ArchivedLogs:Getting Some (Justice)

Getting Some (Justice)
Dramatis Personae Eric, Claire	2013-05-21 '
Location <NYC> High Line - Chelsea
Built on a freight rail, the High Line once was a railroad and has been reclaimed as green space in the middle of the city. A park situated high above Manhattan, what was once a rusty industrial wasteland is now a stretch of peaceful space to lounge and relax among grass and flowers and plant life. There are restaurants, ice cream sandwich stands, a beer garden, and the view all along the elevated parkland is unbeatable. "{I'm fine, Parley.}" Claire relates to her cell-phone in delicate French as she strides through the heart of the railway, toward the designated spot. Claire is, of course, as always - fashionably /impossible/. A bright yellow sun-dress with tatter-worn jeans beneath for the warmer weather; shoulders and slightly-freckled throat bare, with the thick tangle of her red curls carefully shoved beneath a yellow flower-laden summer-hat. Pink flip-flops on her feet, and a rather bulky purse strapped over one arm. The purse /might/ have a tazer inside. Then: "Yes, of course. I forgot. You don't do it over the /phone/. I'm fine," she repeats, and then: "I will call you after. Immediately. Promise." Click! Not long after Claire has hung up the phone, a man dressed in a dark pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt passes nearby, walking the opposite direction. He stops, about a foot or so behind her, and pulls out a cigarette. "Don't turn around; don't speak. Meet me behind the beer garden in five minutes." He mutters, quietly, as he lights the end of the cigarette and wanders off. Sure enough, five minutes later, Eric is sitting on a bench deep in the trees at the edge of the High Line, smoking that same cigarette and looking around with a look of someone being hunted. Claire stiffens for perhaps a moment; eyebrows perk at the missive Eric gives her - but she obeys. Five minutes later, and Claire is there as well, striding with a cheerful FLOP FLOP FLOP as she walks. Pausing, a moment, to peer at Eric - perhaps to assess - before moving to sit down beside him. At once, she curls her eyebrows together into a little focused cluster, peers toward the sky, and speaks: "The eagle flies across the sky at midnight." "Shut up." Eric says, curtly. "Doing this might get me killed, so I'm a little bit jittery." he says, looking up at Claire. He flexes his hands out and reaches into his pocket to pull out a silver badge - a NYPD patrolman's badge. He shows it to her for only a few moments before he stuffs it back into his pocket. "I stepped into a mess, and I don't know whose involved, and I don't know what to do." he says, softly. Eric glances down at the ground and scruffs at the dirt idly with one foot. "A bunch of cops are running a mutant fight club. Kidnapping people off of the street. Forcing them to fight each other - to the death." He takes another long drag of his cigarette. "Selling /tickets/ to fights. Gambling. I saw cops, lawyers, detectives, brass... prosecutors - and I know there are judges who go, too." Claire Basil lifts an eyebrow at the demand that she 'shut up'; that eyebrow promptly lowers the instant Eric produces that badge, though. Suddenly, she looks /very/ serious, and she is listening /very/ closely. When Eric explains what's happening, Claire Basil's expression shifts from one of attentive determination to something darker. When he finishes, the first question she asks is a very /quiet/ one: "Do you have any evidence?" "I was there, yesterday. Saw a few fights, and saw cops execute one of the fighters - my goddamned Sargeant is running the damn thing." Eric shrugs. "They don't allow cameras inside. But I know two other people who were there and might be willing to talk. I just..." he trails off and shakes his head. "I don't know who to talk /to/. Mutants are not exactly... cared about, very much. I don't trust the rat squad to take care of this, and who else can I even go to?" "...how large of an operation are we -- you said detectives. Brass. /Prosecutors/," Claire repeats. Her eyes drift away from Eric; she settles back against the bench, leaning. Her hands are now clutching firmly at her purse - there is a /tightness/ in the way her fingers grip it. Firm leather. An expensive Louis Vuitton. "That is..." Her words trail off. "...there has been -- an increase in the number of -- nngh. Are you, nngh." Claire's head falls back now, exposing her throat; somehow, her hat remains attached to her head. Probably those curls. "{God deliver me.} Are you sure you are not being hyperbolic. A few police, perhaps. But -- the situation you are describing. It is not --" She struggles for the right word. "--you are describing a /conspiracy/. Against mutants. Not just by the NYPD, but by the entire city's /justice/ system." "By the entire city." Eric says, softly. "I don't know how many people they have, but they must have almost an entire precinct worth of police to keep everyone under control." He takes a long drag of his cigarette and then grinds it out against the park bench and pockets it. "I am sure. I recognized... six, seven, eight of the officers there? Detectives, sergeants - a lieutenant. From different precincts, different departments. And an ADA. And the people behind me were invited by a judge who frequently attends." "I hope to God this is some manner of sick joke," Claire states, something cold and distant about her tone. "And yet." A slow roll of her shoulders; a heavy sigh. "And yet," she continues, her tone perhaps a bit more wretched, a bit more /nauseated/. "I am willing to believe. Perhaps I am too jaded. Perhaps you /are/ playing some sick joke on me. I do not think so. There are -- very few people you could contact. In the case of police running dogfights, one would call the FBI," and there's a sick, grim sort of /humor/ there, as if she's actually considering it - but then: "Whatever you do. They will cover it up. Make it go away. If it is as deep as you are describing. You have -- little to no legal recourse. There is nothing you, as an individual, could do. Not through -- the usual channels. The system is not designed to /cope/ with such -- fundamental betrayals." Perhaps -- there is a but there? Eric shivers and shakes his head, looking upwards at the sky. He is silent for several moments before he adds, gruffly, "I wish it was a joke." A pause and he turns to look at Claire, his eyes hard. "I know they will. And... as distasteful to me as it is, I am in communication with a... vigilante group to free those affected." He crosses his arms over his chest and looks over the beer garden, sighing. "Even if it means betraying my union brothers. But... if they are to fail - or succeed - someone has'ta do somethin'." "Before you continue, you should know -- any illegal activities you inform me of, I am oblig--" Claire stops, suddenly. And /laughs/. It is, actually, perhaps frighteningly, /genuine/ in it's cheer; sharp and sudden and giggly and--"Oh, I am sorry," she quickly recovers, the giggling smothered rapidly, a dark - apologetic look settling over her face. "I -- I'm sorry. That -- I shouldn't have. Mmmn. I just, I've gotten used to saying that, when some of my clients -- the situations they are in, they so often must take matters into --" The dark look transforms into something even /darker/. "--if it helps, I think of law as mostly just pomp and circumstance," Claire explains, "a silly little ritual we perform to hold back -- the darkness. To find justice. Sometimes, the ritual fails. So, you have to find justice without it. I... may be able to help you," she adds, voice /much/ softer. Despite the seriousness of his tone previously, Eric gives her a warm smile and a wink. "I think maybe you forget, I /am/ a cop, ma'am. I know just how far the law can take ya, and I know just how it and lady justice ain't always on speakin' terms." he says, leaning backwards and cracking out his neck with a roll of movement from side to side. "Please. Tell me." "There are any number of ways this situation can develop," Claire states. "If a band of vigilantes were to attack this facility -- and kill police officers in the process. It could be branded as mutant terrorism. If a significant number of police officers were killed? It could be taken as a declaration of /war/. This is... you need finesse. Extraordinary finesse. You need... more than that. You need /leverage/," she insists, her voice growing stronger. "Leverage against them. A way to force the authorities to bring the wrong-doers to justice -- publically. And diplomats to /apply/ this leverage against those in power. To make them do their /fucking/ job." Eric gives Claire a look and tilts his head to one side, a puzzled look flashing in his eyes. "That may be. But there's no mutant political party - no non-profit leading all mutants or speaking for all mutants. And this ain't my experience. All I want to do is my job." he says, a trace of a note of resignation in it. "For as long as I still ha' it." He reaches into his pocket for another cigarette; some conversations need chemical assistance to get through. "Maybe there should be," Claire says, but this is -- more mumbled than /confident/. She soon adds: "I have... a friend. Who is excellent at making /terrible/ friends." A brief glance off to the side, nose wrinkling. As if she is imagining bapping this friend on the nose /right at this moment/. "However this ends, for it to end /well/ -- those who have done wrong must be punished by the system. Not in secret, but in public. And for that to be accomplished -- certain deals may need to be made -- with terrible people. If you can get the mutants out -- without doing harm to the police. Perhaps I can see to the /other/ end of it. That those who have done this -- are punished. Publically." "Do what you can. I will... see what can be done. I have no interest in seeing police hurt." Eric says, stiffly. "And... be careful. People have been killed for less than you're talkin' about, I'm sure." He glances around the park and stands up, suddenly, a swift movement that has him snapping to his feet. "I should leave before someone sees me with you." A brief pause of hesitation. "If you need me... I work patrol in Central Park. With a little bit of patience, you can probably find me there." "One more thing," Claire adds, albeit tentatively: "If you... /when/ you do this. If you can gather. Physical evidence. All the evidence you can find. It will make it... it will help. Immensely. Both evidence that it happened, /and/ evidence that it was stopped by mutants -- bloodlessly. I'll keep that in mind," she says, to the mention of Central Park. Then -- "Be careful, too." Then, as he goes. Claire. /Might/ be peering at Eric's ass. Just a little. "Hmph."