After five hours of waiting, your public defender finally shows up, puzzling through a stack of file folders.
"Peddling without license?" she asks, scratching down notes on a paper in red ink. She whispers to herself as she writes, going on about the let on a contract, gondolas, coke cars, steel ore, and eighty-one million dollars.
"I was arrested for arson and illegal firearms," you correct her, trying to be helpful.
The public defender does not look up, finishing her notes on the file she had open, before closing it, setting it aside, and opening a new file folder. You see your police photo in the top right corner, but it seems you have no secret ability to quickly read upside down text. Make a note to learn that skill.
"Yes, you were," she says, finally looking up to you. She squints and pushes her glasses up her nose, briefly scrutinizing your face, before turning back down to the files, scratching more notes.
She continues, quickly: "Early circumstantial evidence and the witness pool will make it tough for you. Take a guilty plea."
You are stunned at the very suggestion, and try to form the words to argue the merits of your case, to explain how you need to be free; but, before you can say anything, your public defender closes your file and walks out, leaving not so much as a card or phone number to contact her.
And what was that business about gondolas? Was she secretly delivering you a message from your higher ups? Another code to be broken? This conspiracy you are involved with is getting more layered and complicated by the hour.