Initially and despite his outburst threatening to kill someone who wasn't there, the only change against Jake was the removal of evidence from a crime scene. The police knew colleges in general and Annandale in specific well enough that they didn't assume any explicit malice in his crime. Already they had charged an art student with the attempted theft of crime scene tape that the student argued was just going to be a part of their midterm project. Once the body was removed, the scene lost its gravity and took on the air of a carnival freak show. The students wanted bragging rights and the excitement of pushing their boundaries to the limit. The cops commanded the approximate interest and respect of gaffed freaks, just odd people in costumes cheating the viewers out of the real show.
Jake had crossed the police tape (after it was recovered) and was found trying to dig the bullet out of a tree with a pocketknife. Jake didn't pay attention to the changes when arrested and, before his parents could be contacted or a lawyer provided, he confessed everything. So surprised were the police that the anonymous tip paid off so quickly (they so rarely did) they reminded him of his right to remain silent, but Jake was agitated and seemed to think a full confession would get him back on the street. Instead, he got a drug screening, which came up clean, and a holding cell in Dutchess County lock-up where he received the first of his two visitors.
The visitor, clad in a bone white suit, strolled up to Jake's cell and knocked on the bars to get Jake's attention. Jake had taken too literally what little advice about prison he could remember, avoiding showering and actually keeping his head down.
"You killed Virgil. You know that, right?" The visitor, a Brit with strange red hair, continued, looked at Jake as though he were crazy. He didn't wear a look of fear as most would when confronted by a mentally ill prisoner. More like pity.
"Are you my lawyer?" Jake replied once he realized ignoring the man would not convince him to leave. His voice echoed flatly against the concrete walls. The cell was small but utilitarian, stark. The only real differences between this cell and his last dorm were unpainted walls, a squatting metal toilet in the corner, doors that stayed locked, and the dread of a roommate.
The visitor shook his head and stepped closer to the bars to get a better look at the prisoner. Jake's eyes were stolen from a preoccupied rottweiler. He was drawn and listless, skin the color of malaria, helped in no way by the prison jumpsuit the green of hospital walls. It may also have been the full body cavity search upon admission, refusal to eat, and the catcalls from other cells.
"It seems she really is good or something," the man said to himself. "No, I keep a different law. I just wanted to make certain you understand the charges against you. Who is actually rotting."
Jake shrugged noncommittally. "Yeah, they told me that who I hit. Coincidences, you know?" And that was exactly how he felt. This was an unfortunate mistake, not a crime. He had tried to right a wrong and slipped up a little bit. It certainly wasn't personal. "...I feel like I know you," he added, standing at the bars to get a better look at his visitor. The man was aloof and confident, his posture a little too straight. How could anyone be that relaxed in a jail, even on that side of the bars?
Jake thought he heard the man laugh. "I hear that a lot. I have a familiar face, apparently. So, why did you shoot your dearest friend in the world?"
"He wasn't," Jake stammered. "We weren't that close. It was an accident. I didn't mean to hit him, I didn't even see him."
"How do you accidentally shoot someone in the chest?"
"If you're not a lawyer, then I don't see why I--"
"Jake," he interrupted, "doesn't it upset you in the least that your friend is dead?"
"Listen, jerk, I had a friend. One. He died months ago. That's why--"
"You shot Virgil."
Jake slouched mutely on the bunk in his cell.
The visitor did not retreat. "Why don't you just confuse your jailers?" he chided. "Make them think you are supposed to be free. That should be well within your abilities. This is all just holographic, is it not?"
Jake no longer slouched, nor kept his head down. This was plain mocking, the man knew his abilities were gone. "Who the hell are you?"
"A friend," he said simply. "But maybe not yours."
Jake pressed to the bars of his cell willing himself to melt, to get as close to the visitor as he could. His eyes darted over the visitor's face. The skin was graying and wrinkled, despite its relative youth. There were light scars on the cheeks and wounds that had begun to fester. Whoever this person was, they were dying. The face was not actually familiar or attractive, but the expression of amused detachment on it was.
"How?" Jake begged, a befuddled grin clinging to his face with the tenacity of a small boy to his mother's skirt.
"Later," the visitor insisted, "we are on a tight schedule."
"How are you going to get me out of here?"
"I am not," he replied, leaning back from the bars casually and looking to the ember glow of the exit sign. "Not if you don't tell me why Virgil is now dead."
The relief of leaving the frying pan flickered over Jake's body, like the spirit someone thrice his strength took possession of his body and abandon it for freer climes. "Man, all you had to do is ask." Jake proceeded to tell him everything, of his destiny, of his training, of Rhys and Anchal. Especially of Anchal. The prison seemed so quiet and empty, Jake realized, like everyone was sleeping. When he finished confessing everything, he felt so much better. This was going to work out. Nothing could kill him. It may distract him for a while or toss his ass in jail, but he would be the winner. He had a destiny.
His visitor advised Jake to stay in prison for the moment and to keep quiet. If anyone asked about the shooting, Jake was to say nothing. A lawyer would be coming shortly -- it had already been arranged -- and to him, Jake could admit everything within reason. Everyone on the outside knew about the shooting and things would need to settle before any further action was prudent or wise.
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