Chapter Text
Patrick Jane was, at best, a nuisance. At worst, he was manipulative, irritating, self-centered, emotionally stunted, and chronically bored. Which means, he pursues things on his terms, when he feels like it, when it amuses him, when he’s feeling puckish, or simply because he’s hungry. And for those of us who had the unfortunate luck of working with him every day? It meant you never knew where he was, what he was doing, what he was saying, or if he was going to be the cause of yet another “training” day from Internal Affairs on appropriate conversations with witnesses. We were currently up to three.
When the Blake Association was revealed, and the FBI showed up, they had wanted to shut down the CBI. Unfortunately, that quickly turned into a bureaucratic nightmare. A whole level of police that wasn’t quite local, but not quite federal, apparently handled significantly more cases and coordinated operations than the entire State of California, and the FBI (although they would never admit it) could delegate. Not to mention, local PD, state police, SWAT, and even FBI field offices had been gutted after investigations revealed the thousands that operated a shadow government for the power-hungry, delusional, and weak-minded law enforcement agents throughout the state.
Unfortunately, the CBI could not be trusted to run itself after Gale Betram, Brett Partridge, and everyone from security guards to computer forensic techs proved to be Blake members. So the ever-generous and pretentious FBI took over running the CBI. Abbott acted as the unofficial head of the CBI and made sure to remind us regularly that our very existence was at the ever-loving mercy of the Federal government.
Jane, after killing Sheriff McAllister and committing no less than 27 other felonies of varying degrees, was brought into FBI custody quietly in a well-executed sting operation about 6 months later. Or that’s how the FBI likes to tell it. A few anonymous sources will tell you they allegedly heard a man shrieking about maritime law and why they wouldn’t let him finish his cup of tea first, like civilized men, while being forcibly dragged from a billionaire’s yacht after two agents were hypnotized into diving into the ocean looking for treasure. I’ll let you guess which is the truth.
A cute little story was spun about how Jane was acting on behalf of the CBI and coordinated with the FBI to trap Red John, but was ambushed. After fleeing for his life, he and McAllister fought, and Jane shot him in self-defense. The real circumstances and strangling were excluded from the autopsy and public record. I believe the truth is locked up in a secret warehouse that the FBI has somewhere, but we’ll never know.
After the team was cleared of any wrongdoing and Abbott created the narrative that they acted as a secret FBI task force within the CBI working to unearth the Blake Association and Red John, they returned to work, creating one of the only surviving, fully intact teams left at the CBI. Everyone else was new and had either been transferred from law enforcement agencies across the country or was a recruit. Jane decided that, because he was such a good friend, he would continue working as a consultant for the CBI's Special Crimes Unit. It was also a requirement in the dropping of all the charges.
And I, Emma Scott, barely 26, was dropped into all of it, and was, very clearly, in way over my head.
I looked at myself in the reflection of the elevator. I had hardly slept the night before, tossing and turning, rehearsing my steps into the Sacramento office, my introductions, how to excuse myself to the bathroom, and planning how to confidently eat lunch alone. Unfortunately, I paid for it. I felt like the purple under my eyes was hardly hidden under my concealer. It’s obvious that my dark, not-quite-straight-not-quite-curly hadn’t dried properly due to friction from said tossing and turning, and I was now sporting a straightened style that was too cool for my soft features.
My blouse didn’t quite match my eyes, a blue-green-grey that never quite looked like anything, my cardigan made my already sickly pale skin look sallow, and my trousers made my hips look unnecessarily wide for my otherwise average-sized frame. I had opted for some block-heeled pumps, which, while clearly saving my outfit, made me feel as though I was playing dress up.
I wanted to run away. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to hide in my bedroom and never come out. Clearly, I was coping extremely well with the prospect of my new job.
I mean, I wanted to be here. Needed to be here. After I had left my old job at a mid-size PR firm in Folsom in a rush, I knew I needed a fresh start. I needed to pivot from corporate and try something big, bold, and new. A new “me” in Sacramento.
Now, standing in the elevator in the CBI, headed for the fourth floor, I felt like a fraud. Did I lie my way into this and black out in the interview? I thought. Why had the CBI hired me, of all people, to manage the Special Crimes Unit in media and press relations? Maybe I was a genius and didn’t know it. No, that wasn’t it. I know why they picked me. There wasn’t anyone else.
When the CBI was reinstated, they had to fix Media Relations. Obviously. One person holding the entire Bureau’s case information and speaking to the press on the Bureau’s behalf was a disaster waiting to happen (*cough* Brenda *cough*). So they split it up.
Now there’s one main Media Officer for the Bureau, appointed by the FBI after what I suspect was an intense, multi-level background check, and each Unit has its own Media Relations Specialist to handle everything else, from calls from journalists to press statements, press lines, minor outreach, and interview prep, all of it. Keeping it that way meant we had less information, and any security breach could be easily located.
Enter me, 26, now standing in an elevator, trying to silently remind myself I knew how to walk. I was in the middle of deciding if my shoes were too slippery with sweat (from the heat, obviously, not nerves) and reprimanding myself for not wearing some kind of stocking under my pants like a weirdo to prevent this very issue, when the doors slid open.
No, no, no. I was not ready. This is not how it went in my head. I wasn’t standing up straight yet. My shoe was half off. This is not how first impressions are made. I stood there for so long recalibrating that the doors started to close on me. Someone coughed, bringing me out of my delusion. Oh my God. Someone had been in the elevator the whole time. Had they spoken to me? Had they seen me looking in the mirror? If they’d spoken to me and I didn’t respond, did they hate me now? They must. Great, now I already had an enemy, and I hadn’t even met my boss yet.
I practically threw myself out of the elevator, stumbling over my own feet (I did, in fact, forget how to walk), and tried to pull myself together. It worked for all of ten seconds.
By the time I’d straightened and turned the corner towards the bullpen, the sheer noise of the place overwhelmed me. A cacophony of voices, phones, typing, feet, and doors hit me, knocking me off balance. I froze and was immediately met with a gruff “Can you move?” As a man in a suit nearly knocked into me as he hauled another lanky man in a fedora and handcuffs down the hallway ahead of me, towards what I can only assume was an interview room.
Actually, I knew it was an interview room. I’d studied the floor plan over and over so I wouldn’t get lost. But I wasn’t planning on letting anyone know that. I had to at least attempt to maintain some semblance of being a completely normal, functioning human being. Embracing that spirit, I headed to Agent Lisbon’s office.
I was supposed to meet her at 9:00 am sharp, and as I glanced down at my phone, it was already 8:55 am. I had only five minutes to cross the hallway before me. I was convinced, somehow, that those mere one hundred feet in front of me would cause me to become unreasonably detained and be late to meet my boss face-to-face for the first time. Makes sense. Of course.
As I took a deep breath and began my treacherous journey, I looked through the glass of the Special Crimes Unit bullpen. It seemed somehow fitting that the bullpen was situated in what had to be a redesigned warehouse. Large windows let in the sun along the industrial, red brick walls, while steel beams ran overhead. I somehow had expected something more clinical. More beige with grey cubicles. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
At a desk, a large man, with tiny hips, a fact that I could not stop noticing once I saw him, and which I wish I had never seen, stood up. He ran his hand through his short brown hair and removed his blazer, which revealed no less than three different food stains down the front of his shirt. None of which he appeared to notice.
Across the bullpen sat a redhead in a tailored suit and matching boots, squinting at a monitor. She glanced up for a moment and smiled at me, making me feel instantly more at ease and wanting to retreat into myself more, and immediately back to her work. On her left hand sat a silver band, one that I then noticed matched the other agent’s. I didn’t expect that.
Beside a whiteboard, an average-sized man was shifting around some photos and rewriting notes. He had on what can only be described as the tightest short-sleeve dress shirt I’ve ever seen in my life. He turned to say something to the tall agent, his dark eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement as he watched his fellow agent, who had now noticed the damage to his shirt, aggressively and futilely attempting to clean it.
I knew all of their names. Wayne Rigsby. Grace Van Pelt. Kimball Cho. I doubted they knew mine.
When I reached Agent Lisbon’s office, I stood for a moment, awkwardly deciding whether to wait another minute if she was busy or knock and just be done with it. Her blinds were drawn, leaving me unable to see inside. With my stomach twisted in nervous knots that I feared were becoming permanent, I knocked on her door with damp palms.
I dried them on my pants, once, twice, then three times. I couldn’t have had clammy hands when I shook hands with her. Sure, I’d spoken to her on the phone, and we’d discussed what I could expect this first full week, but I was nervous I’d disappoint somehow when I stood opposite her in the flesh.
After what felt like the longest moment of my life, she opened the door with a smile I didn’t anticipate. Her slim frame was dressed in practical jeans, low boots, and a dark sweater. She stood tall and confident with her hand outstretched.
“I’m Agent Lisbon, we spoke on the phone,” she said, as I shook her hand. If she noticed my clammy hands, she didn’t mention it.
“It’s great to finally meet you, Agent Lisbon. I’m grateful to be here,” I responded, mentally high-fiving myself for sounding confident.
She gestured for me to come into her office. It was tidy, like every office from every cop show on TV that I definitely didn’t watch, but not sterile. A soft couch with a throw, some framed photos, and a baseball all hinted at a life that extended beyond the crime scenes and paperwork of a Senior CBI Agent.
“While I appreciate your gratitude, you wouldn’t be here if Pell didn’t think you were a fit.” Christina Pell was the new Chief Media Officer of the CBI. While I was Lisbon’s direct report, I was also expected to be in regular contact with Pell, who would advise on the more media-heavy aspects of my job.
“Of course,” I said as Lisbon rounded her wooden desk and took a seat. She looked at me expectantly.
Leaning forward, she said in almost a whisper, “You can sit down, you know.”
I practically fell into my seat on command, and in an attempt to rescue what was left of my dignity, I gently set my tote bag on the floor.
Lisbon barely concealed a smile as she shuffled through some files on her desk and picked up a pen. “Look, I know you’re new and don’t have as much experience as the unit,” she started, looking down and opening the file she was looking for, as my stomach rolled, “but you will be held to the same standard as anyone else is.”
Her pen scratched the paper. “I expect you to be good at your job,” she continued, not looking my way, which was, quite frankly, a momentary relief, “I’m going to operate under the impression you can handle yourself in this environment. Ask questions, take notes, but do not interfere in active investigations. You don’t interrogate. You don’t talk cases outside the unit. You stay out of crime scenes unless you’re told otherwise.“
She paused her writing for a moment to look up and fix me with a stern gaze. I started to fidget with the sleeve of my cardigan, wrapping it around my index finger. A nervous habit of mine.
“I’d like to say that it’s for your own safety, but really, it stops you from being a liability,” she said, leaning back in her chair, still holding the pen in her right hand. “The last thing we need right now is the CBI making the evening news because you were knocked out during a takedown.”
Me? In a takedown? I almost laughed. Instead, I pressed my lips together and nodded my head, “That won’t be an issue. I understand the boundaries of my role here.”
She gave me a small smile. “Great, then we’ll get along just fine.”
I returned her smile, but her eyes flicked past me for a moment, looking at something over my shoulder.
“But there is the matter of Jane.”
I squirmed in my seat and forced my hands to let go of my sweater before I ruined it. I had wondered for weeks if I would meet him. If I’d have to speak to him. If I’d have to work with him. I could admit I was more than a little curious about the man who had become so infamous in the state of California.
She turned her attention back to the file in front of her, tapping her pen against it. “Jane is not an agent. And that comes with strict rules. He can’t speak on behalf of the CBI or give interviews without permission, and if he does, he must make it clear it’s his opinion.”
I nodded again, slower this time, like I was trying to convince both of us I understood. I did. I had spent weeks memorizing exactly what a CBI consultant could and couldn’t do.
But knowing something and being in a room where it actually applied felt different from what I had expected. I could feel the tiny flicker of confidence in me snuff itself out.
Lisbon didn’t seem to notice my hesitation. Or she did, and didn’t care.
“And he absolutely,” she continued, “under no circumstances must pull you into any of his schemes. And he cannot use the press for them either. That is a non-negotiable.”
“Has that- Has that happened before?” I asked, hesitantly. I was so in over my head. What had I done? I should’ve moved back home. I should’ve just taught kindergarten. God, why didn’t I listen to my mother?
Lisbon rubbed her temples as though she already had a headache forming. I hoped it wasn’t from me.
“More times than you even know.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Honestly, you’ll probably be neck deep in one without even knowing it,” she added.
“Oh.” I wasn’t entirely sure what counted as a “scheme,” and I wasn’t convinced I wanted to find out.
She suddenly took a breath, shut the file on her desk, and stood up from the desk, effectively ending the conversation.
“Let’s get going. I think you get the gist of it.” She made her way out of the office at a brisk pace, leaving me scrambling to grab my bag and keep up. The clock in the hallway told me it wasn’t even 9:30 yet. We were not off to a spectacular start.
Lisbon suddenly paused outside the doorway to the bullpen, leveling me with an unreadable look.
“I’ll introduce you to the team.” She glanced through the glass at the three agents inside, then placed her attention back on me. My palms started to sweat all over again.
“If anyone gives you trouble, you come to me. But you’ll have to earn their respect yourself. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded, then cringed internally. Ma’am? I had never said that in my entire life. I was losing it.
I didn’t even have time to finish my spiral. Lisbon had already strode into the center of the bullpen and was eying her team. My team? Our team? No…the team.
“Cho. Rigsby. Van Pelt,” she said, voice full of authority as she pointed to the conference table by the white board Agent Cho was still standing beside. “Team meeting. Now.”
As if choreographed, the three agents in well-practiced motion moved to the table. Agent Cho took the chair closest to the board, while Agents Rigsby and Van Pelt took the seats opposite him.
Lisbon made her way over to the table and sat beside Agent Cho. I followed her over, unsure if I was supposed to sit or just stand awkwardly near the table. I opted for the latter.
“Take a seat, Scott,” Lisbon chirped. Agent Rigsby was sliding folders across the table to the others. Four files, four team members. Not me.
“We have to head out by eleven to do some canvassing, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before then, so introductions are going to be brief.”
My face burned as I took the seat closest to me, beside Agent Van Pelt. She offered me a smile warmer than the one before. I gave her a quick smile, but somehow I’m sure it looked more like a grimace.
Agent Cho didn’t even look at me. Agent Rigsby appeared to be trying to position his arms on the table to hide the stains on his shirt. From the brief look of exasperation on Lisbon’s face, I’d say he wasn’t doing as good a job as he thought. Lisbon opened the file in front of her and, without looking up, gestured to Agent Cho. “Miss Scott, this is Agent Cho. He specializes in interrogation.”
Cho looked at me, finally acknowledging my presence, and offered his hand across the table. I awkwardly pushed myself up into a half-standing position to reach him.
“Hi,” he said, face blank and eyes definitely sizing me up. Without another word, he opened his file and began reading even as I attempted to return his greeting.
“I’m Agent Rigsby!” Rigsby said, all but elbowing Van Pelt in the face as he reached around her to shake my hand.
“Wayne!” Van Pelt hissed at Rigsby. If I had any question whether they were married, I didn’t have any now.
“What?” He said, brows furrowed in confusion as he released my hand from his strong grip.
Van Pelt just rolled her eyes in response. She turned to me, a smile fixed across her face, and shook my hand, “I’m Agent Van Pelt. I do a lot of the cybercrime research. It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” I responded, praying my voice sounded as normal and even to her as it did in my head.
And then…silence. They all read their case files. And I just sat there. I played with the strap on my bag. Was I supposed to go now? Stay? I wasn’t sure. With half of a decision formed in my mind, I stood. Naturally, my chair loudly scraped across the floor, and four sets of eyes were now solely fixed on me.
“Um, I think- I think I’ll go find my office now,” I said, adjusting the strap of my tote. “I, um, want to get situated, before, uh- yeah.” Yeah, I was killing this.
Lisbon gave me an unreadable look, but didn’t indicate that I should sit back down or if I was needed. She simply nodded her head. “Your office is behind the green door. All the way at the back of the bullpen. I think they already gave you the key during orientation.”
Smiling weakly, I said, “Yeah. Great, uh, thanks. Um, see you guys later.”
Rigsby and Van Pelt smiled and turned back to their work. Cho and Lisbon said nothing. Feeling pathetic, awkward, and all of twelve years old, I turned and spotted the door behind a vintage wooden desk littered with books, papers, and the most random objects.
I crossed the bullpen, self-loathing bubbling up inside of me. I was going to fail. I didn’t fit in here. I was too young. Too naive. Too soft. I was dressed in soft creams and blues, while everyone else was in efficient charcoal and navy suits. They were self-assured, and I could barely remember how to use my hands if I thought someone might be looking at me. Which apparently was right now, as I fished through my bag, hearing my key ring jingle, but unable to locate it.
Resigning to my fate, I set my tote on the floor and began removing things. Okay, maybe I didn’t need three lip balms and four packs of gum, but was it a crime to be prepared? Bad breath and dry lips were not what I needed right now.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I discovered the elusive key ring. Shoving everything back into my bag, I stood and brushed myself off. I pushed the key into the lock.
Maybe I could resign in a few weeks. Or maybe they’d fire me when they found out how spineless and shy I was. A media specialist who was afraid of talking to people. Or people looking at her. Or thinking of her. Yeah, that didn’t sound great.
A voice called from the couch as I unlocked the door, startling me out of my thoughts. “I give you a week.”
I had listened to enough interviews and TV news clips to recognize that voice. Bracing myself, I turned around.
And there, over on a worn brown leather couch right outside my new office, was Patrick Jane.