shamechamber | (no subject)

After pleading 'no contest' where he could and accepting 'guilty' where he couldn't, Robert Callaghan was braced and prepared as best one could be for life in prison. Life without parole - the charge of murder-by-arson effectively sealed that notion. Quite frankly, this was an outcome that he had considered, found acceptable, and up until recently, had given no further thought to it.

Until Krei Tech.

Until Abigail.

His motives didn't change the outcome of his sentencing, and he didn't expect them to. But before, while he would have accepted fading in to obscurity (or infamy, as it were), he was now faced with a predicament - what was he supposed to do (or think, for that matter) when he had an actual reason to...not?

Apparently they thought a psychiatrist would help. Not that he'd confessed any of these thoughts to anyone, and he doubted he'd do it here, because frankly he wasn't sure why they were bothering. To keep him from breaking out, maybe, or see if he was still a danger - ha.

Robert shifted his weight in his chair, glancing towards the clock on the wall. Had the guards intentionally brought him here early? It already felt like he'd been here forever.

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Harleen Quinzel waits by the door for several minutes past the appointment start, leaving him to his own thoughts in the barren office. It's shared by a rotating cast of doctors, so decoration and personal touches are verboten. She makes a point to leave it as often as possible.

When she finally decides it's been long enough, she gets a guard to open the door for her and sweeps into the room with a sharp click of her heels on the floor and thick files tucked under her arm. She has a cup of coffee in each hand and coat pockets full of sugar packets and creamers.

"They hide the good coffee on another floor," she offers instead of an apology for lateness, arranging her load on the desk. She smooths the front of her skirt and blows a wisp of hair out of her face, then turns and offers him her hand with a brilliant grin.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Callaghan. I'm Doctor Quinzel. Do you take it black?"

He's alert the moment the door opens, turning around to see whom it is - and immediately taking in the doctor. Shrink. Woman. Any other of other terms. He's not so foolish as to consider first impressions all there is to her, as he knows full well looks can be deceiving...and they'd have to be, for her to work in a place like this.

Lord, he feels out of place. But he manages at least a polite (if halfhearted) smile at her attitude. "Can't blame you for that," he concedes, hesitating a moment before taking her offered hand. "Black is fine."

Generally he takes it differently depending on if he just wants the caffeine or a treat - but his newfound paranoia (which prison has certainly not helped) pushes him to keep up a degree of guards.

Her grip is strong and confident. Textbook professional. She hands him a cup of black coffee and fixes her own to her liking. She drags her chair to the same side of the desk as his and sits with her legs crossed, idly bouncing her foot as she flips through his file one more time before discarding it on the desk.

"Alright then. Is this your first experience with counseling?"

Robert's own grip is firm, without any attempt to overwhelm. And he's more than happy to take a swallow of the coffee as she rereads his file, wondering what she'll even see. No previous felonies or misdemeanors - he thinks the worst that is on there would be a parking ticket or two, if that. Unless Krei decided to fabricate a few more things to keep him in...

There's a split-second of tension in his jaw, and then it releases as he sets down the mug. "I had some years ago," he admits. A bit of grief counseling after the death of his wife. As for the other 'loss'...he'd managed to avoid it, then. Somehow.

"And is this" -- she waves her hand lightly, indicating the entire room. The entire situation, really -- "By your own request, or are you here under protest?"

She knows already, of course, but she wants to hear him tell it.

Option C; none of the above. Not that he phrases it like that, instead shrugging slightly over the coffee.

"The lawyer suggested it."

His own tone suggests he's indifferent nearing the point of 'protest'. But he's cooperated so far - practically a model prisoner.

Her laugh is unguarded and a little too loud.

"I appreciate the honesty! But, face it, you're stuck with these sessions now, so you might as well try to get something out of it."

She sips her coffee and sets it on the desk before crossing her hands over her knee.

"So? How would you like this to go?"