Chapter Text
When Sam set his sights on law school, way back before he even applied to Stanford, he had grand dreams of being a prosecutor in groundbreaking civil rights cases. He wanted to go up against the courts, against the prejudice of a country and force them to fall into line with a Constitution that proclaims equal rights for everyone, not just those in power.
Now he’s two years out of Stanford Law, and he’s the low man on the totem pole at a corporate law office. It’s the kind of office they base TV shows off of (though as far as he knows there are no pot dealing geniuses in his building), and since Sam’s still green, he gets given the brunt of the pro bono cases. The brunt and the wackiest of them.
It’s some kind of lawyer hazing, and at first Sam hadn’t cared because he was getting to practice law, and then he’d gritted his teeth and dealt because you have to put up with a bit of abuse to get what you want but now, two years after being hired, Sam’s patience is at its end.
If he thought he was actually helping anyone by defending these cases then maybe he wouldn’t feel quite so rundown, but he feels useless. No, he feels like his talents are being misused, and that’s even worse. There are people out there he could be helping, and instead he’s being handed a case file by a sniggering mail clerk, and he can feel the stares of dozens of people poking their heads above their cubicles to watch his reaction to his newest case.
This does not bode well.
Wilson vs. Roman Enterprises.
Oh no.
Roman Enterprises is just about the biggest company on the planet (and Sam’s afraid that’s not even that much of an exaggeration). Their legal team makes the best lawyers in Sam’s company look like amateurs, and if Sam’s being pitted against them then someone in his company must really hate him.
At least this probably won’t even go to court. Most people who go up against Roman Enterprises “come to see reason” or are paid to stop talking about their troubles. Sam wonders what category this Ava Wilson is going to fall into.
He skims the case file, dread growing with each word.
Ava Wilson is insane.
As in, certifiably should be talking to a different kind of professional than a lawyer, insane.
Sam shuts the case file and leans back in his chair. He suddenly has a headache, because Miss Ava Wilson believes Roman Enterprises kidnapped her and brainwashed her and turned her into a programmable human being for a couple of years before dumping her back into her life.
In short, she believes in the Dollhouse.
The Dollhouse is the greatest urban legend of all time: an underground society of mad scientists and brain surgeons who kidnap people off the street and turn them into pick-your-own-fantasy handouts. There have been countless speculations, news specials, and ravings about the Dollhouse; there was even an official FBI investigation once, but no one has ever turned up solid proof that it exists.
Not for lack of trying, of course.
Sam has personal knowledge of how obsessed people can become with the Dollhouse and how it can destroy people and families.
When Sam was young, his mother walked out on them. Dad couldn’t deal, became convinced that she didn’t leave but she’d been whisked away by the Dollhouse. He started a freaking crusade, and he roped Dean, Sam’s older brother, into the madness.
Sam hasn’t talked to Dean or Dad since the day Sam decided to go to college instead of joining what was left of his family in their hunt. Sometimes he’s tempted to pick up a phone, check-in, or at the very least, hear his brother’s voice on his voicemail, but so far he hasn’t given in.
He hopes they’re happy, wherever they are, and he hopes they’ve given up the search; though, he knows it can’t be likely.
“They stick you with the Wilson case?” Jake asks, lingering next to Sam’s desk.
Jake and Sam went to Stanford together, and they started working for the Miltons together. He doesn’t join in mocking Sam, which Sam’s grateful for, but he shoots Sam pitying looks whenever he thinks Sam isn’t paying attention.
“Yeah.” Sam tosses the file on top of the growing stack of files on his desk. He wonders if he could conveniently lose it in all the other work he has to do. He wonders if he could sleep at night knowing he’d blown off this woman’s case.
“Someone up there has it out for you,” Jake says eye glancing skyward.
Sam doesn’t know if he’s talking about a higher power or about the firm’s partners. Doesn’t matter either way. He’s still got the entire floor’s attention on him, and Sam’s not in the mood for this. He feels a breakdown coming, because the Dollhouse has always been a bit of a trigger for him, and when he loses it he’d rather do it without an audience.
He shoves the file into his briefcase, checks his pockets for his phone and wallet and decides he deserves a working lunch. He’ll pick up a sandwich from the deli and take a walk, find a place with a bit of sun and maybe even some grass to eat it while he gives the file the attention it deserves.
***
Ava Wilson matches Sam’s expectations; young, frazzled, poor personal hygiene, and paranoid. When he buzzes himself up to her apartment, she demands to see his face, his ID, and his copy of the case file before she presses the button to let him in. When he reaches her apartment door, he hears the slide of at least four locks before she ushers him inside.
She’s in a pair of pajama pants that have seen better days and a faded 49ers shirt, and she looks, and smells, like she hasn’t showered in a few days. Sam conjures up his best meeting with a client smile.
“Sam Wesson,” he says, reaching a hand out.
She flashes a nervous smile but doesn’t shake his hand. “Ava Wilson–but you already know that. Can I get you a cup of coffee or something? I only have instant; I haven’t gotten groceries delivered in a few days. Every time someone comes to the door I’m afraid.”
Sam nods sympathetically.
“That’s the thing about the Dollhouse,” she says, sitting down on the couch and clutching a worn quilt to her chest; it looks like a family heirloom. “They get inside your head. They promised I could live my life like normal when I left, but I see them everywhere. Anyone could be a doll; you could be a doll. I don’t think you are, though. But delivery men? That’s the perfect way to get in someone’s apartment and snatch them.”
“Roman Enterprises is prosecuting you,” Sam reminds her. “I don’t think it’s likely that they’ll try to kidnap you or intimidate you.” This is a slam dunk case for Roman Enterprises; there’s no proof that they have an illegal subset of their company responsible for brainwashing innocent people. Honestly, Sam’s hoping he can convince Ava to issue an apology and pay a fine and avoid trial altogether.
This isn’t the first time Roman Enterprises has fielded accusations of being involved with the Dollhouse, and it’s never a pretty trial, especially not for the defendant. Sam’s been going through transcripts from others who have slandered the company and insisted on going to trial.
“They might try and take me back,” Ava says. “I signed a contract when I left saying I would keep my mouth shut, but how could I do that? There are people out there who are walking zombies; no, even worse, walking shells waiting for someone to buy them and fill them up. It’s mind control and slavery, and it has to be stopped. Don’t you get that?”
If it was actually happening, then yes, Sam would stop it himself, but the Dollhouse doesn’t exist.
“You’re very passionate about your beliefs,” Sam says diplomatically, “I assume that means you want to go to trial?”
Ava nods, determined. “I’m going to tell as many people as I can, and hopefully someone somewhere with the ability to do something will hear me.”
“You’re going to be seeing a lot of me over the next few weeks,” Sam says, “and you’re going to have to answer every question I have, no matter how personal or uncomfortable you think they are. Roman Enterprises won’t even address the thought of them being connected to the Dollhouse; they’re going to come after you, and they’re going to dig up every skeleton in your closet. Are you ready for that?”
Ava meets Sam’s gaze dead on. “I want to bring them down.”
***
Ava’s case (Sam knows he’s in trouble when he starts referring to it as Ava’s case instead of the Wilson case) isn’t the only one Sam has, but it steadily takes over his life once he gets it. He puts in enough work on his other cases to avoid being scolded for neglecting his work, but all of his extra time and energy is devoted to Ava, trying to fit together the pieces of this puzzle. Something happened to her, in the last five years, and for the sake of his case, he has to at least try and make it look like the Dollhouse was involved.
He’s talked to friends, the few she has, and they claim they’re acquaintances, really, more than friends. They show him emails sent from her while she was supposedly with the Dollhouse, pictures from the trips she went on, shake their heads as they tell him about the man Ava fell in love with. The man Ava later found out was using her to cheat on his wife.
“She wasn’t the same after that,” Nellie says, poking at her salad. “Heartbreak and betrayal piled on top of each other? No wonder she’s having a tough time.”
Sam doesn’t see the connection between a romance falling through and delusions of kidnapping, but he nods anyways. “So you’ve been in continued contact with her throughout the past five years?”
“On and off but yes. Mostly an email or text to celebrate something exciting and a dreary voicemail whenever something dramatic happened.” Nellie leans in, drops her voice to a whisper. “Ava has a flair for the dramatic, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Something traumatic happened to her,” Sam says with a tight smile. He may not believe Ava’s story, but he’s not going to sit here and let her acquaintance bad mouth her.
“Yeah, like twenty years ago,” Nellie says. Her eyes light up when she sees the confusion on Sam’s face. “She didn’t tell you about her parents?” Nellie pushes her salad aside. “They died when she was a kid. She hasn’t been right since.”
Sam grits his teeth and listens to Nellie’s overly embellished and judgmental tale of Ava’s childhood. He’s going to have to see if Missouri will do him a favor and talk to Ava.
***
“She’s a troubled girl,” Missouri says. Sam’s invited her over for dinner so they can talk about Ava (as much as Missouri is able to given her profession). Sam’s not making any headway in proving that what Ava’s accusing Roman Enterprises of doing is true. Mostly he’s learning exactly how they’re going to target her and that she’s going to go down in flames.
“No kidding,” Sam says. He opens his fridge. “Want a beer?”
“No. Wouldn’t mind a clear spot at the table though.” Missouri gives the table a pointed look. It’s covered in files, printed emails, text messages, credit card histories; everything and anything Sam’s been able to find on Ava’s activity over the past five years. So far, all he’s been able to prove is that she hasn’t been a ghost. There is proof of her existence, and he doesn’t see anything that points to her being pimped out for people with skewed morals and too much money.
“Of course. Sorry.” Sam shoves things into bigger piles so there’s enough space in front of two of the bar stools for them to eat. “Things have been hectic.”
“I can see. You’re draining yourself for this one.”
“She needs help,” Sam says. “Not the kind of help I can give her. Maybe you, though.”
“She believes what she’s saying.”
“Even I could tell you that, and I don’t have a psych degree. It’s what scares me the most.” Sam points to a picture of Ava going through a security checkpoint in Heathrow. “She toured Europe. There are plane tickets, bus tickets, Visa receipts, even little scrapbooks about her favorite sights. She claims she doesn’t remember a single thing, that it was all made up. How do you fabricate this much evidence?” Sam gestures to his table.
“Maybe she was there,” Missouri says. “Just because her body was present doesn’t mean her mind was. The Doll-”
“No,” Sam says, cutting her off. “The Dollhouse isn’t real, Missouri.”
“Your client doesn’t seem to think so, and I thought the client was always right.”
Sam throws her a dark look and gives the spaghetti a stir. “Not in this case. The Dollhouse isn’t real, and if she gets on that stand and says it is then they’re going to have her committed.”
Missouri doesn’t have a comeback for that one, which means Sam’s right. Sometimes, he really hates being right.
***
Sam has his casefile clutched to his chest as a shield as the elevator takes him up to the partners’ floor. Gabriel Milton, the firm’s founding partner, wants to meet with him about the Wilson case. Sam hopes it’s a routine check-in, but this is like getting called to the principal’s office: you rarely go if you’re not in some kind of trouble.
Maybe Sam’s just being paranoid. He hasn’t liked Mr. Milton much since their first meeting. For some reason, Sam’s phone had a complete freakout after his stop in the man’s office, and Sam lost everything on his phone, including his only picture of his mother (a picture of a picture his brother had) and a voicemail from Dean from years back. Whenever Sam felt particularly lonely, he’d pull up the voicemail and listen to it.
Now he’s got nothing to remember his family by; nothing concrete anyway, just memories that fade more with each day.
Sam doesn’t blame Mr. Milton for it, it’s not like the guy took a sledgehammer to Sam’s phone or anything, but the guy’s bad luck, and Sam’s life has had enough bad luck without inviting more into it.
Mr. Milton’s door is cracked open, but Sam knocks anyways then leans back on his heels to wait. He doesn’t have to wait long, there’s a disinterested, “Come in,” and then Sam’s stepping into the office.
The office is, well, it’s mini. Maybe mini’s not quite right. Everything in it is small, smaller than the rest of the building. Sam knows Mr. Milton isn’t tall, and he supposes if you’re the partner in a successful law firm then you have the money to organize your office however you want, but everything looks off.
It’s all to scale with itself, and with Mr. Milton, but the desk is too low, the bookshelves don’t reach high enough, and Sam’s knees are uncomfortably high when he takes a seat.
“Ah, Mr. Wesson,” Mr. Milton greets. Next to his nameplate on his desk there’s a dish of hard candies. Mr. Milton offers Sam one and he shakes his head.
“No thank you, sir, and you can call me Sam.”
“Sam, then.” Mr. Milton smiles, crooked, not quite friendly, like he’s already working some kind of angle.
Sam clears his throat and puts the casefile down on Mr. Milton’s desk. The file is at least four times as thick as when Sam got it, full of notes and research and Ava’s various statements.
“You’ve been busy,” Mr. Milton says. “Glad to see it. Case going well?”
“Uh, not really, sir,” Sam says. “It’s going to be a difficult case to win.”
“Please, call me Gabriel, we’re all friends here, right?”
Gabriel smiles, again not a friendly one, and Sam shifts uncomfortably in his too small seat.
“I guess so,” Sam says. He’s surprised he’s not being yelled out for being pessimistic or being given a lecture on winning at all costs. Maybe Gabriel realizes that the case isn’t winnable. Sam wonders if he was given the case, because they wanted an excuse to fire him. The thought hits him hard; he’s not a bad worker, and he’s not a bad lawyer, if they would give him a case that let him show his skill then -
“Woah, you’re thinking so hard you’re hurting my head,” Gabriel says with a chuckle. He pops open the top left drawer in his desk and pulls out a Dove Chocolate. He doesn’t offer Sam one. “You’re not in here for a review or a scolding. I wanted to know, truthfully, how the case was coming along.”
Sam shrugs. “She insists on going to trial. I did my best to convince her otherwise but,” Sam shrugs, “she’s determined.”
“And she’s convinced the Dollhouse is real?” Gabriel crumples the aluminum wrapper between his fingers and tosses it towards the trash can in the corner. It misses by a wide margin, falls to the floor with a collection of other wrappers.
“She is,” Sam says. “Honestly, I feel bad for her.”
“Because of what she went through?” Gabriel asks.
“Because the Dollhouse isn’t real. She should be getting help; instead, we’re going to try and she’s going to get massacred on the witness stand. How do you convince clients to listen to you when they’re wrong?”
“Ah,” Gabriel says. “That is a tricky one. You need to gain their trust, convince them you have their best interests in mind. If she’s as set in her ways as you think she is then I’m not sure you’re going to have the time to bring her around. She’s going to have to learn the hard way that you’re right. I hope it won’t be too damaging for her.”
Gabriel plucks another chocolate from his drawer, and Sam’s convinced the man doesn’t care about Ava or the Dollhouse or even Sam. Sam wants to get up and yell, wants to demand that Gabriel care or at least stop wasting Sam’s time so he can try and figure out a way to help this woman, but Sam needs this job. It’s his ticket to getting what he wants out of his life and if that means sitting back and shutting his mouth then he can do that.
Maybe.
“So you don’t have any advice for me?” Sam asks. It comes across more cutting than he intended it to, but seriously - isn’t he supposed to be getting mentored here?
“You’re too invested,” Gabriel answers. “That is the lesson. You’re too close to the case; you have to learn to be objective or you won’t be your best; worse than that, you’ll burn out. This case isn’t about Ava Wilson, it’s about you, and your growth.”
“You’re telling me to give up?” What the hell kind of advice is that?
“I’m telling you to be more disciplined,” Gabriel says. “I’m telling you that when you care the level that you do about this case then you bleed out; your strength, your skill, your ability to do your job well. When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep?”
Sam wracks his brain, “Uh,”
“Exactly.” Gabriel rolls his chair closer to Sam; though, the desk still sits heavy and immovable between them. “I want you to succeed, Sam, and in order to succeed, you need to take care of yourself. Take a night off the case. Treat yourself to a nice dinner, go to bed early. Come back refreshed tomorrow. The case will still be here.”
It’s a tempting offer; Gabriel probably means it as an order, but Sam doesn’t take orders well. Maybe Sam will make no progress tonight, if tonight is like any of the past nights then he won’t, but at least he’ll be able to go to sleep knowing he tried to make a difference in this woman’s life. He doesn’t know how Gabriel sleeps knowing that he puts himself above everyone else; especially the people that come to him for help. Sam couldn’t sleep that way, and Sam doesn’t want to be the kind of person who acts like that.
“Will that be all, sir?” Sam asks, enunciating the sir.
Gabriel grins, like he’s pleased with Sam’s not very subtle insubordination. “It will be. Sleep well, Sam Wesson.”