Free Me If You Can

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the gang at White Collar.

Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from this deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?

DAY ONE

He walked through processing as if it were a dream and he was detached from it; as if he could watch what was happening to him from some safe place high above where nothing could touch or taint him.

Stand here. Turn this way. Walk. Stop. Remove your watch, wallet, keys. Remove your jacket.

Be quick. Efficient. Obey. Make no eye contact. Don't smile. Don't sweat. Don't do anything beyond what they demand…

Strip. Shower. Submit to a doctor's examination.

Humiliation, fear, defeat, despair…

His finely tailored suit, linen shirt and silk tie have been exchanged for a bright orange jumpsuit, DCDC emblazoned in giant day-glo letters on the back.

District of Columbia Department of Correction…but he didn't do anything wrong…not this time…

His Florsheims have been traded for simple canvas deck shoes, slightly loose, no strings…

You might hang yourself…

No belt –

You might hang yourself…

Change of clothing. A hygiene kit consisting of toothbrush, toothpaste, simple shampoo, small black comb, plain white soap. No razor – it must be requisitioned. Fill out forms. Walk the line. Follow directions.

"Caffrey, number 40251…"

What would he be doing now, if things were normal? Making a coffee run. Sifting through case files, separating boring mortgage fraud cases from more interesting ones involving daring heists and bold larceny. Laughing with Peter.

Peter. Where was he now, and was he at all concerned about Neal's fate? Would he ever see his friend again?

"Caffrey, 40251…!"

…Walking the streets of Manhattan, hat tilted to the side, soaking up the sun. Mozzie walking double time trying to keep up with Neal's long, easy strides. Or sharing a nice Shiraz while Moz gesticulated wildly, recounting the tale of some wildly successful past con or describing the details of some new, intricate scheme…

"I said CAFFREY!"

Neal jumped at the sound of his name being bellowed by the super tall, double-wide guard. He had become so lost in his own thoughts that for the moment, this place, this jail house, ceased for one brief moment to exist.

"Welcome to your new condo, 40251. Get in."

The Guard indicated the cell that would be Neal's until he was transferred to a Federal Maximum Security prison to serve the next twenty-five-plus years. Unless, of course, he gave in to Agent Kramer's offer. The thought made his stomach turn.

He was in Gen Pop, and every eye was upon him. Some watched him, sizing him up, trying to determine whether Neal would pose a threat or be somehow useful, or merely a new distraction. Neal felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he stepped forward, his prison allocated belongings clutched tightly, and crossed the threshold. The barred door slammed immediately. There was such a gruesome finality to that sound that what fraction of hope Neal was holding onto died the moment he heard the locking mechanism engage.

He was surprised to find that he was not alone in this six-by-ten space.

A little man Neal doubted would reach five feet if he stood on his toes sat legs akimbo on the narrow bottom bunk. He was smiling, the first smile Neal had seen in several days. He had a bushy mustache and slightly balding pate, and was thin and undernourished, nearly drowning in his orange jumpsuit.

"Hi."

Not exactly what Neal was expecting, cell mate-wise.

"I'm Vernon."

"Neal."

"Hi, Neal. You get the top bunk. I get sick on the top bunk. I like it better down here."

"By all means," said Neal as he placed his belongs on the thin top mattress.

"What're you in for, Neal?"

"Would you believe me if I said I was innocent?"

Vernon nodded. Of course he would. Neal wondered why this seemingly sweet little man had been tossed in this repugnant place. What could he have possibly done? Opened some else's mail by mistake?

"Breakfast is at seven. Lunch is at one. Dinner is at six. Lights out at eight-thirty. And…"

"Thanks, Julie," Neal said under his breath.

"No, it's Vernon."

"I know. I'm referencing Julie, the Cruise Director…"

Vernon looked confused.

"Love Boat?"

Vernon still looked confused.

"Never mind," Neal said, feeling a bit of irritation. "Non-essential pop culture reference. Forget it."

Vernon's smile returned. "Sometimes they have hot dogs and fries for lunch. Sometimes chicken patties, but they can be a little dry."

Neal hoisted himself up with seemingly no effort to sit on the top bunk. Vernon laughed.

"That was really cool. Can you teach me to do that, Neal?"

"Maybe. If you can be a little quiet."

"I can be quiet. I just talk a lot when I get excited. The last time I had a cellmate was couple weeks ago and I didn't think they were going to give me another cellmate till you showed up. I don't like being alone, and sometimes I get nervous in the dark unless there someone else around…"

"Vernon?"

"Yeah?"

"I have a headache."

"You can get Ibuprofen from the Doctor. She's very pretty. You can get regular aspirin too, but I'm allergic to aspirin. Most people aren't but I'm one of the lucky ones. Course, I'm just being sarcastic when I say I'm one of the lucky ones…"

"VERNON!"

Vernon became quiet. Guilt wormed its way through Neal's gut.

"Sorry I yelled at you."

"No big deal."

"It's just…"

"Jail sucks, right?"

"Yeah, Vernon," Neal said, slipping back down, landing softly on his feet. He sat on the edge of the lower bunk and smiled.

"You're right. Jail sucks."

"People need friends in here. I know you don't know me, Neal, but if you want to be my friend, I can be yours."

"I appreciate that, Vernon. Sure. Friends."

Neal offered a hand to shake. The little man smiled, his bushy mustache turning upward and he quickly grabbed Neal's hand a shook enthusiastically.

"Vernon…what exactly did you do…or not do…to end up here?"

"It's a long story, Neal," he said, his face suddenly turned quite sad. "The trial is still going on. Suffice to say a very bad man won't ever hurt a woman again."

Neal nodded, satisfied not to insist that the little man explain further.

"It's almost one," Vernon said, smiling again. "Time for lunch. I hope they have hotdogs and fries today. The chicken patties can be a little dry…"

"CAFFREY!"

Two guards were standing before his cell.

"What?"

"Let's go. You got a visitor."

~WC~

Neal was surprised to be escorted to the Warden's office. When the door was opened, it was not the Warden standing at the window, his back to Neal.

It was Agent Philip Kramer.

"I would say this moment was inevitable, Neal."

Neal shook his head, refused to speak. He merely stared Kramer in the eye.

"I was worried you might have found a way to escape already. How are they treating you so far?"

Neal said nothing, nostrils flaring, blue eyes ablaze.

"You can give me the silent treatment if you like, Neal. I'm not here to chit chat or waste your time. I wanted to give you one last chance. Be my C.I. Work for me. I can be a great boss, better than Peter. He was going to put you up in that rat-trap roach motel. Remember? Yes, I know all about it.

"Peter Burke put you on a tracking anklet. I know it was your idea. But that two mile radius…? Would you give Mozart a two mile radius? Jackson Pollock? Salvador Dali? Of course not. They're artists, and they need room to create. So are you, Neal. Your artistry is deception. I need you, Caffrey, but I'll find a way to get what I need without you. You however, have no idea what's coming to you if you remain here. In four weeks, you'll be doing what may as well be life at SuperMax…that's assuming you get out of here intact. I hear things can get a little harried at the DCDC. You're among murderers, gang-bangers, rapists…people who have no regard for life or the finer things. I don't want to leave you here. But I will."

"The answer's no, Kramer."

"Are you sure about that, Neal?"

"Positive."

"You think Peter's going to find a way out for you, don't you? I hate to burst your bubble, boy, but I've got a little pull with the DoC. I'm denying you all visitors but me. No Peter, no Sara Ellis, no…what's that little guy's name…the one with the glasses…? No one. Just me. I'll pop by occasionally to check on you, make sure they're treating you right. You can change your mind at any time. The guards can make the call for you. I'll be here within an hour of that call to escort you to freedom. No anklet, no two mile radius, just the freedom to be Neal Caffrey. Think about it."

The Guards stepped inside to escort Neal back to his cell.

"Neal?"

They stopped; Neal turned back to Kramer.

"You might want to tread lightly…people have terrible 'accidents' all the time…so I've heard."

The threat was clear. Neal went back to his cell, terrified.

~WC~

ONE WEEK LATER

Neal fought his way back to consciousness, clawing through a haze of pain and fear. He could not remember what had caused this agony, or even where he was at this particular moment.

A woman, hazel-eyed with hair pulled back tightly, leaned over him. Her white coat and the stethoscope slung around her neck helped Neal piece together a few ideas. But the why, and the question of how serious, remained to be answered.

"Easy, Mr. Caffrey. I'm Dr. Runyon. I need you to answer a few questions for me. Can you tell me your first name?"

"Neal…"

"Good. How many fingers am I holding up?"

He saw a fuzzy peace sign floating close to his face. "Two."

"Good."

She flashed a dim penlight in both eyes, no doubt checking the reaction of his pupils, Neal though. He lay still and let her do her work. When she finished, he reached up to touch his head. There was a thick gauze bandage adhered to a spot just above his left eye.

"What…happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me, Mr. Caffrey."

Neal closed his eyes, hoping his thoughts and memory would coalesce into something that made sense. It did not.

"You were brought here unconscious, bleeding from a head wound."

"That would explain the headache," Neal said.

"You have no idea how it happened?"

Neal paused to think again. "No…"

"The wound suggests you were attacked, Mr. Caffrey. You were hit with what might have been a blunt instrument, by someone taller than you, and quite possibly left-handed. Does that help your memory?"

"I wish it did," Neal lied. He was starting to remember. Voices. Dread. Three men cornered him near the library. One of them pushed him. One of them mentioned Kramer. Yes.

Kramer says hello…

"I'm sorry," Neal whispered. "I don't remember…"

"Kramer says give him a call…and don't bother trying to tell anybody about this. If you do, next time we'll kill you."

"I think you're lying," Dr. Runyon said.

"I can't do anything about that, doc."

Neal eased up into a sitting position. His head swam.

"Do you feel nauseous?"

"A little."

Dr. Runyon urged Neal to lie back down. "You're not leaving the infirmary yet, Mr. Caffrey. I want to keep you under 24 hour observation."

"No argument from me."

She smiled. "You'd lose."

She sat on a small rolling chair and stared at Neal.

"This isn't your first time in here, is it, Mr. Caffrey?"

"You can call me Neal."

"I've read your file. You've had a lot of strange accidents since your arrival only a week ago."

"What can I say, I'm clumsy."

She stared at him, anger smoldering in her expression.

"Are you being targeted for abuse? Is it a certain prisoner? Or perhaps a guard? You can tell me."

Neal stared at the ceiling.

"Like I said, I'm clumsy."

"Right…"

Runyon left the exam room, returning to her desk on the other side of glass wall.

~WC~

TWO WEEKS LATER

"I'd say this moment was inevitable, Neal."

"I wish you'd stop saying that."

Neal could barely raise his head. The pain was quite close to unbearable, as it had been for days. One eye was still slightly swollen, but at least it was no longer shut. His vision, however, was still a bit blurred from the impromptu beating. The tender lump on the back of his head hurt bad enough to make him dizzy, but he could not stop running his fingers over it. His jaw hurt, as did his shoulder from his full weight falling upon it. His ribs had ached incessantly for over a week now, clanging like a gong when the injury was new, now reduced to a dull throbbing where his assailants had kicked him a few too many times for good measure.

Though he never even got a chance to throw a decent punch, Neal spent three days locked in solitary, an exceptionally hellish place the Guards referred to as "The Hole." That room, almost like the room he was in now, was the size of a small closet, and, just like this one, was virtually absent of light or air, filled with only the dank, pungent odors of fear, blood, sweat, and the misery of others. It was for his own protection, the Guards had laughingly told him as they dragged him by the arms, ignoring his pain-wracked protests, unconcerned that he was injured, disregarding the obvious signs of blood and his passionate petitions for medical attention.

Apparently, Kramer had a few of the prison Guards in his pocket as well.

"Come to gloat?" Neal managed to ask. "Rub my nose in a little more? I'm not going to be your errand boy. The answer's still no, Kramer."

"That's Agent Kramer, Neal."

Special Agent Kramer unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat before Neal at the other end of the square wooden table. The locked room was all cold concrete floor and cinderblock walls without windows. The light was a sickly yellow, and made Neal – whose condition was bad enough – look far worse.

"I don't want to rub your nose in it, Neal. I just want you to see the light. I want to help you. Say yes to me, and the cage unlocks, the doors open, and you walk out of here a free man. The world becomes your private oyster again. No more surprise beatings. No more institutional food, skipped showers and cow-towing to the guards for a little extra protection on the yard. You're not made for prison, Caffrey. Beyond the obvious lack of luxury, you and I both know it doesn't suit you. A smart mouth and a pretty face…You're a target in here."

Neal hated the man even more. He managed to lift his head just enough to glare at him.

"Face it, Neal, you're not a fighter," Kramer continued.

"Put your gun and your badge aside, and I'll show you…"

"I don't think so. I don't want you any more damaged than you are now. Trust me, you're not a fighter. You're a thinker. A schemer of schemes. You slip in and out of the shadows. You connive, you manipulate. You bend and shape the truth like putty. Fighting is…honest. You're not an honest man."

"And you're an honest man?"

Kramer laughed. "Compared to your definition, your example, yes."

"Why don't you ask Peter Burke for his definition."

Kramer's smug smile dissipated at the sound of Burke's name. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"You miss him, do you, Neal? So do I. We were close, but all good things come to an end. It's inevitable."

"What do you want, Kramer?"

"Same as last week. Same as the week before. How much longer are you going to deny me? How long are you going to allow this to go on? You want to die in here?"

"If it means not being your errand boy, then yes. I'd rather die."

Kramer shifted in his seat as he considered a new tactic. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an electronic key, slapping it on the table like a domino.

"Ever hear of the Watergate Hotel, Neal?"

"I seem to recall a political scandal a back in the day…"

"That key opens the door of a deluxe suite, one of the finest in all D.C."

"Deluxe suite? That's all you've got?"

"We try to keep a moderate profile… It's yours. Say yes, and you're sleeping in a down covered king size bed with unlimited access to room service and one hell of a wine collection…"

Neal looked at the key. He didn't have to imagine how opulent the room would be. He'd seen it himself, a few years ago. It may as well have been ages ago.

"Refuse me again," Kramer continued, "and you get to go back to your cell with your meek little cellmate for company. The choice is yours, Neal. You can hunker down and pray, or you can say yes, and all this…all this bad stuff goes away. But if I walk out of this room without my yes, you have no guarantee I'll be back. You'll die here. Or wish you were dead when they're finished with you. And yes…I paid those prisoners, and the guards, to rough you up."

"I don't understand you, Kramer. How can someone Peter looked up to, trusted with his life, turn out to be a worse than…"

"You? I spent the best years of my life working for the bureau, Neal. I gave them everything. My youth, my marriage, my health. Took two bullets and an untold number of beatings during my brilliant career. I arrested enough bad guys to populate a small town. And what thanks do I get? A modest pension and heartfelt fare-the-well. Where's my big score? When do I get the sweet end of the lollypop? You've sat in the lap of luxury all your life. What have you done for your country? Or for anyone other than yourself? I sacrificed everything, and now they're sending me away with next to nothing, retiring me, putting me out to pasture. You're going to help me make a few things right, that's all, Neal. You're going to help me find my golden calf. You're going to make me a rich man. No, filthy rich. And when I'm sitting on some gorgeous island soaking up the sun and deciding between fresh lobster and cracked crab for breakfast, you'll be free, rich in your own right, and on your merry way. Deny me, you smug little son of a…deny me and I'll make sure you suffer every day for the rest of your short, unfortunate life."

Kramer knocked twice on the door, signaling the guard on the other side to open it.

"Oh, and Neal," he said, before exiting, "Have a nice dinner tonight."

~WC~

The line was moving slowly, as it always did. Neal took the opportunity to case the cafeteria, looking for potential attackers. If anyone was going to try anything, they would do it here and now, he thought, while there was enough activity to cover themselves.

The faces of the men around him were impassive and vacant. He could not discern their thoughts or motives. Perhaps he was merely being paranoid. Perhaps Kramer's comment was designed to cause him anxiety and fear, waiting for something that may not happen. But the beatings had been without warning before.

He noticed his tray was shaking slightly in his hands, and fought to steady them. He could not allow the inhabitants of GenPop to see his anxiety. He moved closer to the steam tray. All he had to do was keep his wits about him as he loaded up the tray, and make his way to a corner near the exit where he could watch the room from all angles. Should someone pose a threat, the plan was to hit him with the tray and run like hell.

"Hi, Neal."

Neal turned at the sound of the soft, sheepish voice of Vernon. He was wringing his hands nervously, and his cheeks seemed brightly flushed.

Neal motioned for Vernon to step ahead of him in line. But Vernon remained standing before Neal. He didn't go for a tray, nor did he seem remotely interested in food. He kept staring at Neal, tears welling up in his soft brown eyes.

"Vernon, what's the word?"

"Nothing good, Neal. Nothing good."

Usually, Vernon always had something positive to say. And a lot to say.

"What's the matter?"

"I told them, I don't want to hurt anybody. I don't like hurting people."

Neal shook his head, not understanding. Vernon was not violent person. He had a hard time believing that Vernon was on trial for Manslaughter. There was virtually nothing in his behavior or demeanor that said malice aforethought. The poor little man was terrified of something, or someone.

"Who did you hurt, Vernon?"

"Nobody yet. But I'm supposed to …"

"Who, Vernon?"

Vernon pulled something from his pocket. Neal couldn't see what it was, but looked down just as Vernon shoved it toward Neal.

"I'm sorry, Neal. I'm sorry…"

Neal felt something cold and jagged pierce his side.

"Ver…"

Vernon moved away quickly. Neal looked down to find the object sticking in his side, his shirt and the sharp thing growing wet and slick with blood. His blood.

"Vernon…what…?"

"I'm sorry, Neal. I'm so sorry. But they said if I didn't do it they would put me in The Hole forever. I can't be in small places, you know that, right?"

Neal dropped his tray on the floor. The loud clang made everyone turn to look.

"Vernon…"

"I'm sorry, Neal. I can't be in the Hole 'cause it would make me crazy…"

The room suddenly turned very gray. Neal lost consciousness the moment his knees hit the floor.

End Chapter One

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it enough to comment! Have a great evening. Lacsadiva