"So what made you decide to become a con man?" Peter asked. He was sitting behind the wheel of his mint-green Volvo, navigating deftly through the swirling whorls of early morning traffic. It was the day after Neal had been arrested, and having spent the night in hospital the kid was now sitting beside him in the passenger seat. Neal's dark hair framed his face in long, tousled curls; it was apparent that the teenager had literally just climbed out of bed. His long sleeved shirt was rumpled and he wore baggy jeans with rips in the knees. Somehow, that made him look like a some sort of world famous rock-star rather than a hobo. The slogan on Neal's shirt read "What would Merlin do?" accompanied by a drawing of a young wizard wearing a scarf. Fashion was something Peter would never understand. He shook his head like a horse ridding itself of a fly and flicked his eyes back to the road.
"Because you're not really a man, now, are you?" Peter continued, thinking of Neal's slender adolescent frame. "More of a boy. A con…boy. Conboy? Or perhaps it's a con-kid…"
"That sounds like a recipe Spanish cannibals would use." Neal said flatly. He was obviously in a foul mood. Peter supposed that the kid did have a reason to be sullen – in retrospect, Peter had taken him away from the comforts of the hospital (the reclining bed, the view of the city, the friendly young nurses) and had forced him into his seriously uncool, "middle-aged-guy car". Still, it was better than travelling in a police vehicle with the sirens on, so Peter wasn't sure why Neal was being so moody.
"Peter, where are we going? Does it involve a lot of walking? Because I don't think that my ankle would like that." Neal said, after a pause. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he waited for an answer, and Peter suddenly realised that he was being an insensitive idiot. Neal was grumpy because he was in pain, and Peter made a mental note to go easy on the potholes. Gunning the engine over bumps in the road was probably not the best idea if your passenger was using crutches.
"Don't worry, kiddo. There's an elevator."
"Cool."
The pair of them lapsed into an awkward silence. It lasted all the way until they reached the FBI building downtown.
Peter got out of the car and opened the door for Neal. He gestured to the pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt.
"Now, I don't want to put these on you, Neal, so please: don't do anything to make me change my mind." The threat came out wearily – it was obvious Peter was saying it just as a formality – but Neal bristled never the less.
"Don't worry, Peter. I'll play nice with your agents." He snapped. Peter sighed through his nose. Kids these days. They take everything so… personally. He led Neal into the building (trying to ignore the fact that Neal already seemed to know the way to the White Collar division) and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
"Good morning, Agent Burke." A man Neal recognised as Reese Hughes, head of White Collar, stepped out onto the landing. "And you brought Neal Caffrey, I see." Hughes nodded in their direction. Peter rattled off a nondescript reply and gently guided Neal forward.
"Neal, this is-"
"Mr Hughes." Neal finished smoothly. "It's great to finally have the pleasure of meeting you, sir." Despite the dull pain from his sprained ankle, bruised ribs and injured arm, Neal was determined to be controlled and fantastically polite when in the presence of the law. Pristine manners were the tools of the successful conman (or… "con-kid") and he was damned if he was going to forget that. Plus, kissing up to Hughes would annoy Peter for sure – especially after how distant he had been towards Peter in the car. Neal wasn't sure why, but for some reason he really wanted to annoy Peter as much as possible. Maybe it was because all the time he had been in the agent's custody, Peter had been nothing but… nice. He had taken Neal in his own car instead of a secure transport vehicle, and had constantly checked that he was alright. Peter was the reason that he wasn't wearing handcuffs right now, and Peter was probably the reason why he was here at the FBI instead of awaiting his trial in prison. If Peter kept on looking out for him, Neal wasn't sure that he could keep up the pretence that he 'hated' the friendly agent much longer. Annoying Peter was a defence mechanism – a way for Neal to distance himself from one of the few people who genuinely cared for his welfare. It's never a good idea to trust a federal agent, he reminded himself sternly.
"Well, Caffrey." Hughes said, after looking Neal up and down. "If you would like to follow Agent Jones, he'll explain why I wanted to bring you to headquarters instead of sending you straight to a juvenile detention centre." Hughes quirked an eyebrow, expression dry. "Burke, come with me. I need to talk to you about your tribunal." Neal looked up at Peter in concern, forgetting momentarily that he was trying to act cold towards the agent.
"Tribunal?"
"Don't worry about it, Neal. It's nothing. Go with Jones."
"Doesn't sound like nothing-"
"Neal. Go with Jones. Please."
Neal sighed and turned fluidly on his heel to face Jones, who had – at some point in the conversation - materialised behind him.
"Morning, Jones." Neal said, voice heavy. He watched Peter and Hughes walk off in the direction of Peter's office. He knew he shouldn't worry about Peter. Worry was a sign that he cared about the older man. How many times did he have to remind himself? - it was dangerous to grow attached to a special agent. But still, a tribunal? That couldn't be good.
"So why am I at here?" Neal asked, if only to distract himself. Jones motioned for the pair of them to sit down at his desk.
"You want coffee? It's pretty diabolical, but coffee is coffee…"
"I want answers." Neal smiled when he said it. Classic con man trick. Smile to take the edge off your words. That little technique had enabled Neal, on numerous occasions, to say whatever the hell he had wanted - as long as he smiled. It was something he had learnt a long time ago.
"Whatever you say, Caffrey." Jones leaned back in his chair. "The reason you're here is because you have something the bureau wants."
"And what might that be?"
"Knowledge, for one." Jones said. "Two years ago, your friend Matthew Keller stole a microchip. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
"Keller is not my friend." Neal sniffed. "But yeah. I know what you're referring to." Jones nodded slowly before continuing.
"The microchip was very important. And when I say very important, I don't mean very important. I mean very important." Neal raised his eyebrows.
"Very important. Got it." Jones smiled wanly.
"Sorry, Caffrey. It's just - you have to understand. The stolen microchip is very important. It contained all the data needed for the creation of the new 100 dollar bill. We were forced to stop production of the updated bill before we even began because, due to a regrettable lapse of security, Keller broke into our secure facility and ran off with the chip." Neal cocked his head to one side. The bullet wound in his arm killed. It sapped at his strength, shortened his attention span. He was having trouble concentrating on what Jones was saying.
"So Keller stole a microchip that told you how to make the new hundred dollar bill. What has that got to do with anything?" Jones leaned forward, as if getting ready to divulge a secret.
"We need that microchip back. And you know where it is."
"What? No I don't." Neal's expression was one of genuine puzzlement. "I stopped working with Keller ages ago when he… when he… killed a man in the middle of an operation." Neal finished in a rush. He still had nightmares about that day.
"Oh, you mean when you stole a Raphael and replaced it with one of your forgeries?" Jones smiled at Neal's stunned expression. "Yeah, we know about that one. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is the location of the microchip. We have information that for the past two years, Keller has been amassing the equipment, material and personnel needed to create his own 100 dollar bills using the data from the chip." Neal looked unimpressed.
"So? People forge money every day. Trust me, I know." Jones shook his head fast enough to make his ears wobble disconcertingly.
"You have to understand – these aren't forgeries. We couldn't make the bills ourselves without the data stored on that chip, so what Keller is trying to make right now… They aren't forgeries. These bills are originals. They're real - totally legit, for all intents and purposes. If Keller succeeds, he will have the power to bring the entire economy to its knees. The only way to stop him is to find the chip."
"But won't Keller have made copies of the data on the chip by now?" Neal asked. Despite the cloud of dull pain floating over his head his curiosity was well and truly piqued.
"If it was possible to copy the chip, do you think we would be in this mess?" Jones rolled his eyes. "The microchip is encrypted. For better or for worse, no one is able to copy it. That means that it's harder to steal the thing and use it for your own evil purposes, but it also means that now that it has beenstolen, we can't make our bills. We've lost the only version of the blueprints."
"Well, that's a shame."
"Caffrey – we need the chip back. Keller gave it to you, didn't he? He told you to hide it because you're the only one he trusts who's skilled enough to keep it safe. "
"Now why would he do a thing like that?" Neal asked quietly. He didn't like where this was going.
"I don't know, Caffrey! Keller is a criminal. He obviously doesn't go for the whole 'no honour amongst thieves' thing. He gave the chip to you. You have to tell us where it is. We can cut you some sort of deal, make things really good for you-"
"I don't have the chip. Honestly. I have no idea where it is." Neal's eyes were pleading. "I didn't even know that Keller stole something like that. I didn't think that he had the brains."
"Caffrey-"
"I don't have the chip, Jones!" Neal didn't mean to shout. It just happened. A strange look danced across Jones' face, flickering away before Neal could identify it. Then the agent sank back in his chair and folded his hands primly in his lap.
"Well ok then."
"Look, I didn't mean to raise my voice-"
"It's ok, Caffrey. We'll talk more about whether or not you have the chip later." Jones straightened his tie. "You want coffee?" This time, Neal accepted the offer. The two of them stood and went over to the bureau's sorry excuse for a kitchenette. "Shall I be mother?" Jones poured the coffee. He hadn't lied – the stuff was indeed horrible – but the dose of caffeine helped clear Neal's mind. Once both he and Jones had drunk their fill of the tar-black liquid (there was no way Neal was going to touch the "milk powder" that was on offer) they returned to Jones' desk.
"Now, Caffrey." Jones started. "Mr Hughes wanted me to send you on to a psychiatrist. It's nothing to be alarmed about; it's just that the bureau wants to see what's going on inside that head of yours, ok? Don't worry – you're in perfect mental health, I swear." Jones said hurriedly, seeing the look on Neal's face, "But we need you to see the doctor." Neal was shocked by the sudden change of topic. Psychiatrist? What the hell?
"Do I have a choice?" He asked, running his fingers through his hair.
"Not really… Ah, Dr Redford! Glad you can make it! This is Neal Caffrey, the one Agent Burke told you about." Neal spun in his chair to find a tall, bearded man standing behind him. He had a friendly, open face and grave eyes that hinted at a deeper intelligence. Neal didn't trust him one bit.
"Hello, Neal." Dr Redford held out a hand for him to shake. "If you'd like to follow me…"
Neal sat down on a beanbag opposite the rather sinister doctor. He couldn't help but think that the man was creepy in an illogical way – his eyes didn't match his smile, his mild manners didn't quite go with his palpable self-confidence. Everything about the doctor gave off an unnatural vibe.
"Why am I here?" Neal demanded the second they were seated. "I've already told Jones that I don't have the microchip. Keller never gave it to me – I haven't the foggiest where it is." Dr Redford waved his hand in a placating gesture.
"No, no, Neal. We're not here to talk about that. Can I call you Neal, by the way?"
"Can I call you Eugene?" Neal shot back. Dr Eugene Redford looked startled.
"But how did you-" His eyes fell on the nametag that was peeking out of his trouser pocket. "Ah. Clever boy. Neal."
"Thank you. Eugene."
"Ah Christ." Peter sighed. He was standing in his office with Hughes, watching the scene with Neal and Dr Redford unfold on the CCTV. "Did you really think that Neal would go in for a session with a psychiatrist?" He asked his boss scathingly. "The two of them aren't going to get anywhere. They'll tear each other to pieces!"
"I know." Hughes sat down behind Peter's desk, his every movement weary. "But we have no choice. We all know Caffrey has the microchip. Dr Redford is our best bet for finding a way to make the kid talk."
"I don't like this." Peter growled. "Subjecting Neal to a psychiatrist… in the hope that he can reveal the best way for us to manipulate Neal into telling us all his secrets – it just doesn't seem right." Hughes nodded his agreement, and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"Peter. I know this doesn't sit well with you. But we have to find the microchip. We found out last week that Caffrey knows where it is. We must do everything in our power to make him reveal its location. I've worked with Redford for many years. He's good. Really good. He'll be able to tell us the best way to get Caffrey to talk; be it a long stint in prison to loosen his tongue, or light community service to make Caffrey trust the bureau."
"From what I know of Neal, it's going to take a lot more than that to make him relinquish his most precious of secrets." Peter remarked. Hughes didn't seem concerned.
"Everyone has a weak spot, Peter. Dr Redford will find Caffrey's. And when he does, we'll use it, manipulate it, and do whatever it takes to make Caffrey talk."
"Ok, Neal. We're going to play a simple word association game. How does that sound?" Neal rolled his eyes at the prospect of yet another mind-numbing brain game.
"Yeah, whatever." He muttered. He had been alone with Dr Redford for nearly 15 minutes now and the doctor was really starting to grate on his nerves. One of his particularly annoying idiosyncrasies was to start his every sentence with 'ok, Neal'.
"Ok, Neal. The word association game is quite simple. I say a word, and you say whatever it is that pops into your head. Whatever the word makes you think of." Neal lifted his eyes heavenwards. When was this going to end? Right now, he could honestly say that he would prefer prison to this perverse session with a psychiatrist. "I'll start." Cooed Dr Redford. " Egg."
"Chicken." Neal sighed.
"Farmer." Came the swift reply.
"Fisherman"
"Postman."
"Policeman."
"Crime."
Neal smiled briefly, amazed at how fast the pattern had gone from "egg" to "policeman." Then he leaned back on his beanbag and said the first thing that entered his head.
"Opportunity."
Peter chuckled softly to himself as he watched Neal play some sort of crazy word association game on the grainy CCTV feed. It was obvious that the kid was not enjoying himself one bit, and though Peter found himself having to fight the urge to run in there and yank Neal out, he couldn't help but see the funny side as well. He felt the same sort of devilish glee that parents must feel when their child gets what they deserve. Kid pushes a granny? Granny pushes back. Neal is moody in the car? Call in the sinister psychiatrist.
"Burke." Hughes, who had gone to refill his coffee cup, poked his head round the door. Tribunal's ready. OPR is in the conference room." Peter's laughter died in his throat. Oh crap.
"Look, I can explain why I acted the way I did during Neal's arrest…"
"Good. Now tell it to the tribunal."
Peter took a deep breath and walked out of his office with his head held high. One hand strayed to straighten his tie, the other to tug on his left ear lobe. A nervous habit. He mentally ran through all his reasons for choosing to arrest Neal at Merrinote High School. The reasons made sense. They were logical. So despite the fact that the school was threatening to sue, Peter was reasonably confident that if he remembered his reasons, he would keep his job. That was the theory.
Peter drew in yet another deep breath and walked into the conference room with his lungs still ballooning like a bull frog. He was met by twelve senior executives all drinking in his appearance: the dishevelled suit, his lack of notes or writing equipment… Peter gulped. His eyes were instantly drawn to the face of Garrett Fowler. The OPR man stood behind the oak conference table with his pig faced assistant lurking behind him. There had been some bad blood between Peter and Fowler in the past, and as Peter was loathe to bring that up again, he quickly averted his gaze. Fowler just smiled. Hughes closed the doors behind them, squeezed Peter reassuringly on the shoulder, then took his place on the panel. The tribunal was ready to begin.
"Handcuffs."
"Breakable."
"Vase."
"Is it a Ming vase?"
"Hey, you can't say that! That's five words!" Neal and Dr Redford were still playing the word association game, and Neal was getting dangerously tired of it. He was about to screw being a polite little con-kid and tell the doctor exactly what he thought of his "five word" policy, but just before he opened his mouth, the doctor held up his hand. "Ok, Neal. I think that I've seen enough." He scribbled something on a yellow legal pad. He had been doing that all the time they had been together and Neal was seriously tempted to steal the thing. He tried to convince himself that the doctor wasn't worth the effort. "Ok, Neal. Thank you for playing the word association game with me. It has proved most useful. You're free to go." Neal could almost feel his eyes brighten at the words. The doctor clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry – I didn't think. I meant you're free to leave this office. Go back to Agent Jones." Neal huffed and gratefully pushed himself off the beanbag, leaving the strange Dr Redford to his scribblings.
"We are gathered here today to partake in a tribunal for Special Agent Peter Burke." Fowler said mournfully. "We will judge fairly and without prejudice. We will decide whether or not Agent Burke made the correct decision to arrest underage delinquent Neal Caffrey at his educational facility. To set the scene, the arrest of Mr Caffrey at his school has caused uproar. The school is threatening to press charges against the bureau for bringing live ammunition into an area where children reside. Agent Burke, how do you plead?"
Peter shook his head, amazed at the theatrics.
"I think that my team and I made the correct decision to arrest Neal at Merrinote High. We did this because we had no other choice – if we had struck at any other time, we are confident that Neal would have escaped."
"You got any, I don't know, evidence to support this claim?" Fowler's voice, loud and distinctively disrespectful, rang out through the room. Peter stopped mid flow.
"Uh, no. Not exactly, but my team has arranged a file recounting all the times Neal Caffrey has escaped in the past. Once we had amassed this data, we knew that we needed to approach this arrest in a new way. Nabbing Neal at school was the only way to ensure a successful capture."
"Not really evidence, though, is it?" Fowler sniffed. Peter gave him the evils, but before he could shoot back some sort of reply, Hughes spoke up.
"Thank you Agent Burke. We have heard your reasons for arresting Caffrey at his school. As a panel, we will have to discuss whether or not you made the right call. Now please, tell us about the precautions you took to ensure no civilians were harmed during the arrest."
Peter nodded and straightened his tie once more. His palms were sweaty. This was the worst trouble he had been in in his professional career, and standing in front of a panel of his superiors, he couldn't help but feel like a naughty school boy summoned to the headteacher's office.
"Right. Precautions." Peter cleared his throat officiously. "We took numerous precautions to guarantee the safety of the children in the school at the time. We sounded the fire alarm once Neal was in custody and had the entire school evacuated."
"Why didn't you evacuate the school before you fired live ammunition at Caffrey?" Fowler asked pointedly. Peter stood up straighter, trying his best not to be intimidated by the OPR man.
"As I've said before, Agent Fowler, arresting Caffrey was a delicate operation. If we evacuated the school, Neal would have definitely gotten wind of our intentions and would have escaped."
"But you already warned him by – and I quote eye witness reports here – 'making a helicopter fly really, really close to the, like, geography room' that Caffrey was in at the time." Fowler was definitely enjoying grilling Peter for explanations. The glee was right there, dancing behind his eyes, visible to all.
"The incident with the helicopter flying close to the school was a tactic to scare Neal into submission. This strategy has been scientifically proven to be successful. And it worked – Neal didn't escape!" Peter tried to keep his frustration in check. He was being practically interrogated when he should have been congratulated! He had just captured a dangerous criminal, and his reward was to be treated like an idiot.
"But having a helicopter fly close to the school only served to cause chaos within!" Fowler pressed. Peter sighed wearily.
"I did what I had to do to protect my country. Neal Caffrey is a threat – the very fact that he has a microchip with the power to topple the global economy in his possession is surely enough to prove that! I arrested him and didn't injure any civilians." Peter wiped his brow, feeling oddly drained from the outburst. The panel facing him stared for a moment, then broke down into a series of rapid conversations. They were about to pass their judgement. In a few moments, Peter would know whether or not he had lost his job. He cringed mentally as, for the first time, he allowed himself to think about what would happen if he was no longer a special agent at the FBI. What it would mean for him. And what it would mean for Elizabeth. They would have to rely on Elizabeth's event planning business for income. She made a good profit – enough to support them and keep them off benefits – but nowhere near enough for them to sustain their way of life. They would have to sell the house, cut all the holidays, ditch the mint green Volvo, and, if things got really, really bad, put Satchmo up for adoption. There would be no money to put aside for retirement, no cash for a sneaky night out with his wife. No more lunches in cafes. All this flashed through Peter's mind in the space of a second. He gulped and instinctively stood up straighter. He had to keep his job. He had to. For El's sake.
"Special Agent Burke." Fowler whispered something to the agents on his either side. They both shook their heads. Fowler smiled before standing to address Peter. The other members of the panel fanned out behind the OPR representative in a menacing semicircle. "We have made our decision."
I've just realised that I haven't updated this story in over a month, so for that I apologise! I thought I'd make this chapter extra long to compensate. Hope you enjoyed it and I'd love to hear what you thought of it. :)