ArchivedLogs:Pulling Strings

Pulling Strings
Dramatis Personae Elliott, Micah	12 November 2014 '
Location <NYC> City Hall
A stately building, white and pillared and with a generous expanse of windows and appropriately patriotic flags posted atop it. It looks like a City Hall. If you saw this building, you would think, I can probably find me some Mayor there. Elliott is Hard At Work. At the least she is looking very professional, dark plum pantsuit and hair neatly French braided back out of her face, parked in a Very Professional chair behind her Very Professional desk in her Very Professional office. The desk may be a little imposing, though the small table and armchairs in one corner are a little more inviting. But right now, she is behind The Desk. Perhaps a touch harried as she shuffles through the contents of a folder. Hmm. Her lips are pressed together in faint displeasure. Micah looks rather a lot like he is at work, too, except for how much /his/ 'professional' doesn't live up to the building. He is in his own simple work clothes: TARDIS blue polo shirt, khakis, serviceable shoes. His auburn hair looks like it may have been combed recently. Perhaps a little too used to currying favour with new doctors, he comes bearing an unasked for incentive-slash-attention holder in the form of a /large/ to-go cup of mocha. Micah gives the young man who leads him into the office a smile and nod before walking nearer to Elliott's desk. Not sitting. Not speaking. It seems like it would be improper to do either uninvited. He just holds the cup in front of him and waits. It's quick enough to be well practiced, the swift warm smile that lights Elliott's face when Micah arrives. Rather than invite him to sit, /she/ stands, setting her folder down and crossing around from behind the desk to offer him a friendly hug. "Micah. Oh, wow, and you come bearing caffeine." She waves the aide away, gesturing to the armchairs. "Come, sit. Can I get /you/ anything?" The smile might be practiced, but Micah gets a feeling the hug is less so...at least in a professional capacity. His own smile is broad and bright, his return hug enthusiastically tight, if cautious not to spill coffee on the mayor's nice suit. “Elliott, hi. It's been way too long.” He passes the coffee directly into Elliott's hand before taking the offered seat. “Just a little of your time. Seems like that's hard enough t'come by as-is, so thank you for seein' me.” "Seems like that's how it always goes." Elliott sounds a bit apologetic at the reminder of how long it's (always) been, though her smallwince vanishes into relief at the coffee. Which she takes straightaway to take a swallow of before actually sitting. "I don't have that much of it to spare," she admits, "but I'm glad you managed to find some. Definitely more happy to see you than my next appointment," this comes leaning in slightly like it's confidential. "So how are things?" "Annoyed the dickens out of whoever takes your messages in the process. They relay any of those or just sneak m'name on a schedule?" Micah manages a small playful grin. "You're welcome t'use me as an excuse t'be a little late if y'want. I can walk out makin' /such/ an unhappy face." He tries a little of it out now, or so it seems, the question about how things are going following quick on his statement's heels. "Not good. At all. An' time's really of the essence at this point." "It's kind of alarming how little control I actually have over my own schedule." Elliott settles into the chair, both hands curled around the cup. Her brows furrow inward, neatly trimmed nails drumming against the cardboard heat-sleeve. "Not good? What's going on? Did I miss --" The frown deepens slightly. "Your family's okay, right?" She is probably relying on the news to tell her about any recent Holland-Zedner shootings or arrests. "Sure y'spend more time than you'd like bein' managed, yeah." Micah's hands fold in his lap to stop them from fidgeting. "Depends on where your lines're drawn on the meanin' of family. One of m'very... Friends. Dusk. Was arrested for defendin' 'imself when a hunter shot 'im. He'd've likely /died/ if not for 'is healin' faster'n most. Got convicted /just/ 'cause he has wings an' fangs; weren't nothin' t'do with no evidence. S'bein' sentenced t'morrow... An' meanwhile. Meanwhile they been starvin' 'im t'death an' not lettin' 'im talk t'nobody for /weeks/." Elliott's eyebrows raise. She sits up a little bit straighter in her seat, lowering her coffee to a knee. "/What/?" One hand is starting to lift, but reroutes to just rub briefly at her cheek. "Starving? They aren't /feeding/ him, that sounds --" Her head shakes again. "Barbaric. And certainly against the /law/, jail isn't meant to be a torture camp. He does have lawyers, right? Contact, unfortunately, it's pretty standard for that to be slim to none till after sentencing but /food/ -- is pretty basic." "He's got special dietary needs. Even when he was in federal prison for that completely faulty terrorism charge, same time as Jax? They eventually fed 'im. We brought in the same documentation, lawyers, an' doctors this time an' /nothin'/." Micah sighs down at his clasped hands. "It ain't just food. He needs blood reg'lar or he starves just as sure as not eatin' no food." His teeth dig into his lower lip, worrying at it. "He has lawyers. Don't know how much anyone gets t'do anythin' 'cause we can't talk to 'im 'bout nothin'. But they'll just let 'im die in there an' not care. Like as not they're gonna throw a ridiculous sentence at 'im t'morrow an'..." The knuckles of his hands whiten, shoulders tensing as his words cut off. "-- Ah. That friend. Hmm. Special dietary needs? There are still provisions to supply food for people with allergies or --" Elliott's head shakes, fingers drumming on her cup again. "The federal system is run entirely separately from the state. Documentation like that won't carry over -- at all. It's a slog uphill from the beginning any time you're in a new system. May I ask, what the charge is?" "Yes. Just 'cause it ain't /conventional/ food don't meant he don't need it all the same. We couched it as a medical need b'fore 'cause...transfusions. S'essentially needin' transfusions, just it's effective if he consumes it 'stead of havin' t'pump it into 'im." Micah's hands unclasp to clench against the arms of the chair instead, a little less uncomfortably to his own flesh. "It just shouldn't take so long t'get someone fed that they die of starvation first...or so long t'get medical care that they die for the lack of it. Only makes it worse that he was just defendin' 'imself from a man who up an' /shot 'im/ for lookin' scary." His eyes squeeze closed. "Second degree assault." "Transf --" Elliott cuts herself off here, her expression slowly gradually settling into a more neutral cast. "Ah. I -- the laws aren't," she says, carefully, "entirely set up to accommodate -- that particular dietary need. I can see why it's been difficult, so far. I don't know the circumstances of the case or the trial so I can't exactly speak to the sentencing but getting /blood/ delivered for, ah, consumption purposes is -- likely fairly unprecedented in the state corrections system. Do you know what jail he's being held at?" "Difficult's an understatement. They're lookin' at us like toddlers throwin' tantrums 'stead of people with a a reasonable request for a life-or-death /need/." Micah's eyes open again. "Unprecedented shouldn't matter. Killin' an' innocent man /should/. If the feds could get their act t'gether..." He just shakes his head, blandly listing off the jail information Eric had provided (though definitely leaving the /source/ out of it). "Y'want information? I can give you everythin' we've submitted. An' everythin' that exists on public record 'bout the case." His messenger bag looks a little fuller than usual. "It's amazing how much quicker bureaucracy works when there's a giant media spotlight shining on people." Elliott sounds wry at this, rubbing her hand against her cheek again. "If I'm going to look into this I'll need information, yes. It'll at least let me know whose phone I need to start harassing." “B'lieve me, I'd start bangin' that drum if I thought anybody'd march to it this time 'round,” Micah sighs as much as speaks the words. He digs into his messenger bag, pulling out a very neatly maintained and labelled accordion file that he sets on Elliott's desk. “I can lead y'through it. We ain't exactly got a lotta time t'play with.” Elliott nods, already getting up to pluck the phone handset off her desk and move it over to the table. Not that she's calling anyone just yet. She is pulling /papers/ out of the /file/ to start looking through them. And boy can she look through papers like a boss! It's probably like ninety percent of her day now, going through informations other people have compiled for her. She is a pro at this.