Chapter Nine: Interviews and News
"Sign here…And here…And here…"
The courthouse was open on a Tuesday. That was beneficial as Sylvia took that day to get the adoption paperwork officially taken care of.
After a full background check that brushed through her criminal history with a fine-toothed comb, her financial assets that would determine her ability to care for a child, and a promised safety/environment check from the Child Protective Services in the next three months to evaluate Charleen's happiness, the lengthy signatures would all be next.
The papers in the packet were flipped after an explanation of each paragraph and what that document entailed.
The social worker, Pamela, started the interview to see if Sylvia was fit to be a parent. She wore a stern updo; her rectangular glasses were adjusted to the bridge of her nose, and her eyebrows rose in what appeared to be surprise when she glimpsed over Sylvia's criminal background (or rather, lack of).
"You've never been indicted."
"You sound shocked." Sylvia noted, smiling at her.
"It's just…The Gotham Gazette—" Pamela began; her voice trailed off before she cleared her throat, placing the paper behind with the others that had been signed and dated. "Never mind."
"The tabloids can be very unforgiving." Sylvia offered.
Pamela grinned at her attempt to soften her humility. She chuckled at that, and the subject of her juvenile delinquency that surely would have been documented was never mentioned.
After the fact, Pamela perused Charleen's written statement about how she wished to be adopted by Sylvia, and her experiences while living with her for the past couple months (give or take). Conveniently, Sylvia's most recent revealing personality trait, particularly her occasional appearance of her blood-red eyes and unpleasant black veins, were left out of the narrative.
"According to Miss Brennan's statement, she mentioned that you've been doing some homeschooling for her." Pamela stated as she looked over the documents with a brief overview.
Sylvia quirked an eyebrow. Charleen's last name was 'Brennan'. That was a nice tidbit of information!
Pamela asked, "Is that right?"
"On and off," Sylvia improvised with a small smile.
"How long are these classes on a typical day?"
"Um…"
Pamela looked at her strictly. Most of what Charleen had written had clearly been lies, if not ridiculously small fibs, webbed together into the slightest ambiguity of truth. However, the social worker didn't know this.
"Honestly," Sylvia informed, "I've not had the time I'd like to put forth into Charlie's education. You see, my husband recently went missing; the police haven't been able to find anything, and it's been, um…Well, it's been difficult—"
"I understand," Pamela uttered, nodding reassuringly. "I understand that is a difficult time for you. For both of you. Even so, I believe that it is through these hardships that we find strength within our family: it's the only way we can persevere."
"I've considered putting her in a public-school setting," Sylvia doted, quickly getting off the subject of Oswald before the darker half of her could be summoned in any case Pamela didn't have the highest opinion of him. "She spends most of her time with me, doesn't socialize with many children her age. I figure that a public school would be better for her."
"I think public school would be ideal. I did read from her narrative that she spends a great deal of time at your… 'mansion'. I assume that you can take care of her financially, but let's go over the nitty gritty just for formality, shall we?"
"Of course."
"Do you have any debt?"
Sylvia chuckled, "Debt?"
"Yes. Overdue bills, maxed out credit cards, unpaid allowances, child support payments…"
"No, no, no, and no," Sylvia listed with a small smile. "No debt."
"Do you own the mansion that you're currently living in?"
"It belongs to my husband. When his father died; the mansion was part of Oswald's inheritance."
"Yes, the rumors around that are a little…well, for lack of a better word, 'wonky'. I saw the interview with Margaret Hearst," said Pamela conversationally. "But I imagine that the mysterious disappearance of his father's wife and children were just circumstantial, nothing to gain suspicion as she had otherwise suggested."
Sylvia held the armrests of her chair. Unconsciously, she picked at the leather with the nail of her index finger.
"Let's move on," hummed Pamela. She gave the paper another look, adding, "Your job: you listed yourself as a night club owner."
Sylvia relaxed: "Yes. I am."
"You own 'Lean on Vee's'?"
"Yep."
"Easy enough. Do you feel you would be able to support Charleen throughout high school?"
"Comfortably."
"Good, good." Pamela marked a check on her paper. "Let's discuss how you and Charleen met." She looked up at her indicatively.
Sylvia said gently, "Well, to my knowledge, she was living on the street. Occasionally, she would visit a man, an Isaac Paddock. I got to know Charleen through him."
"You were friends with Isaac Paddock?" Pamela said interestedly, quirking a suspicious eyebrow. "He was a well-known Don. A criminal. May I ask what your relationship with him entailed?"
"It was a friendship based on mutual understanding," Sylvia explained. She signed with her hands as she spoke to prove a point: "He was deaf, and I knew sign language. He and I bonded over this similarity." She stopped signing and added, "A common interest need not be criminal when all you're interested in is friendship."
Pamela nodded, apparently satisfied: "Well, it seems you're very educated. You know American Sign Language. Did you learn in college?"
"No. I learned by association."
"Are you fluent in other languages?"
"Um, yes: French, and I've started learning Spanish."
"Did you learn these by association as well?"
"My husband taught me French. I learned to sign from one of our former butlers." Sylvia explained modestly.
"Out of curiosity, from who are you learning to speak Spanish?"
"One of my bartenders is Latino. His first language is Spanish, although he speaks English better than most English-speaking natives. I want to make him feel comfortable so I'm trying to learn his language in turn."
"That's actually very refreshing," Pamela praised. "I think that says a lot about you."
"It's only one part of me. It's the part that I claim."
The social worker giggled, "Yes, of course!"
There was a moment in which the social worker decidedly passed up a few pages, giving them a brief glance before she landed on a page specifically and Pamela's tone changed to one of speculation (as it did when she mentioned Margaret Hearst's interview): "Charleen's parents were Michael and Brianna Brennan. They reportedly died in a fire; she was the sole survivor. Charleen has a police report in her record around the same time where the police suspected that she started the fire, but without evidence and because of her age, she, obviously, wasn't arrested."
Sylvia leaned back in the chair and said coolly, "And why are you mentioning this to me?"
"Charleen is a loud, abrasive child. She's what some might call a 'wild child'. The speculation behind her parents' death is possible murder, and if you felt the same way, we could have a psychiatrist evaluate Charleen to better assess the—"
"—No."
Pamela tilted her head to side.
"No?" She said quizzically.
"She was only five when that happened. She doesn't need a psychiatrist: She needs a family."
"I emphatically agree."
"Well, for a second, it sounded like you were implying that a five-year-old could be held responsible for something that happened to her parents when it obviously was an accident," said Sylvia curtly. She gestured to the door, indicating the girl in question, "Even if that wasn't the case, that was 10 years ago. Why should she be held responsible a decade after the fact? What evidence would there still be around to even prove it and why the hell would someone go out of their way to do that to a teenager!"
Pamela took an eloquent pause before she said cautiously, "I understand you have an emotional attachment to the child, Mrs. Cobblepot. It's comforting to see how quickly you'll rise to defend her. However, I'd like to point out that I am—by no means—implying that a crime has taken place. I only meant to point out that there are resources available to you if you felt Charleen needed them."
"All she needs is me." Sylvia reassured, attempting to keep her cool but now all she really wanted to do was leave the room as soon as possible.
"Perhaps. However, at any time, that option will be made available to you."
"Fine, then. Can we move on?"
Pamela nodded. She gave the packet another glance, once more flipping pages: "Now just a few quick questions: it's a little dry and sensitive, so just bear with me."
"Sure."
"Have you or anyone in your family ever been involved in any domestic abuse?"
We've never hit each other, at least. Does having your husband shoot your ex-boyfriend in front of you count as domestic abuse? Nah, probably not.
"No. Never."
"Alcohol abuse?"
Does drinking every single night count?
"We have alcohol in the house, but we don't encourage underage drinking." Sylvia offered truthfully.
"Drug abuse?"
Apart from the hallucinogenic pills that made me dream of my possibly dead husband or the fucking rage-slash-eyes-filling-with-blood-slash-black-veins injection that's slowly making me into a knock-off, more terrifying version of the Hulk: Nah, no drug abuse.
"No. I don't condone that." Sylvia answered lightly.
"Have you or your husband ever been involved in anything that you feel like I would need to know?"
Well, aside from dislocating a former friend's shoulder, ripping a man's jaw apart because of friend's poor decision-making, lying to a social worker about all the above, are only to name a few. You're going to have to be specific, Pam!
"Nothing that I can think of for the moment," Sylvia returned sweetly.
"Well, if that's all, I believe that we're finished." Pamela said happily, brushing off her pant legs. She stood and walked around to sit behind her desk and placed a pen on the surface as well as the packet in front of Sylvia, who watched her patiently. "I just need your signature on some of these forms, and then we can get to work on finalizing your adoption paperwork—then there's the fee."
Sylvia stood in front of the desk and said curiously, "And what does an adoption typically cost?"
Pamela stared at her: "You didn't do the research?"
"I'm giving a home to a child who needs it: researching the cost of an adoption wasn't exactly a priority."
"An adoption in Gotham is about 40,000 dollars."
"Fair enough."
"You can pay it in full or in payments to the courthouse: typically, parents take about five years to—"
"—Let's do it today."
"Oh! Oh, great, so that takes care of that. Alright, so under normal circumstances, you would have a three months' supervisory period during which we—as in myself and a few other social workers—would come by to check on the child's progress and adaptability as well as the environment in your home. However, considering the fact that she has lived with you for nearly three months and seems comfortable with you from what I can tell, I think that period is unnecessary."
Sylvia said carefully, "If you need to pop in and check on her, don't feel like you need to make myself an exception because my husband is the Mayor."
Pamela smiled: "I think you will make a wonderful mother to Charleen. From what I can tell, you two were meant to find each other."
Sylvia smiled endearingly: "That's sweet of you to say."
She signed the papers as directed and then after literally paying full price for the adoption in total, she was leaving the courthouse. That was until her brother met her on the stairs; his shoes tapped the shiny floor with an intentional stride. They met in the center; Sylvia peered at him expectedly.
"I thought I might find you here," said Jim casually.
"Were you tracking me? Because no one else knew I was going to be here except for Victor."
"Yeah: He was the one that told me where you might be."
"Ah." Sylvia sighed, crossing her arms. "So…" She looked around at the nosy spectators before she glanced at him coolly: "Is this a conversation that we should have privately?"
"That depends," Jim said strictly. He swayed in front of her as if he might start the interrogation on the spot.
"What or who does it involve?"
"Edward Nygma."
Sylvia's eyes glinted. The familiar pressure of white-hot hatred roiling in her stomach made its unwelcome presence known.
"What about him?"
"I thought you might be able to answer that, considering you and he were—"
"—Well that's long since passed so why the fuck would I know what's going on with him?"
Her body started shaking. Jim's face flickered with concern and he took her arm gingerly.
"Okay…we definitely need to talk." He gestured for her to move with him.
They walked to his car. She took the passenger's seat and he sat in the driver's, looking at her pointedly.
"You wanted to talk to me about Nygma. Why?" She questioned.
Jim raised his eyebrows: "'Nygma'? When did he start being 'Nygma' to you?"
She shook her head, staring out the window as he drove towards a restaurant for a drive-thru lunch.
"What did he do this time?" She asked.
Jim continued, business-like: "Nygma has been playing games with the GCPD while I've been gone. Lucius Fox mentioned that Nygma confessed to him—while hiding in the back of his car—that he killed…" He continued with a softer tone, owing to the sensitivity of the issue: "He said he killed Penguin."
Sylvia looked at him. In that instant, Jim knew that Ed had done exactly that, at least to Sylvia's best knowledge. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes before he reached over to pull her into a hug. He expected her to fall into it; instead, she withdrew.
"Sylvia," Jim said encouragingly, "I know you're hurting. I know you don't want to talk about this, but I need to know what you know."
"What I know?" She said incredulously. "What makes you think I know anything? Why don't you go to Barbara or Tabitha for that information? They seemed to be in on the plan to get Oswald out of the picture. Barbara's ruling the Underworld now: That doesn't seem just a little suspicious?"
"I visited Gotham General. Harvey was there getting a check-up after Nygma put him through the ringer. While I was there, Barbara was at Gotham General as a patient. She was getting her shoulder re-adjusted after it was dislocated, and she says you were the one that did it."
"And you had to know if that was true."
"Well," said Jim with an effort, "I know you can get carried away from time to time. I thought I'd check—"
"—You don't have to fact-check her. Barbara was right. I did hurt her. She tried taking my club. Oswald gave that to me as a wedding present and then she just goes and takes it after Oswald goes 'missing'? She basically baited me to come after her, so don't give me that look. She deserved it!"
Jim stared at her: "Where is this coming from?"
"Where is what coming from?"
"You. This." He gestured to her overall appearance. "Three weeks ago, you walk into the GCPD, threaten Alvarez, try to get us to kill you. Then you refuse to get out of bed: you don't respond to anyone, ignoring anyone and everything. Then a week later, you're out of bed, harming people—"
"—She deserved it, Jim—"
"—I'd never think you would have hurt Barbara."
"Well, proceeds in the GCPD tend to go too slowly so I thought I'd get a jump on it—"
"—You need to stay home and let the police handle this."
"Like they're 'handling' Oswald's disappearance! Like they're handling Nygma right now after he confessed to killing him! I'd definitely let you handle everything, because it's clear all of you are doing a stellar job." Sylvia said sarcastically, gesticulating dramatically around the car.
"We're looking for Nygma."
"Well, look fucking harder!"
"Why do you think I'm talking to you?"
"I don't know: For shits and giggles!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at him.
"What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing."
"You're acting different, Vee." Jim said, pulling the car over to look directly at her.
"I think I'm acting pretty fucking normal for someone whose husband is missing, but whatever. What do I know about that? I guess you'd know more about that than me."
Jim took a breath. He seemed like he might lose his own temper due to Sylvia's spiteful retorts, but he tried to attempt empathy.
"I know how much you care for him; how much you love him—I remember what you tried to do when you thought he was gone the first time. Whatever you're doing, I get it, it's a coping mechanism, but harming Barbara, Tabitha, that's crossing the line."
"Oh, really? Really! That's crossing a line? Nygma has confessed to killing Oswald!"
"We know—"
"—So, why don't you do some 'detecting' and put his fucking ass in prison! Better yet, why don't you go fucking kill him!"
"When we find him, he'll serve his time in—"
"—Arkham?" She cut him off angrily. "That's not good enough. Arkham is a babysitting ranch house for the insane and the psychotic. He's clearly thinking straight, and he's clearly not fucking insane. He deserves Black Gate, or he deserves to die. And if you can't put him in the first one, I'll damn well make sure he gets the second!"
"Vee, this is a police matter," Jim said strictly. "If you try to—"
"—I won't 'try' anything. I 'do'. Just like if I find him before you, I will kill him!" Sylvia vowed furiously, pushing his shoulder so he was shoved against his own door. "That's the difference between you and me. You 'try' to find criminals. You 'try' to be a good brother. You 'try' to do the right thing. Why don't you stop fucking trying and just fucking do it for a change, huh!"
"What the hell is happening to you?" Jim demanded.
He stared at her as if he no longer recognized her. That was fitting, seeing as how Sylvia barely felt like herself. She met his eyes, and instantly looked down at her hands. They shook horribly.
Strange said she wouldn't feel sadness. When one was upset, what other feeling was left to be felt: Anger. And not much else. And if that anger was allowed to go one step further then Jim would know exactly why she was acting different. She didn't need that on her plate. Not now. Not ever.
"Vee."
"Shh! Stop talking." She mumbled, but Jim noticed that she wasn't speaking to him. She said it more to herself, closing her eyes. "Shh…"
"Vee, talk to me."
She breathed deeply, then exhaled. She needed to take up Strange on his recommendation of relaxation techniques, meditation included. After a moment, she looked at Jim, who watched her warily.
"You mentioned that you were away when Nygma was playing games with the police." She said softly. "Where were you? Where did you go?"
Jim was disarmed, but he answered her: "I was on leave."
"You never take vacation time."
"Well, that's the other reason I needed to talk to you."
Sylvia looked at him expectantly.
Jim said quietly, "Remember Uncle Frank?"
"Yep. Uncle Frank. He was there for a little while, Dad died, and we never saw him again: Great memories."
"Your sarcasm is over-the-top, but I see where you're coming from."
"What about Uncle Frank? Did he die too, or is he still debating about whether or not he wants to come into our lives?" asked Sylvia curtly.
"He's not dead. He made an unannounced visit, actually."
Sylvia stared at him and said casually, "No kidding."
"That was my exact reaction."
"So, what does he want?"
"He came by," said Jim lightly, "and mentioned that he and our father were involved in a club. They call themselves the 'Court'."
"That's an old Gotham tale."
"Well, I thought so too. But Uncle Frank says they're real, and they're in control of Gotham."
Sylvia said derisively, "Well, won't Barbara be upset to hear that she's not at the top of the food chain, even as Queen of the Underworld."
With less cynicism, she asked seriously, "What's the 'Court' all about, and why was Dad a part of it?"
"According to Uncle Frank, the Court is a secret club; it was a mechanism that restored and maintained balance in Gotham. Over time, they have become corrupt."
"Sounds like everything in Gotham: Go figure. If it's a secret, why did Uncle Frank tell you? And why are you telling me? I don't care about any court, particularly one that's supposed to be over Gotham. If their aim is to restore order, they're doing a shit job of it."
Jim smiled at her criticism. She may have been sarcastic, but her dark humor sometimes blended in and met his own with impeccable timing.
"All joking aside," Sylvia said darkly, "how could Dad be a part of this? He was always sitting so high on his pedestal; I'm surprised he could be guilty of anything short of unpaid parking tickets."
"It'd be easier if you heard it from him."
"I'm not interested in seeing him. We needed him when Dad died. And he was nowhere to be found. He didn't want a part of my life then; he doesn't get to be a part of it now."
"Fair enough. But there's something else you should know."
Sylvia heard his voice take on a darker note. She looked at him with a morbid expectation: "Did he kill someone?"
"No. Much worse. This Court of Owls, as they call themselves, they misinformed Uncle Frank and Dad about their motivations. Dad being who he was saw through their lies and when he tried to do something about it…" Jim trailed off.
"No."
"Vee…"
"…No."
"They had him ki—"
Sylvia put a hand over his mouth to silence him. Jim stared at her. His eyes, wide.
"Don't say it!" She said quickly, shaking her head. "At least, not out loud. After what happened with Mom, what's happened with Oswald—Jim, I don't think I can handle whatever it is you feel like you need to tell me."
She lowered her hand slowly. Jim nodded, respecting her wish. She was certain he was going to say what she thought: They had him killed. This random court orchestrated a way to silence their father, using a 'drunk' driver to do the job. For a 'secret' group, that seemed like an easy thing to do.
It was believable. He was the District Attorney. There would've been countless hits on his life, maybe on a daily basis. But knowing Jim, he'd find out who put out the hit. And if Sylvia found out who, she doubted she would be able to control her rage—she'd seen how bad it could get.
Was it possible that Sylvia hadn't even seen her rage at its worst?
"What now?" She asked quietly. "Why has Uncle Frank come back now after all this time?"
"This Court wants me to become a member."
"Why?"
"Uncle Frank wants to attack and take down the Court from the inside-out. It's what Dad was trying to do."
"And he needs you to do that?"
"Apparently so."
"Are you going to join?" Sylvia asked.
Jim smiled. She sounded apprehensive, but hearing her concern was reassuring after the snappy retorts. But his happiness sobered.
"Vee, I know you don't want to know the truth about what happened to Dad—"
"—Please!" She said loudly, putting one hand over his mouth again. Her voice softened: "I know what you were about to say. They had him killed. Someone put a hit on him. It upsets me, it does. Trust me. Dad and I may not have been on the same page all the time, but I still loved him. Whoever had him killed I don't want to know who they are. Ever. Tell anyone else, but me."
Jim nodded and patted the hand closest to him, placing it to his heart.
"For now, only Harvey is in the loop."
"No one else?"
"No one else."
"Do you think any of this is tied to Nygma?" Sylvia asked arbitrarily.
"I highly doubt it. Trust me, though. He gassed some of our newly graduated Cadets, dangled Harvey over an empty staircase. He's on our radar, and he won't go unnoticed for too long."
She was quiet for a moment before she said coolly, "I'd like to say I'll sit on the sidelines, but if I see him, Jim…"
"I know I can't stop you. But I'd like you to practice some…restraint…if you have any."
"If I have any restraint when I see him, I will 'try'."
He caught that snide emphasis on the word, but he didn't comment. Sylvia spoke out of hurt, out of rage, and spite, but at least she was honest.
Sylvia smiled with finality, wrapping one arm around his shoulders; he did the same in a half-hug, as the car would allow.
It was all the promise he could hope for.
He didn't know what exactly had changed in her. Maybe losing Oswald had done more to her than he predicted it would. But there was something off about her. And if Nygma was lucky or as smart as he seemed to think he was, he would be wise to keep out of sight. Otherwise, Jim was certain that Nygma wouldn't make it out alive the next time he ran into her.
