2019-07-11 - The right to remain

A little PR, a little paperwork. A press conference about the Bayside murder that ate up a good chunk of his afternoon, and then what very few people know is that he drank himself into oblivion that night. Passed out cold on the couch, though that's not where he woke up.

The hangover he's sporting this morning, therefore, promises to be legendary. So when the phone rings on his day off, and it's Thatchery pulling him in for a break on a cold case, it's all he can do to pop a handful of painkillers and a gallon of coffee before dragging himself out to his cruiser. Not the most auspicious start to the day, but then most of them lately aren't.

By the time the unmarked cop car pulls up in front of Graham's residence, they've already got Andre interred in the back of a secondary, marked SUV. Three in total, including the black charger with de la Vega at the helm; all arrive without lights or sirens, and two move to blockade the street as Ruiz pulls up out front of the building. Doors open and slam shut, four cops in full gear brandishing sidearms and kevlar vests pour out, while the captain in charge of this little sting looks ready to attend a business function in his charcoal suit and pinstriped tie. He, too, is armed of course; a Heckler & Koch HK45 is holstered at his hip. Nasty piece of work to be getting on the wrong side of. He prowls up to the front door of the building, allowing the armoured police to move out ahead.

<FS3> Graham rolls Alertness (8 8 7 7 5 4 3 1) vs That's A Lotta Cops (a NPC)'s 2 (8 7 5 3)
<FS3> Victory for Graham.

Oak Avenue is supposed to be the nice part of town! The cops rolling up in force is going to make the neighbors all mad. More than one person peeks through their blinds at all this. Including someone inside the house at 23 Oak Avenue. The blinds part, then snap back together.

Before anyone has to go beating down the door, it swings open from the inside. The light difference between the street and the interior is pretty drastic, since the whole house looks like it was pretty much asleep before this happened. Graham has on a slept-in t-shirt and some 'these look clean enough' jeans when he stands in the foyer, hands already laced behind his head, already lowering himself down onto one knee the second that door opens.

"Morning, gentlemen." Are there women cops with them? "Ladies," he tacks on, just in case. "I'm fucking flattered."

Four cops. The one hanging out at the bottom of the steps, hand on her gun, is female, though her expression doesn't shift when Graham adjusts his greeting to be more gender inclusive. Four cops. Make that five, when one counts the suit with 'J. R. de la Vega' emblazoned across the ID badge at his hip. It's bright enough outside to be playing havoc with his hangover-fueled migraine, but seeing as heavy duty sunglasses were not an option today, the man makes do as best he can. Chances are, it isn't improving his mood though.

He's got his badge up by the time the door swings open, and the look on his face. The look on his face suggests he's not fucking around. "Graham Stewart?" Yep, that's him. "You're under arrest." One of the others, a big black guy with 'S. Moretti' on his ID, steps in and starts rattling off the guy's Miranda rights while attempting to turn Graham around and cuff his hands behind his back. Ruiz, meanwhile, is taking the opportunity to glance over what he can see of the guy's house. Brief stock taken while he waits, though his hand rests near his firearm at all times. Into his radio, after it crackles at him with a request from dispatch, "Unit three three seven, ten-six."

It's hard for a man on his knees with his hands behind his head to be composed, but hand it to Graham: he keeps his shit together like a professional. "No shit? You don't think you guys coulda brought a couple more cops with you?" he asks snarkily after being told he's under arrest, shutting up in due time to get told his rights, which he acknowledges like a good boy. He's been through this more than once, and he really isn't keen on getting anything hurt or dislocated, so he makes handcuffing him pretty easy. Back on his feet, he's all credibly unfazed smiles.

Inside the house, all seems quiet. Elise is at work. There's a kitten (on the verge of becoming a full-on cat) peering out from under the coffee table, making that murrrrrrr-derous noise that pissed off cats make. It's tidy and in good order, impressively so for a 25-year-old career criminal; all evidence points to the likelihood that Graham's girlfriend did the decorating.

Before he says anything else, Graham asks, "What'm I under arrest for?" Feel free to interpret that as either him having no clue what he could possibly have done... or him having no clue what they could possibly know about him having done.

Whatever the captain may or may not be thinking is left largely a mystery. He's not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve at the best of times; and when on the clock, his RBF is fairly legendary. "Grand Larceny, Mr. Stewart," the swarthy-skinned cop informs his quarry, still looking around his house though not moving to touch anything. The kitten is briefly noted before he turns back to the man being cuffed and frog-marched toward the door. "Got a girlfriend? What's her name?" He can spit it out now, or later under duress. The precinct's got a dank little interrogation room with shitty chairs and terrible room service, if Graham feels inclined.

And then, unless the pretty boy they've got in their clutches chooses to make a scene, off they go. Destination: one of the squad cars not currently holding Andre.

A long, low whistle of the super-impressed variety comes out of Graham at the term grand larceny. He gets marched out to the car without so much as dragging his heels, though there's a second when his annoying grin falters because the neighbor is eyeing this mess with a tut-tut look on her face.

Hence the slightly distracted, "Whassat? Oh. Yeah," he's got a girlfriend. "Her name's I Want My Fucking Lawyer. She's gonna be pissed if the cat gets out, so can you guys make sure to close the door?"

Which should set the tone for Ruiz and his cohorts. Andre wants his lawyer. Graham wants his lawyer. Neither one of them has a goddamn word to say until said lawyer materializes after their phone calls, and said lawyer advises them to keep their mouths shut, like lawyers do. So questioning them won't really get anyone anywhere, other than the Bobby the lawyer reminding everyone that he wants his clients in front of a judge right away, gentlemen, so charge them or cut them loose.

Also, he'd like a word with Captain de la Vega.

Oh, it's a predictable enough refrain. But de la Vega is a patient man. Which says nothing, naturally, of whether he enjoys being made to wait. And all signs are currently pointing to Frownsville. Population: one hungover cop with an axe to grind.

It's well into the afternoon, and Ruiz along with a few other detectives at the precinct, are busting their balls trying to scrape together enough evidence to actually slap a charge on the two men. Something that'll stick in front of a judge, and that Bobby and his smarmy cohorts don't simply tear to shreds in the courtroom. Between this, the phone calls from a few 'concerned residents' at Bayside Apartments, the local newspaper wanting a follow up interview on the piece they're doing, and his head pounding so hard he can't see straight, the man looks about ready to throw in the towel.

"Someone here to see you, captain," courtesy of a Sergeant who sticks his head in to deliver the message, then wisely gets the fuck out of dodge. He's seen the man's temper, and has no particular desire to risk it today.

The Captain is up to his eyeballs in paperwork, when the knock sounds at the door. His office is like most on this floor; a claustrophobic little box with no windows, a floor to ceiling filing cabinet, and a laptop that seems to be on its last legs and is making a concerning sounding whine not unlike a death rattle. Scraping his hands across his face, the man rubs at his eyes with his fingertips, and then pushes to his feet when the lawyer steps in. He's shed his suit jacket across the back of his chair, shirtsleeves turned up to his elbows, and both forearms are covered in copious amounts of ink that probably violate some sort of regulations. Somewhere. Probably.

"Mr. DeWitt. Pleasure." He strides forward and clasps the man's hand firmly. "How can I help you?" His eyes go to the briefcase, then the other man's face, like he's trying to suss something out about him.

Alarm bells are going off the minute the guy shakes his hand.

There's a pause from de la Vega after he releases it, and for a brief moment, the two men square off across that tiny office space. One of them, of course, has a gun lying around here somewhere. But that's neither here nor there, is it. He's about to offer the guy a seat, when he avails himself of the captain's desk to offload his briefcase. His hands slide into the pockets of his pants, and there's a subtle line of tension that runs through his shoulders and down his arms, despite his casual posture.

"May I see those?" He smiles too. Friendly like.

The cop watches the smarmy ass lawyer across from him a beat or two, then brings his attention to the photographs that have been pushed across the desk toward him. Tension in his frame still, one hand extracted from his pants pocket, fingertips resting on top of the first picture. Then nudging it aside so he can look at the next, and the next in a similar fashion. The hand lifts to his jaw then, scraping through his beard thoughtfully.

"This looks very circumstantial to me, Mr. DeWitt. Is this all you have got?" Dark eyes on the man opposite him. There's not much to look at in the office; no real personal touches here. Stark, utilitarian. Uncomfortable. Very little in here to encourage people to stick around for long. The photographs are pushed together into a stack and nudged back across the table. "Because if this is all you have. Then I am not sure why you're here."

There's no further attempt made to return the pictures; they're left stacked on the table between both men, and the captain's hand retreats back into his pants pocket after a glance at that briefcase. If the fact that the lawyer is connected to Monaghan makes him uneasy, he gives no indication. None save that attentive stillness that seems to have taken him, and that muscle in his jaw that won't quite relax.

The cop smiles again slightly, though the expression is vaguely wolfish; there's no warmth in it. "I will have someone look into it. Perhaps some paperwork was in error. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. DeWitt?" A slight tilt of his head, gaze steady.

Bobby's got a point. That's what's fucked up about all this. Ruiz is already in way over his head with all the shit going down daily in this shitty little town. It's like a goddamned game of whack-a-mole he has no hope of winning. And what's two more n'er do wells with rap sheets that frankly aren't worth his while?

Is it the princple of the thing? The letter of the law? Certainly not, or he wouldn't have taken that blow.

The card is accepted, scissored between index and middle fingers. His dark eyes meet DeWitt's for a moment, circumspect under those stooped and furrowed brows. Then he moves to the door and pulls it open, his own smile razor thin. Polite, but only barely. "Pleasure is mine, Mr. DeWitt."

That night around nine fifteen pm, Bobby's phone rings.

"Mr. DeWitt? Si. Si, it's de la Vega. Yes, I would like to talk."