Chapter XII

More Than Miles

Lindsey's playlist was still programmed into her stereo from the last time the college student had been home. Though she couldn't say that the noises coming out of the speakers were her idea of music, she let it play on anyway. This drive was less about the miles that lay between Vegas and the Nevada Women's State Correctional Facility and more about the mental space. She couldn't let it rest in her head until she knew. They had worked a case here before. An inmate had strapped to the bottom of the bus, trying to escape. She had driven the same strip of road then. Her fingers tapped along to the beat of the band wailing away through the speakers. Catherine Willows was never a woman who was short of words, but what exactly was she supposed to say?

'Hey Sara, I heard they didn't kill you. So you know that phone call that I swore never happened, can you remember exactly what was said?'

God, this had been so much easier when it had all been hypothetical. She had, hypothetically speaking, made this trip a million times. Sometimes she just all and all attacked the other woman, other times she had demanded to know why, screamed until Sara broke. Other times, she had begged for forgiveness. Hypothetically speaking, she had said it all. In reality, she didn't know what to say. Who did? Miss Manners had never covered this particular subject. She was making this trip alone, though both Gillian and Warrick had offered to come with her.

It had been tempting, to bring one or both along with her. Warrick, though, had other, just as important, things to do today and Gillian was left as the next senior CSI on duty that night. Since they were off shift, and she or Warrick should arrive back before the Night Shift even began stirring, it should be okay. She hoped. The Good Lord knew, Gillian wasn't yet ready to lead. Because every time she turned around, the woman she had begun to think of as her protégée was clawing at Fawn. Honestly, they reminded her of –
A sudden roll in her gut made her pause, but if she couldn't admit it now... The two younger women reminded her of herself and Sara Sidle. They too, had fought as cats and dogs; fire and ice personified. She had always figured they'd either resort to fists or... "God." She wasn't ready for this.

She stopped at the first guard check point and flashed her ID. Five years and she wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready to face Sara yet, but here she was.

The khaki-clad Bubba who checked her told her to drive in. Even with his over sized mirror sunglasses - the kind that had went out of style in the eighties and had never made a comeback - she had been able to tell that he had been ogling her breasts. She had controlled the need to sneer and tell him to look at her face.

The prison loomed ahead, a concrete compound surrounded by razor wire and desert. The towers had guards in them; she could see the sun's gleam coming off their machine guns. She parked her car in the mostly empty visitor's parking lot. If one could call the pathetic stretch of cracked, unmarked asphalt and cement a parking lot. She made one last check of her appearance in the rear view mirror and pushed her sunglasses up to the bridge of her nose. She looked cool and professional. No one, not even Sara, would fault the severely cut black power suit and starched white dress shirt. Though why she was trying to impress Sara, she had no idea. The clothes, she decided, were just another kind of armor. Sara had once accused her of letting her sexuality cloud her head. She wouldn't be able to do so today.

She went through the front and began the lengthy process of being checked in. She checked her gun, and felt strangely incomplete without the pistol she'd had for so many years, and walked through the full body-scan metal detector. She hoped that the man looking at the X-Ray that would show her without her clothes would enjoy the picture because it was probably as close as the disgusting, leering troll of a man would get to a consenting woman. She signed her name to the electronic log and waited for someone to escort her back to one of the interview rooms.

It was thirty minutes before anyone even spoke to her. In that thirty minutes she'd paced the "waiting room", all sixty feet of it, until she was intimately familiar with its dimensions. She had broken a sweat - apparently the jail didn't believe in central air - and had been forced to shed her suit jacket. She had gone from slightly uncomfortable with the situation to thoroughly pissed with the interminable waiting.

Finally, just about the time she'd been ready to give the wilted looking receptionist a piece of her mind, someone came through the door marked 'Authorized Personnel Only' He was a thick man, heavy set with flesh that might have been muscle at one time. His handlebar mustache and bolo tie were passé and his over sized cowboy hat made him look like a caricature, a cliché Southern jail keeper. If he called her little woman or referred to the inmates as 'varmits' she would be forced to hit him, hard. He smiled at her with tobacco-stained teeth and offered a hand. "I'm Caleb Rhett, Head Warden." She nodded, "I'm Catherine Willows. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I need to speak with one of your inmates." He nodded, and smiled at her again. She watched him, out of the corner of her eye, give her a once over, his eyes lingering for a moment longer than appropriate on her breasts and ass. Once it might have been gratifying, now it was annoying and a just a little on the sleazy side. "Which one of our lovely ladies would you like to speak with today?" He had a cocky little smile on, like he was about to follow up with a rude suggestion or a come-on. She cut that off at the knees. "Sara Sidle."

The reaction, the look of absolute hate that went across his face, told her that she could have done nothing to piss him off more. Good. He snorted. "She would be dead but for our pussy, pardon my French, Governor. She nodded, "I'm aware of that. I would like to speak with her. It is important." He shrugged and grabbed the ten-years-out-of-date walkie-talkie that had been hooked to his thick belt. He grunted into it, she could pick out the words 'Sidle', 'bitch' and 'location', but nothing else. A crackling reply came, and Catherine picked out the most important parts immediately: 'incident', 'blood losses' and 'infirmary'. Rhett cursed, and looked at her. "Well, she's gotten herself into some more shit - pardon me again - so maybe you should come back.

Unwanted concern jumped up in her breast. Five years were suddenly squashed by an older reaction. Sara was hurt; she had to be there for her. As quickly as the thoughts had come, they left and she hardened her resolve. "I don't have all day and I don't have time to come back. Just have someone take me to the infirmary; I'll talk to her there."

The puddle jump from LA to Vegas was uneventful, he would have slept the entire way, but for the screaming toddler that seemed like a requirement on every flight. This trip, though, wasn't about miles. He was going back to face his demons, in a very real way. It was easy to drive by the junkies and think that he was so much better off. It was easy to feel clean when you looked back on memories. It was going to be an entire different ball game, facing everything again. Trial by fire, he supposed.

His personal DN was sitting on the tray in front of him, a mini laptop. If he had felt like it, he could have plugged in his ear buds and listened to his extensive music collection. He could have just as easily checked his email, made a phone call, or watched one of the movies he had stored on the thin device. Instead, he stared out the plane's window. He knew that if he had taken a night flight, he would see The Strip laid out before him when they made their approach. It was daytime, though, and things always looked far less glamorous in the light of the desert sun.

All around him were tourists. They were going to stay in the Internet travel agency "super deal" off-the-strip second-rate hotels and pump money into the casinos one gamble at a time. Though they didn't know it, one in every eight of them would find themselves robbed, mugged or swindled. One in every two hundred and seventy-four of them would be arrested or, at the very least, detained by casino security and one in every thousand tourists would be seriously assaulted, raped or murdered during their stay in the Sin City. They didn't know that of course. Those weren't the kind of statistics the department of tourism released. The couple on his right, like most on the plane, had one thing on their mind: 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.' If only that were the truth.

What did the hapless, bright and bubbly, tourists that surrounded him really know about Las Vegas? They didn't know which streets to avoid, which gangs to fear or what the words 'Fanny-smacking' really meant. His cheek twitched involuntarily at the memories. If Vegas held bad memories for him, and it did, it held something else too.

The pilot announced their final approach and the stewardesses began their lecture about tray tables, upright positions and seat belts. He snapped his seat belt together and frowned. Vegas held his redemption. It might have been a little childish, a little whimsical to think so, but he did. Maybe he could find something he'd lost here. His sense of humor, his light heart, his clean conscience. Re-investigating Grissom's case, looking back at the dark time when he'd begun making the wrong choices. Maybe, just maybe, he could start mending fences and moving on. He had a lot to apologize for and he couldn't blame it all on the drugs.

February 23, 2007

Sara was on the stand. She looked so pale and wasted away. A stiff breeze would knock her over. He had seen her testify countless times. He'd always liked to see her like that. She always wore the same suit; she'd told him that it made her feel confident. She wore it now, but the black skirt and blazer no longer hugged her curves in the way that had once had attorneys, defendants, jurors and even the judge look at her appreciatively. Her voice was clear as a bell, steady and confident, though. Her lawyer had, from the mumblings he'd picked up, been reluctant to put her on the stand, but there she was.

"Sara, could you please explain to me the relationship you and Gil Grissom had?"

A slight smile, a phantom of a grin touched Sara's face.

"I love him. He loved me." She shook her head, and for a moment, her voice seemed unsteady. "We had been seeing each other for about six months or so."

Lexine Verona, her lawyer nodded, "And why didn't you tell anyone else?" Sara sighed and he could see the battle in her eyes. What she wanted to say and the absolute truth that she'd sworn to tell. "We didn't want to be the center of gossip, of talk. This wasn't a trashy office fling, it was real. I love Gil."

The words, each and every single one of them, were like daggers in his heart. She loved him? Gil had loved her? He, Greg Sanders, had loved her for a long time. She'd never looked at him that way, not once. He would have given her anything, done anything for her.

The truth was that she had been in love with another man. As much as that hurt, the fact that she hadn't told him hurt just a little bit more. They had been friends.

Greg stood up in the middle of the testimony and walked out of the courtroom. He would only return for the verdict, and when he did, he sat behind the Prosecutor's desk.

He had loved her, and maybe on some level, he still harbored feeling for her. That was what his counselor had said at least. The thing was; he found it hard to believe that he was the only one. Everyone had been a little bit in love with her. Some loved her as a friend, others as a sister and a few loved her with all their hearts. That was why it had hit them all so hard. Her betrayal, or the illusion of it, had hit them all in their most vulnerable place, their hearts. She was a woman that you wanted to laugh with, cry with, and protect as though the devil himself was threatening her. He had, much like so many others, turned his back on her when she'd needed him most.

Now there was new evidence, the case reopened, and he was going back. Trying to go back across burnt bridges and find some sort of peace. The landing gear hit the tarmac and the plane lurched to a halt. He was back in Las Vegas, his own city of ruin. This time, though, he intended to make things right, if that was even possible.

The flight had been long, the movie boring and the aisle seat too small. Now, walking out, towards the bustling floor of McCarran Airport, he wondered one more time why he was here. Was it to honor the memory of a man or to help redeem the reputation and save the life of a woman? Sara and Griss, he had missed it completely. Even now, years later, he could hardly see it. Everyone had known there had been something there, but he had always thought that Sara... He sighed. Sara. She was his age, forty, but they had always been so different. Maybe that had been why they had been such steady friends. They had disagreed from time to time, professionally speaking, but they'd always been there for each other. Until the end. Grissom had always said that the evidence never lied. He had wanted it to be wrong. He wanted to believe in Sara. Somehow, though, he had ended up on the other side of the courtroom. He could still see her hurt expression when she'd seen him there. He could still hear Sofia's scathing run down of him echoing loudly in his head.

February 23, 2007

It was all beginning to wear them down. Days in court, going through the emotional wringer, working cases at night. They sat there, listlessly staring at their food. Cath, Warrick, Greg and himself. The circle was small now; two absences were keenly felt. The day's testimony weighed heavily on their minds, but no one spoke. He looked up, out of pure instinct, when the bell above the diner door rang, signaling a new patron had entered. Some part of him expected to see Griss coming in. Griss was dead, though, and he wasn't coming back.

It was Sofia Curtis, still dressed for court. She looked at them and at first, he thought, he'd hoped, she'd keep the silence. The split in the lab, in the PD, had effected them all. It was a pot that was all but ready to boil over. Like them, Sofia had dark circles under her eyes, but there was fire in them too. She started towards them and he knew he wasn't ready for this confrontation.

Sofia was in Sara's corner; no ifs, ands or buts.

She stopped a few feet away, as if being too close to them would have been an indirect betrayal of Sara, and stared them down. Beside him, Catherine stiffened, more than ready for the fight. She looked from one of them to the other, her gaze resting on Greg for the longest. "Cowards. Low-life cowards. Sara was behind you -all of you, every time you needed her. She never missed a day of your civil trial, Greg. She worried herself physically sick when you were buried, Nick." He looked up, her words made sense, but it wasn't connecting in his head. Sofia looked at him, her aristocratic blue eyes burning into his own red-rimmed ones. "You didn't know that, did you? I was afraid I was going to have to take her to the hospital it got so bad. She just popped an antacid and squared her chin, though. She told me she'd rest when you were back, safe and sound." Her words didn't stop there. "Yeah, Warrick, she investigated you" She'd cut her gaze to the man before he could speak, "She also told Grissom that if he ever asked her to do so, she'd quit right then and there. She never told you that, though, did she? She let herself look like the bad guy so you could keep hero-worshiping Gil." He thought, for a moment, that she might be done. That had only been the prologue, though. Her voice had gone dangerously low when her eyes fell to Catherine. "And you." He'd grabbed Catherine's wrist, trying to tell her to stay down. Catherine had never listened well. "She would happily march into Hell to help you. For all the thanks, she gets. Tell me, Catherine. Where is the Eddie Willows Murder file? Don't answer that, I know where it is. Her top right drawer. A constant reminder of how she failed you." She shook her head, "The minute she needs your support, though, you all walk away from her. Almost seven years and she's still the 'New Girl'." She shook her head, "Cowards."

Sofia had been right; they'd left her to twist in the wind by herself. He had forgiven other, more viscous and personal crimes against him. The memory of the coffin made the hair on his arms stand at attention. Yet, he had never gone to see Sara, not once. He'd not written her, he'd tried his hardest to block the memory of his 'Sunshine' from his mind.

He'd failed.

He'd told Cori all of this, down to the smallest detail. She'd given one of her patented looks, the kind that made interns quake in their lab coats and perps piss their pants. "Well, you better get your fine ass to Vegas and right those wrongs, Mr. Stokes." God, he loved her. His wife was right, of course, it was high time he made things right. This was his chance, a God-sent second chance and this time, he wouldn't be a coward, he wouldn't back down and he wouldn't try to forget anything.

This time, he too was in Sara's corner.

Better late than never, he hoped.

Traditionally airports, train stations, and bus depots are places of great joy and great sadness. "Welcome homes" and "Call me when you get there"s. They are chaotic scenes of lost luggage, background checks, and metal detectors.

Warrick stood outside of the building, leaning against his department issued 2010 GMC Forge. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his arms were folded across his chest. As he waited for them, he admitted, he'd missed his guys. He'd been an only child and he, Nick, and Greg had been like brothers. He didn't like to think about it often, but they'd been his brothers and Sara had been like a sister. Talk about broken families. Greg arrived first.

They'd all thought he'd been doing okay, until he hadn't been. The spiky haired DNA expert turned CSI had drifted high and to the right and they'd all missed it. He and Catherine had been too wrapped up in their own grief to see that the youngest member of their once unbreakable circle had taken a nosedive of the worst kind. When they had figured out, it had been another hit to the heart. He pulled away from them. He had been the one to find Greg, after months without a word, at Desert Palms, fighting his way back out of an overdose induced coma. They had lost him; oh, he had recovered, but their Greg had been gone for a while. He'd checked into rehab, had gotten clean and had even started fresh, but the man hadn't been the same. Subdued, cynical, jaded and so serious. He wanted to blame Sara for it all, but he'd been doing that for too long.

Before he and Greg had finished their respectably short and macho hug complete with pats on the back, Nick had been on his way over to them.

Nick had done what had been right for him, he'd gone home. It hadn't been running, as he'd once accused the other man of. He and Nick had always been friends, always been friendly rivals. He though that after Nick had left, he'd lost a friend. That had been, of course, until Nick sent him an email that included a close percentage and a strange case. They had been doing for five years now, trading stories over long distance. Nick was the godfather to his oldest son and he had flown to Texas to be his best man.

The two men piled into his SUV, both grumbling about how their departments hadn't given them the newest SUV on the market. The trip back to the lab was full of catching up, the miles ticked off on his odometer, but Warrick, just like his two best friends, knew that this trip was about more the miles.

Author's Note: Greg's Vegas Statistics are courtesy of The National Center for Making BS Sound Smart. It's the same place I consulted with to write all of my high school papers and a couple of my college ones. It's amazing how a few statistics will make a statement sound that much more believable, becuase we all know numbers never lie...but I do, allot.