CHAPTER 8: UGLY JUSTICE

  STERLING YARD—OCTOBER 17th, 1992 | EVENING

  ?

  Captain Holmes placed him in an interrogation room.

  The doors were marked with sigils, not unlike the Drychus metal of the holding cell he’d been in. Inside, the walls were thick and the air was cold, but not as cold as the metal table Cameron was locked to. One half of his handcuffs was firmly fitted onto a metal bar that ran just below the table’s surface, and across from him, Captain Holmes shuffled through a manilla folder. Under the industrial lights, his weathered face looked older than it was, and the scar that ran along both of his thin lips deepened in color.

  Cameron tugged on the cuffs and winced at the pain that sang through his wrist.

  “Wouldn’t do that,” cautioned Captain Holmes.

  “How long are you going to hold me here? Don’t I get, what, a call? A lawyer?”

  Captain Holmes placed the manilla folder onto the table and grabbed a single piece of paper, sliding it forward for Cameron to see:

  NAME: CAMERON JAMES KESSLER

  RESIDENCE: 3-C NOTT. TER

  ALIAS: N/A

  OCCUPATION: N/A, CRIMINAL

  SEX: M

  DOB: 12/1/70

  AGE: 22

  HEIGHT: 5’10”

  WEIGHT: 170

  BUILD: MED

  COMP: FAIR

  EYES: GRY

  HAIR: BLK

  MARKS: N/A

  SCARS: FOREHEAD, CHEEK

  DATE OF ARREST: 10/17/92

  ARRESTING CONSTABLES: BRIGGS/HEATHCLIFFE

  OFFENSE(S):

  - 2ND DEGREE MURDER

  - TRESPASSING

  - AGGRAVATED ASSAULT

  - UNLAWFUL POSSESSION OF A FIREARM

  - THEFT

  NOTES: HEXLING. ABILITIES MANIFESTED AS DENSE IVORY-LIKE MATERIAL ON SKIN. SIMILAR TO BONE, OR CHITON. INCREASED DENSITY/DEFENSE, HEIGHTENED STRENGTH. TESTIMONIES PROVIDED BY ARBITER LEROY WATERS. ENTERED INTO REGISTRY.

  A criminal record. It lacked a picture, and upon first glance, Cameron’s immediate instinct was to question the list they pulled together. On a passing glance, it was accurate, but it neglected to acknowledge any of his prior offenses, which, by his estimation, would’ve added several more lines. Everything else was correct, save for the residence, which was still cited as his mother’s apartment. Must have gotten most of that information from his driver’s license.

  Captain Holmes bored into him with his small and oxen eyes, and Cameron, in a sudden fit of motion, pushed the paper aside. “Didn’t read my rights when I was arrested.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. We didn't,” Captain Holmes said.

  “So you can’t arrest me. That’s how it works.”

  “In Boston or Halifax, maybe. But we aren’t in the United States, and we aren’t in Canada, and you, Mr. Kessler, aren’t a citizen of either. You’re a citizen of the Commonwealth of Brinehaven. But, you know, even still, if you weren’t what you are, you’d be right. Because of what you are, the rules are a bit different. See, people like you—those counted among what we call the occult—you aren’t entitled to the same privileges as your counterparts.”

  “How the fuck is that fair?”

  “Never said it was. It’s just the way it is. The rule of law. Not that you’d know anything about that. Still, fortunately for you, Mr. Kessler, occult or not, you’re still entitled to a lawyer, and if you can’t afford one, the Civic and Occult Authority will provide you with one.”

  Cameron leaned forward in his seat, meeting Captain Holmes’ stern gaze. “Then why are you here, and they aren’t?”

  “Ms. Slater is late. And I have a few questions for you.”

  He wasn’t a fool. As soon as he learned that a lawyer was due to arrive, Cameron knew better than to share anything with a damned blackjacket—and a captain no less. Anything else that would have left his mouth would’ve been used against him. He set his jaw, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the ceiling. Everything thus far would’ve been based on word of mouth. Hearsay. Cameron was no legal whizz, far from it, and growing up in the South End didn’t guarantee you much, but it did give you two things. Thick skin and street smarts. And when it came to the ladder, South Enders had their own code: don’t talk to constables, don’t rat out your crew, and don’t tell anyone your business.

  “David St. James. Where is he?”

  That name ignited something. Cameron snapped his head forward, and opened his mouth, only to close it. He directed his attention to the floor, and tried to hide the exasperation that was making his face fold into something just shy of anger.

  “The crate. Stamped with the seal of Alistair Company Limited, and inside, Reign 18 handguns. We retrieved it from your little warehouse. Where’d you get the crate, Mr. Kessler?”

  Cameron averted Captain Holmes’ anchored stare and kept his eyes fixed to the concrete.

  “Mr. Kessler,” said Captain Holmes, exhaling sharply. “I’m not going to bullshit you. See, we’ve never met, up until now, but you hate me for the badge I wear. Hate the uniform. And I get it. South Ender like you, probably grew up in some real shitty places, not much in the way of opportunity. Gangs everywhere. Nothing to look forward to but a sorry excuse of a school that’s half abandoned, a single hospital that’s understaffed. Surrounded by guns, grit. Violence. And the guys like me, constables, well, in your neck of the woods? Just shy of useless.”

  He bit the inside of his cheeks. The more Captain Holmes’ spoke, the more Cameron felt like ripping his ears off of his head, and the vow of silence he thought he’d taken was turning out to be weaker than he realized. And just like that, out goes the first code. Cameron regretted it as soon as he opened his mouth.

  “You don’t know shit,” Cameron stated.

  “I know that you’re young, and I know that you probably don’t want to spend the rest of your life at Blackpool Penitentiary. If you answer my questions, Mr. Kessler, well, I can’t guarantee that you won’t end up there, but I can guarantee that you’d be dodging a life sentence. With your offenses? You’re looking at—”

  The door to the interrogation room opened.

  A woman in a gray blazer and a long gray skirt stepped inside, and the sound of her heels made Cameron’s face scrunch up ever so slightly. Dense glasses hung from her nose and her thick hair, which sat atop her head as textured locks. She had an authority to her face that he couldn’t place. Maybe it was the half-visible vein on her forehead, or the broadness of her shoulders that seemed to defy her otherwise short and lithe frame. In one of her hands was a cup of coffee, and in the other was a briefcase.

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  “That’ll be enough of that, Captain Holmes. Give us the room, would you?” she asked, though it sounded more like a demand.

  “Rhonda Slater,” noted Captain Holmes, his eyes shifting towards the clock that hung off the wall. “Ten minutes late. A new record?”

  “The room, Captain Holmes,” she said, waiting for him to get up.

  “All yours,” Captain Holmes retorted. “Consider what I said, Mr. Kessler.”

  Captain Holmes stood up and exited, closing the door behind him. After he left Cameron’s eyes wandered towards the one-sided viewing glass that took up the entire length of the wall closest to the door, and checked each corner of the room for the cameras.

  “If the little light on the camera isn’t on, the audio is off. For safety purposes, they have to keep the cameras on, and there are, of course, probably still two or three constables still watching us from behind that glass. But they can’t hear us,” Rhoda stated.

  “Good to know,” Cameron said.

  “I take it Captain Holmes gave you an idea of what we’re dealing with here?”

  “More or less. But there’s this,” Cameron nodded towards the paper Captain Holmes had left on the table—his criminal record—and grabbed it with his single free hand. “This section here on the bottom. Says some kind of registry.”

  “The Registry, as it’s called, yes. It’s a database, Mr. Kessler—can I call you Cameron?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Yeah.”

  “It is a database compiled by the Occult and Civic Authority. Just as there is one for us ordinary folk, the Registry keeps record of those deemed occult, though the word is something of a misnomer, as it also accounts for those who utilize the ilk of arcanists: kineticists, mesmers, sigilmasons, alchemists, and artificers. That, in addition to witches, demonologists, demonic contractors, accursed, and, of course, hexlings such as yourself,” Rhonda explained.

  “And they, what, track us?”

  “Not quite,” she noted. "It provides them ease of access for possible re-arrests, particularly because it documents any abilities that might prove troublesome to counter. But enough of that. Cameron, you are aware of the severity of your accusations, yes?”

  Cameron nodded. "More or less."

  “2nd degree murder, trespassing, aggravated assault, unlawful possession of a firearm, theft,” she recited, grabbing the record and reading aloud the documented offenses. “Quite the list. Now, before I delve any further, Cameron, I must ask—were there any eyewitnesses, anyone who is capable of corroborating these offenses?”

  “Just one. Elizabeth Hausser.”

  Rhonda tucked her lips into her mouth and exhaled, her breath leaving her with a punctuated force. “Elizabeth Hausser, of Hausser Waste Company. She is the one who hired the arbiter, Leroy Waters, yes? I read the briefings on your arrest, and the arbitration note she commissioned which detailed the extent of your misgivings, which are, of course, aligned with your offenses. You broke into the premises of her company lot, coerced her into the sale of stolen arms, and reportedly killed one of her personal security guards—...”

  “They have no way of proving any of that," Cameron said as he lurched forward, features ablaze with agitation.

  “Sure they do. Reputable testimony, forensic reports. Frankly, Cameron, I need not continue. You know as well as I that the odds are very much against you. In three to four weeks time, I imagine, you will be standing trial for all of these offenses. I will defend you, certainly, but by the time the jury will have heard the word hexling, they will have made up their mind. They will see an old woman with a familiar family name on the stand, who, no doubt, provides a vital service for every borough by way of her company, and an arbiter vested with a license directly from the Minister of the Commonwealth."

  “Aren’t you supposed… supposed to be—... be fucking helping me!? You’ve been in this room all but three minutes, and you’re what, throwing in the towel, and I’m guilty as can be?” Cameron exclaimed.

  “Cameron,” she continued, her voice lowering in tone. She removed her glasses and a pair of deep and calculated brown eyes met his own. “Let me be very clear. I, among a handful of others, am a public defender who specializes in dealing with those deemed occult in the legal sense of the word. The vast majority of cases involving people like yourself end in a guilty verdict. Why? Because people do not care about what happened. The truth of whatever you might have done is unimportant. What is? The optics. Whether or not you did it, your very existence makes people feel unsafe.”

  Cameron gritted his teeth and resigned himself to her words. He couldn’t even find the strength to dismiss any of what she was saying, because, at his core, he knew she was right. Moreover, he was guilty of everything that he’d been accused of, and Rhonda Slater knew it the moment she walked into that room, the same way that Captain Holmes knew it when he first laid his beady and bullish eyes on Cameron. The first day of the end of his life was just another evening for them.

  “Captain Holmes will ask you for details regarding the circumstances of your arrest and the crimes which you are accused of. Give him everything he wants, and you may not rot at Blackpool for the rest of your life. Bite the hand that feeds, and he will make sure that you never leave. Am I clear?”

  “As day,” Cameron retorted.

  “And another thing. District Attorney Hhaledi, who I will be opposite to, will likely offer us a plea deal midtrial. Unorthodox in the court of law, but it's his MO. I will deliberate with him up until he offers this, but the moment he does, this case is over. So. Once Hhaledi and I have come to an agreement, you are going to plead guilty before the judge and the jury. Appeal to their sensitivities. You’re a South Ender. Tell them how difficult it was to grow up the way that you did, regale them with your personal tragedies. Sell it, and they might shave a few more years off the top. Do you understand me?”

  “Why are you doing this?” Cameron asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This. You’re making a career out of defending people who you say have no chance, encouraging deals, and bargains, and bullshit. This is, what, the fifth time you’ve been called into this room this week? Sixth? Seventh? You give all of us the same fucking shpiel? What if I never did any of that? Would it even matter?”

  “No. No, it would not,” Rhonda answered, standing up and making her way towards the door.

  “That’s it? All you gotta’ say?” Cameron asked.

  “I do this, Cameron, because, believe it or not, it's the only way people like you get more than a passing chance. I was briefed before I came here today, and you know, that arbiter could have killed you and nobody would have blinked an eye. Worse, it could’ve been the Special Response Unit at your door. In either circumstance, you’d be a dead hexling in the borough that everyone pretends to have forgotten about. Count yourself lucky. At least at Blackpool, you’ll still be breathing.”

  The door opened and closed. Rhonda was gone, and with her, any chance of freedom. Cameron leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze to the flickering industrial light overhead, absently tugging at the black metal cuffs around one of his hands. He thought of his mother, and how desperately she’d asked him to try. To do anything other than what he had been doing. All he had to do was do better than her.

  And there he sat, bound to a table in an interrogation room, with a one way ticket to Blackpool Penitentiary, wondering if this fate was better or worse than hers. Fire burned in his throat. Cameron tugged harder on the cuffs, embraced the sting of the Drycus metal, and bit the inside of his cheeks with a steeled resolve. This couldn’t be it. It couldn’t end here.

  Sean Malley, Arnie Goodbrother, Fat Rudolf. He’d find a way to use them once they all got shipped there—double cross, backstab, lie, and hurt any single one of them if it meant securing an escape. He could side with the Lancaster Boys once he was behind bars, or the 8th Street Gang, or a different group entirely. There had to be some sort of hierarchy, and people inside who knew their way around, knew that the idea of permanence in a prison was a falsehood. That it was mutable, and subject to change with the right amount of effort.

  Cameron's weakness was an anchor, but an anchor could be dragged. He could move it, lift it, and eventually, throw it. Focus, commitment, and sheer will; that is what it would take. He had to burn names—David St. James and Leroy Waters—inside of his eyelids. He had to think about them every waking moment, every second of every minute of every hour, and cling to the promise of that ugly justice he vowed to deliver to them.

  Captain Holmes returned and closed the door behind him, but before he could utter a word, Cameron leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the table. Don’t talk to constables, don’t rat out your crew, and don’t tell anyone your business. Any unspoken code of the South End was about to be broken. Rat, weasel, good-for-nothing. If anyone found out, Cameron would wear each of these names as his own, and make them sturdy like the second set of skin he called upon in his times of need. He didn’t owe anybody anything—he only owed himself a chance at being better than he was. To try.

  "You have questions," Cameron began. "I have answers."

  Here's some artwork of Cameron utilizing his hexling abilities—you'll see the waxy, ivory, bone-like material on his face. That same substance covers everything (neck, chest, arms, legs, etc.) except for his face and scalp, as pictured.

  This piece was done by ! An amazing artist, I encourage you all to check out their page and also their artwork.

  CAMERON KESSLER

  RHONDA SLATER

  CAPTAIN HOLMES

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