"Hello, Laney," says Lucinda, for all the world like they're having a friendly chat at her house over tea. "First of all, the jury members have their own copies of the notebook about the history of your abuse - alleged," she says, putting up a hand vaguely in Paul's direction before Paul can say anything. "I understand you have an eidetic memory, which let you remember that much detail to dictate to your friend; is that right?"

"Yeah," he says, soft in tone but projected to be easily heard. That much is probably safe without waiting for Bella's input.

"Would you mind demonstrating that for the jury?" Lucinda asks.

He shakes his head. "No, I wouldn't mind."

He gazes thoughtfully into the distance and reads them all off in a clear voice, in order, initials included.

He closes his eyes again, briefly, but the fact that he is immensely comforted doesn't show at all. He was right: a pentagon would be redundant here. He is carrying this show just fine on natural talent.

[I'mma curse that bastard too unless you have some objection,] Bella says. [I'd put it like this: "I did tell someone. When I was eleven, I went to a psychologist, and after a while I tried explaining to her what was going on, but it turned out she didn't care that much about patient confidentiality, and instead of helping me she just told my parents that I'd told her, and I got punished. I didn't try that again until now." All said subdued and not making eye contact and pausing between clauses.]

Yeah, okay. Does Bella have advice on how to present the narrative of... her?

["I made a friend,"] Bella says, [and you can point at me - "who only just moved here, and I found out her dad is the chief of police. I didn't want to risk it at first but she talked me around. Her dad's a decent guy."]

That one he repeats nearly verbatim. He doesn't sound like he's reading from a script, though; he sounds flawlessly authentic.

Alice's eyebrows lift slightly, a can-you-believe-this-dude? expression briefly overlaid on his general air of resigned misery.

"...yes," says Theo, after turning the question over in his mind for a moment to see where the scary parts are.

"And do you remember driving Laney to the hospital in November of last year?" Lucinda continues.

"Yes," just because no one would believe him if he said no.

"And where did you drive him from?" Lucinda asks. "I remind you that you are under oath."

"Have you ever heard or seen evidence that your employer was mistreating his son?" Lucinda continues, pacing a little.

"But you suspected?" presses Lucinda.

"I... didn't... really think he was doing anything like that," he says haltingly.

"You didn't think he was doing anything like that," Lucinda repeats, spacing out each word. "Why did you think Laney needed transportation to the hospital in November?" she asks, all innocent curiosity.

"I thought it was none of my business," Theo mumbles.

"I have a police report," Lucinda says, pulling it out of her files and waving it around slightly. "It says Officer Kerensky found the incident suspicious and asked several people - including you - where Laney had gotten hurt. And that you said..." She peers at the report, like she's never read this part before. "'Dunno'."

"Well, I didn't," says Theo, gaining mroe confidence as he repeats the old, well-worn justification. "I only knew where I was told to pick him up. He could've hurt himself anywhere."

"So," Lucinda says, "your explanation for events is that Laney broke his own ribs... somewhere... and was transported home, by someone other than you, even though you are the family's driver and were working that day... and even though an ambulance would have taken him directly to the hospital... and that none of these things struck you as potentially worth informing the police, so even when Officer Kerenksy sought you out specifically you only told him... 'dunno'. Is that right?"

"That's very interesting," Lucinda says, narrowing her eyes. "I have an architectural plan here. It shows that the Hammond family's current residence was remodeled extensively before they moved in, and that among the renovations made was extensive soundproofing. In every room. This advertisement for the sale of their former residence in New York advertises similar amenities. Did you ever hear any very... very... quiet sounds - that could have been associated with violence occurring in the house, given that information?"

"I have never made a habit of eavesdropping on my employers," he snaps.

"I didn't ask if you listened," Lucinda says softly. "I asked if you heard."

"Well, I didn't."

"Yes," he says, reluctantly.

"Have you ever heard him say, or imply, or suggest by way of demeanor, that he intended to strike his son or had done so in the past?" This is intentionally overbroad.

"...I don't remember?" he tries.

"Really," Lucinda says. "So you don't think that would have seemed remarkable to you, if your employer had announced that he was going to commit a violent crime? It could have slipped your mind?"

"You didn't say announce, you said suggest by demeanour," he says. "How do I know what a man who's going to hit his son looks like? I've never seen anyone do it!"

"I also said say and imply," Lucinda says implacably. "I'm not expecting you to be a psychologist. So," she continues, "are you saying that you do not believe that your employer ever struck his son? That seems vanishingly unlikely to you, because most people don't hit their sons and you have never seen evidence otherwise, as you've explained?"

"...yes?"

"You don't sound sure," Lucinda says. "Are you sure? It's all right - as long as you're sincerely sure, it's not perjury to say so."

"No?" Lucinda asks, like she's surprised. "And why is that?"

"Can you elaborate, please?" Lucinda says.

"Think about what?" Lucinda asks.

Mr. Hammond is scowling thunderously; Theo flees back to his seat as soon as he is dismissed.

"Yes I would," she says firmly.

"All right, Judith. Please describe for us the development of Mr. Hammond's... disciplinary measures, insofar as you were aware of them."

"It all started out very ordinary," she says. "Sending the boy to his room, that sort of thing. I didn't pay much attention; I didn't think there was any reason to worry. So while I don't think he was hiding it from me, exactly, I only knew well after the fact that he had started hitting him... I'm sorry, is there such a thing as a box of tissues in this courthouse?"

Lucinda gets a little packet of them out of her purse and hands them over.

Lucinda nods. "The aforementioned documentations lists you as being present for the entirety or for part of forty-seven incidents. Would you like to review them and make a decision about whether you'd like to corroborate that part of the documentation, or do you already know?"

"If Junior said I was there, then I was, and if Junior said it happened, then it did," she says.

[Watch me care,] says Alice, not caring.

['Sokay,] he says fondly.

Not gonna bring up the fornication, is she? Probably a good plan.

[If I didn't know better I'd think he was drunk,] Alice marvels. [He's not drunk, is he?]

[I love you,] says Alice.

"Appropriately," says Mr. Hammond, flatly. "Junior has been a nuisance since he was born and a menace since he was ten."

"A menace," says Paul. "How so?"

"He breaks things. He gets in fights. He steals. He lies."

"And he didn't stop any of that when he was sent to her room, or whatever," Paul says. He's making sense at the moment, if not in any polished way.

"Of course not."

"Did the things in the notebooks full of documents - documentation - happen the way they're written?" Paul asks next.

"Well, I haven't read it," says Mr. Hammond, "but they came out of Junior's mouth, didn't they? So no."

"I don't want to know," he says contemptuously. "Wouldn't put it past him to have done it to himself."

"It is the opinion of the medical expert we've just heard from that some other party would have had to inflict the injuries, Mr. Hammond. Are you yourself an expert in medicine?" Lucinda asks sweetly.

"No."

"So, with that ruled out, can you think of any means other than an assault by you that could have produced that particular injury?"

"Have you met the boy?" he asks incredulously. "He hasn't gone a month without brawling in God knows how long."

"If that were the case, why would he name you as the perpetrator?" Lucinda asks with an expression of polite interest.

"Because he's a liar and a troublemaker. If he's ever had another reason for doing something, I don't know about it."

"So in his entire life, those are the only motivations he's ever had for doing anything," Lucinda says, raising an eyebrow, "as far as his own father is aware? Don't you think you might be exaggerating?"

"Not by much. Those are definitely the only ones I can bring to mind."

"He doesn't, for example, eat because he is hungry, or sleep because he is tired, or testify honestly because he's under oath?" Lucinda suggests.

"The first two, sure," he acknowledges. "I don't know about the last. If he takes that oath as seriously as he takes every other rule he's met, not a chance."

"One more question," Lucinda says, looking deeply skeptical. "Do you claim to never have hit your son at all?"

"Not so that the law has any reason to take an interest."

"I think I've mentioned several times that corporal punishment of any kind is illegal in the states of New York and in Washington," Lucinda says. "So: Have you ever hit your son, Mr. Hammond?"

"Not so that the law should take an interest," he repeats testily.

"Please just answer the question, Mr. Hammond," says Judge Roberts.

"I answered the question as the question deserved to be answered."

"Mr. Hammond, the law has already taken an interest, or you would not be sitting here," Judge Roberts says. "Have you or have you not hit your son?"

"I dare say that boy's never met someone who didn't want to hit him," Mr. Hammond growls.

"Well, we could call up his mother, and his friend Bella, and so on, but I've met him and I don't want to hit him," Lucinda says. "But please just answer the question, Mr. Hammond, or we'll be here all day."

With his father still glaring venomously at him, Alice tosses a quick glance at someone who isn't looking and touches his tongue to his lips for a moment, tilting his head down and lifting his eyebrows slightly. It's hardly an overt or remarkable gesture, but it has the desired effect, which is to send his father into a frothing, spitting, incoherent rage and prevent him from coming to his senses and sitting down again.

[Thank yooou,] he singsongs, looking mildly shaken for the benefit of any backward-glancing jurors.

Bella's not sure, so she doesn't risk asking, just gets up and hobbles in his direction and flings her arms around his neck.

"Thanks," he murmurs aloud, leaning into her arms and closing his eyes. He doesn't need to say that he loves her. She's reading him; she knows.

Bella winds up hugging him for pretty much the entire recess, then limps back to her seat when it ends. The jury has already reached a verdict, apparently. [What do you want to bet they spent one minute going around the room announcing that yep, dude's guilty, and spent the rest of their deliberation exchanging phone numbers with any fellow jurors they find cute and talking about the weather?]

[No bet,] he says cheerfully. [Alternately: bet you a hex.]

The judge terminates all of Mr. Hammond's remaining parental rights, and gives him fifteen years in prison. Also, he awards three million dollars in damages to Alice.

[Well, that's nice,] he says to Bella, idly wondering if she would like him to pay her way through college.

[That would be very kind of you, and under the circumstances not particularly suspicious,] Bella replies happily.

[Awesome. Done deal.]

[Well, unless I get full-ride scholarships, but barring that.]

[Congratulations,] Bella says, encountering a tangle in Alice's hair and picking at it absently. [What's next for you, d'you think?]

[Might move back into the house,] he theorizes idly. [Some of the time, anyway.] His lair is spotless and beautiful and he intends to keep it that way, and he also loves spending time there; but, on the other hand, now he can hang out with Hilary doing domestic things whenever he wants. Awesome.

[So you expect your mom's going to keep Hilary on, then?]

[Yeah, they get along pretty well. Dunno about Theo. Nobody really likes Theo.]

[I would be pretty surprised if Theo kept his job, at least presuming your mom knows how to drive.]

[Hell, Hilary can drive. And Mom can learn. Maybe I will, too.]

[Hilary had better get a raise,] Bella remarks. [If she's going to take Theo's job.]

[Well, if it doesn't happen, complain to Mom, not me. Unless you want me to start paying her, since I am now three millionaires.]

Bella snickers. [Millionairehood doesn't stack that way. You are one millionaire who could spend two million dollars without ceasing to be one. You're gonna need to set up a bank account and get a - well, maybe not a credit card, unless you want to commit to living somewhere where you'll reliably receive mail for the foreseeable future. A debit card.]

Alice immediately starts internally debating whether he would rather pentagon himself normal adult financial skills or dump the whole mess, three million dollars included, on Bella. It's a close race.

It's not like he actually needs three million dollars for anything. On the other hand, it's conceivable that someday he might. On the other other hand, his mom is still going to be mega rich, and maybe now she'll let him touch real money... but then he's back at square one with the needing a bank account. Screw it. He burns a pentagon.

Pat pat. [Any interesting magical insights into finance I should know about?]

[While you seem unlikely to burn through three million dollars in a hurry in any of the usual ways - since magicking yourself up whatever you want is probably always going to be easier - I can also see you blowing most or all of it on some things, if you wanted to hire a bunch of people or do something else that had to involve actual money. Do you know something about how to lock it up in illiquid growing investments so that's harder to do, or did the pentagon just handle "this is how bank accounts work"?]

[Nope, that was entirely comprehensible. But what if I really want to - you know what, I can't even think of anything I could use a million dollars for. Buy a really awesome house? I like my lair better.]

[You need money to be on the grid, basically. People can't visit your lair, besides me, without special invitation - you cannot receive mail there, it cannot appear as your address on paperwork. You need money to buy services, even if you can magic your way around the need for most of them. You need money to occupy any space that exists for other people - you could make a pocket dimension apartment-lair in the middle of New York City by hexing a thirteenth floor into existence in a building that doesn't have one or wherever, but for it to be safe secrecy-wise to have anyone over but me, you'd need to actually pay for an apartment. I don't know if that's ever going to be particularly important to you, but it could.]

[Guess so,] he muses. [Ooh, pocket dimensions. Hey, I wonder if I could make a lair that's, like, New York out one door and Forks out another? Anything in your book about stuff like that?]

[No, but that strikes me as probably within hex range, per door,] Bella remarks.

[Cool,] he says cheerfully. [Maybe I'll do that.]

[New York was just an example. Although I could wind up going to Columbia,] Bella muses.

[You go wherever you wanna. I'll stick a door to my lair somewhere nearby.]

[Maybe it will normally open to, like, a broom closet, unless you think a certain password,] Bella suggests.

[Or it just won't exist for anybody but us.]

[I suppose. You'll still be off the grid. After a certain age landlords expect you to have renting history. I'm going to live on campus for at least the first couple of years in college - for the social life; I don't think I can network as effectively from farther away, I might even have to join a sorority. But after that you could be my roommate-on-paper, I guess.]

[That'd be fun. I mean, I doubt I'll ever care, but it'd be fun.]

[So you'll never take it into your head to have a flat of live chicks delivered to your door just so you can make weird remarks that make the delivery person wonder what in God's name you're liable to do with them?] Bella inquires.

...He cracks up.

[Well, it seems like the kind of thing that might amuse you, and requires an address.]

[It totally would! Maybe I'll have some delivered to you.]

[No sending weird purchases to my dorm,] Bella says. [I have no use for a few dozen baby chickens.]

[What if I do it while you're not there and then I take them away and clean up after them?]

[Then my roommate or my sorority sisters or the RA or whoever will wonder why you are skulking about my room with infant birds, Alice, and then I have to explain you.]

[I'd really rather you didn't make me explain you too much. You're kind of inexplicable. If you're just around sometimes I can say "he's my friend from high school who visits a lot, he visited me when I was recuperating from being hit by a car, y'know" but if you're trying to use my room as a base of operations for on-grid pranks that's a slightly different matter.]

[I am very inexplicable,] he says happily. [But okay.] No baby bird deliveries to Bella's doorstep.

[Very inexplicable indeed,] Bella says fondly. Pet pet pet.

Awwwwww. Alice leans against the edge of her bed and indulges in some snuggly happy feelings.

Yes. For today, there are feeeeeeeeeeeelings.