We're at the police station. More accurately, we're in an interrogation room. It's the kind of room designed to be intimidating: windowless, with a single door and a metal table in the center. Three chairs—I'm in one, Dad is in another. The third chair, across from us, is empty for now. Adding to the classic movie ambiance is a one-way mirror on the wall. In the movies, that's where analysts and senior detectives stand, watching every little twitch.
In reality, however, the observation room behind this particular mirror is empty. I know this because a couple of cockroaches, a cricket, and five houseflies are currently the sole occupants. The whole police station is surprisingly infested with insects. There are three anthills under the underground parking garage, a colony of woodlice and centipedes in the sewers, and two large wasp nests under the eaves. And that's not even counting the cockroaches; this place has more of them than most restaurants. Probably because health inspectors occasionally visit cafes and restaurants, while everyone—inspectors included—tries to stay as far away from the police station as possible.
Just for fun, I calculate how long it would take me to rid the station of the police themselves. If I went all out, with no regard for human life or the threat of a Kill Order, there wouldn't be a single person posing a threat left in the building within twenty minutes. As for just getting up and walking out of here? I could do that within two minutes of starting my attack. A person being devoured by thousands of insects doesn't usually pay much attention to a suspect calmly walking past them.
"Taylor, what the hell happened?" Dad asks, his brow furrowed. "I can call a lawyer. The Union has connections. But you have to tell me what's going on!"
"I have no idea myself," I lie through my teeth.
In truth, I know exactly what's happening. It's not a suspicion, it's a fact. For the last five minutes, my swarm has been tracking a certain Alan Barnes, who is sitting in the BBPD Deputy Chief's office, having a very pleasant chat. Unfortunately, I don't have enough bugs in that office to form a complete soundscape, so I can't make out their words, but the tone of their conversation is undeniably friendly.
My paranoia spikes. I'd bet my cut from Tattletale against a crumpled dollar bill that if I had gone with Mr. Bad-Breath and Mr. Loverboy to the station alone, they would have had me. I mean, they would have interrogated me without any lawyers or other such nonsense, squeezing everything they could out of me. Of course, they might have squeezed something out of the old Taylor, which would have ultimately resulted in some major insect-related problems for them. But getting anything out of me is a different story, even if they threw me in a cell. After all, controlling insects gives me a constant stream of information about everything around me. It's impossible to get bored. And it's impossible to feel helpless.
"This is strange," Dad says, completely sincere, running a hand through his hair. "This is the police… though, I guess anything can happen."
I look at him and see that he's… more alive, somehow. Usually, at home, he's in a semi-conscious, groggy state, as if his higher brain functions shut down and he operates on pure cerebellum, navigating a simple route from the fridge with a cold Budweiser to the couch in front of the TV. But now, he's shaken off that fatigue. He looks alert and wary. More importantly, he's not blaming me. He's on my side. That's a pleasant surprise. I expected him to stay in his usual 'woe is me' funk.
"We've been sitting here a long time," he finally says, glancing at his watch again. "You have school tomorrow." He stands up, pulling up his work pants, and just then, the door opens.
In walks Detective Kralon, aka Mr. Loverboy. The lipstick smudge on his collar is gone, replaced by the sharp scent of cleaning fluid. A colleague must have pointed it out.
"Mr. Hebert," he says, placing a thick manila folder on the table between us. There's no label on it; I suspect it has nothing to do with my case at all. They couldn't have put together a file that thick on me in one afternoon, unless they somehow connected me to the murders at the Docks, but if that were the case, the PRT would have come for me. The local cops are strict about that; as soon as a case involves a cape, the police raise their hands, take two steps back, and avert their gaze. Not our jurisdiction. Send in the Triumvirate. And since Alexandria is a busy woman, the cape crime rate isn't likely to change. Besides, with the variety of powers parahumans have, it's amazing they ever get caught at all. Shadow Stalker can walk through walls and floors. How do you even catch someone like that? Or hold them? I got lucky catching Sophia when she wasn't ready, but any fight against an opponent who can just disappear and reappear would be a nightmare.
"My name is Detective Kralon, and I'll be conducting this meeting," he says, extending a hand to my father. "Mr. Hebert."
"You can call me Danny." They shake hands.
"Sorry for the delay," the detective says. "It's been a crazy day. And your daughter has caused us quite a bit of trouble."
"What is this all about?" Dad asks. "She hasn't told me anything. And neither have you."
"She hasn't?" The detective's gaze lands on me. I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. Not that there's much to lean back against—the chairs in this room are bolted to the floor and incredibly uncomfortable—but it probably just looks like I straightened my spine.
"I see. Your daughter assaulted a classmate and injured her," the detective says flatly. "We have witnesses. They all say that Taylor has always disliked this girl and has even been bullying her."
"What? That's impossible!" Dad half-rises from his chair. "She was the one being bullied! Just last month, there was an incident, and she ended up in the hospital!"
"Really? Strange, we have no record of that incident," the detective says smoothly. "However, we do have a statement from a Miss Barnes, claiming that Taylor attacked her and elbowed her directly in the face. The blow resulted in a broken nose and…"
"Barnes? Emma Barnes?!" Dad sinks back into his chair, turning to me. "I don't understand… they were friends… Taylor, what happened?"
"I can't say anything right now, Dad," I reply. "At least, not without my lawyer."
"A lawyer?" Dad shoots a quick glance at the detective. "If my daughter feels she can't speak without a lawyer, then that's how it is. Let me make a few calls, and we'll have a lawyer here shortly. He's more of a corporate and arbitration specialist, but still."
"Mr. Hebert, your daughter committed assault on school property, in broad daylight, with witnesses. This is a very serious charge. It would be better for you, and especially for her, to cooperate with the investigation. Understand, with the amount of evidence we already have, we don't even need Taylor's testimony. We know what happened. And it's not us who need her to confess. It's you. A confession and remorse—I can process that as a voluntary surrender. That, in turn, will help you avoid the worst-case scenario. A crime like this can lead to real time. Juvenile detention is not a pleasant place to celebrate your eighteenth birthday, Taylor."
The detective says this, and I have to give him credit. He's confident, in control, and hitting all the right notes. However, there are a few weak spots in his argument. The first is that you need more than a broken nose to send a minor to juvie. I've already researched precedents in this area. They could give me a fine, sentence me to community service, make me check in at the police station, wear an ankle monitor to track my movements—like a curfew after 7 PM or being restricted to only school and home. But juvie… if I'd killed Emma, then maybe. And even then, a good lawyer could turn it all around, especially given my situation.
And he has to know this. So right now, he's bluffing, trying to intimidate me and Dad. Classic 'bad cop' tactics.
"So I suggest, Taylor," he continues, "that you write a confession. Tell us exactly what happened, who started it, and why you hate Emma Barnes and her friends so much."
"Friends?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Cut it out, Taylor, it doesn't suit you," the detective scoffs. "They've already told me everything. That you hate and harass three girls at your school. Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements."
"That's bullshit!" Dad jumps to his feet. "My daughter would never do anything like that!"
"Calm down, Mr. Hebert. We already have a confirmed act of violence committed by your daughter against another student. Don't make the situation worse."
"I don't like what's happening here," Dad says, his voice firm. "Get up, Taylor, we're leaving. We'll come back with our lawyer when we're ready."
"You can't…"
"I can't?" Dad turns to face the detective. "I can't? Why not? Are my daughter or I under arrest? Have you read us our rights? Provided a lawyer? As I understand it, giving a statement is a witness's duty, but you're accusing my daughter. An accused person has the right to not testify against themselves, and you are obligated to provide a lawyer during an interrogation. Or has the law changed?"
"I see." The detective leans back, drumming his fingers on the table. "So you want to play hardball, Mr. Hebert? In that case, I can detain you both on suspicion of a crime until the on-duty public defender arrives. Today is… Wednesday. And it's already evening, so it's unlikely we'll get anyone here for at least six hours. But you can make yourselves comfortable. We have perfectly adequate holding cells. They might be a little crowded, though. The guys just brought in about a dozen drug dealers from the ABB, and the women's cell has a few of their girlfriends."
"What? That's…"
"Illegal? On the contrary. If I have reasonable suspicion that you or your daughter have committed a crime or are preparing to—and I do have such suspicions—I have the right to detain you for questioning. In the presence of your lawyer, of course, you're right about that. The only problem is, you don't have one. So the state will have to provide you with a free one. The on-duty public defender. Unfortunately, the state doesn't have enough funds to pay these defenders well, so there's only one for the entire Brockton Bay Police Department. You heard me, our cells are overflowing tonight—and every one of those scumbags needs a lawyer. I can only hold you until you're questioned in the presence of said lawyer… but I have a feeling he might be delayed. Let's say… until morning." The detective raises his eyes, meets Dad's gaze, and smirks.
"As for you, Mr. Hebert, I'm sure nothing will happen to you. Even in a cell packed with ABB scum. I know your type. Union leaders are made of sterner stuff. No one will touch you. But your daughter… that's not the same as beating up schoolgirls. Anything could happen in there." He clasps his hands together. "So you'd better sit down, Danny. Sit down, or I'll call a sergeant, and we'll say goodbye until your public defender shows up, which will be a very, very long time from now."
"Listen here, Detective what's-your-name," Dad says, and for the first time, I hear this tone in his voice. It's calm, serious, and quiet, but filled with steel. "I have the right to one phone call to my lawyer. You are obligated to provide me with the opportunity to call my own counsel. I refuse the public defender. And you have no right to conduct an interrogation without him."
"My name is Kralon. James Kralon. Try to remember it," the detective replies. "And since you're refusing the public defender, and I continue to suspect you of a crime, I have no choice but to lock you and your daughter in the holding cells. Unfortunately, you've missed dinner. Breakfast isn't until nine in the morning."
"This is an abuse of power! You're breaking the law!"
"Am I? Oh, right, I am obligated to give you a phone call, that's right. I completely forgot." The detective theatrically slaps his forehead. "My apologies. How could I? Yes, you can call your lawyer, and as soon as he arrives, we'll conduct the interrogation, or you'll refuse to give a statement, and we'll let you go. Go ahead, call."
"I don't have a cell phone. You have to provide me with a phone to…"
"You don't have a cell phone? What a pity. You know, it just so happens that the landlines in the station just went down. Probably a problem with the line. I could let you use my cell phone…" The detective pulls a phone from his jacket pocket. "...but that would be a violation of protocol. And you, Mr. Hebert, are such a stickler for the rules. You'd probably file a complaint against me later. So… I tried to provide you with the opportunity, but I couldn't. And… what the hell is this ant doing here?!" He flicks the insect off his phone. "Sorry. Now, where was I? Ah, yes… I am unable to provide you with the means. Isn't that poetic? Of course, first thing in the morning, I'll send a runner to whatever address you provide. Probably. The guys are pretty busy right now."
"You son of a…" A blue vein throbbed on Dad's temple, and for a second, I was afraid something inside him might actually burst.
"Dad." I place my hand on his, calming him and drawing his attention. "It's okay. Just wait another minute."
"Unfortunately, you don't have another minute, Taylor," the detective says. "So, what's it going to be? Confess to everything, and you might get to sleep in your own bed tonight, instead of a cell filled with ABB trash?"
"Am I interrupting? Or is this a private party?"
The door swings open and a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches strides into the room. He has thinning, reddish hair combed over to hide a growing bald spot. An expensive watch with a worn strap, scuffed old shoes, and wrinkled pants. He's clutching a folder under his arm.
"Who the…" The detective turns, sees the newcomer, and his face sours as if he just found a dead mouse in his morning yogurt.
"Jimmy-boy!" the man beams. "What a joy! So good to see you! You haven't changed a bit, my boy! How's Miranda? Still as gorgeous as ever? I never understood what she saw in a beanpole like you. Just look at yourself, five years of impeccable service and still just a detective. A shame! Still betting on the ponies? And hey, finally got yourself a girl with some taste—I see you got a new shirt. In that shirt, people might actually stop mistaking you for a pimp, though you still need to work on that expression. Chin up, Jimmy, nobody likes a whiner."
"Henry McAllister. What the hell do you want? Can't you see I'm busy? Get out of here, now," the detective seethes through his teeth, but the newcomer just shakes his head.
"Jimmy, Jimmy, still such a brute. If you ever walk the streets of this city without your badge, you're in for some truly surprising discoveries. And all of them will be exceedingly traumatic," the balding man named Henry McAllister says, then unceremoniously sits right on the edge of the table. He looks at me and Dad.
"Aha," he says. "Father and daughter. Danny, I've heard things about your union, you're doing good work. You've got the grip of a bulldog and the character to match. My condolences about Annette, she was a wonderful woman. And Taylor! You're like the daughter I never had," he winks at me. "Was this guy giving you a hard time? Pay him no mind, he's always been a first-class jerk."
"McAllister! Get out!" Mr. Loverboy's face turns beet red.
"Oh! Detective Kralon, Jimmy-boy." The balding man pulls a slip of paper from his folder and slaps it on the table in front of the detective. "These people are my clients. I have the right to a confidential conversation without the presence of representatives from this rotting system of justice, which should really be called a system of crooked justice. And by the way, remind me, Jimmy-boy, do you have a charge ready? An arrest warrant? No? Then what are we still doing here? Danny, Taylor, let's get up. We're leaving. I know a fantastic little Italian place, let me treat you!"
"McAllister, you don't dare…"
"Oh, I dare, Jimmy-boy, I most certainly dare. It's you who doesn't dare to hold a minor overnight in a police station, especially while threatening to put her in a cell with adult criminals. Tell me, were you planning on 'mixing up' the cells? You know, it takes less than that to end your career. You guys at the BBPD have gotten sloppy, completely lost your minds. You really want to go head-to-head with me, Jimmy-boy? Do you?"
Suddenly, the balding man's voice turns to steel. He leans in, his face so close to the detective's they're almost touching noses. For a long moment, they stand like that, staring each other down. Finally, the detective looks away.
"To hell with you, McAllister," he mutters. "Consider your client served with a subpoena to appear at the station to give a statement. You have one week."
"What's this?" McAllister feigns astonishment. "What? Can it be? Does Detective Kralon actually possess some common sense and an ability to follow the law? Truly, this day is full of wonderful surprises!"
"Mr. Hebert, Miss Hebert," the detective says, addressing us directly. "You're free to go. However, you are required to appear at the police station with your counsel within one week to give a statement. You can sign the receipt for the subpoena with the desk sergeant on your way out."
"Alright then. Let's go, let's go," the balding man urges us along. "I've already ordered us dinner, and I'm afraid Luigi won't appreciate it if we're late. He makes the most amazing pasta, you know, the real stuff, not that cheap imitation they usually make in Chicago, but just like in Milan. And the desserts! Come on, let's get out of here. Police stations are bad for my karma. Or my aura."