Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.
Summary: The verdict is 'not guilty,' and Lisbon exhales a breath that she didn't even realize she had been holding. Jisbon, set during 4.01, oneshot
Um, yeah. Loved the premiere. Thought I just had to write something for it, so here this is. I hope that everyone enjoys this little fic of mine. It's not that long, but I just wanted to write a little something from Lisbon's perspective about the whole situation during the episode. Some of the dialogue is paraphrased basically from the episode. Anyway, please enjoy!
Judge and Jury
Lisbon hates to admit when she's worried.
She hates to admit anything to herself, really. Especially things that might put the people she cares about in danger. Sometimes she builds walls around herself, thinking that nothing can touch them, but in reality, they can.
She's a mess. Van Pelt is a mess, and as a result Rigsby is a mess. Cho is just Cho - she can never really be certain if he's a mess or not most days. And Jane…
Yes, Jane is a verifiable mess.
She sits down gingerly in the pew. She has tried to convince herself that Jane will somehow come out squeaky clean, but she just can't see it happening. Blame it on the cynic in her, but Jane shot someone in broad daylight on the thought that he was Red John. She can't help but admitting to herself that she might just not be around him for whatever time they decide to make him serve…
But then he starts talking.
He starts talking on that final day, about Red John and about his wife and his child and what would they do.
Lisbon allows herself to hope after that.
Maybe Jane got through to them. With his liquid words and raw emotion, maybe he had turned the tides in his favor. Jane has done some remarkable things before, so she can't completely rule out the possibility that he's dodged the long arm of the law.
She knows that hoping for them to rule him not guilty is silly, but she just can't help that frilly, girlish hope that he'll escape unscathed.
As soon as she starts to do that, though, she purposefully digs her nails into her arm, piercing the flesh there, to snap herself out of it.
And she waits.
She waits and everything seems to go in slow motion. The jury comes back faster than expected and immediately she has a bad feeling.
This can't be good, this can't be good, she thinks to herself as she once again takes her seat.
Nothing can be good about this. Not at all.
She berates herself over and over, the chorus of thoughts in her head coming to an almost argument with themselves as one of the jury stands up.
Lisbon listens. She listens so hard for the words that she wants to hear that she's almost certain she had forced her own thoughts into that jury member's head when the judgment is read.
"…not guilty…"
She freezes.
The verdict is 'not guilty,' and Lisbon exhales a breath that she didn't even realize she had been holding.
Every muscle in her body seems to relax at that moment, rendering her with the consistency and strength of jello. She stares at the back of Jane's head, at his impeccably messy hair, the set of his shoulders, and allows herself to feel relief. It washes over her in waves, rendering her speechless. She sees Jane's position change to that of relief. No one else could spot it, she thinks, but she does. She's not sure how she does, really, but she can see that he's visibly relieved.
Many things happen then. There's a scuffling of satisfied people in the courthouse, the cursing of the losing side, the various chattering and relieved glances the team gives each other. She can't help but agree with all of it.
Soon, they are outside, and she can't believe that she is so enamored with the sight of him outside, in the fresh sunlight. She watches it as it glints off his yellow hair, mingles with the exposed skin of his neck, watches as his shirt stretches taught over his back as he leans into the car.
She tries to fight the sense of overwhelming relief she feels - and she fails, but she can't say that she didn't try to feel nothing.
All that seems impossible when she thinks of Patrick Jane.
She does feel glad that Red John was killed. That maybe Jane could move on from this grudge he's always held ever since she's known him. That maybe just a bit of the darkness that always hung over him would finally be lifted. Lisbon thinks that it would help, even if only a touch of the pain he feels every day would be taken from him.
That's when he says the words.
"I hate to lie to them like that," he begins. "But I needed them to find me not guilty."
She looks at him, incredulous. The words seem to be physical, tangible things, battering against her skull as if to find a way into her brain when she doesn't want to believe what information they hold.
"Jane…what?"
"The man I killed wasn't Red John."
And everything falls apart again, shattered around her feet like so many broken shards of glass. What she thought was closure was everything but. The man Jane killed was a sick man, that was for sure. But he wasn't Red John. She stares at Jane and keeps driving, her fingers tightly gripping the wheel, stony eyes cast forward, lips pursed tightly as she tries not to look at his profile out of the corner of her eye.
Maybe he will never find his version of peace.
End.