Acquitted At Last
A/N: This is set after White Collar Season Three Episode Six but before Episode Seven.
Bryce Larkin still regretted the words he had thrown at his twin brother the last time they had seen each other. They weren't true. Bryce hadn't truly thought Neal Caffrey was just a worthless criminal, or that he was just as bad as the terrorists Bryce helped stop. He also knew that Neal's words were true, that Bryce was a state-sanctioned murderer.
But by the time Bryce's anger had cooled towards his identical twin, he had been forbidden to contact him from his deep cover.
Yet, here he stood, in front of the U.S. Attorney General, who now owed him a massive favor.
"Again, if there is anything at all I can do for you…" the attorney general repeated.
"Actually…" Bryce said, the wheels in his mind spinning.
Neal was so deep into the latest file comparing discrepancies in number columns he didn't even realize U.S. Marshals were standing in front of his desk until one of them waved a hand in front of his face.
"The attorney general needs to speak with you," the stern-faced marshal standing in front of Neal's desk said.
Neal, still wrapped in the details of the case he was working, managed a very intelligent "Huh?"
A second marshal joined the first. "Your cases have been reopened. We need you to give some testimony. You have the full right to refuse pending discussion with your attorney—"
"No, no, I'm…I'm coming," Neal said. He hadn't been aware his lawyer had filed another appeal on his behalf—his actual lawyer, not Mozzie, but he would never turn down a crack at reducing his sentence.
Oddly enough, two more marshals were up in Peter's office talking Well, he was his handler and his arresting officer. If the cases were reopened, his unput would be necessary.
In a few minutes, Neal and Peter were side by side in the back of a windowless van and on their way in a confusing, twisting, and mostly silent drive. The marshals wouldn't talk, and between Peter and Neal, there wasn't much to say.
Peter had whispered, "I wasn't aware you filed another appeal."
Neal simply whispered back, "I didn't."
Neither of them mentioned this was not how reopened cases usually worked, or court summons, or meeting with the attorney general. They both knew it, and their eyes said more than their words could ever say.
At least, if they were being kidnapped by the marshals, they were doing it together.
When the van stopped and the marshals took him out, Neal expected some sinister warehouse where the marshals revealed themselves to be fakes, not a black ops site he had actually been to before. Three times, actually, when the CIA had pulled him from prison and "temporarily replaced" him with Bryce due to "threats" he didn't have a need to know about. He hadn't gotten to greet the twin he was mad at, but one of the times, he had been let out to roam the streets. One moment, he had been at Cinnabon, the next, he had woken up back in solitary without his cinnamon roll.
"We need all electronics removed before we go further," one of the marshals said. "That means all phones, watches, ear pieces, and anything else you might have on you."
Neal immediately handed over his phone and held up his ankle so the marshals could take his tracking anklet. Peter, however, was not so immediately cooperative.
"Why do you need my phone?" he demanded, laying a protective hand over his pocket. "What if I need to make a call?"
"No calls are allowed inside SCIFs unless from provided equipment rated for the room," the marshal said.
Peter's mouth gaped open, but the magic acronym spurred him to action. Mr. Rules-are-the-Best could never violate the rules of a sensitive compartmented information facility.
Once inside the rather cozy windowless black ops site, the marshals sat Peter down in a small living room on a couch Neal had fallen asleep on before and took Neal into a warm office where the U.S. Attorney General did, indeed, sit at a cozy desk surrounded by bookshelves.
"Welcome, Mr. Caffrey, please, sit down," Mick Jaeken, the attorney general said. "This should be fairly painless. I just have a few questions I would like to ask you and then you can be on your way. Let's get the legal formalities out of the way and get down to business, shall we?"
Neal nodded wordlessly. He let himself be informed that his answers would be truthful under penalty of perjury and therefore he could stop and consult his attorney or plead the fifth at any time. His curiosity got the better of him, and he agreed to proceed without calling anyone. His curiosity got stronger when Jaeken directed him to sign a form stating he understood that no information from the ensuring conversation could be revealed outside the room under penalty of violating the Espionage Act.
The first questions were simple but odd. Were his fingerprints ever found on the bonds he—allegedly—forged?
No, but Neal appreciated the use of the word alleged?
Was he ever fingerprinted after his first admittance into Sing Sing?
No, why on earth would they need to? He was on camera or within guard sight 24/7 after entering the prison. Looking at him was more than enough to know who he was.
Was he fingerprinted at any point during his alleged escape from Sing Sing?
Huh? Why would he… No. He was only fingerprinted upon being taken into custody—again (for a crime he had never denied—but carefully never admitted to either, even though it was obvious he had escaped from prison).
The next question made the reason for the location of the talk clear.
"Are you an only child, Mr. Caffrey?" Jaeken asked.
Neal didn't need to remember all the times Bryce's CIA buddies had reminded them their relationship was a state secret for both their sakes to appreciate the secure location. "No, I have an identical twin brother."
"What is this twin?" Jaeken asked.
"He was born Noah Bennett, but he joined the CIA under the name Bryce Larkin in 2002," Neal said. And was dead. Allegedly.
Allegedly was such an important word these days.
"Was there ever a time where you were mistaken for each other?" Jaeken asked.
"All the time," Neal said. "I never stole The Scream. I gave him tips, but he needed it for some intel planted on it. Of course, that had been back when Bryce had still been pretending to be a tech exec making a "heist video game." The actual theft right afterwards had led to the Fight—and they hadn't spoken directly since.
"Were there any times he took your place in prison?" Jaeken asked.
"Yes," Neal said readily. "The CIA pulled me at least three times and put him in my place instead." No need to be overly specific.
"Were you confined here every time?" Jaeken asked.
"No, one time they let me go to Cinnabon," Neal said.
"Thank you, Mr. Caffrey, that will be all." Jaeken gestured towards the door.
That was it?
Standing on shaky legs, Neal made his way out to the couches and took Peter's spot as he was escorted into the office with the attorney general.
Neal was examining the stack of DVDs—someone had added National Treasure 2 and Mission Impossible III since the last time he was here—when Peter came back out and, while casting furtive glances at the closed office door, walked to Neal's side.
"What did they ask you?" Neal murmured.
"A lot of questions about your fingerprints," Peter whispered. "Why the hell does it matter that we never caught your fingerprints on the bonds or while you were escaping prison? We have eyewitness testimony and cameras!"
Neal's mask slipped like lightning as the question hit him. He and Bryce didn't have the same set of fingerprints—but they had the same face and DNA. Even their haircuts tended to accidentally coordinate. The classic you-can't-prove-my-twin-didn't-do-it defense which had actually worked on acquitting defendants before—and might have been an option had Neal and Bryce not been dead to each other by the time Neal's case was going to trial.
Bryce was supposed to be actually dead this time—so who was claiming the bonds and Neal's escape could have been Bryce on a CIA mission?
"You know what this is about, don't you?" Peter, the way-too-perceptive, said.
Before Neal had a chance to either answer or deflect, the marshals brought both of them back into the office.
"In light of new testimony and evidence recently brought to our attention, we hereby declare Neal Caffrey not guilty on all charges. The U.S. government considers this a grave error in justice and hopes Mr. Caffrey can forgive the false imprisonment and many indignities you have unjustly suffered. We have for you a sum which, while it can never make up for the years of freedom you should have been enjoying, hope an be some small apology."
The attorney general handed Neal a check that not only covered every cent he had spent renting that damn electronic ball and chain, not only more than double every red cent he had spent for comfort and protection in prison, but a good bit beyond that as well.
"Your permanent records will henceforth reflect your innocence. It will be in the eyes of the state as if none of this has ever been. Congratulations, Mr. Caffrey, you're a free men," the attorney general said.
Neal knew he was holding a please-don't-sue-us check. But why? Was Bryce-the-allegedly-dead so determined to make the government claim Neal was imprisoned for his brother's black ops missions that he had erased Neal's criminal history as if it had never been?
"Agent Burke, as of this minute, you are free of all legal responsibility over Neal Caffrey," the attorney general said. "All association between you and him must be of free association only. You are to inform the FBI that all records of Neal Caffrey's supposed criminal behavior is to be destroyed. He shall not be treated with any prejudice or considered as a suspect for any past or future crime unless under an overwhelming wave of evidence—preferably involving fingerprints. That is all. The marshals will return your personal equipment to you and escort you back to your office."
Free. He was free. Not only was he free, he wasn't an ex-felon. He could do whatever he wanted.
He could vote. He could own a gun.
He could join the FBI.
"What?" Peter was the first to break out of their collective shock as the marshals walked them out. "What—how? How is this…what?"
Neal surged forward and hugged Peter solely se he could whisper the words he could only legally whisper here.
"I have an identical twin brother who works for the CIA. His existence is a state secret, so you can't tell anyone," Neal whispered.
Peter's eyes widened. Neal could see the moment the implications of Bryce Larkin sank into him, because he whispered, "Fingerprints," and wouldn't stop whispering "Fingerprints," during the whole drive back.
It was only when the marshals left Neal and Peter in the middle of the FBI parking garage that Neal's spinning shock sank into panic. He was free, anklet-less, legally innocent, could do anything and go anywhere he wanted.
He needed to update his driver's license and check his passport. He needed to get a job. He needed to tell Sara—and Mozzie eventually…
What was he going to do?
"So. You're free," Peter said.
What came out of Neal's mouth was a nonsensical, panicked, "But I was in the middle of a case! I can't just stop. I can't just leave! I have a job! I had… I had… a job here…" He was free, but, just like that, the best thing in his life, the most reliable thing he had ever known, the thing that had given him purpose and family was also gone.
He had always wanted to be a cop… To be like his father. Somewhere along the way, when Peter Burke had become the closest thing to a father Neal had ever known, he had also reawakened Danny Brooks who wanted to be a lawman just like his dad.
That was what he wanted. Not Mozzie's treasure or the score of a lifetime. He wanted a chance at the dreams he had thought he'd thrown away at age eighteen when he—and Bryce—had run on their birthday upon learning the truth and Neal had slowly become a criminal instead of a cop. He wanted a family, a job that helped people every day, Peter and Elizabeth and Sara and the FBI. He liked his job.
And it was gone.
Peter dragged him into an embrace, a real one, not a passing-information one, and said, "You can still have a job here, if you want."
Neal found himself nodding. "Please."
Neal found himself dumped at his desk with strict instructions not to touch anything while Peter spoke with Hughes. He sat there, shaking, mind spinning, for a few minutes before he could tell Jones and Diana were two seconds away from interrogating him. So he jumped up and fled to Peter's office and studied his picture of him and Elizabeth closer than he had any right to.
Peter and Hughes spoke for a while, then Hughes picked up the phone and spoke for a while, then he turned back to Peter and spoke for a while again…
By the time Hughes was printing off paperwork and taking with Peter, Neal was done with his drawing of Peter's couple photo and halfway through a drawing of Peter as a cowboy (he didn't need that printer paper for anything else anyway). Finally, Peter poked his head in his office.
"Neal? Hughes wants to speak with you," Peter said.
Neal abandoned his drawings and slid into a chair in front of Hughes, swallowing past a too dry throat. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
"You want to be an FBI agent, Caffrey?" Hughes asked.
"Can I?" Neal sat straight up, forgetting himself. "Really?"
"I'm willing to give you a shot, if you're willing to take it," Hughes said. "You'll have to go to Quantico, and you'll be learning from Peter when you come back. But your time as a consultant has been incredibly valuable and has helped a lot of people, and Agent Burke has convinced me that we should give you a second… well, legally, a first change. You can also have a consultant position with us, if that's what you prefer."
"Can I…have some time to think about it?" Neal asked.
"Of course. This is a big decision. Take your time," Hughes said.
"Thank you, sir, for offering," Neal had his hand on the door to Hughes's office when he froze and turned around. "I don't need to think about it, sir. I accept."
"Good. Then welcome to the FBI, Agent Caffrey," Hughes said.
A mountain of paperwork later, Neal was done. Officially an agent. Heavily encouraged to take a break, for goodness sake, before plunging right back into all this. Panicking because he had just been freed from the FBI and chosen to come back anyway and should he really have made this decision while he was still in shock and…
Well. Peter had wrapped an arm around his shoulder and escorted him near his desk when Hughes got the attention of the office.
"Today, Caffrey has been exoneration of the crimes for which he was previously convicted. The reason why is classified, but trust me when I say it is compelling. As far as we are concerned, Caffrey is as innocent as your own mothers and we will treat him as such on pain of the wrath of the attorney general. Caffrey will be joining us as an agent pending training at Quantico. Anyone who has questions, address them to me, not Caffrey or Burke. That will be all."
The office broke out into a chorus of questions, but Peter just squeezed Neal's shoulders. "Grab your hat. We're going to lunch."
Neal grabbed his hat off Socrates and realized he had indeed missed lunch.
"You want me to be an agent?" Neal asked.
"I…may severely regret this, but…yes, I think you could be a really good one," Peter said. "You hate guns and would only fire one if absolutely necessary, and that's the only big difference between what you'd be doing versus what you do now. Less paperwork sending you undercover as an agent. A few more rules, but less than me as a primarily undercover agent. And I'll be just as much on your ass if you do anything you shouldn't as I am now. So." Peter shook out his napkin and primly placed it on his lap—he was many things, but Mrs. Burke had clearly ensured he was mannerly and tidy.
Lovely woman. Neal loved barging in on her calls to her son (bless the Taurus's Bluetooth call features). She had a stakeout sense and would pin them down and talk for hours about the gossip in the upstate New York Catholic circles (because you're not doing anything anyway, Peter, and you can talk and watch your suspect at the same time, now about Linda…).
"Plus, I don't know, El said something the other day about how you'd make such a good agent, and…I suppose I feel a bit bad about chasing you around so vigorously when now I don't know how much of what I always thought was you committing crimes across Europe was partially he-who-shall-not-be-named protecting the nation," Peter said.
"Less than you would like, but more than you would think," Neal said. He squinted at his partner's surprisingly generous face, given the whole U-boat treasure fiasco thing, and another reason became clear to him. "You just want to keep control over me," he accused, only half joking (and not particularly minding).
Peter shrugged. "So sue me. You've come a really long way already, and I want to see that progress continue." He grabbed a complimentary roll from the basket the waitress had set down in front of them. "You think the CIA is interested in Nazi submarines full of stolen art?"
"I think they might be willing to steal someone's entire art collection behind their back and burn it and expect a thank you for being put in an impossible position against their will." So maybe Neal was a little bitter about the whole thing. He had never asked for any of this. And he was uncharacteristically open, given he was still in shock. "Hypothetically. May have forced someone into knowledge of something he had no part in obtaining and forced him to choose which friend to betray."
An uncharacteristic softening came to Peter's eyes. Maybe the day had put him in a good mood. "Well, I hope this hypothetical person finds a way to do the right thing without losing a friend. A…hypothetically small and unusually bald friend?"
"That is what the hypotheticals are saying these days," Neal agreed.
"So, where are you going to go first with this new freedom of yours?" Peter asked.
A few hours later—being shooed away from the case the marshals had interrupted—Neal found himself on Ellen's doorstep.
Wasn't right, being just over the line all this time and unable to say hello.
"Neal!" Ellen wrapped him in a hug the moment she opened the door. "What are you doing here?"
"I…got free. Bryce… Well, I needed to see you. Actually see you," Neal said. "Can I…?"
"Of course! Come in, I'll make some coffee," Ellen said.
Before long, Neal found himself dumping everything on Ellen as he always used to. The arrest, everything with Kate, his Fight with Bryce, his freedom, the U-boat treasure, and Mozzie. "I just…I don't know what to do! I don't know what the right thing is. I want to stay here…" The words slipped out before he realized it.
But they were true.
"I want to stay here," Neal said. "If I had to choose between Peter and Elizabeth and Sara and June and the treasure, I'd pick them. Every time. I'm…already happy. I don't want to do anything else to mess that up."
"Then it seems you already know what to do," Ellen said.
"That treasure's still in that warehouse," Neal said. "It's not going to just disappear. Something has to be done with it."
"At the risk of sounding like an old fool for quoting your favorite character…" Ellen said. "It belongs in a museum. I love the hat, by the way. Very Indy."
Neal self-consciously straightened his hat and tried not to blush at the reminder of his Indiana Jones phase. He didn't want to think about how much those movies may or may not have influenced his career choice (once he realized what real archaeologists did these days…).
Somehow, he found the courage to ask what he should have asked long ago. "Can you tell me the truth… the whole truth… about my father?"
And so she did. That he had helped out the mob, then turned on them. After being accused of murder. That she had believed he was innocent at first and uncovered evidence to find much of what he claimed was true—but that he actually had—most likely—committed murder.
That when he got out of prison after his reduced sentence for giving the evidence that put them in witsec, he tried to join them all in St. Louis. Then marshals had asked Neal's mom if she would consent to that and she, who had never wanted to know the truth before, had asked Ellen what her evidence had told her.
And filed for divorce the next day.
"No murderer," she said, "will ever come around my sons."
Ellen had told her she should confess at that point, but she'd said, "Neal won't believe us. He'll want to prove us wrong and investigate himself and get himself killed. I'll just tell him about my father when he asks about James. He'll be a Caffrey, not a Bennett. The Caffreys, at least, are good people."
Caffrey in spirit, she had amended. Witsec and all.
Neal was only a little ashamed to admit the whole story had made him cry. But he had to cut it off. Freedom celebration dinner with Sara.
"Oh, and before I go, do you still have that package I had sent to you?"
She did.
"How can that be classified? You just randomly get exonerated—falsely, I might add—and you can't even tell me about it?" Sara cried.
Neal laughed. A breeze picked up his hair and blew it around. He tipped his head back, but since his balcony was right in the heart of Manhattan, no stars could be seen. Still… "You know the constellation Gemini? That's the only clue I can give you."
Sara's mouth rounded in a gasp of enlightenment, but before she could say anything, her phone rang.
"Really? Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Bosch. Yes, quite remarkable. Yes, first thing tomorrow morning." Sara's eyes bored into him as she hung up. "It seems a certain Raphael was delivered to my office this evening."
"Imagine that," Neal said as blandly as he could. He had, of course, worn gloves. Fingerprints and all that.
Neal's own phone rang, so he answered it, despite not wanting to be dragged away from his candlelight dinner under the stars (they were there somewhere).
"This is Neal Caffrey," he said rather than hello as a greeting.
"How's that for an apology for saying you're as bad as a terrorist?"
"Bryce!" Neal straightened. "You really are alive!"
"Allegedly," Bryce said. "And they can't prove it wasn't me who made those bonds and escaped from prison. So. I'll see you at Mom's for Thanksgiving?"
"But how…?" Neal started. There was a reason he hadn't been back home since he left on his birthday, and it wasn't (just) because he wasn't ready to confront her lies about Dad. "I mean, she is in…"
"I'll see you at Mom's for Thanksgiving?" Bryce repeated.
Well, screw witsec, anyway. "Right. Thanksgiving. Oh, wait, Bryce!"
"Yeah?"
"How do you feel about stolen Nazi art?"
"You gave away our treasure? You got free, you became an agent traitor, and you gave away our treasure?" Mozzie demanded. "And you didn't even call me first?"
Neal glared from his kitchen table at the sudden interloper. "You didn't call me before you stole my paintings, framed me for a massive theft, set my art on fire, told me they were trash, and dumped a treasure in my lip I didn't want, so yes, I gave away your treasure. It wasn't yours or ours, and the CIA needed it more than we do. I'm going straight, Mozzie. And if you can't accept that, and you keep trying to drag me back in or use my stuff or involve me in crime without my permission, or ever, ever tough my stuff again, I guess we're not as good of friends as I thought." Then Neal threw the one boon that might win Mozzie back. "If we can forget about this whole thing, I'll introduce you to a CIA agent…"
Not Bryce. Neal was still kind of mad at him, and he didn't have a way to contact him anyway. Bryce's old college roommate, on the other hand…
(Don't ask. There are Buy Mores in Manhattan, too, and man, can that nerd tackle. Work trip, Neal's rear end.)
Mozzie spluttered and argued and sobbed, but eventually agreed. Their friendship (and the lure of CIA conspiracy theories) really was stronger, after all.
("Does this mean I can't keep coming here like I always do?"
"I have a girlfriend, Mozzie, of course it does! Haven't you ever heard of knocking?")
And they all lived (mostly) honestly ever after…
A/N: Hopefully Peter wasn't very OOC, but, hey, maybe we caught him on a good day...