Sabbatical

If you had asked Amanda Herchel two weeks ago where she pictured herself in two weeks time, she'd probably say something normal like, "Tanned and talking my way out of an airport parking ticket," or, "Nursing a hangover from the vacation bender I'm starting tomorrow." She absolutely would not say, "Ya'know, probably sitting in an interrogation room handcuffed to a table defending some guy I barely know." But here she is. Here she is with stale sunscreen coating her shoulders and dried sand caked between her toes. Here she is using some agent's suit jacket as a pillow. Here she is sitting in an interrogation room defending some guy she barely knows.

"Rise and shine, Miss Herchel."

"I'm up," she sighs, lifting her head from the jacket clad table and leaning back to sit up straight in her metal chair.

"Such a lovely morning, isn't it?"

"I'll take your word for it, Agent..."

"Brisel."

"Agent Brisel. And where is Agent Lauer this morning?"

"She's needed elsewhere," Agent Brisel answers, taking his seat opposite Amanda. He drops a file folder on the table, the contents shifting just enough for the corner of a printed picture to peek out. "Afraid you're stuck with me today."

"Well, that's not a problem for me. Anything you'd like to know, I'll tell you," Amanda replies, her eyes glued to the beige pixels.

"Where is Francis de Felice?"

"Except that." Her eyes are locked with Agent Brisel's now. "I can't tell you that."

"Well, that doesn't sound all too cooperative to me, Miss Herchel."

"I've been more than cooperative, sir. I've sat here in your little room, and I've slept here, and answered your questions. I haven't asked for a phone call or demanded a lawyer. I even got my friends to sit quietly wherever it is you've taken them. I'm cooperating."

"Not enough."

"I can't tell you about Frank da Fleece--"

"Francis de Felice."

"--because I don't know who that is."

Agent Brisel opens his file folder and puts the picture on full display. "The man in this picture, who is he?"

The picture is grainy, but the people in it are focused enough that she can see their faces clearly. A girl--her--caught stumbling into a wall, her head tilted as she laughs, and a guy--him--a couple steps behind with his hands in his pockets, a smirk on his face, and his eyes locked on the camera. A security camera if the Still 7 Camera 19 on the top right is noteworthy. Amanda didn't even know the hall they'd walked that night had a security camera.

"Patrick." The word moves quickly from her mouth. It's not a lie, but it's starting to feel like one. Every time they say Francis and she says Patrick it makes her eye twitch. It's starting to feel like more trouble than he's worth. "I met him at the hotel bar."

"I thought you were staying at PerdePera Resort. Which is it: hotel or resort?"

"Hotel within the resort."

"And you recognize the man in the picture?"

"Yes."

"And the woman is...?"

"Me."

"And Francis' name is...?"

"Patrick."

Amanda can feel Agent Brisel leveling her with a weighted stare, but she can't see it in all its glory because she's still looking at the picture, still looking at him. She remembers the night the picture--video--is from. She'd been at the hotel's bar with Clarisse and Rachel seeing who could convince more married men to buy them drinks in front of their wives. (Rachel won, as she normally does, but that's besides the point.) Patrick--Francis--Pat-Frank had showed up towards the end of the night, bet Clarisse and Rachel he could get a married couple to buy Amanda and him three rounds of drinks. (He won.) Amanda remembers the night and she tells Agent Brisel as much. She says:

"I met a guy at a hotel bar. We made a dumb bet and conned our way into free drinks. He walked me and my friends back to our floor and my friends invited him out with us the next day. I'm pretty sure if you'd change that camera angle just a bit you'd see Clarisse and Rachel walking ahead of us."

Agent Brisel slides the photo off the pile to reveal another picture. This one is from the same frame of video, with Amanda falling into the wall and Pat-Frank 'Jim-ing' the camera, but it's zoomed out just a bit so it now includes Clarisse and Rachel a stride and a half ahead, arm in arm with their heads thrown back. If she's being honest, Amanda really likes the picture. Likes how carefree her and her friends look. Likes the way the camera's low quality captures the liminal feeling of a hotel hallway. It'd make a lovely painting if it didn't feel so incriminating.

Agent Brisel slides the second photo off the stack to reveal another still, this one from the lobby where Amanda, Clarisse, and Rachel had waited for Pat-Frank the next morning. He's walking up to them with his hands swinging freely, the camera picking up on the discoloration stemming from the port wine stain Patrick sports on his right index finger. The birthmark takes up most of the digit and is a near scarlet in person, but a grainy brown on film. Another picture is slid away to reveal a blown up version of the one previous, Frank-Pat's hand on full display. Another one: A gun, a hand, and scarlet stained finger on the trigger.

Amanda snatches the picture from Agent Brisel's hand and slaps it face-down before reaching to close the file folder all together. She moves as quick as she can with her dominant hand still secured to the table before her and her vision tunneling because a gun, a gun; he was holding a gun.

"I student teach for kindergarteners. Me and my friends are here on vacation. I don't know the guy you're looking for."

And apparently that is the sleeper agent super secret passphrase because the second the words leave Amanda's mouth, the interrogation room's door opens to reveal a severe looking woman in a pinstriped suit. A woman who says, "Don't say anything else, Amanda," and ushers an officer into the room.

"Harassing my client is one thing, George, but to lock this poor girl in here for two days is completely out of line."

"Hello to you, too, Caroline."

"Unlock it," the woman, Caroline, demands of the officer, snapping her fingers until he's tripped over to Amanda and freed her from the cuff. "C'mon, Amanda, we're getting you out of here," Caroline says as she sends Amanda a welcoming smile.

Amanda stands and walks around the table towards the door before jumping back when Agent Brisel--George--launches himself to his feet and takes a threatening step towards Caroline.

"You can't just interrupt an interrogation. Now, I understand you're upset because your boy is reaping what he's sowed, but that does not mean you get to stomp your way in here and dema--"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, George, before you dig yourself deep enough to tap water. 'My boy', as you've called him, has extended representation to Amanda and her friends. As far as anyone is concerned, he and these three girls are untouchable. If you have any other questions, don't."

"Caroline."

"All further questions, comments, or concerns will be fielded by me or Vic. You are not to contact any of my clients or their families directly or indirectly. Any of the information you've received by questioning Miss Amanda without proper representation will be inadmissible in court, and must be surrendered to me right here, right now. Am I understood?"

"Ye-"

"A nod will suffice."

Agent Brisel nods, his jaw clenched so tight his face has gone red. If Amanda wasn't so confused and tired and confused she'd probably be trying her best not to laugh. Instead, she lets Caroline guide her out of the interrogation room and down the hall. She lets Caroline mutter obscenities and click her heels and free her. But things are apparently going to get even worse before they actually get better because there's Pat-Frank, right in the middle of whatever precinct they're in, if Italy even has precincts. Pat-Frank in his tan pants and blue button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Pat-Frank who pulled legal representation out of thin air and who has Clarisse and Rachel freshly showered and clothed in dresses they definitely did not pack. Pat-freaking-Frank.

"This is so not helping my case."