1/16/07
THE TRIAL
"All rise. The Honorable Judge William Stokes presiding," Jim called out.
Standing along with the rest of the crowded courtroom, Nick felt a strange flutter in his stomach as his father entered and seated himself behind the bench.
"Be seated," Judge Stokes called out, arranging the full sleeves of his black robe, like a bird of prey preening its wings.
Sitting, Nick reached for the glass and pitcher of water that sat on the small table before him. He was very nervous and his throat was parched. He had just grasped the pitcher, when Jim, dressed in a bailiff's uniform, stepped forward again.
"The defendant will please rise," the detective said.
"That's you, Honey, stand up," Nick's mother said, taking his elbow and urging him to his feet. Following his mother's orders, he looked around and for the first time, realized that he was, indeed, standing behind the defendant's table.
"This court is now in session," the judge said, giving a loud rap with his gavel. "The defendant, Nicholas Stokes, is charged with murder and has entered a plea of not guilty, is this correct?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Jillian Stokes responded.
"Very well, you may be seated,"
As Nick and Jillian once more returned to their seats, Nick whispered, "What's going on? Who am I being accused of killing?"
"Sshh, dear," Jillian admonished gently, "I'll take care of everything, don't worry."
"The prosecution may begin with its case. Mr. Grissom, you may call your first witness," the judge said.
"Thank you, Your Honor."
Nick leaned forward to look over at the next table, where, indeed, Gil Grissom sat organizing his notes. After a moment, he stood and in a clear voice, said, "For our first witness, we call nine-year-old Nicholas Stokes."
There was a buzz in the courtroom at this unusual move by the prosecution, especially so early in the proceedings.
"Oh, that Grissom is a sneaky one. He's already playing to the jury's sympathies," Jillian said and she turned to smile at Nick fondly. "You were so cute at that age, although I can't imagine what you would have had to say in a courtroom at nine years old..."
Nick felt his heart sink. He could think of plenty of things his nine year old self would have had to say in a court of law, but none of them were things that he wanted known now, nor were they things that Grissom would have known about.
Nick looked over at the jury box. It was filled with his co-workers, his fellow CSIs, the various lab techs, and even a few of the detectives and uniformed officers. Seeing Catherine, Wendy and Mandy all smile and point toward the back of the courtroom, Nick turned to see what they were looking at.
Walking down the aisle, toward the witness box, was Nick, looking exactly as he had at age nine. The adult Nick felt himself flinch inwardly at the sight of himself. He was wearing the blue plaid pajamas that he'd been wearing that night. He knew they were the same pajamas because he'd refused to ever wear them again. Seeing them again now was quite a shock.
He watched himself reach the witness box, where he was met by Jim Brass, holding a plain, black Bible. He swore the boy in and the child Nick climbed onto the hard, wooden chair. He turned to face the courtroom and swung his bare feet nervously as he sat waiting for the questions.
"You need to sit still, Poncho," Judge Stokes said softly.
"Yes sir," the boy whispered and complied immediately.
His attention was drawn to Grissom, who had moved to stand in front of the witness box. The entomologist smiled at the boy reassuringly and the adult Nick felt his stomach clench. That was the same look Grissom often gave to suspects just before he moved in for the kill. Nick felt an overwhelming desire to run up to the box and pull his younger self out and shield the child from his supervisor's sharp tongue. But Nick just sat, mesmerized, and waited for the inevitable.
"Are you nervous, Nicky?" Gil asked.
"Yes sir."
"Well, don't be. We're just having a nice little chat, you and I. Don't pay any attention to anyone else... Well, except for your father," Gil added, with a wink. "Those are some very nice pajamas you're wearing. Are they your favorites?"
"Objection!" Jillian Stokes called out, standing at the defense table. "Relevance? Your Honor, what could this witness possibly have to say that would have any bearing on these proceedings?"
"I'm inclined to agree with the defense," Judge Stokes remarked. He turned to the entomologist, "Mr. Grissom...?"
"Your Honor, I'm trying to establish a pattern of behavior. If you'll allow me a little latitude, my point will become clear enough."
The judge sighed. "Very well, I'll allow it. Overruled. But get to your point quickly, Mr. Grissom, my patience is thin, particularly with regard to this witness." Turning to the younger incarnation of his son, the judge said, "Go ahead and answer the question, Poncho."
"Yes sir. They used to be my favorite pajamas, but they're not anymore."
"No, you don't like them anymore?" Grissom asked.
"No sir, they don't feel right anymore," the boy said, plucking at the soft flannel fabric of the shirt and shifting his narrow shoulders slightly. "They feel scratchy now."
"And why's that?"
"I don't know. They've felt like that ever since that night."
"That night...?" Gil prompted.
"Yeah, that night the babysitter came to my house."
"Oh, you mean, the night of your father's award ceremony? When you got sick at the last minute and couldn't go with the rest of the family? Your parents got you a babysitter... What happened?"
"S-she came into my room and took off my pajamas and... she touched me. I didn't like it."
A soft, collective gasp could be heard in the courtroom and there were several low murmurs. Over at the Defense table, Jillian turned to her adult son and whispered, "Is this true? Nick, why didn't you tell me?"
He didn't answer, just looked away from the hurt look in her eyes. Glancing up at the bench, he saw that expression mirrored on his father's face.
"Did you tell anyone about his?" Gil was asking the child Nick.
"No sir."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want anyone to know about it."
"You didn't want anyone to know..." Grissom repeated, his voice hardening. "So, never mind that this woman went on to prey on other little boys, some even younger than you, you thought only of yourself, isn't that right?"
At the defendant's table, the adult Nick saw the look of dawning horror on the face of his younger self and he felt anger swell within him, on behalf of the child he'd been.
"That's not fair!" he protested, getting to his feet. "I was nine! I couldn't be expected to understand the possible ramifications of my actions. Of course I thought only of myself. I was a frightened child!"
"That's enough!" Judge Stokes barked. "The defendant will please sit down."
Noting that his father's tone with him had cooled considerably, Nick reigned in his temper and sat down, although he still felt a lingering urge to rebel.
Grissom turned to the judge and said, "I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor."
As the scientist returned to his seat at the prosecution table, the judge said, "Your witness, Ms. Stokes."
Giving her adult son a quick pat on the arm and a flash of a reassuring smile, Jillian stood and stepped around the table to stand before her nine-year-old son. She smiled at the child indulgently.
"It's okay, Nicky," she said gently. "Momma's not angry with you. I know you didn't mean for anyone else to get hurt."
"No ma'am!" the boy said quickly.
"No, of course not, this woman, the one who touched you, she threatened you, didn't she? She told you that she would punish you in some way if you told anyone what she'd done, didn't she?"
"No, ma'am, she didn't," the boy said softly. "She told me not to tell, but she didn't threaten me."
"She didn't?" Jillian asked, the disappointment clearly audible in her voice.
"No, ma'am, she told that everyone would know, that I'd have to go to court, like this, and tell everyone. She told me that no one would believe me and that they'd think I was a liar and a freak."
"And you believed her?"
"Yes ma'am."
"But why would you believe that?" Jillian asked, now sounding hurt. "You know you can always tell me anything..."
The boy said nothing, but he dropped his gaze to his lap and began to fidget with the hem of his shirt. Across the room, the adult Nick felt his heart go out to his younger self. He'd disappointed and hurt his parents, something he'd tried his entire life never to do. Glancing around the courtroom, he sensed this disappointment was shared by everyone else.
"I-I have no more questions, Your Honor," Jillian said, after a moment.
"You may leave the courtroom," Judge Stokes said to his son.
The boy climbed down from the witness box and started toward the back of the courtroom. As the child passed by the defense table, he glanced over and Nick's eyes met those of his nine-year-old self. There was a haunted quality there that he'd never been aware of before. The moment passed and the child hurried on his way, leaving the adult Nick feeling somewhat alone and abandoned.
"You should have told me," Jillian whispered to her son.
"It's too late now," Nick mumbled.
Turning to face the front of the courtroom again, he shifted his position, trying to relieve some of the strain in his back. The chair he was sitting in was hard and uncomfortable and his lower back was starting to ache badly. Remembering that he was also still very thirsty, Nick started to reach for the water again. But again, he was distracted from this goal by his father speaking.
"You may call your next witness, Mr. Grissom."
"Thank you, Your Honor, we call Patrick Stokes to the stand," Gil said.
"Pat's here?" Nick whispered to his mother, immediately thinking of his older brother.
"No, not your brother, dear, your grandfather."
Nick turned to look at the person now making their way slowly down the aisle. Sure enough, it was his father's father, looking just like he had the last time Nick had seen him, which had been at the man's funeral. He was even still wearing the dress blues he'd been buried in. Grandad Stokes had been a Marine and had served in the Pacific in the last year of World War II. Nick thought the old guy looked pretty good, especially considering that he'd been dead for about 10 years.
Walking a bit stiffly, Patrick Stokes finally reached the witness box, where he was sworn in by Brass and he sat down. The former Marine sat glaring at Grissom, as though daring the man to make him speak ill of his grandson. The entomologist just smiled warmly at the older man as he moved to stand before the witness box.
"I see by your uniform that you were a Marine," Gil commented conversationally.
"That's right, I was. I was fighting for my life on the island of Okinawa while you were just a twinkle in your daddy's eye."
"I dare say you were, sir," Gil said with an indulgent smile. "Weren't you ever disappointed that your son and your grandsons all chose the law over the military?"
"Well, certainly I had hopes, but I wouldn't go so far as to say I was disappointed. I mean, look at what Bill's done with his life, Texas State Supreme Court Justice. I can't complain about that, now can I? And Patrick, my namesake, he's well on his way toward making state Attorney General. No, I have nothing to complain about."
"What about Nick? He's in a bit of trouble right now, isn't he?"
"Well, that's not his fault. He shouldn't be held accountable to all the crazies of the world, who want to punish a man for just doing his job. That's not his fault. He's a good man."
"You and Nick were always close, weren't you?"
"Yeah, we were. I had hoped that Nicky would be the one to follow in my footsteps and join the military, but well... He fights the good fight here in Las Vegas. That's good enough for me."
"Fights the good fight," Gil repeated. "Yes, interesting choice of words. He's not doing much fighting at the moment, is he? In fact, he's doing a lot of despairing. Tell me, when you were fighting in Okinawa, did you ever consider giving up, of eating your gun?"
"Well, hell, no! I was too busy trying to stay alive. I sure as hell didn't want to die! Besides, you couldn't give up, not without letting down the guy next to you and I would never do that. I'm a Stokes and we Stokes men are made of sterner stuff than that!"
"Hmm, I wonder, are all the Stokes men made of 'sterner' stuff?" Gil mused aloud, turning to look pointedly at Nick.
The Texan shifted uneasily in his uncomfortable chair and looked away guiltily. Seeing her son's reaction to this, Jillian quickly got to her feet.
"Objection!" she said. "Is this an actual question for the witness or is Mr. Grissom simply grandstanding for the jury?"
"Withdrawn!" Gil said quickly, before the judge could even make his ruling.
"The jury will disregard Mr. Grissom's last statement," Judge Stokes instructed, knowing full well that it would be impossible for them to actually do so. "Get on with it, Mr. Grissom."
Turning his attention back to the former Marine still seated in the witness box, watching him warily, Gil said, "So, you never once considered giving up, despite the hardships you undoubtedly faced while serving in the war?"
"No, but you can't compare that to Nicky's situation," Patrick Stokes protested. "These are entirely different circumstances."
"Perhaps, but it certainly looks like your grandson is giving up awfully quickly. And according to you, that is the true measure of a man..."
"He hasn't given up yet! He's a fighter! He'll be fine. You'll see. This is just a minor setback."
"I have no more questions for this witness," Gil said to the judge.
"Your witness, Ms. Stokes," the judge said.
Standing and straightening the jacket of her navy blue suit, Jillian moved to stand before her father-in-law. She gave him a warm smile.
"Hi, Dad," she said.
"Hey, there, Jilly, you still look good," the old man said with a flirtatious wink. "I sure hope this son of mine is still treating you right."
"Thank you and yes, he still treats me well... Now, about Nick, did you ever know him to give up easily on anything?"
"Hell, no! I remember when Nicky first started playing football, he was smaller than most of the other boys. Hell, I think he was smallest boy on the team, but he was quick. Now, I couldn't tell you how many times I saw him get knocked done, hard. But he never quit. He'd just pick himself up, dust himself off and get back in the game. He never gave up. He played football at Rice for a year."
"Thank you, Dad. I have no more questions."
Nick glanced over at the jury and noticed Warrick and Bobby Dawson talking quietly together, nodding. He thought that was a good sign. Perhaps his grandfather's testimony had helped his case.
As the old Marine limped his was back down the aisle toward the back of the courtroom, Gil stood and called his next witness.
"We call Dylan Stokes to the stand," he said.
"Who?" Nick whispered to his mother. He had no idea who that was. He'd always rather liked the name Dylan and he was sure he would have remembered hearing of a relative with that name.
"Well, it's who you're accused of killing, isn't it?" Jillian said tightly. "I don't believe Grissom is doing this..."
"Wait, I'm accused of killing someone I'm related to?" Nick said, shocked and confused.
Before his mother could respond, he was distracted by the door at the back of the room opening and a middle aged woman in a plain brown suit entered. It took a moment for Nick to notice the small boy she was leading by the hand. He looked to be about four years old and had a thick mop of dark brown hair. He was carrying a small stuffed dog under one arm.
Seeing the boy, Nick felt his stomach heave slightly, threatening to rebel. I'm accused of killing a child?!
As the woman and the child approached the defense table, the boy broke into a wide grin. "Hi, Grandma! Hi, Daddy!" he called out in a loud, carrying "whisper" and waved enthusiastically, dropping his toy in the process.
As the child bent to retrieve the toy, Jillian leaned close to her stunned son and said softly, "Isn't he adorable? He has your smile, but he has his mother's eyes."
Wracking his suddenly sluggish brain, trying to think who he'd been dating four or five years ago, Nick asked, "Who...?"
"Oh, you haven't met her yet," Jillian said.
"What do you mean I haven't met her yet? How can I...?"
"Well, Dylan hasn't actually been born yet, has he?" Jillian interrupted. "That's what we're here to decide, isn't it?"
Nick was left speechless, unable to respond to these incredible questions, which was just as well, as the child had reached the witness stand and was climbing onto the chair. Judge Stokes turned to address the child.
"Now, Dylan, remember the little chat we had earlier?" the judge asked. "You promised that you would tell the truth, all of it, while you were sitting in that chair, remember?"
"Yes Grandpa," the boy answered.
"Alright then, now you answer Mr. Grissom's questions."
"So, how old are you, Dylan?" Gil asked, moving to stand in front of the child.
"Five."
"What's your little dog's name?"
"Rags, 'cause that's what he's made with. Mom made him and she stuffed him with some old rags," the boy said, his attention focused on the toy. "I wanted a real dog, but Dad said I wasn't big enough yet, but maybe in a couple of years I can have a puppy."
"But that's not really going to happen, is it, Dylan?"
"What do you mean?" the boy asked, looking up at the scientist, confused.
"Well, outside of this room, you don't really exist, do you?"
"I don't?"
"No, you don't," Gil said gently. "And if your father has his way, you never will exist."
Nick felt his throat constrict slightly as the boy turned hurt and confused eyes toward him. "Daddy?" the boy said.
"Your daddy's given up hope. He's ready to abandon you, without ever even getting to know you."
"No, my daddy loves me! He tells me so every night when he tucks me in bed, before he goes to work," the boy said stubbornly.
"Well, I'm sure he would, if you really existed, but you don't..."
Seeing the child's lower lip beginning to trembling and his eyes grow bright with impending tears, Nick turned to his mother, to see why she wasn't objecting to this unnecessarily harsh treatment. But Jillian Stokes was already crying herself and was too busy trying to get herself under control, to protest. So, Nick took matters into his own hands.
"Stop it!" he cried out, getting to his feet. "Can't you see you're upsetting him? He's just a kid! Leave him alone!"
"Am I?" Gil asked, turning to look at Nick with that infuriatingly calm and detached manner that sometimes made the Texan want to strangle his supervisor. "I think perhaps it's you that's upsetting him."
Turning his attention back to the child, Nick saw that the boy was staring at him with wide, watery eyes. Feeling like he'd just been sucker-punched in the gut, Nick sat back down heavily and hung his head. He felt like a complete bastard. He was only vaguely aware of the proceedings continuing around him.
"I have no more questions for this witness," he heard Gil say.
"Do you have any questions, Ms. Stokes?" the judge asked.
"No, Your Honor," Jillian Stokes said softly, her voice sounding somewhat husky.
Nick looked up as the child was led back down the aisle by the same non-descript woman in the brown suit. As they passed, the boy pulled his hand out of the woman's and ran to Nick, throwing his arms around the criminalist's waist. Without thinking about what he was doing, Nick returned the hug, squeezing the child fiercely.
"Ow! Too tight, Daddy!" the boy gasped.
Nick immediately released him. "Sorry, Buddy," he whispered, caressing the child's cheek.
The Texan felt hot, unshed tears, prickling the backs of his eyes as he watched the unnamed woman lead the child out of the courtroom. He only reluctantly allowed his attention to return to the proceedings. He was beginning to develop a distinct headache, to accompany the persistent throbbing pain in his lower back, and he really just wanted this whole thing to be over with.
"For our last witness, we call 70-year-old Nicholas Stokes," Gil said.
After the emotionally draining experience of seeing his unborn son, Nick felt only a vague curiosity as he watched the elderly version of himself walk slowly up the aisle toward the witness stand. He noted with a detached sort of pride that he'd managed not to get fat in his old age, although he'd lost most of his hair and he moved slowly, the back pain having obviously become a lifelong complaint.
Finally making it to the witness stand, the elderly Nick was sworn in and he sat down. He gazed out at the crowd with dark eyes that were tired and lined, but still sharp and alert.
"Do you know why you're here?" Gil asked the old man.
"Yes, we're here to decide whether or not I'm going to get to live."
"That's correct. How do you feel about that? Do you have anything to say to your younger self?"
"Certainly, I do, but I don't think it's any business of this court," the elder Nick said, to Gil's apparent surprise. "Of course I want to live. I want to see my son graduate from medical school-."
"Not law school?" Judge Stokes interrupted, his expression hopeful.
"Medical school," the elder Nick repeated firmly. "I also want to grow old with my wife. But none of these things were easy. What happens from this point forward will leave a permanent mark in my life and it's not always easy to live with. Sometimes, it felt like a constant uphill battle. If my younger self chooses not to face any of that, so be it. I will not judge."
"You're not angry or disappointed?" Gil pushed.
"No, this choice is out of my hands. I trust my younger self to make the right decision."
The younger version of Nick found his eyes locking with his older self and an understanding passed between them. Despite its obvious, rich rewards, life would not be the easy choice.
"Do you have any more questions, Mr. Grissom?" Judge Stokes asked.
"No, Your Honor."
"Ms. Stokes?"
"I have no questions, Your Honor," Jillian said.
"Your Honor, the prosecution rests," Gil said.
"Very well, you may give your closing arguments, Mr. Grissom."
"Thank you, Your Honor," Gil said, now moving to stand before the jury. "The defendant, Nicholas Stokes, is a man with a history of disappointing the people around him, of not living up to his full potential. He is a man who has, throughout his life, taken the path of least resistance. He has not stood up for anything and he has not made a change in the world around him. Nor does it appear he will be making a stand now.
"I ask the members of the jury to decide if such a man is worth trying to save. Yes, we could urge him to fight, but will it make a difference? Or will he simply continue with his aimless life? I say he's not worth saving and so should you."
With that brief speech, the entomologist returned to the prosecutor's table and sat down. Giving her son a slight smile, Jillian stood to deliver her argument.
"I don't know how the prosecution can say that Nicholas Stokes has been a disappointment. He is a good man, a good friend, a good son, and a good crime scene analyst. He has helped put away countless criminals.
"Yes, his life has had its setbacks. No one's life is without blemish, but he has done much good in his life and he has so much to live for, as you have all seen. I say, let him live."
Returning to the defense table she sat down and gave her son a reassuring pat on the hand.
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked.
"Yes, Your Honor, we have." It was Catherine who spoke, standing in the jury box.
How can that be? Nick thought, feeling slightly panicked. They never even deliberated. They never left the courtroom. How can they already have a decision?
"How do you find the defendant, Nicholas Stokes, on the sole count of murder?"
"We find the defendant..."
Nick awoke from the dream with a start. He was covered with sweat. It was stiflingly hot in his little plastic prison. Even without the harsh light and the fan going full time, the air it was pulling in was only marginally cooler than the air in the box. This told Nick that he must be somewhere in the desert and it was daytime. It had been much cooler earlier when he'd first regained consciousness. He must have been in the box for roughly twelve hours or so.
Shifting his weight, he tried to relieve some of the pressure on his lower back. He licked dry, cracked lips with a tongue that was only slightly more moist than his lips and tried not to think about how thirsty he was.
As he moved, he became aware of his gun pressing into his side. He reached down and picked it up, lifting it slightly so that he could look down at it. He measured its comforting weight in his hand. It felt heavy with the promise of release.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. He felt a hot, prickling sensation behind his eyes and willed the tears away. He needed to conserve every drop of moisture his body had. He'd be needing it. But he tucked the gun back in its place, close at hand.
Not yet, he told himself. He could wait a little longer. His friends would find him. He would give them a little longer...
THE END