[1 x 1] Secrets and Lies

[FerretPrince]

“I've been called as a witness a few times, yes,” Sam answered, just a bit cagily. The problem with calling Sam was that a prosecutor had to be really bloody certain of what he'd say: he would say exactly what he saw or deduced, regardless if it helped or harmed the prosecutor. Their job was to put the defendant in jail. Sam's job was to make sure the right person was in the defendant's chair. Sometimes, he disagreed with what the prosecutor wanted. Maybe that was where the 'unpredictable' reputation had started. And juries were pretty hit or miss with the whole, 'I just notice things'.

The pun at first made a slight whiffling noise as it went over Daley's head. Thankfully, it turned out to be a boomerang and got to the man eventually. Come on, 'torte law'! That was brilliant. But Swan's pun? It was absolutely horrible. Sam groaned at it, which was the pun version of crying out 'bravo'. “Only for trifling matters,” he warned. “Anyway, it was just a statement of fact. Not a comment on your personal appearance at all.” Although, seriously, ********. It was almost unfair for Swan to look that good when he literally had just woken up, the b*****d. Then again, it was totally a win for everyone else. After all, they were the ones who got to see him.

Meanwhile, his very-nearly-shot-in-the-dark had hit some sort of a target. Alright, so it wasn't a complete shot-in-the-dark. More sort of shot-in-the-dusk; he knew his brother's patent lawyer was named 'Swan' and figured there couldn't be many of those running around. Even fewer with a legal career. Something about a family dynasty...? Whatever. He didn't pay attention to those. They happened to other people. “Like I said. I just notice things,” he said instead of explaining, 'overheard my brother mention it once and made a connection'. Honestly, it would probably turn into a conversation about family and they were just barely discovering each other.

That is, learning about each other. Not... discovering... Sam continued to not notice Swan licking his fingers. He not noticed it so intently that he narrowly avoided walking into a pole. Oh yeah. Right. The man who noted cigarette ash----and how deeply it was grounded in----on a shoelace didn't notice the telephone pole right there. Christ, aren't you done yet? I'm sure you've gotten all the sugar. I'd be surprised if there was a single grain left anywhere in the world, now just please stop, he thought as he continued to pretend that none of that was happening.

He considered pointing out that he was on the murder squad; he knew how murder trials worked. Buuuut Swan was just so enthusiastic about the whole thing, he somehow didn't have the heart to say a single thing to the man. (also, he might have still been thinking about the cinnamon-sugar that had coated the man's fingers; clearly, he needed to bring more donuts in the future). “Not armed? Only because he clearly didn't need to be,” Sam said, quickly returning to the present conversation (which he wasn't likely very much). It shouldn't have been possible to fidget while walking, but he somehow managed it. “Didn't you see the pictures in the living room? He'd been abusing her for years. To the point where she couldn't even use the money she earned. He kept track of her pay stubs.”

Escape? Hell. Maybe she'd tried it before. Maybe she feared what would happen if she didn't manage to escape. He shook his head and tried to calm down. He was fine. This was just a case. Practically open and shut. And the sooner it was shut, the sooner he could get on with the next one. Maybe that was why this case had been selected for him: because it was easy. Sort of a way to ease him back into work. Like the murder squad version of traffic duty. Only, instead of traffic duty, they got domestic violence-turned-murder cases.

Apparently, juries weren't the only ones soft on battered spouses. Sam soothed his ruffled feathers and reminded himself that he was talking to the woman's defense. It was fine. He was on her side.

Something about the case tickled the back of his mind: namely that Alice hadn't come up with an alibi beyond 'I don't remember'. And she was drugged too. Would she even have had the strength to fight her husband? If he was weakened enough that he couldn't fight her, then how could she have fought him in a similarly weakened state? Or had she only taken the drugs after to calm her nerves? No, that was stupid. She must have known someone would call the police. Someone would come by to investigate and she would need her full facilities.

“Why did you sign up for this?”

[Le Purpz]

Mm, more of a nightmare scenario then, Daley's brain prompted when the detective inspector became a little defensive regarding his status as a witness on the stand. He could see that much attention to detail going awry in court. Legal counsel got uppity if you went off script or provided more information than necessary. Daley knew this all too well, being someone who relied on cross-examination to escape conviction. Ah well. At least he acknowledged testimony as something not to push Fox on. Leave it until at least day three before they got into arguments. Then he'd at least win his bet with Lizzy.

Not understanding the culture of puns, Daley winced and swore off all future attempts at wordplay when Fox groaned. It was followed by another pun, though. Like it was a sort of verbal tennis match. Oh god, was he expected to come up with more? He hadn't signed up for this. He was pretty sure it wasn't his forte. "Apart from the shaving," Swan amended on his partner's behalf. "Usually getting ready is a piece of cake. But obviously, there was a rush this morning. I had to make Rupert's dinner and put on a sourdough starter before I came down." Daley pulled another chunk of donut from his half of it, preferring to take his time with the piece of pastry. He didn't even notice that he'd made a running pun there.

Like I said, I just notice things. Daley pulled his mouth to one side, trying to figure out if the detective was just having him on. True, he could point out that he'd incorrectly identified the patent lawyer, but... mentioning an ex-husband may just complicate matters. If Samuel was fine with it, then it wouldn't change how they interacted. If he wasn't, then things would get awkward. He'd start jokingly requesting that Daley not fall in love with him (that always got annoying and insulting and was a sure way to quickly kill a friendship). Which-- to be honest...

...Swan paused with a chunk of fried dough between his lips as he cast a sidelong glance in Fox's direction. He wasn't unappealing (in other words, he looked good). He had that sort of disheveled look about him that said: I only speak basic clothes. Please help me, I'm lost. And also in danger of walking into a lamppost. Fox was lucky that Daley had been studying him (that was perhaps the most diplomatic way to describe his glance). "Oh, watch it," Belatedly, Daley made a grab for his colleague's elbow to pull him out of harm's way.

"And I didn't, actually. There was evidence in the photos?" They'd need that if they wanted to argue a risky self-defence plea. Anything that established a long-term pattern of violence would help them -- as sad as that was. "That's exactly the problem with these cases. The law requires equal force, yet one party usually has so much more over the other, equal force is hardly a fair ask-- sorry, you probably know all this already?" Daley ventured, cocking his head at his colleague. He'd been on the force for eight years. He must have done murder before.

To be honest, the question threw him for a loop before he remembered they were doing having introductory intercourse. It was a fair question too, considering the general opinion of defence here seemed to be: don't trust them, they're all corrupt. Especially the Swan, one. He's the most corrupt. Daley clicked his tongue and let out a small sigh, foreshadowing a heavy answer. "Without intending to sound like a righteous t**t," which he was, but he wasn't going to admit to it. Daley balled up the empty paper bag and popped it in the bin. "I'd like to take a more active role in seeing that justice is done. After gaining tenancy, I never had to deal with any real evidence beyond speaking with clients at the Bailey." With the rising sun, Daley found himself a little hot around the collar. He took an index finger and ran it around the neck of his shirt to loosen it a little.

Perhaps Fox's attired was more practical than anything else? "Recently, I've found analysing summaries and briefs... counter to all of that. You must've seen the papers." Ah. And now it was out. Dark brown eyes slid over to his new colleague. There was a shimmer of vulnerability behind them. Swan hoped it wasn't an expression he displayed often. To be weak was... um. Well, it was weak. "How about you. Did they give you a choice in taking me on? Where is this cafe, exactly?"

[FerretPrince]

...Rupert? Not a child, because parents never pass up any opportunity to show off their childrens' pictures. Wedding band? ... Again, his attention flicked back to when he'd first met the man and handed off the donut. Ring on his right hand, third finger. What was that, like divorced? So maybe he had a kid but was divorced... He'd have to wait until he got a peek at Swan's wallet, because every proud father would cart around pictures of their offspring. Possibly Rupert was an animal. Cat? No. Again, flashback to the man's hand, completely unmarked by the frequent scratches that humans owned by cats bore like battlescars. Even Sam sported a few because when Mister decided he didn't like something, he made sure everyone knew he didn't like it.

Dog? No, no fur. Dog hair was attracted to suits like a magnet. Same with feather dust from bird feathers, so presumably Rupert didn't have wings. Some sort of rodent? No, same issue with the fur left behind. … Fish? Did fish require special breakfasts? Would a fish even notice? Sam wasn't stumped often, but he was then and decided to make it a personal project to figure out what Rupert was without asking, because that would ruin the game.

“In my defense, that lamp post was coming right at me,” he said, aiming for another laugh rather than a comment about, 'so if you're observant enough to notice how deep ash is in my shoelaces, why couldn't you see a post?' At least he made an attempt to brush himself off and readjust his jacket, as though Daley might have somehow mussed up his clothes. You know, the ones that looked as though he'd slept in them, regardless of whether or not he had. Honestly, he felt a bit underdressed next to the more snappily-attired Swan. Maybe a tie...? He had a quick visual of what would happen to someone wearing a tie in a fight. 'Oh yes, I like this cop! He comes with his own noose!'

Maybe a clip-on or something...

“The past few years were pretty clearly documented in the photos. At first, Alice stood close to ********. Happy to have an arm around him, have his around her. But then she started drifting away. She stood further apart in pictures, her smile becoming more forced. She wore too much make-up in most pictures, and it still wasn't enough to cover the bruises. I'd say the abuse has been going on for a few years. It looks like the physical abuse started about two years ago,” he answered, still slightly baffled about how someone could miss the family photos in a room with a dead body in it. It was like people completely lacked priorities or something. “I know a bit. I understand the basics.” He paused to take stock of the street before turning. Yes, ok, he knew where he was going. He knew the city like the back of his hand. Better, actually, since he generally didn't study his hand closely all too often.

But the city? He liked to keep it pinned, like a bug in a display case, so he could study it carefully. “No offense, but that sounds more like a prosecutor thing than a defense attorney,” he commented. “Anyway, I agreed to this,” which implied he'd been asked, or at least given an option to opt out, if he felt like it, “Because I wanted to learn more about the law half. That and make absolutely certain that the right person is in the defendant's chair. It's just a few doors down...”

It was a good thing Sam decided to eat before arriving. It wasn't that the place looked bad, exactly. Come on, lots of fine establishments probably had a wild rat squeaking in the alleyway. It was a quality sort of rat, full of fine rodentish features and... yeah. This didn't look like the type of place that passed health inspections. It was broadly aware that health inspections existed and, presumably, it served as an example to others. Negative examples were a thing, right? Deadly warnings and all that? It didn't promise fancy food, but it did promise the sort of nutrients that would stick to your ribs and possibly never leave them. Could a food be fried in grease? No? Give it a try anyway and see what happened. It served plain food to plain men who knew better than to complain because, if they didn't like it, they could just take their business elsewhere. But it had its benefits: for one thing, it offered twenty-four hour food most days----except Sunday-----an absolute boon to uni students and people who worked multiple jobs.

Sam held the door open for Swan and walked in after him and, to be frank, regretted it a little bit. Even the air smelled a bit greasy. While he couldn't exactly complain about food----half of his meals came from places not that much different than this----there was something unsettling about the eatery. There were entirely too many chairs and tables, all pressed too closely together. Plus, if he stood at the bar, he'd have his back to the door. That was upsetting. At least it wasn't crowded. The early morning crowd had barely hustled in, so the customers were a scattered few exhausted uni students who hadn't yet learnt that all-nighters didn't work.

By the look of the woman behind the counter, she hadn't learnt it yet either. Make-up, artfully done, didn't quite cover up the bags under her eyes. She looked to be in her late-thirties, but could have been younger. Some people just grew up fast. Far too fast, in this part of town. At the entrance of the strangers, her expression turned from curious to wary quickly. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” she asked, her voice clearly stating that she knew they weren't from around here.

[Le Purpz]

The barrister chuckled, Cute. That was how he described Fox's firm, but rubbish attempt to save his dignity. It was, unfortunately, the second victim of the morning. No, not cute. Serious police work was what they were doing. They were professionals. Daley tried to straighten himself. "If you want to press charges, I know a half-decent lawyer who could give you some advice," he joked(?) back. Yes, professionals. He wasn't smiling with one corner of his mouth. There was something endearing about noticing details in shoelaces, but missing a massive lamppost. Dangerous, yes. But also endearing. Was he really a police officer?

It was a question easily dismissed when Fox went into his spiel about photos in the flat. Unless he was just the biggest fraud (doubtful), he was some sort of-- police-- super genius. He'd never met anyone who was that clued into the little things that everyone else missed. How had no one snapped this man up already? Oh. Yes. The thing with the therapy. That tempered Daley a little, who was still a little cautious about that. There was a beat of silence before Daley took a breath, eyes on the detective inspector. "Incredible." The word didn't do what he said justice. "That's brilliant." Was he just being a huge idiot? The barrister who was so detached from real world crime that he was blind to the skill and ability that went into detective work? Most of the local bobbies he interacted with seemed to know very little.

He felt like a proper idiot when Fox came right out and said that his motive for being her was so untrue of a defence lawyer's. The opinion was framed with 'no offence', but you know what? It was his choice whether or not he took offence. Hm. He hadn't thought about whether 'Fox' was true in name and personality. Not only that, but he agreed to it, it sort of had an air of... ohhh... Daley didn't know, 'I could have not done it, I thought about not doing it. But then I did'. He didn't turn up to his own party. Lone wolf-- Lone fox, then? "We have a woman who will be accused of killing the person who committed battery upon her person for two years and the pursuit of justice sounds like something prosecuting counsel would say." Daley frowned, he was just confused. Of course Fox was of the popular opinion. There was a negative association with defence counsel. They got criminals off and lowered prosecution rates, which inevitably cut funding in certain areas.

It was all politics.

"Thank you," Daley nodded to the detective inspector when he held the door open. And then he instantly regretted stepping a foot inside. One could tell from the smell in the air that the grease in the fryer needed changing. It had that old, nausea inducing quality to it, exacerbated by his poor physical state. Chicken salt was the next overwhelming smell in the air, followed by generic cleaner. Not a very good cleaner, because everything seemed to be coated in a layer of dark grease.

Daley could feel his pores clogging.

And he never gave a s**t about his pores.

Judging form the prices and the few people in here, it was a hangout for youths. Young people, probably university students. Daley took a breath and boldly wandered up to the counter. He'd considered at least purchasing food from here as an exchange for questions. Now he wasn't sure it was worth the risk. "Yes, hello," he greeted the woman. He didn't notice much about her, beyond the fact that she was a woman and she worked at this... establishment. "This is Detective Inspector Fox and I'm ... Mr. Swan." He needed a more impressive title than 'Mister', hence why he'd led with Fox and not himself. And yet they still sounded a bit like characters from a children's story. Still, he didn't let that deter him.

"Is this where Alice Flannigan works? We were hoping to ask some questions about her and her movements last night." And please don't ask 'What's wrong' or worse, 'Is she dead' or anything else that might be a little bit awkward to answer. Not that he couldn't handle it. He could totally handle it. He just needed a bit of time to get into the swing of things. On a murder case. Where the to-be defendant couldn't remember actually injuring the victim. "What is she like at work?"

[FerretPrince]

“Press charges? No, I couldn't do that. I'm sure the lamp post has learnt its lesson. It's just a one-time mistake, not a pattern of events. I don't want to ruin its life over one mistake.” Right. Now. Was he done with stupid jokes? Proooobably not, because Swan had a truly excellent laugh. Maybe there was something to this whole 'socializing' thing after all... no, that was unfair. It wasn't that Sam didn't like socializing with people. It was just that they didn't socialize with him. He was generally alright for a while, but then he'd stand too close or make a stupid comment or something or people would just get generally uncomfortable with being the focus of his attention.

Whiiiich didn't seem to be happening with Swan. Nope, he continued to be impressed. Again, Sam turned a look on the man, but for once it wasn't the sort of, 'you are talking, so I will watch you, because that is socially acceptable' look. His expression was the regrettable love child between bemusement and curiosity (which explained why there'd been a love child between the expressions in the first place). Eventually realizing that he was staring, he explained, “Not really used to that. Typically by now, people tell me to ******** off already.” Inwardly, he wondered how long Swan's amazement would last.

A few days, tops. Presumably he'd ask to be reassigned at the end of the case. Or possibly sooner. That was Sam's bet with Lizzy, anyway. Honestly, he sometimes felt a little bit bad about making bets, but it was easy money. He couldn't turn up his nose at that and then he'd have food to eat for the next week. But who needed food when he had more than enough of his own foot to eat? He just needed to hear Swan repeat his words back to him in order to understand. “...yeah, ok, I see what you mean,” he reluctantly admitted without saying 'oops, yeah, you're right after all, lawyer'. Granted, if they wanted justice done, then Alice would've been getting a small award for removing a danger to society. Far as Sam was concerned, ******** would have continued his abuse. Maybe not with Alice, but someone.

Buuuut there would be time for judicial debates later. The DI fidgeted again, automatically scanning the counter until he found what he was looking for. The baked goods cabinet contained products that didn't really looked baked. They looked more like they had been forged in the fires of the heart of Mount Doom by some sort of Dark Lord Baker who ruled over his castle of sugar and icing with an iron spatula gripped in a fluffy oven mitt. In other words, they didn't look remotely like anything Sam wanted in his mouth. But the reflection was comforting. If he kept the angle juuuust right, he could see over his own shoulder and out the window. Good. Soothing. He clued back into the conversation shortly after Swan's introductions.

The woman's body language changed. Before she'd been suspicious and worried, but now every line of her ample figure read 'anxious'. “Alice? Yeaaaaaah,” she said slowly, eyes flicking from DI to the man identified only as 'mister'. Somehow, that was worse than an actual title. “Alice is a good worker. Quiet. She gets her job done and works extra hours whenever she's asked. If she's in trouble, it's probably something someone else dragged her into...” the woman said.

“Did she have any friends like that?”

“Nnnnooo, not really. She's friendly, but she doesn't go out of her way to be friendly, if you catch my drift. She just wants to do her job and get home. She's popular with customers...” the woman stopped and bit her bottom lip. To say, or not to say... it wasn't any of her business but... “Look, if she's run off, do her a favor: let her stay gone. Her husband's a mean drunk.”

Ah. So more people knew about it and did nothing... Well, what can they do? Alice is the only one who could have left him. Other people can't do that for her, Sam reminded himself. And it's not like they could report it. If they did and Alice decided not to press charges, it would only make ******** angrier... Sam's expression remained unchanged, staying perfectly flat. Dully interested, but not enthusiastic. Nope, just gathering information, no personal feelings at all... “Do you think she's going to run?”

Tips. How are tips calculated again? Like... are those included in pay stubs? Did she have a bolt hole to get away to? Was she planning on it? More questions for later, Sam decided.

“I've been telling her to get herself to a shelter for years now, but she never took my advice seriously... she just kept saying she's just clumsy. She never dropped a plate on the job, though, except when some dickwad grabbed her arse.”

[Le Purpz]

... Too soon? It was still a witticism, it was funny. He should joke back. He needed something about lampposts and violence. Swan smiled at his detective inspector. "A metal pole learnt a lesson from you," Daley abridged with mock amusement. "You must bring a whole new meaning to the term hard-headed," he meant it kindly, in a joking sort of way like 'shut up'. Hm. Maybe that wasn't the best route of comedy to go, since that one had gone so poorly in the first place? Perhaps he'd taken it a step too far like almost everything else in his life. If Swan were less mathematically inclined, he'd say he always gave 110%.

And yet his 110% felt like it paled in comparison to the natural talent of one Mr. Fox. He was going to feel stupid if it was all an act, but for now he couldn't see how it was a party trick. ...He was getting stared at Swan returned the look with a step-sibling expression of bafflement an curiosity. He arched an eyebrow when Fox admitted that his perception irritated people more than it piqued their interest. The barrister licked his bottom lip and after a moment's thought added. "The people who tell you to '******** off'," he enunciated the swear like it was a sweet to be savoured. "Are the people who have something to hide." Swan dipped his chin a little to give Fox an 'I know what I'm talking about' glance. "They're angry at themselves, not you."

As a defence lawyer, he'd heard that many times from his own clients. The ones who didn't quite understand the legal system. The people who thought that he was there for an easy carving. The ones who assumed he'd talk them into pleading guilty. They were all terrified of what they'd done (or perhaps more that they'd gotten caught?), either way. The angry ones were just afraid that you'd find out what horrible crime they'd committed.

At least they were clear on one thing: It wasn't just prosecutors who could get up on their high horse about seeing justice done (by making sure criminals got away). In Daley's unbridled opinion, that he was definitely keeping to himself, that job depended more on the police getting the right person. All a prosecutor had to do was paint by numbers. But then, he was quite biased against his other half of the profession... for a number of reasons. Really, the only way to prove his ideology was to do well on this case. He'd been given a client who the media couldn't bash. If he got the woman off, they actually couldn't point the finger at him and say, 'Hah! Look at him, keeping criminals out of jail!'

He stood a little taller in front of the waitress (and ignored the 'pastries' in the display case that were literally sucking out his soul because they looked so bad). And dear god, he needed a better title than 'mister' like... 'Legal Representative Swan, or... hell, even Defence Counsel Swan'. It still wasn't as impressive as Detective Inspector. Still, later. Right now they had to get a fleshed out picture of Alice's life. Apparently, her relationship with her husband was Leyton's worst kept secret.

Not that friendly with her coworkers (but then again, who was), but popular with the customers. That meant tips, yes? As the thought blossomed over Swan's synapses, Fox had already asked the question. It sounded like someone motivated to earn decent tipping in order to exact escape. Tips weren't taxed, there was no paper trail. To be honest, it wasn't the best strategy to increase one's income, since everyone he knew was averse to the idea of tipping people for a job they were already paid for. 'I kept someone out of prison today. Tomorrow, they get to wake up in their home rather than a cozy cell. Do you see anyone slipping me a fiver?' They'd say as they unlocked their pristine, jet black Jag.

"How did she react when someone committed an assault upon her--" No, try that again. Daley shot a glower at the three-day old custard square. It was distracting. "How did she react when a customer grabbed her?" He questioned using a much simpler vernacular. "Was there any action taken against him?" In other words, did she have the capacity to feel anger or violence towards someone who'd wronged her? That was what the prosecution would want to show.

"How often does that sort of behaviour happen?" Going from the tropes and clichés he understood of waitressing, there had to be some sort of precedent for it. He'd never partaken in it, but then he'd never felt an ounce of appeal for the human female behind. And anyway, it first required him to eat at places like this before any untoward behaviour could happen. "And if so, is Alice a regular target?"

[FerretPrince]

Ha. Sure, Swan was saying that now... Fox would give him a few more days before the lawyer decided he was tired of it. He'd probably hang in there until the end of the case, because it looked bad for a lawyer to throw his hands up right in the middle and walk out, but he wouldn't come back. Best not get too attached to him then, Sam decided, which wouldn't be easy. He got attached to anyone who offered him food. Even if he was the one who'd bought the donut in the first place. (in truth, being given compliments was more important to him than food, even ones as simple as, 'no, it's ok, they're just angry at themselves, not you'. Christ, did that even count as a compliment...? ********, this was something he'd have to talk over with his therapist, wasn't it?)

But first, he had a job to do. His heart rate calmed a bit at the reminder. It was wrong to find comfort in work, but he didn't have much else in his life. At least it gave his manic energy something to do, something to focus on. Without an external project, it would inevitably turn inward. A secret bank account. It would take time to amass enough money with tips, but she could have a secret account somewhere. Maybe her husband found out about it and that set him off. But what about the drugs? He glanced around the cafe once more-----perhaps the term 'greasy spoon' was more appropriate------to glean clues.

Most of the clientele were students. Sleepy-eyed desperate young men and women who just wanted cheap food before shoving off to get back to studying or possibly partying. But... it was Leyton... drug deals were practically the staple of the economy. But students? Usually they dealt in stimulants, not tranquilizers (even now, a few students were shuffling out just a bit too nonchalantly). Date rape drugs, maybe... but her husband had been poisoned too. Why would she poison him and herself? Drugging him, Sam could understand that. Without a gun, Alice's only option would have been a physical confrontation and she was probably fifty kilos soaking wet. So get him sleepy and easier to kill. Maybe the drugs in his system had been the intended method of death.

God, this is sounding premeditated... he reflected. But that was Mr. Swan's problem, not his. His job was to go, 'yes, here is what happened and here is how I know that'. Everything else was up to the lawyer half. ...but she doesn't deserve prison. She must have been terrified... unless she was just a really good actress, but that was a stupid theory: a killer would have come up with a better alibi than 'I don't remember'.

...did that trifle just move. I'm certain it did. And I'm almost positive that croissants aren't supposed to have that greenish sheen on them... Right. Back to the conversation. Keeping a wary eye on the case, he returned to listen and deduce.

“She dropped a plate out of surprise and ran to the loo,” the waitress answered. “When she came out, she was sorry for breaking the plate and got back to work.” The question of whether or not the customer ever faced charges was met with a scoff. What? That sort of thing was horrible for business. Besides, it was just a pinch. Why would they ruin some poor sop's life over a little mistake?“All he did was give her a pinch. He didn't mean anything by it, besides just showing some appreciation for her.”

Sooo... in other words, her natural tendency was to flee from situations. Not exactly cold and calculating. “Did she say she wanted to press charges?” he asked, suddenly suspicious that the older woman might have talked Alice out of it. His estimations of the woman dropped by a few points.

“No. I mean, not as far as I know. She never reported it. I guess the customer was pretty embarrassed over the whole thing, because he never came back. Loyal customer too, been coming here for months.” Not that the cafe was in any danger of being shut down. At least, not unless the copper stayed there... the waitress attention wavered towards the door, worried about the uni students slowly slinking away. Bad for business. That's what cops were. She shrugged. “It's just a workplace hazard. There's no harm to it. Usually, the tips are better if you just put up with it and it's not really hurting anyone. Like I said. Alice is popular with customers.”

“So she got a fair amount of tips then?”

“Mhm. She had a few regulars who would come in. Mostly early morning, so I guess they all work night shifts.”

[Le Purpz]

Ugh, god he was so glad he as no longer a student anymore. Terrible food and no time to bake? The worst period of his life. Um. Well. He glanced down to where he couldn't see his worn, unpolished wedding band. One of the worst periods of his life. Of course... If... he had to speak under oath, on occasion, when he'd had too much the night before, he'd eaten at places like this with his fellow students. But those were wild, crazy days of his youth. He wasn't responsible for the questionable consumables he ate -- everyone was doing it. He just wanted to fit in.

Now really wasn't the time to get distracted. But God, Daley wished he was home now. He could whip up a batch of apricot turnovers, or custard squares, strawberry tart with a balsamic glaze, or even a cake. He could bake circles around the whole cabinet. Later. Later, Swan. Ask questions now, bake later. Focus on the woman behind the counter, and what she was saying about his client. She ran into the loo after she had her bum pinched by someone in the cafe...

...

...Could he go home now? "Oh, I don't know. Because it can be a precursor to a much more serious offence?" Daley sniped without really meaning to. Call it a lapse in concentration while he was off fantasising about crème angalise and choux pastry. But to be fair, if people put a stop to this sort of thing with social policing, then he'd have far less sexual assault cases to defend. It might mean less work, but it also meant less sexual assault cases. Whoops. But they were trying to get these character witnesses to open up and talk freely about Alice at her place of work. The word 'appreciation' made his nose wrinkle a little.

Defendants accused of sexual crimes were the worst. Not simply because of the crime they had committed, but they never wanted to accept what they'd done. It was easy to justify in their mind. 'I didn't do it, because I was just showing a bit of appreciation and she took it the wrong way'. Thankfully, Fox saved him with more follow-up questions while Daley brooded over the nature of sexual offending.

He hadn't come back because he was embarrassed? Or did he just have a guilty conscience and was concerned about someone taking down his personal details in the event that charges were pressed... Daley snarked to himself. "A workplace hazard," Swan repeated with ripe skepticism. No, not changing the oil in the deep fryer was a workplace hazard. Leaving a cord extended over a corridor was a workplace hazard. Not having your desk chair that the correct height was a workplace hazard. "Right..." He wasn't convinced. Poor Alice. This wasn't the sort of life he'd envisioned for her when they'd both been ten years younger.

"So if we stop by, say tomorrow morning, we might bump into them?" It couldn't hurt. The crime had occurred at nighttime. Was there a chance that one of them had seen something...? Or knew something? It felt like he was grasping at straws already and the case had only been open for about two hours. "What days do they usually stop by." You know, assuming that was the sort of thing one paid attention to when one was waitressing. He had no idea, he'd never done minimum wage like this. Even these days he had little cause to remember the people that came through his door. People were generally assigned things like, 'Police Officer Who Works With Me If I Have Biscuits On My Desk'. Usually that was just shortened in his brain to a fuzzy mental image of a nice police officer who needed to lose a bit of weight but couldn't say no to a chocolate chip biscuit.

"Did she ever spend a lot of time talking with her regular customers?" Daley probed with curiosity. So far, the people that knew Alice only knew her on the level of passing acquaintances. People who saw the violence, but never thought to intervene because they didn't care about her all that much. "Oh, and did her husband ever come past the shop?" That might explain why he got needlessly jealous. True, he could just be the paranoid type. He could've invented fictitious love interests for his wife, that wasn't uncommon. But it may explain it better if he'd put faces to names, so to speak.

[FerretPrince]

'Boys will be boys'. Sure, technically pinching was just a minor offense, compared to, say, the murder they were supposed to be investigating. People laughed it off. It was like pants-snatching or something. Immature, certainly, but not a thing most people worried over. But... he was concerned. It translated to a very basic lack of respect for someone else's personal space. 'My time and enjoyment is more important than your sense of safety', it said. Hardly the victimless crime the waitress was making it out to be. She's probably dealt with it too, once or twice, Sam realized. Somehow, that made it worse. She knew what it was like and ignored it anyway, because complaints would cost her customers. His lips tightened into a thin line, but Swan took the opposite route of letting his mouth open.

“Haven't gotten any reports of anything worse yet,” the waitress replied, rather mildly.

“All that means is that no one's reported it,” Sam pointed out. But they weren't here to give the woman a sexual harassment seminar. They were here to find out more about Alice and how she dealt with stress. Sam dealt with his own by taking a deep breath and reminding himself that he had a case to deal with. Mostly, it sounded like Alice was non-confrontational. She accepted the harassment and moved on without complaint. And no wonder; her husband had undoubtedly 'taught' her what happened to her if she complained about anything. Sam's stomach rolled and it had nothing to do with the pastries that were staring at him (he was pretty sure the eclair just winked at him).

He took another slow look around the room, partly out of habit and partly because he wanted to see who was taking an interest. People leaving were of no concern; they were the ones who were just dealing drugs. But if someone was overly interested in Alice, they would have snapped up to attention the second they heard her name. But everyone seemed to just be keeping their heads down and minding their own business, drinking their instant coffee and trying to get in a few minutes of studying for some big exam.

“Does the morning crowd normally skew this young?” he asked. She hadn't mentioned an age range yet. Just that Alice was 'popular' with customers, especially those coming off from a night shift. “And did she come in again after her shift ended...? Today, I mean.” Where else could she go? Well, there was her mum. She'd definitely know what her daughter's personality was like, but the second she caught whiff that she was a suspect, the mum would clam up. It was, apparently, what mothers did. Just another benefit of having a defense attorney along, Sam decided.

Again, there was the moment where the waitress had to decide which question to answer first, as they rather ran all over each other. “Yeah, you're likely to run into them if you come in early tomorrow. I guess this means I shouldn't expect her in tomorrow? s**t.” Well, there were always plenty of other people looking for jobs in this economy. She'd get Alice's slot filled in quickly (probably another reason why there were never any complaints; it was so much easier to just fire a worker than it was to go through court, which would cost them a customer. Again. Economy. Every customer was valuable and certainly harder to find than a girl willing to wait tables). “That crowd usually is a bit older. Dunno what their jobs are. All I know is that they come in off the night shift.” Had to, right? To swing by around one am or so?

“Anyway, I wasn't in earlier. My shift just started an hour ago. Sorry. Although... there is one customer... he spends a lot of time staring at her. Sometimes they talk. I think he's a bit shy, personally.”

“So he's not a... 'hazard', as you put it?”

“No, not at all. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't know what to do with a naked woman if he saw one, the poor sod. Kind of awkward, you know? I think he's just sweet on her...” she took a look around the cafe, rising on her toes. “He's not in here now. Come back in the morning around four and he'll probably be in. He usually is. She talks to them when they talk to her. She's a listener. Customers like that.” Mostly, they liked to be the center of attention for a pretty girl. “Her husband came by sometimes. He'd just walk by. Never came in. Huh. Like this place just isn't good enough for him.”

[Le Purpz]

That was always the misconception. It wasn't being reported, so it mustn't be happening. Daley had consumed his fair share of police arrest annual reports. They documented a variety of demographics on everything from arrests right through to convictions. A bit like the stock market for crime, was what it was. Over the past four years, there'd been more violent crime reported over all, but there was a drop in financial, and so on. But the one problem was recycled every year: arrests were no indication of how often a crime was actually committed.

Daley opened his mouth, but Fox was there to save him the effort by pointing this out. Oh. The barrister's bristled feathers quivered and settled. Match point to the detective inspector who got dressed in the dark. Did he even own a tie...? The brunet cast a quick look at his colleague's throat. The jury was still out on that one. He said no more on the issue, but instead stood with quiet approval of his partner's statement. Perrrhaps Lizzy had it right when she said they'd make a good team (unbeknownst to him, she had a fully biased interest in Daley sticking out. She had a tenner riding on this one).

...Alright, now he was staring at his not unappealing detective inspector. He righted his gaze to the waitress. "Ah, no. No, probably not," Daley confirmed. She'd probably have a date with him in a police interview room being asked far too many questions. She probably didn't have any answers. Hm. He ought to find out when that was happening as her legal counsel. They needed to have a proper, confidential chat about what was happening. Hm. Later.

Now. Alice had daily interaction with older people off a night shift. What, like security? Food service? Bar? ... How late did bars stay open? He had no idea anymore. Either way, poor Alice. She just seemed to attract all the wrong sorts. Bum pinchers, oglers , abusers, and at least one drug dealer. She might just be the one person with a worse taste in men than him by that list--

"Four," the pain was clear on Daley's face. Jesus Christ, he thought he'd already done his part this morning getting up at four. Trrrue, he could possibly just leave it up to Fox and get the detective inspector to report back to him. You know, like the days before his 'I'm going to take an active role in seeing that justice is done' days (were they really yesterday? It felt like he'd been doing this for a week already). But that wasn't the point, was it. The two of them were supposed to work together, as a unit. The assumption was things would be less corrupt that way? "Good lord." Daley realised then that his exclamation of 'four' had been verbal and not solely internal. Whoops. He straightened his suit jacket and tried not to feel silly.

Husband did stalk her a bit, probably to make sure that she was at work. You know, to ensure that she wasn't off somewhere conspiring against him or something. He couldn't blame the man in one regard: A raccoon was too good for this place. "What nonsense. He sounds like a right snob," Daley asserted dryly. One didn't need to be Sam Fox to see that the barrister didn't have a high regard for the establishment or the people it employed. "He never spoke with any customers that Alice got along with, then. Although he must've witnessed the odd lengthy chat." So... from his perspective, the paranoia was very real? There was a male threat aimed right at his wife? His property. Funny how some people just didn't understand that they were beyond that now.

There was still a sense of ownership. I'm yours, you're mine. 'We're madly in love so the best thing to do is to get the state involved. That's a real expression of affection'. Daley cleared his throat. "Right, well thanks for letting us ask a few questions. I suppose we'll let you get back to it?" They were holding up the queue. Er. That was. If your definition of queue included one person. God, it was a bit awkward segueing out of co-questioning. He'd finished with all of his questions. But he had no idea if Fox had more. He cocked an eyebrow at the other gentleman just to check.

[FerretPrince]

Aaaand Swan was staring at him. Sam fidgeted again and dutifully avoided making indirect eye contact in the pastry cover. It meant not looking at the eclairs, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't attack just because he wasn't looking at it. Everyone knew eclairs were peaceful grazers. But that slice of cake, the painfully pink one? That looked like a predator just waiting for a moment. He took the risk anyway, because being the focus was... well, it was weird. Uncomfortable. If he made a mistake, it would be noted, calculated and possibly reported (???) because he still suspected the reason he'd been asked to take on a partner was simply to have someone there. That and the case was pretty open and shut. A battered spouse snapped and killed her husband in an act of aggressive self-defense. He was hardly needed at all. It was practically a case with training wheels on it.

Thank god Swan's attention diverted itself back to the waitress. Sam breathed out, not even remembering when he'd started to hold his breath. Night shifts: security guards, possibly from the university. Bartenders. Students getting away from classes...? No, she said the ages skew upwards, so let's go with someone whose graduated... there were a lot of possibilities, ranging from cab drivers to doctors. Anyone who worked odd hours. Ah well. He'd just have to wait until they met the man before Sam could deduce further.

“Aw, don't think of it so badly. It'll be just like being in law school again,” he quipped, catching Swan's displeasure with being expected to get up at four in the morning. Earlier, actually, because after today's deductions he will want to take the chance to shower, scour the nicotine from his fingers, and shave more carefully... Come on, what did Swan really expect? That criminals would take one look outside and go, 'oops, no, wait, it's still dark out, better get back to sleep'? Nah, they were like birds going after early worms of victims. Besides, he really, really doubted that it would be the first time the lawyer was up at some absurd hour. Law school was like any other degree, right? Lots of early mornings, late nights, and prayers that caffeine and maybe a greasy breakfast could take the place of sleep. Those were Sam's memories, anyway.

“We can't all have nine to five jobs,” said the waitress with another shrug, which Sam was beginning to understand was body language for, 'I really don't feel interested enough in this to give a s**t one way or the other, I just want you out of my cafe as soon as possible because you're scaring away the customers'. “Actually... now that you mention it... a few times, she'd come in with a new story about how she 'fell down' after she spoke to male customers...”

Poor Alice. Damned if she did, damned if she didn't, and always caught between trying to please some man. Fired if she didn't put up with it, beaten if she didn't at home... yeah. Sam could definitely see how even the most mild-mannered of people could have snapped. The only sticking point was the drug. Whatever she was on. Maybe she took it to help her sleep. Who knew. Maybe she really had taken a bit too much and genuinely wasn't aware of her own stabbing actions...

“Ah, no. No more questions, thank you for your time. Here's my card, if you remember anything else about Alice or any customers of hers...” Quite frankly, he was glad to escape from the confines of the cafe and practically bolted out the door. “Worst case scenario,” he said, mostly to hear his own voice over his heartbeat, “We can always see what's on the CCTV's.” First they just had to find out if there were any stationed outside of Alice's flat building, see if she had even gone outside of the building or had just sat outside of her door.

Too bad the CCTVs in the area were often vandalized. Vandalizing public property was practically the national sport of Leyton (which said quite a lot about London, that each burough could have a national sport).

“What do you know about her family?” seemed like a place to start. Sam started automatically reaching for a cigarette again, but forced himself to stop and just stick his hands in his pockets instead. He had to start cutting back sometime. Now seemed as good a time as any.

[Le Purpz]

Yes, a case with training wheels if you just wanted to get a murder or manslaughter conviction. It was bloody unicycle with a wonky wheel if you wanted to give your client a fair trial under the law. Self-defence was archaic. It was created for Men who exchanged fisticuffs and brought knives to knife fights. All of the law was constructed with men in mind. Like provocation: an excuse for men who flew into a fit of rage when they their masculinity was challenged; like his wife's infidelity. It wasn't created for a woman who felt trapped to the point where killing their spouse was the only way out of their own, private hell. Yes, the law was changing, but judges were still protective of loosening the judicial meaning of well-established defences.

But all of that was for later. Possibly never. Daley had studied the academic theory behind criminal jurisprudence and applied criminal law. He understood that tradition was more precious than laws that actually did what you wanted. People like tradition. They were happy putting someone's future in the hands of twelve strangers. They didn't mind a bench of judges who were all from the same socio-economic band and the same political leaning. These were thoughts Daley had to keep out of his career... peeerrhaps only bringing them out after a little too much red wine with other colleagues.

Not that he ever went out with colleagues. Although he had found modern jurisprudence a fantastic date killer, which was sort of ironic. Daley performed a scoffing eye roll when Fox suggested he made a habit of existing at the same time as 4am on a regular basis. "Perhaps on a bad day. But I've made it my personal mission to stay as far away from four in the morning as much as possible. That guy is bad news." You could only sustain a diet of caffeine and three hours sleep for so long. The last thing you wanted on an exam was a brain puttering along on no fuel. He'd read studies on the brain and achieving optimal memory -- it seemed like the only way to successfully memorise all those tort cases.

He felt a bit ganged up on when the waitress reprimanded him for having a nine to five. Really, was she actually shitting him. True, she didn't know that he was a lawyer by trade, but all the same. If that was a nine to five then ER doctors only worked weekends. He just-- managed to ensure that he never had to be up at three or four to start his work day. Mrrf. Swan rolled his shoulders as he swanned out of the cafe, arms loosely folded over his chest. "Do you always hand out cards to everyone you meet? Or just the special ones?" Daley questioned, more to distract himself from the pointless frustration. So what if a couple of waitresses thought he was some suit-wearing, cushy nine-to-fiver. As tendrils of warm sun greeted him outside, he wondered if he should've been more palatable for potential future witnesses. Swans weren’t obsequious souls by nature. He was finding the will to care tough to muster.

He was so lost in his own head; he failed to notice how Fox bolted for the exit. Quite the contrary, he felt peaceful as they hit the street, away from the silly waitress. "If it's working," the barrister amended, thinking much along the same lines as his detective inspector. "There's always a five second delay, or it's fuzzy, or lost, or broken. Of course, the one time it does work is when you're defending someone for assault. The camera captures with impeccable clarity your client head-butting a man," Daley reminisced. He sounded wistful as he recounted, squinting a little bit when the rising sun hit his eyes. "He wipes the blood from his forehead and almost looks directly at the jury as he mouths 'Do you ******** want some more?'. The answer is no, by the way, because the witness is lying unconscious on the floor." He would apologise for his garrulous speech, but he quite liked talking... around the right people.

Fox was apparently one of those people. "Hm?" His brain jerked back to his current case, not cases past gone. "Oh. Not a whole deal. Her mother almost didn't make it to the hearing, she was five minutes late. But the judge loved her. She had him eating out of the palm of her hand. Not a whole lot of family, I never learned if her father was still around. I think her landlady was the next closest person to her, other than her partner at the time." Daley paused, and tried not to feel like he wanted another cigarette. His tongue probed his cheek. "Do you think her mother gave up on her after a point? Perhaps they live in different cities now?"

...They were walking, but Daley had no idea where they were headed. He perked when he realised this, looking about him as though he'd just figured out that he was in Leyton. "What's next on the agenda? I imagine they're taking Alice in to be processed today. Questioning this afternoon or tomorrow? She didn't look like she was in much of a state to give a statement. Was she also under the influence?" God, get him alone and he wouldn't shut up.

[FerretPrince]

“Bad news? Pffft. You're just judgmental. Four am isn't that bad, once you get to know it. Call it an acquired taste.” Yes, 'acquired'. 'Stockholm syndrome' was probably a better name for it. It was less about getting to like being up at four am and more about going 'well, this isn't that bad... it hasn't killed me yet, so it must like me'. Once out of the grease-filled cafe----seriously, what did they think the major food groups were? Grease, sugar, burnt crunchy bits, and fat? That was a bit rich coming from a man who bought most of his 'meals' from street carts-----Sam felt much better. Heart rate down and things didn't feel so crowded and cramped. Like he could actually breathe again, even though he ached to fill up his lungs with smoke again. Come on, it hadn't even been twenty minutes. He was trying to cut down. Just focus on the case...

Or on poking fun at his business cards. “Oh, I'm sorry. Are you jealous? Do you want a business card too?” Actually, that was a point. They were working together (at least for the duration of this case). Presumably, they'd have to have a way to contact each other besides smoke signals (which may have meant setting fires or just lighting up a cigarette and hoping to summon the fellow nicotine addict). “Anyway, you never know. They might remember something important. Maybe they won't even realize it's important.”

The little clues mattered. It was a bit like string theory: everything big was made up of tiny little things, all vibrating together. By that logic, crimes were made up of little things. A person just had to notice them and figure out how they fit into the big picture. Not noticing things was a bigger problem for Sam. Like that car. Plenty of black cars in this city, he reasoned, trying to convince himself he hadn't seen it earlier. And, if I have, it must just be looking for a parking place. Because who didn't do their shopping in a bad part of town at five in the bloody morning? Nice car too, out of place in this part of Leyton. Wrong turn, probably.

Must be, right?

He jerked back to attention as Daley did, figuring that his partner(???) must have seen something. Rather like a deer cuing into the reaction of a herd member. But, nope. Just Swan talking about a case he once worked on and how the cameras worked whenever it was least convenient. “Is there more to the story? Because it sounds like the system actually worked for once.” The cameras caught someone doing the thing and, presumably, they were convicted for doing the thing. Was Daley really complaining about not getting the guy off when he did assault someone?

…

yeah, probably, but what did Sam really expect from a defense lawyer? Well, now he really wanted that cigarette. They had a bit of a walk ahead of them anyway. He fumbled out the packet again and tapped out another cigarette, offering it automatically to Swan. That was just polite. Plus, it didn't look like Swan was handling the urge any better than he was. He lit his own quickly, trying to soothe his nerves before they got out of hand. Horrible habit, but it actually worked and worked fast. “Considering the usual pattern, it's more likely that her mum was slowly shut out of her life. Alice was probably too embarrassed to ever see her because of her bruises. Would've made it very easy for ******** to isolate her...”

He shrugged. “But you say she's sympathetic. Maybe she could be a character witness.” They still did that, right? People who stood up and said things like, 'yeah, maybe he disciplines his kid a bit harshly, but look at all the good he does in his community' or 'please, let my [murderous] child live, he's all I have left and I'm just a poor old woman'. But that was the defense attorney's job to worry about, not Sam's. His job was, theoretically, already finished since it really looked like Alice had simply snapped under pressure and then calmly gave her husband drugs in an attempt to kill him. When that didn't work, she had to resort to the knife.

But... it didn't feel right. He could feel the edges of something bigger, but couldn't quite grasp it yet. Best just keep digging until he figured out what he was looking at. “She looked like it. Dilated pupils, slurred, and unable to remember anything. Drugs given to her husband, I understand. Could have been an attempt to kill him without risking further injury to herself.” Stabbing was... well, it was an immediate threat response. And the cuts to the man's hands had been shallow, like the killer wasn't absolutely certain she'd wanted to do that. But, if they were both drugged, he still should have been able to overpower her.

“Something doesn't seem right. The pieces aren't fitting yet. I'm gonna go back to the scene for another look until the drug tests are in or Alice is more coherent.” There. Solid goal in his mind.

Goal one: Get to crime scene.
Goal two: find thing
Goal three: ????

[Le Purpz]

He got the feeling Fox was right, he was judgmental -- perhaps that was premature for him, since he had yet to ascend to judge's bench. Would people even want him on a judge's bench? Probably not. Not even Dad could help him out with that one-- Not that he wanted that to be the case. And regardless of how he climbed the ranks, people would always assume it'd been through slipping the right people a lot of dirty money. Or threats, threats worked too if the conversations he'd overhead as a child were anything to go by.

Anyway. Daley gave a little shake of his head. "You've acquired a taste for four in the morning, then?" It sounded like it. He had the vague impression that Fox was trying to convert him to a very limp cult. At every strike of four, a sacrifice was made. No surprises: It was sleep. Daley paused as he considered that a moment. Being up at 4 meant sleep had to some point. "...How do you feel about four in the afternoon?" He asks, making no attempt to hide his sly tone. He couldn't... not sleep. How could anyone live like that? True-- He didn't have the best schedule either. He fell asleep at his desk and achieved keyboard face.

...So maybe he couldn't talk. But four in the morning was just... taking the piss. "Yes, I'm jealous of your business card, Detective Inspector Fox," he used the kind of sarcasm that he was familiar with. But he meant it as a bit of banter. He hoped smiling might mitigate any sting. That would be awkward if they didn't get along after the first day. So far (and it'd only been a few hours), he liked Fox enough. And he had a good point, they might remember something and who's card had they been given first? Fox's. It was a pretty good strategy, come to think of it. Sort of like legal who chased down ambulances? Only the ambulances were witnesses?

Not that he could talk, being a defence counsel who judged evidence based on how good at was at getting his client off. Swan looked a little taken aback when his colleague(???) pointed this out. What was he complaining about, the facts had spoken for themselves, and justice had been done. "Yes, it's just-- Sod's law, isn't it," that was what he was getting at. The CCTV only worked when you really didn't need it to. Hm. That was a bit uncomfortable. Had he said the wrong thing? By the time he'd slid his gaze over to partner(???) he'd offered a cigarette.

...Daley considered it a second and then took what was given. Along with it came the usual self-critical voices that condemned him for succumbing twice in one morning. The part of him that claimed to not give a s**t reminded him that he'd seen a dead body this morning, so that justified it. He felt bad for bumming two smokes off of his new colleague. And a cup of coffee. "I owe you one," he assured himself as he lit up. No, he owed him several really.

Swan hated himself, but he felt a lot better when he put the cigarette to his lips. He listened to Fox as he made a stab at Alice and her mum's relationship. It made a lot of sense -- he'd probably seen a lot of it in his time on the force. "Maybe." He exhaled, the smoke caught in a summer breeze. "As long as they don't bring up her past drug charge. If there's something in their systems, prosecution might want to cross-examine her on that." He said might, they definitely would (as long as they could argue that it was relevant to this case). Anything that cast Alice as a person worthy of punishment in the eyes of the jury.

The golden rule of defence work was: the less evidence, the better. Keep everything out, strip the prosecutions case away from them so they didn't have a leg to stand. "What if he took them himself?" Swan mused as he took another drag. He didn't know what that did to the case. Either way, it looked like Alice had taken advantage of his state. He needed to talk to her again. Preferably when she was more coherent. Asking her about the drugs, her mum, get a better idea of what happened. "Oh, right... You're going to the crime scene." That meant he... wasn't? Maybe he should just shadow Alice until he was allowed to give her proper counsel.

"Either way," Swan started, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette. The cigarette that Fox had given him. "I'll buy you a pint at the end of the day." That would be one way to pay him back for the cigarettes. God, he wasgoing to have to start carrying around his own packs again, wasn't he. If not for him, then to at least stay even with Fox.

[FerretPrince]

“Well, I acquired a sort of Stockholm syndrome for it. That's practically the same thing.” Come on, join a cult!, he said. It'll be fun!, he said. All shall bow before our master once sleep has been done away with!, he didn't say, but it was pretty clearly implied once the whole 'cult' thing was out in the open. Instead of wine, the Cult of the Sleepless drank coffee. Lots and lots of strong coffee, with tea reserved for holidays. “Four pm is alright.”

No, it wasn't. The roads were packed with mums trying to get their kids home from school or music or sport practice (whatever it was kids did these days), people getting home from work (seriously, was there just some sort of memo that Sam just didn't get that said work ended at four pm and everyone had to be home by sunset?), and struggles to get to the shops. Oh god, the shops were absolute nightmares. He'd inevitably fumble something over the pin machine and someone else would feel like he was taking too long and lose their temper. Much easier to just go to a little corner store at three in the morning where he could figure things out at his own pace. But, as an hour on its own, four pm wasn't bad, really. So long as he got to stay home and not do anything or at least had a case to look over.

“You could always get your own made up, Legal Counsel Swan.” Seriously, what kind of lawyer didn't have his own business card? At least, Sam assumed Swan didn't have his own, otherwise he would have been handing them out like candy. His steps slowed as he took out his wallet-----next to a window so he could keep an eye on the street----and pulled out a card for his new colleague (???). Well, even if Swan left eventually, he'd probably at least hang out until the end of the case. From an investigative perspective, it wasn't a difficult one and the legal half wasn't technically any of his concern. His job was to go, 'yes, this is the person what probably done it' and get them to court. Right now, that person was looking like Alice.

Emphasis on looking. It was probably better that he not be present at delicate questioning between client and lawyer. Lawyer-client privilege or whatever it was called, just so Sam couldn't be called to the stand and asked to talk about what he overheard. Considering how green around the gills Swan had looked at the crime scene, it was probably better for him not to be present there either. Sam would just have to share any new information with him later, he thought as he tapped the ashes from his cigarette. “It's possible he took them himself. I'll take a look around the scene for any drug paraphernalia or drugs,” he promised.

Their wandering feet had taken them back to the flat building. By then, Sam managed to take out a card and offer it to his new colleague (??) or whatever Swan was supposed to be. Competition, he supposed, or something. Although he seemed like a nice enough bloke, but that was basically what lawyers did for a reason, now wasn't it? “There. Now you don't have to be jealous,” he joked, patting Swan on the cheek. Because personal space was merely a concept that happened to other people.

“That'd be the Jury Room, right?” Convenient enough to get to. It had a bit of a reputation as a hangout for legal professionals, cops, lawyers, and prosecutors alike. Uni students looking into those professions liked to stop by. So did journalists sniffing out for scoops, and true-crime writers and the occasional wide-eyed mystery writer, looking for inspiration by hearing about real life killers. And it would be fine. It had been a while since Sam even considered stopping by.

But it couldn't have changed at all.

~.~

It was more crowded than Sam remembered. Granted, most things were. A few familiar faces bobbed up and down as people stood up to get drinks and sat back down when they got them. The building was steeped in history, ripe with legal victories and defeats and soaked in theories. Like a cup of neglected tea, it could turn a person bitter if they ruminated on it for too long. Pictures lined the walls, of famous crime scenes and trials. Newspaper articles, carefully preserved under glass, went back a few hundred years. The pub had been there for a long, long time, kept up by a time-honored tradition: after a day of looking at death, people drank like hell, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't have to face tomorrow.

The oak walls had stood there for so long that they were stronger than steel at this point. There were even a few char marks left over from when an arsonist had taken it into his mind to try burning the place to the ground. He hadn't gotten any further than a few scorch marks It managed to modernize through the ages, but it was a bit patchwork. Mostly, things were repaired when they broke.

Legal people didn't like their own homes away from homes changing too much. Occasionally, the owner would suggest maybe a more modern theme, but it was always met with grumbles from the customers. Well, say what you liked about the woman, but she listened to what her customers wanted. What they really wanted was a quiet place to discuss legal issues and drink.

At least it was relatively quiet. Once Sam's heart rate calmed down and he felt more at peace, he realized it wasn't that crowded. Besides, he knew most people here. Fellow coppers and even a few prosecutors got a nod of greeting from him as he meandered towards a booth. Like hell he'd sit at the bar. True, it was just him and one other person but sitting with an entire crowd watching? No thanks. He'd rather be the watcher. He slid into the seat and waited for his partner (???).

Maaaybe patting his cheek was a bit weird. That's generally a thing close friends do, he thought to himself, several hours late.