Chapter Text
Will woke to the acrid stench of cooling sweat and come caked on musty sheets, the bruises branding his wrists and hips comforting in their familiarity. He could tell from the light peeking through the gap in the blinds that he’d been out an hour at most. He was conditioned by now not to drift too long with a stranger passed out beside him, even if he’d just pushed that stranger to take him roughly over the edge of the bed.
Will never should have let his eyes wander enough to catch the front page of the Baltimore Sun on Zeller’s desk that morning. He recognized it as the Ripper’s work before his conscious mind even made the connection, like seeing an old friend out of the corner of your eye. Will forced his eyes not to linger as he passed Zeller, focusing instead on breathing evenly, taking regular mouthfuls of scalding coffee until he couldn’t feel his tongue.
He sleepwalked through his court appearances that day and went home as early as he could justify to his staff, but in a pointless gesture of self-restraint, he wouldn’t allow himself to rush straight to his laptop. He fed the dogs, ate some cold leftovers, and watched his pack roam the grounds for exactly thirty minutes. Then he poured himself a healthy glass of whiskey on the rocks, powered on his computer and navigated to the tattlecrime homepage. And there it was. There he was. It took Will a matter of seconds to process every detail, but he couldn’t say how long he stared; the ice in his whiskey had melted almost entirely by the time he finally turned away to take a trembling sip.
The Ripper was getting bolder, choosing a church as the backdrop for this piece. Everyone who opened their paper to that stomach turning photograph that morning saw nothing more than a mangled corpse reduced to blood and bone and viscera. But Will couldn’t help but see raw materials, and he hated himself for it, so much so he already felt the acidic burn of nausea in his throat. A grotesque tableau, as frightening as it was breathtaking, assembled with an artistry and almost pathological perfectionism that Will remembered well. Will often experienced crime scene photos like disturbing movie reels, his mind automatically sketching out a gory rendering of what happened and a concept of the kind of person who made it happen. That particular talent made for a childhood spent staring at the ground or the wall to avoid accidentally seeing things he couldn’t unsee.
But when he looked at Ripper scenes, it was something else. The emotions jumped off the page, slamming into his chest and lodging there. He didn’t see a mere outline of the person who did this; it wasn’t a shadow suspended on dust. Will slipped under the Ripper’s skin, experiencing the hunt and kill in heady high definition. Will felt the Ripper’s anticipation and impatience as he entrapped his prey; the thrill as he cut them open, took them apart while they still drew breath, their screams and pleas fading into a death rattle that fell on indifferent ears; the pride and care with which he manipulated his canvas, and his pleasure at the well wrought final product. The satisfaction he felt at transforming meat into something transcendent. Something glorious. And with another stab of guilt, Will realized he couldn’t tell if those were the Ripper’s words or his own.
Will took another pull of whiskey as he kept scrolling. Then he saw a tongue bookmarking a pew Bible.
And suddenly the Ripper, the euphoria of the kill, were gone, replaced by the well worn image of that smile Hannibal would wear when something really tickled him. When he was especially proud of his own little joke. That expression had always made Will’s heart feel too full for his chest. Now it filled Will with a completely inappropriate surge of tender nostalgia. It was one of the memories he hoarded most jealously. Those unmistakable signs of humanity that lived in technicolor in Will’s mind were what made it impossible for Will to ever really let Hannibal go. Will knew, with utter certainty, that Hannibal wore that exact expression when he slipped the tongue between those pages. And some part of Will couldn’t stop himself from wondering if he did it knowing Will might be the only person in the world who would see the humor.
Will shut his laptop and rested his elbows on the desk, massaging his temples for long enough his dogs started whining softly. There was something building in him; a familiar itch that Will knew from experience he’d tear and bloody his arms trying to scratch if he let himself. But even less tolerable was the bone deep loneliness. He hadn’t felt it this intensely in months. It was like it was pressing down on his chest and wouldn’t ease up until it caved in his breastbone. He couldn’t settle down; it was too agonizing to sit with.
As a rule, he didn’t engage in his most destructive coping mechanism when he was in trial. It would be extremely poor form to spend the night before the case went back to the jury in a seedy hotel room letting a stranger fuck him. He avoided the news during trials specifically so he wouldn’t risk having a Ripper kill derail him. But he knew he’d be useless to his client anyway if he stayed holed up in his house letting his mind devour itself. Without further debate, he crossed to the door, grabbed his car keys off the hook and headed out to the nearest bar, set on making quick work of this. And thankfully he spotted a mark almost instantly.
With an absent kind of curiosity, he glanced over at the man now snoring next to him, who was currently adding drool to the constellation of stains on the pillowcase. Will had registered only the broad strokes of the man when he was picking him up — or rather, letting the man think that he was picking Will up — and aside from the flickering glow cast by the motel’s vacancy sign, they’d fucked in darkness. Will always did this in the dark. He was uncompromising on that point. When he caught the man feeling blindly for the light switch as they walked in, Will slammed the man’s hand against the wall, softening the gesture by dropping to his knees and guiding it to his head, earning him a moaned “fuck yes” of approval. Will felt nothing looking down at him now other than a faint sense of pity and the urge to get out of there. The feverish need that brought him there had thankfully crested and dissipated, leaving Will cold, like a barren shore surfacing as the tide recedes.
Still, Will could appreciate that the man had been a decent choice for this — muscled shoulders and arms, straight, sandy hair that fell into his eyes, even a certain sharpness to his cheekbones. He was objectively good looking for his age, a fact that probably just made him more resentful of his lot. What had once been a sculpted physique was now wrapped in the fleshy aftereffects of downing a six pack of beer a day. As soon as Will spotted him at the bar, with his booming voice and overeager laugh, he could tell that the man had the fragile arrogance of someone who’d peaked in high school and knew it — a volatility borne of bitterness that suited Will’s purposes. And the man hadn’t disappointed, Will acknowledged, his body twinging with discomfort as he rose gingerly to gather his scattered clothes.
Will knew before he even threw this man a shy smile across the bar, that he was the kind of guy who’d want to hear Will beg, and who’d unravel quickly when Will denied him it. And predictably, his grip on Will’s wrists tightened painfully the longer his grunted questions went unanswered. By the end, the man’s pace was relentless, uncomfortable in that way that made Will finally shut his eyes in relief.
He blocked out the sound of the man snuffling and grunting like a truffle pig behind him, and let himself remember words whispered in his ear in dulcet tones, dangerous and tempting like belladonna dipped in honey. He remembered how Hannibal’s hands had gripped his hips bruisingly, urgently, something desperate in his touch as he wordlessly begged Will for something Will refused to understand. The hands that gripped him now were just as firm, but Will still couldn’t help recalling how very different Hannibal’s clutching fingers had felt as they lifted Will and pulled him tightly against him until Hannibal’s chest was blanketing Will’s back, grabbed his hair at the root and yanked, forcing Will’s head to rest awkwardly on Hannibal’s shoulder as he took him. How he brushed Will’s damp locks from his eyes, licked a stripe up Will’s temple to taste his heat and sweat. How the whole time, Will never felt anything less than cherished.
But that was years ago, before Hannibal became what he was now and Will wouldn’t let himself imagine that they could ever have had anything more than cruelty wrapped in the trappings of intimacy. No matter how much innocent joy it brought in his youth, no matter how he idealized him, their connection would inevitably have twisted and deformed into something as monstrous as the Ripper himself. Will clenched his teeth as the man behind him got close, letting out a pathetic keening moan as his thrusts grew sloppy and uncoordinated and slightly more painful as a result. Will took no pleasure in the pain. He wasn’t a masochist in the strictest sense. What he sought, and what he received, was something more elemental — the purging of a seed of self-destruction. An old playbook, using physical pain to blot out the more insidious injury he would do to himself if left alone with his mind.
And Will accepted this violence couched in sexual zeal as his due for the death he’d brought to the world. For never picking up the phone and calling in a tip about the Ripper. This atonement was the only way he could look in the mirror without flinching. It was how he lived with himself. If Will was going to let Hannibal spend his life killing with impunity, Will would at least take his share of the punishment out of his own skin. They both passed out shortly after the man came, and fortunately the man was a heavy enough sleeper to miss Will’s departure.
Will dropped a couple twenties on the dresser to cover the room on his way out the door, smiling to himself, knowing the move would incense the man when he came to. As Will made his way down the creaky metal staircase to the parking lot, he looked up to find the sky suspended between black and the first hints of blue. The world was always at its quietest now, and Will took a second to just breathe. Sometimes, satisfyingly sore and broken open, surrounded by nothing but the silence of rural Virginia in the pre-dawn stillness, it felt like the only time air ever really reached his lungs. Like he spent the rest of his time bobbing just above the surface of some inky pool, sucking and gasping, but only ever taking in enough to keep treading water, fighting the pull of the undertow. His eyes fell shut as the relief of breath eased some of the deep ache that never fully left him, even in the wake of these encounters. After a few minutes, the twittering of birdsong heralded dawn in earnest, and when Will opened his eyes, he found the gleam of gold just starting to kiss the horizon. Will checked the time on his phone as he unlocked his car. He had three hours until he needed to be at the office. Four until he had to be in court. He’d just have enough time to down a cup of coffee, feed the dogs, and scrub the stink of sweat, come, and shame from his tender skin.
***********
“Closing remarks, counselor?”
Will’s eyes flicked up to the judge settling just over his right shoulder as he nodded absently. He removed his black frames and stood, chair scraping noisily along the roughened hardwood of the courthouse floorboards, echoing in the hush of the gallery. Beside him, his client was practically vibrating out of his skin, his anxiety palpable and infectious. Will didn’t blame him; the kid was barely out of his teens, decades of his life hung in the balance, and the twelve strangers who’d been tasked with deciding his fate looked more bored than anything else. Will remembered his own trial then. How his attorney barely glanced at him the whole time, but still managed to find time to network a golf date with the prosecutor. Will wasn’t good at comfort, never got the knack for it no matter how many times he found himself in this position, but he pressed his client’s shoulder firmly as he made his way into the well of the court and was pleased when he felt some of the tension bleed from the kid’s frame.
Will glanced briefly into the gallery and spotted Jimmy sitting with his client’s family, his face grim. Just behind him was Beverly Katz who’d convinced Will to take this case off the hands of the public defender. The public defender’s office generally despised Will aside from Bev, but they could be persuaded to let him take over a trial when the case in question seemed unwinnable. To their irritation, Will had yet to lose a single one. Beverly’s expression was serious, but there was no anxiety there. After nine transferred cases and nine acquittals, she had faith in Will.
Will stood before the jury box, shoulders rounded, eyes not on anyone in particular, putting off the moment of connection for as long as possible. When he reached his mark before the judge, he tried to massage away the start of a tension headache, but gave up when it seemed to just make it worse. Dropping hands to his sides, Will took a fortifying breath, lifted his head, and looked.
This part came easily. Too easily. He was immediately flooded with twelve perspectives on the case grounded in twelve value structures, twelve lives lived differently, and twelve unique emotional landscapes. The tendrils of his empathy wrapped around each of them, a picture of each person coalescing in Will’s mind, their irritation, skepticism, guilt, fear filling Will like a balloon inflating to the snapping point. Will’s eyes shut and he shook his head slightly, bracing himself against the onslaught. Just when he felt himself starting to spin out of control, it all stopped. Within the safety of his mind, Will opened his eyes to a familiar room — a perfect recreation of the jury deliberation room, down to the long, scarred wooden table and the cut-rate vending machine. And seated at the head of the table, as always, was Hannibal.
It was appropriate. Will learned this trick from him after all. How to organize his mind, his empathy, as a space to keep from being dragged under by it. It used to be a younger Hannibal that he saw, sun-kissed and stunning in his white button down shirt. But since the day he saw a candid of “Dr. Hannibal Lecter and guest attending the opening night of La Traviata” in the Baltimore Society pages, the version in his mind tended to dress in the showy tuxedos and suits Hannibal favored when he attended galas or other swanky events. The first time Will saw his photo, he was certain his vivid imagination had finally tipped over into delusion. He stared at the article long enough Zeller had to shake him to get his attention and when he got home, downed so much whiskey he blacked out for the first time in his life. It took him two days to recover. Hannibal had always sworn he’d never come back to the U.S. after they got out, but if Will’s furious googling was to be believed, he took a position at Johns Hopkins only five years after they parted in Florence. And — Will couldn’t help thinking — only a year after Will’s name appeared on the publicly posted list of students who passed the Maryland Bar Exam.
But sartorial distinctions aside, the Hannibals in his mind always had the same sharp eyes and enigmatic smirk — both on display now. And even though he was just a construct, Hannibal still had that unmatched ability to corral the scattered threads of Will’s thoughts into coherency. Or at least, that’s how Will justified this indulgence. “Good afternoon, Will.”
”Hannibal,” Will replied and even only spoken in his mind, the word felt good in his mouth.
Hannibal’s smile grew like he’d read that thought and he cocked his head to the side as he waited for Will to go on, “it’s always a pleasure to see you, Will, but time is of the essence. Shall we begin?”
Will nodded and juror six walked in from the hazy darkness circling the room, taking a seat to Hannibal’s right, instantly freezing in the same troubled expression she’d worn most of the trial. They both turned to her, “she hates being here,” Will began.
Hannibal looked her over thoughtfully, ”why is that?”
Will shrugged, “her brother spent time inside. She sees him in my client. He’s young. And she doesn’t believe in the system anymore.”
Hannibal turned to Will, meeting his eyes, “an ally then. Will she champion your cause?”
Will recalled how resolute she’d been when he first spoke to her, more confident in her answers during jury selection than most of her peers. Outspoken. She’d been Will’s top choice juror. He’d just had a feeling about her and he’d learned to trust that feeling, “I think she could be persuasive to the persuadable.”
“Then tell me about the rest of them.” And Will did. Will could read and predict someone with a startling degree of accuracy after thirty minutes in their presence. After two weeks with unlimited opportunity to observe these jurors — their microexpressions and tells, every smile, and twitch and raised eyebrow — he knew them intimately.
“Juror 1, retired grandmother of three. She thinks my client’s innocent.”
”Is she right?”
Will paused before responding, but the yes was on the tip of his tongue, even if it turned out his client was technically guilty of something under the criminal code. Will had seen enough to know that this client in particular was almost painfully innocent. Will remembered their first meeting, how his client winced as the visitation room door slammed home behind him, like he experienced each new noise or smell or sight in the jail as a physical blow. How he shuffled forward to his chair, shackled, in his neon orange jumpsuit that looked about two sizes too large for his frame and glanced up at Will with such muted misery that Will had to drop his eyes to the metal table. The kid was terrified, distrustful, but unwaveringly polite in a way that said his parents cared about that kind of thing. He might have broken the law, he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, whatever else happened, he was innocent. A lot more innocent than Will anyway.
“She’s not wrong. Not that it matters. She’s not the type to fight. I doubt she’ll carry much sway.”
Hannibal nodded sagely, “who’s next?”
A jumpy young man walked in, glasses and a messenger bag that he pulled up to awkwardly rest on his lap as he took his seat. “Juror 9.” For what felt like the tenth time during trial, Will had to suppress a sneer of irritation. But of course Hannibal saw it.
“You dislike this one.”
Will didn’t bother denying it, just met Hannibal’s curious, amused eyes head on, “he’s scared of my client. I’ve been choking on his fear the whole goddamn trial.”
Hannibal tilted his head, eyes scanning Will, “many people would experience fear when faced with a person whom they believe committed a crime of violence.”
Will huffed as he started pacing, his eyebrow quirking at the irony of being counseled on normative fear responses by a serial killer, “this wasn’t violence. It was an embarrassingly amateur robbery that was over before it even started, and my client might not even have been there.”
Hannibal’s smile widened ever so slightly, his eyes dancing with mirth, ”you sound very certain,”
”I am.”
“I thought the evidence was somewhat ambiguous?”
”It’s clear enough on those points.”
“Well then. Convince him.”
Will stopped mid-step, closing his eyes to take a deep breath and nodding as he released it, “yeah. yeah, I know.”
“Who’s next, Will?”
Will went through every juror. He knew what they thought about his client, about the case, and as he described them all to a patiently listening Hannibal, a picture of how deliberations would unfold began to form in his mind. Mostly they just wanted to be done as quickly as possible. This case would be decided by the strongest voice. Will worried who that voice would be. When Will got to the last juror, he paused. “Juror eight. He’s a problem.”
The last man to take his seat at the table was a clean cut, well dressed, middle aged white man. Generic, but his contempt for Will and his client was just barely veiled by his mask of impartiality. He cared enough to fight for conviction, and if the jury found that to be the path of least resistance, they’d do it. The evidence was muddled enough to justify any outcome. “He is,” put in Hannibal, ignoring the man in favor of watching Will closely.
”He’s wanted to convict my client from the moment he stepped foot in the courthouse, lack of evidence be damned,” Will pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his brow for a moment, though the burgeoning headache from earlier had long since dissipated,“I should never have let him get within a foot of the jury box.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. But here he is. With your consent,” the Hannibal of Will’s mind, like the man himself, had little tolerance for sugarcoating. Hannibal stood, eyes locked on Will as he crossed behind the seated jurors, “these people have formed friendships, developed a certain measure of trust. Even the flimsiest of social bonds is hard to betray, fear of social exclusion from an established in-group often the most powerful motivator,” Hannibal paused a few inches from Will. So close, Will could practically feel the heat of his chest through his unbuttoned suit jacket, ”if he’s a threat and you cannot remove him, if these people embrace him, for now, as one of their own, what will it take to neutralize his influence?”
This was the question Will had been turning over in his head for a week. ”I don’t know.”
Hannibal stepped closer and Will’s eyes fell shut at the proximity. Will could feel Hannibal’s breath rustling his hair as he leaned down, speaking mere inches from Will’s ear, “you do. You have an uncanny gift for persuasion, Will. And you know this man as you know all of them. What does he need? What do they all need to hear?”
Will opened his eyes, in the courtroom once more. The first time Will did this, he damn near had a panic attack, thinking he’d retreated into his mind for fifteen minutes while the jury fidgeted in their seats. But in the aftermath, Jimmy assured him the whole process took less than thirty seconds. An uncomfortable pause, but not so long they’d call in an EMT.
Will met each of their eyes fleetingly, confirming what he already understood. Though some sympathized with his client, none of these jurors especially liked Will. That was fine. Juries tended to find Will about as personable as anyone else did. The charm offensive favored by some lawyers in the courthouse was distasteful. Vulgar. Will didn’t care if they liked him. They just had to listen to him. And with Hannibal’s words still ringing in his head, Will suddenly knew exactly what he had to say.
His gaze finally settled on Juror 8, taking him in, assessing. Will noticed the man’s lip curl almost imperceptibly at the blatant observation before his expression cleared and he met Will’s stare defiantly. Will held his eyes for a long moment, Will’s gaze knowing and openly disapproving, feeling out the edges of the man’s intransigence, how easy he was to unsettle. And surprisingly, after only a handful of seconds under Will’s penetrating stare he started shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his expression cracking into a faint frown. In a few seconds more, he broke eye contact entirely, glancing down at his notebook, fidgeting with the clicker on the back of his pen. Will smiled. With a calm kind of confidence he couldn’t have managed minutes ago, he opened his mouth and began.
“*****************
Beverly caught up with Will in the hallway, “your closing was irritatingly perfect, Graham. As always. I owe you for taking this one.”
”We don’t have a verdict yet,” Will said, not slowing as he made his way to the courthouse doors.
She rolled her eyes, heels clicking, keeping pace with Will, ”there’s no way they convict after that. Even mustache in the back corner looked convinced.”
“Juror Seven.”
“He was asleep half the trial.”
“We’ll know when we know,” Will deflected, always a humorless bastard when the jury was out, which Beverly already knew. “I gotta get back to the office.” Beverly read the lie easily, but allowed it, familiar enough with Will’s antisocial tendencies at this point not to interfere with his post-trial decompression. They worked together only rarely, when she convinced Will to pinch hit for the public defender, but she still probably knew him better than almost anyone else, which was kind of a depressing thought. At the very least, she didn’t try to make him feel guilty for his misanthropy, didn’t treat him like a freak for his idiosyncrasies, which put her ahead of any of the other attorneys in his acquaintance.
“You’ve earned a break. But text me when there’s a verdict, yeah?” She threw over her shoulder, already heading for the next courtroom on her undoubtedly packed morning schedule.
”Yeah,” Will said as he pushed through the double doors and into the cool autumn air.
His office was a few blocks from the courthouse, and Will started loosening his tie the second he stepped into the lobby. When he got to his tiny office suite, it was empty. There were only three desks including Will’s, all in one room. Not much privacy, but it was what he could afford. He was selective with his clients, but how much they could afford to pay him was never part of the criteria. His investigators, Jimmy and Brian, were almost always out of the office hunting down evidence or interviewing witnesses anyway. Brian said watching closings made him too twitchy so he should’ve been there, but maybe he was out to lunch. Jimmy was probably still with the client’s family offering the empty reassurances Will couldn’t stomach. After dumping his notes and files in a pile on his desk and returning one of the two suits he owned to the rack in the corner, he was on the road back to Wolf Trap.
He sat on his porch, nursing a finger of whiskey, and watching his pack work off the energy they tended to build up on court days, when his phone buzzed. A glance showed Zeller’s number pop up.
“What is it?” He answered, definitely gruffer than necessary, but Zeller knew better than to bother him right after a trial.
“…yeah, hi, sorry…. Look, the court just called the office.. there’s a verdict.”
Will glanced at his watch and winced. Three hours. That had to be a record. Quick verdicts were almost always convictions. If the pattern held, this would be Will’s first. The line was silent for an uncomfortable few moments before Zeller continued,“I already called Jimmy and he’s on his way back with the family. I told the court you’re on your way too.” The last was said more like a question.
Running a hand over his face Will nodded before realizing he needed to speak “yeah. Yeah I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just need to get the dogs back inside. Bring my suit to the court house.”
“Yeah. Of course.” Zeller responded too quickly, clearly eager to help out somehow. “And Will? I guess we don’t know what’ll happen, but.. if it’s not a win this time, you did what you cou—“
“See you in an hour.”
An hour and fifteen minutes later, Will was walking into the courtroom where he found his client’s family already waiting. His sister seemed to be crying softly as Jimmy rubbed her shoulder, as grave a look on Jimmy’s face as he ever had. His client’s mother’s face was stone, as if she had to keep a tight leash on all of her emotions or they’d overflow. Beverly was sitting in the front row, right behind where Will and his client would sit — a gesture of solidarity. Will felt oddly warmed by it given the nature of the writing on the wall. His client was already seated at counsel table, and Will felt a pang of guilt and grief at the sight of his head hanging. Will sat down next to him silently before turning his head to glance at the prosecutor. She wasn’t smiling exactly - that would be unprofessional, but there was a shine of triumph to her eyes that set Will’s teeth on edge.
The jury was called in, and once seated, the judge cleared his throat, “will the foreperson please stand?”
Juror 8 rose to his feet, “we have, your honor.” His client seemed to slip even lower in his chair. Will understood the impulse, but made himself look at Juror 8 as he announced his client’s fate. Eyes running wildly over the man’s face, trying to pin down how Will managed to overplay his hand this time.
“And with respect to the sole count of attempted robbery, how does the jury find?”
At this, Juror 8 looked directly at Will and Will didn’t need to make eye contact to read the smug satisfaction seeping off him.
“The jury finds the defendant….not guilty.”
Will’s eyes widened, finally meeting the juror’s stare. The man’s expression was still defiant, but now Will could read the nuance. More than anything, his eyes said “you were wrong about me.” Will could almost have laughed at the idea that garden variety reverse psychology won the day, but he was too caught by an almost painful wave of relief, like the tingling of blood rushing back into an arm.
He belatedly turned to his client whose face was already tear streaked, and a glance back showed the dam had broken on his client’s mother’s emotions as well. She had her face in her hands, body wracked with silent sobs of relief. The court officers were already approaching, unshackling his client who instantly seemed lighter than Will had ever seen him. Will felt his face crack its first real smile in months as his client pulled him into a surprisingly warm hug. Seeing this kid get his life back made whatever was good in Will light up like a beacon. It was nice to be reminded that the good parts of him still existed.
When he turned back to the gallery, he was greeted by Beverly’s beaming smile as she mouthed “told you so,” but Will could tell from how damp her eyes were that she hadn’t been confident. She pulled Will into a brief, but surprisingly strong, one armed hug, forcing him to lean awkwardly over the courtroom barrier, shook his client’s hand, then navigated her way out through the crowd filling the center aisle. Will spotted Jimmy who was laughing through tears, caught in a fierce hug with his client’s sister. Even Zeller looked on with a bright smile. Will took in the relieved atmosphere for a few minutes before the shock faded enough for people to try speaking to him and he extracted himself as gracefully as possible. Jimmy gave him an exasperated eye roll, more than familiar with Will’s aversion to socializing. With a final nod to his client, Will made his way out of the courtroom, watching out of the corner of his eye as his client’s mom pulled her son into a crushing embrace.
**********************
The days after trial always had a quality of exhausted elation, like completing a marathon. Physically, mentally, and emotionally depleted, but still sustained by the thrum of satisfaction and relief. It was two days after the verdict, when Will heard a car coming up his gravel drive. Looking through the screen door, Will could see that it was an expensive model, but couldn’t name it.
Will walked out onto his porch as a sharply dressed woman stepped out of the backseat. Will recognized her; she’d been in the audience for much of the last trial. Now she was eying Will curiously in a way Will found discomfiting.
“Can I help you?” He said when she was close enough to hear him without raising his voice.
She smiled wryly, saying nothing until she was standing just before the porch steps. Up close Will could see that she was strikingly beautiful. A distant kind of attraction hummed in the background of his mind. Recognition that in another world she might have been his type, “that’s what I’m here to find out.” She eventually answered, seeming to take in everything about Will from his dog hair-covered slacks to his two day old stubble and unruly hair. He shifted before he could catch himself, awkward under the scrutiny. Her smile shifted into a smirk and any latent attraction Will might have felt vanished.
”You were in court,” Will said, turning away to take a seat, his body language making it clear it wasn’t an offer for her to join him. She seemed unbothered, climbing the stairs and leaning casually against the post.
“I was. Still not totally sure what you did there, but whatever it was, it was impressive,” Will didn’t respond. He had no patience or use for flattery. After a pause, she went on. ‘I’m trying to decide if I should retain your representation.”
”For what?”
”For a murder trial.”
Will paused, “whose murder?”
”My brother’s.”
Will ran his hand down his face, “a free word of legal advice, lawyering up before the guy’s dead is what we in the business call a dead giveaway.”
Margot smiled, ”oh he’s already dead.”
Will wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. He looked her over. She didn’t look like the type, but he’d represented a lot of people who weren’t the type. People were capable of astonishing things when pushed.
“Did he have it coming?”
For the first time her smile turned genuine, something pleased and intrigued, “most certainly.”
Will looked her over again, noting the contained way she carried herself, as if trying not to take up too much space. Her chic, but excessively conservative outfit, arms, wrists, and back carefully covered. He’d bet anything he’d find a patchwork of scars if he looked. He’d seen these signs before on the people he represented who’d killed abusive partners.
“Well in that case, my congratulations.”
Her smile somehow broadened, “I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it to be honest. The death of Mason Verger was splashed across local headlines for a solid week.”
The name brought a vague spark of recognition. Some kind of meat industry magnate. “I don’t read the news when I’m in trial. Mason Verger. Which would make you?”
”Margot Verger,” she said, finally crossing to Will with her hand extended, palm down.
Will took it, “Will Graham,” he said unnecessarily, but it seemed like the polite thing to do.
“Well Mr. Graham, do you think you can help me with my little problem?”
Will looked at her seriously, “is there a warrant yet?”
”Not for me. They’ve already made an arrest.”
For what must have been the fifth time this conversation, Will felt like he was playing catch up. Like Margot was intentionally toying with him, relishing his ignorance. He bit down on the urge to let his irritation take the reins entirely, but his voice still came out tenser than before, “I don’t think I’m following.”
”They just arrested my psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”
Will was grateful that he was already sitting or his legs would have collapsed out from under him. His ears were ringing and if she was saying more, Will wasn’t catching a word of it over the rush of sound and panic and the harsh breath he was fighting to regulate. Fortunately, Margot didn’t appear to be speaking. In fact she was watching his reaction intently, as if she’d been waiting to see it.
“They never would have suspected him, such a pillar of the community and a darling of the society pages, but he had a criminal history no one knew about. Apparently he spent a few months in a juvenile detention facility in Louisiana years ago for almost beating a man to death. Have you ever been to Louisiana, Mr. Graham?” And the way she was observing Will made it clear she knew Will was there with him. How much else she knew, Will could only guess.
Eventually he managed to find his voice, albeit an unrecognizable version of it, “you’re here seeking representation for Han — for Doctor Lecter?” And she obviously caught the slip. Will couldn’t say Hannibal’s name normally. It came out too rushed, dissolving into a whisper at the end, like how one might say a curse or a dirty secret. Still it was thrilling to have his name actually leave his lips.
“I am.”
Will swallowed, treading carefully, ”because he’s innocent?”
Margot chuckled, ”because he most certainly is not. And I owe him,” all her previous humor vanished then and Will was relieved to see she wasn’t taking Hannibal’s situation lightly. Margot’s eyes were still running over Will, “he insisted I reach out to you. Refused to accept any of the obscenely expensive attorneys I suggested.”
And that punched the air out of Will, he felt lightheaded with it, “is that so.” Will said faintly.
“Yes,” she answered, a speculative look in her eyes, ”the way he said your name — it was like he’d been waiting a long time to say it out loud to someone,” and Will was certain she had to hear the way that made his heart start thudding painfully, that ache he always carried with him scorching through him now like a conflagration. She must have seen something of that reaction in his expression, because she mercifully broke eye contact, staring idly out at the trees lining Will’s property, “I had to see what all the fuss was about for myself, hence stalking your court appearances.” Will nodded again, utterly unable to string a reply together. They let the silence settle for a moment, an oddly comfortable lapse in the conversation given that they were essentially strangers, but when Margot spoke again, there was a hardness to her face. It looked almost protective, “something tells me you won’t answer, but I can’t in good conscience hire you without trying. You and Hannibal,” she paused as Will’s heartbeat clamored in his ears, “what happened —”
”I’ll talk to him and see if I’d be a good fit for his case. I look for certain things in the clients I accept,” Will interrupted, desperate for her to leave so he could grab hold of the edges he felt fraying, press them back into place.
Margot eyed him for another moment, then nodded, “thank you. He’s being held at the Baltimore jail,” And hearing that for some reason brought the reality of the situation home and Will felt abruptly sick. Imagining Hannibal caged and brought to heel was almost unbearable. Will felt an irrational surge of violent rage for Margot, for involving Hannibal, allowing him to do her dirty work and take the fall for it. If Hannibal lost his life because of this, Will felt certain, in that moment, that he would end hers. His mind easily supplied an image of Will wrapping his fingers around her delicate throat and squeezing, her eyes bulging and hands batting ineffectually, helplessly. But as his conscious brain reasserted itself, the grim sense of justice he felt at that fantasy gave way to horror and a sharp kind of shame. He shook himself as his vision cleared and he glanced up to find Margot watching him warily.
After what Will suspected she’d survived, she was attuned enough to potential threats to catch the danger in Will’s reaction and she had subtly backed away, her alarm well-masked, but plain as day to Will. Will couldn’t recall the last time he felt so appalled with himself. Will forcibly made himself calm and relaxed his body into something unassuming, but Margot wasn’t buying it.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graham. I’ll tell Dr. Lecter to expect your visit,” she said carefully, and wasted no time heading down the steps and back out to her car, always keeping half an eye on Will. The sight made Will’s heart sink and a wave of guilt joined the shame.
He stood there on the porch, staring into the distance until long after the dust had settled from her tire tracks. Then, in a daze, he made his way back to his computer and googled Hannibal’s name. The splashy headline was blazoned across the front page of most major publications going a week back.
SOCIALITE DR. HANNIBAL LECTER ARRESTED FOR MURDERING HEIR TO VERGER MEAT DYNASTY
Will sank into his chair as if his strings were cut, his world already blackening around the edges, wondering how he’d survive what came next as the grim reality of Hannibal’s situation settled in his chest.