Chapter Text
Robert Sullivan sits in one of the high-security isolation cells within the King County Justice Complex in downtown Seattle,
with his hands and ankles shackled. He's six-foot-four, yet sits slumped, hands between his knees, staring at the floor. Robert's
handsome features are distorted by the blotchy red imprints of fists and possibly police batons; his left eyebrow is split: the
eyelids below nearly closed.
“On your feet, Asshole!” someone barked harshly (he hadn’t heard a key in the cell door lock, nor heard his jailors enter his living
space. One of them shoved him: "UP, fucker !"
Blearily, Sullivan lurches to his feet, righting himself when a jailor maliciously attempts to trip him. Four men surround him on their way
down the hallway...
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Michael Dixon watches the procession with a satisfied smirk on his rat face, swiveling in his high-backed chair when his office door
bursts open and Lieutenant Jasper Jonas - Special Assistant - hurries in with a few pages of foolscap in his clenched hands. "CHEIF!," he
bawls, skidding to a stop a few feet from his boss's desk.
"You don't EVER charge into my office like that, IDIOT !" he seethed. "EVE-"
Jonas cut him off: " Normally I would never, Sir, except, It's...It's SULLIVAN, Chief...that Motherfucker's a 3Charlie!"
"What in the world are you babbling about, Goddamn it - and what the fuck is a '3Charlie'?"
"A man or woman with the capacity to terminate every LEO in this building if he/she decided not to stay"...
He's interrupted by another commotion. "Chief Dixon?" The speaker is a Caucasian male, medium-sized, and very slender,
with tawny blonde hair and a steely manner.
"And you are?--"
"Jake Keaton, CIA" The bearded man flipped an ID wallet onto the desktop before strolling over to the RGW CCTC screen, where Robert
was being shoved into an interrogation room. "Huh...your 'prisoner' appears to have been in a gang war, Chief ", Keaton mentions wryly.
"Has there been a gang fight in this facility recently, Lt. Jonas?"
"I..." Jonas stuttered, glancing fearfully at Dixon.
"Don't look at HIM: look at the ASSISTANT DIRECTOR!" warned Special Agent Natasha Zapata. "Speak up!"
"N-No. Not really,"
Zapata walks closer, fingers the lapels of the gawky Lieutenantant's suit jacket. She leaned closer and whispered, "Who injured Robert Sullivan?
Hmm?"
"Can...um...can we talk outside?" the weasel whispered back.
"JONAS !!"
"Ignore him," Zapata says. "Let's go." The two exit Dixon's office. "Now, Chief Dixon...let's discuss Robert Sullivan, shall we?" Keaton grins.
"
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"Yeh, Mum. We'll arrive at the gaol within the hour."
"When did this happen - and why haven't you done before NOW?" Maude Ripley insisted.
Luke managed to keep his temper. "Mum, PLEASE...the 'plods' neglected to notify us that Bobby was even custody ."
"We arrive in Seattle at 10 pm tonight, Lucas: Lon and I expect your brother home and dry, yes?"
"I'll do my best, Mother. Ring us when you land."
From the passenger seat, Vic Hughes called, "Bye, Mom and Dad - Love you; be safe!"
///
In the rear seat of the Mercedes Sports Utility, Andrea Herrera-Sullivan sat with her infant daughter Marleena, secured in her car
seat. She slumps low on her side of the row seat, reflecting on HER PART [if any} in the Sullivan arrest saga:
R: Are you going to let me see her or not?
A: NOT! I don't want her to be infected by your...your...-
R: My...my...WHAT?
A: Your POISON! Your TOXICITY!
R (nodding thoughtfully): What else did Gibson have to say about me?
A: (barely controlling her voice): Ha...you...Jack has NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS! You're obsessed with Jack!
R: (scoffing): I'M obsessed with Gibson; I AM ...you sound like a godammed fool!
A: Thanks for waking her up - I appreciate it SO MUCH! Y'know...you can leave now!
R: Is Gibson her father?
A: Wha - LEAVE, Robert!
Shortly after that discussion, Sullivan disappeared...
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Australian Slang:
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Gaol: jail
Plod: police