"What the hell is going on? Where's my lawyer? What the hell kind of shoe string budget is this place running on? I demand my rights!"
All these and more comments Jack Crawford was shouting at the unresponsive and inactive television camera and monitor before him.
The fact that he wasn't physically taken to his bail hearing irked the businessman accused of conspiracy to commit murder and other charges that sprung from the attempted assassination of known mobster Fredrick "The Shark" Parker and the murder of a Moon Lake deputy that happened while the crime was being committed.
That Crawford was even being arraigned, let alone accused of having any involvement or knowledge of what happened in Moon Lake, was another matter.
"How the hell do you people expect me to telecommute to my hearing when your fucking equipment doesn't even work properly?"
"Counselor. Is something wrong with your client?" the judge asked attorney Jacoby Albertson, as they witnessed Jack Crawford yelling at the television set.
"First off your honor, I suspect my client might be a bit claustrophobic, which is news to me. If this presents the court any problems, I apologize in advance for the inconvenience. Secondly, from his statements, I suspect that the equipment isn't working properly on his end, and my client isn't aware that he is live and being witnessed as we speak."
"Well, if there are any technical difficulties, you have the court's apologies on the matter, and we will try to rectify the situation as quickly as possible," promised the judge, as everyone in the courtroom, includng the prosecutor, looked at the display Crawford was making of himself.
"Thank you, your honor," said Albertson. I just hope Crawford doesn't put his foot in his mouth before I can get him out of here, prayed the attorney.
"All I wanted to do was spy on my enemies and get dirt I could use against them. Maybe that's not legal, but then again it's not something new under the sun either," complained Crawford, while still staring at a blank television screen and totally ignorant of what the little red light on the camera signified.
"That Jose said he was a licensed private investigator, and even showed me credentials supporting that statement," continued Crawford, while pacing back and forth in the small cubicle he was being detained in. It was a space much smaller than his jail cell, but as much as he wanted to, Jack Crawford knew not to let his inner werepanther out. There would be a time and place for that later, especially when he sought his revenge against those who framed him for the charges he was now facing.
"Any shootings or killings he did in Moon Lake were all his own, without any prior knowledge or instructions on my part. Hell, I didn't even know what happened in Moon Lake until the FBI's storm troopers came banging on my door this morning."
And back in the court room, Jacoby Albertson couldn't help noticing that the prosecutor was writing down notes as Crawford continued his rant.
"I'm a businessman, and all I care about is business," continued Crawford, still nervously pacing. "What the hell do I know about mobsters? Fuck, why the hell should I even care about them? As long as they're not messing with me or mine, they can all—"
"Hey Crawford," said the guard, coming into the cubicle.
"Yes?" said Jack, looking at him.
"We're having troubles with the stuff in this room and I've been asked to take you to the other one," said the guard.
"Good. The sooner this is over with, the sooner I can find my wife and go home where we belong," said Crawford, as he let the guard reshackle him before being led out of the room.
The actual hearing took over an hour before it was concluded.
Jack Crawford still didn't like the concept of telecommuting to attend to such an important matter, but at least everything was over.
For now.
In the end, because of the altercation provoked by the FBI agent over his wife's personal history, Jack Crawford was to be released on bail, but balked when told it would be $20 million dollars, which his attorney knew was a steep price under the circumstances.
"I do have those kind of funds available, but it will take a while to actually acquire it for the court. It's not like I carry that kind of cash on me," quipped Crawford.
"Understandable," agreed the judge.
Part of this huge fee was because of all his international holdings around the world.
Considering his vast array of assets, Jack Crawford was deemed a serious flight risk by the prosecutor, who in the end had the judge order Crawford to surrender all his passports, including any obtained under aliases.
Another thing I owe Benton and Lance Knight for, grumbled Crawford, while thinking about the tell all expose in the Moon Lake Gazette about him and Kenya.
But what really made Jack Crawford mad was when the prosecutor was told he'd have to wear an ankle monitor at all times until the trial was over.
What no one else involved in the proceedings knew was that, besides the fact that the prosecutor also happened to be a werebull in contact with the Elders' Council of Moon Lake, the ankle monitor was also a condition the District Attorney's office insisted upon if bail was granted the defendant.
"WHAT?" Crawford screamed at the properly working television set in the room he now occupied. "Isn't that some kind of invasion of privacy or something?" he asked his lawyer.
"No, it isn't, and you won't be the first suspect ever ordered to wear one," explained Jacoby Albertson.
Jack Crawford was beside himself on this. With an ankle monitor, I won't be able to hunt down who framed me, let alone assume my fursona any time I want to, he realized. I'll be stuck as is until it is legitimately removed, because my bigger werepanther form would break the bonds and notify the police in an instant under the belief I was trying to escape.
"Unless there's any other business...?" asked the judge.
Both defense attorney and prosecutor shook their heads negatively.
"Then the defendant is to be released on bond once the conditions of his bail have been met. Pending any further arguments on the matter, the trial of The People versus Jack Crawford on all charges before this court will begin Monday, October 3, 2016 at 10 am. Court is adjourned," announced the judge, before banging his gavel to end the session.
For whatever reason(s), there were far fewer reporters covering his release than his arrest, so once Crawford was let out of jail, the travel time back to his penthouse suite was relatively quick.
But between making financial arrangements and other legalities, it would be close to dinner time on that Wednesday, September 7, 2016 before Jack Crawford returned to his Seattle penthouse apartment, wearing an ankle monitor underneath his left pants' leg, that told those on the receiving end of its signal where he was at any given moment of the day or night.
"While thankfully you won't be confined to your apartment, so you can continue to run your business holdings until the trial starts, you will have to phone that number the bailiff gave you before going to, arriving at, or leaving any location," explained his attorney, as they rode up the elevator to Crawford's home. "I will do everything I can to have you declared innocent of all charges, but I do think it best that you make arrangements to have someone else handle your business matters so you can concentrate on the trial ahead Mister Crawford."
Jack just nodded, for he had a lot of other things on his mind.
Crawford realized that the ankle monitor was an obstacle that would have to be dealt with if he was to prove his innocence, let alone get revenge on those who framed him.
But a more important matter arose as he entered the apartment with his lawyer.
"Where the hell is my wife?" he demanded to know.
"She isn't here?" asked a surprised Jacoby Albertson.
"No, she isn't," snarled Crawford in return. "Besides the fact that all the lights are off and the household staff have gone for the day," he began, making a show of flipping on some lights to keep up appearances, "don't you think Kenya would have come rushing into my arms if she was here?" he asked, not telling the normal human being that any trace of Kenya's scent was hours old.
"You're right Mister Crawford. But maybe she's asleep or in the bathroom, so let's take a look around to make sure," suggested the attorney.
"Okay, but the bed and bath are mine," said Crawford, heading toward that end of the suite.
It took a few moments to fully look through the apartment. While a physical search confirmed what werepanther senses already knew, at least all of Kenya's personal belongings and clothing were still there, meaning that she had just not returned home from wherever she was right now.
At least one thing's gone right today. Kenya's still mine, thought Jack, but "Where the hell is she?" he asked aloud.
A question that his lawyer unfortunately did not have an answer to.