30 replies to this topic

[spladoum]

“She had your number?” Connor asked. But as soon as the words left his lips he understood why. Jared was her former boss. At one time he had trusted her greatly, even spoken of putting her in charge of the restaurant entirely while he went on vacation. Of course she had his number. And she didn't have Connor’s number, because he was her former parole officer. A cop. A guy in a uniform. He was Officer Frio.

“Look, bro, don’t get jealous. She just called up outta the clear blue, said she was sorry for everything and wanted to know if you were around. I told her you’d moved out and she said ‘Okay’ and hung up before I could give her your number. I called back but it was a phone booth so I couldn’t get her again.” Jared went on talking, but Connor didn’t hear. His mind had begun to work again, looking for pieces to put back together into some sort of whole.

“Jared,” he interrupted suddenly, “when did she call?”

“’Bout four days back.”

“Is the number still on your caller ID?”

“It’s from a pay phone, you moron!”

“That doesn’t matter!” He was surprised to hear himself shouting back—he never shouted. “Is it?”

Jared grumbled that he’d go check and threw the receiver down. Connor was searching through the online version of the local paper, looking for the Arts & Life sections from two weeks ago. (46) There had been a tiny blurb about a new collection on display at the museum, the works of the nouveau French art scene. He barely noticed the event before. Now he was speed-reading through the smudged pages, looking for three short lines.

The phone was crackling behind him. Jared’s faint voice shouted, “Are you even there? What the hell is wrong with you anyway?”

“Sorry, sorry … I was looking for something. What’s the number?”



Beverly sighed as a shadow fell across her doorstep. A rapid knock, her resigned "Come in," and he was in her house, babbling. It was too early to deal with him without coffee. “Trouble with a capital T. What’s up, Connor?”

“I need your help.”

“Connor, please just stop. Listen to me.” (47) He fell silent. “You're not well. You’re too thin. You’re all stressed out and nervous, look at how your hands are shaking. And you’re over all the time, begging me to look up this and that. The sun isn't even up yet and already you want me to look something up for you. Can’t you see you’re chasing the wind?”

“Bev, please.”

“No,” she said and turned away, almost running to the kitchen. She viciously took up a heavy mug. “You’re killing yourself. Whatever this demon is, you’re using it to kill yourself. I’m not going to help you do it anymore.”

“Beverly—”

“No.” Cream cut through the strong coffee. She couldn’t look at him. His eyes would break her resolve in an instant. “I have work to do, Connor. Actual police work, not this gunslinging you’re so fond of. I'm sorry, but I need for you to leave now."

He left.



A test tube of tiny shavings got the attention of the bored lab techs. A smile got them to analyze the material itself.

They gave him a printout of the results. Wooden statue, made of a species of cypress indigenous to France. Clay statue, silt and silica content confirmed within a 0.0010% margin of error to be from the banks of the Seine River. He thanked them and took it home, adding it to an ever-growing collection of papers and clippings, photos from surveillance, receipts, leads scribbled on napkins. It was the 'demon' that Beverly despised, the obsession that he fed even as it ate him alive.

He read the results again over his solitary dinner at the new diner (48), which had just re-opened under new management. Jared had never been in there. He bore a grudge as they would not hire him for any position higher than a shift leader. He argued that he used to be the general manager, but the new owners pointed out all of the health-code violations that they had to correct before they could open for business. Connor wasn't cruel enough to tell his brother that the food tasted much better now.

"She's not stupid," he muttered to himself. "She's gotta know ..."

He still hadn't been able to convince the police department that the sculptures on display in the museum were actually Rosalind's work. He brought in an art professor, who affirmed that the chiseling technique on these pieces was exactly the same as the forged sculptures that they had confiscated from the basement of the halfway house. The detectives just rolled their eyes. "When'd you become an art history expert?" they scoffed. "That junk all looks alike anyway, anyone with a mallet can do it."

"But that's my point," Connor insisted. "Have you ever actually tried to sculpt anything with a mallet? It's damn near impossible if you don't know what you're doing! Don't you remember how exactly she was able to copy an artifact, right down to glazing and aging it? Don't you guys know anything about forgery and how hard it is to do it well? And now that you've got a substantial lead, you can't even be bothered to pursue it?"

"Substantial," they sighed. "You see a piece of rock that came from France and you assume it had to be her."

"But we know she's in France, I've got the records to prove—”

"To prove that she made a single phone call from a pay phone in Paris," Beverly interrupted from across the room. "If I call a friend from a phonebooth in Los Angeles, does that prove that I live in California? For all you know, she made that call from the airport as she was getting ready to fly somewhere else."

"No," Connor said.

They all looked at him. He kept talking, trying to persuade them, knowing that they weren’t hearing anything he was saying. Poor Frio. He’s gone round the bend. Finally one of the rookies said, “You know, if you’re so sure she’s in France, you could just go there and look for her. I’m just sayin’.”



That idea, as sarcastic as it had been, was actually the best advice he’d gotten so far. Once he arrived in Paris, her trail had become concrete rapidly. Several art dealers in the area knew her work. But, they explained, they had never met her in person. None of them could pick her out of a police dossier and no one recognized her voice, and she had taken care to keep it that way, conducting all deliveries and transactions through an anonymous agent. One dealer confessed that he had donated her pieces to a museum in hopes that the publicity might draw her out. It hadn’t. Another admitted that he had tried very hard to track her down through her various IP addresses with no luck. “The IP originates in Indonesia, and I assume she isn’t there.”

“No,” Connor agreed. “She is good with a computer, after all.”

He kept asking questions, searching through dusty art galleries, poring over his copious notes. He searched the underground and spoke discreetly to black market dealers. He managed to gain an evening audience with a private collector who had several of her pieces on display.

"She's quite the talent," Mrs. Grenoit murmured in a creaking voice as a maid poured tiny glasses of rare vintage. "A woman sculptor is unusual enough, but she seemed to come out of nowhere. She's not associated with any of the large art academies, she wasn't mentored by any of the big names in the art world, and no one's ever heard of her before. Still though, her work is so good that no one seems to mind. I'd love to meet her personally, pick her brain a bit, see where all of that intensity originates. I've never been able to arrange it though. They tell me she's a recluse, refuses all social affairs. Artists ... eccentric bunch."

"Would you be willing to let me know if it's ever a possibility to meet her?"

"Of course, dear." The elderly heiress nodded in between sips.



He went back to the hostel, head full of questions. There were too many possibilities, but really there was only one possible answer. She was in France ... just not in Paris.

He could deal with it in the morning. Right now, it was time to sleep and dream that old familiar dream. (49)

Attached Files

•  photo 46.jpg   197.76K   36 downloads
•  photo 47.jpg   137.62K   32 downloads
•  photo 48.jpg   237.13K   36 downloads
•  photo 49.jpg   122.3K   50 downloads

[YrS92]

Simply fantastic updates, spladoum:nw: :nw:

I hope Connor finds her:wub:

[spladoum]

Connor looked at his bank account and shook his head. His monthly stipend had finally come, and not a day too soon either. He had frugal habits, but France was an expensive place to live regardless and his funds were dwindling away slowly with precious little to show for the time and expense.

“Come back,” reasonable voices pleaded. “She’ll slip up somewhere. She’ll be caught somehow. She’s someone else’s problem. Come home, Connor.”

He always promised that he would. He just needed another week. He just wanted to follow up with one more lead or conduct one last interview.

It was one of those hopeless leads that led him out to an art festival in Coursavint, a picturesque hamlet less than eight miles from the outskirts of Paris. The Seine bisected the small town; the resident winery was nearby to take advantage of the water. He took the local tour, noting the huge groves of cypress trees. But that was hardly unusual for the area.

The gaggle of tourists viewed the huge chateaus and the private gardens, listening in silence as the tour guides related the cost of the furnishings and the age of the stonework. They walked through the winery and gladly sampled the aged liqueurs while mingling with residents. Most of the attendees seemed delighted; Connor tried not to yawn. Being around large groups just reminded him acutely how much he’d rather be alone. He was glad when the tour bus rattled into the driveway to take everyone back to the village center for the afternoon meal. Maybe he’d just slip away before lunch ended and lose himself in a tiny bookstore.

The local café was full by the time the bus arrived. Some of the group went into a bar; others quickly returned from the meat market with sausages and chops to grill outdoors. Connor amused himself by watching the street artists. One in particular was working quickly with a chainsaw, grinding down a block of ice. She had a rough form carved out in less than five minutes. She scraped a smaller carving tool against the biggest pieces. Then she ran her hands over the ice, melting the surface just enough to allow her to use a blade to mold out the twining, irregular branches of an old gnarled tree. It had taken her less than thirty minutes from beginning to end. The tourists cheered and showered coins at her feet. She bowed, murmuring thanks, and knelt to collect her due.

"Excuse me, miss," Connor called.

"Je ne parle anglais, monsieur," she said quietly. Then she looked up. The money fell through her slack hands as she backed away, frightened. (50)

"So you don't speak English anymore, huh?"

"What are you doing here?" she gasped. "How the hell did you find me?"

"I'm a cop! How the hell do you think I found you?"

"Oh god! If you found me, he's coming too!"

She fled. Connor chased her, but he wasn't familiar with the area and she was surprisingly agile. Once she stumbled against a garbage can and he slowed down, but she didn't fall and actually began to run faster. She burst out of the alley at a furious pace and began to cross the bridge. Judging by her movement, she was looking for a place to jump off.

"Damn it, stop!"

She was on the opposite side now, still looking for a way down the steep, muddy bank. It wasn't safe—the ground was studded with rocks. She slipped, fell to one knee, slid several feet and jumped up again. She was still running. (51)

He caught her on the brink of the fast-moving water. They struggled. She kept screaming that he was coming, that Connor had led him right to her. "Let go!" she shrieked, and with one final violent shove, she managed to escape his grasp.

She ran. Cursing under his breath, Connor took a step forward to follow her. The ground was treacherous, and his shoes couldn't find a stable footing. He pitched forward, tumbling head-first into the Seine.



The old rowboat stood in the shallow water beside the hidden jetty, just where Rosalind had left it many times before. She always took care to keep it in the best possible service for times like this, when she desperately needed to get out of town. The poles and tent fabric lay in the bottom. She probably had tent pegs ... but there was no time to look. She'd have to make do; not as if she hadn't survived under much worse circumstances. She untied the ropes and cast off, her paddles silently dipping through the green water. With good wind she'd be at the next town in three hours.

As the boat emerged from the hidden cove, she saw the limp arm clinging to the river's bank, the red hair drifting helplessly in the relentless current. Connor's left leg was pinned against a fallen branch. It was the only thing keeping him from being washed far downstream. The water ran over his face, drowning him slowly.

There was not an ounce of doubt in her mind that she was being watched. The village center was full of witnesses who had seen her, and someone had surely called the police. She needed to get out of town as soon as possible.

With a sigh and a grunt, she wedged the boat against the branch and reached over the side, hauling the bedraggled man into the boat. He crashed to the bottom, his body completely incapable of sitting upright. Water ran out of his mouth. She wasn't even sure if he was breathing on his own. Precious seconds ticked away as she sat there, not certain what to do next.

Attached Files

•  photo 50.jpg   320.33K   48 downloads
•  photo 51.jpg   260.51K   47 downloads

[spladoum]

It was a good thing that the rowboat was so battered, Rosalind reflected. Upside-down, barnacles stuck to the hull, placed atop the rocks, it just appeared to be more trash washed up on the shore. People around this town were surprisingly careless about what they dropped in the river; there were any number of wrecked boats half-buried in the mud. She figured that no one would noticed this one, and no one did.

To be sure, they did drag the river. Based on the physical evidence and the eyewitness accounts, it was pretty clear that two people had run down to the river's edge while having a very loud, very public argument. The police hadn't left the area yet. Fortunately they were focusing their search on the woods. This area of the river was very rocky; swimming in it was ill-advised.

She re-entered the tent and crawled behind a fabric partition, the door of the 'bedroom,' a small area shorter than Connor was tall. He was bundled in two blankets, curled in a heap. She had positioned him so that his back could rest against the solid rock wall on the other side of the tent, and he had not moved once since she placed him there. She unwound a section of the blankets and applied cold cloths to the livid bruises that marred his pale skin. Not for the first time, she thought he might have a broken rib.

He had a fever. She had an herbal tea that would break it by degrees, but he hadn't come completely back to consciousness yet.

His eyelids fluttered. She wondered what he was seeing, why he had let his hair grow so long and shaggy, when he had become so muscular. She thought briefly about the time he must have spent in the gym (52), trying to regain that control that had been taken from him.

The last time she'd seen him was two days before she had left town and gone to that cooking workshop. And then he'd gone snooping and found the basement—she knew he'd tell the police, but she never imagined he'd go see for himself—and she'd broken her own code and snitched. And then she had run. Even when she saw on the news that Lane was going to prison, she hadn't stopped running. After a terrible night when she'd scaled a sheer wall to exit a town rather than ask a uniformed officer to open the city gates for her, she'd cut her dreadlocks. It was a haphazard, sloppy job, but it would keep her safe from casual inspection. Lane might be in the penitentiary, but he didn't let inconveniences like that stop him from having orders carried out. And she was probably right at the top of his 'naughty' list.

It had been a mistake to call back home, she knew. But she needed to at least be sure that Connor was still safe. She'd wanted to hear his familiar voice saying that everything was all right. Instead, she heard him accuse her in front of countless witnesses.

At least he didn't say my name out loud, she mused sardonically.

A soft groan brought her back to the present. She became very aware that her hand was pressing too hard against his chest. He was looking up at her with unfocused eyes.

"... Rosalind?"

She managed an almost-smile. Not quite there yet. "You're awake?"

He shivered as he tried to speak. "What happened? Where am I?"

She refused to tell him. She didn't have to, he realized as he tried to stand. He was so bruised and so weak that he couldn't possibly pursue her. He slid back to the ground with a hopeless air. She watched him from the other side of the tent, a mere six feet away.

"If I bring you something to eat, will you eat it?" she asked, finally.

He understood. She was asking if he trusted her still. He swallowed against a dry throat before mumbling, "If it's not from a can, I don't want it."

"I couldn't open a can here." She offered him a ready-to-eat meal. "But see, I couldn't sabotage this, it's still sealed."

He didn't take the food. "Why were you touching me, Rosalind?"

Even in the dim light, it was clear that she was blushing. "You were so sick and feverish ... I was taking your pulse ... "

"Not in the shoulder, you weren't."

"I have tea. Please, drink it."

He spat it right back out. She pleaded with him, but he was stubborn, and before long the brief spate of energy left him and he fell silent. His breathing was shallow. But at least it was regular, not the terrible spasmodic coughs that left him shaking.

She crept next to him and sat so that their shoulders would touch. At least if something should happen to him in the night, she would know. She sat there, their arms and shoulders touching. Her pulse racing, his sluggish. Her eyes closing regardless of her will and mind shutting down, searching for a quieter place.

Outside, the moon shed its silvery light across the water. (53)



Connor woke up from yet another dream to find himself on a gurney. No, it was an airline seat stretched out into full recline. He just thought it was a gurney due to the fluid bags dangling above his head and the IV drip in his left arm.

The moment he moved, a uniformed police officer appeared to ask him if he needed anything. Connor's questions went unanswered as a small nursing unit arrived with cups of pills and medical instruments. He tried to resist the pills, but he wasn't strong enough to fight it. "You have bad clots and a staph infection," the nurses explained. "The medicine will help you. Take them."

"Could I at least get something to eat?"

"In an hour or so, this medicine doesn't react well with food."

There were two armed officers standing by the bathroom door. Before Connor could ask what that was all about, the door opened and a woman came out. She wore the standard orange jumpsuit and manacles. The police led her down the aisle, one in front, one behind. "Keep your eyes forward!" the trailing officer ordered as they passed by. "Don't look at him."

They walked to the curtain separating the first-class section from coach, which was guarded by yet another officer. Connor tried to sit up, but the nurses restrained him.

"Wait!" he protested. "I need to talk to her!"

The rear officer looked back. "I'm sorry, sir, but she's under arrest."

"I know that. I know the entire conversation is going on the record. I know. Can't I at least talk to her?"

The men had a terse conference, and finally, one nodded. The trio reversed themselves and walked back. The nurses made way for them, and they stopped in front of Connor, the officers eyeing every movement that everyone in the cabin made, Rosalind between them in full chains. She didn't look up.

"I couldn't wake you up this morning," she finally said. "I waved the police down."

"So you turned yourself in?"

"There was a warrant for my arrest, I was in violation of my parole."

They both knew that she could have escaped easily, or alerted the police to his presence without being caught herself. He wondered if she was just tired of running and being trapped halfway between the law and the life of crime.

He wondered if she had done it because she gave a damn.

But it was too late to ask. The officers, seeing that the two of them had stopped talking, ordered Rosalind to her feet. They marched her into coach, and the attending guard let the curtain fall before placing himself in front of it. The nurses informed Connor that the plane would be landing in ten more hours. He would need to go to the hospital for more tests. And then, he would most likely be testifying at her indictment.

Attached Files

•  photo 52.jpg   182.5K   42 downloads
•  photo 53.jpg   111.6K   42 downloads

[spladoum]

Beverly was at her desk considering whether or not she wanted another doughnut when the rookies burst in, shouting out the news. Connor Frio had come back home, and he'd managed to capture that art thief! There was gonna be a honoring ceremony tomorrow, could they go?

Shaken, she said yes without even thinking about it. She looked at the paper schedule on her desk and shook her head. Planning this out was going to be a disaster. How many other people would want to go? How many would refuse because they'd have to eat crow?

She was going, of course.

How in the world had he done it?



She managed to get very near the City Hall steps. The crowd was thick. Were there really this many people in town?

The mayor was talking to the crowd, one of those 'one size fits all' speeches. She had no right, Beverly thought. She didn't have the first idea of what Connor had been through, from the day he first took up this case as a probation officer, to now, when he stood in front of them as a private investigator who had succeeded grandly where traditional law enforcement had failed. Now the mayor was offering him an official key to the city, a medallion and a hearty handshake. (54) It was hardly enough to pay for all of the insults, the hard work that had gone unnoticed, the deprivation he'd endured. Beverly wondered if he was even aware of his shaggy hair and bedraggled appearance. His clothes hung on his frame, just more evidence of how thoroughly this obsession had consumed him.

The cheers of the crowd could hardly break through her thoughts. Whoever this Rosalind King was, Beverly could only hope that she'd be in prison for a very long time. It was the only way Connor was likely to get any peace.



Rosalind lay awake in the small cell. She didn't have the energy to sit up, but she was too tired to truly sleep. The gray walls dulled all sensation, the gray food numbed all taste. Even the sunshine (when the sun actually shone; it had been raining for days) was dim. Not that she saw all that much of it. Due to her latest misadventure, she was held without bond in isolation, under regular guard. The court-appointed defense attorney had come by once to try to talk her into an insanity plea. She could argue extreme mental duress from seeing a former mob boss at the diner. The judge would likely go for it.

"Doesn't that just mean they'll try to treat me for a condition I don't actually have?" she mumbled back, and refused to talk to him again. He finally told her that the case would proceed to indictment in a few more months, and that he would see what he could do about getting together some witnesses on her behalf. Until then, she was here, with her memories and regrets.

A few times, she dreamed of Officer Frio, sleeping in his arms somewhere safe. (55) But the dreams always ended too soon, leaving her alone to face another lonely gray day. More often she had disjointed nightmares that left her shivering with clammy sweat. An innocuous door that concealed a zombified version of Lane, his dead eyes turned on her in hatred, rotten hands reaching for her vengefully. (56) A car chase through the desert, running from nameless fear. (57)

She started awake. (58) She didn't even know that she had fallen asleep. Out of the dream, back into the cubicle of rough gray walls. Even her skin and clothes looked gray. A trick of the light, surely.

It was all fading away.

She would go before a judge soon, and they would send her back to jail. Real jail. And she would sit in another gray cell just like this, her dreams full of color, her life dull, until the colors all bled out and everything just faded away.

Attached Files

•  photo 54.jpg   314.55K   39 downloads
•  photo 55.jpg   130.17K   40 downloads
•  photo 56.jpg   165.02K   42 downloads
•  photo 57.jpg   117.11K   31 downloads
•  photo 58.jpg   103K   40 downloads

[spladoum]

"... so you're really sure about this," Beverly asked again. For the fifth time. Connor gave her a patient smile. "Yes, Bev. Hurry if you can, I need to go get fitted for a suit."

She made what speed she could. Town hero though he was, even Connor Frio had to wait when it came to paperwork. But it printed at last, he signed off, and went into the precinct break room where every officer on duty was assembled. His speech was brief: he explained his ideals, his disillusionment, and his final realization that if he still wanted to make a difference in the community, that inside of a police car was still a good place to be doing it. And if they'd have him back, he'd be proud to wear a badge again. And the other officers cheered for him.

"Welcome back, Officer Frio," Beverly said as they walked outside together. (59) "What's on your agenda for today?"

He smiled. "Barbershop. Believe me, I know how bad I look. Not a good impression to leave on a circuit judge."

Attached Files

•  photo 59.jpg   289.57K   43 downloads

[spladoum]

"Rosalind."

She didn't dare look at him. He wouldn't stop looking at her.

It was a cool evening. The ocean wind was steady. She had her old job at the diner, and Connor was still coming around. Tonight he had waited for her shift to end before following her to the park. (60) She pretended not to notice.

"Rosalind."

"Hmm?" she murmured, self-consciously.

"Look at me," he coaxed, but she kept her eyes lowered. He would fade away, just like every other time. Or worse yet, transform into something horrific.

... but this time, just like every other time, she hoped it would be different. She closed her eyes and felt his lips brush against her own. (61) Not content to only touch his lips, she reached for him with one hand and felt nothing.

"Connor?" she said, opening her eyes fearfully. There was a familiar feeling on her skin, not of flesh or clothing, but a tingling, crawling sensation—(62)

No!

She jerked awake. Her heart was thundering. The prison's alarm bell was clattering. She stumbled off her bunk and shoved her feet in the regulation booties. She barely managed to fold the state-issue blanket into a square before the guards reached her cell. They ordered her to stand up straight in sharp tones. She did, forcing the blood to her head too quickly. She was on the ground before they could even unlock the doors.

She woke up in the infirmary to find cotton balls stuffed in her left nostril and an ice pack strapped to her head. She was in manacles again, with a warden by her side. "What happened?" she asked, groggily.

"You passed out during inspection. Probably just vertigo, but they wanted to stabilize you first."

"Am ... am I okay?"

"They cleared you to go to your sentencing, so yeah, probably. Just walk slowly and don't try to talk much. We've let the attorneys and the judge know so they won't be asking you too many questions today."

So there. Her fate was in someone else's hands, as usual. She sat quietly until the nurse returned with a second warden, and slowly, the three of them proceeded to the courtroom. They seated her next to her attorney, who exuded so much tension that it made her nauseous. The wardens had to help her to her feet again as the judge entered the courtroom.

The prosecution quickly established the case against her. She was a known criminal. She associated with other felons. Per her own statement to a police officer, she was an expert forger with little other life skill besides a brief stint as a short-order cook in a diner. The prosecution was in possession of a sworn statement from a cooperative prisoner, stating that Rosalind King had a prior relationship with Lane Christensen before she originally went to jail and was well aware that he had a severe allergy to most nuts. She had fled the country in violation of her parole. She had continued to create art pieces overseas, presumably with intent to continue forging—though when pressed by the judge, the prosecution was forced to admit that all of her work that they had collected from France was original, and that they had not been able to gather any solid evidence that she was conducting any sort of black market trade. At this, Rosalind lifted her eyes for the first time that day. Despite ferocious interrogation by the French police, her agent Gustave had been faithful and had protected her. She would have to find a way to thank him, somehow. Perhaps when she left jail again in twenty years.

Her attorney stood. His chair scraped the floor loudly.

"Your honor, we do not dispute the facts that the prosecution has brought forth, except in one point. The prosecution has tried to establish that Rosalind King poisoned Lane Christensen with malice and prejudice. We would like to enter into evidence the toxicology reports compiled by the state, which indicate that the amount of almond extract found in the food from the night of the incidents was so small as to be impossible to add to food without a very precise measurement. Nothing of the sort was ever found, which led them to the conclusion that Mr. Christensen was poisoned by cross-contamination as opposed to actual intent. If that be the case, the prosecution's argument that Ms. King should be incarcerated is not suitable. We argue that she should be allowed to continue rehabilitation."

"She was in a rehabilitative program when she continued to create forged goods, and also when she fled the country," the assistant DA retorted.

"She was also under constant duress from this same prisoner who now claims that she poisoned him. There are multiple statements given to her original parole officer concerning Mr. Christensen. In each case, the report was filed and nothing was done. Is it not fair to believe that if the system had been more active, she would not have considered flight to be her only viable option?"

The judge interrupted by saying, "And so your argument is that she should be allowed to resume probation instead of serving a prison term."

"Yes."

"Unacceptable," the prosecutor said immediately. "This would be her second sentencing in less than five years. She has to serve time."

"The defense calls her former probation officer, Connor Frio, as a character witness."

Rosalind looked up for the second time, not quite believing. But there he was, clean shaven, hair trimmed, so pitifully thin in a black suit that made him look even thinner.

The prosecutor was strenuously objecting. The defense attorney insisted that if they were going to sentence her based on character, she should be entitled to a defense of that character. She looked at him. He looked back. (63)

And finally the judge banged the gavel and called for order. Both men were instantly silent.

"The court will hear the witness. Officer Frio, step forward."

Attached Files

•  photo 60.jpg   199.54K   36 downloads
•  photo 61.jpg   165.45K   38 downloads
•  photo 62.jpg   158.28K   40 downloads
•  photo 63.jpg   156.64K   47 downloads

[spladoum]

He'd been waiting for this day for months and months ever since that lawyer called him. The indictment had come and gone without him—Rosalind had pled guilty so there was no trial, only a sentencing hearing. He'd spent countless evenings in a mirror rehearsing what he thought he might say. And each time, he discarded it all. He came into court today empty except for what really needed to be said.

He laid his knowledge of the defendant before the court. His first meeting with her as a parolee. His investigative work into the nature of her previous offenses. His meticulous day-by-day records of her whereabouts for three years running, up to the day he left the police force. The fact that his brother had made her into a de facto manager at the diner and trusted her to make regular unsupervised bank deposits. Her unprovoked confession that she was being drawn back into her old life, and her frustration that Lane had enough police officers in his pockets to prevent her from resisting him. Connor took a slow, shuddering breath, and told them about his twenty-four hours trapped in a 8x8 hole, full of drugs. How he woke up in a hospital bed, not sure how he got there. The chance phone call from Paris. His long two months of searching there. His night in a tent on an island in the middle of the Seine. And finally, the airplane ride home, knowing that he would not have been there if it hadn't been for her.

"Your Honor, this is a young lady who, ever since I met her three years ago, has tried to cooperate with the system at every turn. In my personal experience, parolees who aren't taking probation seriously usually fail in a matter of weeks, if not days. Rosalind King stayed clean for three years, and I believe that sending her to prison on the word of a man who has already been convicted of bribery and corruption would simply reinforce how badly the system has failed her."

The judge was rifling through paperwork. "Officer Frio, it is my understanding that you recently rejoined the police force?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"Very well, recess of thirty minutes. I'll render a verdict when we return."

Connor wandered across the street to the park. He brought a lopsided brownie and a cup of lemonade that was mostly sugary dregs from the little boy running the bakery stand, and ate it in the shade of the enormous oak on the courthouse lawn. The sticky food had no taste in his dry mouth.

He had probably talked too much. They were probably wondered what kind of flaky lunatic he was to quit the police and join again a year later.

He checked his watch. It was time. He climbed the marble steps once more. (64)



"All rise."

The occupants of the courtroom stood as the judge took the bench once more. He turned his gray head towards the defense's side of the room.

"Rosalind King, I don't see cases like yours often. As was mentioned earlier, when people are put on probation, they usually sink back into their old ways fairly rapidly. I also don't see many former criminals who try to abide by the law while being blackmailed by their former associates. Usually what I see are people who jump bail and flee the country while leaving their parents on the hook for their bond. There is also the very strong matter of your saving the life of an officer of the law, on two separate occasions. I believe it's safe to say that you are an unusual case.

"You have already admitted to five counts of art forgery, violation of your terms of probation, fleeing the scene of a crime, and fleeing the country illegally. These are all felonies, each punishable by a minimum sentence of 366 days per count. On the basis of the character testimony and the personal effects that I have seen concerning your conduct for the past three years, I am sentencing you to the minimum term of eight years in prison. The time that you have already served will be factored in to this sentence, leaving you with a three-year term. You will serve your three-year term under house arrest in the custody of Probation Officer Connor Frio, beginning immediately. So ordered, court is adjourned."

The prosecutor looked flabbergasted. The defense attorney was ecstatic. The warden unlocked the chains and helped her to her feet before shaking her trembling hands. They led her back to the locker room to change back into her clothes. She was shocked to find that they were too large.

Connor was waiting for her in the discharge area. From the constant twitching in his face, he was suppressing a smile. After everything, he hadn't changed a bit. Probably never would.

"So tomorrow," he said while helping her into the car. "I'll print out some applications for you, and we'll find a new job. I hear that diner's hiring."

Rosalind opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, she just smiled widely while looking into the setting sun. Connor smiled too and put the car into gear. The next three years would be good ones.

fin

Attached Files

•  photo 64.jpg   243.1K   37 downloads

[spladoum]

A/N:A very heartfelt "thank you" to everyone who took time to read this story. I originally meant for it to be a humorous piece and as always, the story did its own thing and I was left trailing in its wake. It definitely took on a life of its own.

This is the conclusion for now, but there may be a sequel once the new EP comes out.

I enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoyed reading it. :--)

~ splad

[Silkswift]

I have to say I loved the entire story. Am a little sad to see it end but it ends on such an optimistic note and that makes it all worthwhile! :)

[fabrizioammollo]

Hi! I have just found a lot of interesting reading material I missed :duh: ... I'm looking for the other posts! F.