Nondocumented Woes

[hazlogs]

Jail, 19th Precinct
The Jail is cold and utilitarian. The lights are dim, the walls made out of
cold, cracked concrete. Steel bars separate the jail cubicles, and
everything is painted a ugly shade of green. A small desk sits near the
door, a place for an officer to sit and watch the inmates. The room smells
of old beer, vomit and stale urine, residues of the inmates.
The offices of the 19th Precinct are to the southwest of here.

It is currently 18:38 Pacific Time on Wed Apr 2 1997.
Currently on this calm and crisp spring evening in the general St. Claire
area, it is 58 degrees Fahrenheit (14.4 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming
from the northwest at 0.2 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are clear with no
chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (32% full).

Vince sets himself at his desk duty, shuffling papers, unless a superior
officer teassigns him.
Erik stands near the bars of the holding cell, arms wrapped around himself and
obviously edgy. The other prisoners avoid him.
Two officers come toward the cell, talking about last night's ball game. The
keys clank as the first officer gestures with the hand holding them.
Erik turns his masked head toward the officers, his tall body growing tense.
Body language tight, he walks slowly toward the exit to the cell.
Vince keeps in lock step with his senior partner for this prisoner transfer.
Officer Jameson seems more relaxed than the rookie, though the hard gleam of
his brown eyes shows a prisoner won't catch this cop sleeping. He stops at
Erik's cell door. His voice is raspy from many years of smoking. "Clear from
the door."
Erik takes a couple of steps back, watching the policeman with the intensity
of a cornered animal.
Vince holds the gleaming handcuffs, prepared to use them, covered slightly in
his hands, low, at waist level. One might not even notice them there, he
makes them seem so casual. He waits for the senior man to open the door.
Officer Jameson does so. Though the jail door and the key both have the
appearance of rough-cast metal, the lock clicks open smoothly. The older
officer motions Vince inside. He then turns to watch the pair, ignoring the
hoots and hollers from other prisoners.
Erik trembles slightly, eyes darting from one cop to the other and back again.
Vince steps forward, then moves to get behind the prisoner, attempting the
smooth, casual cuffing technique that is standard police procedure, silently.
Erik shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His nerves coil ever the
tighter as the cuffs lock around his wrists behind his back, and then
tension is all but tangible.
Vince checks the cuffs, then nods to his partner.
Officer Jameson stays by the door. At Vince's nod, he moves back to allow the
prisoner and other cop passage down the hallway to the back entrance. He
pauses long enough to shut the door with a heavy clang and lock it before
turning to follow.
Erik twitches visibly at the loud metallic slam of the cell door hitting home.
Vince keeps up with the prisoner, wary, beside his human partner. He hides his
feelings from the humans.
Officer Jameson walks with the other two down the long hallway. Some of the
prisoners are abusive, but many are quiet. A pair of bored-looking hookers
sit on one cot. Once whistles at the trio.
Vince just walks, and watches.
Erik murmurs to himself, a steady undertone in Gaelic, barely audible.
Officer Jameson moves to unlock the back door. As it swings open, a third
officer can be seen near a blue van. The white letters on the side spell out
'SCPD.'
Erik slows his steps as the van comes into view, and turns toward Jameson.
"What about my, ah, things?"
Vince slows as the prisoner slows.
Officer Jameson's voice, though raspy, is not entirely unkind. "They're in the
van, pretty boy. Along with your ticket back home."
Erik starts to say something else, then stops, perhaps thinking it useless to
argue with the man. He allows himself to be herded into the van.
Vince herds the prisoner as if by instinct.
Officer Jameson shuts the door behind Erik. He then speaks to Vince. "Go ahead
and take the trip. I've got some paper pushing to do."
Vince nods his understanding of his orders, and climbs into the van on the
passenger side, after completing a circle check of the vehicle.
Erik sits as comfortably as he can manage in the back of the van (difficult,
with his hands cuffed behind him), and glances around.
Officer Britton starts the engine as Vince climbs inside and shuts his door.
"All clear?"
Vince says "All clear."
Officer Britton nods and puts the van in gear. The van is not followed by
backup, as this is only a routine transfer.
Erik closes his eyes, bracing himself as the vehicle jerks into motion. He
opens them again almost immediately, tugging at his cuffs as he glances
about the back of the van, tense and restless.
Vince keeps an eye on the prisoner, as assigned.
Officer Britton continues to drive at a moderate speed. He keeps the AM/FM
flipped off, and the police radio hums an occasional message.
Vince checks his watch.
Erik scoots toward the front of the van, grimacing at each bump, and peers
through the partition and into the cab, looking for something.
Vince eyes the prisoner's movements warilly, with needless paranoia.
Erik's eyes meet Paolin's for a brief momemt before they skitter away and
toward the rearview mirror.
Vince follows the prisoner's gaze, then looks back to him, shaking off
whatever odd thought crossed his mind. "Is there a problem, prisoner?"
Erik's eyes flick back to Paolin's, though he never quite meets the officer's
gaze. "No, constable. Just... um. The scenery. Looking at it."
Vince just watches Erik, then, checking his watch, glancing at the driver.
Erik's eyes find the mirror, desperation warring with caution. For a moment he
meets his own gaze... and then he sits back, exhaling a breath in
exasperation and looking unhappily at the sunlight outside.
Vince says "I guess the prisoner will be glad to be getting a free ride back
to the land of Finn Maccoumb?""
Long distance to Officer Britton: Erik hopes for a cell with a toilet, then?
Erik clenchs his fists behind his back. "No," he answers, quietly.
Vince feigns surprise, pressing a hunch. "What, not looking forward to sitting
in one of them Irish bars, what-they-call 'em, Caerns, or something like
that?
Erik stiffens, then turns to stare at Paolin through the partition, hardly
daring to breathe. "Well..." he begins slowly, warily, "yes, but my, um...
my cousins don't really like it when I'm there when they are."
Vince shrugs, eying the driver. "We all have to deal with family one way or
the other. Not INS business to care. Sept if you're a refugee."
Officer Britton drives without much comment. Where it isn't policy to chat up
the prisoners, the drive is pretty damn dull and he doesn't censure the
other policeman.
Vince asks the driver, casually, "Hey, you catch the game? Who'd a thunk,
Arizona would pull that off? Nothing but mules in Arizona, I thought."
Erik sits close to the froont now, eyes fixed on Vincent. "My family hates
mules," he comments, voice shaking slightly. "Almost as much as they hate
those who... who keep them."
Officer Britton favors Erik with an odd look in the rear view. He then
answers, "I missed the game, actually. Had to work on my girlfriend's car,
so I only caught it on the radio. Fucking Arizona."
Vince says "Yeah? Well, mules smell bad, and they're ugly, but I got nothin'
'gainst them, personally. Fuckin' Arizona is right. So, what was wrong with
the car?"
Officer Britton says "Brake pads were damn near gone. Lucky she didn't kill
herself."
Vince turns and locks eyes on Erik. "Yeah. Brake pads. You gotta be careful
with brakes. You let your brakes go bad, it could kill you, and who knows
what other damage could happen. She drive a lot out of the city?"
Erik stares back at Vincent for a moment, his eyes wide in their deep sockets.
He nods very slightly, though not at the Walker's question.
Officer Britton says "Some. Not much. It's all the wear and tear from stop and
go traffic."
Vince says "Yeah. The stop and go. Damn frustrating, hard on the car, too. But
you maybe ought to tell her to drive a bit easier. Be patient when she's
coming up to the intersections. Makes the brakes work much better, and won't
get anyone killed. Y'know?"
Officer Britton slows at a red light. "Replacing them works too."
Erik's brow furrows, the expression only partially visible through the
eyeholes in the mask. If Vincent is going somewhere with this, or has some
plan, it's beyond the Fianna, whose wits are not the best in the world.
Vince says "Yeah. It's a lot of work, to do brakes right, though. You learn
from you old man, like me, how to work on cars?"
Officer Britton says "Sure thing."
Vince says "So, what's INS do with this one, once we're there? Hold him for a
plane, or do we go straight to the airport?"
Officer Britton says "Nah, they'll cool his heels for a day at least. Probably
two or more, if I know the feds."
Erik exhales softly and sits back, closing his eyes as a bit of the
desperation bleeds away. He won't have to try to step sideways from a moving
van during the day after all. Not that he would definitely have the nerve to
try. Maybe.
Vince says "Feds. Like to see a fed who knows one end of a crescent wrench
from the other."
Officer Britton snorts. "If they know their ass from a crescent wrench,
they're underpaid."
Erik stifles a bit of nervous laughter and closes his eyes again.
Vince laughs.