Eric & Sookie 7 Deadly Sins Contest
Title: Sins of Omission
Beta: VampLvr1
Characters: Eric Northman, Sookie Stackhouse, Bill Compton, Mr. Cataliades, Henry Glassport, Russell Edgington
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Charlaine Harris; story influences are Agatha Christie, William Faulkner, and Theodore Dreiser.
Deadly Sins: Gluttony. Envy. Wrath. Greed. Pride. Sloth. Lust.
Eric Northman stood in the courtroom. He walked to the front where the witness for the prosecution was on the stand, waiting to give her testimony. She had been a hostile witness. Fully aware that the police were looking to question her about Lorena Ball's disappearance, she had fled the city. Once the investigation was reclassified as a murder investigation, federal marshals were deployed to Las Vegas to find her and bring her back to Shreveport. They found her under the protection of Niall Brigant. Mobster extraordinaire. Her grandfather.
Someone Eric knew well.
Eric cast another glance at the star witness. Not the original prosecutor on the case, Eric had taken over the case midstream. Damon Cataliades had been prosecutor. But his longtime colleague, gross and corpulent, had never met a devil's food cake he hadn't found admissible. Cataliades, the fat bastard, had finally succumbed to a heart attack.
That's what gluttony will get you, thought Eric.
He looked at his witness. He breathed her in.
The witness wore her long blond hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. He noted, not for the first time, that the shade was starkly similar to his own. Also, like him, her eyes were blue. The resemblance ended there.
Devoid of any lipstick, her naturally pouty pink lips were perfect. He closed his eyes and pictured her before him, on her knees in front of him, swallowing him whole. He could see his fingers running through her hair, caressing her.
He could see it so easily. He brought himself back to the courtroom.
He resumed his perusal of the witness.
She wore red. Against his advice she wore red. He had instructed her to wear blue or grey. He had thought it best to play up her innocence. Play down her beauty.
But maybe that was impossible.
She was a beautiful woman.
The expensively tailored suit looked good on her. Understatement. It looked fantastic on her.
Eric knew it would look even better off of her.
The suit accentuated her best attributes. While all of her attributes were good, Ericwas of the opinion that several happened to be superb.
For instance, Eric felt that the D-cups were definitely prize-worthy.
As he had been quietly observing her, she had been sworn into court. Now she sat looking at him expectantly.
Show time, Eric thought. He cleared his throat.
"Please state your name."
"Sookie Stackhouse." Her voice rang out in the quiet of the courtroom.
"Ms. Stackhouse, for the record, can you please tell me how you know the defendant?" Eric gestured to where Compton sat, "Mr. Compton?"
Without turning away from Eric, she answered.
"He is my former lover." Her voice, which had carried clearly a moment earlier, was now swallowed up in the cavernous room. Her head held high, her gaze met Eric's without wavering. Defiantly.
Eric, accustomed to dispassionately listening to thousands of witness testimonies, felt an odd sensation of envy. Envy for a man who now stood accused of murder. If Bill Compton was found guilty, the man was likely going to be placed on death row.
"Can you speak louder, Ms. Stackhouse?" Eric's cool blue eyes seemed to see through her.
"He is my former lover." This time her voice resounded loudly throughout the courtroom. There was a slight burst of energy in the courtroom as those in attendance absorbed her words.
Eric continued to stare at his witness. Not backing down, she met Eric's gaze head on. Her chin thrust forward, she looked angry. More than angry. Her blue eyes snapping, she glared at him. Her pink lips closed tightly, a fevered blush radiated from her cheeks. Angry? Wrathful. Hell, she was furious. She looked as furious as a woman tracked and hunted like an animal would look. As furious as a woman captured like a criminal, placed in protective custody, and brought across state lines against her will, would look.
Witnessing her fury, he thought she wore it well. Strange but there it was.
"Ms. Stackhouse," Eric paused for effect, "were you with," he paused to emphasize the implication of the couple's likely activities, "Mr. Compton on the night of June 9, 2009?"
"Yes. Yes, I was."
A ripple went through the courtroom.
"Order. Order in the courtroom," the judge, Russell Edgington, slammed his gavel. "Quiet. Or everyone will be dismissed from the courtroom."
The clamor quieted as the talking lowered to a whisper and then finally to silence.
Sookie had been staring forward, blindly, at the courtroom. With a controlled steadiness, she managed to keep herself from looking at Compton. With the slamming down of the gavel, she jerked her head up. Startled, frightened eyes met Eric's.
Don't, he thought.
Capturing her eyes with his own, he sought to impose his will upon her. He wanted to transfer his strength to her. He could not have her falling apart. He especially could not have her falling apart now. Just when they had Compton right where they wanted him. Right where he needed to be. In the defendant's seat watching his freedom—his life—slowly be taken away from him. Replaced with imprisonment. Punishment. Then, finally, with death.
Eric felt no small sense of satisfaction that the moment had finally come. He glanced quickly at the defendant who sat pale and stoic next to his attorney.
"Can you tell the courtroom the circumstances of your being with Mr. Compton on that date?" Looking to bring her back to where she needed to be—back to where he needed her to be—he posed this question to her brusquely, in a businesslike manner.
As Eric paced the courtroom, the witness followed him with her eyes. Her initial demonstration of fury, of outrage, at being caught like a fugitive and coerced to testify, appeared to have been replaced by fear. That fear had now dissipated. The witness's overriding emotion at present, at least how Eric would describe it if asked, was sadness. Regret.
She appeared, for the entire world to see, like an innocent who had been caught up in something way beyond her control. Not only was it beyond her control, but it nearly cost her her very life. That she sat there now was testament to her will to live. Her indomitable strength. He silently praised, once more, her capacity for survival.
"I went to go see him after work," she glanced briefly down at her hands folded primly on her lap. "I often went to his place after work."
While this was the part he was most interested in, it was also the part Eric found the most difficult to hear. During all the months leading up to the trial, during all the months leading up to everything, the relationship between the witness and the defendant was not something Eric had ever claimed to understand.
As much as a part of him did not wish to know, he had to ask. It was, after all, his job.
"What would you do, Ms. Stackhouse?" Eric paused and looked towards the jury momentarily, seeking to gauge how they were responding to the witness. "What would you do when you went to go visit Mr. Compton after work?"
With this, he turned back to face her. He waited. The silence in the courtroom was thick. Expectant.
"We would have dinner. Sometimes I would cook. We would talk. We might watch television. "
"Is that all?" Eric had cast his eyes downward as he asked this question. His eyes encountered her own as he lifted his gaze from the floor.
Suddenly, she blushed a lively shade of pink.
"Ah, no," she replied. "That's not all."
"What else would you do, Ms. Stackhouse?
Sookie looked at Eric. She had a haunted expression on her face.
She looks guilty, Eric thought. Bad girl. That will not do.
Eric strode up to the witness stand. His ice blue eyes found hers. Once captured, he refused to relinquish them. She met his gaze.
"Ms. Stackhouse?" He prodded her. He needed her to answer. He needed her to not falter. He needed her.
"We were lovers. We would often make love."
Although it was the answer he was looking for—the answer he needed—Eric still felt a pang at her words. A visceral piercing that seemed to gouge a piece of his flesh right out of him. Nothing had ever cut deeper. And there it was. The anger. The envy. He schooled himself to ignore it.
"Was this night any different," a slight hint of his European accent echoed in this inflection, "from other nights, Ms. Stackhouse?"
Sookie drew a deep breath before answering.
"Yes."
"How was it different?"
"Someone else was there."
"Who, Ms. Stackhouse? Who else was there that night?"
"Lorena. Lorena Ball."
"Let the court recognize that the witness is confirming that Lorena Ball, the victim, was present at Mr. Compton's home the evening she disappeared."
In the meantime, the prosecutor's eyes had not strayed from the eyes of his star witness during the entirety of their exchange. Their staredown drew the curiosity of the others in the courtroom. The story of the federal marshal search for Ms. Stackhouse was well known.
"Ms. Stackhouse." Eric finally broke his gaze from Sookie to glance briefly at the defendant. Bringing his eyes back to her, he asked the question. It was, in fact, the million-dollar question upon which the entire case was constructed. "What did you see when you got to Mr. Compton's home?"
Sookie's eyes locked on Eric's as she spoke. This, this she could not relive alone.
"Bill was standing over Lorena with a," she shut her eyes in an effort to remember, yet not remember all at once, "mallet," her lips stumbled on the words, too horrible to recall, too horrible to voice, "in his hand. She had been staked."
It was as though everyone in the room had decided to defer all else—including breathing—so silent, so still was the room. Suddenly noise erupted. Rage erupted. Bill erupted.
The defendant, who had been sitting silently, seemingly resigned to living out the remainder of his life as a dead man walking, had finally decided to wake up.
"No! No!" With a clamor, Compton rose from his seat. In his haste, he knocked over his chair. Several papers that sat atop the table flew to the floor. "She's lying! She's lying, your honor!" Seeing the judge's impassive gaze, he turned to strike the one he knew he could break. The one he had a history of breaking. "Sookie! Stop lying! You fucking whore!"
"Order. Order in the court." Judge Edgington slammed the gavel. "Restrain him. Help Mr. Compton to his seat."
Two court officers briskly escorted Bill Compton back in his seat.
"Mr. Compton," the judge shook his head. "I will not tolerate outbursts in my courtroom. Do you understand? I know a lot is riding on this for you. I'd hate to have to send you downstairs—as I feel you have a right to be here—but I will if you interfere with my proceedings again. Am I making myself clear?"
Compton nodded yes.
Good boy, Billy boy, Eric thought. Eric turned his attention back to his witness. Looking at her, he observed, with some relief, that she had recovered herself from Compton's verbal attack. Her countenance was pale. She was biting lightly into her lower lip. But her eyes were clear. Eric detected a steely resolve deep within them.
"Ms. Stackhouse," Eric paused, intent on engaging them, directed a glance towards the jury. "What did you know of Mr. Compton's relationship with Ms. Ball?" He faced Sookie once more.
"Bill and Lorena had been lovers years ago," she replied easily, without guile. "Before Bill knew me."
"What was the nature of their relationship more recently?" Eric winced internally as he saw the pain flash across her face and settle, a deep wound inside her, still. He did not want to cause her pain. He never wanted to cause this woman pain.
It is my job, he reminded himself.
"Well," her voice came out hoarsely, the trauma still evident, "I'm not the right one to ask. I thought they had no relationship but," here her voice got small, "he cheated on me with her."
Sookie sat demurely on the witness stand. But for the facial expressions that danced across her face, she was as still as a statue. Staring at her hands folded on her lap, silent sobs wracked her frame as tears flowed down her cheeks.
"Ms. Stackhouse, when did you find this out?"
"I became suspicious a few days earlier. I didn't know for sure until that night," Sookie continued to look down. She had to describe this but she didn't have to share it. Not with him. Not with anyone. As long as she kept her eyes down, she wasn't sharing it. It was like talking into a voice recorder. "They were in the bedroom. Bill was standing over her, naked," she gasped, having trouble breathing. "They must've just finished making love." Her breath was coming in shallow pants. "He decided to kill her. Bill decided to kill Lorena."
There was a slight rustling in the courtroom as everyone took note of the witness's words. The judge looked up. With his piercing cold eyes looking out across the room, those in attendance quickly quieted.
Eric looked at Sookie.
She is holding up well, Eric thought.
But he hated to see her like this. He hated having to put her through this. He waited while she collected herself.
"Could we get a glass of water for the witness?" Eric turned away from her. There was some bustling and some clanging as a glass of water was poured. Eric walked over to get it and handed it to Sookie. She looked up as he approached the stand. Their eyes met then their fingers touched as she took the glass from him.
Eric felt a spark of kinetic energy jump as their flesh met. She was really amazing, he thought.
Eric had been careful to speak in measured, precise tones—cold tones, if he were to be honest with himself. He knew that the next words would be tough ones to hear. No, he revised his stance; they would be tough words for any woman who knew herself to be the cause of another woman's death. Eric decided to soften his delivery.
"Ms. Stackhouse," his eyes went to hers, his voice low and gentle, "why would Mr. Compton decide to kill Ms. Ball?"
Sookie's eyes never left Eric's. In that moment his eyes were all she knew.
"She contacted me a few days earlier. She left me a voice mail saying she wanted to talk. She said it was important. She said she had news. I mentioned it to Bill. He seemed upset and asked me not to meet with her."
"Did you agree to this?"
"I didn't wish to upset him. It seemed a small request. Mr. Compton and I were planning to marry." These words came out dully.
"Did you know Ms. Ball was, according to her medical records, ten weeks pregnant when she disappeared?"
"No." The pain was evident in her voice.
Good, so good, Sookie. Now, to hammer the nail into his coffin...
"Your love is something Mr. Compton would do anything to not risk?"
Sookie made a noise of disbelief.
"I wish that were so," she shook her head as she spoke. "But I think it had more to do with my inheritance."
Eric nodded brusquely while looking at the jury. He returned his gaze to the witness.
"Ms. Stackhouse, how much money do you stand to one day inherit?"
"My grandfather is a businessman," she said matter-of-factly. Eric hoped the defense would not question it further. Truthfully, her connection to Niall Brigant would not bode well for her credibility as a witness. "He has considerable holdings in several pharmaceutical companies. There are only a few left to inherit the estate."
"How much, Ms. Stackhouse?"
"About $20 million, I believe."
"You believe, now, that Mr. Compton asked you to marry him to have access to your inheritance?"
The witness shrugged.
"Please answer the question, Ms. Stackhouse."
"Um, yeah. I think Bill wanted my grandfather's money."
Greed was Compton's motive. Point made, now we move on.
"You are here as a hostile witness, Ms. Stackhouse. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"You did not want to testify, did you?"
"No," she shook her head vehemently. "I didn't."
Eyes closed, tears were streaming down her face.
A final look at his witness—she was stronger than she let on—Eric saw they were done. He turned to the judge.
"The prosecution has no further questions."
Henry Glassport stood up. Slowly approaching the witness stand, Glassport gently tugged on the sleeves of his designer Valentino jacket. Wearing the most expensive off-the-rack suit he could find, Glassport reveled in what it said about him. He was a successful attorney. Smart, he invested wisely. Betting against the economy, as the mortgage crisis escalated his wealth grew. He was dirty stinking rich.
It pleased Henry no end that no matter where he went, he could buy and sell nearly everyone in the room.
People would ask him why he continued to work? When he could live off his wealth and devote himself to other pursuits?
The answer was simple. He wanted to stay relevant. He felt that as long as he continued to practice law, he remained noteworthy. He had influence. He feared retirement would render him ineffectual. Invisible. Castrated.
He could not have that. He had too much pride in his achievements to allow himself to fall into obscurity.
"Ms. Stackhouse," Henry paced in front of the jury box determined to show off his suit, "you want us to believe that you are here against your will." He paused for effect. "You want us to believe that you loved Mr. Compton—perhaps love him still?"
He fixed a cold stare on the witness.
"No," she shook her head once more. "I don't still love him. I don't care what anyone thinks. I just didn't want to be the one responsible for him being found guilty."
Glassport's gaze bored into her.
"What time did you arrive at Mr. Compton's?"
"A little after 7:00 pm."
"How were you able to get inside?"
"I had a key."
"Mr. Compton's neighbor," Henry paused as he shuffled some papers on the table, "Maxine Fortenberry, has stated for the record, that she was at Mr. Compton's on two occasions when you rang the doorbell for entry."
Sookie nodded.
"I don't...didn't always use the key. I didn't always have the key."
Henry looked at the witness. She was pretty. He'd give her that. Personally, he liked his women thinner. Still, she'd be coming into a chunk of change one day.
"So, Ms. Stackhouse, tell the court what you saw when you entered Mr. Compton's apartment."
"I let myself in and, since Bill didn't seem to be on the first floor, I went upstairs."
"Did you call out?"
"No."
"If you were looking for him, why didn't you call out?"
The witness seemed a bit peeved. Her nostrils flared.
"I wasn't running a search party." She took a moment to compose herself. "He wasn't downstairs, so I went upstairs. End of story."
"Touché, Ms. Stackhouse." Henry ambled in the direction of the jury. He had read numerous books on how to use body language to one's advantage. His gait slow and stately, he sought to convey his authority to the jury.
"Tell us what you found upstairs."
The witness took a breath.
"Um, I went upstairs," her voice lowered, "and his bedroom door was open halfway..." she stopped.
"Yes?"
"I could see into the room from the hallway."
"What did you see, Ms. Stackhouse?"
"Bill was standing over the bed. He was naked. There was blood all over. He had a mallet in his hand." She paused, upset. Or trying to sound upset, Henry wondered. "Lorena was on the bed with a piece of wood sticking out of her chest."
"How could you tell it was Lorena if she was lying on the bed?"
"Um, I could see her face. The way her head was turned."
"What did you do then?"
"I left."
"Did you call the police to report what you saw?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I was afraid."
"Of Mr. Compton?"
"Yes."
"But why would he harm you? The goose that laid the golden egg?"
She shrugged.
"What did you do?"
"I left Shreveport. I went to Las Vegas. I have relatives there."
"When did you return?"
"When the marshals brought me."
"Ms. Stackhouse, Ms. Ball, it is true, disappeared that night. But her body has never been found. Aside from a few droplets that could be easily explained by a paper cut, no sizable amount of Lorena Ball's blood has ever been found in Mr. Compton's home. No stake. No mallet. There has never been anything to support your claim that a murder was committed. What do you think about that?"
"What can I say? Bill was free for months. He took care of it."
"Do you know how investigators knew to come out to Vegas to talk to you, Ms. Stackhouse?"
"Yes."
The court was heavy with anticipation. It was obvious Henry had something more to say. The nameless 'they' that packed the courtroom were riveted.
"The Shreveport police received an anonymous tip. Isn't that right, Ms. Stackhouse?"
The witness glared at the attorney, her lips pressed shut. She nodded.
"An anonymous tip from a woman in Nevada. Call was mostly untraceable. It was made from a disposable cell phone. But through triangulation of the cell towers it was found to originate—most likely—from the Las Vegas area."
Henry turned his gaze from the witness to the jury.
"Can you explain that Ms. Stackhouse?"
Silence.
"I...um...was pretty devastated when I left. I went through a rough period. I drank a lot. I never told anyone about what I saw, as far as I can recall. But I had blackouts. I might've said something then."
Staring intently, Henry's eyes bore holes through the witness. He knew she was lying. But he did not know what she was lying about. It could have been about something important. Or not.
Truth was, Glassport didn't care much for Compton. The man, without his connection to the witness, meant nothing. He had no money. He had no prestige. He had no standing. As his lawyer, Glassport was obliged to defend him. But how well did he have to defend the defendant? Henry was of the mindset that even a lackluster effort on his part was better than what most attorneys would deliver. Certainly better than what Compton deserved.
Even the great ones have their share of lazy days. Sloth may not be a virtue, but sometimes effort must be weighed and balanced in accordance with the likely outcomes.
Glassport was certain Compton was guilty. If not of the murder, then of something. The man had been too hesitant in his accounts of that night. He had altered too many statements. He was covering up something, or covering up for someone. Ball was gone. Likely she was dead. Did it matter to Henry if this Stackhouse bitch felt like sending Compton to hell with a kiss and a "fuck you"?
Weeks later… Sookie Stackhouse sat alone in her rented furnished apartment. Wearing nothing but red lingerie, she sipped a gin and tonic. Her testimony completed early on, the trial was now over. The verdict had been rendered. William H. Compton had been found guilty of murder in the first degree. It was largely due to Sookie's testimony of what she claimed to have witnessed the night of the murder.
In the stillness of the night, her doorbell suddenly rang. She glanced at the clock above the mantle and smiled.
Opening the door, she was greeted by a lovely bouquet of flowers. Reds, oranges, golds. Lively, warm colors placed in a decadent arrangement. One slightly obscene flower poked its way to the top of the flower food chain. It made her laugh. The flowers were as bold as the man who held them.
"Hi," she said. Breathless all of a sudden, her voice actually caught on the word.
"Hello, lover," Eric undressed her with his eyes. "Inviting me in?"
"Of course," Sookie smiled shyly and opened the door to allow him in. He took in her intoxicating scent as he passed her, gently brushing against her flesh.
It was all he could do to not touch her with the apartment door open.
He wanted to throw her down on the bed and make her his.
He wanted to make love to her until dawn. And then some.
He had earned the right.
They had earned the right.
Barely depositing the flowers on the coffee table, Eric grabbed Sookie into a vice-like grip. Capturing his lips with her own, he held her tight. He had waited far too long for this. It did not come a moment too soon. He thought another day would kill him.
He had nearly died for wanting her, the lust about to overtake him at any moment.
Finally, he pulled away from her lips. He nuzzled downward along her cheek to her ear and then to her neck.
He felt her shiver. He felt himself stiffen.
God, I want her, he thought.
But they had things they needed to discuss.
"We did well, together, lover. Wouldn't you say?" Eric breathed in her scent, rubbing his face, like a cat, against hers. He claimed her.
"Ah, yeah. We did."
Silence. Something was on her mind. He knew this. He knew her. He knew he wanted her. He knew he lusted after her. He knew he loved her. Finally she spoke again.
"Did you speak to Bill afterward?"
"Briefly."
"What did he say?"
"He wanted me to tell you he was sorry for what he did to you—"
"Which part?"
"The incident in Jackson."
"Ah-well. Okay. Anything else?"
"He forgave you for lying on the stand."
"Bill was always a fool."
"Yes, he was, lover. Yes he was."