Radilo
Establishing Nation
Les Tens, Nouveau Port
It had been happening a lot, this drug bullshit. Some people weren’t happy enough with booze, ganja, and shrooms; they needed crack and heroin. In a country known for its lax attitude to nearly all vices, some of the more deviant in society were still compelled to go for what they shouldn’t. Oh well.
So now a 14 year old girl sits in a police station. She is terrified, but shouldn’t be. To her, though, police were people to be afraid of; they were there to hurt you, not protect you.
The only person who can speak Surian in the department was an old sergeant, and he was half drunk. Their translator was off for the week, vacationing Arendaal. How lovely.
They had to call a lawyer who spoke Surian, a valuable skill for a public defense attorney. He said he would be their in an hour. They gave the girl some coffee and a sandwich, but she didn’t eat or drink any; she just sat there crying.
“What the fuck took you so long?” scoffed the lieutenant
“I said I would be here in an hour,” rebuffed Julius, the awaited lawyer.
“Yea you did,” he said, now grinning, “it’s the usual.”
“Christ in heaven,” exclaimed the attorney, “so where are they?”
“She’s in the first interview room.”
Julius walked into the room; the girl was still crying.
“It’ll be okay,” he said in her native tongue.
“I swear I didn’t do anything—”
“Settled down little one, you aren’t in any danger.”
She stared at him for a while, with her now bloodshot eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Julius Roc, I’m a lawyer.”
“Are you going to send me to jail?
“No, I just want to ask you some questions.”
“I’ll tell you anything,” she said, as if she feared being tortured.
“Relax, child. No one will hurt you; I promise. Do you remember who gave you the bag?”
“He—he was a black man.”
“Do you know anything else, his name, who he works for?”
“Someone called him ‘Trucci’… or something like that… I think.”
“Where were you supposed to go?”
“He said an abandoned concrete building 4 blocks away.”
The lawyer walked out of the interview room, but not before he was able to clam the girl down, enough for her to eat and drink a little. Trucci was a known drug dealer, and the building was a known crack house, not much new info here. For all of her trouble the girl was only paid one livre.
The lawyer drove the young girl back to the Tishonga Refugee Camp, where she was living. When they arrived at the overgrown tent city, the girl asked if he would come back with her to her “home.” He agreed, for curiosity really.
It had been happening a lot, this drug bullshit. Some people weren’t happy enough with booze, ganja, and shrooms; they needed crack and heroin. In a country known for its lax attitude to nearly all vices, some of the more deviant in society were still compelled to go for what they shouldn’t. Oh well.
So now a 14 year old girl sits in a police station. She is terrified, but shouldn’t be. To her, though, police were people to be afraid of; they were there to hurt you, not protect you.
The only person who can speak Surian in the department was an old sergeant, and he was half drunk. Their translator was off for the week, vacationing Arendaal. How lovely.
They had to call a lawyer who spoke Surian, a valuable skill for a public defense attorney. He said he would be their in an hour. They gave the girl some coffee and a sandwich, but she didn’t eat or drink any; she just sat there crying.
“What the fuck took you so long?” scoffed the lieutenant
“I said I would be here in an hour,” rebuffed Julius, the awaited lawyer.
“Yea you did,” he said, now grinning, “it’s the usual.”
“Christ in heaven,” exclaimed the attorney, “so where are they?”
“She’s in the first interview room.”
Julius walked into the room; the girl was still crying.
“It’ll be okay,” he said in her native tongue.
“I swear I didn’t do anything—”
“Settled down little one, you aren’t in any danger.”
She stared at him for a while, with her now bloodshot eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Julius Roc, I’m a lawyer.”
“Are you going to send me to jail?
“No, I just want to ask you some questions.”
“I’ll tell you anything,” she said, as if she feared being tortured.
“Relax, child. No one will hurt you; I promise. Do you remember who gave you the bag?”
“He—he was a black man.”
“Do you know anything else, his name, who he works for?”
“Someone called him ‘Trucci’… or something like that… I think.”
“Where were you supposed to go?”
“He said an abandoned concrete building 4 blocks away.”
The lawyer walked out of the interview room, but not before he was able to clam the girl down, enough for her to eat and drink a little. Trucci was a known drug dealer, and the building was a known crack house, not much new info here. For all of her trouble the girl was only paid one livre.
The lawyer drove the young girl back to the Tishonga Refugee Camp, where she was living. When they arrived at the overgrown tent city, the girl asked if he would come back with her to her “home.” He agreed, for curiosity really.