Disclaimer: Obviously Numb3rs belongs to CBS, because if I owned it, then Gary Walker would guest star more often.
Author's Note: I've found a new hell that has taken over my time. They come in the disguise of thinly veiled promises and ambiguous prompts. They are called college applications. Damn them all. Much thanks to all of you who make me smile even when I'm filling out those forms.
"Get off my back and into my game, Get out of my way and out of my brain, Get outta my face or give it your best shot"
-Bryan Adams-
Cubicle of Special Agent Colby Granger
Floor 14 of Los Angeles F.B.I. Office
Los Angeles, California
9:13 a.m.
The simultaneous ringing of what seemed like every desk phone in the bullpen had him gritting his teeth and clenching his hands. Colby swore violently under his breath and attempted once again to regain his train of thought. Attempted was the key word. With everything that was going on around him and his team it was hard for him not to be annoyed when every five seconds something else broke his concentration.
Tired and irritated, Colby ran a hand through his hair and flipped the top corner of the open file, effectively turning the page. His eyes scanned down the list of parts for the car that had crashed into the coffee shop and its customers. Based upon the downstairs forensic analysis of the vehicle, the parts of the whole Civic were actually from many separate individual cars. That left him with the task of hunting down the supplier of the different sources; it would give them something to go on in hopes of tracking down the person who was really responsible for the accident.
Laughter and the annoying country voice that followed it saw him pause in his action of dialing out from the office. With a straight face and a raised eyebrow, Colby watched as Charlie ushered his engineering colleague towards the war room. Megan, he noticed, smiled, unknowingly encouraging the man's attempts at gaining her attention.
"You find anything, Colby?"
The sound of his boss's voice jolted him out of his people watching, and Colby turned his chair, the wheels sliding around. Holding tight to the phone and keeping it halfway between his ear and the cradle, he said, "Actually I did. The forensics detailed the car and found out that the parts are actually stripped from other ones."
Don nodded, tight lipped. "Good. You got a name or a number?"
Colby waggled the phone, the spiral cord trailing across his forearm. "Already on it."
His boss cast a look over the cubicle wall at the two professors on the other side of the glass walls, murmuring, "We could certainly use anything we can find until those two get whatever they're working on figured out. Said they ran into some problems with the weight of the impact or something."
"Well that's certainly no good."
Colby wheeled his chair again, seeing as Don turned who the new voice belonged to. Kathryn stood in the rectangle opening of his cubicle, hands clasped behind her back. The tall forensic scientist was looking especially nice today he noticed; the blue shirt brought out the red undertones in her hair and the grey in her eyes, and those black slacks hugged her legs in all the right places. If he could just get her alone for five minutes, then he might be able to finally ask her out to that new restaurant over off of Wilshire.
Don broke Colby's study of her when he huffed out, "Yeah, you're telling me."
Ever nice, Kathryn simply smiled and unclasped her hands, revealing a folded back folder. "Hey, now, I come bearing a gift. So be nice," she passed the folder along to Don's outstretched hand and Colby lifted himself up to read over his shoulder, "Paint deposits from a scrape match up to a make, model, and even a name. How's that for you?"
Don gave her one of his patented smiles, and Colby frowned inwardly. "Thanks, Kathryn," the boss looked up from his perusing, and continued on to ask, "Where's Peyton at? She might be able to help Charlie and Ray. Right now it's worth a shot."
Colby didn't like the frown that came over her face. A second later and he didn't like it when she let out an 'oh' either and exclaimed, "You haven't heard have you? The defense attorney that actually had the guts to take on the case moved the deposition to today instead of next Monday. She's downstairs in one of the conference rooms. We didn't know until five this morning. It's a dirty tactic if you ask me, but there's nothing we could do about it. It's now or she doesn't show at all."
And he most especially did not like the apprehension that came over both of their faces. Mostly because, he reasoned, Colby could feel it on his as well, knowing that their faces were a reflection of his.
Conference Room One
Floor One of Los Angeles F.B.I. Office
Los Angeles, California
10:43 a.m.
Timothy Bugure, collectively known as Tim, was a stout, balding man in his late forties. A defense attorney by definition, he had made his name in Los Angeles by snatching up high profile cases when no one else wanted to go within ten feet of them. The names he had earned and the curses that accompanied them for dealing with such heinous and often so guilty clients did not bother him. He rather enjoyed the attention, and, after all, someone had to do it.
His excitement at taking on cases like the Ackerman one explained his joy as he watched the two people across the room whispering quietly to one another; the man's head was bent down low so as to avoid any eavesdropping and every few seconds the man cast him a disparaging look over the witness's shoulder.
The witness herself was the main source of his excitement. Tim had no doubt in his mind that Meinhard Ackerman, his client, was guilty of every single one of the numerous charges that had been brought up against him. However, extensive they might be but it was still his job to serve him to the best of his abilities. Besides the witness today was as high profile as Los Angeles got when it came to its law enforcement.
The chance to take down the great Dr. Huntzberger herself was highly sought after, but rarely ever achieved. No defense attorney wanted Peyton Huntzberger to be called as an expert witness during their trial. The heralding of her name on the witness sheet signaled an immediate guilty no matter how stacked the odds might have been in your favor; it just wasn't happening after she took the stand. As an expert witness she was untouchable, and carried the nickname of the 'Ice Queen' given to her by defense attorneys because she refused to rise to any of their baits, remaining as cool as ice.
But with the Ackerman case it was different. She wasn't an expert witness this time. Drugged for the most part, Peyton Huntzberger was not a specialized doctor today. Today she was an emotional witness, here to represent the facts about what had happened to her, and as an emotional witness she was not the star of the U.S. attorney's line up. It still remained in question whether she was even going to make an appearance in court or not. That gave him this one shot at tearing her apart.
Sneakily moving the deposition to this morning instead of the already scheduled Monday afternoon had been a dirty and underhanded tactic that very often earned him those foul nicknames, but it was one that gave him a leg up. If she was unsettled, then Tim could dictate the rules of the game for today.
Unsettled she did appear to be as Tim watched from across the room. She shook her head at the U.S. attorney's words, curled hair sweeping violently from side to side across her back. Dr. Huntzberger was a pleasing looking woman, another thing that made her a threat to the defense. Juries loved to pay attention to nice looking people, and the scientific jargon seemed to register better when it came from a pretty face. She shook her head again, and the prosecuter sighed loudly, throwing his hands up into the air before moving away.
The opening and closing of the door kept Tim from moving closer to the pair in order to discover what they had been arguing about. All three snapped to attention, turning to face the young man who was their stenographer for this deposition. Tim grinned inwardly as he watched Dr. Huntzberger from the corner of his eyes. Her lips were set in a firm line and her hands grasped at the fabric of her black dress.
"Are both parties ready to proceed?" The stenographer looked at Tim, turning after a second to his opponent.
Tim looked at the prosecuting attorney as well. Seeing nothing that signaled any need for alarm, he returned his gaze to the young man, stating with a slight hint of arrogance to his words, "We are."
If he noticed anything about his tone, the man didn't respond. "Then if you will take your seat, Dr. Huntzberger, I'll swear you in."
-----------------------------------------
"I do."
She had never given a deposition before, and she found it to be rather nerve racking. Whenever she had been called in to court before, it was to deliver evidence and to provide a voice to explain what it was the jury was actually seeing. She had never been a lay witness. An expert witness yes, a general eyewitness no. She had found herself this nervous over a case either, and they weren't even in a courtroom. The deposition had been cleared to take place in the conference room downstairs in the FBI office; this particular one was usually reserved for when the Director himself visited.
"Does the prosecution have anything for direct?" The stenographer voiced, fingers poised over his instrument.
"I do," Rob answered. The United States Attorney that would be taking the case before the Supreme Court looked at her, waiting for some assurance that she was fine and ready to begin.
Peyton gave him a small nod from her place at the head of the shiny, oval wooden table.
"Then you may proceed," Unidentified stenographer man said.
"Dr. Huntzberger, you recognize that you are under oath today?"
"Yes," she answered, willing the formalities to be done with. Actually, she wanted to will this whole ordeal away.
"Can you please say your name, occupation, and address, spelling your last name?"
"My name is Peyton Huntzberger. H-U-N-T-Z-B-E-R-G-E-R. I am the Assistant Supervisor for the entire Los Angeles branch of the F.B.I. I live at 2150 Brentwood Park in Brentwood, Los Angeles."
Rob cleared his throat once, and then began his direct that they had rehearsed. "Dr. Huntzberger, what is your familiarity with the Meinhard Ackerman case?"
She didn't know where to look. Normally, the jury commanded her attention in court, but there was no jury today. Peyton finally settled for looking at Rob. "Almost three months ago I was asked to come and work as the Assistant Supervisor for the F.B.I.'s Los Angeles main branch. Before that I was the second in command for the Los Angeles Crime Lab. Two weeks after I began my job at the F.B.I. a body was discovered by a fisherman in the Harbor. We later found two other victims and discovered that all three were connected due to the repeated pattern of missing eyes and traces of methylene blue in their systems. The killer was attempting to change their eye colors with the injection of the dye."
"Where were you on Thursday, May the third?"
The quiet clack of the stenographer lulled her into an even trance. "I was at work. The day before we had found our third victim. Somehow a leak got out to the press, and I was asked to give a press conference to clean the mess up."
"And after that?"
"I went home…"
She could see everything all over again. She was in her room, putting on a clean set of clothes after taking a shower. Now she was downstairs. Deep red liquid flowed into the crystal glass, lapping the sides as the level rose higher. Her eyes closed, and the faces of the three men vanished to be replaced by her living room. Peyton was an outsider to this vision, merely an observer of the real Peyton who had stopped on the floor boards at Caesar's behavior.
"…I went home and took a shower. After that I went back into my room to change my clothes. I think I remember hearing something, but I didn't think anything of it. I can't exactly remember," Had she heard something? "I went downstairs to get a glass of wine. It was a Malbec from New Zealand. I had wanted something to drink after having to deal with all the press…"
She let out a soft laugh as she went on, "I remember thinking that I just wanted to get home so I could get to that bottle of wine. I left the kitchen with the glass in my hand. I went out into the hallway, where to I don't know. My cat," There was Caesar, back arched, fur on end. Whiskers were spread wide to the sides and sharp teeth showed as he hissed, "My cat made me stop. I thought he was growling at me, but he wasn't. There was a noise or something and I turned around."
Blinking, Peyton struggled to regroup her thoughts. The memories were slightly jumbled. The stenographer had slowed, and looking up she could see that Rob, the unnamed stenographer, and Tim the Bastard, as she had now dubbed him, were watching her, expectant looks on their faces.
Whistling. There had been a whistling sound. Not like someone whistling with their teeth. It had been more like a whoosh of air.
A shaky breath was drawn in. "When I turned around there was a man behind me. He was big and Hispanic. He had a needle in his hand."
"What did you do then?" Rob prodded, remaining vague so as not to lead her into the answer that the prosecution wanted.
She shook her head. This was where things got blurry for a little while. "I threw my glass at him, and tried to get away. I had my service gun at one point, but there was another man as well. He grabbed me by my neck and stabbed me with a different needle. I don't remember anything more of that night."
Rob gave her a moment to collect herself before moving on again. "At that time did you recognize either of these two men?"
Her answer was more firm this time. "No. I had never seen them before. Their faces had not come up in the investigation." The two hired Hispanics had pleaded out to Rob in exchange for their testimony against Meinhard, but Peyton had never seen either of them again after that last night.
The prosecutor stared at her from across the table, eyes conveying the message that the next part was the most crucial for his case. Contrary to what some may think, all attorneys on some level used their witnesses to get what they needed. Rob, however nice he was, was no excuse. "Dr. Huntzberger, do you remember anything after that?"
"For the most part I was asleep or sedated. However, I have been able to remember what I saw when I was awake enough."
"And what were those parts?"
Strangely, the bastard defense attorney didn't object. What did she remember? Ice blue eyes, blonde hair, and sneering lips curved to demand answers from her. Slender fingers tracing down her skin in what would be a lover's touch had it come from anyone but him. A boy. A boy with a chest that rose ever so slightly in his sleep, his beautiful brown eyes red rimmed and blue tinged. There had been a razor too. A slash left and then right. Blood, her own blood, running down her face, down her arms, hands, fingers, and everywhere. Then she was running. Running in a tunnel. A pipe. And then a scream.
"Do you need a moment, Dr. Huntzberger?"
Peyton blinked and looked up, dazed in what was a momentary stupor. A vibrating sensation against her legs caught her attention, and she was surprised to see that underneath the wooden table her hands were shaking. "No. I don't. I'm fine," she said to the stenographer, her voice as shaky as her hands.
He nodded and his hands hovered once more over his machine. "Then when you are ready to resume."
She waited until she could be sure her voice would come out even, not caring that only the words were recorded and not her voice too. "There…There was a man. He was German with blonde hair and blue eyes. I didn't see both of the two men from my house again. I just remember him. He kept me in a room, alone and cold. At one point he wanted me to help him in his experiment. He dragged me into a room where he had a boy. The boy was drugged under an anesthetic from what I could tell. He…He grew angry when I wouldn't tell him what he wanted, and I got away by cutting him with something off a table. After that I ran away. I remember someone calling my name and feeling my neck. It's all dark after that. The next thing I do remember is waking up in the hospital."
"What happened after you woke up in the hospital, Dr. Huntzberger?"
She locked eyes with Rob again. "When I woke up I couldn't remember anything. The doctors told me that I had what was called dissociative amnesia which is usually brought on by an emotional attack of some kind. They said that three days had passed. At that time I couldn't remember anything after driving home from work that Thursday."
"How did you regain your memories then?"
Rob had explained that it would be better to go ahead and mention that therapy had restored the memories in order to avoid looking like they were hiding it. "I've been in therapy with Dr. Chris Melonie. Through psychotherapy and a medicine called Pentothal I have been able to regain the majority of the memories over those three days."
"Do you know who the man was that kept you drugged for those three days?"
"Objection. Leading," the defense attorney called out from his seat across the table from Rob.
"I'll rephrase," Rob said.
"So noted." The stenographer clacked away.
Rob cast a look over at Tim the Bastard, before looking back at the head of the table. "Do you remember who was with you for those three days?"
Strangely, Tim didn't object again, and she thought that that was odd. Looking at Rob's face, she could see that he thought it was odd as well. Figuring that he wasn't going to object, she went on to answer, "Yes. Like I said, he was German and spoke German too. He had these ice cold blue eyes and pale blonde hair. He was tall. I later identified him for the F.B.I. His name is Meinhard Ackerman."
Rob shuffled the papers before him, and then looked over at the court reporter. "The prosecution has no further questions."
"So noted. Does the defense wish to cross examine this witness?" Peyton had to wonder who on Earth woke up one day and decided to become a stenographer. It seemed like the most boring job there was. All the guy did was type away at that odd little machine.
"Yes, I do."
And he had a very small bank from which to pull his dialogue from. Not a very conversationalist man was he. "Then you may proceed when ready."
She didn't have Rob to look at this time. Cross was the worst thing a witness had to endure. No matter how hard your attorney tried to prep you, it was still guaranteed that some questions were going to blind sight you. She had a sinking suspicion that Tim's reason for not objecting had to do with the fact that he had an ace up his sleeve. Peyton would just have to keep him from rattling her, she told herself.
"Dr. Huntzberger, you are a forensic doctor are you not?"
Here they went. Smiling, she answered with, "Yes."
Tim nodded and made a little note on his pad. "And carrying the title of a doctor you hold two PhDs, correct?"
"I do. I hold a doctorate degree in chemistry and science." Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, carefully trying to move two steps ahead of him.
"So it's safe to say that as doctor of science and with your experience in your line of work that you are pretty familiar with the human body and the effects of drugs." Tim's face remained neutral.
"It's safe to say that," she agreed.
"Ketamine is the drug that was used to keep you sedated. Can you tell me what ketamine does to the human body?"
So he was going to try and discredit her memories based upon the fact that she had been asleep and incapacitated for some part. "Ketamine is an anesthetic that in the past was used in medicine for surgerical procedures. Today it is more commonly used in veterinarian practices. It can be used as a drug to get high off of. Given the correct amount it acts as a dissociative anesthesia and can put someone to sleep, rendering them unconscious."
Tim would have been much more imposing if he could move around the room like he would if they were in court instead of the conference room. "You've just told us that you were kept unconscious and asleep for the most part of those three days. And now you want us to believe that under the influence of this dissociative anesthetic you were able to remember my client's face and voice?"
Her father would be impressed with this man's attempt to unnerve her. Well, in all actuality, he would more than likely be laughing at Tim's horrible impression of a bad defense attorney from an old Law and Order rerun. Keeping that thought in her head, Peyton let the slightest hint of arrogance enter her voice as she responded, "I said I was asleep for most of the time, but that I do remember the times when I was awake. I remember the cold words as he asked me to help him dye a twenty year old boy's eyes blue. I remember the way he looked at me when I refused, seeing me as some type of filthy obtrusion to his goal. I remember that twenty year old lying on that table, and I remember the pride on his face as he looked down at that boy."
The defense attorney's lip twitched at her reply and he wisely recognized that she was only going to give him the same answer if he asked again. "You went to a Dr. Christopher Melonie shortly after you were discharged from the hospital, did you not?"
"I did."
"You went to see him to begin therapy after your experience?"
"Yes. Dr. Melonie was recommended to me by my doctors at Cedars Sinai. He specializes in cases involving dissociative amnesia." She waited for the obvious question that was coming.
"How does that exactly work? Do you two just talk or does he put you in a trance?" The bad Law and Order attorney was back.
Again she took a few seconds to formulate her reply in her mind, ensuring that it would come out just right. "You'd have to ask Dr. Melonie about that. Psychotherapy for lost memories is a practiced science and has been proven to be highly accurate. Regained memories are considered to be just as reliable as ordinary memories."
Rob gave her a small smile and she relished when the man's lips opposite from him twitched again. There was nothing else he could really ask now. She couldn't think of anything that would further help his side…
"Dr. Huntzberger, you work with a Special Agent Don Eppes?"
Both her and Rob straightened in their seats, alert once again. This had not been foreseen. Don was Tim's ace.
The stenographer stared at her, waiting for her answer. There was no way she could avoid the question, and she reluctantly said, "Yes."
Tim's lips weren't twitching anymore. They were twisted in a triumphant grin. "Of course you do. You work with him. In fact that's one of the reasons behind why you came to work with the F.B.I. But you don't just work with him do you? He's been keeping you company for the last two weeks. Now, I'm sure it's just to ensure that you are doing okay, but visiting you hours after my client was arrested and two days before you positively identified him with your regained memories? That doesn't sound very professional to me, now does it?"
How the hell had he found out about that? Rob's face told her that he was just as mystefied as she was. "If you're trying to insinuate that Agent Eppes broke protocol by releasing information, then you're wrong," she shot out before Rob had a chance to object.
"Who's there to say that he didn't? You don't have anyone but yourself to say that he didn't. How are supposed to believe that hours after my client's arrest, Special Agent Eppes didn't tell you his name in order to supplant a memory that would work out in his favor." Tim was positively demonically grinning now.
Her voice oozed ice and calmly withheld anger as she answered the only way she could. "I can't, but I would think that the word of two unblemished outstanding law enforcement officers would be enough. Agent Eppes is a dedicated special agent with no record of misconduct. And as for me, if you want to say that I broke the rules after eleven years of following them, then I suggest you take it back or I'll see you before the Internal Affairs board," she growled out, throwing her solid reputation in his face.
The smile faded from the bastard's face and he was at a loss for words. He blinked several times, opening his mouth and then closing it again. Now he just resembled a fish.
After a few minutes of silence, unnamed stenographer spoke up to formally ask, "Do you have any further questions for this witness?"
Peyton stared at the defense attorney, daring him with her eyes to ask another question. He finally broke the gaze and dejectedly told the court official, "No. I have no further questions for Dr. Huntzberger."
Never missing a beat, Peyton watched as the stenographer turned to Rob. "Does the prosecution wish to re-direct?"
Rob gave her a wink. "No, sir."
"Then we are finished here. The court would like to thank you for each of your time and especially yours, Dr. Huntzberger."
When she was finally alone, the stenographer having packed his machine away, Rob giving her an encouraging pat and thanks, and the defense attorney simply leaving with the only amount of dignity he had left, Peyton finally let out a collective sigh. This part was over.
Easing herself out of the leather chair, she flipped the lights off as she left, closing the door behind her. The keys to the Porsche dangled from her fingers, their touches lending a jingling music to her walk.
There was one more place she had left on her list, and only then she could really move on.
I have decided that since this became so long that I am going to have one more chapter with the final scene. My wonderful Newgal has dubbed it the 'Eppelogue'. :) Can anyone figure out the last thing that she feels she has to do? Cookies to the person who does.
Background Information:
Deposition: A deposition is evidence given under oath and recorded for a later use. In the U.S. a deposition takes place outside of a courtroom in certain well defined circumstances. In a criminal procedure, depositions are taken to preserve the testimony of a witness. A deposition can also be entered into evidence during trial if a witness to the crime is not going to be called to trial. There is a direct and then a cross examination if the other party so wishes to do so. Objections can be raised in a deposition despite the fact that a judge is not there to rule over it. The objection is still recorded by the stenographer or court recorder. Most of the time objections are used in order to object to the form of the question or to warn a witness of how they should respond to the question. Some depositions can take hours; obviously I cannot portray that hours went by, so we can assume that Peyton's did. Also, the tactic of moving a deposition to 'surprise' the other party is a tactic that is used and I have personally seen it done. Not a very nice thing to do, but useful to unnerve your opponent.