The next morning, Neal awoke to the sound of fax machines and ringing telephones. He rubbed his eyes, stretching. He was sitting on a metal bunk back in Holding Cell Two, wearing silk pyjamas and sporting an impressive bed head. After the rooftop conversation with Peter last night, he had been escorted back to his cell to rest up before his trial. He shuddered at the thought. This trial was everything. This was where they were going to decide whether or not he was going to go to prison. Today was the day his future was set in stone.
With a groan, Neal climbed out of bed and splashed cold water on his face, before getting dressed in the clothes someone had left out for him. He was just adjusting the tie around his neck and contemplating that today of all days was a good day to look sharp, when there was a buzz of electronic locks and Peter entered the cell.
"Good morning," Neal smiled, going for the laid back, cheerful approach. Peter didn't deign to reply. He stared at Neal, his bottom lip trembling, and sat down heavily on the metal bunk. "It's a trial, not a zombie apocalypse," Neal said, in a bid to lighten the mood. Peter seemed a lot more worried about what was about to happen than he was, which wasn't exactly a good sign. If Peter was worried, then things were probably not going to go swimmingly.
"Why are you so happy?" Peter sighed, rubbing his face absently, "Aren't you worried about what's going to happen to you?"
"Well I was less worried before you decided to bring it up and remind me about it," Neal grumbled, brushing down his trousers and straightening his navy blue suit jacket. He was dressed to impress: dark suit and starched white shirt, with a skinny blue tie and, to top it all off, his black converse all stars – the shoes he had been wearing when he had robbed the museum. "What… what do you think is going to happen?" It was the question he had been thinking about all night; the one he had been dreading to ask. He knew that there was no way Peter would lie to him on the morning of his trial – but he dreaded the truth even more. Peter looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
"I think that you're going to go to prison, Neal. I'm sorry, but the evidence against you is staggering. You're not going to walk away from this. You stole a painting, you stole and kept the microchip…"
"But I'm reformed!" Neal felt like the words should make an appearance at some point during the conversation. Peter only looked at him sadly.
"You're not reformed and I don't think you ever will. It's just not in your nature." The words stung.
"You think that I can never be a better person. You think that the only future I have is a life of crime." Neal stared straight at the ground as he spoke, noticing that Peter didn't deny any of his accusations. The atmosphere in the cell grew heavier by the instant. Neither of them seemed to know what to say.
The door of the cell opened for a second time. Jones stuck his head in.
"They're ready for you."
"OK." Peter pushed himself up off the bed looking as though he had aged a thousand years. Neal looked away, unable to stand the disappointment in his father's eyes. It was true that he had messed up. He had stolen a painting and was even now refusing to relinquish the microchip – but there had been very good reasons for what he had done. He stood up straighter, trying to look as relaxed as possible. He had had a good reason to steal the painting, but the microchip was an entirely different matter. He was hoarding it for himself. It was the only weapon he had left against the justice system, the only tool left he could use to wrangle his way out of prison.
"Are you ready?" Peter was standing by the door, looking more tired than ever. Even his hair had taken on a greyish hue.
"As ready as I'll ever be." Neal took a deep breath. Then he strode out of the cell with his head held high and he didn't look back.
They arrived at the court surrounded by a maelstrom of reporters. Neal sat in the back of a police car, sandwiched between Peter and Jones, his hands cuffed together. He didn't dare pick the handcuffs with Peter so close by. When he saw the crowd of reporters, the blood turned to ice in his veins and his heart started to pound double-time. This was the last thing he needed.
"Why are there so many?" he murmured to Peter, as the car pulled up in front of the colossal, oddly beautiful, courtroom.
"You're a kid," Peter shrugged, eyeing the jostling press, "And you're unique. Not many kids have stolen a Raphael on a school trip. And then there's the fact that we arrested you at your school the first time. As soon as the reporters got a whiff of that scandal you were guaranteed to get a slot on page three." Neal gulped, thinking of his old schoolmates. They had spent so much time and energy convincing them that he wasn't a criminal. He supposed that the cat was well and truly out of the bag now.
He ran his fingers through his hair, nervously preparing himself for the cameras and, later, the judge. It suddenly struck him that he didn't have a lawyer. He opened his mouth to voice this pressing concern to Peter, but before he could speak Jones threw open the car door.
A tidal wave of noise crashed around them.
"Neal! Neal! How did you steal the Raphael from under the nose of your teachers?" Neal looked up as the reporters hurried closer, shoving microphones in his face and aiming their cameras right at him. Jones propelled him forward through the crowd, not stopping even when they addressed him by name.
"Agent Jones! Is it true that you arrested Caffrey in a library?"
"Neal – what's it like living with a federal agent?"
"Neal, Neal, are you nervous about today's outcome?"
Peter materialised at Neal's side, grabbing him by the elbow and steering him forward through the seething masses.
"Don't answer them," he muttered warningly. "I mean it. They may treat you like some sort of celebrity on the red carpet but that doesn't change anything about your situation."
Neal very much doubted that this was how celebrities felt when they were photographed by the paparazzi. The press in front of the courtroom were like piranhas, hostile yet desperate for information. He felt more heckled than loved.
"This way, coming through!" Jones continued to push through the crowd and they parted as though he were Moses, clearing the way towards the courtroom entrance. Neal was frogmarched up the steps and there was a sudden silence as the doors clanged shut behind them.
He found himself in a marble hallway lit by soft floor lights. Faces whipped by as he was led through the entrance, past rows of security, through a series of doors and into a carpeted room.
"Get in." The door closed behind him and he heard it lock from the outside. He was alone.
Or was he?
It was only when he had had a second to collect his thoughts after the barrage of noise from the press that he noticed a man perched on the edge of a desk in the middle of the room. He was young, in his mid-twenties, looking as though he had just walked straight off a university campus. Bright ginger hair stood up in spikes and his fingers were ink stained, as though he had spent a lot of time re-reading freshly printed documents. A briefcase stuffed messily with files was propped at the man's feet.
"Hey Neal," he said, smiling in a strained sort of way. "I'm Will. I'm your lawyer."
Neal felt his heart sink even lower. This man looked nice enough, but he wasn't the fast-talking, ruthless attorney he had been expecting. One harsh word from the judge would have this chap wilting like a flower. Ok, Neal thought, it's time to face it. I'm well and truly screwed.
"What's your strategy?" he asked Will, trying to hide his disappointment at being landed with such an amateur. If only he had been allowed to pick his own attorney… he knew plenty of criminal lawyers who were more criminal than lawyer and undefeated in the courtroom.
"We're going to plead innocence," Will said, leaning forwards. He had a gushing, eager manner of speaking. "I think that your youth will really help you. We'll explain that you got the microchip by accident and that you were too scared to hand it in. I've lined up some witnesses who can testify that it was Matthew Keller who stole Datum 815, not you. So what do you think?"
"Yeah. Good idea," He didn't really know how to respond. Surely Will knew that he wasn't innocent and that this line of action was never going to work?
"I think it's pretty unlikely," Will was still speaking, "but you might be forced to take the stand yourself. I don't really know what's going to happen out there," an awkward little smile. "If you do have to speak for yourself, remember that you can always plead the Fifth Amendment if things get hairy out there. It-"
"Protects against self-incrimination. Yeah, I know."
"Good." Will stood up from the desk and padded over to him. They shook hands. "I know that I'm probably not the lawyer you were expecting, but I promise you, I'll try my hardest to get you out of this muddle. As my mother always said, if you can untangle all the wires and cables behind the TV then you can untangle any mess, and-"
The door opened to reveal a burly security guard.
"You can come through now. They're ready for you."
The trial was about to begin.
Hey everyone, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Sorry I didn't update last week... I would love to know what you thought of it so please drop me a review! Just as a heads up, this story is indeed coming to a conclusion soon, so be prepared for only a few more chapters to go.
On a side note, thank you Heather for your numerous and detailed reviews! I would love to answer all your questions so please feel free to PM me and I'll answer them all in one go.