coffee break.

[Éva]
Fri 02:36 EDT 2:30 a.m.

The phone rings. She offers no greeting when he answers, and says only, "I need to speak with you." In the background, the hum of voices. Typewriters. The occasional shout, a drunken rant from a holding cell.

Arrests do not stop because the sun has set, because business hours are over, because the courtrooms are silent. Nor do a suspect's rights stop, then. I want a lawyer. And so: a lawyer comes, 3:00 p.m. or 2:30 a.m.

"I should have a break in an hour. There's an all-night diner two blocks from the main police station, or I could meet you at my apartment, if it's not too late." Her voice is tired and diffident, almost swallowed by the background noise.


[Santiago]
Fri 02:44 EDT The phone rings. He has no answering machine, only a jangling trapezoidal ancient brick of a phone. He hears it on the third ring, walking home in the dark with his rifle slung over his shoulder, two hares in his opposite hand. Their small feet brush the earth, hanging lifeless. The phone's on to its fifth ring by the time he runs in the back door and scoops the receiver up...

...and to his ear. "Yes?"

The phone clashes against his rifle when he wedges it on his shoulder. The hares still hang from his hand. He furrows his brow, casts a glance toward the wall clock in the kitchen. He makes a quick calculation in his head. From here to Camden, one hour...yes, it should be possible.

"The diner's fine, as long as it's private enough for your purposes."


[Éva]
Fri 02:55 EDT Her own phone is a slim cellular affair, wedged between her chin and shoulder. Papers ruffle, lifeless in her hands, as the phone slips. She grasps for it as it tumbles, and lifts it to her cheek once more. "See you there, then."

Forty-five minutes later, she is in the diner: some booth by the window, far from the smoking section where detectives spend their coffee break (...and then some), far from the counter where beat cops perch at the counter, sampling pastries. It's not like they would welcome her presence among them. She is conscious, now and again, of their eyes upon her, of the murmur of their conversation like a distant tide. Her notes are spread before her. One elbow rests on the chipped linoleum table, fingers splayed open across her forehead, holding the weight of her bent head as she synthesizes and distills the information from her interviews that night.

The lights are bright and artificial and unflattering, at this late hour, to anyone's skin. There is a sallow cast to her skin in such light, at such an hour. The stark shadows highlight the ridge of her cheek, the faint shadows beneath her eyes.


[Santiago]
Fri 03:00 EDT At precisely 3:30am (Santiago is not late. He is early, or he is not there at all) the door to the diner swings open to allow the Forseti entrance. One of the beat cops looks apprehensively in his direction; the other sips his coffee tiredly, distractedly, and obliviously.

He stands just inside the door a moment, scuffing his wet feet on the mat. It's raining again. It's always raining in Jersey. Rain dusts the shoulders of his coat, and catches between the strands of his short black hair. He picks her out of the sparse crowd easily and comes to her table, sliding out of the coat in a single liquid shrug.

It's tossed into the corner of the booth. He sits opposite her and beside his own coat, requesting a turkey sandwich and a glass of orange juice from the waitress. Then, as she moves away, he turns his attention on Eva. Merely, he waits to see what she will say to him.


[Éva]
Fri 03:12 EDT It's always raining in Jersey. This is somehow appropriate, then. The setting. The cops. The waitress, who brings the glass of orange juice and places it before Santiago with a clink, heavy glass on linoleum, then slides her hands to the small of her back and stretches out the kinks as she wanders back for the coffee pot. Refills all around.

Like the beat cops, Éva looks up as the door swings open, as the steady tattoo of rain on pavement becomes a dull roar of sound, as the door swings closed behind him. From beneath the shield of her hand, from behind the armor of her glasses, she watches his approach almost covertly, straightening only when he sits down opposite her.

"Jésus Delasquez." The murmured name is accompanied by an upward sweep of her gaze. She gathers her shoulders and leans forward, her voice quiet. Jésus Delasquez: condemned to death in a sentencing hearing one week after his conviction now lives on death row. The convoluted appeals process has started, of course. It seems endless, it always seems endless, unless its end signifies the end of your life in a 10' by 20' chamber, with straps on the gurney and a needle in your arm and wide glass picture windows so twenty or thirty people may crowd in and watch you die.

From beneath her bright yellow legal pad, she pulls a folded print-out, then slides it across the table to Santiago. He will open it to find a name and a picture: Detective First Class Gary Davis, smiling at the camera. There are other particulars. His date of hire. His promotions. His commendations, all listed on this, the first sheet of his personnel file.


[Santiago]
Fri 03:19 EDT A crisp, almost curt nod to the name. Santiago remembers. He remembers all of them: every last one of the men and women he's condemned to die, killed; found innocent, fought to free.

It's ironic that it is much easier to kill the freed guilty than it is to free the wrongfully condemned.

With a single piercing glance at her, he pulls the fold-out over to himself and unfolds it. Detective First Class Gary Davis. Black eyes skim the brief beneath, and then his long fingers fold it again.

"What is this for?" He lifts the glass of orange juice to his lips.


[Éva]
Fri 03:33 EDT Coffee cools in its ceramic mug, swimming with cream. The waitress refills her mug, then steps when Éva gestures almost curtly, offering a tired half-smile in recompense for the abrupt gesture.

"It's a hunch." She leans forward, the edge of the table pressing into her abdomen, and pitches her voice low, but not too low to carry to him. If she caught the edge of his piercing glance, her response is only a diffident edginess not inappropriate to the hour and the location.

Some wry, half-curved smile. "I heard rather alot from a suspect tonight, about Detective Davis. He does vice in the seventh and eight precincts." Her dark eyes rise, dart over his shoulder, skim over the detectives in their cloud of cigarette smoke, then return, watchful and weary. "She claimed," such precision. Accusations and rumors cannot be flung about without it. "he plays both sides of the fence and said he arrested her because she knew too much." She offers a quiet shake of her head and pinches the bridge of her nose with her delicate fingers. "It's not an uncommon allegation among prisoners, but I've heard the like before."

Her mouth thins, and her eyes grow distant, flickering once more to the detectives beyond his shoulder, the smoke lit by the ghastly flourescent lights. "The last man to make such an allegation, though, hanged himself in his cell before his arraignment. I went back and looked it up. He lived in the Friedrickson's building, before his death."


[Santiago]
Fri 03:39 EDT The flick of her glance over his shoulder is noted but not followed. He frowns at her without speaking, his fingertips resting atop the folded sheet of paper. He is still frowning at her when the waitress serves his sandwich.

"I'd like this to go, please," he says, abruptly turning his attention to the waitress. "Sorry for the trouble."

With a mutter and a glare, the waitress takes the sandwich back to the kitchen. Santiago counts out his bills, covering himself and Eva's coffee. When the waitress reappears he drains his orange juice, takes the doggy bag, and leans forward.

"Walk with me, Ms. Illeshazy."
Back on his feet, sandwich in its bag in one hand, pulling the coat on with the other.


[Éva]
Fri 03:45 EDT "Thank you." - to the waitress, as she returns with Santiago's doggy bag, a tired smile. The Fenrir need not hear her assent. Wordlessly, she gathers her notes and tucks them into her battered attaché case and rises from her seat, sliding the strap over her shoulder so that the scuffed leather bag hangs comfortably at her hip. "Have a good night."

The kinfolk falls into step behind him, pulling her rumpled suit coat straight, smoothing out her skirt. Low heels click on the worn floor with each step as she follows him to the door.


[Santiago]
Fri 03:52 EDT "Which way are you parked?" he asks her as they exit, and then they head in that direction.

For a minute or more they walk in silence. The drizzling rain is cold, running down his neck to seep into his collar. He ignores it utterly. Long have been the hours he's lain in wait on a dark night waiting for prey. A hare. A bird. A guilty man.

Then, "You are saying Delasquez," the full Spanish pronunciation on the name, instinctive and naturally avoiding the Anglicanization of the first syllable. Day, not del, "may have taken the fall for Davis, who may have killed the Friedricksens for knowing too much. Do I read you correctly, kinwoman?"


[Éva]
Fri 04:01 EDT She forgot about the rain. She forgot about the rain when she left the office this evening, and when she left home on her first call of the night. She forgot about the rain throughout the long night, which she spent knocking around the main police station, an unwelcome, necessary intrusion into their domain.

She forgot about the rain, and so know she walks close to the buildings, finding some small protection in their shadow. Arms wrapped around her torso, body hunched just forward, her footsteps clipped and quick and precise on the sidewalk.

"Yes." The stoplight swims through the darkness, a swarm of red, green, yellow smeared by the wet air. The intersection is empty, but she stops to press the walk button. She is not popular with the police: she might be daring arrest by jaywalking. Or perhaps it is merely some muscle memory, captured in echoed movement. "That is what I'm saying. Or, rather, speculating." Rainswept lashes lower, glance away.

The streets are empty, here. In the distance: a siren. In the distance: a siren or three.


[Santiago]
Fri 04:05 EDT She forgot about the rain. He does not care about the rain. So he has no umbrella to share with her, and anyway a little rain would not kill her.

Waiting at the stoplight, he looks at her, looks across the street, looks back. Then he removes the sheet of paper from within his coat and glances at it again. No address listed - but then, he did not need one.

"I will see about this." Looking straight ahead, he puts it back inside his coat. "Have you spoken to anyone else about it?"


[Éva]
Fri 04:12 EDT "Of course not." She offers him a diffident shrug, staring off down the rainslick street. Darkness, there, lit by luminous pools of amber light that glaze the blacktop at precise intervals. The rest of the night recedes into darkness. Above all: the orange sky. "No guarantees about Maria, though." The suspect, then. The tip. Éva's mouth twitches in a faint, wry frown. "She was raving. Likely, she's raving still."

Ahead of them, the police station, a massive brick affair. Beside it, the parking lot toward which she angles their path. Within the parking lot, her car amongst the cruisers, incongruous.


[Santiago]
Fri 04:16 EDT "Try to keep her quiet. Failing that, try to keep away from her. Don't be associated. Are you her defense attorney?" The light changes. He crosses the street with her, rain streaking the brown paper bag in his hand in dots and lines of wet.


[Éva]
Fri 04:19 EDT "I took her statement tonight." Her eyes flicker up to the hulking mass of the police station, the stone and brick architecture, Federal-style. When she glances back at him, sidelong, she offers a quiet shake of her head. "More than that, I don't know. I'll summarize the night's cases, and the supervising public defender will assign them in the morning."


[Santiago]
Fri 04:23 EDT "Don't be associated," he repeats, and then they are at the steps and she's heading up. He stops with a hint of surprise. He had thought she, at this hour, would be headed home.

He on level ground, she two brick steps up: he pauses. "Thank you for calling me, Ms. Illeshazy." A brief, small smile. "Don't work too late."


[Éva]
Fri 04:34 EDT She pivots on the steps, glancing back and just down, so that she may look over her glasses rather than through the wet lenses.

"Of course." Demurral, this, and automatic it is. Her left hand rises to her opposite shoulder, shifting the the strap of her briefcase. For a moment, her eyes flicker across his mouth. His small smile finds some tired echo in the curve of her lips as her hand falls to her side again. Glancing at her watch, "It shouldn't be much longer. The night's almost through."

Turning, then, she finishes the long climb up the long, high steps: granite slicked with rain. The brooding façade swallows her figure, overwhelms, as it was meant to do, the senses: the majesty of government; the implacability of the law. Inside, a different story, as most things are.

At the top of the steps, one hand on the heavy door, she pauses again, and casts a glance back. Her voice rises through the subtle wash of rain. "Drive safely." With this admonition, so absurdly ordinary, she pushes open the heavy wooden door and disappears inside.