White Collar Fic: Reliance (1/3)
Title: Reliance
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Fleeting ones for the pilot.
Warnings: Prison life. Injuries.
Summary: “Don't sweat it, Peter. Twenty-three hours a day in a windowless five-by-nine cell is really a pretty cozy setup once you get used to it.” Neal smiled over-brightly in the face of Peter's sternest look. “Really, there's no place like home sweet ad-seg.”
“This isn't some white-collar criminal resort, Neal.”
“Oh. Can I get transferred to one?”
A/N: This was originally inspired by imbecamiel's prompt and then spurred on (especially in the H/C department) by kriadydragon's prompt, here. Thank you, Cami, for the beta'ing, and thank you, Kraidy, for keeping collarcorner awesome. *pays homage in fic*
***
“The food sucks, Peter.”
Peter's first instinct was to roll his eyes. He restrained himself, largely because the annoyance that would've required simply wasn't there. Neal wore an orange jumpsuit a couple sizes too big for his wiry frame. His hair was “styled” with the same peremptory efficiency Peter remembered from other times they'd met like this. It looked as if he'd simply run his fingers through it while it dried, without any care for the end result. Neal hunched his shoulders, arms resting on the table parallel with the edge, hands loosely folded in front of him.
He radiated closed-off self-sufficiency. Calm. Misery.
“Look, Neal...” Peter began, using the meaningless words as a way to at least convey a lack of callousness.
“I know. This is prison. I'm an inmate. The food's supposed to suck.” Neal sighed. “And it really, really does.”
A “cowboy up” might've been in order, only it sounded as if Neal had already been giving himself that talk. Sure, there was also a heaping load of indulgent self-pity mixed in with whatever sterner lecture he'd been giving himself, but there were plenty of other reasons to cut Neal some slack. Like the fact that Neal hadn't broken the rules of his parole. He didn't deserve this, not this time. They both knew it.
It was just a matter of proving it. The fact that he hadn't been able to do so was what had kept Peter away for the last four days. The guilt was hitting him now as if the flood-gates had suddenly been opened.
“You're a detainee, Neal. There's a difference.” He decided further splitting of hairs with Neal over the difference between “prison” and “jail” would only have gone badly for his blood pressure. By now Peter recognized a Neal in full-blown obstinate mode. He would exaggerate and willfully mislabel things if he wanted to.
“Oh. Right,” Neal greeted his reminder flatly. He lifted his gaze to look pointedly around at the “room”-cum-cage they were holding conference in.
“Hey, at least it’s relatively quiet in here, huh?” Peter regretted the attempt at being up-beat as soon as he'd made it.
“Yeah.”
“So...” Peter tried again. “June said she dropped by and brought you some art supplies. You have enough pencils, and erasers, and everything? Enough to read?”
“Don't sweat it, Peter. Twenty-three hours a day in a windowless five-by-nine cell is really a pretty cozy setup once you get used to it.” Neal smiled over-brightly in the face of Peter's sternest look. “Really, there's no place like home sweet ad-seg.”
“This isn't some white-collar criminal resort, Neal.”
“Oh. Can I get transferred to one?”
“Neal…” Peter broke off to sigh heavily. “I'm sorry you got sent to Rikers, okay? It wasn't my call. Hughes sent the word to me 'from on high.'” Maybe if Neal had been able to see Peter right after he'd been ordered to “contain” the situation-i.e. contain Neal-he'd be having more mercy on him. Peter settled for adding wearily: “There was nothing I could do. Given the options, CPSU seems like the lesser evil; so, yeah, I took it.” And wasn't this one of those situations where acronyms actually came in handy. After all, at least CPSU sounded a whole lot better than just out and saying “Central Punitive Segregation Unit.” Never mind that Neal knew exactly what it stood for, and how it felt to live out the definition.
Regardless, Neal looked fractionally less obdurate.
“The segregation's for your own protection as much as anything, you know.”
Neal raised an eyebrow, looking almost normal for a moment as he teased, with that smart-Alec Caffrey sense of superiority: “And here I thought it had something more to do with me breaking out of supermax security last time.”
“There's that, too. They wanted to put you in the OBCC at first.”
“'The Bing,' Peter,” Neal corrected airily. “It's not cool to call it by its real name.”
“Just be happy you're not there.”
“Positively giddy,” Neal promised. “I fit in much better right where I am. Me and all the other white guys in here. Edging up on constituting ten percent of the population, are we?”
Peter cracked a grim smile. “Just another reason to be grateful you're not out mingling, or risking your neck in the yard.”
“C'mon, Peter. Give me a little credit. Don't forget I survived behind bars for nearly four years without being dismembered. I do know better than to invite myself into just any game of basketball that's going on, or to try flipping the channel in the middle of someone's viewing of Wheel of Fortune. Or their Hallmark Hall of Fame feature presentation, for that matter.” Neal made an exaggerated hands-off gesture of nonjudgmental acceptance. “Whatever floats their boat, right? I can duck my head along with all the other white guys, and wait my turn in line for the phone. I mean, I have picked up a few of the prison rules along the way, you know-even while enjoying my sheltered little existence in supermax.” Neal finished with one of his best contrived looks of wide-eyed innocence.
So innocent, in fact, it was almost convincing.
Sometimes Peter looked at Neal and only saw a scheming, manipulative con man who was most assuredly not unaware of the harsher realities of life. Neal could act and look compellingly naive if he chose to, making it next to impossible for Peter to figure out where the act stopped and true naiveté began. Other times-like now-Peter looked at Neal and could only recoil in horror at the thought of him being locked in with a bunch of hard-core murderers, drug dealers, and rapists, many of whom were in for life without the possibility of parole. That kind of ultimatum didn't leave an inmate with much to win or lose by his behavior.
It didn't help, either, when Neal smiled like he was smiling now, as if it were all some joke: just another con where he could sit back and relax in the knowledge that he had all the aces up his sleeve. It was that kind of cockiness that made it hard to tell if he was just pulling your leg-deliberately trying to get a horrified reaction out of him-or if Neal really did think he could handle himself if tossed in with the general population. He had to realize that his reputation as a CI, “selling out” to the FBI in exchange for freedom, could only work against him in here.
Maybe he could handle himself, too, despite the fact that he'd be a scrawny white guy, who hated guns and violence, trying to survive in a world of turf wars between the “best” New York's Latino and African American gangs could offer. God knew he'd surprised Peter plenty of times in the past. If anyone could charm hard-core criminals out of beating him to a bloody pulp, it was Neal. But Peter wasn't about to find out just what Neal was capable of surviving by means of experimentation.
Neal was observing him knowingly, and whatever he saw made him relent. “I'm bored, Peter.” His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “Maybe a little demeaned, and a lot claustrophobic-but mostly just bored. That's prison for you. Been there, done that. I'll survive.” He paused for effect before qualifying desolately, “Unless the food kills me, first.”
“Tell me you didn't whine like this when Elizabeth came to visit you.”
Neal gave him a look of full-blown reproach that Peter knew he deserved. Manipulation might be Neal's weapon of choice, but he wouldn't use it to make El feel worse than she already did. Definitely too petty and vindictive for Neal.
“Sorry...sorry.” Peter scratched the back of his neck, blowing out a slow breath. “She's still pretty mad about the no-feeding-the-inmates rule, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
She'd understood the contraband smuggling issues. But she'd still definitely been mad, making dinner in a huff that evening, burning most of it, and then becoming increasingly bright-eyed with frustration at her own incompetency. Peter had stepped in to try to make light of the situation, ordering pizza as back-up. She'd still lamented the waste of food to an inordinate degree, stressing out instead of remaining her usual unflappable self-and Peter had known it wasn't about the disaster in the kitchen, or even about being unable to bring Neal a decent meal. They'd just been the collective straw that broke the camel's back.
After Peter had soothed her into a calmer state, they'd sat in front of the TV and picked at the pizza halfheartedly. Neither of them had been in the mood to feast themselves, even upon perfectly good junk food.
Peter had decided then that it had been much, much easier the first time he'd put Neal behind bars. Easier, back when Elizabeth had only been mildly curious about this “Neal Caffrey,” whose case had stolen so much of her husband's attention; easier, back when Peter had felt a whole lot more uncomplicated satisfaction at the idea of Neal Caffrey being behind bars.
Sure, he'd cared what happened to Neal, even back then. He'd given up trying to fool himself otherwise. But it had been easier, especially when he'd only had to deal with his own nagging sense of regret on Neal's behalf, for the waste of intelligence and potential. Now he'd seen that intelligence and potential put to good use. Now, Neal had worked his way into Peter's life as a friend-and now there was also El caring what happened to Neal, not making any pretenses whatsoever about being upset over his being sent to Rikers.
The injustice of it didn't help, either.
Peter knew their hour was ticking by. He glancing down at his wrist out of habit before remembering that his watch had been left behind along with his suit jacket in the locker at security.
He looked back up at Neal, who was still regarding him silently. A quiet Neal was an unnerving Neal.
“I'm not the bad guy, here, Neal.” Peter felt compelled to press the point, even though he knew it was only natural that Neal would lash out a bit at him since he was, for all intents and purposes, the only face Neal would see representing the bureaucratic idiocy that had sent him here.
Neal looked surprised. “I know.”
Peter nodded. That had been about as uncomplicated and unconditional as a response from Neal got. “Okay. Good.”
“I didn't steal that painting from the Met, either. Or paint the forgery.” Neal watched carefully for his reaction.
“I know.”
They locked eyes for a minute, and then it was Neal's turn to nod his head in acceptance.
Those not-so-pleasant pleasantries made, it was down to business.
“I know you didn't do it. Unfortunately, a lot of other people think you did. As much as I'd love to solve this by using my gut instincts as evidence...”
Neal raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, that didn't come out quite right,” Peter agreed with a grimace. “The point is, until I can come up with tangible proof, my hands are tied.”
“Nothing from the security cameras?”
“The painting isn't the only thing missing. Nothing on the tapes for that time frame.”
“Ah. Bummer.”
“Big one.” Peter massaged his temple absently. Developing a headache by the end of the day was becoming a habit. “Not a fingerprint, or license plate to go on. A couple of the employees seemed jumpy during their interviews-which isn't terribly surprising.”
“The night guard on duty?”
“Knocked unconscious, with some nasty bruising as a souvenir of the struggle he put up.”
Neal frowned in disapproval. “Not my style. Actually,” he mused, “it's not even really my theft of choice, you know. I mean, it's nice, obviously. Really nice. But there are definitely other more classic works at the Met I'd have more fun forging.”
“Good to know.”
Neal grinned incorrigibly.
“Well it certainly ticked off Senator Becker. This was the painting's first week on loan to the Met out of his private collection.”
“Ouch. Lots of unhappy people.”
“Throwing temper tantrums,” Peter added tiredly. He favored Neal with a despairing glance. “I don't suppose you could have managed to get framed for stealing from anyone else?”
“Hey, it's not my fault the guy just happens to be such a big proponent of cracking down harder on white-collar criminals. But I'll try to get the word out to any of my potential enemies for the next time they try to take revenge.”
“Thanks.” Peter smiled ruefully. “Maybe you should skip offending politicians with expensive art collections altogether while you're at it, huh?”
“Sound advice.” Neal grumbled under his breath: “The guy doesn't even like art, from the sound of it-just the prestige of owning the stuff and being able to loan it to museums.”
“Yeah, well, apparently his benevolence and generosity have made him the right sort of friends, if he's able to get your butt thrown into Rikers at a moment's notice.”
“True,” Neal conceded. He continued thoughtfully: “This could be a stunt Becker's pulling to get attention-framing me with a theft. What could be better for his own argument then to have one of his paintings stolen by a notorious white-collar criminal?”
“'Notorious,' huh?”
“Well he'd obviously have at least heard of me if he's out there fighting against the injustice of giving white-collar criminals special treatment. I'm the guy who got out of a four year prison sentence, after all.”
“Oh, is that how you see it.” Peter smiled faintly.
“Not at the moment.” Neal looked around at the white-tiled walls, concrete floor, and vanguard of barred doors behind him. “No. Definitely not. On the bright side, though, I don't have to wear the anklet, which is definitely nice for a change.”
“Yeah, well don't get too used to it, Pollyanna. If Becker is putting you here as a publicity stunt, to make himself look like a martyr of the cause, I'll nail him for it. I'm getting you out, and the anklet's going back on. So tough luck.”
“Can't wait,” Neal quipped, sarcasm ruined by the hint of longing he couldn't keep out of his tone.
When two C.O.s returned a while later to inform them that their time was up, Neal stood and allowed his hands to be cuffed behind his back.
“Just a matter of time, Neal,” Peter encouraged.
He was flashed a nonchalant smile in return. But as he watched Neal depart he felt far from heartened. Peter knew he wasn't the bad guy, and Neal knew Peter wasn't the bad guy. But right now Peter sure felt like the bad guy.
***
“Alright, what happened? And please, please don't try the 'walked into a door' line on me right now.”
It had been a long week. If the instant barrage came across as antagonistic, that was because Peter was feeling a bit antagonistic. The last thing he had needed-after two hours of wading through security-was to walk in and find Neal sporting a bruised face and split lip.
Neal looked blank for several seconds. Then, with comprehension, touched a hand gingerly to the left side of his face. “Oh. This?”
“Yeah. That.”
“I'm in jail, Peter.” Neal was maddeningly reasonable.
Peter was scrapping the bottom of the barrel, but he managed to dredge up the patience to make a level reply. “I'm aware of that. In jail-under administrative segregation specifically designed to keep you from winding up looking like that.”
Neal heaved a put-upon sigh, like a rebellious teenager putting up with dad's scolding. “Really? Thanks for reminding me. The whole segregation thing keeps slipping my mind.”
So maybe Neal's week hadn't been full of sunshine and flowers, either. The irony was that Peter had too much occupying his time while Neal was clearly going stir-crazy from the lack of occupation.
Peter decided Neal was probably the one deserving of a little consideration.
“Okay,” he started over, matching Neal for reasonableness. “What happened?”
“I tripped.”
“On a banana peel?”
Neal narrowed his eyes. “I hate to disappoint you by being so boring, Peter, but I wasn't jumped by a pack of inmates. No new or interesting friends for cell 106.”
Peter looked sharply at him. He lowered his voice, demanding: “If it was one of the C.O.s...”
Corrections officers didn't have it easy, especially in a place like Rikers. Peter wasn't so naive as to believe that every time the hue and cry of “guard brutality” was raised it meant that one of the officers had actually gone beyond what was necessary to control a dangerous situation. Who could say what blow became the one-too-many, more than was strictly needed? There was the heat of the moment, and adrenaline, the prisoner's history of cooperation, or complete lack thereof-and too many other factors to take into consideration. Split-second decisions had to be made every day. Peter understood that. But neither was he so naive as to believe there weren't those situations where the frustrations of the job got taken out on an undeserving inmate out of a generalized spite.
“I've been on my best behavior.” Neal jutted his chin out with a defensive look. “The model of a non-violent inmate. No resisting, and no calling the officers 'bossy.' No adding to my problems by unruliness and insubordination-cross my heart.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I respect them. They respect me.”
“As a rule,” Peter interpreted.
“No...no I'm pretty much respectful all the time.” Neal smiled in what he clearly considered an endearing fashion.
“That's not what I meant, either.”
Despite the opening tension of their exchange, Neal seemed less confrontational than last time. His evasiveness was almost distracted, even unintentional, and his sarcasm less strained and more off-hand. Resignation would've been too strong a word for it, but he was looking much more attuned to his surroundings, and less as if he were trying to hold it all at a distance.
As far as progress went in adapting to the inmate look, the bruising definitely helped add a certain...authenticity. Not necessarily of the “tough guy” or “top of the food-chain” variety, unfortunately.
“Tripping really did that?” Peter gestured to the side of Neal's face, squinting at it suspiciously, noticing the small gash high on his cheekbone.
“What do you want me to say? Your equilibrium wouldn't be at its finest, either, if you had go everywhere with your arms cuffed behind your back.” Neal shot him a muted glare.
“Okay, okay... But, seriously, did they let you fall down the stairs, or what? They're supposed to keep an eye on the prisoners they're transporting.”
“Give them a break, Peter. They're used to murderers trying to shank each other, not klutzes tripping over their own feet. There wasn't anyone around for them to 'defend' me from except myself and my own clumsiness. Can't blame them for having slow reflexes.”
“Sure I can,” Peter grumbled. Then he realized he'd never gotten a straight answer, which was telling enough. “So you did fall down the stairs, by accident. No...undue shoving involved, right?”
“Are you going to spend the entire hour scolding me about this? 'Cause I've kinda had enough humble pie for the morning, thanks.” Neal trailed off with a sigh.
Peter grimaced. He knew Neal was earning each visit he got with a very...very thorough search. “You know, I can always just call if you’d rather...” he began. Then, at the sudden look of faint alarm from Neal, finished instead: “But, hey. Gotta get your sorry butt out of bed every now and then, or you'd sleep the whole week away.”
Neal ducked his head. “Thanks. You know, for going through the hassle.”
Peter shrugged. “Don't mention it. I'm a Fed, right? I can handle the system.” Maybe he was giving himself a bit too much credit. Being a federal agent didn't get you a free pass. Technically, Rikers was a state-run jail overseen by New York's Department of Corrections-as opposed to being a part of the federal Bureau of Prisons-and was used primarily for pretrial detainees. The U.S. Marshals had been handling Neal's custody and placement in Rikers, but, regardless, Peter certainly had the clearance for face-to-face contact with Neal-even setting aside the fact that he was the agent in charge of Neal's case. No one was giving him any grief, just throwing a lot of impersonal security protocol at him, which was to be expected. “The system” was always a hassle at best, but a worthwhile one in this case, if only because the visits were clearly what Neal needed.
Neal seemed to accept the response, turning instead to a different question. “What's happened with Wark, anyway?”
Raymond Wark was a suspected jewel thief and smuggler who lived in an ostentatious mansion on Long Island. Before his arrest, Neal-or, to Wark, “Jon Blake ”-had been undercover for more than two weeks “coincidentally” bumping into Wark at numerous social functions. Neal had been on the verge of arranging a deal for an extremely wealthy (not to mention entirely fictitious) client who was planning on proposing to the woman of his dreams, and was in search of hefty diamond to persuade her that the correct answer was “yes.”
All that had gone to hell in a hand-basket, of course, after “Jon Blake”'s sudden and unexplained departure.
“We've been keeping an eye on him, but things are pretty quiet. It's on the back burner while I focus on the theft at the Met.”
“Because if you can solve that, you can get me out of here, which means 'Jon Blake' is back in business, provided he can sweet-talk Wark into a good mood after all the suspicious goings-on. But, c'mon, there are plenty of legitimate reasons for disappearing besides being arrested. After all, these family emergencies do happen, you know.” Neal smiled at the mere prospect of picking up the con. It involved inhabiting just the sort of glamorous sphere he was so well suited to. “So unless Wark's been seeing my mugshots in the newspaper and putting two and two together, which is entirely possible...”
Peter put a hand up, shaking his head in frustration. “Look, just forget about Wark for now.”
“I don't think Hughes would approve,” Neal stated solemnly. “I'm sure your case load-”
“-is you, at the moment.”
“Fantastic.” Neal interlaced his fingers and sat up a little straighter, as if to invite Peter to wrap the case up right then and there.
“I'm glad you approve.”
Neal gave him a sidelong, assessing look. “But...you don't have any news for me.”
“I didn't say that.”
“But you don't.”
“No,” Peter confessed reluctantly, “I don't, not really. Nothing that's going to get you out of here. Yet. You may have been on to something, about Becker staging this. The whole thing's too neat and tidy. But if Becker is behind this, he wouldn't do his own dirty work, he'd hire it out. What I wouldn’t give for a look at his bank records right now...”
“But Becker's already having a grand old time being a victim, and wouldn't take too kindly to having it suggested he's under investigation, himself. I don't suppose Becker's too keen on you leading the investigation to begin with, what with you being my 'handler.'”
“Not terribly, no,” Peter agreed with heavy sarcasm. Hughes had been getting an earful, that was for sure. On the bright side, that meant Hughes wasn't too keen on Becker, in general, at the moment. Of course, Hughes said all the right words, did the required political tap-dancing-but in private he'd made it clear to Peter that he was to investigate all angles of the case. Just with discretion, as regarded Becker, unfortunately. They needed more to go on than vague suspicions before they started casting aspersions in Becker's direction.
Peter added: “Hughes assured Becker I was the best for the case. After all, I know 'all about Caffrey.' I was the one who caught you the first time. And the times after that.”
Neal “hmm”ed in amusement at the very idea, giving him a “you just keep on telling yourself that” look.
There was plenty to keep them both grounded in the dismal reality of their surroundings. The orange jumpsuit Neal was wearing. The bars blocking their way out, wearing a wearied coat of gray paint. The C.O.s standing sentinel duty over his visit. The assortment of prison noises coming from down the hall: nondescript footsteps and nondescript voices echoing; the callous, metallic clanging of doors buzzing open and shut. The antiseptic, hospital-reminiscent smell of industry standard chemicals, and the musty smells not quite covered by the cleaner that you tried hard not wonder about.
Despite all that, it was an incredibly normal moment, with Neal smirking at him like that. Which only served to remind Peter of how far he was from restoring things to actual normalcy.
“Bottom line?” he spoke softly, unhappily. “Until I get more on Becker, you're still our prime suspect.”
The smirk faded. Neal's lips formed a thin, impatient line. “Isn't there anyone who sees how idiotic it would be for me to sign a forgery with the blacklight ink, after Fowler let the whole world know that it's one of my methods? Not to mention it's generally considered a good idea to flee with your ill-gotten gain before anyone's discovered the theft, which I kinda failed to do, and which I've proven I'm smart enough to do, provided I've have the ill-gotten gain to flee with. Oh, yeah-and I'd never leave my fingerprints on the frame of the forgery, either. If none of that screams 'setup,' I don't know what would.”
“You know, you could just make things easier on both of us by confessing and telling me where you hid the painting,” Peter suggested with a quirk of his lips.
“Funny.”
Yeah, it wasn't, really. But Peter had been doing a lot of grasping at straws, lately. He was beginning to wish to God he'd just taken the risk and made Neal wear the anklet during the op. After all, the undercover job on Wark had been blown out of the water in the end, in any case, and if Neal had been wearing his tracker that night, he would’ve had all the alibi needed. Instead, he'd been in Wark's study, sipping a twenty-five-year-old Glenlivet scotch, lounging with the rest of the guests being regaled by their host with a non-stop selection of enthusiastic deep-sea-fishing trips.
The evening had been wearing to a satisfactory close-and then Neal had been invited to spend the rest of the weekend.
At the time, it had been a triumph, though one not unmixed with its own nerve-wracking aspects from a security point of view. But a triumph nonetheless. After all, not everyone at the party that evening had been made the same offer-only a half-dozen, besides Neal-and being included meant Neal was definitely getting close enough to Wark to close the deal.
But instead of an easy finish line, Neal had spent the night of the painting's theft off the grid, and here they were facing two unsolved cases.
“Neal...” Peter began cautiously, hating to ask what he was about to ask, but needing to see Neal's reaction, one way or the other. “You're not getting any ideas, are you?”
“I get a lot of ideas, Peter. You'll have to be more specific.”
“The kind that got you confined to supermax in the first place.” And, admittedly, the same kind that had gotten him out of supermax, too.
“Ah. That kind.”
Peter waited.
“Would you actually believe me if said 'no'?”
Point taken. But despite himself, Peter was curious. “Is the escape plan just vague theory at this point, or half a dozen specific working strategies?”
“Only half a dozen?” Neal scoffed at the idea. “C'mon, Peter, you gotta approach this stuff from every angle.” Finally, though, Neal took pity. “But, no, I'm not 'getting ideas.'”
Peter waited again.
“Okay, so I can't help getting them,” Neal grudgingly admitted. “But I'm not doing anything with them.”
Peter knew that was a good a promise as he could hope for that Neal would be patient and resist the urge to try getting himself out. And, really, if Neal were plotting something, for once Peter could almost condone it. Almost. If it weren't for the whole ruining-his-future-chances thing. There was no way he was letting Neal ruin his record by escaping from jail when he was there on trumped-up charges, and deserved to be let out, free and clear, the terms of his probation reinstated.
“I'm working on this. I'm going to figure it out.”
“It's just a matter of time.” Neal wasn't being sarcastic. He nodded his head, slowly, thoughtfully. “I know you'll figure it out.” The look he gave Peter was both solemn and teasing. “Which is why you're number one on the list of escape plans.”
“What? You mean I rank above 'scaling the wall with a bed sheet rope'? I'm flattered.”
“Scaling walls,” Neal retorted, flatly, with dignity. “With bed sheets. Really, Peter? Does that actually strike you as something I'd even consider-much less have as my plan B?”
Peter grunted. This was dangerous territory. Maybe it was better he didn't know too much about the contents of that list, for both their sakes. “Just try counting sheep before bed, like normal people, instead of... thinking so much.”
“I'm not normal people,” Neal pointed out with a sulky frown. “You try sitting in a concrete closet for twenty-three hours a day without thinking.”
“Would a reduction of a couple hours a week make any difference?”
Neal looked at him suspiciously.
“Well, a reduction, in a manner of speaking.”
“Hard manual labor in a chain gang?” Neal enthused sardonically.
“Reading,” Peter corrected. “Books out of the public law library they have here.” Tilting his head back, he folded his arms across his chest. “They can't deny you your right to seek legal recourse. Of course, you'd still be kept in a room separate from the main library facility while you read. But it'd be a change of pace.”
“Exchange one cage for another, huh? Sounds like a real winner.”
Peter knew a heavily-wired “cage”-with a “bean chute” for books to be passed through-was exactly what Neal could look forward to. “If you’d rather not...”
“No-I'd like that,” Neal admitted with apologetic meekness. “If you can manage it.” He glanced up at Peter, regarding him slyly out of the top of his eyes. “But you're sure you want me all read up on the last minutiae of the law?”
“It's better than leaving you with more time to think up ways of breaking the last minutiae of the law.”
“Exaggeration really doesn't look good on you, Peter.”
It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to snark back about orange not exactly bringing out the color of Neal's eyes, either. Given the circumstances, however, it would've only seemed like a below-the-belt jibe made in exceptionally bad taste.
But they'd clearly been spending too much time together, because Neal only plucked at the material of his jumpsuit and griped mournfully: “I know. The sacks they make you wear in here are the real punishment.”
“The inhumanity,” Peter sympathized tolerantly.
“It itches.” Neal demonstrated by scratching at his arm. “Doesn't matter how many times I shower; it makes me feel dirty all the time.”
Coming from just about anyone else, Peter might've laughed outright. But as tempting as it was, even in Neal's case, to do so, Peter knew that if “itchy” clothes and “feeling dirty” didn't exactly constitute inhumanity, or a right to claim true misery, it was at least definitely a not-quite-trivial punishment as Neal would see it.
“Spoiled,” some people would probably call it. After all, of course Neal would find prison clothes all of the above when he was used to wearing high-end suits on a daily basis. Yeah, maybe he was a little spoiled. Or more than a little. But Peter had been doing a fair amount of guilt-tripping lately as Neal's stay in Rikers continued to drag on while he slogged away at the case. Offering a bit of absolution here and there could only soothe his conscience.
“You're a flight risk.” Which was the understatement of the century, as Neal's prison records-and the history of their association-fully bore witness. “They might not like the idea, but since you're still pretrial, and you've been cooperative, I could see if they'd let me bring you in some street clothes. No Devore, mind you...” And wouldn't that have been a sight. Definitely just the kind of mundane look you wanted to present while in prison, the kind that really helped you fly inconspicuously under the radar of C.O.s and inmates alike.
But Neal, of course, knew they were talking about a concession of the t-shirt and sweats variety. He shook his head and lifted an eyebrow humorously, though with a bit too much weariness to fully carry the look. “I appreciate the thought. But I figure I might as well dress for the job, right?” He tugged at the orange material again. “Definitely all the vogue, compared to the green ones. Now those are sins of utilitarian proportions that only Uncle Sam could commit. Seriously, who picks these colors out? Some color-blind bureaucrat with a grudge against good taste?”
“That's honest tax-payers' money at work. Be grateful.”
“Thanks for paying your taxes, Peter.”
“You're welcome.”
“Thanks for the soap and shampoo, too, by the way.”
Peter looked critically at Neal. “That money I transferred to your account is for more than soap and shampoo.”
“Hey, I also got a pack of cards and a radio. Believe it or not, the commissary actually has pretty decent prices.”
“Neal...”
“What?”
“Food.”
“That stuff people eat?” Neal replied sweetly.
“That'd be it. Just buy some from the commissary, if the rest of what they serve around here is so inedible.”
“Aha, but you're operating under the assumption that the food from the commissary is edible.”
“Just find something...”
“That doesn't produce the gag reflex?”
Peter made an overblown “there ya go” gesture.
“Ramen Noodle bowls and packets of Mayonnaise-this is really what you want me to spend your hard-earned cash on?”
“Yes.”
Neal raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. Don't blow a gasket.”
“And don't just sit there reading the nutrients information on the package, either.”
Neal made a face. “Are you my mom, now, or what?”
Dear God, what a thought. But there was definitely someone who'd been spending enough anxiety on Neal's behalf to have earned the respect due that role. “You've got El all worried about you. She says you look too skinny.” And Peter concurred.
Neal's rebellion was gone immediately, and in its place open remorse. “Tell her I'm fine. I mean, they have things like...peanut M&Ms at the commissary, too.”
The picture of Neal surviving solely on M&Ms was both comical and truly pathetic to consider.
“I'm not about to starve,” Neal persisted. “You'll tell her I'm fine, right, Peter?”
Neal was very earnest-and very bruised, and young-looking.
Peter's expression softened. “She'll be around to see you again next week. You can convince her you're fine by being fine.”
Neal averted his gaze. “You know, about Elizabeth's visits... I was just thinking, maybe she shouldn't keep coming.”
Peter was already shaking his head. “Not likely.”
“I like seeing her, Peter. A lot. I mean, with all the visits I'm getting, I'm already getting out of my cell a whole lot more than I think they'd like me to be. I appreciate it, but this place, it's...not for her.”
Peter smiled. “Not everyone's a gentleman felon, huh?”
Neal didn't smile back. “I don't want her to feel like she has to keep going through it all, when she doesn't have to. You could talk to her.”
“And Mozzie and June, too, while I'm at it, I suppose.”
Neal chose to ignore Peter's heavy sarcasm. “June knows the process. She understands it. Moz, I think would rather visit me here than in the hospital. He knows the process, too. El...” he trailed off. “I just don't like it, Peter.”
“I know. I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea either. But she's not going to be coming alone anymore.”
Neal frowned at him.
“June,” Peter elaborated. “She's suggested the two of them carpool-they're going to be visiting you, together.”
Neal nodded, considering the idea. “That's good.”
“As good as it's gonna get.”
“You already talked to her,” Neal realized.
Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “Like I said-she's worried about you. She's going to keep checking on you until I get you out.”
“I'm sorry,” Neal said quietly.
“Don't be. I may be worried half to death about the both of you, but...” Peter sighed. “She's a whole lot tougher than you'd guess.” Which didn't mean Peter wanted to protect her any less. But the fact remained, she was tough, far more than he found it natural to give her credit for sometimes. Moreover, she could be stubborn-especially when she was driven by concern, as he was fast discovering.
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Neal asked, with a vagrant gleam of amusement in his eyes: “You worry about me, too? That's really touching to know, Peter.”
“Of course I worry about you,” Peter mumbled, defensively. “No sense of consequences, or self-preservation. It's all a game to you. You're a complete idiot.”
Neal was far from phased or displeased by his litany of complaints, only adding to the list proudly: “But I'm also a whole lot tougher than you'd guess.”
Peter sure hoped so. But that didn't mean Neal had to go around testing his own endurance. “Lay low. Don't be tough; be careful.”
“That's what I've been doing.” Neal reached up to cover his bruised jaw, looking for all the world like a petulant kid trying to convince dad he really hadn't started the fight at school. “Stop looking at me like that. We've been over this. I didn't set out to fall down the stairs. And, yes, it was the stairs’ fault, really.”
“Just remember you have rights, Neal. Even in here.”
“So my attorney keeps reminding me.”
Mozzie's paranoia and tenacity-and his legal knowledge, which Peter had no doubt he'd use to its fullest extent on Neal's behalf-was oddly comforting to consider just then.
“Time to go, Caffrey,” one of the C.O.s interrupted, approaching with the familiar jangle of cuffs.
Neal had his hands behind his back as casually and without thought as if the action were simply an extension of taking his next breath.
They didn't say anything in parting, just locked eyes, nodded to each other, and broke contact again.
Peter watched Neal depart: a C.O. on either side, each with an arm looped through and under Neal's upper arms, so they could grip him securely by the shoulders. This routine was getting old, fast, for both of them.
“Agent Burke?”
“Yeah... Coming.” Peter stood from the table, following the waiting C.O. He glanced aside at the man as they made their way down the hallway towards reception. Peter recognized the black man as the same one who had escort him on his previous visits. He was about Peter's height, strong-jawed, head shaved, his neat moustache beginning to show a few flecks of grey. Without truly expecting much response, Peter felt compelled to ask, conversationally: “Caffrey been behaving himself?”
The man snorted. “Don't think he knows how to be rude. It's always 'please' and 'thank you' with him. Not much else, though. First I figured he'd be the type to try and flatter his way into some special treatment-after he got you all buttered up with the innocence act. He's got the face for it, alright. Had my eye on him, 'case he tried to turn one of the probies into a duck. But, no, not Caffrey,” here he chuckled and shook his head, as if at a great and amusing mystery of the universe, “just 'please' and 'thank you' with that kid, every time.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. He hadn't really expected the man to even particularly remember Neal, not among the hundreds and thousands of prisoners that came through Rikers each day. But this was Neal, after all. Or 'please-and-thank-you' kid, apparently. He was equally surprised to discover Neal wasn't trying to work the “innocence act” angle. A personal “duck”-the colloquial term for a gullible mark who let himself get too friendly with, and eventually extorted by, an inmate-was something Neal could've easily developed, probably with half his brain tied behind his back. It was a classic con. Half the time it felt as if he himself had let Neal turn him into his own personal FBI “duck.” So maybe they'd put some of those doubts to rest by now. But when you were an FBI agent making friends with a con man a certain amount of healthy suspicion had to come with the territory.
All the same, it made Peter feel oddly proud to get a good “report card” on Neal, and voluntarily, from a man who'd clearly seen more than a few years on the job, no less.
“Well, he'll be out of your hair, soon, in any case.”
“Transferred upstate, huh?”
“Cleared of charges,” Peter contradicted him.
He shot Peter a surprised look. “Get a lot of that kind of talk from the inmates-first time I've heard it from a visiting Fed. I assumed you were the investigating agent on his case.”
“I am,” Peter admitted wryly. “He's not guilty. I’ve got a good idea of who is-it's just a matter of proving it.” He sighed, shaking his head: at the maddening, exhausting enigma that was Neal, and with no small bemusement at finding himself here, in the place where he felt compelled to defend Neal's claims of innocence. “We go back a ways, Caffrey and I.” It was as good a way as any of summarizing the “friendship” they seemed to have arrived at.
“He always been so polite?”
Peter smiled. “Yeah,” he could answer, without reservation. No matter how far back he went, “politeness” had always been a trademark of Neal's behavior whether he was innocent or guilty. “That's Caffrey, alright.”
The C.O. gave him a look that just might have contained some veiled sympathy-or possibly unspoken advice, one lawman to another. After all, they both knew politeness wasn't exactly a tool of survival in a place like Rikers. And while Peter might try to reassure all Elizabeth's fears with the words “administrative segregation,” he couldn't so easily quell all of his own fears, because nothing was foolproof. Endless scenarios could happen when you crammed thousands of violent criminal offenders onto an island. A situation could get out of control in a heartbeat, and there was no guarantee Neal wouldn't be in the way if things did unexpectedly go south.
And there wasn't a thing Peter could do to protect him-except get Neal out, before anything worse than a flight of stairs could have a chance to trip him.
***
ETA: As regards Neal's statement about not fitting in as a "white guy" in Rikers: this is intended to be a reflection of facts that I've uncovered in the course of research, and not prejudice on Neal's part. For a little more explanation see my comments, here. ;)
Continue to part two.
Index:
Part 2
Part 3
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Fleeting ones for the pilot.
Warnings: Prison life. Injuries.
Summary: “Don't sweat it, Peter. Twenty-three hours a day in a windowless five-by-nine cell is really a pretty cozy setup once you get used to it.” Neal smiled over-brightly in the face of Peter's sternest look. “Really, there's no place like home sweet ad-seg.”
“This isn't some white-collar criminal resort, Neal.”
“Oh. Can I get transferred to one?”
A/N: This was originally inspired by imbecamiel's prompt and then spurred on (especially in the H/C department) by kriadydragon's prompt, here. Thank you, Cami, for the beta'ing, and thank you, Kraidy, for keeping collarcorner awesome. *pays homage in fic*
***
“The food sucks, Peter.”
Peter's first instinct was to roll his eyes. He restrained himself, largely because the annoyance that would've required simply wasn't there. Neal wore an orange jumpsuit a couple sizes too big for his wiry frame. His hair was “styled” with the same peremptory efficiency Peter remembered from other times they'd met like this. It looked as if he'd simply run his fingers through it while it dried, without any care for the end result. Neal hunched his shoulders, arms resting on the table parallel with the edge, hands loosely folded in front of him.
He radiated closed-off self-sufficiency. Calm. Misery.
“Look, Neal...” Peter began, using the meaningless words as a way to at least convey a lack of callousness.
“I know. This is prison. I'm an inmate. The food's supposed to suck.” Neal sighed. “And it really, really does.”
A “cowboy up” might've been in order, only it sounded as if Neal had already been giving himself that talk. Sure, there was also a heaping load of indulgent self-pity mixed in with whatever sterner lecture he'd been giving himself, but there were plenty of other reasons to cut Neal some slack. Like the fact that Neal hadn't broken the rules of his parole. He didn't deserve this, not this time. They both knew it.
It was just a matter of proving it. The fact that he hadn't been able to do so was what had kept Peter away for the last four days. The guilt was hitting him now as if the flood-gates had suddenly been opened.
“You're a detainee, Neal. There's a difference.” He decided further splitting of hairs with Neal over the difference between “prison” and “jail” would only have gone badly for his blood pressure. By now Peter recognized a Neal in full-blown obstinate mode. He would exaggerate and willfully mislabel things if he wanted to.
“Oh. Right,” Neal greeted his reminder flatly. He lifted his gaze to look pointedly around at the “room”-cum-cage they were holding conference in.
“Hey, at least it’s relatively quiet in here, huh?” Peter regretted the attempt at being up-beat as soon as he'd made it.
“Yeah.”
“So...” Peter tried again. “June said she dropped by and brought you some art supplies. You have enough pencils, and erasers, and everything? Enough to read?”
“Don't sweat it, Peter. Twenty-three hours a day in a windowless five-by-nine cell is really a pretty cozy setup once you get used to it.” Neal smiled over-brightly in the face of Peter's sternest look. “Really, there's no place like home sweet ad-seg.”
“This isn't some white-collar criminal resort, Neal.”
“Oh. Can I get transferred to one?”
“Neal…” Peter broke off to sigh heavily. “I'm sorry you got sent to Rikers, okay? It wasn't my call. Hughes sent the word to me 'from on high.'” Maybe if Neal had been able to see Peter right after he'd been ordered to “contain” the situation-i.e. contain Neal-he'd be having more mercy on him. Peter settled for adding wearily: “There was nothing I could do. Given the options, CPSU seems like the lesser evil; so, yeah, I took it.” And wasn't this one of those situations where acronyms actually came in handy. After all, at least CPSU sounded a whole lot better than just out and saying “Central Punitive Segregation Unit.” Never mind that Neal knew exactly what it stood for, and how it felt to live out the definition.
Regardless, Neal looked fractionally less obdurate.
“The segregation's for your own protection as much as anything, you know.”
Neal raised an eyebrow, looking almost normal for a moment as he teased, with that smart-Alec Caffrey sense of superiority: “And here I thought it had something more to do with me breaking out of supermax security last time.”
“There's that, too. They wanted to put you in the OBCC at first.”
“'The Bing,' Peter,” Neal corrected airily. “It's not cool to call it by its real name.”
“Just be happy you're not there.”
“Positively giddy,” Neal promised. “I fit in much better right where I am. Me and all the other white guys in here. Edging up on constituting ten percent of the population, are we?”
Peter cracked a grim smile. “Just another reason to be grateful you're not out mingling, or risking your neck in the yard.”
“C'mon, Peter. Give me a little credit. Don't forget I survived behind bars for nearly four years without being dismembered. I do know better than to invite myself into just any game of basketball that's going on, or to try flipping the channel in the middle of someone's viewing of Wheel of Fortune. Or their Hallmark Hall of Fame feature presentation, for that matter.” Neal made an exaggerated hands-off gesture of nonjudgmental acceptance. “Whatever floats their boat, right? I can duck my head along with all the other white guys, and wait my turn in line for the phone. I mean, I have picked up a few of the prison rules along the way, you know-even while enjoying my sheltered little existence in supermax.” Neal finished with one of his best contrived looks of wide-eyed innocence.
So innocent, in fact, it was almost convincing.
Sometimes Peter looked at Neal and only saw a scheming, manipulative con man who was most assuredly not unaware of the harsher realities of life. Neal could act and look compellingly naive if he chose to, making it next to impossible for Peter to figure out where the act stopped and true naiveté began. Other times-like now-Peter looked at Neal and could only recoil in horror at the thought of him being locked in with a bunch of hard-core murderers, drug dealers, and rapists, many of whom were in for life without the possibility of parole. That kind of ultimatum didn't leave an inmate with much to win or lose by his behavior.
It didn't help, either, when Neal smiled like he was smiling now, as if it were all some joke: just another con where he could sit back and relax in the knowledge that he had all the aces up his sleeve. It was that kind of cockiness that made it hard to tell if he was just pulling your leg-deliberately trying to get a horrified reaction out of him-or if Neal really did think he could handle himself if tossed in with the general population. He had to realize that his reputation as a CI, “selling out” to the FBI in exchange for freedom, could only work against him in here.
Maybe he could handle himself, too, despite the fact that he'd be a scrawny white guy, who hated guns and violence, trying to survive in a world of turf wars between the “best” New York's Latino and African American gangs could offer. God knew he'd surprised Peter plenty of times in the past. If anyone could charm hard-core criminals out of beating him to a bloody pulp, it was Neal. But Peter wasn't about to find out just what Neal was capable of surviving by means of experimentation.
Neal was observing him knowingly, and whatever he saw made him relent. “I'm bored, Peter.” His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “Maybe a little demeaned, and a lot claustrophobic-but mostly just bored. That's prison for you. Been there, done that. I'll survive.” He paused for effect before qualifying desolately, “Unless the food kills me, first.”
“Tell me you didn't whine like this when Elizabeth came to visit you.”
Neal gave him a look of full-blown reproach that Peter knew he deserved. Manipulation might be Neal's weapon of choice, but he wouldn't use it to make El feel worse than she already did. Definitely too petty and vindictive for Neal.
“Sorry...sorry.” Peter scratched the back of his neck, blowing out a slow breath. “She's still pretty mad about the no-feeding-the-inmates rule, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
She'd understood the contraband smuggling issues. But she'd still definitely been mad, making dinner in a huff that evening, burning most of it, and then becoming increasingly bright-eyed with frustration at her own incompetency. Peter had stepped in to try to make light of the situation, ordering pizza as back-up. She'd still lamented the waste of food to an inordinate degree, stressing out instead of remaining her usual unflappable self-and Peter had known it wasn't about the disaster in the kitchen, or even about being unable to bring Neal a decent meal. They'd just been the collective straw that broke the camel's back.
After Peter had soothed her into a calmer state, they'd sat in front of the TV and picked at the pizza halfheartedly. Neither of them had been in the mood to feast themselves, even upon perfectly good junk food.
Peter had decided then that it had been much, much easier the first time he'd put Neal behind bars. Easier, back when Elizabeth had only been mildly curious about this “Neal Caffrey,” whose case had stolen so much of her husband's attention; easier, back when Peter had felt a whole lot more uncomplicated satisfaction at the idea of Neal Caffrey being behind bars.
Sure, he'd cared what happened to Neal, even back then. He'd given up trying to fool himself otherwise. But it had been easier, especially when he'd only had to deal with his own nagging sense of regret on Neal's behalf, for the waste of intelligence and potential. Now he'd seen that intelligence and potential put to good use. Now, Neal had worked his way into Peter's life as a friend-and now there was also El caring what happened to Neal, not making any pretenses whatsoever about being upset over his being sent to Rikers.
The injustice of it didn't help, either.
Peter knew their hour was ticking by. He glancing down at his wrist out of habit before remembering that his watch had been left behind along with his suit jacket in the locker at security.
He looked back up at Neal, who was still regarding him silently. A quiet Neal was an unnerving Neal.
“I'm not the bad guy, here, Neal.” Peter felt compelled to press the point, even though he knew it was only natural that Neal would lash out a bit at him since he was, for all intents and purposes, the only face Neal would see representing the bureaucratic idiocy that had sent him here.
Neal looked surprised. “I know.”
Peter nodded. That had been about as uncomplicated and unconditional as a response from Neal got. “Okay. Good.”
“I didn't steal that painting from the Met, either. Or paint the forgery.” Neal watched carefully for his reaction.
“I know.”
They locked eyes for a minute, and then it was Neal's turn to nod his head in acceptance.
Those not-so-pleasant pleasantries made, it was down to business.
“I know you didn't do it. Unfortunately, a lot of other people think you did. As much as I'd love to solve this by using my gut instincts as evidence...”
Neal raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, that didn't come out quite right,” Peter agreed with a grimace. “The point is, until I can come up with tangible proof, my hands are tied.”
“Nothing from the security cameras?”
“The painting isn't the only thing missing. Nothing on the tapes for that time frame.”
“Ah. Bummer.”
“Big one.” Peter massaged his temple absently. Developing a headache by the end of the day was becoming a habit. “Not a fingerprint, or license plate to go on. A couple of the employees seemed jumpy during their interviews-which isn't terribly surprising.”
“The night guard on duty?”
“Knocked unconscious, with some nasty bruising as a souvenir of the struggle he put up.”
Neal frowned in disapproval. “Not my style. Actually,” he mused, “it's not even really my theft of choice, you know. I mean, it's nice, obviously. Really nice. But there are definitely other more classic works at the Met I'd have more fun forging.”
“Good to know.”
Neal grinned incorrigibly.
“Well it certainly ticked off Senator Becker. This was the painting's first week on loan to the Met out of his private collection.”
“Ouch. Lots of unhappy people.”
“Throwing temper tantrums,” Peter added tiredly. He favored Neal with a despairing glance. “I don't suppose you could have managed to get framed for stealing from anyone else?”
“Hey, it's not my fault the guy just happens to be such a big proponent of cracking down harder on white-collar criminals. But I'll try to get the word out to any of my potential enemies for the next time they try to take revenge.”
“Thanks.” Peter smiled ruefully. “Maybe you should skip offending politicians with expensive art collections altogether while you're at it, huh?”
“Sound advice.” Neal grumbled under his breath: “The guy doesn't even like art, from the sound of it-just the prestige of owning the stuff and being able to loan it to museums.”
“Yeah, well, apparently his benevolence and generosity have made him the right sort of friends, if he's able to get your butt thrown into Rikers at a moment's notice.”
“True,” Neal conceded. He continued thoughtfully: “This could be a stunt Becker's pulling to get attention-framing me with a theft. What could be better for his own argument then to have one of his paintings stolen by a notorious white-collar criminal?”
“'Notorious,' huh?”
“Well he'd obviously have at least heard of me if he's out there fighting against the injustice of giving white-collar criminals special treatment. I'm the guy who got out of a four year prison sentence, after all.”
“Oh, is that how you see it.” Peter smiled faintly.
“Not at the moment.” Neal looked around at the white-tiled walls, concrete floor, and vanguard of barred doors behind him. “No. Definitely not. On the bright side, though, I don't have to wear the anklet, which is definitely nice for a change.”
“Yeah, well don't get too used to it, Pollyanna. If Becker is putting you here as a publicity stunt, to make himself look like a martyr of the cause, I'll nail him for it. I'm getting you out, and the anklet's going back on. So tough luck.”
“Can't wait,” Neal quipped, sarcasm ruined by the hint of longing he couldn't keep out of his tone.
When two C.O.s returned a while later to inform them that their time was up, Neal stood and allowed his hands to be cuffed behind his back.
“Just a matter of time, Neal,” Peter encouraged.
He was flashed a nonchalant smile in return. But as he watched Neal depart he felt far from heartened. Peter knew he wasn't the bad guy, and Neal knew Peter wasn't the bad guy. But right now Peter sure felt like the bad guy.
***
“Alright, what happened? And please, please don't try the 'walked into a door' line on me right now.”
It had been a long week. If the instant barrage came across as antagonistic, that was because Peter was feeling a bit antagonistic. The last thing he had needed-after two hours of wading through security-was to walk in and find Neal sporting a bruised face and split lip.
Neal looked blank for several seconds. Then, with comprehension, touched a hand gingerly to the left side of his face. “Oh. This?”
“Yeah. That.”
“I'm in jail, Peter.” Neal was maddeningly reasonable.
Peter was scrapping the bottom of the barrel, but he managed to dredge up the patience to make a level reply. “I'm aware of that. In jail-under administrative segregation specifically designed to keep you from winding up looking like that.”
Neal heaved a put-upon sigh, like a rebellious teenager putting up with dad's scolding. “Really? Thanks for reminding me. The whole segregation thing keeps slipping my mind.”
So maybe Neal's week hadn't been full of sunshine and flowers, either. The irony was that Peter had too much occupying his time while Neal was clearly going stir-crazy from the lack of occupation.
Peter decided Neal was probably the one deserving of a little consideration.
“Okay,” he started over, matching Neal for reasonableness. “What happened?”
“I tripped.”
“On a banana peel?”
Neal narrowed his eyes. “I hate to disappoint you by being so boring, Peter, but I wasn't jumped by a pack of inmates. No new or interesting friends for cell 106.”
Peter looked sharply at him. He lowered his voice, demanding: “If it was one of the C.O.s...”
Corrections officers didn't have it easy, especially in a place like Rikers. Peter wasn't so naive as to believe that every time the hue and cry of “guard brutality” was raised it meant that one of the officers had actually gone beyond what was necessary to control a dangerous situation. Who could say what blow became the one-too-many, more than was strictly needed? There was the heat of the moment, and adrenaline, the prisoner's history of cooperation, or complete lack thereof-and too many other factors to take into consideration. Split-second decisions had to be made every day. Peter understood that. But neither was he so naive as to believe there weren't those situations where the frustrations of the job got taken out on an undeserving inmate out of a generalized spite.
“I've been on my best behavior.” Neal jutted his chin out with a defensive look. “The model of a non-violent inmate. No resisting, and no calling the officers 'bossy.' No adding to my problems by unruliness and insubordination-cross my heart.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I respect them. They respect me.”
“As a rule,” Peter interpreted.
“No...no I'm pretty much respectful all the time.” Neal smiled in what he clearly considered an endearing fashion.
“That's not what I meant, either.”
Despite the opening tension of their exchange, Neal seemed less confrontational than last time. His evasiveness was almost distracted, even unintentional, and his sarcasm less strained and more off-hand. Resignation would've been too strong a word for it, but he was looking much more attuned to his surroundings, and less as if he were trying to hold it all at a distance.
As far as progress went in adapting to the inmate look, the bruising definitely helped add a certain...authenticity. Not necessarily of the “tough guy” or “top of the food-chain” variety, unfortunately.
“Tripping really did that?” Peter gestured to the side of Neal's face, squinting at it suspiciously, noticing the small gash high on his cheekbone.
“What do you want me to say? Your equilibrium wouldn't be at its finest, either, if you had go everywhere with your arms cuffed behind your back.” Neal shot him a muted glare.
“Okay, okay... But, seriously, did they let you fall down the stairs, or what? They're supposed to keep an eye on the prisoners they're transporting.”
“Give them a break, Peter. They're used to murderers trying to shank each other, not klutzes tripping over their own feet. There wasn't anyone around for them to 'defend' me from except myself and my own clumsiness. Can't blame them for having slow reflexes.”
“Sure I can,” Peter grumbled. Then he realized he'd never gotten a straight answer, which was telling enough. “So you did fall down the stairs, by accident. No...undue shoving involved, right?”
“Are you going to spend the entire hour scolding me about this? 'Cause I've kinda had enough humble pie for the morning, thanks.” Neal trailed off with a sigh.
Peter grimaced. He knew Neal was earning each visit he got with a very...very thorough search. “You know, I can always just call if you’d rather...” he began. Then, at the sudden look of faint alarm from Neal, finished instead: “But, hey. Gotta get your sorry butt out of bed every now and then, or you'd sleep the whole week away.”
Neal ducked his head. “Thanks. You know, for going through the hassle.”
Peter shrugged. “Don't mention it. I'm a Fed, right? I can handle the system.” Maybe he was giving himself a bit too much credit. Being a federal agent didn't get you a free pass. Technically, Rikers was a state-run jail overseen by New York's Department of Corrections-as opposed to being a part of the federal Bureau of Prisons-and was used primarily for pretrial detainees. The U.S. Marshals had been handling Neal's custody and placement in Rikers, but, regardless, Peter certainly had the clearance for face-to-face contact with Neal-even setting aside the fact that he was the agent in charge of Neal's case. No one was giving him any grief, just throwing a lot of impersonal security protocol at him, which was to be expected. “The system” was always a hassle at best, but a worthwhile one in this case, if only because the visits were clearly what Neal needed.
Neal seemed to accept the response, turning instead to a different question. “What's happened with Wark, anyway?”
Raymond Wark was a suspected jewel thief and smuggler who lived in an ostentatious mansion on Long Island. Before his arrest, Neal-or, to Wark, “Jon Blake ”-had been undercover for more than two weeks “coincidentally” bumping into Wark at numerous social functions. Neal had been on the verge of arranging a deal for an extremely wealthy (not to mention entirely fictitious) client who was planning on proposing to the woman of his dreams, and was in search of hefty diamond to persuade her that the correct answer was “yes.”
All that had gone to hell in a hand-basket, of course, after “Jon Blake”'s sudden and unexplained departure.
“We've been keeping an eye on him, but things are pretty quiet. It's on the back burner while I focus on the theft at the Met.”
“Because if you can solve that, you can get me out of here, which means 'Jon Blake' is back in business, provided he can sweet-talk Wark into a good mood after all the suspicious goings-on. But, c'mon, there are plenty of legitimate reasons for disappearing besides being arrested. After all, these family emergencies do happen, you know.” Neal smiled at the mere prospect of picking up the con. It involved inhabiting just the sort of glamorous sphere he was so well suited to. “So unless Wark's been seeing my mugshots in the newspaper and putting two and two together, which is entirely possible...”
Peter put a hand up, shaking his head in frustration. “Look, just forget about Wark for now.”
“I don't think Hughes would approve,” Neal stated solemnly. “I'm sure your case load-”
“-is you, at the moment.”
“Fantastic.” Neal interlaced his fingers and sat up a little straighter, as if to invite Peter to wrap the case up right then and there.
“I'm glad you approve.”
Neal gave him a sidelong, assessing look. “But...you don't have any news for me.”
“I didn't say that.”
“But you don't.”
“No,” Peter confessed reluctantly, “I don't, not really. Nothing that's going to get you out of here. Yet. You may have been on to something, about Becker staging this. The whole thing's too neat and tidy. But if Becker is behind this, he wouldn't do his own dirty work, he'd hire it out. What I wouldn’t give for a look at his bank records right now...”
“But Becker's already having a grand old time being a victim, and wouldn't take too kindly to having it suggested he's under investigation, himself. I don't suppose Becker's too keen on you leading the investigation to begin with, what with you being my 'handler.'”
“Not terribly, no,” Peter agreed with heavy sarcasm. Hughes had been getting an earful, that was for sure. On the bright side, that meant Hughes wasn't too keen on Becker, in general, at the moment. Of course, Hughes said all the right words, did the required political tap-dancing-but in private he'd made it clear to Peter that he was to investigate all angles of the case. Just with discretion, as regarded Becker, unfortunately. They needed more to go on than vague suspicions before they started casting aspersions in Becker's direction.
Peter added: “Hughes assured Becker I was the best for the case. After all, I know 'all about Caffrey.' I was the one who caught you the first time. And the times after that.”
Neal “hmm”ed in amusement at the very idea, giving him a “you just keep on telling yourself that” look.
There was plenty to keep them both grounded in the dismal reality of their surroundings. The orange jumpsuit Neal was wearing. The bars blocking their way out, wearing a wearied coat of gray paint. The C.O.s standing sentinel duty over his visit. The assortment of prison noises coming from down the hall: nondescript footsteps and nondescript voices echoing; the callous, metallic clanging of doors buzzing open and shut. The antiseptic, hospital-reminiscent smell of industry standard chemicals, and the musty smells not quite covered by the cleaner that you tried hard not wonder about.
Despite all that, it was an incredibly normal moment, with Neal smirking at him like that. Which only served to remind Peter of how far he was from restoring things to actual normalcy.
“Bottom line?” he spoke softly, unhappily. “Until I get more on Becker, you're still our prime suspect.”
The smirk faded. Neal's lips formed a thin, impatient line. “Isn't there anyone who sees how idiotic it would be for me to sign a forgery with the blacklight ink, after Fowler let the whole world know that it's one of my methods? Not to mention it's generally considered a good idea to flee with your ill-gotten gain before anyone's discovered the theft, which I kinda failed to do, and which I've proven I'm smart enough to do, provided I've have the ill-gotten gain to flee with. Oh, yeah-and I'd never leave my fingerprints on the frame of the forgery, either. If none of that screams 'setup,' I don't know what would.”
“You know, you could just make things easier on both of us by confessing and telling me where you hid the painting,” Peter suggested with a quirk of his lips.
“Funny.”
Yeah, it wasn't, really. But Peter had been doing a lot of grasping at straws, lately. He was beginning to wish to God he'd just taken the risk and made Neal wear the anklet during the op. After all, the undercover job on Wark had been blown out of the water in the end, in any case, and if Neal had been wearing his tracker that night, he would’ve had all the alibi needed. Instead, he'd been in Wark's study, sipping a twenty-five-year-old Glenlivet scotch, lounging with the rest of the guests being regaled by their host with a non-stop selection of enthusiastic deep-sea-fishing trips.
The evening had been wearing to a satisfactory close-and then Neal had been invited to spend the rest of the weekend.
At the time, it had been a triumph, though one not unmixed with its own nerve-wracking aspects from a security point of view. But a triumph nonetheless. After all, not everyone at the party that evening had been made the same offer-only a half-dozen, besides Neal-and being included meant Neal was definitely getting close enough to Wark to close the deal.
But instead of an easy finish line, Neal had spent the night of the painting's theft off the grid, and here they were facing two unsolved cases.
“Neal...” Peter began cautiously, hating to ask what he was about to ask, but needing to see Neal's reaction, one way or the other. “You're not getting any ideas, are you?”
“I get a lot of ideas, Peter. You'll have to be more specific.”
“The kind that got you confined to supermax in the first place.” And, admittedly, the same kind that had gotten him out of supermax, too.
“Ah. That kind.”
Peter waited.
“Would you actually believe me if said 'no'?”
Point taken. But despite himself, Peter was curious. “Is the escape plan just vague theory at this point, or half a dozen specific working strategies?”
“Only half a dozen?” Neal scoffed at the idea. “C'mon, Peter, you gotta approach this stuff from every angle.” Finally, though, Neal took pity. “But, no, I'm not 'getting ideas.'”
Peter waited again.
“Okay, so I can't help getting them,” Neal grudgingly admitted. “But I'm not doing anything with them.”
Peter knew that was a good a promise as he could hope for that Neal would be patient and resist the urge to try getting himself out. And, really, if Neal were plotting something, for once Peter could almost condone it. Almost. If it weren't for the whole ruining-his-future-chances thing. There was no way he was letting Neal ruin his record by escaping from jail when he was there on trumped-up charges, and deserved to be let out, free and clear, the terms of his probation reinstated.
“I'm working on this. I'm going to figure it out.”
“It's just a matter of time.” Neal wasn't being sarcastic. He nodded his head, slowly, thoughtfully. “I know you'll figure it out.” The look he gave Peter was both solemn and teasing. “Which is why you're number one on the list of escape plans.”
“What? You mean I rank above 'scaling the wall with a bed sheet rope'? I'm flattered.”
“Scaling walls,” Neal retorted, flatly, with dignity. “With bed sheets. Really, Peter? Does that actually strike you as something I'd even consider-much less have as my plan B?”
Peter grunted. This was dangerous territory. Maybe it was better he didn't know too much about the contents of that list, for both their sakes. “Just try counting sheep before bed, like normal people, instead of... thinking so much.”
“I'm not normal people,” Neal pointed out with a sulky frown. “You try sitting in a concrete closet for twenty-three hours a day without thinking.”
“Would a reduction of a couple hours a week make any difference?”
Neal looked at him suspiciously.
“Well, a reduction, in a manner of speaking.”
“Hard manual labor in a chain gang?” Neal enthused sardonically.
“Reading,” Peter corrected. “Books out of the public law library they have here.” Tilting his head back, he folded his arms across his chest. “They can't deny you your right to seek legal recourse. Of course, you'd still be kept in a room separate from the main library facility while you read. But it'd be a change of pace.”
“Exchange one cage for another, huh? Sounds like a real winner.”
Peter knew a heavily-wired “cage”-with a “bean chute” for books to be passed through-was exactly what Neal could look forward to. “If you’d rather not...”
“No-I'd like that,” Neal admitted with apologetic meekness. “If you can manage it.” He glanced up at Peter, regarding him slyly out of the top of his eyes. “But you're sure you want me all read up on the last minutiae of the law?”
“It's better than leaving you with more time to think up ways of breaking the last minutiae of the law.”
“Exaggeration really doesn't look good on you, Peter.”
It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to snark back about orange not exactly bringing out the color of Neal's eyes, either. Given the circumstances, however, it would've only seemed like a below-the-belt jibe made in exceptionally bad taste.
But they'd clearly been spending too much time together, because Neal only plucked at the material of his jumpsuit and griped mournfully: “I know. The sacks they make you wear in here are the real punishment.”
“The inhumanity,” Peter sympathized tolerantly.
“It itches.” Neal demonstrated by scratching at his arm. “Doesn't matter how many times I shower; it makes me feel dirty all the time.”
Coming from just about anyone else, Peter might've laughed outright. But as tempting as it was, even in Neal's case, to do so, Peter knew that if “itchy” clothes and “feeling dirty” didn't exactly constitute inhumanity, or a right to claim true misery, it was at least definitely a not-quite-trivial punishment as Neal would see it.
“Spoiled,” some people would probably call it. After all, of course Neal would find prison clothes all of the above when he was used to wearing high-end suits on a daily basis. Yeah, maybe he was a little spoiled. Or more than a little. But Peter had been doing a fair amount of guilt-tripping lately as Neal's stay in Rikers continued to drag on while he slogged away at the case. Offering a bit of absolution here and there could only soothe his conscience.
“You're a flight risk.” Which was the understatement of the century, as Neal's prison records-and the history of their association-fully bore witness. “They might not like the idea, but since you're still pretrial, and you've been cooperative, I could see if they'd let me bring you in some street clothes. No Devore, mind you...” And wouldn't that have been a sight. Definitely just the kind of mundane look you wanted to present while in prison, the kind that really helped you fly inconspicuously under the radar of C.O.s and inmates alike.
But Neal, of course, knew they were talking about a concession of the t-shirt and sweats variety. He shook his head and lifted an eyebrow humorously, though with a bit too much weariness to fully carry the look. “I appreciate the thought. But I figure I might as well dress for the job, right?” He tugged at the orange material again. “Definitely all the vogue, compared to the green ones. Now those are sins of utilitarian proportions that only Uncle Sam could commit. Seriously, who picks these colors out? Some color-blind bureaucrat with a grudge against good taste?”
“That's honest tax-payers' money at work. Be grateful.”
“Thanks for paying your taxes, Peter.”
“You're welcome.”
“Thanks for the soap and shampoo, too, by the way.”
Peter looked critically at Neal. “That money I transferred to your account is for more than soap and shampoo.”
“Hey, I also got a pack of cards and a radio. Believe it or not, the commissary actually has pretty decent prices.”
“Neal...”
“What?”
“Food.”
“That stuff people eat?” Neal replied sweetly.
“That'd be it. Just buy some from the commissary, if the rest of what they serve around here is so inedible.”
“Aha, but you're operating under the assumption that the food from the commissary is edible.”
“Just find something...”
“That doesn't produce the gag reflex?”
Peter made an overblown “there ya go” gesture.
“Ramen Noodle bowls and packets of Mayonnaise-this is really what you want me to spend your hard-earned cash on?”
“Yes.”
Neal raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. Don't blow a gasket.”
“And don't just sit there reading the nutrients information on the package, either.”
Neal made a face. “Are you my mom, now, or what?”
Dear God, what a thought. But there was definitely someone who'd been spending enough anxiety on Neal's behalf to have earned the respect due that role. “You've got El all worried about you. She says you look too skinny.” And Peter concurred.
Neal's rebellion was gone immediately, and in its place open remorse. “Tell her I'm fine. I mean, they have things like...peanut M&Ms at the commissary, too.”
The picture of Neal surviving solely on M&Ms was both comical and truly pathetic to consider.
“I'm not about to starve,” Neal persisted. “You'll tell her I'm fine, right, Peter?”
Neal was very earnest-and very bruised, and young-looking.
Peter's expression softened. “She'll be around to see you again next week. You can convince her you're fine by being fine.”
Neal averted his gaze. “You know, about Elizabeth's visits... I was just thinking, maybe she shouldn't keep coming.”
Peter was already shaking his head. “Not likely.”
“I like seeing her, Peter. A lot. I mean, with all the visits I'm getting, I'm already getting out of my cell a whole lot more than I think they'd like me to be. I appreciate it, but this place, it's...not for her.”
Peter smiled. “Not everyone's a gentleman felon, huh?”
Neal didn't smile back. “I don't want her to feel like she has to keep going through it all, when she doesn't have to. You could talk to her.”
“And Mozzie and June, too, while I'm at it, I suppose.”
Neal chose to ignore Peter's heavy sarcasm. “June knows the process. She understands it. Moz, I think would rather visit me here than in the hospital. He knows the process, too. El...” he trailed off. “I just don't like it, Peter.”
“I know. I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea either. But she's not going to be coming alone anymore.”
Neal frowned at him.
“June,” Peter elaborated. “She's suggested the two of them carpool-they're going to be visiting you, together.”
Neal nodded, considering the idea. “That's good.”
“As good as it's gonna get.”
“You already talked to her,” Neal realized.
Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “Like I said-she's worried about you. She's going to keep checking on you until I get you out.”
“I'm sorry,” Neal said quietly.
“Don't be. I may be worried half to death about the both of you, but...” Peter sighed. “She's a whole lot tougher than you'd guess.” Which didn't mean Peter wanted to protect her any less. But the fact remained, she was tough, far more than he found it natural to give her credit for sometimes. Moreover, she could be stubborn-especially when she was driven by concern, as he was fast discovering.
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Neal asked, with a vagrant gleam of amusement in his eyes: “You worry about me, too? That's really touching to know, Peter.”
“Of course I worry about you,” Peter mumbled, defensively. “No sense of consequences, or self-preservation. It's all a game to you. You're a complete idiot.”
Neal was far from phased or displeased by his litany of complaints, only adding to the list proudly: “But I'm also a whole lot tougher than you'd guess.”
Peter sure hoped so. But that didn't mean Neal had to go around testing his own endurance. “Lay low. Don't be tough; be careful.”
“That's what I've been doing.” Neal reached up to cover his bruised jaw, looking for all the world like a petulant kid trying to convince dad he really hadn't started the fight at school. “Stop looking at me like that. We've been over this. I didn't set out to fall down the stairs. And, yes, it was the stairs’ fault, really.”
“Just remember you have rights, Neal. Even in here.”
“So my attorney keeps reminding me.”
Mozzie's paranoia and tenacity-and his legal knowledge, which Peter had no doubt he'd use to its fullest extent on Neal's behalf-was oddly comforting to consider just then.
“Time to go, Caffrey,” one of the C.O.s interrupted, approaching with the familiar jangle of cuffs.
Neal had his hands behind his back as casually and without thought as if the action were simply an extension of taking his next breath.
They didn't say anything in parting, just locked eyes, nodded to each other, and broke contact again.
Peter watched Neal depart: a C.O. on either side, each with an arm looped through and under Neal's upper arms, so they could grip him securely by the shoulders. This routine was getting old, fast, for both of them.
“Agent Burke?”
“Yeah... Coming.” Peter stood from the table, following the waiting C.O. He glanced aside at the man as they made their way down the hallway towards reception. Peter recognized the black man as the same one who had escort him on his previous visits. He was about Peter's height, strong-jawed, head shaved, his neat moustache beginning to show a few flecks of grey. Without truly expecting much response, Peter felt compelled to ask, conversationally: “Caffrey been behaving himself?”
The man snorted. “Don't think he knows how to be rude. It's always 'please' and 'thank you' with him. Not much else, though. First I figured he'd be the type to try and flatter his way into some special treatment-after he got you all buttered up with the innocence act. He's got the face for it, alright. Had my eye on him, 'case he tried to turn one of the probies into a duck. But, no, not Caffrey,” here he chuckled and shook his head, as if at a great and amusing mystery of the universe, “just 'please' and 'thank you' with that kid, every time.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. He hadn't really expected the man to even particularly remember Neal, not among the hundreds and thousands of prisoners that came through Rikers each day. But this was Neal, after all. Or 'please-and-thank-you' kid, apparently. He was equally surprised to discover Neal wasn't trying to work the “innocence act” angle. A personal “duck”-the colloquial term for a gullible mark who let himself get too friendly with, and eventually extorted by, an inmate-was something Neal could've easily developed, probably with half his brain tied behind his back. It was a classic con. Half the time it felt as if he himself had let Neal turn him into his own personal FBI “duck.” So maybe they'd put some of those doubts to rest by now. But when you were an FBI agent making friends with a con man a certain amount of healthy suspicion had to come with the territory.
All the same, it made Peter feel oddly proud to get a good “report card” on Neal, and voluntarily, from a man who'd clearly seen more than a few years on the job, no less.
“Well, he'll be out of your hair, soon, in any case.”
“Transferred upstate, huh?”
“Cleared of charges,” Peter contradicted him.
He shot Peter a surprised look. “Get a lot of that kind of talk from the inmates-first time I've heard it from a visiting Fed. I assumed you were the investigating agent on his case.”
“I am,” Peter admitted wryly. “He's not guilty. I’ve got a good idea of who is-it's just a matter of proving it.” He sighed, shaking his head: at the maddening, exhausting enigma that was Neal, and with no small bemusement at finding himself here, in the place where he felt compelled to defend Neal's claims of innocence. “We go back a ways, Caffrey and I.” It was as good a way as any of summarizing the “friendship” they seemed to have arrived at.
“He always been so polite?”
Peter smiled. “Yeah,” he could answer, without reservation. No matter how far back he went, “politeness” had always been a trademark of Neal's behavior whether he was innocent or guilty. “That's Caffrey, alright.”
The C.O. gave him a look that just might have contained some veiled sympathy-or possibly unspoken advice, one lawman to another. After all, they both knew politeness wasn't exactly a tool of survival in a place like Rikers. And while Peter might try to reassure all Elizabeth's fears with the words “administrative segregation,” he couldn't so easily quell all of his own fears, because nothing was foolproof. Endless scenarios could happen when you crammed thousands of violent criminal offenders onto an island. A situation could get out of control in a heartbeat, and there was no guarantee Neal wouldn't be in the way if things did unexpectedly go south.
And there wasn't a thing Peter could do to protect him-except get Neal out, before anything worse than a flight of stairs could have a chance to trip him.
***
ETA: As regards Neal's statement about not fitting in as a "white guy" in Rikers: this is intended to be a reflection of facts that I've uncovered in the course of research, and not prejudice on Neal's part. For a little more explanation see my comments, here. ;)
Continue to part two.
Index:
Part 2
Part 3