"Unregistered possession of a firearm, suspected involvement in the murder of Daniel Brickwell, possession of illegal firearms with intent to distribute, conspiracy to commit violent acts, unlawful possession of restricted weapons, and suspected involvement with an organized criminal enterprise."
Nolan stared at the list on his tablet, his expression slowly becoming more incredulous as he scrolled through the charges. "Damn," he muttered, setting the tablet down on his desk. "They're really throwing everything they have at him."
Quentin lounged in the chair across from him, one ankle resting casually on his opposite knee. He looked completely unconcerned by the growing list of charges. "We expected that. Once they realized they had Dre in custody, they were always going to pile on as much as they could. The murder charge is the centerpiece, but the rest gives the prosecutors something to point at if they can't make the Brickwell case stick."
Nolan rubbed his temple. "Most of these charges are bullshit, or at least charges they can't prove beyond a reasonable doubt. The conspiracy charge is especially weak. They don't even know who Dre was conspiring with." He tapped the screen again. "And half of the weapons they're claiming he possessed weren't even found on him. They're stretching pretty damn far."
"Because they don't have much else."
Nolan glanced at Quentin.
Quentin leaned forward slightly, his expression becoming more serious. "Oliver attacked him before the police had enough time to build a proper case. They arrested Dre immediately afterward because they had a recognizable member of the Underpass standing in the middle of a crime scene surrounded by weapons not thirty feet away with an unconscious man. From the police perspective, it was too good an opportunity to ignore."
"And from ours?"
"It was almost perfect."
Nolan smiled.
Quentin continued, "Think about it. If they had been patient, they could have taken Dre to the hospital, put him under observation, and spent days building a case while quietly following every lead back to the Underpass. Instead, Oliver practically delivered him to their doorstep. Now they have a man who has never been arrested before, barely has a documented history, and is connected to an organization they don't fully understand. They have no idea what they're looking at."
Nolan's grin widened.
"And because they arrested him so quickly, they had to build the case around what was immediately available."
"Exactly."
Nolan tapped his fingers against the desk, considering it. "So they have a mountain of accusations and very little holding the mountain together."
"That's the idea."
"I like it."
Quentin smiled. "I thought you would."
Nolan picked up the tablet again and scrolled through the evidence list. The weapons seized from the game room were there, along with photographs of the crates, serial numbers, ammunition counts, and several pages of preliminary forensic reports. "The game room is the only part I'm worried about."
"You should be."
"They found the weapons in a property controlled by us."
"Controlled by the Underpass," Quentin corrected. "Not Dre personally."
Nolan looked at him.
Quentin shrugged. "That's an important distinction and it's not like we have a business called the underpass it will be hard to link it to Dre."
A slow smile spread across Nolan's face. "You're right."
"Of course I am."
Nolan laughed quietly before leaning back in his chair. "How's our lawyer?"
"Meeting Dre now."
"Good. I want him out before this gets any further."
"He'll be out on bail."
Nolan raised an eyebrow.
"You sound confident."
"I am."
****
The interrogation room smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee, and Dre had long since stopped trying to determine which was responsible for the worse odor. He sat with his injured leg stretched beneath the table, the pain having settled into a constant throb that reminded him of Oliver's arrow every few seconds.
The door opened.
A skinny, pale middle-aged man stepped inside carrying two leather folders beneath one arm. He looked so thoroughly average that Dre almost dismissed him immediately. His suit was plain, his tie was slightly crooked, and his thin frame made him look more like an accountant who had taken a wrong turn than a criminal defense attorney walking into a police station.
The man pulled out the chair across from Dre.
"It's nice to officially meet you, Dre. I'm Irving Brooks. I'll be representing you."
Dre gave him a wide, toothy smile. "Pleasure."
Irving returned the smile politely and sat down. He placed the folders on the table and began arranging them with careful precision. Dre watched him for several seconds before their eyes met.
Something changed.
It was subtle, but Dre caught it immediately.
The man's eyes were intense.
Not nervous. Not uncertain. Focused.
Whatever harmless, forgettable impression Irving's appearance created disappeared the moment he looked at someone. There was something cold and analytical behind his eyes, the kind of intelligence that made Dre instinctively sit a little straighter.
"Interesting," Dre muttered.
Irving raised an eyebrow. "What is?"
"You don't look like much."
"I get that a lot."
"And then you look at somebody."
Irving's mouth twitched.
Dre grinned. "Yeah. Definitely not an accountant."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Irving opened one of the folders. "Before we discuss your case, I have a message for you."
He reached into his jacket and slid a folded piece of paper across the table.
Dre picked it up.
The handwriting was immediately recognizable.
He unfolded it and began reading.
Being arrested is fun. You get all sorts of new experiences, and apparently you even get the privilege of telling people you've been arrested. I've heard the ladies like it.
Dre's lips curled upward.
Don't worry too much about Blackgate. You'll be free one way or another. If you have any nightly visitors, kindly tell him to fuck off.
Dre's eyebrows rose.
He continued reading.
In other news, Amanda is leading the charge to get you out. Let's see if she has what it takes. If you get bored, make some friends. Trust Irving. He knows what he's doing. I'll talk to you soon.
Dre laughed under his breath. It wasn't hard to figure out who wrote the letter.
He folded the message back up and handed it across the table.
Irving accepted it without looking at the contents. He tore the paper into several pieces and dropped them into his briefcase.
"If you're wondering," he said calmly, "I didn't read it."
Dre laughed. "I don't doubt that, Mr. Brooks."
"Please call me Irving. We're going to be working together for a while."
Irving opened the second folder and turned it toward Dre. Several pages of police reports were visible, covered in highlighted sections and handwritten notes. "Now, let's talk about your situation. The good news is that most of what they've charged you with is noise. They're throwing everything they can at you because they want something to stick, and more importantly, they want the judge to see a frightening list of accusations when they argue against bail."
Dre scanned the paperwork.
"So what's actually going to hurt me?"
Irving pointed toward one of the pages. "The firearm possession charge is the strongest. They recovered a weapon from your person, correct?"
"Yeah."
"Then that's going to be difficult to fight."
Dre grimaced.
Irving continued, "The Brickwell murder charge is considerably weaker. They have a dead man, a chaotic crime scene, and you were present, but they don't have a clean chain of evidence connecting the fatal injuries directly to you. If they pursue that charge now, we have plenty of room to attack it. My expectation is that they'll eventually reduce or withdraw the murder charge rather than risk having it dismissed outright, then attempt to rebuild the case once they've gathered more evidence."
"So that one's not too bad."
"Not currently."
Dre nodded.
Irving tapped another page.
"The weapons recovered from the game room are another matter."
Dre's expression flattened.
"They found several crates of firearms and ammunition in the building. The prosecution is going to argue that you were involved in the distribution of those weapons because you were identified leaving the property immediately before your arrest."
Dre leaned back.
"That's bullshit."
"I know."
Dre blinked.
Irving calmly adjusted his glasses.
"But knowing something is bullshit and proving it in court are two different things."
Dre nodded slowly.
"So what happens?"
"We fight the connection between you and the weapons. Ownership, control, knowledge, intent. They have to establish all of it. If they can't prove you knew those weapons were there, the intent-to-distribute charge becomes considerably harder to sustain."
"And if they do?"
"Then we'll deal with that."
Dre stared at him.
"You always this calm?"
Irving looked up from the paperwork.
"Mr. Matthews, I've defended men who were substantially less innocent than you."
Dre grinned.
"That supposed to make me feel better?"
"No."
Irving closed the folder.
"It was supposed to make you understand that I'm not particularly concerned."
Dre stared at him for another moment before laughing.
"Well, hell. I think I'm starting to like you."
"I was hoping you would."
Irving gathered the paperwork and stood.
Dre watched him carefully.
"What's the plan?"
Irving straightened his tie.
"First, we get you out of this cell. Then we make the prosecution prove every accusation they've thrown at you. They'll want to make an example out of you because they believe you're important."
Dre's smile faded slightly.
"And are they wrong?"
Irving smiled.
"That depends entirely on what you tell them."
Dre laughed.
"Then I guess we're going to get along just fine."
****
"He didn't take the deal." Oliver frowned
"Well that's to be expected." Dinah replied patting Oliver on his shoulder
"I know I know." He sighed, "I'm used to them just rolling over at the sight of an arrow, it makes the whole thing much easier."
"We still have to deal with them you know." Dinah pointed to their monitor
"Bruce is looking into it." Oliver joined her hand on his shoulder, "The reach are awfully suspicious aren't they. We have far too much to deal with these days."
Dinah laughed, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
—-
A/N: take a wild guess who wrote Dre the letter