Chapter 13

I apologize for the short chapter. If it's as complex to read as it was to write, you may end up thanking me for not making it longer ;)

Someone commented that the chapter with Lobell had to have been hard to write, and it certainly was, both emotionally and logistically. This one was harder – heck, it's probably the most complex single chapter I've ever tried to put together. I hope it's not too horribly confusing.

SEGREGATION UNIT, US DOJ METROPOLITAIN DETENTION CENTER

Don set the book he wasn't reading down with a sigh. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, fingering the trial notice he was using as a bookmark.

His talk with Lobell kept replaying in his mind, and every time he examined it for something he'd missed. This time the journey took him back to Quantico, to a classroom where a veteran agent was speaking on decision making.

"You're gonna hear about a hundred people lecture you about trusting your instincts. Well, I'm here to tell you your instincts can and will be wrong many times in your career. Good agents make horrible decisions, because it turns into an ego thing. You're working a case, and all of a sudden following your gut turns into a euphemism for 'I can't be wrong because I'm so damn special.'"

The agent surveyed the room, his eyes seeking out each and every student with a stern sort of ferocity. "I never want to hear one of my students coerced a false confession out of a suspect or planted evidence because their instincts told them they had the right guy. You hear me? Because you will be wrong, and if you're any kind of decent human being it will haunt you for the rest of your life. That high of being right? It goes away real fast when you're wrong."

There was something with Lobell. What was it? How did you pin down the behavior that seemed "off" when considering someone who was painting in their own blood and hallucinating? How do you track down what's bugging you when you're deathly afraid your own conclusion will leave you still sitting in a cell?

"Can't you see that an objective evaluation comes to an entirely different conclusion? He's innocent."

"Well – Charlie, I promise you, he will get his day in court."

It had been so simple in his mind when he gave his overly concerned younger brother a dismissive pat on the arm.

Sure, the guy spent a few weeks in custody. Hardly the end of the world, and if he was really innocent, the court would clear it up. Wasn't like they were going to ship Charlie's crop-professor buddy to GITMO or anything.

No, it hadn't been that simple. Not really.

That had been the hardass FBI agent who wanted everything his agency did to be right, stomping without remorse on his sympathetic, human conscience.

Was this simply a harsh lesson in faith and compassion? Or was that just how he wanted to see it, because such a thing implied some sort of cosmic justice when reality was that his system of justice was failing him on a very personal level?

The instructor's words had achieved the result he was aiming for: an uncomfortable silence and the rapt attention of every student in the room.

"Your gut instinct's most valuable function is to alert you to what your subconscious mind knows before your conscious mind can figure it out. It's not a magical phenomenon that you get because you're just that damn good. It's a function of the human brain, and if you learn to listen when it says something's off, it may just keep you from pulling the trigger on a civilian. It may lead you to an unlikely break in a case. Instinct isn't some magical voodoo, it's your own brain saying, 'Hey, dummy! Over here!'"

Hallucinating.

Sure, that's a part of PTSD. But they're short, something that hits you for a few seconds. It's more like reliving and reinventing, experiencing your deepest fears. It's not schizophrenia. What was it the kid kept saying? You're not real? It's all fake, you're fake?

Fake. Odd choice of words to rebuke a hallucination. Fake implied a deliberate trickery, more so than the illusion implied by "not real."

"The important thing to remember about instinct is that it's unlikely to hand you a complete solution on its own. It can tell you something's off, and half the time that something will be entirely different from what you thought it was."

Robin's glare when he'd investigated her had been unlike anything he'd seen when they were dating.

"Come on, you would've done the same thing."

"No, I would have thought about who you are, and trusted my gut. And so would the Don Eppes I knew."

What if young Sam was terrified, traumatized – and far more lucid than you thought?

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Didn't mean anything, right? Rape victims apologize. Hostages apologize. Criminals and bullies apologize when they realize they're going to jail. Lobell fits, of course he's going to be apologizing.

Okay, so he's been abused, he's afraid of you, and he's trying to talk his way out of a bad spot. He recognized your name and your voice, and he tried to beat himself unconscious against a wall when he figured out it was you.

So what's wrong?

I apologize when I feel bad, when I hurt someone without intending to. When I want to comfort someone, let them know I'm sorry for what they're going through.

Doesn't fit. You don't frame an FBI agent and then feel sorry for him afterwards. That's something you do out of hate, or at the very least pure self-interest.

Unless you didn't know what you were doing.

How is that even possible?

Don stood and paced back and forth, retrieving a piece of the gum Alan had brought him and chewing it to dispel some of his nervous tension.

"Not real. You're not real!"

"It's all fake, you're fake, you're not real!"

So – what, he thought he was playing some game? Here, take this bunch of recordings and make a tape framing this guy, and by the way, make sure it's good enough to fool an FBI crime lab? Oh, haha, don't worry, the guy's not real. That's just some dude acting like he's an FBI agent you're framing.

Acting.

Mixing – sound – movie studios. Don leaned against the metal door, peering out through the tiny window. The only thing out there was a blank wall on the other side of the hall, and his own heart thudding against the side of his chest.

Charlie said this guy did work for movie studios. They could give him the sound clips, tell him it was for a movie, and he'd so it without even blinking. An industry with an unlimited budget, one that could afford to drop a few million.

Don reached for his cell phone, and when his hand came up empty against the loose fabric of his jumpsuit, he wanted to scream. God, this was intolerable. Infuriatingly, unbelievably, miserably intolerable.

He looked up and down the blank hallway, the few feet that were visible to him. It was well after dinner. The place was locked down for the night, and the chances of his being successful at trying to beg, whine, and plead for access to a phone – well, Charlie wouldn't have to think long to place them at zero.

Don sat on the bunk and grabbed two big handfuls of his hair, groaning when he realized he was gripping tightly enough for it to hurt.

Let go, Eppes. He stood and paced some more, seriously tempted to kick the wall and scream and yell just to blow off this intolerable tension. His neighbors did it all the time, why not him?

He drew a deep breath. Because you're a damn FBI agent, because you can handle this, because you are not going to do one single thing that'll keep you from passing a psych eval when you get out. Because you're not going to give whoever reviews your application for reinstatement to active duty the slightest excuse to turn it down.

Don lay down on his side and picked up the book again, not even bothering to open it. It was just a prop. He eyed the constellation on the wall.

Faith? Trust?

In whom? In myself? In God? In my team? In my family? In the detention officers who could let me be killed with one mistake? He traced the stars with his finger and closed his eyes.

Yeah, Robin, I'm thinking about who they are, and trusting my gut. I trust them all. I have faith in the people in my life, and that's not conditional on how things work out for me, because I know what's in their hearts.

Maybe that's faith.