By lunch, it already was a full-fledged shitty day. The only real amusing part of the morning was the hilarious stream of texts Camille had received from Lydia and Celia, still excited at owning their first phones. Work, on the other hand ....

"I don't understand why you're not pissed," said Camille, poking at the last few fries on her plate. "He was an enormous dick to you."

"I shouldn't have even brought the subject up is why," responded Eric Mueller in his usual calm way. He looked at her with the faintest hint of a smile. "But once I did, I thought I might have some fun."

Camille started laughing. She was still plumbing the depths of her partner in some ways and often forgot the quiet joy he took from screwing with people. The guy should win an Academy Award, she thought.

But as much as she now realized Eric's debate, no, his argument, with Special Agent Caldecott-Nevarez had been Eric's play-acting, she knew her partner believed every word of it. It was the thing that perplexed and impressed her most about him. He was a true believer; for him, the Law was more than just words on paper.

It was then that she realized something.

"Was that whole thing meant for me?" she asked, looking him straight in the eye.

Her partner gave her one of his looks.

"We've been partners for over two years, now. If you don't know what I think by now ...." He let it trail off. "And besides, aren't you the one half a semester shy of a law degree? If anyone should be lecturing anybody on right and wrong, it should be you setting me straight."

"Sorry," she said.

It had all begun innocently enough. The first two hours of the morning had been more of the boilerplate indoctrination everyone got before being granted access to classified information, focusing mostly on how information should be handled and stored and to whom it might be disseminated.

The briefing later had shifted to a more detailed explanation on what the taskforce was authorized to do and how it would be done. That was when the explanations and rationales the FBI agents provided had begun to feel slippery.

"Sorry," Eric had said, "what crimes are we investigating?"

For several long seconds, Agent Caldecott-Nevarez had seemed at a loss. He'd stared openmouthed at Camille's partner.

"Well," Eric had said, filling the silence, "I'm a police officer. I don't investigate people. I investigate crimes. And let's just assume for a moment that the bogeyman exists ... what crime or set of crimes do we suspect the bogeyman of having committed?"

Of the nine law enforcement officers assembled to receive the briefing, two had been generous enough to attempt to hide their laughter. The others had shown no such sensitivity. Eric had kept a straight face.

Another agent had whispered something quickly and quietly to Caldecott-Nevarez, who'd replied, "well, the FBI is chartered to engage in operations outside criminal law, namely counter-intelligence."

It had been and was the wrong answer, and Eric had pounced immediately. "So, then, what foreign intelligence agency are we facing? Or, if you meant counter terrorism, what insurgent or terror group are we focused on?"

He hadn't given the agents the chance to respond to his enquiries. His tone sincere and professional throughout, Eric had turned instead to the other officers and agents assembled for the briefing.

"Look, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to slow things down, but we should think about what our goals are here. I'm able to do my job because a crime has been committed. Since I know what crime has been committed, I can look for clues of that crime, which, ultimately, will lead me to a perpetrator. Without knowing what crime we're investigating, we're all just flailing about."

Turning back to Caldecott-Nevarez and his team, he'd asked a simple question. "So, what crimes or evidence of a crime are we looking for?"

In response to that query, Caldecott-Nevarez had blustered but seemed unable to provide any answer, and over the next half hour, the 'debate' between he and Eric had continued as Caldecott-Nevarez had become increasingly hostile and dismissive of Eric's statements in direct proportion to how calm and respectful Mueller grew.

Others present had chimed in, siding with Mueller. In fact, the phrase 'police state' had been uttered not once but twice.

At the end of that 30 minutes, Eric had placed it all to rest by apologizing to all assembled for having gotten the briefing off-topic and had expressed his intent to do everything he could to help make the taskforce successful and worthwhile.

As Camille sat in the restaurant about to harpoon the last French fry, it hit her.

"You were working the room," she said. The memories of how others at the briefing had stopped when they broke for lunch to shake Mueller's hand and thank him for his contribution confirmed that estimate in her mind.

Mueller looked at her with a flat gaze, no hint of a smile on his face. But her partner's eyes said it all. "You want another soda?" he asked as he stood.

"No, really," she whispered. "That was all about getting everyone in the room on your side." She saw Mueller's lips twitch at the edges before they regained their composure.

"Tommy, I wish I was half as clever as you think I am." He went to fetch them each a refill.

"Academy Fucking Award," she whispered.