her sitting position, and Carlos recognized it well; it was one of her personal tells, as close to a pair of boxing gloves being stripped off as anything he'd ever seen. Claire crossed her arms tight over her chest and shook her head, eyes ground into slits.
"ORDER!" Boomed the Justice.
"No. I disagree that it's unrealistic." Jill replied, after the buzz died.
A pause. "I figured you would. Miss Valentine, can you please state your height?"
"Five-foot-five."
"And your weight?"
"One hundred and twenty five pounds."
The Congresswoman let it hang in the air. "So, again… now, I'm not saying a woman can't do what is defined as a man's job. Clearly," she chuckled, "or neither of us would be sitting here. However, it doesn't make sense. A team of men, the vast majority I would assume much larger than you, armed with all manner of state-of-the-art weaponry, trained in the dissolution of bioweapons… asked a five-foot-five, one-hundred twenty-five pound policewoman for help in fighting those bioweapons and rescuing civilians? They didn't evacuate you as one of those civilians, instead?"
"Yes," Jill fought to keep her face still. She achieved it, but only just slightly, took a stilling breath in so she could project the vocal tone she needed - calm, warm, professional, even though her angry heart hammered at her ribs and her stomach felt like a hot stone, heavy in her abdomen. "They did ask me for help, and they did not attempt to evacuate me. I'll remind Madam Congresswoman, with all due respect, they didn't ask 'a woman'; they asked a member of STARS. I knew the area, the people, the surrounding landscape. I had survived the Arklay Mansion Incident by myself, as well as a tour in the Middle East with the Army. Evacuating civilians in unfamiliar terrain under high pressure and environmental—"
The Congresswoman cut her off. "Thank you, Miss Valentine, we don't need your resume to answer the question. That'll be all."
"I'm not finished." Jill replied, and the Congresswoman looked at her over the steel frames of her expensive-looking glasses, as if she hadn't heard Jill correctly. "I have a minute to answer your question, and I'm going to use the rest of my time. If I may continue."
There was a tensed hush. If Jill had hauled off and slapped the blonde woman sitting above and away from her, it might have warranted the same reaction. Congressman Graham looked to the Justice atop his tower of desks, who then said, "Proceed. Congresswoman, if you're going to ask questions, please give the witness time to answer. And Miss Valentine, I trust you to stay on topic in your answers."
"Yes, thank you." Jill continued. "Evacuating civilians in unfamiliar terrain under high pressure and environmental disaster was, quite literally, my job. The members of the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service — of whom none were natives of Raccoon City — did ask me for help as I had experience with both the area, and the specific bioweapons we were trying to evacuate the civilians from. I was the expert, and they consulted me for advice and assistance. Much like you are right now."
"And did any of those civilians escape?"
"No. Not to my knowledge."
"But you did."
"Yes."
"Along with a member of this UBCS compatriot who our intelligence reflects used a single dose of the vaccine on you."
"Correct."
"And we're to believe you are telling us that you had no interest in Umbrella, yourself, nor they in you."
"Before July sixth, no."
"That Umbrella simply took the vaccine and used it on the first person they saw, which happened to be someone they tried to kill a few months earlier and then stopped from reporting them trying to kill her... and then they used their only dose of the vaccine to ensure your survival."
"Objection," Graham said, "the witness can't speak to machinations of what someone else thinks or does, she's not a psychic."
"Sustained," the Justice rubbed his forehead, "but I am curious about this as well. Rephrase, Congresswoman."
"If you have no interest in Umbrella as a company, or they in you, I'd like you to explain how Umbrella came to the conclusion of using their vaccine on you if we are to also believe your story about their conspiracy to doom Raccoon City. As you experienced it. Unless there's something in your story that I'm misunderstanding?"
"You are misunderstanding, yes." Jill said. Another quiet thunder in the crowd.
"Oh?" The Congresswoman said, an edge to her voice. "So, explain. Make me understand, Miss Valentine."
"'Umbrella' did not administer the vaccine. An employee of a company is not that company, and as irresponsible as Umbrella has been, they're not a monolith. Not Umbrella, but a person employed by Umbrella using their own judgment, administered it—"
"Miss Valentine." The Congresswoman sighed, interjecting. "This is semantics. You're belaboring the point."
"I'm not done, thank you, Madam Congresswoman. You didn't understand my account, so I'm clarifying. If I may continue."
Silence.
"Continue," the congresswoman said. Hither, thither, makes no difference to me, said the light tone in her voice.
"Umbrella is not a monolith and its employees are people, many of which had no way of knowing what was happening at the upper levels. I found many pieces of evidence that reflect this, which I've turned over to Congressman Graham. That is exactly what happened to both myself and the members of STARS, as well — we were under the direction of a man who ultimately turned out to be a member of Umbrella, Albert Wesker. The only difference here is the employee of Umbrella who gave me the vaccine had the immediate opportunity to take action and mitigate the damage that had been done, once discovered. Which they took."
"Let the record reflect the witness is referring to Staff Sergeant Carlos Antonio Oliveira, currently of the Federal Bioterror Commission." The Congresswoman noted.
"Antonio?" Kevin whispered, with a snicker, and Carlos rolled his eyes.
"Go fuck yourself," Carlos whispered back, and tried to focus on the proceedings.
"Correct." Jill said. "His story is my story as well. The members of STARS had no idea we were being directed by those employed by Umbrella, and Umbrella was not forthcoming with information even regarding their own employees. All we can do now is fix it, which he tried to do by administering the vaccine. That's why I'm here today. You'll find Umbrella itself had precious little to do with me receiving the vaccine, but they do have everything to do with why I needed it in the first place."
"But the person in question, as you say, was still an employee of Umbrella when it was administered."
"That's correct. Technically."
"So an employee of Umbrella did choose to give you the only dose of the vaccine."
"That's not correct. There was another sample of the vaccine, but it was destroyed."
"Destroyed, by whom?"
"Nicholai Ginovaef, another member of the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service."
"Hold on," the Congresswoman said, with a chuckle, "you're telling us not only were there two doses, but one was given to you, and the other was destroyed. For what reason?"
Jill opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Graham. "Objection." He said. "Again — the witness can't speak to the reasoning of another person."
"I'm not asking the witness to read minds," the Congresswoman said, "I'm simply asking if a motivation to destroy the vaccine was made clear in Miss Valentine's presence, given her testimony that one was administered, they would have no reason to destroy the other."
The Justice considered this. "Overruled. Miss Valentine, you may answer."
"Mister Ginovaef stated that he was an employee of another company at the same time he was employed by Umbrella, and was ordered to destroy Umbrella. He gave no further explanation than that. He then shot the canister, rendering the vaccine unusable."
The Congresswoman nodded. "Very dramatic. Do you have any proof of this?"
"The prosecution would like to bring the court's attention to Exhibit 35." Congressman Graham said. "The intelligence report the Congresswoman also refers to was written by Mr. Ginovaef before his death, retrieved from the backups of his personal device." The Justice gestured for the papers to be passed to him, and Congressman Graham did so. "It details Miss Valentine being intentionally infected, as well as the harvesting of combat data by Mister Ginovaef to sell to another entity."
The Justice read for a long time, one hand on his forehead. The thick white shock of his hair caught the light. "It does appear that way," he finally said.
"Permission to redirect?" The Congresswoman asked.
"Permission granted," the Justice replied, still reading.
"This sounds very circumstantial," the Congresswoman said, with a laugh that tried to sound aloof but only sounded nervous, "even if Mister Ginovaef did harvest combat data to sell, that doesn't mean he destroyed the vaccine. We have no idea who destroyed that canister or why. It could have been you, Miss Valentine, for all we know."
"Apologies, Madam Congresswoman," Jill leaned close to the microphone. Though her tone was professional and polite, maybe even edging into sweetness, there an undeniable challenge in it, coiled and ready. "What was the question?"
"An observation. I have no further questions." The Congresswoman said, sounding very tired, and very fed up. "My time has run up. I yield the floor."
"We'll take a break for lunch and then reconvene," the Justice said, "please return at 1:15pm in this room. Dismissed."
Jill tried to eat her salad but her stomach was too empty and too upset, her hands too shaky, her nerves too shot. She pushed a few leaves of spinach around on her plate.
"You ever considered becoming a lawyer?" Graham joked, in his dusty, soft laugh. "That was… phew. I think they're still scrubbing her blood out of the carpet."
"She's up for re-election next November, you know." Rebecca said. "Not popular, either. You might've just popped her balloon."
"I'm not trying to showboat," Jill said, "we were told not to let them jerk us around. Too much?"
Graham shook his head. "Just enough. They'll be looking for ways to run out your time, now, though, since you've shown them you won't let them take it."
Jill poked at her salad. "They can try," she said, and left it at that.
"Good afternoon, Miss Valentine." Said Mister Shores, a man with a pointed, moon-shaped face and squinted eyes, thinning hair precariously combed so it just barely covered a bald spot. "And let me be the first to tell you, thank you for your service, both to our country and to your community."
"Good afternoon," Jill told him. "Thank you, Congressman."
"Would you describe yourself as healthy, Miss Valentine?"
Jill blinked. "Yes," she said, "I would."
"Because the records our office has obtained from the Indiana board of Veteran's affairs details a pretty long rap sheet for you," he said, "specifically mental illness."
Jill said nothing.
"Objection," Graham said, shaking his head, "the witness' medical information is protected under HIPAA."
"Not unless their inclusion is for the greater public good," Mister Shores replied, "and given the effects of dissolving a company like Umbrella would have on the world economy, the public good is very much being discussed here."
"I'll allow it — for now," the Justice said, his eyes narrowed, "but watch it, Mister Shores. You're on thin ice."
"So," Mister Shores continued, "would you agree that your mental health has been… maybe not the most robust, since July sixth of 1998, after the Arklay Mansion incident?"
"I would say that's a fair assessment," Jill said, "I've received incredible care, but the incident was... very traumatic."
"Very well said," Mister Shores replied, "do you hear voices?"
"Well, that depends," Jill said, with a smile on her face, "I hear yours right now."
A rumble of laughter.
Mister Shores laughed, as well. "But you know what I mean. Do you hear… voices, of people who aren't there?"
"No."
"But you do take medicine for post traumatic stress disorder, night terrors, and acute anxiety disorder. Do you not?"
"Yes, I do."
"So… simply from this bevy of narcotics they've got you doped up on," Mr. Shores said, "have you ever experienced side effects?"
Jill shook her head. "They haven't doped me up on anything. So no, I haven't."
"So you don't experience side effects? No… dry mouth, no fatigue…"
"I don't experience side effects from being 'doped up', since I am not, so my answer to your question is 'no'."
Mister Shores looked to the Justice. "Avoiding the question, Your Honor."
"I'm inclined to agree with Miss Valentine, actually," the Justice said, "you're leading. Rephrase or drop the question."
Mister Shores nodded. "So. Do you experience side effects from your medication?"
"Yes. Sometimes it makes it hard to eat."
"And that's all?"
"Aside from some mild sleepiness, yes, but I take them at night, so I haven't had that side effect in a while."
"Hm. According to your visit here to the Federal Bioterror Commission's D.C satellite office on May fifth," he said, "the notes on your last visit to your doctor say that you'd returned with concerns that the T-virus was still in your body despite the presence of antibodies. Do you think that's a thought process that would occur to a healthy mind, positively effected by the medications she's been prescribed? That sounds a bit paranoid, if you'll forgive my saying so."
"I took an oath to protect the people. And if for any reason I was given to suspect I was a carrier of a virus that—"
"Miss Valentine. My question was very straightforward. There's no need for theatrics."
"And my answer is very straightforward, if the Congressman will allow me to finish."
"Of course you're allowed to finish, if you're actually answering the questions posed of you."
"You're going to have a very difficult time determining whether or not I've answered if you don't let me complete them."
Congressman Graham nudged Jill with his foot under the table. As if in concert, the Justice banged his gavel and then spoke.
"Stop provoking the witness, Mr. Shores. And Miss Valentine, you do have a minute to respond, but please remember where you are. Her time will restart."
"I took an oath to protect the people." Jill said. "Out of an abundance of caution, I had myself examined by a medical professional when I began to exhibit what I understood as symptoms of a deadly and highly contagious disease. I was responsible. Not paranoid."
"I suppose that's up to interpretation." Mister Shores said. He leaned forward, his voice increasing in volume. "What I see before me is a woman who thought being in the Army ensured she was suited to SWAT work. But you couldn't make it as a police officer, and after being exposed to one single traumatic incident, you cracked under the pressure. And instead of turning that blame inward—"
"Objection!" Congressman Graham exclaimed.
The Judge shook his head. "Mister Shores…"
"—you and your friends decided to concoct some insane conspiracy theory blaming the nearest company who could offer you a payday. Why would you work with Umbrella if they were so evil? It doesn't make sense."
"Mister Shores, if you do not stop taunting the witness, I will hold you in—"
"I'd like to answer him, actually," Jill said, softly. Congressman Graham leaned in.
"You don't have to," he murmured, away from the microphone.
"I know." Jill said.
Silence in the chamber, so still and thick it seemed to vibrate, its own entity. Jill took a breath in, steadied herself, and then said: "Tyrell Patrick. Do you know that name? Without looking at your paper."
Mister Shores squinted, and shook his head. "I'm sorry?"
"I am too. But do you know who Tyrell Patrick is?"
"Your honor—"
"What about Murphy Seeker? Do you know who Murphy Seeker is? How about Isaac Graves?"
The Justice banged his gavel again. "Miss Valentine—"
"I have a minute." Jill said, and turned to the Justice, her voice quiet, serious. "I would like my time to respond."
"You have your minute, but you will respect the decorum of this chamber."
Jill turned back to the Congressman. "Isaac Graves. Murphy Seeker. Tyrell Patrick. Mikhail Viktor. Those are all Umbrella employees, Mister Shores, all employees who were lied to by their command and died for it. All of them tried to do the right thing when presented with what Umbrella was really doing in Raccoon City. They died as heroes, no matter who cut their paychecks. I didn't 'work with Umbrella', I worked with people Umbrella had deceived, just like they deceived my squadmates and I. It has always been the people versus Umbrella, every single time."
"And we're to believe someone with a clear history of mental illness has the ability to decide who is actually good and actually evil in this situation?"
"I didn't have to decide. Anything." Jill spat back, her voice loud and shaking, no longer controlled. "Umbrella decided for anybody who was paying attention, even if that attention came too late. Surgeons like Doctor Hamilton who had to live through months of people dying agonizing deaths under his care. Good officers like Rebecca Chambers and Leon Kennedy, who had to live through an absolute nightmare because they had the gall to want to help people. Doctor Behara, who dedicated his life to rooting out this barbaric cruelty and died for it before he could tell the world what he saw. And how many people behind me now have empty spots at their dinner tables? How many did everything that was asked of them and because some rich sadists weren't content with being rich and powerful, and wanted to play God instead, now they're without their children? Their parents? How many aren't even here to tell us what they've lost, because it was everything? We didn't decide. We survived, and that's the hell of it. Now we have to live with it every single day. You can judge this case one way or another, but for me?"
Jill gestured back over her shoulder to the chambers. "For them? This is what life is now. Knowing what is actual evil looks like, staring it in the face, and knowing the people who made it happen might never see justice, and having to live with that every. Single. Day." She paused. Tapped her fingers on the table top, her face a pronounced frown, then shook her head. "That's my minute. I have nothing else to say."
Mister Shores opened his mouth to respond, sighed, and closed it. "I have nothing further. I yield the floor." He tossed his pen down onto his desk.
In the crowd, Kevin laced his fingers behind his head and let out a long, low whistle. "Not sure what fresh hell I was expecting, but I know I wasn't expecting that."
Beside him, Carlos was silent. Kevin turned to him, and extended an elbow to nudge his side for a response. He stopped when he saw the man beside him swipe the wetness from his face with one of his large hands.
"Shit, Heavy, you okay?"
Carlos nodded, swallowed. When he spoke his voice was thick and wet. "I'm good, man. Just give me a minute."
Somewhere Else
Later That Afternoon
The room was dark, damp, and quiet. It was when he heard a scream and could not determine whether it was coming from somewhere outside or from his own brain that it occurred to Benjamin he was finally in over his head.
His eyes flickered to the telephone. Gray plastic and silent for hours at a time. The phone's long tangled cord draped over the side of the singular piece of furniture in the room, the office desk at which he sat. The desk that was somewhere between laminated wood and metal, both and neither at once. A cheap piece of crap no doubt harvested from some abandoned office building or another, not like the polished redwood and oak furnishings he was used to. The chair they'd given him was stained with white and gray auras of some sort of fluid he tried not to think about.
The man to the side of the desk was silent and unresponsive as the telephone, gloved hands on the stock of his assault rifle. He stared straight ahead, never looking at Benjamin, never talking, only the muted hiss of breath under his black mask and the gentle jingle of rings and clasps when he moved back and forth on his feet. Was his mask also made of plastic? Would the wide red button eyes blink to life like a Call Waiting indicator when the phone rang? Beep beep, call waiting on line one?
Benjamin sighed, a grumbling noise full of frustration. He was not a man who was used to being kept waiting. Until now he had coasted through life with the self-satisfaction of those who excel by depending on random acts of chance. He'd been born to a decently wealthy family. His high school and college education had both been bought and paid for, and as the son of a career military man, his name carried a certain clout with the brass that made climbing the ladder less of a climb and more of an assisted lift. Of course, nobody was perfect. Politics was a business notorious for both its slime and its centripetal force: once you got in, the perks made it very, very hard to get out, and at Benjamin's echelon, though his ego recoiled against the thought with a stubbornness that was almost religious, he was more politician than Marine. Why even bother climbing the ranks if you wouldn't let yourself enjoy the perks of the position? Wasn't taking advantage expected, a sort of baked-in supposition of his title he'd given up so much for?
Of course it was.
But he had gotten greedy. A sly handshake and a favor here and there under the cover of night had become a thousand dollar check, which became five, which became twenty. Eventually his family learned to expect the money. Either they didn't realize he didn't make that much above board or didn't care, and spent with happy ignorance on things that were not easily returned; the best private schools became the best private colleges, became saving for his grandchildren to attend the best private schools, which became donating to secure further political influence. His wife had no problem spending the money on things they "needed", and the sudden absence of it would have been suspicious. Fifty thousand was a lot to owe but not a lot to have, and though his salary was generous, it was nowhere near as generous as Umbrella had been.
None of this was worth it. Of course it wasn't—they made it sound so easy, so enticing, until there was no way out and they had your balls in their fist. There was a far cry from the money and the hobnobbing and the favors to this, your family sealed away in some undisclosed location, sitting in a cement room under constant guard with nothing to do but wait. Everything was easy, everything glittered... until you couldn't pay, that was.
The phone rang and Benjamin lunged for it, knocked it off its cradle. The receiver hit the cement floor with a cracking noise and he was sure he'd broken it. Benjamin cursed, lifted the receiver, and placed it against his ear.
"Hello?"
A voice, smooth like accented silk, possessed of utter calm and total control. Somewhere between British and German. Maybe both. "Benjamin." It caressed his ear like an unwanted sexual advance, and he twisted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Its been six hours. You told me you'd call six hours ago."
"Yes. I did."
An illustrative silence. The man continued.
"I would ask if our agreed-upon arrangement was completed to my satisfaction… but to determine that answer, all one has to do is turn on the television." A pause. "Do you care to elaborate?"
Benjamin gave the man across from him a hard once-over. Convinced he wasn't moving, Benjamin turned his attention away. "The intel was bad. She wasn't there. He must have taken her somewhere else."
"You speak in generalities when I require specifics and precision. 'She' and 'he' means nothing to me."
"Cut the shit. You know who I'm talking about. Where is my family?"
"Speaking of your family—that is quite a bold tone for a man without leverage to take, Benjamin. I suggest politeness."
Benjamin breathed out. "Valentine. Valentine wasn't there at the address we were provided. Oliveira… Oliveira must have taken her somewhere else."
"Oliveira. Captain of your team."
You fucking commie son of a whore, who else would I be talking about? "Yes. Staff Sergeant Oliveira. He must have… have a safehouse, or—"
"You assured me you'd have disposed of both of them by two weeks ago. As well as Kennedy and… Ryman." A subtle sound of distaste. "But yet…"
"I know. I just need more time."
There were no vocal tics, no conversational sounds of understanding or doubt. Only words and then complete silence. It was as if he were talking to a robot, with only pauses for information dissemination, the answers pre-programmed and spit out from a database. "Need I remind you the investments we have made in you, Benjamin?"
"No. No, I know."
"I've provided you with two doses of a proprietary intellectual property. Did you administer them?"
"Behara did. I know he did. He gave them to Oliveira and Kennedy. We have proof. Bloodwork, from both of them. We gave them just enough and released them back into the group. Just like we agreed."
Silence, icy and absolute. "Oliveira is in contact with Valentine."
"Yes. I know that for a fact."
"And Kennedy is in contact with Claire Redfield."
"That's what the contacts have told me."
"Then… if you have done what you say you've done… explain to me how Chris Redfield is still alive."
There it was. The Golden Ticket, the bullseye, the Endgame. The one that had somehow evaded this entire operation no matter what sort of solution they threw at the wall; he wouldn't join, wouldn't present himself for medical treatment, he wouldn't testify, wouldn't stop beating on Benjamin's men and forcing him to conscript new ones, expensive as that was. Wesker had a hard-on for the entire gaggle of fucked-up cops and their peripheral hangers-on, but somehow the conversation always came back to the same Chair Force burnout. Benjamin's brain rifled through explanations, delay tactics, appeasement, and then smacked flush against an idea so outlandish it only occurred to him as the product of pure desperation.
"Graham," Benjamin blurted, "I know where he lives. If he's—if he's not there, the trial—they'll have to appoint a new prosecutor. It'll buy us a few days. Please, just… I just need more time. Just a few more days. I made good on what we talked about. I cleaned up your messes in Scotland, and in the Ukraine. Nobody found out about them. That has to be worth something. Please."
"I am not confident in your ability to produce results, nor am I moved by your begging. But as loathe as I am to agree with you, this may be our only option left. I will personally see to Congressman Graham. You have one more chance to fulfill your contractual obligations, or the next time you see my compatriot…"
The man in the mask turned to him. Walked towards Benjamin and stopped so close that their bodies touched, the heavy mesh weave of his uniform thick and stiff.
"He will have a package for you. Do I need to tell you what will be in that package, Benjamin?"
The muted hiss of breath.
"N-no."
"Good."
The phone line disconnected with a click, and the needle-sharp trill of the dial tone sung its shrill song into the dank air. The man in the mask turned and departed through the door with a clatter of equipment and the authoritative clomp of boot soles against cement, cold and hard.
Benjamin could hear the screams again.