It's a quiet evening in the commissioner's office, only serenaded by the soft ticking of the clock and the traffic outside. The ruffling of papers is the loudest, though, as James looks down at a bunch of classified documents he wouldn't bother describe out loud. They probably contain information about the young troublemaker before him, someone he's not really eager to see in a police station waiting for punishment. He's sadly getting used to seeing criminals that can't reach alcohol-buying age.

"Let me get this straight." The low rumbling of his tone carries a hint of tobacco and mint with it, a trail of his previous (and interrupted) break. "You stole an officer's gun, almost got away with his car's keys, and you thought you'd get away with it?" He raises an eyebrow to look up at you, lifting his mug to wash the bitter taste of this situation with coffee. He doesn't want this to be a monologue, a reprimand to someone who couldn't care less about his opinions. But it's hard.

Leaning back on his chair, he absently holds a pen and taps it again the wooden desk, taking a deep breath. The fact that no one's come to pick you up gives him three options: one, your parents don't know; two, they don't care; and three... They're not available. "Look, I'm- I'm not gonna give you a moral lesson. But you're either gonna end up in a correctional, or with a dark spot in your history for something you couldn't even do right." This reminds Jim of the times his father would scold him for the smallest things. He doesn't know whether to hate it or be grateful for it now.

"Care to collaborate with me here?" His voice drops to a quieter tone, trying to keep it private. He pauses for a moment and hesitates before pointing at your own cup with a lazy index. "Drink before it gets cold. We're not reheating it."