It was getting to that dusky time, not quite day, not quite night. Whitaker Halloran took off his officer's hat, running a hand through his cap-flattened hair. Between the puzzling serial murder, and the other, seemingly mundane crimes of Lindebo, the day had been widely uneventful. Robbery, battery, theft...nothing extraordinary. Like a few disembowled bodies. There was irregularity. Whitaker found it maddening to say the least. Fear of murder was keeping people indoors, which made his job almost easier. But it made people jumpy, quick to blame, to assume. He'd recieved more tha 100 tips just today, blaming various persons for murder. He'd taken more trips to the slums then he could count, and sat patiently through every interview ad interrogation. These people were no more murders than he was a ballet dancer.

Turning the corner, he stopped to grab the last newspaper from a tired looking boy. Nothing sensational. He sighed, dissatisfied. He'd reviewed the evidence so many times, he thought he would go blind with the pictures and notes. His brother had been a veritable fountain of help, turning his attention to people (well, women) watching or other diversions. He blinked, suddenly feeling the wear of the long day. He ran a hand over his face, being careful where he walked. He would fall asleep in the doorway if he could.

(OOC: sorry for the long wait)

In the grey time before night, an old and many-shawled woman walked up the streets of south Lindebo, recently arrived off Kirk-street and heading towards Bramwell. Tirzah Grant-Freeman had been out shopping, but the shopping was really only a cover to find out the information that she needed to know. She knew that she would be called to court soon, any time now. Her daughter informed her of the pigheaded notion that the Baron of Wothersham had—that Tirzah owed him either an apology or an appearance in court—and thus, Tirzah was taking the steps she needed to in order to assure Rachel’s protection. Tirzah was not cowed by the Baron, and would apologise under absolutely no circumstance, except one. The Baron could threaten Tirzah until he was blue in the face and his voice cracked and he would not procure any apology at all.

But if he could hurt her baby, then Tirzah would grovel at once to avoid it; she would suffer all manner of humiliation in order to protect Rachel. Thus, Tirzah had been using the shopping of this afternoon as a pretext for finding out if the Baron could do anything to Rachel legally. She had found out quite a lot more about the legal system that she had known before, but it basically boiled down to the fact that yes, he could. He was a Baron, and a white man, and both Tirzah and Rachel were black women, and poor. He could trump up any charge that he felt like and ram it through one of the lesser judges based on the system of political favours that existed among the influential. Further, he was friends with Rachel’s boss, and could probably get her fired using the same system of favours.

In short, Tirzah had realised, the situation was entirely out of her control and was likely to make her life, and possibly her daughter’s, very uncomfortable very soon. There were only three mitigating factors. The first was that Tirzah had found out that there was one judge, who either by virtue of having enough of the right connections or by virtue of not caring if he lost his position did not often utilise the system of favours, and stuck to his own brand of justice. His name was Sir Wallace Vandenberg, and though he was a white man also, his reputation was that he was rather more fair towards people of colour than other judges. The second was that Rachel’s boss was an ornery old fart and liked to be contrary, and probably wouldn’t dismiss Rachel simply out of spite. And the third was that Rachel said that the Baron’s sister was entirely reasonable, unlike the man himself, and had tried to persuade her brother not to be the bastard that he was.

So Tirzah was waiting to actually apologise to the Baron until she found out what judge their case was assigned, and if it weren’t Vandenberg, then she would go and grovel. If it were, however, then she would count on the personalities of Rachel’s boss and the Baron’s sister to work in her favour, and would not apologise at all, unless she got wind of something going down with Rachel. Because this afternoon, Tirzah had also found out that while she might go to debtor’s prison if she couldn’t pay the damages to the curricle (which, she had discovered, would likely run to about £75 or so and thus were entirely out of her budget), Rachel could not be imprisoned for the debts of her mother. Hence, Tirzah would bide her time and keep her mouth shut.

But she was grouchy because of the entire affair, and stewing over it on the long walk back to her flat was making her even more cantankerous. All the vastly much taller people crowding past her were subject to withering glares and the occasional curse, and her bad temper simply increased when no visible effect was noticed. When she saw a peeler round the corner, briefly scan a newspaper and then continue on to walk towards her, her ire found a focus, and the unfortunate man was treated to an outburst that he really didn’t deserve. It was just that he was associated with the law, and the legal system and its bias against her was what Tirzah was angry with. She stopped right in front of him, forcing him to either walk into her or stop also, and berated him with, “Tired, are ya? Lazy bum. Where was ya the otha day when ya was act’lly needed? Damn coppers. Nevva woul’ ha’ helped an ol’ woman anyway. Mah daughter migh’ ha’ been dead in tha stree’ and ya woul’ ha’ walked righ’ by. No use in ya a’ all, tha lo’ o’ ya.”