The Fire Triangle, A Zootopia Fanfiction -- Part One: Fuel - 86

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle—A Zootopia Fanfiction

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Part One:

Fuel

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Chapter 10 – When A Fox Goes Rabbit

(Pt. 1)

Judy Hopps leaned back against the wall and folded her arms, her weary face suffused with a pained expression.

She was inside the Zootopia Superior Court Annex building, parked next to the door to the Male's Restroom. At times like this, her oversized ears could be a major inconvenience; there was no way for her NOT hear the noises Nick was making. (What she was actually doing was keeping watch until he was done.)

She didn't blame him one bit; if rabbits were capable of puking, she'd probably be saying 'adios' to her breakfast right now as well. In her two years with the ZPD, Judy had been privy to some fairly sickening spectacles—and while the scene inside of George Schatten's courtroom might not have been the goriest thing she'd witnessed in that time, she couldn't remember experiencing anything quite so gut-wrenching, (or heart-wrenching.)

No...that wasn't exactly true, was it? The truly disgusting part had come after she'd left the courtroom, when Nick had revealed to her the full identity of the woodchuck presiding from the judge's bench. That information had not only turned the doe-bunny's stomach; it had also made her blood boil. To think that such a bigoted jerk was passing judgment on the city's juvenile defendants.

And putting Conor Lewis in V-3 restraint, just to bait Nick? If Judy hadn't heard it for herself, ('did that ever stop me before?') she would never have believed it.

She looked towards the door of the restroom, feeling her heart go out to the fox on the other side. Even now, more than two decades after the fact, he still carried the pain of what had happened in that community center basement—and that smirking creep behind the judge's bench had recognized it instantly. But why...why had he chosen to exploit it after all this time, and for no apparent reason? It didn't make any sense.

It hadn't been the muzzle that had so traumatized her partner; Judy understood that much, if nothing else. No, it was everything else that had come with it. All Nick had wanted was to belong, to be accepted, to be part of something. As an only cub, he'd yearned for the fraternity he didn't have at home.

And George Schatten had not only crushed that dream; he'd ground it to dust beneath his heel. The thought of it conjured up a line in Judy's head, a fragment of spoken monologue from a song her Uncle Terry liked to play.

"I'll tell ya one thing Judge, ol' buddy, ol' pal...if you wasn't wearin' that black robe...I'd take ya'll out back of this court house...and I'd try a little bit of your honor on."

...or...something like that; whatever the actual line was, it was how she felt about Judge George L. Schatten at this particular moment.

The thought also reminded her of her own childhood encounter with a bully. Unlike Nick, she carried no lingering trauma from her dust-up with Gideon Grey at the Carrot Days Festival. Why was that?

Judy knew the answer almost as soon as she asked herself the question. Gideon had eventually changed his ways; George Schatten most definitely had not. Furthermore she had managed to extract a measure of victory from her clash with the burly, young fox; when Gideon had walked away, he had done so without the tickets he had stolen from the young doe-bunny's friends...and then they'd been right there to support her.

Not Nick; he'd had to face his demons alone. No, worse than that, Judy realized, the other kids had sided with his tormentor. And with that realization, there came a small epiphany; her confrontation with Gideon Grey hadn't left her completely unscathed. One small remnant of that encounter had stayed with her, even to this day. When she saw Dr. Hind later on ...

The door to the restroom opened and Nick Wilde came out, eyes puffed and streaked with red, as if he'd been crying; (perhaps he had.)

"You okay?" she asked him.

"I...yeah, I think so," he said, wiping the side of his face with the back of his paw.

Judy took his paw and squeezed it, letting her eyes find his.

"He'll be all right, Nick; he's a tough, little silver-fox."

"I know that Carrots," he answered her, wanting to look away, but refusing to give in to the impulse, "I just wish I had some of his courage."

Judy smiled, and took hold of his other paw.

"You have no idea, Nick...just how brave..."

"You there...and you!"

The angry voice cut through the moment like a scalpel through tissue paper. When Judy turned, she saw Rudy Gamsbart coming in their direction. Right away, she knew that it was trouble; the chamois looked like an Alpha who'd just caught a lesser male trespassing on his turf.

"I'd like a word with the two of you, if you don't mind," he said, pointing at a door across the hall.

It was obviously not a request, but Nick and Judy were too wrung out to argue...and so they followed him through the door and into a small conference room, one with furnishings every bit as tacky as the courtroom décor.

"Close the door, please." Gamsbart said, another order disguised as a request. The knob was bit high for Judy to reach, but she insisted on doing the honors. As soon as the latch clicked, the Zootopia Deputy Prosecutor lit into her and Nick both.

"Just what the heck did you think you were DOING, Hopps...showing up here the day after that video of you and Wilde...mmm, kissing aired on the Rock Hardesty show; were you trying to set Judge Schatten off?

Judy had no answer; she was too bewildered. That's what this was about—not Conor having saved her life? And THIS was why that no-good woodchuck had tried to send her partner into flashback-land...because he'd had the nerve to plant a kiss on a prey-species? Before she could collect her thoughts, Nick Wilde had already spoken up.

"The Rock Hardesty show? Come on, she never..."

"Stop right there, Wilde!" Gamsbart was aiming finger as though preparing to shoot a lightning bolt, "I happen to know she called Chief Bogo about it fursonally last night...and I find it very difficult to believe that she would have told him and not you. So don't ty to pretend you're unaware of what I'm talking about."

Nick shut it and turned his attention to the floor, properly chastised...not because of the chamois' tongue-lashing, but because of the look he was getting from Judy. 'Nice one, DUMB fox!' she seemed to be saying.

What she said next to the chamois was even more reckless than her partner's gambit. "Mr. Prosecutor, don't blame us because that judge is a speciest jerk."

Gamsbart's eyes widened to the size of billiard balls, and he even took a step backwards.

"Wh-What did you say? How dare you...?"

"You heard me, Mr. Gamsbart," Judy went on, oblivious to the chamois' outrage—and his rank. If that was the case, then she had done nothing wrong by showing up in court today...and she was hanged if this self-important so-and-so was going to use HER for a whipping bunny. "If Judge Schatten has a problem with that video, then as far as I'm concerned, it's his problem." The chamois raised an angry finger, but she wasn't quite done yet. "And you know as well as I do that Nick only kissed me to put the Rafaj Brothers off the scent when they got suspicious during that blood-diamond sting. Why didn't you or anyone else explain that to the Judge? You could have asked to approach the bench or had your clerk pass him a note."

"Don't you EVEN..." Gamsbart started to say, before Nick Wilde's voice interrupted.

"And since when is he justified in taking out his anger over that video on a defendant?" Judy's show of bravado had re-kindled some of the fox's own fire.

Gamsbart stared at him, open-mouthed, as much in disbelief as in outrage.

"What, are you crazy, Wilde? What the heck do you think you're talking about?"

Nick was so ready for that one.

"Oh come on, Mr. Prosecutor. You think you were the only animal in that courtroom that saw the looks he was giving tp Officer Hopps and me...right before and after he ordered the Lewis boy to be put in V-3 restraint? I never made the connection between that and the Rock Hardesty show until just now—that's the truth—but if you think his anger over that video had nothing to do with wht he did to that kid, then I have some desert property up in Tundratown that might interest you."

Judy nodded and put an arm on her partner's shoulder. If Gamsbart wanted to threaten them with their jobs, maybe even try to make good on that threat, as far as she was concerned he could go ahead; what she and Nick had told him was only the truth.

The Zootopia Deputy Prosecutor stared for a second, and then drew in a long, slow breath; it seemed to inflate him by an extra third.

"Now...listen to me," he said, speaking in a soft and very even tone of voice, pointing first at Judy, and then at Nick "I'm going to say this...slowly. As of right now, Officer Hopps, you're to have nothing further to do with the Conor Lewis case; he's no longer your concern, stay away from him. The next time that kid comes up before the bench, I don't want you anywhere within a hundred blocks of the courtroom. Do I make myself clear?"

"What if Rodenberg hits her with a subpoena?" Nick demanded, glaring defiantly up at the chamois. "What's she supposed to do...?"

"Nick, I can handle my own arguments, thank you," Judy interrupted, and then turned to Gamsbart with her paws on her hips, "What if Rodenberg hits me with a subpoena; what am I supposed to then, trank-dart the process server?"

"We will cross that bridge if, and when we come to it," the chamois informed her coolly, and then shifted his attention to Nick. "As for you Officer Wilde, the same thing applies; the only time you're to be anywhere near Conor Lewis is when you're on the witness stand. Other than that, for you, this case is closed...and I mean both of you; if I get word of you or Hopps trying to make contact with either that fox-kid or his attorney, I'll have your badges so fast, you won't know they're gone until you see them in my hoof. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He spun on his heel and stalked to the door, throwing it open as if preparing to discard it like an unwanted playing card.

Then he turned and pointed at Nick again.

"And just make sure that your testimony is accurate, Officer Wilde...unless you want to become just, plain Mister Wilde."

He went out the door and slammed it behind him.

"I wonder just what he means by 'accurate'," Judy sniffed derisively, but when she looked at Nick, she saw that same, forlorn look on his face again.

"Tell me the truth Carrots; did I just go and say the stupidest things ever to that chamois?"

A thin smile creased Judy Hopps's face, and she put her paw on his shoulder again.

"What do you mean 'I,' fox? The last time I looked, we were in it together." She shook her head, slowly and somberly. And then she sighed, "at least we didn't tell him about Judge Schatten putting that muzzle on you."

Nick was unable to keep from smiling himself, if a little bit ruefully, "If you only knew, Carrots...how tempted I was. I think if you hadn't been there I just might have said something about it."

"And then you really would have gotten yourself fired," Judy told him, a note of reproach in her voice. And then more cautiously, she said, "that is, unless you have some proof of what happened between you and that woodchuck."

The smile on the fox's face remained, only now it shifted from pallid to wry.

"You know I don't Carrots...and don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone else; I know it's his word against mine." He turned and looked her square in the eye, "But it DID happen, Judy. Even if I never breathe another word about it, outside of this room, I'll always know what George Schatten and his buddies did to me."

Judy reached for his arm again, this time giving it a little squeeze.

"For what it's worth Nick, it's not you that needs to worry about; he's got a much bigger problem right now."

Nick's ears shot up and pointed at each other.

"Really...what?"

"Not what, WHO." the doe bunny answered, eyes narrowing just a little, "Don't forget Nick, we were sitting right behind the defense table when Judge Schatten asked you, 'Did that ever stop me before?' If we heard him, it's a slam-dunk that Vern Rodenberg heard him too...and what do you think he's going to do with it?"

Nick's cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's and he let out a long, low whistle.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa... I hadn't thought about that, Carrots. Oh, you are SO right; I wouldn't be surprised if he has his investigator looking into it already." He quickly raised a paw. "No, I'm especially not going to tell him—not unless he either serves me with a subpoena or questions me about it on the witness stand."

"Right," Judy nodded slowly, understanding the meaning behind the fox's words. He wouldn't volunteer the information, but if Vern Rodenberg found out about the muzzle incident on his own—and then questioned him about it under oath—Nick would have no choice but to give his version of what had happened between him and George Schatten, all those years ago.

And there was at least a remote chance that the grey rat might dig up the down-and-dirty details without any help from Nick. There'd been at least three other kids in that basement that night. True, they'd all been firmly in George Schatten's corner, but that was then; how did they feel about it now? Attitudes—and relationships—can go through some fairly radical changes in 20, or even 15 years' time; just ask Gideon Grey.

"I just wonder what Mr. Gamsbart will do if that happens," Nick was looking towards the door, speaking mostly to himself. Then he looked at Judy again, with an almost helpless expression on his face. "How's this for a Cats-22, Carrots? If I breath so much as word to Rudy Gamsbart about that woodchuck putting a muzzle on me, he'll order me to shut up right now—or else, and then pretend that he never heard me. But if I'm forced to spill it under oath, five will get you twenty that chamois gets all over me for NOT having said anything earlier."

Judy laid a paw on his back. "Nick, even if Mr. Rodenberg does find out about the muzzle incident, he won't dare question you about it on the witness stand. If he does, Mr. Gamsbart will simply raise an objection and His Honor will sustain it, and that'll be the end of it."

She looked towards the door and thumped her foot. "No, if he wants to attack the case that way, Rodenberg's going to have to bring it to a higher court—and even then he'll need either a second witness or some other corroborating evidence; your word alone won't be enough."

Nick turned to look over his shoulder at her, small, tired eyes, and a long mouth, curving unhappily downwards.

"And...if that happens?" he asked.

"Then," Judy patted his shoulder, "Then, like Mr,Gamsbart himself said, we'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it." She started to put her arms around him, but then hesitated What if someone walked in the door right now? What if Mr. Gamsbart came back into the room right now?"

"Let him!" the doe-bunny finally decided, and hugged her partner anyway.

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"So, uh...did I do okay?"

Vern Rodenberg studied his client for a moment, and then broke into a beaming smile.

"Did okay? Did okay! Booby, if they gave out an Oscar for 'Best Performance by a Juvenile Defendant' you'd need to start working on your acceptance speech. That bit where you told Nick, 'Cool it, I can handle this;' I couldn't have scripted that any better." His expression turned abruptly serious. "How are you handling it, kid?"

He would have loved to be able offer the young fox a reassuring paw, but then the snow leopardess watching them through the window would probably intervene. Rodenberg couldn't fault her; she was probably bending the rules by even allowing him to be IN here.

The grey rat was seated next to Conor on the bench of the holding cell, trying hard not to sneeze. It was dusty in here; this room didn't get much use. "No surprise there," the grey rat sniffed; the vast majority of juvenile offenders brought before Judge Schatten were up for strictly non-violent offenses.

"But you wouldn't know that from the sentences that wood- shmuck keeps handing down," Rodenberg grumbled bitterly to himself, "Three months in juvie for trespassing, first time offense and no hard evidence, just the store-owner's word against the kid's. And then how about that six month sentence he laid on that puma-girl...for what, publishing an article on her blog, making fun of her high-school principal? Cyberbullying my scaly TAIL! And oy-VEY, now he puts my client, a fox-kid not even old enough for learner's permit, in V-3 restraint? I can't believe he DID that. Yeesh, I always knew George Schatten was a shmendrick, but this is a new low even for THAT..."

Oops, his client was answering him.

"I'm okay for now," the young fox said, raising his 'mittened' paws, "Only how much longer am I gonna have to wear this stuff, Mr. Rodenberg? I can't deal with it forever." He was beginning to sound a little anxious.

The grey rat offered him a 'hang in there' salute. "Don't worry Booby, it won't be for too much longer; they'll take it off when they move you into your cell."

"They're not gonna strip me naked and throw me in a cell with no mattress and the lights on all the time, are they?" Now he sounded genuinely worried.

"No," the grey rat answered, wondering where the heck his client had gotten that idea. Wait a sec; hadn't he heard something once...about a juvenile facility someplace back east, where kids were treated that way? Never mind, he had more important things to discuss.

So did Conor Lewis, (or maybe he wanted to back away from the subject he'd just inadvertently broached.) "Listen, did you hear what the Judge said to Nick, right before they put this thing on me," he tapped the muzzle with a mittened paw, "'Did that ever stop me before?' What the heck was that all about?"

"I don't know," Rodenberg admitted, nodding gravely, "But I hope to find out. I already left a message with my PI, Ton Ruiter, asking him to look into it. If there IS any kind of a history there, it could be something very useful to us."

"Yeah, about that," Conor shifted in his seat, "I just remembered something else—about when I met Judge Predd on that flight from Zoo York, and he didn't wanna sit next to me; there was witness, a guy who saw the whole thing. I forget his name, but he was a caracal cat...outta somewhere in Afurica."

Rodenberg frowned, but then pulled out his notepad and clicked his voice-recorder. It was probably nothing, but he couldn't take the chance.

"Ahhh, okay, got any more details, kid?"

Conor couldn't tell if the grey rat was sincere or only humoring him; he decided to hedge his bets.

"I know it's a long shot, Mr. Rodenberg, but I'd rather give you something that's useless than keep it to myself and find out later it that it was righteous info. Anyway, yeah, I remember a lot about that flight. It was on Furgin Airways, right after Easter, three years ago. We were s'posed to take off in the afternoon, but thanks to some mechanical stuff, we didn't get off the ground 'til after midnight."

"Okay," Rodenberg answered, swiftly jotting the information; all right, now his interest was piqued. "Which airport did you depart from, La Furdia or Idlewilde?"

"IDW," the young fox answered, referring to the airport by its three letter code.

"Okay, good." The grey rat nodded, "and that caracal; was he another passenger, or...?"

"Whoops, flight attendant," the young fox said, wondering how he could have missed such a crucial detail; it would be lot easier to run down the identity of a flight attendant than a...wait, hold it.

"Tshonga!"

"What?" Rodenberg was staring at him quizzically.

"Tshonga, that was his name, I remember now," the young fox told him, "I didn't get a last name, but that was definitely this first name."

"Okay," said the grey rat, preparing to jotting it down...and then frowning, "Ahhh, you wouldn't happen know how to spell that, would you kid?"

"Sorry," Conor shrugged as best he could, "But that helps, right?"

"Oh heck yeah, it does." Rodedberg answered, slapping the pad shut again, "However it's spelled, there can't have been too many caracals with a name like that one working your flight...and if a plane is delayed for a mechanical problem, the airline is required by law to file a report with the ZAA. Between those two little factoids, we just might get lucky on this."

"Good," the young fox answered, sounding more resigned than hopeful. Once again, Vern Rodenberg felt the need to reassure his client. (He might not have, had he known the real reason for Conor's glum tone of voice.)

"I know you feel like you're in a bad place right now, kid. But trust me on this; everything that happened in court today is going to work to our advantage in the long run. The judge let his feelings about foxes slip, and THEN lowered the boom on you; to everyone watching, that had to look as if he made the call based at least partially on your species. Seriously, did you see the look on Rudy Gamsbart's face while that groundhog was scolding you? I never had to try so hard not to laugh." He flashed his client a toothy grin, "But do you wanna know the absolute stupidest thing he did?"

"Putting me in V3...whatever?" Conor asked him. The grey rat instantly waved a paw.

"Nahh, that's only part of it. No, his single biggest mistake was having those V-3 restraints put on you right in front of Nick Wilde...a fox that I happen to know has a serious problem with muzzles."

Conor looked at him curiously with his head tilted sideways. Even more curious, there was no reaction from his attorney. But then the young fox realized, the muzzle; his face was all but invisible inside this thing. "Really, how come?" he asked.

A look of disappointment crossed the rat-attorney's face.

"Think about it, kid. Nick Wilde is the prosecution's single, most important witness; he's the only one who can say for certain whether or not you gave him that bite on purpose...and so what does Judge Predd do? Something that can only make him feel sorry for you...get it?"

"Agggh, grrrr!" Conor would have face-pawlmed himself if it weren't for those cuffs and that muzzle. Yes, he got it...and why hadn't he gotten it on his own? Yes, of course; without Nick's testimony, the Mammals of Zootopia had nothing on the young silver fox.

"Riiiight," Rodenberg offered him another toothy grin, "Like my old Uncle Moishe used to say, 'When your tail's caught in the wringer, you DON'T wanna mess with the guy holding the crank.'"

Conor laughed so hard he fell halfway off the bench.

"Wise, old rat your Uncle," he said when he recovered. Vern Rodenberg flipped a paw back and forth.

"Ahhhh, not really Booby, he was a degenerate gambler who died flat-broke; he did have a way with the words, though."

"Yeah," the young fox acknowledge, awkwardly forcing himself back up into a sitting position. Whoa it was harder to get up again while wearing this stuff than he would have thought; good thing Judge Predd couldn't see him now, that jerkface groundhog'd probably be loving on it. He said, "Tell me something, do you have any idea why Nick Wilde has such a problem with muzzles?"

The grey rat's voice turned quickly to ice-water, "No...and I wouldn't tell you if I did."

Conor sensed at once that he was straying into forbidden territory; he hastily backtracked.

"Well there's one good thing about being in this V-3 thing," he said, "at least I won't have to worry about that punk coyote coming after me."

"You might wanna hold that thought, Booby," Rodenberg told him, aiming a wink and a finger, "I'm GOING to get you out of V3 status...like I promised. And when I do, I think you were exactly right; that Guilford kid IS gonna come after you. Ahhh, you remember what I told you about him?"

"Yep, got it," Conor answered with as much of a nod as he could manage through his restraints. When the grey rat had met him at the Youth Jail, he had brought along a piece of intel about Craig Guilford that the young fox had found highly intriguing—and that he might find highly useful, if push came to shove, (although he still hoped it wouldn't come to that.)

The floor shuddered slightly, and the low growl of a diesel engine thrummed from somewhere outside of the exit-door.

"Sounds like my ride's here," Conor said to his attorney. Rodenberg didn't answer him; speaking instead to the snow leopardess minding them both.

"Oy, what'd you do," he demanded, giving her a jaundiced look, "send a TANK to pick up my client?" The big cat only shrugged helplessly; it wasn't her call. Rodenberg knew that, but he also knew something else. When either the judge or the opposing council makes a mistake, you never stop hammering on it.

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George Schatten's pen froze in mid-signature. Someone was knocking on the door to his chambers. "Dangit, Marjorie, I thought I told you...!"

"I SAID I didn't want to be disturbed!" he bawled, coming as close to a snarl as was possible for a woodchuck.

The door opened anyway and an impeccably dressed Siberian ibex came into the room, ducking slightly as he passed under the door-frame to allow for the curvature of his horns.

And Judge Schatten fell back hard in his chair, releasing a sharp exhalation. He had known it was coming from the minute he'd shed his robes; he just hadn't expected it to arrive quite so soon...or by way of one of the city's big guns.

"Mr. Attorney General; well, this is surprise." The woodchuck said, "To what do I owe the honor?" (Oooo, Gamsbart...it had to be Gamsbart; if he EVER got his paws on that backstabbing chamois...)

"Mind if I sit down George?" his visitor asked, indicating one of only two large-mammal chairs in the room.

"Not at all, Igor," the woodchuck responded, relieved that at least the AG was addressing him on a first-name basis.

Zootopia Attorney General Igor Mikhailovich Sayanov had been known in his younger days as Igor Sayonara ...because that was what you said to your freedom if he ever prosecuted you. His record for most the guilty verdicts brought in by a Zootopia Deputy Prosecutor still stood, (although his protégé, Rudy Gamsbart, was coming up fast on the outside.) He was currently serving his second term as Zootopia's AG, and was regarded as a shoo-in for another four years if he chose to run again—as he probably would, having recently declined to stand for a seat on the Zootopia Supreme Court. "I've been prosecuting cases for FAR too long to act impartially now," he'd said, typical of the self-deprecating humor that had endeared him to the city's voters.

George Schatten, however, knew that there was another side to the ibex; beneath his air of diffidence lurked the instincts of a bull shark. He could turn on you without warning and without mercy. And was that about to happen now, the woodchuck wondered?

Sayanov, meanwhile, had plopped himself in the chair and was stretching his arms. "So, how's your golf game, George, same handicap?" A second generation Zootopian, he spoke with only the merest trace of an accent.

"Same old, same old," Schatten answered, wishing his visitor would get to the point. That was another thing about Igor Sayanov; there was nobody better at using small talk to make you sweat.

"Good to hear," his visitor answered, nodding, "It's just too bad we're such different size species. Otherwise, I wouldn't mind playing a round with you myself sometime. Did you hear I got a hole-in-one the week before last? Only my second ace, ever."

"No kidding, really?" Schatten leaned across his desk, suddenly interested, and just as suddenly realizing his mistake...when Sayanov chose that moment to apply the screws.

"But never mind that for now. Tell me George; did you REALLY put a 14-year-old kid in V-3 restraint?"

Schatten nearly bit through his own tongue; sucker-punched again! All he could do now was go for an excuse and hope he didn't fumble.

He decided to stick to his guns. Sayanov had always liked him best whenever he assumed his tough-judge fursona.

"Yes, and I won't apologize for it," he said. "Better that than the Lewis boy—or whoever he is—up and hurts somebody ELSE when he gets back to jail. I'm telling you Igor, that silver fox kid is a lot more dangerous than he looks."

"And you know this, how?" Sayanov was regarding him with a raised eyebrow and steepled fingers.

"All right, I don't know it." Schatten threw up his paws in exasperation, "but I sure as heck felt it in that courtroom; there's a reason why that kid is living under a fake identity—and my gut keeps telling me, it's for a much more serious reason than any of us realize."

It was only when the words were out of his mouth that the woodchuck realized he'd spoken the truth. It might not have been the actual reason he'd ordered Conor Lewis put in V-3 restraint, (that was all on Nick Wilde and his bunny,) but there really was something disturbing about the kid, something Schatten could never put into words, but that he felt to the core of his bones.

It was the sincerity of his statement that hit home with Igor Sayanov. The Siberian Ibex nodded, slowly and gravely.

"All right George, I get that," he said—and then spread his hooves in exasperation. "But, for crying out loud, how the HECK did you manage to forget who he has for a defense attorney? This is Vernon J. Rodenberg, not some overworked public defender. My God, he wasn't gone from here two minutes, before he was over at the Supremes, (the offices of the Zootopia Supreme Court,) filing a stack of motions this thick." He held up a thumb and forefinger, spread nearly an inch apart.

"As if he wouldn't have done that anyway," Schatten tried to scoff, but the rejoinder sounded lame, even to him.

Sayanov only shook his head. "So would a lot of other attorneys I could name, and usually it's the old wet-tissue-paper ploy, throw enough of it, and maybe something will stick." He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "Not this time George, and not Vern Rodenberg; he's playing this one to win. I have it on good authority that the SCCZ is going to take at least a few of his motions under advisement," his gaze became penetrating, "The motion to have the kid removed from V-3 status—he'll probably win that one—the motion for a jury trial, the motion for a bail hearing...and of course, a motion to have you recused from the case. They're even considering his motion for a dismissal of all charges."

"Oh come on they'll never..." Schatten started to say, but Sayanov was already holding up a hoof.

"Of course not, but by rights they should have thrown it out already. I'm just trying to impress upon you how serious this is; dangit George, don't you get it? There was a whole gallery full of witnesses in that courtroom and the word is starting to spread...and most of the mammals think you went way overboard with that fox-kid."

The woodchuck bobbed his head and sniffed.

"Since when have I ever let public opinion sway my decisions?" he said, and this time he wasn't bluffing. Early on in his judicial career, George Schatten had been much criticized for what some referred to as his 'heavy-pawed' style. That all had changed when an epidemic of car-window breakings had swept the city, perpetrated by kids on bikes and skateboards wielding ball-peen hammers. (The practice had become so widespread that 'ball-peen' had become a verb as well as an adjective, E.g. 'Somebody ball-peened my ride last night.')

Enter The Honorable Judge George L Schatten, who promptly gave out the maximum sentence to the first ball-peen vandal brought before him, summarily announcing that the same fate awaited any other kids caught smashing car windows with hammers. When he'd turned out to be as good as his word, the practice had all but ceased overnight...and the woodchuck had become the instant darling of Zootopia's 'Law and Order' crowd.

But that had been more than two years ago...and by now the sheen had long since faded.

Igor Sayanov let out long, rumbling breath.

"George....George...George...how many times do a I have to remind you? Some of us weren't appointed to our positions; some of us have to run for office every few years." He tapped himself in the chest, "and that doesn't mean only me, it also applies to the Zootopia Supreme Court Justices. YOU may not need for the populace to be happy campers, but they sure do...and that goes double when you're talking about the mammals that make campaign donations—for example, the Zootopia Bankers Association." He leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees, "and believe me; they're taking a very keen interest in this case."

Schatten's face pinched up in confusion.

"Wha...? Why would they care about some fox-kid biting a cop?"

He was even more bewildered when Sayanov clapped his hooves together with a frustrated look on his face, as if the woodchuck shouldn't have to be told what was coming next.

"That's why I'm here George, and why you need to see the bigger picture. They don't care about Conor Lewis, but they DO care about his partner, the Phantom—and right now that fox-kid is the only link the AG's office has to him."

The woodchuck looked at him for a second and then spoke very slowly.

"Igor, forgive me for sounding dense, but then why would the Zootopia Bankers Association care about some small-time loan-shark? The amount of money he lends out is peanuts compared to a few other Shylocks I could mention. The Red Pig moves more cash in a month than this animal's moved in his entire career."

"Because George," Sayanov was drumming his fingers on his kneecap, "the Phantom may be a small time lender, but he's not a small time hacker. He's been inside the database of at least five major banking operations that we know of, probably more, and ZPD Cybercrimes has never even come close to tracing his identity." He waved a hoof. "Yes, I know; all he's done so far is look for possible customers, but that could change in a..." A thought seemed to strike the ibex, and he leaned back slightly in his chair.

"Perhaps this can best explain it. Some years ago, back when I had Rudy Gamsbart's job, there was a college student, a chipmunk who managed to hack into the database of Mola Health, the insurance provider. No malicious intent, she just did it to see if she could pull it off without getting spotted. She never tampered with any files, never stole any data; just in and out, and no harm done, right?"

"I get the feeling you're about to tell me 'wrong!'" the woodchuck responded sardonically. In spite of the situation, he was fascinated.

"And you would be correct," Sayanov answered with a grim nod, "Because six months later, someone hacked into HER computer and found the back door she'd created into Mola Health. And then they used it commit what was up until then the worst case of identity theft this city had ever suffered. Mammals had their credit cards maxed, their bank accounts emptied; some folks even had mortgages taken out on their homes without them realizing it...and all because some bored, young rodent decided to test her, 'mad computer skills.' THAT'S why the Bankers Association is so up in arms about the Phantom—and why they're watching the Conor Lewis case so closely. If he wanted to, Mr. Lewis's partner could cause ten times the amount of damage as those identity thieves—and even if HE doesn't, someone else might. Now, do you understand?"

Schatten opened his mouth to speak, but the ibex waved him back.

"And the only way we get The Phantom is if the Lewis boy decides to play ball with us—and the only leverage we have on him is that felonious assault of police officer charge." He paused for effect and then straightened himself up. "And whether or not that charge sticks depends entirely on the testimony of Officer Nicholas Wilde...and now George, I'd like to know just what the heck your problem is with the prosecution's star witness!"

The woodchuck blinked...and then stared. Attorney General Sayanov had finally come to the point—and that's what this was all about? Oh-kayyy, this time he had a good answer.

"Igor, didn't you see the Rock Hardesty show last night? Wilde brought his...his bunny-squeeze right into my courtroom. And you should have seen..."

His words came to a screeching halt as Attorney General Sayanov raised a hoof.

"I'm already aware of that, Judge," (no longer 'George' the woodchuck noted.) "And Deputy Prosecutor Gamsbart has already read them the riot act. Wilde's been instructed to keep away from the Lewis case until he's called on to testify, and Hopps was ordered to stay away, period."

"What if...?

"...barring the possibility Rodenberg subpoenas her, of course," the ibex added having anticipated the objection, and then stood up, laying his hooves on his hips. "But what I think YOU'RE not aware of is something Mr. Hardesty either didn't know or didn't bother to mention during his program,. Do you know WHY Officer Wilde kissed Officer Hopps like that? No? Well, I'll tell you, George; it was to throw off a suspect who was becoming suspicious, not out of any romantic inclinations."

"What now?" Judge Schatten felt his jaw drop open, and this time he wasn't quick enough to stop it.

"That's right," Sayanov told him. "They were on an undercover assignment, down in Sahara Square...the Rafaj Brothers blood-diamond sting...."

As the ibex related the full narrative, Schatten seemed to shrink down into his chair...but he wasn't down for the count or even close to it; as soon as his visitor finished, he was halfway out of his seat again.

"All right, I didn't know that, but how was I supposed to know? The Rafaj Brothers case doesn't involve me." Even to him it sounded whiny, and he decided to quit while he was behind. He folded his paws and looked up plaintively. "All right Igor, do you want me to recuse myself? Just say the word and I'm out."

To his surprise, the Attorney General shook his head.

"No, George...at least not yet; if the Supreme Court agrees with Vern Rodenberg's motion for recusal, you'll have to step down, but otherwise, no." For the first time since entering Schatten's chambers, Sayanov smiled openly. "That poor choice of date notwithstanding, you made at least one right move...setting the trial date all the way into November. That's a lot of time for animals to forget...and for us to do damage control." The smile abruptly left his face, "More to the point, if you recuse yourself this early, that's blood in the water for Vernon J. Rodenberg. So for now at least, you stay."

"With conditions, I assume?" the woodchuck asked, barely able to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Only one, George," the ibex said, reverting once more to a first name basis, "That you focus on Conor Lewis and forget about Wilde and Hopps...and Rock Hardesty; I'd order you not to watch or listen to his programs any more if it was within my power to do so. From now on, you're to treat that Lewis boy the same as you would any other young offender accused of assaulting a police officer. If he really didn't bite Officer Wilde on purpose...and if he gets off because it, I can live with that." His eyes flared and rapped an angry hoof on the desktop, "But I won't see him walk because of some petty squabble between you and our lead witness. Am I well understood, Judge Schatten?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Attorney General," the woodchuck answered, in a small, quiet voice—but inside, he was seething.

He managed to keep his anger under wraps just long enough for his visitor to depart. But then the instant the Sayanov was gone, he jumped up onto his desktop, kicking papers and documents like Autumn leaves, and scattering them all over the floor. Wilde...Hopps! This was their fault! He stared at the door for a moment with his incisors clicking.

"Throwing off suspicion, my stubby TAIL, Igor...you didn't see the way those two were carrying on in my courtroom only a...short...while...hmmmm?"

That same oily expression Nick had observed crept over the woodchuck's face again, and this time there was no need to resist; he was all by himself in his chambers. He looked quickly at his wall-clock; a little before 11:30, just enough time. Only...his smirk morphed into a quick, dark frown.

Only, he dared not make the call himself, not after the rocket he'd just received from no less a fursonage than the Attorney General for the City of Zootopia. However, what was it that the ibex had said to him, something about a whole roomful of witnesses? He hopped back into his chair, tapping his fingertips together, and gazing upwards at the ceiling. Yes-s-sss, now who did he know that...A. owed him a favor, and B. could be counted on to remain discreet?

-------------------------------------------------------

Captain Devi Parubjah, wanted to go home. There was nothing more the Zootopia Fire Department could do here. Interspecies Recycling Systems' Canal District branch was toast—literally; according to Burke Simms, the ZFD's lead arson investigator, the facility had been a write-off even before the first alarm had sounded.

"Place went up like a dang-fool Roman candle," the swamp bear had informed her in his down home accent.

Of course, when you thought about it, Devi had only herself to blame for her still being here; she was the one that had first raised the possibility that the blaze had been set on purpose, and now she and her mammals were obliged to help keep the location secure while the ZFD and ZPD Arson Investigation Teams did their work.

In many cities, having two separate arson teams working the same fire-scene was a recipe for chaos, the classic case of too many cooks; suspicion, rivalry and toes being stepped on.

That wasn't the situation here—and for that you could thank Zootopia Police Chief Bogo, and his opposite number in the Zootopia Fire Department, Chief Roy Packer. Over drinks in the Raccoon Lodge one night, the Cape buffalo and Afurican elephant had hammered out an agreement regarding fire investigations. During the first phase—when they were trying to determine whether or not the cause of the blaze WAS arson—the ZFD would take the lead. Then, if it turned out the fire had been intentionally set, the ZPD arson squad would take over the helm.

"You determine the 'if' and 'how', and we'll determine the 'who', and 'why'" Chief Bogo had summed up succinctly.

"Sounds like a plan," Chief Packer had said, agreeing at once to the proposal. So far, the system had performed like fine, Swiss clockwork.

Someone nudged the water-deer's arm; she turned to see Lieutenant Rick Bridges standing at her hip.

"Mr. Schell is back," the raccoon informed her, with an unhappy expression on his face.

Devi forced herself not to groan. Delbert Schell, a sea otter was the owner and proprietor of Quarantena Construction Maintenance, the business that adjoined Interspecies Recycling. He had spent most of that morning loudly demanding that he be permitted access to his property right NOW. "My place wasn't even touched!" he'd said, to anyone who would listen...and no amount of reasonable argument had been sufficient to calm him down. When he'd finally stormed off in a huff, Captain Parubjah had hoped they'd seen the last of him, at least for today. Now, she thought, she should have known better.

"Tell him we're working as fast as we can," she said, waving a dismissive hoof. The Lieutenant trilled and said morosely, "He brought Council-mammal Lemmon along with him."

Devi wanted to fling her fire-hat into the water. Just what she need right now; Art Lemmon, a thick-tailed opossum was the deputy City Council member for the Canal District—and had long had an eye on his boss's job. He was, by turns, toadying to the local populace and sneering with any city official he deemed to be of lesser rank than himself...for example, a lowly fire-captain.

"Where are they?" the water-deer doe asked, letting out a long, weary sigh between her tusks.

"Over there, by that police-van, "the raccoon pointed, "You see them?"

Captain Parubjah looked, and recognized the otter and opossum immediately. Strange, neither one of them was returning her gaze. In fact they seemed completely unware of her attention, both of them staring out into the waters of Zootopia Sound.

And...wait a minute, so was everyone else on the dock; and several of them were pointing. What the...?

Devi turned around...and felt cold fingertips brushing across her heart. Here was another thing she should have anticipated.

Out on the water, moored just beyond the line of police boats, was a long, hard-chinned motor-yacht with an elegant, raked prow. She was an aggressive looking beast to say the least, dark blue trim and tinted windows; she seemed ready to run down any pleasure boats that dared to get in her way. Someone, Devi couldn't remember who, had once likened her to 'a fist, clutching a dagger,' a particularly apt expression, the water deer thought, given the nature of her owner. Forgetting about Schell and Lemmon for the moment, she found her pocket binoculars and trained them on the distant vessel.

There was no name on the prow...and there wouldn't be one on the stern either if that yacht belonged to who she thought it belonged to; HE never put his name on anything.

Wait a minute; someone was up on the flying bridge. Devi adjusted her gaze, and bingo, there he was, a squat, burly figure, dressed in pajamas and a robe that was at least one size too small and one step removed from threadbare status. His chin bristles were all untrimmed, and a gold medal dangled carelessly from a chain around his neck. He would have looked perfectly at home, sitting on the stoop of a decrepit brownstone, waiting for his benefits check to arrive. Hard to believe that he was one of the most feared mammals in all of Zootopia, certainly in Sahara Square.

200 yards distant, the figure motioned to the animal standing closest to him, snapping his fingers and holding out an open hoof. He was rewarded with a pair of high tech, high powered—and high priced—binoculars of his own. In his case, it was a necessity rather than a luxury; coming as he did from a species NOT noted for its keen eyesight.

Training the lenses on the ruins of IR Recycling, he swept them slowly back and forth over the wreckage, occasionally rolling the focus-knob and muttering to himself. Meanwhile the animals in his immediate vicinity all braced themselves; at any second, those binoculars might come hurtling in any one of their directions.

That didn't happen, but the invective hurled by the figure when he lowered them almost made up for it.

"What the stink is this stuff...huh? HUH! What'd that stuck-up little snob do, drop a DAISY-CUTTER on my place?"

He spun on the animal closest to him waving his arms as if consumed by holy fire, the binoculars swaying on their neck-strap like a pendulum in an earthquake.

"'Don't worry' you said, 'a FLY couldn't get in there without us knowing,' you said. "It'd take HOURS to cut through those bars' you said."

He got right in his plant-manager's face, his voice rising to a scream that sounded like a hundred automobile tires, all burning rubber at once. "ANYTHING ELSE YOU WANNA PUT IN YA MOUTH WHILE IT'S OPEN, MORON? IF THERE WASN'T A ZILLION COPS WATCHING, I'D T'ROW YOUR WORTHLESS TAIL OVER THE SIDE AND LET YOU SWIM BACK TO SAHARA SQUARE! GET OUTTA MY SIGHT, RIGHT NOW!"

The hapless pig squealed and ran for the stairs. Midway down, he tripped and fell; a moment of silence followed, and then they heard him get up and limp away

That seemed to have calming effect on the lead animal, and he turned to one of the other pigs sharing the flying bridge.

"Awright Joey-boy, I seen enough," he said, tossing the binoculars to his capo. "Take us back to The Square, pronto. And have someone get hold of the rat, Rodenberg; I want him to talk to the insurance company, let those three-piece goombahs know right up front, we ain't playin' around on this."

A moment later, the yacht's dripping anchor emerged from the water. And then the engines revved, and she peeled away from the line of ZFD and ZPD picket-boats, heading back out into the main channel.