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fredbassettTitle : Within These Walls, Chapter 20 of 30
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Lester, Ryan, Nick
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 59,000 words in 30 chapters of approx. 1,500 – 2,500 words each
Spoilers : None
Summary : Ending up in Dartmoor prison for refusing to recant their belief in evolution is only the start of the problems facing Nick, Stephen and Connor. And Sir James Lester soon ends up with other problems on his hands than just an over-crowded prison population.
A/N : For acknowledgments etc please see Part 1.
“Yes, Prime Minister, I do understand the gravity of the situation. I can assure you that all necessary measures are being taken to contain the problem.” Lester resisted the urge to make a rude gesture while he was speaking, even though there was no one in the room to bear witness against him.
The conversation ended with the usual trite benedictions and Lester replaced the handset on the desk with more force than was strictly necessary.
He had made the call from the privacy of his own rooms on what he believed to be a secure line, but even so, he had given an extremely shortened version of the day’s events. He’d tried to soften the blow as best he could, but Downing Street was, to put it mildly, in a flat spin.
Lester opened his drinks cabinet and poured a very large whisky, taking particular satisfaction in the knowledge that the Prime Minister, a strict teetotaller, would not have approved. After the day he’d had, he felt entitled to kick over the traces for a while. As he’d remarked earlier to Jenny Lewis, you spend your whole career planning for every conceivable eventuality, up to and including alien invasion, only to end up with this.
Bloody dinosaurs.
Ryan’s report, although delivered in the captain’s usual dispassionate manner, had been enough to make the hairs stand up on the back of Lester’s neck. After his close encounter on the moor the day before, his natural scepticism had for once taken a back seat. He’d spent much of the afternoon, even before hearing what had happened on the moor, making enquiries into the activities of any government department that might be operating in the area, but nothing had surfaced that could go any way at all to explain what Ryan and the others had experienced. The MoD seemed to be in the clear, somewhat to his surprise, and Lester had been informed that he could call on their services should it become necessary, but for now, it was the PM’s hope that matters could be contained within Lester’s own resources.
And that was a bloody joke. He’d already had to draft in the army to maintain any pretence of order in the prison. Even with their presence, the whole place was a melting pot threatening to boil over at any minute. The prisoners were four to a cell, they spent more time on lockdown than they did in free association and every day just brought more problems.
Drink in hand, Lester stared out of the window. The bloody moor was still shrouded in a thick mist that showed no sign of shifting. The weather forecast, delivered by Leek at his most irritatingly obsequious, predicted no change in the prevailing conditions for several days. Despite that problem, apart from the offer of heavy artillery from the MoD, the best Lester had obtained during his conversation with the PM was an assurance that he could use the police to keep the area around the national park free of tourists. Local businesses would grumble, but with the weather as foul as it was, only the most hardened of crypto-zoologists and conspiracy theorists were likely to brave the low clouds in the hope of photographs to fuel the obsessions of like-minded individuals around the world.
But the cloud cover also meant that they had little chance of obtaining early warning of any new anomalies, as Cutter had termed them. Starlit nights looked like being a thing of the past, at least for the next week.
Lester sipped his whisky and let his thoughts roam freely.
Cutter. The former professor was a maverick by anyone’s standards, and so was his cell-mate, Danny Quinn, a former policeman convicted of charges of being in possession of child pornography. Lester wondered if Cutter and the others were privy to that piece of information. He thought not. Lester had a very strong suspicion that the allegations had been fabricated by a bent DI who wanted Quinn out of his hair, but it wasn’t his job to look behind the facade of the overworked criminal justice system.
He had Quinn’s file on his desk, along with those of Cutter and his two acolytes. There were other details in there that almost certainly hadn’t been shared either.
On impulse, Lester picked up the phone again and pressed one of the speed dials. “Ryan, bring Cutter to my rooms. I think it’s time the professor and I had another little chat.”
It was 10.30pm. Under normal circumstances, the man would probably have been asleep, but given the events of the day, that was unlikely. Lester had issued orders that Cutter and the other three were to be kept in isolation, and, to his relief, Abby Maitland had accepted Jenny Lewis’ offer of a spare room in her small house in Princetown. Against his better judgment, Lester had allowed the woman to keep the lizard. He needed her goodwill at the moment, and if the creature came as part of the package, then so be it. She had as much interest as he had in keeping their problems secret. Her concern for creatures trapped out of their own time had been obvious, as had Cutter’s, while Stephen Hart appeared to take a more pragmatic view, as did Quinn.
One of the big surprises of the day – apart from the dinosaurs – had been Temple. The gawky, awkward student had proved to be a veritable mine of information. Temple was as knowledgeable as he was excitable, tripping over his words in his attempts to enlighten Lester on the subject of something called a scutosaurus, the large herbivore that had fortunately decide to return through the anomaly rather than remain on Dartmoor, thus proving itself to be a creature of taste and discernment, unlike the monstrosity that had done its best to write off Lester’s car.
A knock on the door announced Ryan’s arrival with Cutter. The soldier looked somewhat disconcerted when Lester told him to leave them alone together, but as volatile as the former academic was, Lester didn’t think for a moment that the man was a danger to him. Clearly, neither did Ryan, as he withdrew a moment later.
The living room of Lester’s apartment was tastefully furnished with various antiques gathered together by his predecessors over the years. Two old, brass lamps provided a warm yellow glow and an open fire burned in the hearth. He watched Cutter look around, taking in his surroundings. The man was dressed in a pair of loose tracksuit trousers and a sweatshirt rather than the customary orange jumpsuit. The four prisoners who had spent much of the day on the moor had been borderline hypothermic and on their return had been ushered into the showers in the soldier’s block, one of the few places in the prison, apart from his own bathroom, that could be guaranteed to dispense even a semblance of hot water.
Without speaking, Lester poured another whisky and handed it to Cutter. The Scotsman lifted the glass to his nose and took a sniff, clearly prepared to scorn Lester’s taste. A moment later, pleasure replaced disdain and Cutter swirled the liquid around and took an appreciative sip.
“Christ, I didn’t expect to taste this for the next few years,” he muttered.
The Lagavulin was clearly working its magic, for which Lester was thankful. From what he’d seen of Cutter, the man could give a herd of rhinoceros lessons in intractability. Anything that mellowed him even slightly was a good thing in the current circumstances.
Lester moved back to one of the windows and Cutter followed him. The mist was showing no signs of lifting. The only lights visible were from the grounds of the prison, and on the encircling wall. It was a while since a prisoner had staged an escape attempt that involved climbing the wall, but the prison museum did have on display a knotted sheet that had been used on one infamous occasion.
“So, you have an explanation for this phenomenon, Professor?” Lester kept his tone – and the use of Cutter’s former title – as neutral as he could. The Prime Minister had left the problem fairly and squarely in Lester’s lap and he needed all the allies he could get.
“A theory,” Cutter said, running a hand through his hair in a now-familiar movement. “Our experience proves that there’s a concrete landscape on the other side of the anomaly. And I think it’s the Earth many millions of years ago.” He laid stress on the word millions by way of a challenge.
Lester continued staring out of the window, deeming it safer not to make eye contact. Cutter knew perfectly well that the chances of him actually believing the mish-mash of nonsense peddled by a government made up of zealots and charlatans was vanishingly small, but Lester had no intention of being drawn into any admissions.
He took a sip of whisky before responding. “And this… anomaly… as you call it, is a door between time zones in the world’s history?”
Cutter gave a grunt of assent, and followed it with a Lagavulin chaser.
“Suppose this remarkable theory is correct, what are the immediate risks?”
“Famine, war, pestilence. The end of the world as we know it. The collapse of your ridiculous government and the lies it peddles. You know, the usual stuff.” The lamplight did nothing to disguise the combative glint in Cutter’s eyes.
“I think I could do without the facetiousness,” Lester said mildly. He reached out for the bottle and poured another generous measure into Cutter’s glass. “This ridiculous government, as you call it, has tasked me with dealing with the problem, Cutter, by any means necessary.”
“You could try just denying it,” Cutter suggested, his face softened for a moment by a swift grin that made him look younger. “That’s what you lot normally do.”
Lester allowed himself a somewhat theatrical sigh. “Cutter, I’ve had something that looked like a big cat with jaws like a crocodile attacking a car I was in. I think that takes me slightly beyond the stage of advocating plausible deniability, doesn’t it? So, let’s just suppose for a moment, shall we, that your theory – however preposterous – is true? From what Ryan told me, the two creatures came from different time periods. So what does that mean?”
Cutter savoured the whisky and drew the moment out for full effect. “It means that there is more than one anomaly. And that’s corroborated by what Danny and I saw from the window of the cell. There have been big cat sightings on Bodmin Moor for decades. Maybe we’ve just found the answer.” Cutter turned to Lester, making the avoidance of eye contact impossible now. “Maybe we’ve just found a lot of answers.”
This time, Lester’s sigh was real not feigned. “And you’ve been looking for some of those answers for a long time, haven’t you, Cutter?” He could tell from the sharp intake of breath that greeted his statement that the words had hit home. “So I can rely on your full cooperation, can I? And indeed that of your friends…”
Cutter’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the buff-coloured files on Lester’s desk. “What are you getting at?”
Lester allowed himself a slight smile. The fish had taken the bait. Time to reel him in now. “I gather that your wife had some interesting theories. She was fascinated by the things that didn’t fit, wasn’t she, just like you are? By the parts of the puzzle that even Darwin couldn’t explain.”
“My wife was a serious scientist!”
“But her theories had become a bone of contention between you, hadn’t they, Professor?”
Cutter made a move towards the files on the desk, but Lester stepped in front of him and made a show of refilling his glass. “Those files are confidential, but I can assure you that the Crown Prosecution Service did a remarkably thorough job of preparation when they came to your case. You were the first high profile academic to be brought to court for creation denial. They wanted to make sure they had a cast-iron case.”
A very Scottish-sounding snort greeted that statement. Lester knew perfectly well that the trial had been a total sham but the government had wanted the publicity so they had insisted to their day in court – or three days as it had turned out. The newspapers and internet had been full of the story. Stephen Hart’s good-looks had been the delight of many a tabloid hack and even the hapless Temple had attracted a few supporters. Following their conviction but before sentencing, the three men had been given the opportunity to recant, but none of them had taken it, so the book had been thrown at them. A series of other trials followed in quick succession, the ice having been well and truly broken. There were still some academics prepared to risk jail for their beliefs, but plenty of others were toeing the party line.
Somewhat to Lester’s surprise, Cutter simply sipped his whisky and carried on staring into the darkness. Eventually, he drew in a long, slow breath, exhaled equally slowly and then said, “Are you suggesting that my wife stumbled on one of these things?”
“It would explain several of her theories,” Lester said. “It might also explain why nothing has been seen of her for the past eight years.”
Cutter’s next drink of whisky would be better described as a gulp than a sip and a moment later, he held his glass out for a refill.
Lester allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he turned away and reached for the decanter. It looked very much like the bait had been taken.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Lester, Ryan, Nick
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 59,000 words in 30 chapters of approx. 1,500 – 2,500 words each
Spoilers : None
Summary : Ending up in Dartmoor prison for refusing to recant their belief in evolution is only the start of the problems facing Nick, Stephen and Connor. And Sir James Lester soon ends up with other problems on his hands than just an over-crowded prison population.
A/N : For acknowledgments etc please see Part 1.
“Yes, Prime Minister, I do understand the gravity of the situation. I can assure you that all necessary measures are being taken to contain the problem.” Lester resisted the urge to make a rude gesture while he was speaking, even though there was no one in the room to bear witness against him.
The conversation ended with the usual trite benedictions and Lester replaced the handset on the desk with more force than was strictly necessary.
He had made the call from the privacy of his own rooms on what he believed to be a secure line, but even so, he had given an extremely shortened version of the day’s events. He’d tried to soften the blow as best he could, but Downing Street was, to put it mildly, in a flat spin.
Lester opened his drinks cabinet and poured a very large whisky, taking particular satisfaction in the knowledge that the Prime Minister, a strict teetotaller, would not have approved. After the day he’d had, he felt entitled to kick over the traces for a while. As he’d remarked earlier to Jenny Lewis, you spend your whole career planning for every conceivable eventuality, up to and including alien invasion, only to end up with this.
Bloody dinosaurs.
Ryan’s report, although delivered in the captain’s usual dispassionate manner, had been enough to make the hairs stand up on the back of Lester’s neck. After his close encounter on the moor the day before, his natural scepticism had for once taken a back seat. He’d spent much of the afternoon, even before hearing what had happened on the moor, making enquiries into the activities of any government department that might be operating in the area, but nothing had surfaced that could go any way at all to explain what Ryan and the others had experienced. The MoD seemed to be in the clear, somewhat to his surprise, and Lester had been informed that he could call on their services should it become necessary, but for now, it was the PM’s hope that matters could be contained within Lester’s own resources.
And that was a bloody joke. He’d already had to draft in the army to maintain any pretence of order in the prison. Even with their presence, the whole place was a melting pot threatening to boil over at any minute. The prisoners were four to a cell, they spent more time on lockdown than they did in free association and every day just brought more problems.
Drink in hand, Lester stared out of the window. The bloody moor was still shrouded in a thick mist that showed no sign of shifting. The weather forecast, delivered by Leek at his most irritatingly obsequious, predicted no change in the prevailing conditions for several days. Despite that problem, apart from the offer of heavy artillery from the MoD, the best Lester had obtained during his conversation with the PM was an assurance that he could use the police to keep the area around the national park free of tourists. Local businesses would grumble, but with the weather as foul as it was, only the most hardened of crypto-zoologists and conspiracy theorists were likely to brave the low clouds in the hope of photographs to fuel the obsessions of like-minded individuals around the world.
But the cloud cover also meant that they had little chance of obtaining early warning of any new anomalies, as Cutter had termed them. Starlit nights looked like being a thing of the past, at least for the next week.
Lester sipped his whisky and let his thoughts roam freely.
Cutter. The former professor was a maverick by anyone’s standards, and so was his cell-mate, Danny Quinn, a former policeman convicted of charges of being in possession of child pornography. Lester wondered if Cutter and the others were privy to that piece of information. He thought not. Lester had a very strong suspicion that the allegations had been fabricated by a bent DI who wanted Quinn out of his hair, but it wasn’t his job to look behind the facade of the overworked criminal justice system.
He had Quinn’s file on his desk, along with those of Cutter and his two acolytes. There were other details in there that almost certainly hadn’t been shared either.
On impulse, Lester picked up the phone again and pressed one of the speed dials. “Ryan, bring Cutter to my rooms. I think it’s time the professor and I had another little chat.”
It was 10.30pm. Under normal circumstances, the man would probably have been asleep, but given the events of the day, that was unlikely. Lester had issued orders that Cutter and the other three were to be kept in isolation, and, to his relief, Abby Maitland had accepted Jenny Lewis’ offer of a spare room in her small house in Princetown. Against his better judgment, Lester had allowed the woman to keep the lizard. He needed her goodwill at the moment, and if the creature came as part of the package, then so be it. She had as much interest as he had in keeping their problems secret. Her concern for creatures trapped out of their own time had been obvious, as had Cutter’s, while Stephen Hart appeared to take a more pragmatic view, as did Quinn.
One of the big surprises of the day – apart from the dinosaurs – had been Temple. The gawky, awkward student had proved to be a veritable mine of information. Temple was as knowledgeable as he was excitable, tripping over his words in his attempts to enlighten Lester on the subject of something called a scutosaurus, the large herbivore that had fortunately decide to return through the anomaly rather than remain on Dartmoor, thus proving itself to be a creature of taste and discernment, unlike the monstrosity that had done its best to write off Lester’s car.
A knock on the door announced Ryan’s arrival with Cutter. The soldier looked somewhat disconcerted when Lester told him to leave them alone together, but as volatile as the former academic was, Lester didn’t think for a moment that the man was a danger to him. Clearly, neither did Ryan, as he withdrew a moment later.
The living room of Lester’s apartment was tastefully furnished with various antiques gathered together by his predecessors over the years. Two old, brass lamps provided a warm yellow glow and an open fire burned in the hearth. He watched Cutter look around, taking in his surroundings. The man was dressed in a pair of loose tracksuit trousers and a sweatshirt rather than the customary orange jumpsuit. The four prisoners who had spent much of the day on the moor had been borderline hypothermic and on their return had been ushered into the showers in the soldier’s block, one of the few places in the prison, apart from his own bathroom, that could be guaranteed to dispense even a semblance of hot water.
Without speaking, Lester poured another whisky and handed it to Cutter. The Scotsman lifted the glass to his nose and took a sniff, clearly prepared to scorn Lester’s taste. A moment later, pleasure replaced disdain and Cutter swirled the liquid around and took an appreciative sip.
“Christ, I didn’t expect to taste this for the next few years,” he muttered.
The Lagavulin was clearly working its magic, for which Lester was thankful. From what he’d seen of Cutter, the man could give a herd of rhinoceros lessons in intractability. Anything that mellowed him even slightly was a good thing in the current circumstances.
Lester moved back to one of the windows and Cutter followed him. The mist was showing no signs of lifting. The only lights visible were from the grounds of the prison, and on the encircling wall. It was a while since a prisoner had staged an escape attempt that involved climbing the wall, but the prison museum did have on display a knotted sheet that had been used on one infamous occasion.
“So, you have an explanation for this phenomenon, Professor?” Lester kept his tone – and the use of Cutter’s former title – as neutral as he could. The Prime Minister had left the problem fairly and squarely in Lester’s lap and he needed all the allies he could get.
“A theory,” Cutter said, running a hand through his hair in a now-familiar movement. “Our experience proves that there’s a concrete landscape on the other side of the anomaly. And I think it’s the Earth many millions of years ago.” He laid stress on the word millions by way of a challenge.
Lester continued staring out of the window, deeming it safer not to make eye contact. Cutter knew perfectly well that the chances of him actually believing the mish-mash of nonsense peddled by a government made up of zealots and charlatans was vanishingly small, but Lester had no intention of being drawn into any admissions.
He took a sip of whisky before responding. “And this… anomaly… as you call it, is a door between time zones in the world’s history?”
Cutter gave a grunt of assent, and followed it with a Lagavulin chaser.
“Suppose this remarkable theory is correct, what are the immediate risks?”
“Famine, war, pestilence. The end of the world as we know it. The collapse of your ridiculous government and the lies it peddles. You know, the usual stuff.” The lamplight did nothing to disguise the combative glint in Cutter’s eyes.
“I think I could do without the facetiousness,” Lester said mildly. He reached out for the bottle and poured another generous measure into Cutter’s glass. “This ridiculous government, as you call it, has tasked me with dealing with the problem, Cutter, by any means necessary.”
“You could try just denying it,” Cutter suggested, his face softened for a moment by a swift grin that made him look younger. “That’s what you lot normally do.”
Lester allowed himself a somewhat theatrical sigh. “Cutter, I’ve had something that looked like a big cat with jaws like a crocodile attacking a car I was in. I think that takes me slightly beyond the stage of advocating plausible deniability, doesn’t it? So, let’s just suppose for a moment, shall we, that your theory – however preposterous – is true? From what Ryan told me, the two creatures came from different time periods. So what does that mean?”
Cutter savoured the whisky and drew the moment out for full effect. “It means that there is more than one anomaly. And that’s corroborated by what Danny and I saw from the window of the cell. There have been big cat sightings on Bodmin Moor for decades. Maybe we’ve just found the answer.” Cutter turned to Lester, making the avoidance of eye contact impossible now. “Maybe we’ve just found a lot of answers.”
This time, Lester’s sigh was real not feigned. “And you’ve been looking for some of those answers for a long time, haven’t you, Cutter?” He could tell from the sharp intake of breath that greeted his statement that the words had hit home. “So I can rely on your full cooperation, can I? And indeed that of your friends…”
Cutter’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the buff-coloured files on Lester’s desk. “What are you getting at?”
Lester allowed himself a slight smile. The fish had taken the bait. Time to reel him in now. “I gather that your wife had some interesting theories. She was fascinated by the things that didn’t fit, wasn’t she, just like you are? By the parts of the puzzle that even Darwin couldn’t explain.”
“My wife was a serious scientist!”
“But her theories had become a bone of contention between you, hadn’t they, Professor?”
Cutter made a move towards the files on the desk, but Lester stepped in front of him and made a show of refilling his glass. “Those files are confidential, but I can assure you that the Crown Prosecution Service did a remarkably thorough job of preparation when they came to your case. You were the first high profile academic to be brought to court for creation denial. They wanted to make sure they had a cast-iron case.”
A very Scottish-sounding snort greeted that statement. Lester knew perfectly well that the trial had been a total sham but the government had wanted the publicity so they had insisted to their day in court – or three days as it had turned out. The newspapers and internet had been full of the story. Stephen Hart’s good-looks had been the delight of many a tabloid hack and even the hapless Temple had attracted a few supporters. Following their conviction but before sentencing, the three men had been given the opportunity to recant, but none of them had taken it, so the book had been thrown at them. A series of other trials followed in quick succession, the ice having been well and truly broken. There were still some academics prepared to risk jail for their beliefs, but plenty of others were toeing the party line.
Somewhat to Lester’s surprise, Cutter simply sipped his whisky and carried on staring into the darkness. Eventually, he drew in a long, slow breath, exhaled equally slowly and then said, “Are you suggesting that my wife stumbled on one of these things?”
“It would explain several of her theories,” Lester said. “It might also explain why nothing has been seen of her for the past eight years.”
Cutter’s next drink of whisky would be better described as a gulp than a sip and a moment later, he held his glass out for a refill.
Lester allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he turned away and reached for the decanter. It looked very much like the bait had been taken.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-05-14 06:45 pm (UTC)Danny and child pornography?! No way!
no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-14 07:02 pm (UTC)the man could give a herd of rhinoceros lessons in intractability.
Perfect description of Cutter!
no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-14 07:43 pm (UTC)*purrs*
no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-15 02:33 am (UTC)Anyway, I like the way you're bringing canon into this and now Helen's name makes an appearance... will she?
no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-15 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-16 04:51 am (UTC)Aw, too bad. I'd've paid good money to see that!
As he’d remarked earlier to Jenny Lewis, you spend your whole career planning for every conceivable eventuality, up to and including alien invasion, only to end up with this.
Hee - shout-out to the ep!
delivered by Leek at his most irritatingly obsequious,
Excellent description.
Lester had a very strong suspicion that the allegations had been fabricated by a bent DI who wanted Quinn out of his hair, but it wasn’t his job to look behind the facade of the overworked criminal justice system.
Bad Lester. Should be someone's job. *grumbles*
Temple was as knowledgeable as he was excitable,
Lovely.
thus proving itself to be a creature of taste and discernment,
Scutosaurus FTW
From what he’d seen of Cutter, the man could give a herd of rhinoceros lessons in intractability.
*snorfle* Oh, yes!
Cutter knew perfectly well that the chances of him actually believing the mish-mash of nonsense peddled by a government made up of zealots and charlatans was vanishingly small, but Lester had no intention of being drawn into any admissions.
Smart Lester!
Cutter gave a grunt of assent, and followed it with a Lagavulin chaser.
Nice phrase!
Lester allowed himself a slight smile. The fish had taken the bait. Time to reel him in now.
James Lester is an expert fisherman.
A very Scottish-sounding snort greeted that statement.
Love that description.
*plunks self down and awaits next installment*
no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-18 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 06:16 pm (UTC)I think he's got Cutter on side now :D
no subject
Date: 2014-05-19 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-26 09:29 pm (UTC)Lester certainly deserves that whisky. LOL at Nick's instantly deciding it would be no good before tasting - and finding he's wrong. He's such a stranger to tact. He'd convict himself without the need for any expensive government intervention.
no subject
Date: 2014-05-27 11:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-27 03:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-27 06:39 pm (UTC)