Chapter 18

NORTH ALAMEDA STREET, 29 DAYS AFTER THE ARREST

Robin Brooks was stuck in traffic.

In front of the federal detention center.

She looked out at the tall, angular building. It and others like it held no particular novelty to her; they had long ago become workplaces like any other. A courtroom, an office, a jail, an airport…they all blended together. Not for Don, though. He thought nobody noticed his slight discomfort when he walked into a prison; he was probably right. Except for her.

The jarring symphony of horns told her that traffic wasn't planning to move in the foreseeable future, and Robin picked up the reports. She skimmed over the details of the assault, not out of squeamishness but because she was unable to apply the clinical description of events to the warm, living person she knew as Don. Words like contusions, abrasions, and temporary nerve damage stuck in her mind nonetheless, as she sought the end of the story.

Calm.

Compliant.

Accepted nurse's recommendation for medical treatment.

Pleasant and good-humored in interactions with staff.

Demonstrates understanding of the nature of the assault.

She set the file down and stared out the window, through the walls, and into a small cell occupied by Don Eppes. Why was this haunting her so much? Many times now she had pulled back clothing to find bruises and cuts from the day's scuffles. Marks he didn't bother to mention, and which never seemed to disturb him the way other aspects of his cases so often did.

Robin knew in her heart that Don was miserable. End the career that was his identity, falsely accuse him of betraying everything that he was, and lock him up so that he was helpless to do anything about it. Force him to face that alone in a cell away from the people he loved, and you had a recipe for hurting Don Eppes very deeply.

If anything should torture her, it was that, not something he was more than capable of shrugging off. Something a report stated in black and white that he had shrugged off.

She looked at the report again and felt the warmth of tears in her eyes. This was Don they were talking about, being kicked in handcuffs. Don, who under that invulnerable shell, knew more about tenderness than most people would ever guess.

That was the travesty, that was what had her in tears. Hit him, and he would simply deal with it. Sure, it could be easy to get the impression of someone too hardened to feel.

Unless one knew how his entire being melted at a gentle touch, or how the tension in his eyes would vanish at the least tenderness in hers. This wasn't a person who couldn't feel, this was a man who felt everything.

US DOJ METROPOLITAN DETENTION CENTER, 1 MONTH AFTER THE ARREST

Sam Lobell approached the camera, looking uncertainly at the image.

"Hey, Sam. You doing okay, kiddo?" Don asked, adjusting the monitor on his end for a clearer view.

Sam gulped. "Yeah. You?"

Don shrugged, a smile twitching his lips. "In jail."

Sam paced. "Look - if my dad finds out I talked to the cops - I - he will kill me." He faced away from the screen, staring at the wall.

"Sam, I promise you, my team will investigate without putting you in danger. I get how scared you are, all right? I'm not just saying that. But we're the FBI. We're really good at protecting witnesses."

"Okay." Sam crumpled into the chair by the monitor screen. "You - you're going to be really mad at me. I didn't mean it - have your guys beat me up or something, just promise you won't tell him."

Don raised one eyebrow, looking at Sam with intense sympathy. "Sam, I meant it back when I said I wasn't angry. Nobody's going to beat you, kiddo, I promise. There's no way, all right? There's no way."

Sam bit his lip, his eyes filling with tears at the kindness in Don's expression. "Yeah, I made the recording. It was a job for Talbott Studios, for a movie. They never said I was framing an FBI agent! You were just a character, actors, they told me, you weren't a real person. I've tried - I wanted to make a career, you know?"

Lobell folded his arms on the table and buried his head in them. Don wondered if the stress of their conversation had been too much for him. "I thought I was going to prison, you know? For something I never meant – it wasn't my fault." He was shaking, his head still hidden. "I wanted to kill myself – I wanted to die – couldn't stop –"

"It's over," said Don, his voice gentle. "You're okay."

Sam shook his head. "I did that to you. I'm so sorry – I didn't know you were real – I just can't stand that I did that to you, you know? To anyone, but you were nice -"

He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking. Someone walked into the frame and touched him lightly on the back. "Sam?" She tapped on the table to get his attention. "Sam, it's okay. I think you should go now, okay?"

"I'm sorry." He didn't look up or stop shaking. "I'm so sorry." The woman took his hand and urged him to stand, and Sam snapped his head up. "Get the fuck away from me!"

She backed off, and Don studied the feed. "I heard about your mother," said Don, thinking about Margaret and the years it took for that ache to fade. "I'm sorry."

Sam braved a look at the screen, his face breaking. "She was a good person. I've tried - I've tried to be like her."

"Yeah, look - I lost my mom a little while back." Don drew in a deep breath. "Your father's going away for murder, Sam. That'll never give her back or make it hurt less. But you don't have to live in fear any more, okay? Growing up like you did, and having the strength to choose another path? You'll have that career of yours."

"Am I gonna go to prison?" Lobell braced himself, closing off what vulnerability he could.

Don shook his head with a soft smile. "Nah. I do need to ask you a few more questions, though, okay?"

Lobell nodded, his shoulders relaxing in relief. "Where'd you actually made the recording? Whose gear did you use?"

"At Talbott. They have a M2K-300 setup there, totally fucking amazing. Like, you can do anything you can imagine with music, sound - it's awesome. Costs millions – I'd work for free, just to play with toys like that."

"And who were you working for? Who hired you, told you what they wanted, that sort of thing?"

"It was just one guy - Rob Girsh. I've worked for Talbott before, but never him. He said it was all hush-hush, for some big movie they had in production. The sound room techs were the same guys I've always worked with, they didn't have anything to do with it."

Don nodded. "Okay, Sam. Thank you. I really mean that, kiddo. Thank you. Do you mind if I ask you something else?" Sam looked at the screen suspiciously, still searching Don's face for anger or condemnation. He braved a half-nod.

"That agent who questioned you, his name's David Sinclair, and he's a friend. He's a really, really good guy, and he's going to make sure nothing happens to you. If he has some questions later, think you could talk to him for me?"

Sam sighed. "Okay." He closed his eyes, wrestling with a decision. "You were right. About the tattoo. Not many guys get that, I'm surprised a cop did."

"Figuring people out is kinda my job," said Don. The woman appeared again, more determined this time.

"Sam, you're been through enough stress for one day, okay?" Sam nodded. "You can talk to him some more later, all right?" The woman glanced up, met Don's eyes for a split second, and turned the camera off.

Don stood and took a deep breath, assuring himself that the conversation had been real, not just something he made up to keep his mind occupied in his cell.

He admitted it, on tape. We have a name. That's - that's probable cause to re-open the investigation. That's a real, actual lead.

Don raised his head and realized that while he'd been focusing on Lobell, the guard at the door had been replaced with Kevin Anderson. Their eyes met in a deadly serious gaze. Anderson didn't know all the details of the case, but it was enough to recognize the implications of what he had just heard.

Neither man spoke while Anderson applied the familiar restraints to Don's wrists and ankles, moving efficiently but taking care not to put undue pressure on the bruises that still marked him. Don recognized the deeply troubled expression on the officer's face. It was a horrible feeling, knowing you had a potentially innocent person in custody.

Anderson saw the understanding look and gave Don's arm a soft pat, leading him out of the room. There was an incredible sense of compassion in that wordless touch, and Don felt something in his gut relax. A few moments later, he knew what it was.

For the first time in a month, he actually believed he was going to be okay. It wasn't a feeling born of desperation or helplessness, but of actual faith and hope. He was walking down the hall feeling like an FBI agent, not some mutant cross between a kicked puppy and sociopath.

WAR ROOM, FBI OFFICE

Charlie rubbed his forehead when the screen went blank. "Am I the only one who found that completely heartbreaking on any number of levels?"

"No," said David, sighing. "It's the best news we've had since Don's arrest, though."

Charlie felt a surge of hope. "They'll let Don go now, right? Since he admitted he made the recording?" He leapt to his feet, and David's face went dark.

Vic Nychev touched Charlie's shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look. "I'm afraid not. There's a rock-solid case against him even without the recording. This might help him establish reasonable doubt in court if it could be used without putting Lobell in jeopardy, but it's not enough to keep it from going to trial."

Charlie sat back down heavily in the chair, feeling like someone had taken a baseball bat to his heart. Nychev knelt down to his level.

"Hey, I think you get this, but in case I need to say it, I don't have it in for Eppes, okay? Not at all. I'm going to take what we just saw up the chain of command, and I'm going to see about officially re-opening the case."

"This is still a very, very good thing, Charlie," said David.

Charlie nodded, forcing a smile to his face and wondering how such good people could find themselves part of such a travesty. Is this the utterly, horribly illogical manner in which the human species will always behave? How can it be that everyone involved in this is intelligent, caring, and honest, and this is still the inevitable outcome? My brother led back to a cell in chains?

"Do you realize what just happened here?"

"I think so," said Charlie, burying his face in his hands.

"I don't think you do," said David with a smile that reached just to his eyes, not quite spreading to his face. He took Nychev's place, kneeling down to catch Charlie's attention. Charlie finally looked at him. "Your brother just cracked this case open. From solitary confinement in a federal detention center."

Charlie frowned.

"Think about it. How many people would ever be capable of pulling that off? This may not be happening fast, but I promise you, that man will come out on top despite the toll it's taking on him."

"Well, you guys are the ones who found Lobell in the first place," Charlie pointed out.

David smiled. "Well, that's why we work as teams. I guess that makes this one pretty amazing team, if we can manage to work a case like this together." He reached out and took Charlie's hand, pulling him to his feet. "This is going to be one for the record books, when Don gets out."

"What can I do?" Charlie's voice was weak, but he wrapped one arm tightly around David in sincere affection and let the senior agent lead him out.

"Right now, I'd kill for anything that connects that program of yours to Talbott Studios without relying on Lobell's testimony."

"Okay."

"I'm going to work on getting together an employee list so we can do background checks, and I'll run it past you to see if any of the names ring a bell. Do you think there's any way you can connect them to that software?"

"Well – I can analyze their past and present film projects and see if I can detect any pattern changes that coincide with when they would have started using the program, any sudden increase in profitability, unconventional casting or storytelling decisions, that sort of thing."

"Good." David gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

GARAGE, EPPES RESIDENCE

Amita came up behind Charlie and studied the work he was doing. It was accurate; it always was. But it was also conventional, even uninspired. The scrawled marks told her more plainly than words that Dr. Charles Eppes was seriously depressed. Or heartbroken. Or in shock. With Charlie, it could be all three.

She pried the chalk from his hand, ignoring the absent puzzlement in his expression, and led him to the couch. He struggled when she pulled him down by her side, but it was a halfhearted effort.

"I need to finish that," said Charlie. "I need to come up with a mathematical proof that connects Talbott Studios to the software."

"I know," said Amita, pushing a lock of dark hair back from his face and letting her arm come to rest around his shoulders. "And you're doing a terrible job."

Charlie responded with an amused pout. Amita didn't fall for the distraction. "Spill it, Charlie." Charlie groaned, his playful manner vanishing in an instant.

"It's just so incredibly depressing. I mean - working with the FBI, one at least gets the impression that there's some sort of perpetual struggle of good against evil. There's something innately reassuring about that. But this - this is a situation where good is - just failing."

He gave Amita an entreating look. "If Nychev were a corrupt agent with a grudge, or if Anderson were some sort of sadistic stereotype, or if Lobell were something other than a terrified guy trying his best to survive as a decent person - if Don deserved this.... But it's not, they're good, intelligent human beings who care about each other, and when that ends up with Don in jail - what's the point of striving to better ourselves as a species if that's the end result?"

"I don't know," said Amita, cuddling in against his side. "Not so long ago in terms of history, or even today in some other countries, Don would have been convicted and executed by now."

Charlie sighed. "I know."

"Personally, I find it touching how many people are being conscientious about this. That's not what one would automatically expect, and it's - well, I think it's lovely. Isn't it an example of hope, that maybe if we keep striving we will actually be able to better ourselves? That maybe it's happening right now?"

Charlie laid his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes. "I love you."

She kissed him, and sat quietly stroking the side of his face. "Not so long ago, you would have seen it that way yourself."

"I worry about that," Charlie admitted. "Spending so much time with the FBI."

Amita rested her cheek against his head. "I think your heart's still as soft as it ever was."