Disclaimer: The characters of CSI: NY do not belong to me however this story is of my own and should only be used once permission has been asked and received. No copyright infringement intended and no profit is being made.
Summary: The lives of two people, intertwined in the city that never sleeps, over twenty five years. Historical Fiction. DL with SM and FA.
Chapter One
Hawkes, 1914-1917
Harlem, 1914
Looking back, Sheldon Hawkes would always question whether he and his cousin had really been considered suspects in a case of shop theft or whether the police were merely looking to put two more black youths in jail.
Having graduated from school two years early, he'd been enrolled in one of the only Black colleges in New York and was studying to become a doctor. The long classes and hours spent researching followed by the commute between Harlem and Queens each day meant he had little time to spend with his family. His cousin, seventeen year old William, however, had insisted that they meet up once a week for their usual run around the neighbourhood. Their route, known by heart since the age of six, was in its last stretch before returning to Sheldon's home when a police car drew up alongside them and they'd been ordered to the ground, hands behind their heads.
They'd offered little restraint, confused but calm as they were taken to the local precinct. Guileless as they were, the officers had thought it to be an almost convincing front as they were roughly informed of the crime they had apparently committed. The two cousins had been interviewed separately, Sheldon first and William second. As their stories corresponded and they continued to claim their innocence, the officers had begun to look at different aspects of the crime, asking their Chief for guidance. Eventually the Chief and the rookie member of the team had entered an interrogation with William. When they returned later, smugly holding a signed confession, no one asked how William had gained a black eye.
The officers involved didn't want to admit that there were definite inconsistencies in the case; blood at the scene indicated a cut which neither man sported, the stolen goods hadn't been found on either man, nor had they been found at any of the regular dump sites between the pawn brokers shop and where the two men were picked up, and the only witness had failed to identify them in a line up. But a confession was a confession and if the Chief said the case was wrapped up with the help of a Judge who owed him a favour, then who were they to complain. They each had families waiting at home for them who'd benefit from some quality time.
"This isn't right!" Sheldon shouted as he was dragged from the holding cells. He struggled against the two officers who held him under each arm, taking him to the back entrance where he'd been informed a van was waiting to transport him to Blackwell's Island Penitentiary for incarceration without a trial.
The officers slammed him into a wall, effectively knocking the air from his lungs. One of the officers leaned in close, leering menacingly. "Unless you want us to stop on the way and string you up in a tree like the good old days then I suggest you shut the fuck up."
Sheldon furiously struggled again and was rewarded with a punch to the abdomen which rendered him winded once more. Gasping, his chest constricting painfully, he was dragged the remainder of the way towards the van. Stepping up, he turned and held his hand out to prevent them from closing the door.
"Please," he wheezed, "William. What's happened to William?"
"He was transferred to Newgate Prison in Greenwich Village earlier this evening after signing a confession implicating both you and himself for the robbery of the pawn brokers. Enjoy Blackwell," the first officer stated with relish before slamming the van door shut.
Sheldon stood in stunned silence before the van lurch forward and Sheldon stumbled to the bench which aligned the inside wall. Sitting down, he buried his face in his hands, the shackled around his wrists clanking mockingly.
Out of the men in his neighbourhood he was one of the few who'd finished school, even early, and certainly one of the only ones to go on to college. When he'd told his mother he intended to study medicine she'd been so proud, exclaiming to anyone that'd listen that her son was going to become a doctor and help people. He couldn't bear to think of her disappointment when she learned that he was instead on his way to jail, even if for a crime he had not committed. How long would he have to remain in prison for? Without a trial there was no way to feasibly know.
Sheldon thought of his cousin, seventeen and facing imprisonment. He knew that William wouldn't have falsely confessed unless under duress. The earlier threat of lynching made so offhandedly yet offensive and vulgar all the same had proven that the NYPD's 'finest' weren't as uncorrupted as they may like to believe.
It wasn't as though this treatment was displayed only by the police either; Black's weren't entitled to 'equality' and Sheldon knew this was unlikely to change soon. 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness'. Words written over a century before and yet even now, the Declaration of Independence should still have been amended to read that all white men are created equal.
His ancestors had been slaves, eventually set free into a world which both feared and despised them. The officer's threat had struck a chord though, painfully reminding Sheldon of his grandfather who had been lynched fifty one year's previously during the draft riots which had swept through New York City for three consecutive days. His body had been strung from the tree all day and when a man attempted to take him down, he'd been shot dead. When it was dark, the eldest son – William's father – and a friend of his had crept to the site and stolen the body away undetected.
The van eventually came to a jolting halt and Sheldon was pitched forwards, saving himself in time before he plunged into the opposite bench. Gravel crunched underfoot as the officers walked around to the van and the doors were thrown open. Sheldon climbed out of the van with as much dignity as he could muster, ready to face the first day of his imprisonment.
Nancy, 1917
Silence reigned once more over the French countryside as the last echo of bullets trailed off, signalling cease fire. The 'morning hate' session which accompanied the breaking of dawn in the trenches was over. Unless a surprise attack came then in sections the American Expeditionary Force was about to embark on the 'breakfast truce', as they liked to call it. Danny Messer yawned widely and stretched as far as he dared, allowing his back to crack loudly before settling back into his original position. At twenty three years of age, he had never planned on fighting in a war but conscription had required both him and Louie to join in the fighting. They'd been put into different regiments and Danny hadn't heard anything of his brother since landing in France. Reaching for his rifle to clean it before inspection, he released a hiss as his hand stretched further than the slow healing wound would allow.
"Hey, you alright?" a voice to his right asked.
"Wha'? Yeah, yeah I'll be fine," he shrugged off the concern, giving his hand a small flex.
"Here, lemme see."
Danny turned towards his comrade, a black male who was pulling gauze out of one of the pockets on his pack. He wasn't wearing identification as a medic yet seemed to know what he was doing so Danny didn't complain. Unpeeling the hastily bandaged hand, Danny gave a sheepish smile and explained how he'd felt a pain in his hand three days earlier during an assault. He'd wrapped a bandage around his bleeding hand and continued shooting until the cease fire.
"I barely had time to think. It wasn't until after the attack that the pain returned and I registered it properly," he told the other man.
"That'd be adrenaline. It kicks in and you can't feel pain until it's worn off," his comrade explained as he cleaned the wound as best he could. "I'm Hawkes by the way, Sheldon Hawkes."
"Danny Messer," he grunted as Hawkes began prodding at the wound with a mumbled apology.
"Is that a New York accent?" Hawkes asked, still examining the wound.
"Staten Island, but I moved from Italy when I was five," Danny explained. He knew Hawkes was keeping him talking so he didn't concentrate on the pain and it worked – moderately. "What about you?"
"Born and raised in Harlem," Hawkes answered as he finished his examining of Danny's hand. "You've been shot through the hand and unfortunately the bullet's still inside." Danny looked down at it, finally realising that it wasn't only the pain which had left his right hand incapacitated. Hawkes reached over to where a dead medic lay on the ground, a gaping bullet hole in the centre of his forehead, and retrieved his medical kit. "I'm going to have to take it out but it's at a strange angle, the bullet seems to be going up into your wrist. I should warn you that this will hurt, a lot, but if I do nothing then you could get an infection, go into sceptic shock or even die. I don't know if you've noticed but it's hardly sterile conditions we're living in."
Danny gave a grim smile, watching as a rat scuttled past before diving out of sight.
"A'ight, do what you gotta do."
Taking the instruments out of the medical kit, Hawkes poured some water from his tankard over them and tried to clean some of the grime off. He gave Danny a spare piece of gauze and indicated that he should bite down on it; doing as instructed, Danny stuffed the gauze into his mouth and balled his uninjured hand into a tight fist. With a quick warning, Hawkes gouged the instrument into Danny's hand as he shouted profanities which were swallowed by the gauze. Working efficiently Hawkes managed to retrieve the bullet before he sewed the wound shut and bandaged it carefully. Danny spat the gauze out and wiped at his eyes which had watered with pain.
"What d'you reckon Doc, think I'll make it?" Danny asked.
Hawkes rummaged in the medic's kit before taking out a medication which he pressed into Danny's uninjured hand, keeping it from view. "Antibiotics, you'll need them to fight off any infections which might already be in your body or any that might come due to the wound. There's not much so you'll have to take it in moderation but keep it hidden," he urged, "people down here will fight for any form of medication. And… don't call me, Doc."
"You're not a doctor?" Danny asked, slipping the antibiotics into an inside pocket.
"Kind of difficult to become a doctor when you've spent the past three years in jail," Hawkes responded roughly. "They gave me a choice, join the army or stay in prison; guess what I chose."
They lapsed into silence and Hawkes supposed that one day he may tell Danny the circumstances around his imprisonment - should they both live long enough - but today wasn't it. They could already hear the battle which was getting steadily closer meaning the breakfast truce was coming to an end before it had really started. Hawkes didn't want to think of those three long years he'd spent in jail, persecuted for being black with guards who turned a blind eye, all the while suspecting that he truly was innocent. He didn't want to relive the feeling of finally being released from prison only to learn William had been shanked during a prison riot and bled to death before it was over. No, these were things that he couldn't – wouldn't – think about.
A bullet sliced through the air and Hawkes felt Danny's full weight as he threw him out of the way. A soldier who'd been resting a few yards away from them slumped to the ground, dead. Danny clapped Hawkes on the shoulder before retrieving his rifle and shooting back at the enemy lines. Suddenly filled with white hot anger at the injustices of the world, Hawkes shot back too with renewed vigour and it was only when two of his five round clips were emptied that he stopped to take breath.