2010-06-12: Prison Ink



Date: June 12, 2010


<OOC> Porter tried to think of what the most embarrassing thing one could have on their face that wasn't a penis."

"Prison Ink"

Downtown NYC - Police Station

Spies spend time in prison. It's an occupational hazard. On a long enough timeline, everyone gets caught doing something sneaky and ends up in a concrete box in some country that they can't pronounce. You deal. You catch up on your reading. Compare South African prison cuisine to what the Czechs or the Algerians have to offer. Do some push ups and wait for the cavalry.

Or in Porter's case, you sleep. On the floor. With your mouth open. Snoring loudly. After being processed under the name of Daniel Fry, he was issued an NYPD sweatsuit and tossed into general holding. He fell where he landed, passed out where he fell, and hasn't moved since. One or more of the other occupants must've been feeling artistic, because an elaborate moustache has been drawn in across his upper lip. It curls out onto his cheeks, where it coils in on itself impressively. His eyebrows have been covered with thick marker, shading them out far to the sides and comically close together in the middle. Last but not least, the word 'BALLS' has been written across his forehead in bold, lopsided letters.

None of the other inmates are coming anywhere near him. They are laughing, though. Praise be to the Sharpie.

The inelegant sounds of Porter's snoring and the snickers of the other detainees are joined by the sound of footsteps.

Shuffling, reluctant steps are paired with the more confident footfalls of boots: a man in loose, ratty street clothes is being led from interrogation back to holding by one of the department's enterprising hands of justice. The man is a suspect in a case, conveniently arrested, for some reason or another; he was here about an hour ago before being led out by a uniform.

The woman who leads him back now is no uniform, however. The chosen uniform of Detective Powers is a grey t-shirt just fitted enough to be considered not too sloppy for work, beneath an unbuttoned blouse rolled up past her elbows, its pastel blue criss-crossed by her shoulder holster. Her NYPD detective's shield is hooked over the thick leather of her jean's belt. Firm but not heavy-handed, Maggie ushers the guy into the cell next to that of "Daniel Fry" and jangles the door shut. "Alright, you have time to think on our next conversation." She starts to head out when she notices Porter's unfortunate transformation into an art project. She actually crouches down in front of his cell, squinting. "Someone really did a number on you." Spoken whether he's awake or not.

Sodium amytal is a crude truth serum, but it's effective. Not only that, it's a potent intoxicant with a harsh hangover. When Porter opens his eyes, they're painfully bloodshot and prone to crossing and uncrossing. "Ohhhhhhh," he groans, his voice hovering somewhere between a squeak and a whisper. "Stop screaming at me. And the light…" he holds up one hand in a futile attempt to shield his eyes. "Stop with the light. It hurts my soul."

Like a newborn fawn, he struggles weakly to his hands and knees. Head hanging, a constant streams of curses and moans emitting from his mouth, he makes an attempt at standing up and doesn't get far. "Nice floor. Good floor," he whispers, patting it. "I think I'll stay here. Just for a sec."

The detective's long arms — sinewy forearms used to a good deal of exercise — dangle between her knees as she keeps up her rather utilitarian crouch on her heels. There's a sort of knowing smirk already on her face when Porter wakes up, though the faint curve of her mouth contains no malice. Or any particular judgment. Not that he's looking. Maggie is, after all, closer to the source of the light that hurts his soul. "Well when you and the floor part ways," she starts to push to her feet, hands on her knees, this passing good deed imparted, "you might wanna wash your face." Not that the means are readily available.

Elsewhere in the station

It's a rather late hour of the evening, the sun set over the horizon hours ago and dutifully, Vasha had accompanied her benefactor to some party that one of his colleagues was throwing. She was there for all of ten minutes when she received a call that had her making excuses and bidding farewell to some of her father's more esteemed contacts in the American city.

Dressed in a tan evening gown, she slowly climbs the steps into the police headquarters. The fur stole is unwrapped from her shoulders and pendant around her neck catches a few eyes as makes her way toward the desk. "I received a phone call," she states, her tone sharp and quite annoyed presumably for being interrupted in her evening. "Apparently there is someone in this building that I am supposed to …" a sour expression crosses her features and she sneers as she speaks the next few words. "…bail out of prison."

"Whut?" Still blinking blearily, Porter scrubs a hand against his face and peers at it. When he doesn't see anything, he shrugs. "Huh? No! Wait!"

Shouting. Shouting hurts a lot. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to block out the ringing. It's like someone is banging pots and pans together inside his head. "Who am I?" he asks, quiet again. "I mean… who did I say I was? Oh God. Vagina of the Virgin Mary, it hurts."

Very carefully, he leans back on his haunches and raises his hands to either side of his head. As if it is split down the middle, he presses the two imaginary halves of his skull back together and holds them there. "Jesus, that's better. Can I see whatever papers you have on me? I'd like to know what I'm being charged with."

Midway to rising, Maggie is, for a moment, put off by the man's crude manners, causing her eyebrows to arch faintly and remain there. "Well. Let's see. Indecent exposure … public intoxication— " she starts, thoroughly back to standing and inadvertently looming over Porter on the other side of the holding cell bars. "Don't hold me to that. I don't know who you are. You're not my responsibility," she says neutrally. "I just heard gossip." How she knew this was the guy with the crazy naked story is anyone's guess; there are certainly a few others sprawled in the cells who look like they've had rough days, too. Maybe it was the NYPD sweats. She starts to turn, tucking her hands in the pockets of her jeans. "I'll let someone know you're awake," she offers along her shoulder.

"His name is…" Vasha reaches into a small clutch and pulls out a business card with a scribble on the back of it. Handing it to the desk clerk, she says the name on the card at the same time as the woman claims it. "Daniel Fry. I am here to collect Daniel Fry."

Looking past the woman, she makes no move to enter the station any further, not even going so far as to actually touch the desk in front of her. Her lips still haven't formed themselves into a countenance that would suggest anything other than bitter disgust. "Where is he then, this Daniel Fry? Fetch him and be quick about it, I do not have all night to waste dallying in your filthy station."

The comment has a few heads turning toward the brunette, none of them with a kind expression. Save one or two who have to turn their head to keep from laughing in her face. The clerk, who is trying to keep composed, simply nods and picks up the receiver to place the call to holding.

"Thanks," Porter groans, rolling his eyes in Maggie's direction. "Your compassion has been duly noted. If I were a vengeful man, I'd have you fired when I got out of here. But I'm not. Instead, I'll piss and moan like an impotent… and you're really too far away to hear me, anyway."

Now that he's more or less alone again, he gets back to work on standing. Largely supported by a death grip on the cell bars, he manages to struggle into an unsteady and knock-kneed stance. "There," he congratulates himself. "That wasn't so bad."

As a phone rings not too far off, a faintly warning, if singsong, shout carries down the narrow corridor along the holding cells. "I can still hear you!" That would be the voice of one very observant Detective Powers. And here she thought she was being pretty nice.

The phone outside of holding just keeps ringing and ringing and ringing until somebody finally answers it beyond their duty.

Lucky Maggie — or Porter … or neither — that she's the one to suddenly reappear, striding toward his cell with a purpose. A purpose and handcuffs. "It looks like someone is here to pick you up," she announces as she unlocks the gate that keeps the man barred in. "For the record, I was being compassionate when I told you that you had marker on your face. I'm a homicide detective, drunk and disorderlies aren't my usual territory. If you'll just turn around for me, I'm going to cuff you," she says as she moves to open the door, "You're not free until your friend officially posts bail."

Porter winces when he's called out and given a bit more detail. "Marker?" he mumbles unhappily. "Oh, hell…" With a sigh, he turns around and presents his wrists, one of which bears the distinct bruise of a handcuff put on too tightly and left on for too long. "I hate this part," he says mildly. "I really do. Be gentle with me."

When he's properly bound, he no longer has the option of shielding his eyes with his hands. Stoically, he squints until he's peering at the detective through slits. "Wait a sec… friend? Uh. Look, if it turns out to be a wee thing by the name of Lara, can I just go back to my cell? I'll be good. Promise."

"What is this then," Vasha sneers as she's escorted to another desk, further in from the front clerk she had been dealing with before. Looking down at the chair she is offered, her eyebrows twitch into a deep frown before she begins plucking kleenex after kleenex from a box. These are used to cover the seat, which has obviously been used by criminals less than herself. Criminals that get caught, criminals that are dirty, she's not risking her gown on this chair.

"Where do you know Daniel Fry from?" A polite officer says as he places a stained cup full of hours old coffee in front of her.

"Will I require a lawyer to collect Mister Fry?" Vasha snips back, rather evasively. Her eyes rove over the officer pausing at areas that seem rather muscular, it might seem as though she is ogling him from an outsider's view. "For I was not told this when I spoke with the officer on the telephone. Simply tell me how much it is I am to post and I will be on my way, ja?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple ma'am," the officer smiles back, finally taking a seat behind his desk. Pulling a folder from the top of a stack, he flips it open and begins filling in some of the blanks on the sheet by hand. "You're bailing him out, so he's going to be released into your custody. You're going to need to escort him out of here."

Vasha glares. Incensed. "You must be joking. I am to escort a common thug while dressed like this?"

The handcuffs go on as gently as handcuffs can; Maggie's use of them, at least, is not rough. Just functional. A hand hooking around one of Porter's handcuffed wrists, she directs him out. Her pace is quick and unforgiving of both his headache and, seemingly, his concerns about who's waiting for him on the other side. "I don't know who it is," she states plainly, a simple fact. "It is a woman, though. If she's willing to get you out, and if the stories about how you came in here are true at all, I'd maybe count your blessings, Mister Fry." It seems she got one name while she was on the phone. "Granted, sometimes these kind of stories are exaggerated…" She leads Porter out of holding, up a small incline of stairs and through the station toward a particular desk. A row of worn chairs lines the nearby wall. "You can just have a seat h— "

Maggie pauses.

Vasha's appearance takes her by surprise — in that one pause. Little surprise actually shows on her face, but a polite and mildly curious smile appears for the strikingly dressed South African. "Miss Kruger," she states and nudges Porter ahead just a bit. "Yours?"

"I… I. I?" Porter's mouth forms into a small, tight 'o' of surprise. "Fry?"

His pasted-on smile is much closer to being a grimace. Woodenly, he follows after the detective and stumbles up the stairs. "I… I used the name Fry?" he queries, stumbling on a step and nearly sprawling. He's quick to pick himself up, though.

That's right. Smile wide. Show all your teeth. Which is exactly what Porter is trying to do until he lays eyes on Vasha. Then his mouth compresses into a flat, unhappy line and his eyes close. It's a look of resignation. Delicately, he licks his lips and nods. "Ahem. Um. Shit."

"Detectiff…" Vasha rumbles in a low tone. Her eyes flit to Porter and she quirks one of them upward in curiosity before narrowing her eyes at his expression. "Yes, apparently I am the one he wishes to contact when he needs the funds to extracate himself from your prison system." Her voice is tight and as soon as she finishes speaking she doesn't spare Maggie or Porter another glance. Not yet anyway.

The officer at the desk finishes the write up and prints out a sheet of paper, handing it to Vasha to sign. "No priors, five hundred bail with a court appearance in twenty eight days."

This is when she throws him a glance, her expression turning as joyous as his is. "Very well, I do hope you accept cash payments. That is all I have with me." After signing the paper, she pulls a few bills from her purse and counts out five of them onto his desk.

"Uhm… you need to take this to the cage, back there." The officer glances over to Powers pleadingly and then points toward a grated window at the back of the precinct.

Vasha stands and scoops up the cash before stepping a little closer to Maggie and her charge. "It is good to see you again, Detective. Even if it is under such unfortunate circumstances, I trust you are well?"

Maggie watchfully observes the bills pass from Miss Kruger to the officer before she allows this minor interruption in her normal work to go on. Without complaint, she does as the desk man says — starts to lead Porter to the back of the precinct. Meanwhile, she offers another small, polite smile over her shoulder at Vasha. "Just fine," she says in a cursory manner, her voice pitching just a bit high. "It looks like you had your evening interrupted," she comments pleasantly, "I'm sorry about that."

At the cage, the Sharpied man so surprised about his "choice" of name and apparently less than thrilled about his savior earns a long look from Detective Powers before she relinquishes him as the responsibility of somebody else, unlocking his cuffs and easing them off. There's something decidedly skeptical about that look of hers, unabashedly analyzing; it shifts back toward to Vasha a moment later. It's the kind of look that says: I know there's more going on here than meets the eye. Maggie makes no comment, though — she simply excuses herself wordlessly, with a civil smile and dip down of her head to briskly head off back to work. Her own work.

"Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard motherfu…" Wisely, Porter trails off and reapplies his sickly sweet smile and thinks about where he'll be in twenty eight days.

"Not in this shithole~" he singsongs under his breath.

Still blissfully unaware of his drawn-on moustaches and other accouterments, Porter turns to Vasha and graces her with his most charming smile. "You're a peach for doing this," he purrs. "Let's get out of here. I'll take you somewhere nice."

Maggies look is answered with a confident smile that only goes to show off the hubris in the woman standing near her. "Yes well, sometimes interruptions are unavoidable. Perhaps you will do me the honor of a chat at the country club one afternoon." It's a polite invitation, though the tight smile on her face shows no welcome to the woman whatsoever. Sort of a backhanded dismissal.

That smile drops when she passes the five one hundred dollar bills into the cage. Looking at Porter, she wraps the stole over her shoulders once again and takes a deep breath. "Come Dan-iel, after you are finished scrubbing the graffiti from your face, you will have much work ahead of you… I have a boat that needs the barnacles removed. I believe five hundred dollars is a fair wage?"

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