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The man at the front desk looks at him twice. "Hey, aren't you the guy who tortured that co—" Remy Le Beau shakes his head and his eyes nearly sear through his sunglasses. "N'aw. Dat was someone else. And I don't appreciate the insinuation, neider," he lies. He is that guy and he appreciates the insinuation plenty.
Nevertheless he's able to get through to see Jessica since he technically works for her. Even though she's yet to be charged as much as he can tell. Perhaps it's because it's the weekend. As his boots walk and echo with a hollow edge he remembers how recently it was him who was behind bars. There's a part of him that thinks he shouldn't be here, that Jessica doesn't need or want his moral support and will probably just mock him. That being said, he needs to see her more for himself than for her. At least that's what he fears.
The officer leads him into a celled off room with a telephone, some glass, and a bench where he can see into where they must bring the prisoners.
*
Orange isn't Jessica's colour, and she's so wholly aware. It's been a strange twenty-four hours… she's been in holding this long, hasn't been offered a phone call or anything of like ilk. She has, however, been subjected to long-term interrogation. She's ushered to the bench behind the glass wearing handcuffs of all things, and eyeing the guard so hard as she moves.
Her grim expression as she takes a seat is probably more telling than her tone of voice when she picks up the telephone. And when Remy picks up the other phone, she manages in a flat, too-exhausted, and altogether distracted tone, "Hey. You look well."
*
Remy looks over her skeptically and reaches for the phone as she sits. He lifts the phone and there's an audible click as the metal prong opens the line. "Course I do, chere. Ah ahlways look well." He doesn't mention her. That's a conversation he can't win. She either looks terrible and he's offensive, or he looks good and he's hitting on her. "Like de bracelets."
"Dey tole you anyting bout when you might get charged? Dey allowed you t'get a lawyer, yet?"
*
Jessica squints at the question. A glance is given over her shoulder — in this kind of place, even the walls have ears — and her voice drops lower. "I think… They're baiting me." Because she could get out if she wanted. She frowns at the question, "Just questions. About… " her eyes turn upwards, "fucking nonsense." Her jaw tightens. "No word about charges, and no calls out."
She sniffs once. "How's the home front?" her volume increases.
*
"Han't been home for a few days so ahm not sure," Remy replies. Now is not a good time to bring up Ava's offer of moving out to Harlem, Brooklyn, Mutant Town,—really anywhere other than the Kitchen. "Glad y' found de girl. Guess y'din need my help afterall."
*
Jessica frowns. The story isn't remotely clear. "I didn't," and there's the honest truth. "She found me… or rather, us." Her eyebrows lift. "And I don't fucking know why." Her lips purse irritably. "She was bleeding and broken when she turned up at our door, collapsed in my arms, and went unconscious on the floor. North's lady-friend did CPR. And there's still eight missing teens at Hell's Kitchen High. Eight. All deemed runaways like Charlotte Ferguson. You can't fucking tell me that's not related." Her hands lift to run through her hair. "No. I was fucking set up to get us off this fucking case."
*
"Guess dat means dat you close, non?" Remy says. Jessica keeps saying we, and he makes a point of saying you. "Ain't nothin' gun happen until we can git you outta here. Got some money for bail an I ain't gun listen to any proud bullshit bout you usin' it nieder."
*
Her jaw tightens. The you isn't unnoticed. Jessica's eyebrows lift. "Look. You want out, you can get out. It's fine," she's fine. "But I don't need charity." Besides which, "They haven't charged me with anything which means there's no bail. No charges, no way out. No lawyer, no negotiation."
*
"Dey can't hold y'indefinitely," Remy says, ignoring her barbs. "Y'lawyer can start petitionin' deir higher ups. Figure dey got about through tomorra and you'll be out. And it ain't charity, so keep your knickers on."
*
Jessica's eyes clamp shut. Something else is working through her mind. She's been trying to work out what's happened over the course of the last two days. "Ferguson is alive. Was alive. Is alive?" So at least she's not getting charged with murder. "Yeah. Hopefully. Probably. Ugh. Jeryn has been trying to get access for over twenty-four hours. Owes me a favour for trailing a cheating spouse who didn't end up paying up."
*
"Y'need anyting? I ain't busy, and can help while here here in de clink." Remy has no clue what's going on in the investigation so doesn't even know where to begin. "Maybe we need someone t'go talk do de girl?"
*
"We do. If she can talk. And if she can't…" Jessica's eyes turn downwards. "Someone doesn't want her talking, Remy. They tried to kill her and sent her our way. They want her dead. They tried — she was missing fingernails!" But Jones has already talked too loudly, and the guard at the back is starting to move. "Someone needs to keep her safe," she starts to urge, again, too loudly. She can feel the hand at her shoulder, but if Jessica doesn't want to move, it's incredibly hard to make her, "They want — " but something calls for compliance in the back of her mind. Getting out means complying. Sage advice says that. She hangs up the phone and turns around.
*
"Well," Remy says to himself as he hangs up the phone. "Bout as equally effective as erry convahsation she and I eva had." A police officer opens the door as he expects Remy to head on out. The Cajun, of course, goes slow to be a general irritant. "This way, Mr. Le Beau," the officer says cheerfully. "Go fuck yourself," Le Beau replies.