Author's Note: I'm leaving on a jet plane tomorrow (don't know when I'll be back again ;o)). Going to DC. I'll be writing on the plane. So enjoy.
Sara walked confidently into the room where Brass was talking to a brown-haired man with a bit of a beer gut. His eyes kept darting to his lawyer, which Sara had learned to be one of many signs of guilt.
"Mr. Howard, this is CSI Sidle," Brass told the suspect. She took her seat next to the detective and quietly observed the discussion. "Now, tell me again exactly what you were doing on the night of June second... for the lady."
He glanced at Sara, then again at his lawyer, who nodded in approval. "So me and the boys were just having a couple-a-beers, that's all," he said, shrugging as if to emphasize that it was just a casual get-together, nothing special. "And we were just having a good time is all, kicking back after the day. It was Jake's birthday, so he had a round on the house. There was some commotion with a big guy and a littler guy. The big guy smashed a beer glass, spilling it all over the little guy and was all yelling at him, so he storms out. But what do we care, eh? That's none of our business, so after the scene is over, we went back to chatting and whatever. So I needed a smoke, so everyone but Jake went outside, 'cause see, Jake, he doesn't smoke. We were all a little drunk, but nothing crazy. We go back inside, pick up Jake, and we all go home to our loving wives and we went to sleep. I swear, that's it, alright?"
Brass cocked an eyebrow at Sara. "I don't think that's it. Do you think that's it, Sara?"
"Mm, I don't think that's it, Jim," Sara returned, her own eyebrows raised. She pushed a file across the table and opened it. "Do you recognize that jacket, Mr. Howard?"
"Nah, never seen it before," he said, again with another exaggerated shrug.
She slowly nodded. "What about the sentiment it expresses?" she asked. "Are you familiar with that?"
"Ms. Sidle, I don't really think it's necessary to ask my client that sort of question," said his lawyer.
"And exactly what sort of question is it?" she asked him innocently.
"Look," Brass interrupted. "The fact of the matter is, we found spray cans in your trash, Mr. Howard. As well as a receipt for them dated June 2nd. Care to explain what you used them for?"
"This is purely circumstantial, you can't charge my client based on a spray can in his trash!" the lawyer exclaimed. "Any number of people could have bought spray paint that day!"
"Actually, we checked," Sara said. "Your client was the only one to purchase this specific brand of spray paint, which is actually only sold at this twenty-four-hour hardware store which happens to be right in the middle of the bar Jeff Webster was last seen at and the desert location where he was murdered. Not to mention the fact that he made the purchase only an hour before the time of death. Now, Mr. Howard, maybe you'd like to tell us why you would go shopping for red spray paint at midnight?"
"My son was building model race car for boy scouts," Howard returned bitterly. "We ran out of spray paint, and the thing was due the next day for the races. I couldn't leave my boy hanging."
"Your son was still working on his project at midnight?" Brass asked. "Wow, you need to teach that boy to stop procrastinating."
"If that was the case, Mr. Howard," Sara began, her voice growing icier with every syllable, "then why did we find desert soil caked on your shoes?" He opened his mouth to reply. "And speaking of shoes, let me tell you what else we found on them. Blood. Jeffery's blood, in fact, on the soles. What's wrong with you, Mr. Howard, you cleaned the top of it but didn't think we'd check the bottom?"
"Now wait a minute, that doesn't mean anything!" Howard exclaimed. "I'm in the desert all the time, hell I take my son and his boy scout friends camping out there! And as for the blood, well I must have stepped in it when I was leaving! That big guy, he took a swing at the littler guy, and he had a bloody nose, and it dripped on the floor, that's all!"
"This wasn't in your original statement," Brass noted skeptically.
"Honest to God!" Howard cried.
"God," Sara spat, scornfully. "Funny you should say that word, 'God.' Do you think God is on your side, Mr. Howard?" She was beginning to lose her temper as her voice rose. "Do you really think that God condones murder for any reason at all? Do you?!"
"Sara," Brass said warningly, and she calmed down a little, leaning back in her chair.
"Look, if that's all the evidence you have, I think my client has explained it all for you," said his lawyer, rising to his feet.
"Oh don't be so presumptuous," Sara sneered. She turned a page in the file to reveal a photograph of a bruised shoeprint on Jeff's stomach. Right across his naval. "Guess whose shoes these prints match."
The lawyer blanched, and Howard, who was watching him, looked as if he might faint as well.
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "The fag deserved it!" he burst out furiously. "Hell, he was fucking bragging about it, you don't brag about evil! He was going to Hell, and he was trying to convert others into his evil ways. Someone needed to put an end to it. Someone needed to stop him from bending over for Satan!"
There was silence a moment. He was breathing heavily, and his lawyer looked like he just realized he was fighting for a lost cause. Sara was gritting her teeth, her hands clenched into fists, and she was ready, so ready, to just launch herself at this self-righteously bigoted asshole.
Lucky for her, Brass had more restraint, and at that moment, a much sharper intellect.
"Yeah..." he said. "I think you and your buddies are gonna learn a lot about 'bending over for Satan' where you're going."
It was a sunny day, which Greg found bitterly ironic as the mood was anything but cheerful.
The moment he stepped out of the car, he was assaulted with white noise. He had long ago conditioned himself to ignore the shouts of reporters and mobs of people yelling at him, whether they were just asking questions about a case he couldn't talk about, or accusing him of cold-blooded murder.
But this was different. This, for some reason, was so much harder to ignore. And he probably couldn't have done it without Sara standing beside him and squeezing his hand to remind him that she was still there.
Jeffery Webster's death was big news in Las Vegas, and a highly controversial issue. And this baffled Greg. Of all the things, all the sins that went on in the heart of Las Vegas, why did these people all of a sudden feel the urge to protest this? How could this happen here? In his line of work, Greg had seen all sorts of quirks and deviant behavior. What people should have been protesting was the brutal way in which Jeff was murdered. What people should have been morally outraged about was the fact that an innocent boy was ganged up on and tortured out of hate.
But the only thing these people were angry about was the fact that the vermin who did it to him were being punished for it.
Greg closed his eyes so he didn't have to see the signs they were holding. He let Sara guide him to the steps of the church, drowning out the sounds of their indignation with his thoughts, and blind to their ignorant signs. Ignorant not because of the hate they displayed, but because they proudly expressed that hate without knowing anything about the person they were hating. They didn't know, for example, that Jeff was an avid member of his college's Theater for Charity group. They didn't know that he was eager to learn about the world. They didn't know that he was a baseball star, or a brother, or a son.
They only knew he was gay, and to them that condemned his entire character.
A claw reached out and snagged his arm, making him jolt his eyes open and turn in that direction. He saw a man holding a sign in one hand and his arm in the other, sneering at him.
"Jeff Webster rots in hell!" he shouted. "And so will you if you continue to idolize him!"
Greg bit his tongue. He remembered what happened the last time he lashed out in anger. He pulled his arm out of the protester's grip and noticed the sign, an echo of the words that had vandalized his jacket. He narrowed his eyes and was about to finally try and tell the man about the kid they were condemning when Sara pulled him abruptly by the hand and into the church.
It was sacredly silent compared to outside of it, and there were a surprising number of people there. On their way in, they passed Mr. and Mrs. Webster. Greg stopped and turned to them, shaking the hand of Jeff and Adam's father. He smiled warmly at Greg.
"You guys could have had this in San Gabriel," he said. "You might have avoided all of this."
"Jeff had made Las Vegas his home," Mr. Webster said quietly. "He had more friends here than in California."
Greg nodded and smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Webster. He reached out to shake her hand and give his condolences but she pulled him into a warm embrace.
"Thank you for coming, Greg," she whispered in his ear.
"Of course I'd come," he said, forcing a light laugh. He pulled away and held Mrs. Webster by the shoulders. "Mrs. Webster, I just wish—"
She gave him a big smile before cutting him off. "Greg, you have done so much for Adam and Jeffrey. You found his killers, you defend Jeff at every turn, and best of all, I'm just glad Adam has a friend like you around to help him through this. He lived for his little brother."
Greg nearly suffocated, his throat felt so tight. "Mrs. Webster, I didn't find Jeff's killers..." he said, then looked at Sara who had been politely waiting a little behind him. He smiled. "She did."
Mrs. Webster beamed at Sara and stepped towards her. She took her by the shoulders. "You are one of God's angels," she said reverently.
A tinge of red graced Sara's pale cheeks. "I'm... No angel, Mrs. Webster, I just did my job."
But Mrs. Webster shook her head and gathered Sara into a maternal hug, which the CSI awkwardly returned. "You bring justice to lost souls," she whispered. "That's more than just a job to me."
When she pulled away, Sara's eyes were glistening as she smiled to bite back the tears. She nodded politely at Mr. and Mrs. Webster before making a quick exit with her head ducked low down the aisle.
Greg smiled one last time at the Websters before following Sara and catching up with her. She had stopped in the middle of the aisle and was looking up at the high ceilings and stained glass windows of the cathedral-like church. When she felt him by her side,
she moved closer to him and gripped his arm before pulling him down the aisle with her again.
"What's the matter?" he asked her.
"I sometimes get a little claustrophobic in churches," she replied, her eyes looking around. She looked at him and gave him a wry smile. "You think that's a sign that I'm hell-bound?"
He kissed her forehead. "Impossible," he said. "You're an angel, remember?" He looked up at the photograph of Jeff at the end of the aisle. He was wearing a Dodgers hat and a blue blazer and tie as he posed in front of an oak tree. His black curls, as unruly as his brother's, was growing out from beneath the hat, as if it were trying to escape. It made Greg smile. "No one's going to hell today."
He felt her shaking beside him. "I've been thanked by families before," she said. "But that was uncalled for. I'm not what she thinks I am."
"You're right," Greg said as they both sat down in the second pew from the front. She gave him a curious look and he squeezed her hand. "You're much more than that."
She looked sharply away from him and pulled her hand out of his grip, choosing instead to use it to wring out her other hand.
Greg sighed, recognizing her avoidance, and decided to leave her alone for a while. He had clearly said the wrong thing. Well, he didn't always know what to say to her. In fact, he rarely felt like he said or did anything right around her at all.
He looked across the aisle and saw Adam, his head lowered in prayer. The Websters had always been religious, though not in the strictest sense. Greg always had the idea that their beliefs were a personal source of comfort and guidance to them more than anything else. They prayed before every meal, and often before bed, but they rarely went to church. He had often heard them speak of things that God loved, but never of things that God scorned. God loves patience. God loves forgiveness. God loves generosity, and humility, and love itself.
The only time Greg tore his eyes away from Adam was when the ceremony began and he hung his head in prayer himself. Having never really been particularly religious himself, he wasn't too sure what he was supposed to pray about. Of course he prayed for Jeff and his family. But mostly, and probably selfishly, he prayed for answers. There were just too many things he didn't understand that he needed to know.
When the service began in earnest, and the pastor began to speak, Greg looked back at Adam and saw that he was covering his mouth with his hand, as if holding back inappropriate words, but he never made a sound.
After the service was over, Greg worked up the courage to go speak with Adam. It would be the first time since the argument in his apartment, and he was a little nervous about it, but he wanted to apologize for his harsh words.
Adam was standing by his brother's fresh grave, watching it with his head cocked to the side as if he didn't quite understand the sight before him. Greg took his spot next to his old friend.
"It's not your fault, Adam," he said frankly.
"It's not yours either," he sighed. "I... I'm sorry."
"You never need to apologize to me," Greg assured him.
Adam rubbed his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "I've been thinking a lot since it happened," he said. "And I've been talking to Mom and Dad about it. We want people to know this can't be tolerated. That this isn't how the world is supposed to be." He pursed his lips. "We're going to go for the death penalty. For the lot of them."
Greg bowed his head, mildly surprised by his friend's words. "But I thought your folks were against capital punishment," he whispered.
Adam looked away from him. "Well... Sometimes, your perspective changes."
"No," Greg said. "You've lost Jeff. You can't lose your value system. Don't do it, Adam. Revenge is... It's not what you want."
"You don't want them dead?" Adam asked, his voice trembling. "Don't you want to watch them die? Like they watched him die?"
"Do you?" Greg returned. He didn't want to admit that in his worst nightmares, it was Adam they had killed, or sometimes Sara, or Nick, and in his best dreams he was the one who administered the lethal injection.
Adam narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, Greg, I do," he said.
"It's really strange," Greg began, "to see you like this."
Adam seemed confused. "How do you mean?"
"I don't think you've wanted revenge for anything in your life," Greg explained. "You've never been madder at anyone for more than a couple hours. It's just... unlike you to hold a grudge."
"My brother was murdered, Greg," Adam hissed. "You think that's the same as crashing my car sophomore year?"
Greg was startled that Adam would reference that particular instance. "You never got over it, did you?" he asked quietly. "The car thing?"
"Don't be stupid," Adam muttered, turning away from him again. "It was just a car."
"I always thought it was weird, the way you just got over things..." Greg muttered thoughtfully. "But you never really did, did you?"
"Shut up, Greg," Adam demanded. "Don't do this today."
Greg nodded and held his tongue. This wasn't the place to discuss such things. "You know I'm here for you, right?" Greg asked.
Adam sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, Greg, I know."
Even though he said it, Greg had the sinking feeling that their friendship wouldn't be the same after today. He looked down at the ground, his eyes tracing up Jeff's marble headstone. He turned his head and looked towards the gates of the cemetery, where more protestors waited. Adam seemed to follow his gaze.
"Those assholes don't even know what the hell they're talking about," Adam said bitterly. He closed his eyes tight, and turned away. "You wouldn't think there'd be so many of them in a city like this. I mean, it's a fucking modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. If they fear for their immortal souls, they should have gotten out of this town long ago." He turned to Greg, his face contorted in silent agony. "I honestly didn't think it would matter here!" he said, choking back tears. "I mean, it's Vegas. I didn't think people would care that much. I didn't want this..." He turned away from Greg again and rubbed his arms. "This isn't what I wanted to happen."
"I told you, Adam, it's—"
"It's not my fault, I know!" Adam interrupted, looking up at the sky. He took a deep breath and exhaled. "I keep... telling myself that, but it doesn't make it..." he trailed off and rubbed his arms, as if the dry June air was frozen.
Greg understood all too well his predicament. How many nights had he lied awake telling himself these things? It's not your fault, you didn't mean to kill anyone. You were scared and confused, you didn't want to kill him. It's not your fault he's dead. They always just sounded like excuses.
"Adam... I get it," was all he could think to say. "I don't know if it means anything, or if it helps, but I get it. I'm out of advice and words of wisdom, and I don't know how to make everything better, and I can't bring him back. But I get it." He looked up at Adam then, to see if there was any change in him, but there wasn't. He doubted his honest words had touched him at all. He shoved his hands deeply into the pockets of his black suit and stared at the grass. "Well... I'm going to be leaving now. You take care..."
"Son of a bitch..." Adam muttered.
For a moment, Greg thought he was talking about him, but then he looked up and saw that Adam's attentions were focused on the gates, outside of which one man was waving a sign high above the rest with Jeff's picture on it. Except Jeff's eyes were cigarette burns, and red ink declared that "Jeff Rots In Hell."
"Adam, don't—"
But it was too late. The surviving Webster brother was off, traveling across the graveyard at break-neck speeds to get to the gate and Greg jetted off after him. But Adam was faster than Greg, he always had been. And when he got there, he reached through the bars of the gate and seized the offending sign holder by the collar with white-knuckled fists.
"You don't even know what you're talking about!" Adam yelled, spitting coldly in the protestors face. He looked at the lot of them. "None of you know what you're talking about at all! You don't know jack about Jesus! And you don't know jack about my brother! Because if you knew anything about either one of them, you wouldn't be here today! You'd be biting your tongues. You think Jesus would be out here with you? You think you're doing God's work? You're just bigots unjustly hiding behind a religious mask. God doesn't support this. Jesus doesn't condone hate. So just lay off! Go home! Leave my brother alone!"
He threw the man he was holding back, and he fell to the ground, dropping his sign, whereupon Adam grabbed it and pulled it under the gate, stomping on it viciously.
"You and your family are the spawn of Satan!" the scorned man yelled. This was echoed by cries of agreement from the crowd.
"How typical," Adam said, nearly in hysterics. "How fucking typical. You have no argument! So you resort to saying that everything that is the least bit different from you is Satan's work! Well, good for you."
He kicked the battered sign back under the gate and turned around, walking past Greg up the path. Greg looked at the protestors, then at Adam, and then noticed the news cameras. That was the last thing this family needed. More bad publicity.
He stared at the mob and frowned. Their words didn't infuriate him, like they did Adam. He just didn't understand. Even though he saw the results of raw human emotion every day, he didn't understand how the human soul could be capable of housing so much hate without crumbling into dust.