(no subject)
Who: Devin Kuhl[Bluebeard] and Jake Moreau[The King of Hearts]
When: Wednesday Afternoon.
Where: The Law Offices of Pernot, Mercredis, and Moreau.
What: Devin meets her lawyer, Jake meets his client, they "discuss" the up coming plea entrance.
Rating: R for Language.
For someone that was quite often genuinely relaxed, Jake had found himself in rare form since Rowanne had decidedly up and left him with three more cases he didn't need. One of which was something that a person ought to have been working on singularly. Honestly, the Kuhl case was one of the most media friendly and debated defense cases he'd ever had to deal with. This of course would make most think that he would at the very least seem busy or frazzled when they entered into the surprisingly modern looking office.
The walls had been down in a light yellow and the office furniture was a sleek mix of modern and traditional lines in an espresso wood, set against surprising dark turquoise accents. They bore no more than a few framed photographs and a glut of book shelves lined with texts of philosophy, law, psychology and a surprising array of collected journals and files. A Mac sat on his desk, projecting The Pixies' Surfer Rosa throughout the office, and Jake himself was leaning back in his chair, the sleeves of his oxford rolled up to his elbows and untucked, from the argyle sweater vest and the tailored dark denim jeans he wore. The remainders of falafel and souvlaki sat in it's carton on his desk next to a monstrous mug of coffee.
There was a black Nintendo DS open to Brain Age that sat upon a Pullman novel, and Devin's case study was the only real piece of work that sat on his desk. Unorthodox may have been one way to describe the man whose only real proof of his career was the name on the door and the degrees on the wall; for he seemed young despite his years and bared the marks of a lawyer who hadn't gotten the suit and tie memo; or that simply was confident enough in his abilities to not give a shit about how others perceived his professionalism.
When his secretary buzzed to let him know Devin had arrived, Jake simply swung his feet of the desk just as the door opened. Moving to lower the music. "Hey, come in."
Generally speaking, Devin Kuhl looked more like someone who worked in a tattoo parlor, bar, or college radio station than someone who wrote best-selling novels. That day was no different, of course - who knew what Jake had been expecting, but the woman who dragged herself into his office (hungover like so many other days) was in a black and white striped hooded sweatshirt, a pair of old jeans with holes torn in the knees, and an inordinate amount of eyeliner, according to her parents and anyone she talked to over the age of thirty. There was also the matter of her sneakers, battered red and white Chucks that had certainly seen better days.
"Lawyer man," she greeted him, with a wave. She pulled the hoodie down, shook her hair out. There was apparently weather outside. Devin was not a fan of the weather. Particularly when it dared to require her to wear a coat. "Hey, I'm Devin," she reached forward to offer him her hand - there were two things about Devin, kind of unconscious things. The creepy-factor was one of them. It generally worked as a subtle person-repellant. Which usually she didn't mind. And then there was the way she acted more like a guy than most guys did, especially in Taledom.
"So," she eyed the sweater vest. Something about those things almost bothered her. For no reason in particular, it was just the sense that she wanted to dig her claws into people who wore them. Maybe it was because they were associated with meek prep school boys. And Devin didn't even have claws.
"Convicted lady." Jake stood up enough to take her hand, giving it a firm shake before motioning to the chair to the corner of the room. "Have a seat, let's get to talking. Your case file is the most entertaining thing I've gotten in a while." Jake was professional enough, but having been the King and Judge in a past life he felt himself consistently abiding the normal sort of Machiavellian ethics of friendship. Devin was one of these cases, though for once he found himself genuinely amused by her.
Pushing aside the book and Nintendo, and turning off the music midway into "Bone Machine" he himself sat down to pull the fat folder towards him. Eyeing her with curiousity, she looked like a whiny goth mall kid rather than a murderer. There was one point in her favor, he noted; and had she asked he'd have indeed told her to tone down the make up; he could tell she was pretty underneath all of that kohl. Who the hell did she think she was anyways? King Tut?
"Sorry you got switched around like that, crazy shit went down and there was no time to prep."
"Not if you're half as good a lawyer as I hope you are," Devin could never resist a joke or a tease. Or a good mocking. She shook his hand and then pulled hers back, moving to take a seat, legs curled up underneath her. Still trying to decide whether Jake was all right, or a tool (there was such a fine line), she crossed her arms over her chest. "It's quite a tale," she said in agreement, sighing a bit. This case had pissed her off, amused her, depressed her, and now she just wanted it to be over with.
"Hey, shit happens," she said - her way of accepting his apology - with a shrug. "So there's a court thing next Monday," she told him. She didn't bring anything with her, because she was pretty sure he had it all. "That's going to suck. Oh, and, uh, Charlie. Toussaint. He's a PI, I hired him, anyway he says he found the murder weapon." That was a fairly big bombshell to drop, and Devin did it carelessly. Casually. "Did you hear about that?"
After a second of staying still, she moved again to pull her sweatshirt off. It was warm in the office; in typical Devin fashion, she was in a wifebeater-resembling top. She had a couple of tattoos, colorful ink (blues and greens, mostly) spread from her left wrist, up her arm, across her chest, and part of the way down her right arm.
"I'm the fucking best lawyer this place has seen." Jake stated with a slight laugh, he was kidding of course though there indeed was something of him that just rang confidence. He was the pardoner, he saved people from death row. And if by some fluke he ended up with a fuck who really did deserve it; he made sure he got them there. For the Connecticut born boy, justice had always had precedence over whether or not he was paid. The crime lab report was pulled from the folder, an assured smile breaking across his face. He'd already gone over the knife in question, and was more than happy to see that their case was already made for them. "Yep, Monday you are entering your plea. Not guilty of course, and this Toussaint guy, I owe him a fucking drink. If you get lucky we won't even have to see this in court."
Raising her eyebrows in an "oh, really?" kind of way at his proclamation, smirking a little bit. She was pretty sure he was joking. At least, she thought it was funny. She nodded a bit more. "Yeah, not guilty. Got it. Nothing else happening? And I pretty much have to be there for that, too. Shit. It's going to seriously cut into my St. Patrick's Day." It was one of Devin's favorite holidays completely for the booze. No other reason. "Yeah, Charlie's pretty awesome. Best fucking news I've heard all week." Devin desperately didn't want to have trial. All those people, most of whom didn't know what the fuck they were talking about, talking about her. Trials always pissed her off. In the past, she was much happier when they just lopped Bluebeard's head off without worrying about it.
"You'll be out by dinner if everything goes smoothly. I have no doubts that it will, because I'd like to enjoy my fucking St. Patrick's Day too." Jake gave it a moment, hazel eyes scanning the woman in front of him one last time, almost as if he were analyzing her. "So have you figured out what you are going to wear yet?" It was a topic not approached by many lawyers, or any that he really knew of but in Jake's opinion the first impression was always half of the battle.
If you walked into a court room looking like a hoodlum, you'd be marked as one. If a pretty woman walked in looking like a tailored woman who knew what was up, it was just as likely she'd be marked as that just as easily. If there was one thing that Jake ever prided himself on, it was that none of his clients ever went in looking like anything less than the exact image they wanted to portray.
Devin nodded in approval and agreement - okay, so she couldn't get tanked all day. Just because she had to wait until after dinner to start drinking on the most holy of holy drinking holidays, didn't mean it was the end of the world or anything. At his, Devin decided, incredibly weird question, her eyes narrowed a bit. It sounded more like something a teenage girl asked her friend before Prom, than what her lawyer should be concerned with. Squinting at him a little, her lips actually formed the words "what the fuck" silently.
"Are you related to Edwina Dickering in any way?" was the first thing to come to mind, and therefore the first thing to pop out of her mouth.
"No, thank fucking God, no." Was his only response to the matter of relation, Hell would freeze over before Jacob motherfucking Moreau would spare more than five kind words on that twit that plagued the Pentamerone on a daily basis. As he leaned back in his chair, still looking her over with a curiously raised eyebrow. "The first thing you will be judged on is how you look. You can't expect to be taken seriously if you look like you just walked out of a fucking Hot Topic." He had already decided on how she would wear her hair, and what sort of make up she ought to use in order to not look completely out of her usual element. "Do you own any skirts?"
Snickering a little, Devin shook her head and raised her eyebrows at him. "Fuck you," she said, just in general, listening to him. Her eyebrows nearly touched the ceiling when he asked about a skirt. She was pretty sure this had to be some kind of bizarre nightmare. "Fuck no, I don't own any skirts. I haven't worn a fucking skirt since I was sixteen." This was surreal. "You're a lawyer, right? This isn't What Not To Wear or anything, right? If I'm innocent, who gives a shit what I'm wearing. I'll die before you get me in a skirt," she proclaimed. "I'm wearing whatever the hell I want to wear. And my hair's going to be green," she added, out of sheer spite.
"You don't have to wear a fucking skirt, calm down you fucking cunt." Jake's voice hardly raised above mild nonchalance as the woman across the desk from him freaked out. Chucking just slightly as she babbled, in his opinion, like a thirteen year old girl about what she was and wasn't going to do. "I am your lawyer, and as such I am paid to offer you the best possible advice about how to win this thing. If you have one fucking brain cell left, you will show up in plain black trousers, a wide leg cut would suit you best and a decent long sleeved blouse; preferably in something green or white. You should pull your hair back, and you will not have all of the make up the third Dynasty has to offer on your fucking face."
Jake found himself rolling his eyes, pushing his fingers back through his hair as he surveyed her curiously. "You're a fucking pretty woman, pretty women get in and out of court quicker; but only if they play the god damn part, and don't show up smelling like weed." The file was closed then to signal they he pretty much figured they were finished and she was welcome to leave.
Slowly, during Jake's tirade - which opened with his dropping the c-bomb, which Devin personally couldn't have given two shits about but took a level of balls to call a woman that she was unaware the man possessed - Devin's mouth came open slightly, dark burgundy-colored lips parting in shock. She'd rarely been talked to like that, and certainly not by her lawyer for anything. And Devin had gotten into her fair share of the kind of trouble that required lawyers. She had no idea what to say to that - or whether she was pissed off or amused beyond measure. She wanted to punch him and buy him a drink, but she didn't know which one she wanted to do first.
"I don't smell like weed," was what she wound up saying, crossing her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow. If she let herself smile, it would only be encouraging him, but when she got home she was going to have a long laugh about that. "What if I show up with green hair, torn fishnets, and fuck me boots? Full face paint, too.""
"I will pretend that I don't give a flying shit what you wear, and when the Judge calls you on it I will tell him that it is within your amendable rights to wear whatever it is you want to." He replied calmly still, as if not a thing in the world could raise a yell out of him. But then, that is how it always had been; the Queen did all the screaming and beheading. He took care of business.
Despite his tone when the next thought popped into his head, a slight smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. Almost as if the very image he was conjuring was satisfactory enough.
"When we finish and are outside of the court, I will punch you in the face for acting like a fucking thirteen year old twit." And there it was, as simple as if he had just told her what time of the day it was.
At this, she couldn't hold in the snort, nor the snickering that followed after it. "Shit, you're too fucking much," Devin laughed, shaking her head. It was rare that she found a person who swore as openly and proudly as she did. Apart from the obvious (Rose Bloom), that is. Correction: it was rare she found someone she could stand who swore like she did. "You wouldn't hit me. I'm a pretty girl," she said it in a sing-song teasing type of voice. She would never describe herself as pretty (or a girl, for that matter; if she had to admit to femininity at all, she called herself a chick) but Jake had said it, so she had to make fun of him for it. Her nose wrinkled almost automatically, at the words.
"Any other fashion tips?" she lisped at him, clearly calling his masculinity into question. Well, clearly to herself, anyway.
"I'm an equal opportunist." Was his reply to her threat about whether or not he would indeed hit her. He would, and there was indeed no doubt about it. That wasn't to say that Jake was abusive, hell he treated women like royalty. But if a girl asked for it, there was no chance that he would treat her any differently than a male. Jake Moreau: The Ultra Feminist. As Devin made a crack at his opinion as to how she ought to dress, he took it in stride with and settled back. "You'd look better in heels than flats, but make sure you're not wearing those sneakers or fuck me boots. If you do show up looking decent, I'll buy you your first drink of the night."
Devin eyed him for a second, before she got up. Pulling her hoodie back on over her head, she shoved her hands into the pockets. "Okay, well, just for the record you're either totally gay or you have a creepy clothes fetish," she informed him, pursing her lips. "I actually don't know which one I'd prefer." She couldn't decide yet whether or not she was going to dress the way he'd instructed her to. It probably depended on how cranky she was on Monday. "See you in court," she said to him, on her way to the door. She was already tapping a clove cigarette out of the package and getting her lighter at the ready.
"The latter, although it's more of an involved interest than a fetish." He informed her simply enough, already getting back to his computer to turn the music that had previously been playing back on, the voice of Kim Deal cranking out. You're the bone machine. "I actually don't give a shit, but I'll see you on Monday..." A hand moved to the intercom as he waved her out speaking into the box. "..Anita, are we out of Fiji?"
When: Wednesday Afternoon.
Where: The Law Offices of Pernot, Mercredis, and Moreau.
What: Devin meets her lawyer, Jake meets his client, they "discuss" the up coming plea entrance.
Rating: R for Language.
For someone that was quite often genuinely relaxed, Jake had found himself in rare form since Rowanne had decidedly up and left him with three more cases he didn't need. One of which was something that a person ought to have been working on singularly. Honestly, the Kuhl case was one of the most media friendly and debated defense cases he'd ever had to deal with. This of course would make most think that he would at the very least seem busy or frazzled when they entered into the surprisingly modern looking office.
The walls had been down in a light yellow and the office furniture was a sleek mix of modern and traditional lines in an espresso wood, set against surprising dark turquoise accents. They bore no more than a few framed photographs and a glut of book shelves lined with texts of philosophy, law, psychology and a surprising array of collected journals and files. A Mac sat on his desk, projecting The Pixies' Surfer Rosa throughout the office, and Jake himself was leaning back in his chair, the sleeves of his oxford rolled up to his elbows and untucked, from the argyle sweater vest and the tailored dark denim jeans he wore. The remainders of falafel and souvlaki sat in it's carton on his desk next to a monstrous mug of coffee.
There was a black Nintendo DS open to Brain Age that sat upon a Pullman novel, and Devin's case study was the only real piece of work that sat on his desk. Unorthodox may have been one way to describe the man whose only real proof of his career was the name on the door and the degrees on the wall; for he seemed young despite his years and bared the marks of a lawyer who hadn't gotten the suit and tie memo; or that simply was confident enough in his abilities to not give a shit about how others perceived his professionalism.
When his secretary buzzed to let him know Devin had arrived, Jake simply swung his feet of the desk just as the door opened. Moving to lower the music. "Hey, come in."
Generally speaking, Devin Kuhl looked more like someone who worked in a tattoo parlor, bar, or college radio station than someone who wrote best-selling novels. That day was no different, of course - who knew what Jake had been expecting, but the woman who dragged herself into his office (hungover like so many other days) was in a black and white striped hooded sweatshirt, a pair of old jeans with holes torn in the knees, and an inordinate amount of eyeliner, according to her parents and anyone she talked to over the age of thirty. There was also the matter of her sneakers, battered red and white Chucks that had certainly seen better days.
"Lawyer man," she greeted him, with a wave. She pulled the hoodie down, shook her hair out. There was apparently weather outside. Devin was not a fan of the weather. Particularly when it dared to require her to wear a coat. "Hey, I'm Devin," she reached forward to offer him her hand - there were two things about Devin, kind of unconscious things. The creepy-factor was one of them. It generally worked as a subtle person-repellant. Which usually she didn't mind. And then there was the way she acted more like a guy than most guys did, especially in Taledom.
"So," she eyed the sweater vest. Something about those things almost bothered her. For no reason in particular, it was just the sense that she wanted to dig her claws into people who wore them. Maybe it was because they were associated with meek prep school boys. And Devin didn't even have claws.
"Convicted lady." Jake stood up enough to take her hand, giving it a firm shake before motioning to the chair to the corner of the room. "Have a seat, let's get to talking. Your case file is the most entertaining thing I've gotten in a while." Jake was professional enough, but having been the King and Judge in a past life he felt himself consistently abiding the normal sort of Machiavellian ethics of friendship. Devin was one of these cases, though for once he found himself genuinely amused by her.
Pushing aside the book and Nintendo, and turning off the music midway into "Bone Machine" he himself sat down to pull the fat folder towards him. Eyeing her with curiousity, she looked like a whiny goth mall kid rather than a murderer. There was one point in her favor, he noted; and had she asked he'd have indeed told her to tone down the make up; he could tell she was pretty underneath all of that kohl. Who the hell did she think she was anyways? King Tut?
"Sorry you got switched around like that, crazy shit went down and there was no time to prep."
"Not if you're half as good a lawyer as I hope you are," Devin could never resist a joke or a tease. Or a good mocking. She shook his hand and then pulled hers back, moving to take a seat, legs curled up underneath her. Still trying to decide whether Jake was all right, or a tool (there was such a fine line), she crossed her arms over her chest. "It's quite a tale," she said in agreement, sighing a bit. This case had pissed her off, amused her, depressed her, and now she just wanted it to be over with.
"Hey, shit happens," she said - her way of accepting his apology - with a shrug. "So there's a court thing next Monday," she told him. She didn't bring anything with her, because she was pretty sure he had it all. "That's going to suck. Oh, and, uh, Charlie. Toussaint. He's a PI, I hired him, anyway he says he found the murder weapon." That was a fairly big bombshell to drop, and Devin did it carelessly. Casually. "Did you hear about that?"
After a second of staying still, she moved again to pull her sweatshirt off. It was warm in the office; in typical Devin fashion, she was in a wifebeater-resembling top. She had a couple of tattoos, colorful ink (blues and greens, mostly) spread from her left wrist, up her arm, across her chest, and part of the way down her right arm.
"I'm the fucking best lawyer this place has seen." Jake stated with a slight laugh, he was kidding of course though there indeed was something of him that just rang confidence. He was the pardoner, he saved people from death row. And if by some fluke he ended up with a fuck who really did deserve it; he made sure he got them there. For the Connecticut born boy, justice had always had precedence over whether or not he was paid. The crime lab report was pulled from the folder, an assured smile breaking across his face. He'd already gone over the knife in question, and was more than happy to see that their case was already made for them. "Yep, Monday you are entering your plea. Not guilty of course, and this Toussaint guy, I owe him a fucking drink. If you get lucky we won't even have to see this in court."
Raising her eyebrows in an "oh, really?" kind of way at his proclamation, smirking a little bit. She was pretty sure he was joking. At least, she thought it was funny. She nodded a bit more. "Yeah, not guilty. Got it. Nothing else happening? And I pretty much have to be there for that, too. Shit. It's going to seriously cut into my St. Patrick's Day." It was one of Devin's favorite holidays completely for the booze. No other reason. "Yeah, Charlie's pretty awesome. Best fucking news I've heard all week." Devin desperately didn't want to have trial. All those people, most of whom didn't know what the fuck they were talking about, talking about her. Trials always pissed her off. In the past, she was much happier when they just lopped Bluebeard's head off without worrying about it.
"You'll be out by dinner if everything goes smoothly. I have no doubts that it will, because I'd like to enjoy my fucking St. Patrick's Day too." Jake gave it a moment, hazel eyes scanning the woman in front of him one last time, almost as if he were analyzing her. "So have you figured out what you are going to wear yet?" It was a topic not approached by many lawyers, or any that he really knew of but in Jake's opinion the first impression was always half of the battle.
If you walked into a court room looking like a hoodlum, you'd be marked as one. If a pretty woman walked in looking like a tailored woman who knew what was up, it was just as likely she'd be marked as that just as easily. If there was one thing that Jake ever prided himself on, it was that none of his clients ever went in looking like anything less than the exact image they wanted to portray.
Devin nodded in approval and agreement - okay, so she couldn't get tanked all day. Just because she had to wait until after dinner to start drinking on the most holy of holy drinking holidays, didn't mean it was the end of the world or anything. At his, Devin decided, incredibly weird question, her eyes narrowed a bit. It sounded more like something a teenage girl asked her friend before Prom, than what her lawyer should be concerned with. Squinting at him a little, her lips actually formed the words "what the fuck" silently.
"Are you related to Edwina Dickering in any way?" was the first thing to come to mind, and therefore the first thing to pop out of her mouth.
"No, thank fucking God, no." Was his only response to the matter of relation, Hell would freeze over before Jacob motherfucking Moreau would spare more than five kind words on that twit that plagued the Pentamerone on a daily basis. As he leaned back in his chair, still looking her over with a curiously raised eyebrow. "The first thing you will be judged on is how you look. You can't expect to be taken seriously if you look like you just walked out of a fucking Hot Topic." He had already decided on how she would wear her hair, and what sort of make up she ought to use in order to not look completely out of her usual element. "Do you own any skirts?"
Snickering a little, Devin shook her head and raised her eyebrows at him. "Fuck you," she said, just in general, listening to him. Her eyebrows nearly touched the ceiling when he asked about a skirt. She was pretty sure this had to be some kind of bizarre nightmare. "Fuck no, I don't own any skirts. I haven't worn a fucking skirt since I was sixteen." This was surreal. "You're a lawyer, right? This isn't What Not To Wear or anything, right? If I'm innocent, who gives a shit what I'm wearing. I'll die before you get me in a skirt," she proclaimed. "I'm wearing whatever the hell I want to wear. And my hair's going to be green," she added, out of sheer spite.
"You don't have to wear a fucking skirt, calm down you fucking cunt." Jake's voice hardly raised above mild nonchalance as the woman across the desk from him freaked out. Chucking just slightly as she babbled, in his opinion, like a thirteen year old girl about what she was and wasn't going to do. "I am your lawyer, and as such I am paid to offer you the best possible advice about how to win this thing. If you have one fucking brain cell left, you will show up in plain black trousers, a wide leg cut would suit you best and a decent long sleeved blouse; preferably in something green or white. You should pull your hair back, and you will not have all of the make up the third Dynasty has to offer on your fucking face."
Jake found himself rolling his eyes, pushing his fingers back through his hair as he surveyed her curiously. "You're a fucking pretty woman, pretty women get in and out of court quicker; but only if they play the god damn part, and don't show up smelling like weed." The file was closed then to signal they he pretty much figured they were finished and she was welcome to leave.
Slowly, during Jake's tirade - which opened with his dropping the c-bomb, which Devin personally couldn't have given two shits about but took a level of balls to call a woman that she was unaware the man possessed - Devin's mouth came open slightly, dark burgundy-colored lips parting in shock. She'd rarely been talked to like that, and certainly not by her lawyer for anything. And Devin had gotten into her fair share of the kind of trouble that required lawyers. She had no idea what to say to that - or whether she was pissed off or amused beyond measure. She wanted to punch him and buy him a drink, but she didn't know which one she wanted to do first.
"I don't smell like weed," was what she wound up saying, crossing her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow. If she let herself smile, it would only be encouraging him, but when she got home she was going to have a long laugh about that. "What if I show up with green hair, torn fishnets, and fuck me boots? Full face paint, too.""
"I will pretend that I don't give a flying shit what you wear, and when the Judge calls you on it I will tell him that it is within your amendable rights to wear whatever it is you want to." He replied calmly still, as if not a thing in the world could raise a yell out of him. But then, that is how it always had been; the Queen did all the screaming and beheading. He took care of business.
Despite his tone when the next thought popped into his head, a slight smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. Almost as if the very image he was conjuring was satisfactory enough.
"When we finish and are outside of the court, I will punch you in the face for acting like a fucking thirteen year old twit." And there it was, as simple as if he had just told her what time of the day it was.
At this, she couldn't hold in the snort, nor the snickering that followed after it. "Shit, you're too fucking much," Devin laughed, shaking her head. It was rare that she found a person who swore as openly and proudly as she did. Apart from the obvious (Rose Bloom), that is. Correction: it was rare she found someone she could stand who swore like she did. "You wouldn't hit me. I'm a pretty girl," she said it in a sing-song teasing type of voice. She would never describe herself as pretty (or a girl, for that matter; if she had to admit to femininity at all, she called herself a chick) but Jake had said it, so she had to make fun of him for it. Her nose wrinkled almost automatically, at the words.
"Any other fashion tips?" she lisped at him, clearly calling his masculinity into question. Well, clearly to herself, anyway.
"I'm an equal opportunist." Was his reply to her threat about whether or not he would indeed hit her. He would, and there was indeed no doubt about it. That wasn't to say that Jake was abusive, hell he treated women like royalty. But if a girl asked for it, there was no chance that he would treat her any differently than a male. Jake Moreau: The Ultra Feminist. As Devin made a crack at his opinion as to how she ought to dress, he took it in stride with and settled back. "You'd look better in heels than flats, but make sure you're not wearing those sneakers or fuck me boots. If you do show up looking decent, I'll buy you your first drink of the night."
Devin eyed him for a second, before she got up. Pulling her hoodie back on over her head, she shoved her hands into the pockets. "Okay, well, just for the record you're either totally gay or you have a creepy clothes fetish," she informed him, pursing her lips. "I actually don't know which one I'd prefer." She couldn't decide yet whether or not she was going to dress the way he'd instructed her to. It probably depended on how cranky she was on Monday. "See you in court," she said to him, on her way to the door. She was already tapping a clove cigarette out of the package and getting her lighter at the ready.
"The latter, although it's more of an involved interest than a fetish." He informed her simply enough, already getting back to his computer to turn the music that had previously been playing back on, the voice of Kim Deal cranking out. You're the bone machine. "I actually don't give a shit, but I'll see you on Monday..." A hand moved to the intercom as he waved her out speaking into the box. "..Anita, are we out of Fiji?"