It. (rasatabula) wrote in repose, @ 2018-03-05 18:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, jack penhaligon, newt penhaligon |
Quicklog: Jack and Newt P
[He was, as Jack was repeatedly told by the ER doctor, rather lucky. Actually, she was talking about getting shot anywhere that wasn't vital, but it applied to the lengthy interview conducted afterward. He had been grazed rather than outright shot in the thigh and caught twice in the shoulder at a low velocity, but the bullet had passed through which meant it was painful and his left arm was entirely useless for the time being but he wasn't in imminent danger of anything more life-threatening after treatment. It helped, as little as the police offers who interviewed might say it, substantiate the (entirely true) story that he was a bystander rather than anyone material in the late-night fiasco.
It was, after all, declared possible to treatment in outpatient rather than in after assessment, and there had been a series of questions, repeatedly and over and over until he was more bored than they were, and until pain pressed against the blunted edge it had been given, at the police station itself. They had found the notepad and the camera in his jacket pockets, and taken a keen and obvious pleasure in announcing that both had somehow been 'lost' somewhere between admittance to the emergency room and the return to the police station. Over and over and no, he didn't know anyone there, yes, he was carrying various items but he was a journalist it wasn't a crime. They rang his editor, who confirmed and then threatened to send a lawyer and after that, they rang Newt as he'd asked all along.
By the time he was permitted to leave, it was another day entirely. Jack waited in the foyer of the Capital police station, in a scrubs shirt he'd been given and his own jeans and with his phone dead in his pocket.