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Tim was in the van with Diana and Jones, the anklet chafing just a little where it had thinned his sock.
Tim shifted, and tried to work on the next case on their desk in his mind, because this one had gone from boring to busted.
“Bloody rich kids,” Jones muttered, as they watched Peter cuff their apprehended suspect on the van monitors. “No wonder so many of them turn out rotten when they’re just handed everything.”
Victor Maitland (silent t, of course) had been defrauded by his own son, Victor Maitland Jr, to the tune of about 15 million dollars and change. Victor Jr was in his late-20s, Ivy League educated, and had fallen straight from law school into a job as a rising star in international property law.
“Well, at least we probably won’t have any court time for this. I can’t imagine Maitland actually letting us charge the brat. It’s not from the publicly traded company, so this can stay quiet if he wants,” Jones said, flicking through his tablet and the notes about the case.
Tim murmured his agreement, settling back in his chair, eyes barely focused on the screen to where Peter was having a bit too much fun reading Maitland junior his rights. He had more important things to be thinking about.
He mentally opened the files he’d read for Nightwing last night, and worked on that problem instead. At least Two-Face was actually important .
“Imagine being so entitled from a life as cushy as that one that you can’t be bothered to wait for the old man to die. Growing up rich turns people into assholes. Rich kids are just—Exhaustingly entitled.”
Diana laughed, but with the sarcastic mocking edge of a kid raised in diplomatic circles.
“Yeah, maybe, but come on, Jones. You had just about the same trajectory as that kid. Private school, a Navy officer, law school which your father pushed you into it. You turned out fine.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t have money .”
“Christie’s folks didn’t have money. She’s going to be paying off med school until she’s fifty. And they had enough of a college fund from her gran’s death to get her through half of undergrad. Yours were just fine.”
“Having enough money to even think of going to college is having money, Diana. I knew someone who got threatened with four years in juvie for stealing cheese from a bodega,” Tim said.
Jones nodded.
“There’s a scale of money, though, even once you have it. I couldn’t steal 15 million from my dad before he noticed, because there isn’t 15 million to steal.”
“I knew some people like the Maitlands, growing up in diplomatic circles,” Diana said. “Those kids were usually complete brats.”
Tim sighed, and tapped his foot as he worked through compiling cryptic notes on his phone for Babs.
“I’d have thought that being exposed to international ideas and travel would make for well rounded children. Doing international schooling, and living in new places.”
“Going to expat schools usually doesn’t manage that. Well, maybe they were all brats because the ones with proper money were the kids of corrupt politicians. That probably doesn’t help.”
“See. Corruption and money isn’t the same thing as being raised from money and being expected to work.”
Diana hummed.
“What a waste of time,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair, and spinning to face the two of them in the back of the van. “This whole operation, I mean.”
“Neal, just because you’d rather we didn’t chase thieves doesn’t mean it’s pointless.”
Tim flicked the ankle of his trouser, to make the anklet visible. Money was always a tense and useless conversation, to his mind.
Neal Caffrey was being paid like he was still in prison, with it’s federally sanctioned below minimum wage pay for doing the work of a white collar fed, and expected to dress the part and pay for his own living. It was impossible, if he wasn’t actually Tim Drake with all the fancy suits he could ever need, already tailored.
If there had been a real Neal Caffrey, expecting him to act like a con man required him to be conning either the FBI or running one on the side, because there was no way he could be sufficiently Caffrey for the FBI’s purposes on $700 a month. Catch 22.
Not that it really mattered to Tim. He hadn’t even drawn a salary when he was CEO of Wayne Enterprises. It had been too damn awkward to even think of it. It wasn’t like he needed the money. He had the Drake money, and was using Bruce’s resources for Red Robin, and it was pretty meaningless once there was a significant number of 0s on the end of any accountant’s summary of diversified assets.
The lead accountant had come to him, once, asking for his details, and sure he was a kid at the time, but he remembered distinctly that he didn’t feel like he deserved to be paid. He was doing what he had to do, for Bruce. Even if he was good at the job (which was always a bit of a question mark in Tim’s head), he had enough money to live on for his entire life. He didn’t deserve to be paid .
Huh. Was that Federal $700 a month Tim’s first actual salary?
He was such a fuck up, but at least he knew where he’d buried his triggers.
Tim drew his attention back to Diana and Jones, looking at him.
“It’s not that I don’t think we should chase thieves, just musing that justice won’t be served. There’s nothing we’ve done here except spend time and government money chasing an entitled and incompetent thief. Like you said, the money just moved around between people who already had too much. What does it matter if Junior gets disinherited and still keeps his $400k job?”
“Well, he’ll definitely get fired,” Jones said.
Tim raised an eyebrow.
Jones’ mouth opened to argue, but Diana nodded in agreement. “Yeah, probably not. Or at least it won’t really get around as more than rumour.”
Tim nodded. “Exactly.”
“One rule for the rich, one for the poor?” she asked. “That’s what you believe.”
“I know. Haven’t you seen the statistical breakdown of crimes committed vs time served? Don’t you believe that rich and poor face different consequences?”
Jones nodded, thinking. “Different types of crimes are more difficult to prosecute, and when it’s crimes against people it’s much easier to justify significant consequences than crimes with more ambiguous victims.”
“Hmmm. Punishment fit the crime, yes?”
“Well, ideally. Public defenders are usually overworked, and if you can afford a good lawyer, that can make all the difference.”
“Not that context matters,” Tim said, thinking about the rather silly background someone in the JL had given Caffrey. “It’s that justice isn’t blind. Sometimes it forgives people for being pretty, or an athlete, or male. And sometimes it sends a non-violent conman to maximum security, with violent criminals. For being pretty and stealing from the rich, presumably.”
Diana was looking at him too clearly. Fuck, was that sympathy in her eyes. Tim hadn’t even been to prison, but that the FBI hadn’t questioned the background they’d given Caffrey said a lot anyway.
“Yes, that—was not a good application of justice.”
“Too many unintended consequences, do you think?”
Diana nodded, looking at him with those clear eyes, probably thinking about all the things Tim had implied. Fuck. He’d leant into Caffrey too much. Having an alias with too many of his own neuroses was a bad plan. He’d known that. Caffrey had daddy issues and money issues and status issues, and he wasn’t a nice clean slate like Alvin or Catherine, clear of Tim’s least flattering personal habits.
“So you think non-violent crimes being under-prosecuted applies to everyone other than you?” Jones said, poking the mess of Tim’s thoughts.
He shouldn’t have started talking. He was distracted, most of his mind back in Gotham, just marking time in the Van until Peter stopped gloating over his latest collar.
“No, that’s not what I mean. I’d prefer the bias went the other way around than it usually does. Give rich or privileged criminals more consequences, not less.”
“The other way? Not justice? Not a fair trial and the same punishment for all?”
“No. If a rich person steals they should get more time. They didn’t need it, after all. And if someone steals food, or to make their rent so they aren’t homeless, or stabs someone who was trying to kill them, well fuck that, they’ve already been screwed by society. No need for the ‘justice system’ to pile on. And while we’re at it, let’s have some German logic about how a prison escape isn’t illegal, because wanting to escape from prison is a natural human condition, since all humans want freedom, so you don’t get extra time for wanting to be free.”
“Well, that’s not pointed at all. Nice philosophy to get yourself out of anklet-time, I guess.”
Tim waggled his anklet at Jones, in demonstration.
“Twice the prison time because I wasn’t suitably cowed and wanted freedom? That’s hardly fair.”
Diana looked like she might agree with that. Nice of her.
“So, Caffrey-logic is less prison for him, and more for rich boys who don’t need the money.”
“Oh no, more prison for the rich would get me too.” Tim said. “I was a rich boy.” He gestured out at where Maitland junior was pulling up his cufflinked shirts so they wouldn’t get creased by the cuffs. “I’m smarter than that idiot, of course, but still a rich idiot in my own way.”
Tim touched his own cufflinks, and kept typing out his thoughts about what Dick found two nights ago. Being restricted from the Batcomputer wasn’t doing anything for his stress level, since he had to do so much more of the connections work manually.
“But—I thought you were the kid who stole cheese?”
Tim didn’t look up, instead keeping his eyes on the display in front of him. Somehow it irked him that he had made them believe that, even if unintentionally.
“I didn’t say I was him. No one threatened me with juvie. Not seriously, anyway. I was just your average private school fuck up.”
“Where did you meet him? The kid who stole cheese? Was it in prison?” Jones asked.
“It says more about society that you think a rich kid can’t have poor friends.”
Jones bristled a little bit. “We were talking about how stratified society is that they don’t even put them in the same prisons, let alone schools.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I used to go out wandering the city when I was a kid because there was no one at home to notice I was missing. I learnt a lot that way.”
“This explains a lot about your wardrobe. And how you can talk about cheese platters with Elizabeth for half an hour,” Diana said, since she could also talk about cheese platters with the care and precision of a diplomat’s kid.
Tim shrugged. “Good cheese is worth talking about.”
Tim sent the last of his analysis to Babs, then looked up.
“Oh, fuck. I was distracted. Can we not tell Peter?”
Diana laughed.
“That you’re a secret rich kid?”
“How did you end up—” Jones waved his hands, one up at the roof of the van, the other towards Tim’s anklet.
“Like you said, Jones. Growing up rich fucks you up,” Tim said with a shrug. “But Peter has so much fun when he thinks he’s figured something out. No need to give him extra clues just because I need more coffee.”
Tim went home after the case wrapped up, and ate the dinner that June’s maid Marisol had left for him, already prepared with heating instructions on a post-it note.
He really sucked at not being a rich kid. He should just let himself be Neal Caffrey, and save being a real person for the likes of Dick and Jason and Steph. They at least knew how real people lived.