Chapter 3: The Lawyer and the Hacker
Chapter 3: The Lawyer and the Hacker
The price of getting what you want is getting what once you wanted.
-Neil Gaiman, Sandman, "Dream Country"
“I’m Elle Greenaway. How long have you been holding my client? Has he been advised of his rights? What are the charges against him?” the tall, no-nonsense brunette demanded as she strode into the police station.
Delaney held up both hands in mock surrender. “Look, lady, your client waived his rights. We know our job. It woulda been a simple B&E if he hadn’t started yellin’ about bein’ FBI, about knowin’ the Boston Reaper. Now we got a certified nut job on our hands, and it ain’t so simple. We can’t find any record that he even exists, and his weapon isn’t registered anywhere. The guy’s a ghost.”
Elle glared at the glib, condescending man through dark, narrow eyes, struggling to maintain a mask of disdain in the wake of such strange information. “I’m advising him to not say anything further. I want him arraigned immediately.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Delaney said. “Hey, is he really FBI?”
She tossed a contemptuous glare over her shoulder as she headed to the interview room. “My client is neither crazy nor a liar,” she bit out before slamming the door behind her.
Delaney and Mahoney shared a glance. “Never used his name,” Mahoney remarked, leaning back in his chair.
“This shit just gets weirder and weirder,” Delaney agreed.
Hotch hastily got to his feet as the woman slammed into the room, and his face sagged with relief at the sight of her. “Elle! Garcia said she was sending a lawyer; I had no idea-”
“I don’t know who you are or how you know my name, but sit down and shut up,” she hissed. “Garcia asked me to get you out of this mess, and I’m going to do that, but I don’t want to know anything, understand? You’re being arraigned soon, and if you give a damn about your freedom, you’ll shut your mouth and let me do all the talking. No more claiming to be FBI. No more crazy rambling about the Boston Reaper. Stand there and look confused and innocent.”
He stared at her in bewilderment before he cleared his throat; spread his hands flat against the tabletop in front of him; stared down at them, his face a stoic mask. “I understand,” he said quietly. “How…how long have you been a lawyer?” He wanted to ask her a thousand other things, but clearly there was something going on here that he couldn’t begin to comprehend; he decided it would be best to tread carefully from now on.
“Five years,” she replied warily.
He glanced up sharply, dark eyes hooded. “So you never joined the BAU?”
She looked blank a moment before her own eyes widened; mouth fell open a bit in surprise. “I assume you mean the BSU, but how did you know…?”
“The BSU? The Behavioral Science Unit?” That was the Unit’s old name; it had been changed years ago.
She gave him a curious look, and he watched her decide not to pursue it. “I was a cop for years; I tried to get into the BSU, but I kept hitting a brick wall. I think it was sexism, personally, but that’s just my opinion; bunch of maverick wannabe Dirty Harry’s chasing down serial killers like…like…”
“Dirty Harry?” he suggested mildly.
She glared at him a moment, but then relented with a slight quirk of her lips. “Exactly. I finally got sick of it all and decided I needed a career change.”
“I see. And how did you meet Garcia?”
“Every hacker needs a good lawyer,” she replied.
“Hacker? Garcia isn’t with the Bureau?”
Elle’s eyes narrowed again, suspicion etched into every line of her body. “No; she resigned a few years ago, after she was shot. You seem to know a lot about us, but…”
“I, um…you said you didn’t want to know.”
She shook her head again. “I meant it; I don’t. Look, Mister…?”
“Hotchner. Aaron Hotchner.”
“Mr. Hotchner. I’m going to get you through the arraignment, but then I think it would be best if you sought other council. I’m only here because Garcia asked me to come; I did it as a favor to her.”
He nodded, resignation slipping over him like an uncomfortable suit. “I understand. Thank you for coming; I didn’t realize how much I needed a good lawyer.”
Her full mouth lifted. “Very few people do, Mr. Hotchner.”
Several hours later, an astounded Aaron Hotchner was being escorted through a series of locked doors on his way to see Penelope Garcia. The place was wrapped up tighter than Fort Knox, and he realized she’d gone way, way off grid since the attack. No wonder she’d sounded so paranoid on the phone.
When he finally reached the inner sanctum - a small, well-ventilated room full of flashing computer monitors, really very similar to her cubby back at Quantico - he felt his mouth curving down at the sight of Penelope Garcia so altered. She was quite thin in a wasted, ill way that didn’t suit her, and her platinum hair was dyed black. She was dressed simply in black jeans and a black T-Shirt, and her face was unpainted. There wasn’t a troll doll to be seen, and the lack of flowers, butterflies, glitter, and anything squishy and/or colorful was alarming. Her eyes were the strangest, though: hard, suspicious, and looking as though she hadn’t laughed in a long, long time.
“Who are you and how do you know Clarence?” she demanded of him immediately.
He sighed; wondered how much to tell her. “My name is Aaron Hotchner. Clarence is…I don’t know who he is. He came to my apartment earlier today and somehow set all of this nonsense in motion. I just want to figure out what’s going on so I can go home.”
She raised a brow at him. “I can’t see that you have a home to go to, Mr. Hotchner.” She gestured to the monitors flanking her. “I can’t seem to find any record of you at all. Since you seem to know me, I think you’ll recognize how unusual that is.”
He nodded wearily. “It was a problem the cops had, too.”
“I think you owe Clarence a big thank you. That judge had no reason to let you out; I’m surprise he didn’t ship you off to Gitmo without a second glance.”
“What would Clarence have to do with it?” he asked, brows drawing together.
“He has his fingers in a lot of pies, from what I can gather. He doesn’t exist, either.” She said this last in a confiding sort of tone, as though Hotch were expected to understand perfectly.
He understood nothing. He felt like a fish out of water, suddenly thrust into an alien world where he couldn’t catch his breath, and now he flopped around on the shore, mouth opening and closing in a hopeless, pleading gape. He’d never felt so lost before. “Garcia, please, I need your help. I do know you - or I did - and the woman I knew wouldn’t ever turn away someone asking for her help.”
She frowned deeply, lines he’d never seen before springing into existence on her haggard face. “Elle told me you know I used to work for the Bureau.”
“That’s how I know you. I’m FBI; I was Unit Chief for the BAU…I guess…I guess you guys call it the BSU.” Whoever the hell “you guys” were. Wherever the hell he’d suddenly found himself.
She let out a little chuckle. “You really are lost, buddy.”
“Like Alice down the rabbit hole,” he agreed ruefully.
Garcia seemed to consider him for several more moments before she nodded. “Being the compassionate soul that I am, I will help you. Tell me how your oracle of the information superhighway can serve you today.” She swiveled around in her chair, hands poised above the keyboard.
Her use of the word ‘oracle’ gave him pause, but he was heartened to hear a little of the familiar Garcia in this stranger before him. “Tell me about your time with the Bureau. I need to know where the rest of the team is. Morgan, Reid, Prentiss, J.J., Rossi. Even Gideon. Someone has to be able to help me figure all this out.”
Her fingers faltered on the keys; her body went still. “How do you know about Morgan and Reid?” she whispered.
“I told you, Garcia. Are they still with the B…the BSU? Should I just go to Quantico?”
Her mouth twisted. “Hardly. I can tell you where they are without even looking. Derek Morgan is in jail for murder. Spencer Reid is dead.”
He flinched, but didn’t stumble, as he wanted to. Instead his face only grew harder, his will more iron. “Tell me, Garcia.”
She sighed and, reluctantly, began typing. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she muttered as images began flashing across the many screens.
Hotch stared, eyes growing wider as he read, and he felt himself falling even further down the dark, bottomless rabbit hole.
I know that the name was changed well before Hotch joined the BAU, but I'm using the old name here to illustrate just how different things are without Hotch. We'll read more about that next chapter. :)