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Post by Sara Tancredi on Apr 4, 2010 11:38:58 GMT -5
Sara's life was a mess. Perhaps mess was an understatement . . . it was a disaster. Not only did she nearly die from an overdose, but as soon as she was discharged, she was arrested. Of course she had expected it . . . but that did not numb the shock of actually experiencing it. They handcuffed her, dragged her away, and her father did nothing. She found herself subconsciously relying on him in more ways that she cared to admit. She was not stupid though -- despite the fact that her recent actions may cause some to not believe that -- . She knew her dad could not get her out of this mess she had put herself in. Yes. It had been her decision; her choice. No one held a gun to her head and made her do it. She had to take responsibility for it, even if that meant going to prison for it.
She was sitting in the interrogation room, clad in an over-sized t-shirt that Katie had been kind enough to provide for her, and jeans. Her has was loose and not brushed, and her face was still pale, making her look weak. Her weakness was not just an illusion however, for she felt absolutely drained and lacking any energy inside of her. She was tired. She did not want to talk about what she had done, she did not want to answer any more questions. But this was yet something else that was out of her control, and she knew that no matter how much she wished it, none of this was just going to magically disappear.
---- Tag Juli?nna ----
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Post by Doctor J. Grayson on Apr 4, 2010 21:52:27 GMT -5
As she 'walked' down the hall, it was hard to miss the sight of the local workers stepping quickly out of her way. Juliánna no longer wore her normal dress code high fashion business suits and cute shoes. She wore plain tennis shoes, a pair of what was once dark blue jean but were now fading away, and a long shelve black shirt with big ugly and bold letters proclaiming FBI across them. Juliánna hated to be so dressed down while 'working' in any form. She wasn't the type to lounge around in this type of clothing even if she was home for the day. So it was telling that this is what she wore now.
Juliánna got to the door and paused; wondering why she had walked so quickly here when she still had no idea what to say, how to react, or even how to get past this newest job requirement. Juliánna worked best by remaining formal against her subjects and the people she . . . . interviewed. Formal was out here.
Juliánna reached out and turned the knob before entering. She paused there in the open door to take in the sight of Sara before pushing the door shut behind her. Juliánna opened her mouth to speak but ended up not knowing what to say. After a moment of the awkward silence she walked to the table and dropped the files on it that she had been holding. Scofield was one top. "I don't think India is going to get out out of this one." Juliánna said, not being harsh but more of a saddened ice breaker.
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Post by Sara Tancredi on Apr 4, 2010 21:53:45 GMT -5
Sara had her gaze at the table in front of her and didn't look up when she heard someone come in . . . but the voice was familiar enough for Sara to not have to look up to see who it was. Juliánna. Sara still couldn't look at her. She looked at the files that were thrown in front of her, seeing Michael's at the top. She did not know who was harder to look at. With a small smile, yet expressing the emotions opposite of happiness and joviality, Sara looked at Juliánna briefly, before looking back down.
What was she supposed to say to her? Was she going to be the one asking questions? Sara did not know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It was then that Juli?nna's comment registered in Sara, raising a whole new wave of emotions of her addiction as it burned in her memory, and now her very recent relapse. "Not this time," she said plainly, in a low voice for she knew that there was nothing she could do, and no where she could go. Even though it was Juli?nna, and even though Sara wanted to pour out her reasoning to her, fearful of her best friend's judgment over her seemingly naive actions, Sara retrained herself. These were not the circumstances she wanted to see her under . . . and for that reason, Sara remained laconic, not speaking more than she needed to.
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Post by Doctor J. Grayson on Apr 11, 2010 22:19:54 GMT -5
Juli?nna walked slowly over the the small window and looked out it for a moment, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She hated having to do this but she knew she could put it off no longer. She had to ask these questions and if she did not then someone else would and they would be harsher, and point fingers and badger. If she did not do this, then someone would miss something. Juli?nna needed to make sure the eight men were caught. For both public safety and for Sara's.
"I have to ask you some questions," Juli?nna turned and walked over to the table, sitting down in the cold chair across from Sara. "Do you want to call a lawyer before we continue? It might be in your best interests to do so, and it's still with in your rights." Juli?nna was almost begging Sara to get a lawyer here, knowing they would protect Sara, even from her self.
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Post by Sara Tancredi on Apr 11, 2010 22:32:35 GMT -5
Sara knew that Juli?nna had to be professional in this situation. She couldn't still couldn't determine whether it was a good or bad thing that Juli?nna was the one interviewing her . . . would she have to lie to her best friend? Would this interrogation force her to do that? Sara lightly shook her head. "No. I don't need a lawyer. I've already answered a few questions in the hospital." She just wanted to get this over with, though she knew that this wouldn't be the last series of questions she would be asked.
"I understand that you have a job to do and um . . . " What was she trying to say? She still couldn't focus her gaze on Juli?nna. "Just please make it as fast as you can." That's not exactly what she wanted to say . . . but that was what had come out. While she wanted to explain things to Juli?nna, she would rather do so in a more comfortable session. One in which her words weren't being recorded; one in which neither was forced to ask or answer questions.
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