As often as Peter had threatened to stash him down here, it took him almost murdering Fowler for it to actually happen.

Neal's stomach turned when Diana closed the steel door, locking him into a tiny holding cell on the thirteenth floor. Four years in prison, and that sound could still leave him chilled. One of the very few things he hadn't gotten used to.

He looked through the door. The top half was barred, the bottom solid, and it was a visually pleasing forest green. Good use of color psychology. It even calmed him down. Outside stood a very stern Clinton Jones and a sad Diana.

Neal got why Peter had handed the official Bureau response over to them, but all three plainly wished he hadn't. After a long, awkward silence, Jones shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat.

"I'm not comfortable with this," said Jones. "Making decisions about you feels like Peter's job, not ours."

"I know," said Neal, trying to get a read on Jones. Diana would argue for mercy. Clinton...or Peter? Who would his chances be better with?

Peter would be angry on a personal level, and had a pretty rigid interpretation of the law. But he also cared deeply about Neal and had a kind heart.

Jones wasn't angry. It was expected behavior on the part of a felon. But Jones was ex-military, a rigid disciplinarian, and more a friendly co-worker than a friend.

Peter. Peter would make it hurt like hell. But the odds of staying out of prison would be better with him than Jones.

"Look," said Neal, proceeding carefully. "Peter is - an incredibly ethical FBI agent. I know he's afraid his friendship with me will compromise his judgment. But it's compromised anyway. Think for one second you could make this decision for him - either way -and not feel his eyes on your back second-guessing you for a couple years to come?"

"Would you fight the charges?" asked Diana.

Neal looked down. "Yes."

"What would you say?" she asked.

"Whatever my lawyer recommends," said Neal, keeping his voice even and respectful. "But I'll never do anything to hurt you, in or out of court."

Jones sighed. "There's only one person qualified to decide whether he trusts you after this, and that's Peter. I'm putting this hot Caffrey potato back in his hands."

"Thank you," said Neal quietly. "Whatever he decides, it'll be easier coming from a friend."

Jones gave him a hard, disgusted look. He wasn't falling for any of it. He'd merely wanted an out and Neal had given him one on request.

"If I were Peter, I'd make you live in this cell sleeping on concrete for the next month," said Jones. "And then you'd spend a damn eternity under house arrest, in isolation in the bleakest little shithole apartment I could find with no phone, no books, no TV, until you wished you were back in prison. That's what I'm recommending to him if he does keep you around."

Jones about-faced and left, taking Diana with him.

Neal glanced around. This was to jail cells what the White Collar interview room was to police interrogation rooms. Quiet, clean, and almost pretty, with fresh green and white paint and music from a radio trickling in from somewhere down the hall.

But it was a six by six concrete box containing nothing but a poured concrete bench too narrow to lie on. It would be hell to live in. Even the worst holes in Sing Sing had room to lie down and a toilet.

Jones' threat was nasty, in a restrained sort of way, but it was also completely absurd. It wouldn't be legal, even if for some reason Peter condoned the idea. It was, frankly, beneath him.

And then Neal started to smile. Yeah. Jones was smarter than that.

A lot smarter.

"You know his relationship with Caffrey is exactly why he wants you to make this decision," said Diana. "His ethics - he won't let you just hand this back off to him because we don't want the responsibility."

Jones' face twisted in discomfort. "His ethics are what I'm gonna use. Won't be pretty, but he'll yank Caffrey out of my hands five minutes into this meeting."

"You're going to con Peter?" asked Diana. "That's - ballsy."

"Yep. Already started," said Jones.

A relieved smile spread across Diana's face. "Ah."

"Let's just hope Peter's as forgiving of me as he is Caffrey, because I'm about to replace our pet felon on his shit list."

"I'll buy you a drink after work," said Diana.

"Make it several," muttered Jones.

"Did you actually tell our co-worker you wanted to lock 'im in a six by six concrete holding cell for a month, and mean it?"

Peter's fists clenched in anger. Jones could be hard, and insensitive. But how a decent and intelligent man had gotten this so wrong, he didn't know. "If he stays, your life's gonna be in his hands one day. You know that, right?"

"Yes." Jones sounded utterly sure of himself. "Caffrey isn't fragile, and he knows what he is."

"Yeah. An intelligent and sensitive human being. I wanted you to handle the legal end, not kick him around with malignant revenge fantasies," snapped Peter. He sounded pissed, and he didn't even remotely care.

"I've heard you say a hell of a lot worse to him," said Jones, shrugging his shoulders. "I was just being honest."

"I earned the right to talk to him like that," said Peter. "It took a lot of work on my part to gain his trust that I would never, ever do something for the sole purpose of making him miserable."

"You earned the right to have him steal a gun and almost kill someone with it. He almost literally thinks he can get away with murder. Caffrey needs his ass kicked. We can't do that, but we can make his life miserable enough that he won't forget it," said Jones.

"What the hell?" Peter caught himself almost yelling at Jones. He wasn't just angry, he felt betrayed and stupid. He'd trusted a tricky situation, not to mention his best friend's future, to this guy.

Peter tried to continue in a calmer tone, but it was still hostile. "If harsh punishments worked on Caffrey? Giving a first-time offender four years in the most infamous maximum security prison in New York, for nonviolent white collar crimes, would've reformed him, don't you think?"

He started to walk out of the office, but even Peter's toes were still curled in anger. He whipped around to face Jones again. "Oh. And I hope to God you never have kids, because you'd be one hell of a shitty father."

"Whatever you say, boss. I'm sure he's very grateful to have you as his handler."

The veiled insult wasn't lost on Peter. "Yeah. I'm his handler. I'm handling this."