Chapter 63
Caine: "If the jury cannot see innocence in my eyes, will they find it in a lawyer's mouth?"
With much noise and haste, Belle bursts into the Bell's Corners jail. "Jo and Bae sent word: they'll come as soon as they can. They've been detained by the Feds," she informs Gold. "Digging through every nook and cranny of the shop and the Treadle office, for financial records. They just got done digging through our house." Belle wraps her arms around herself, as though chilled. "That's why it took me so long to get here." She spares a smile for Sheriff Wolf, Emma, and Gold's visitor and friend, Judge Fairfax of Storybrooke. The judge and Belle are acquainted as well, from the times Belle assisted the court in taking care of children during custody hearings. "Judge Fairfax! Have you determined Rumple's bail yet?"
"I'm sorry, I don't have the authority to set bail in this case," Judge Fairfax explains.
"Oh, of course," Belle nods. "It's a federal case. I should've realized. Guess I'm a bit rattled."
"I did make a couple of phone calls, however–informally, you understand. I can't exert whatever influence I might have; that could get us both into hot water. But what I found out is that the magistrate judge who will be determining your bail has already begun to make some inquiries about you. His name is Joseph Keaton and he'll arrive from Portland in four days."
"Four days?!" Belle yelps. "And Rumple has to stay in jail all that time?"
"I'm afraid so. Your case will be heard in the US District Court in Maine—if there is a case," Fairfax emphasizes the latter phrase. "Personally, I have doubts whether it will go that far. I know you, Mr. Gold: you know the value of what you have, and there's no way you'd risk it just to hang onto a few thousand dollars. More importantly, you have too much integrity to steal and too much pride in your name to commit fraud."
"Thank you, Your Honor." A lump in his throat prevents any further answer.
But Emma, ever practical, breaks in. "So can you help him? Maybe represent him in court? It's gotta help, right? To be defended by someone who knows him and believes in him."
"I wish I could." Fairfax's mouth flattens. "It's not permitted. Judges aren't permitted to practice law; it's thought that doing so would diminish our objectivity. Nor can I speak publicly on your behalf, but I can offer some off-the-record advice. For example, do you have representation?"
Gold nods. "Kevin Kamen."
Fairfax ponders. "Yes, he's as good a debater as he is an interpreter of the tax codes. Good choice. If he should happen to invite me to lunch when he comes to town, and if in the course of enjoying our meal, we happen to talk about cases in which defendants have been framed for tax evasion, there would be no conflict of interest for me there." The judge shrugs.
"So after Judge Keaton sets bail, what happens next?" Belle asks.
"About two or three weeks later, the preliminary hearing will take place in Portland; the feds will try to prove there's sufficient cause for a trial. After that, an arraignment, where a district court judge will hear Mr. Gold's plea. There will be some back-and-forth between the AUSA—that's the Assistant United States Attorney, kind of like a DA—and Mr. Gold's representation, with attempts to hammer out a plea bargain. If that doesn't happen—"
"It won't," Gold says firmly.
"No plea bargains," Belle agrees. "He's innocent and we'll prove it."
"Some months later, maybe five or six, there will be a trial, which will probably take a couple of days, maybe a week."
"That gives us time to fight this," Belle says, teeth gritting. She looks to the judge. "It shouldn't be hard: Rumple is a meticulous record keeper."
"I've seen the results of that in my courtroom," the judge agrees. "Be aware, however, the Feds wouldn't have brought charges if they didn't have something substantial. Ask yourself, Mr. Gold, not only who would want to frame you, but who could."
Emma lifts away from the wall she's been leaning against. As she's listened to Fairfax, she's been watching Belle and Gold, who are holding hands, seated together on the cot in the open jail cell. Gold is sinking into himself, his head bent, his hair hiding his face; Belle grips him like a rescuer reaching for a man drowning in quicksand. It's not the prospect of a conviction that's dragging him under, Emma understands him well enough to see that; it's the in-between, the time he will spend locked up until this nightmare is over.
Emma yanks the silver badge from her belt and hands it to Wolf. "I want a leave of absence."
Wolf turns the badge in his hands. "Let me guess: you're going to do some private investigative work. I don't know if I can hold your job open for six months, Emma."
"Then consider it a permanent absence."
"Emma–" Belle starts to protest, but Emma holds up a restraining hand. "Family" is all the explanation she offers. "Belle, give me the number of that Kamen guy. He's just got himself an unpaid assistant."
Judge Fairfax takes her leave to make a few "informal" phone calls; Emma takes hers to begin her investigation of the most likely suspects, but not before Gold tries to persuade her not to relinquish her job. "You heard the judge. This could take months. And Bae doesn't make that much from Treadle; you'll need your paycheck."
"Not to brag, Pop, but I'm one helluva an investigator. I just may get this case wrapped up before your Mr. Kamen winds his way out of Boston traffic." Emma's eyes are bright, and Gold realizes then that she's in her element, using her special skills to take care of her family. He knows exactly what that feels like; there's no way he'd take the feeling away from her. So he nods, thanking her, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder—for people as reserved as they are, it's their equivalent of a hug. "See ya, guys," she says, ducking out.
She passes Archie on the way: the doctor introduces himself to Wolf and explains he's come to check on his patient.
"Sure, go on in," Wolf invites: the cell stands open anyway. "Is there a condition I should know about? Medications he needs? Special diet?"
"We've been monitoring his blood pressure," Archie says vaguely, unpacking a blood pressure cuff from his medical bag. "Prehypertension." A small smile to Gold signals the latter that Archie won't be giving out the details about just when Gold's blood pressure has been rising. A patient is entitled to confidentiality, after all. "He doesn't require meds or a special diet—yet. Now if it doesn't violate policy, could I have a little privacy with my patient?" Archie nods to Belle. "And his wife."
"Of course. I trust you don't have any skeleton keys or hacksaws in that bag."
Belle clicks her tongue. "If you knew Archie, such a thought wouldn't even occur to you. He's the soul of integrity."
Chuckling, Wolf saunters off to his office and starts to work on his laptop. Once he's gone, Belle peeks into the medical bag. "You don't have any skeleton keys or hacksaws, do you, Archie?"
Hopper growls softly. "Belle! What do you think this is, the wild west? Besides, I have complete faith in your husband's honesty and in the judicial system—considering that we're not in Storybrooke. Now shush while I check Rumple's vitals." After the blood pressure, pulse, respiration and temperature have all been read, Hopper replaces his equipment in the bag and settles more comfortably on his chair. "Blood pressure's a little high, as might be expected. Cut down on the salt while you're here. Which, I trust, won't be long. Why aren't you out on bail yet?"
Gold explains and Archie grunts in reply. "Four days, huh? So much for speedy justice." Elbows on his knees, Archie leans forward and lowers his voice. "I know you have trouble with cages. If you experience flashbacks"—he's referring to Rumplestiltskin's time in Charming's underground prison—"meditate. I don't care if a dozen people are staring at you: sit down, close your eyes, focus on your breathing. If that doesn't help, call me. I don't think Wolf will interfere with a man's right to medical treatment, even if he is a prisoner." Archie thinks for a moment, then fishes a prescription pad from his bag and scribbles something on it; he tears the sheet off and gives it to Belle. "To help him rest. You can pick these up at any pharmacy."
"Sleeping pills?" Gold guesses. "Or some sort of sedative?"
"You could say that." Archie stands, picks up his bag and winks at them. "Ear plugs. I'll check in on you tomorrow." He pauses in the cell doorway. "Both of you." And then he's gone.
"He's right," Gold slips an arm around Belle's shoulders. "You need to go home and get some rest." When she opens her mouth to protest, he kisses her. "Go home, Belle. Have some dinner, put your feet up—The Best of the Boston Ballet is on tonight. And when you come back tomorrow, bring me Title 26 of the US Code."
She tries to smile. "The tax code?"
"The tax code."
As night falls, Wolf wanders back over to the cell. The door is closed, but not yet locked, and he leans against it. "I usually have Persie deliver the daily special, when I have a guest of the county, but Fran Dove beat me to it. She called a few minutes ago and asked if she could bring us—wait for it. . . beef bourguignon and crème brulee."
Gold can't help but lick his lips. "Fran's crème brulee. . .heaven in a ramekin."
"She insisted the stew could be fully appreciated only if she served a bottle of Red Bordeaux too, but I had to draw the line at that, unfortunately." Wolf crosses one foot in front of the other, relaxing against the bars. "For the moment. But I told her, when this is all over, we'll take her up on that Bordeaux."
"You think we'll have something to celebrate," Gold surmises.
"I know it."
"Why?"
Wolf looks puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Why do you think I'm innocent?" From anyone else, it would sound like an odd question, but it's been nearly four hundred years since the word innocent was linked with Rumplestiltskin's name. Belle, Henry, Emma and Bae believe in him, but they have to. Archie, too: Gold pays him to accept his word. But the rest of his associates—the people he's called friends these past few years—they owe him nothing. Now that, for once, he's been accused of a crime he's never even thought about committing, what reason would any of those people have to believe him? The residents of Bell's Corners may just write him off as yet another rich guy trying to get away with a white-collar crime; the residents of Storybrooke will simply shrug over this footnote of a crime in the voluminous ledger of Rumplestiltskin's evil doings.
Wolf answers matter-of-factly, "I think you're innocent because you are." As if it's a stupid question. And then the Doves arrive with covered dishes and china plates and linen napkins and Wolf makes space in the interrogation room and drags in some extra chairs, and for an hour it's as if they're four neighbors sharing a meal, after which they will all shake hands, wish each other good night and go home.
It's as if these people think they're dining with a guy named Gold who owns an antiques shop and does magic tricks for sick kids—not the Dark One.
After the Doves have cleaned up the interrogation room, Wolf pats his belly and sighs and apologizes. "It's been a long day. Gotta go home to my wife and kids. Sorry, Gold, but without a deputy to put on night duty, I'll to have to lock you in. I'll be locking the front door too. Policy." He turns a key in the iron lock. As an afterthought, he tosses his cell phone in and Gold catches it. "Here, in case something comes up. Dial 'Sarah'—that's my wife's cell. Feel free to call your wife, if you want. I've got unlimited minutes. There's a shower in the locker room downstairs that you can use tomorrow: your wife can bring you some clean clothes. You want the lights on or off?"
"Off. Well, leave the hallway light on so I don't bump into anything."
"Sure." Wolf snaps off some lights. "Good night, Gold. I'll be back at seven with your breakfast."
Wolf has been gone quite some time before Gold finally stops pacing. A streetlight glows yellow through the small window, too far up to be looked out of; cars rumble for another hour or two, and an occasional voice can be heard, but eventually the street noises fade and there's nothing but the hum of the air conditioner. He wants to call Belle to wish her good night, but he can't figure out how to use Wolf's phone.
Gold strips down to his slacks and undershirt, pulls off his shoes and lies back on the cot—the mattress is thicker than the one in the Storybrooke jail. The pillow and sheets smell new. He makes a second pillow of his arms and stares at a streak of streetlight on the ceiling.
He must have fallen asleep, because his body jerks in reaction to a noise and it takes him a minute to get his bearings. Once he's awake, he lies still, pretending to be asleep, as he listens to the scrape of a door in the back of the building, then slow, soft footsteps. He senses a shape behind him and smells a familiar cologne: Hugo Boss.
In a single move he grabs his cane and swings to his feet. He flashes his teeth at the intruder. "Hello, George."
The deep voice strikes out in the darkness. "Hello, Rumplestiltskin."
"Now, dearie, the sheriff locked that door, which makes what you did breaking and entering." Gold's eyesight has adjusted enough to the dark that he can make out Spencer's form, an arm's length away from the cell. "For which you can wind up in here. I must warn you: I'm not much of a roommate." He wrinkles his nose. "Don't like to share."
"Well, you'll learn quick enough when you're sentenced to five years in the federal pen." Spencer tilts his head, and Gold follows the DA's gaze upward to the security camera. Satisfied that he's out of its range, Spencer relaxes into a satisfied smile and Gold resists the urge to curse. They both know the camera has no sound system.
"Good to see you back where you belong. Third time around for you, isn't it, Dark One? Or fourth? So easy to lose count."
"What do you want, George?" Gold forces a chill into his voice, but he's choking his cane as if it were Spencer's throat. "What do you expect to achieve with this frame up?"
Spencer feigns innocence. "Justice. The satisfaction of seeing a lawbreaker behind bars. And may I add, it is indeed satisfying."
"Is it some kind of deal you're after? Because if it is, you've gone about it stupidly."
Spencer casts a quick glance upward, to the security camera: as long as he stands back from the cell, he won't be caught on film. Dropping his voice, he repeats, "You should have left well enough alone, Dark One. Your meddling is what screwed up my arrangements with Midas and lost me my kingdom. Who did you think you were: Cupid? Breaking up my son and his betrothed to throw him at the feet of that tramp Snow White?"
"So that's what this is about." Gold reclines on his bunk, one foot crossed over the other, as if nothing in this little conversation bothers him. "What took you so long, Georgie? You're about thirty-three years late."
"Still satisfying. Here you are at last, out of reach of your magic. Now you're about to be stripped of everything you own. Watch how fast this town turns its back on you. Without your little kingdom here to shelter you, how long will you last? With your gold gone, how long will that pretty young wife stick around? And that leech of a son? You're going to find out what it's like when your son stabs you in the back, like mine did after you destroyed him." Spencer snaps his fingers dismissively as he walks out. "Rot in hell, Dark One."
Gold mutters to himself, "Spencer, you just saved Emma the trouble of making a suspects list. Not that we had any doubts about whose name to place at the top."