Chapter Twenty-One: Allies and Aliases

Nevada v. Adams & Adams: Verdict

Ten Years Ago

Sara received the call from Nathan Phelps letting her know that the verdict was in on the Adams sisters just as she lay her head down on her pillow after an especially long and emotionally taxing shift. After three days of deliberation, Sara was ready to get this case off her mind, so she was wide-awake immediately and arrived at the courthouse with time to spare. She stood near the back of the cavernous room. Nathan sat on the prosecution's side near the front, and she could just barely make out his leg bouncing nervously beneath the table.

The sisters were positioned on opposite ends of the defendants' table, heads down and looking at their hands in their laps. It was impossible from Sara's angle to make out which was which; their dark hair obscured their faces and they shared nearly identical figures.

The quiet in the courtroom was deafening as all in attendance waited anxiously for the jury to file out of their quarters. Someone dropped a pen and several people jumped. A man hiccuped then glanced around embarrassed when the high-pitched sound echoed harshly off of the surrounding walls.

Finally, the room was asked to rise as the judge then the jury entered, shoes squeaking and clothing shuffling. When everyone was seated once more the foreman was asked to stand at the platform in front of the jurors' box.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked, her voice and posture fatigued. The case had been emotionally trying for every individual involved. Not only were the details of Thomas O'Bryan's murder especially heartless and brutal, but the case had a substantial media following from the beginning. Anyone recognizable involved with the trial had been forced to deal with prying news anchors and cameras almost constantly.

"We have, your honor," the foreman responded, her voice shaking somewhat.

"We will start with Lacey Adams." The judge proceeded to list charges, including assault and kidnapping, both of which Lacey was found guilty. But what everyone wanted to hear was the last charge: "On the charge of first-degree murder, how do you find?"

"Guilty."

Gasps and cries reverberated from both sides of the courtroom, some in relief and others in surprise, but the sisters showed no reaction.

"And now for Whitney Adams. On the sole charge of aiding and abetting to first-degree murder, how do you find the defendant?"

"Guilty, your honor."

More murmurings filled the room, but still the sisters remained completely placid and silent as they were handcuffed and led away. They would be returned to their separate cells to await sentencing.

An hour later and after Nathan talked to the O'Bryan's and the press, Sara finally caught up with him.

"Hey, congratulations!"

He smiled in thanks, but didn't appear as happy as he should.

"What's wrong?"

"It's just the sentencing. Lacey should be locked up for good, but I've already heard talk about Whitney's charge most likely being reduced to manslaughter."

"They can't do that!" Sara protested.

"Unfortunately, they can. She's younger and more prone to manipulation. They're definitely not giving her life. We're lucky if she gets ten years before she's free again."

Present

Sitting at his bedside, Sara frowned when Greg's eyes slammed shut tightly. He cringed as if in pain, then he squeezed her hand with such strength that she thought he might break it. She hissed softly but didn't pull it from his grasp, instead leaning closer and whispering his name.

He nodded once to acknowledge her but didn't otherwise respond.

"Greg," she prodded gently. "What is it?"

This time he shook his head. He appeared to be deeply focused on something, and Sara let him have a minute. She tolerated the discomfort in her own hand because she knew Greg wasn't aware of how strongly he gripped it. His arm was shaking from the effort and his jaw flexed as he respired heavily through his mouth. The news she just delivered—that Whitney Adams hadn't been located—was probably the last thing he wanted to hear, and in hindsight her most recent question seemed foolish.

After a few minutes, her hand began to go numb and so she leaned even nearer, keeping her tone light. "I'm here for you, but if you'd like to do more of this hand-holding thing I have to give you fair warning that mine's about to fall off."

Greg's eyes popped open again and were filled with confusion for a moment before he realized what she meant. He promptly relaxed his grip and she drew back her hand, rubbing it. "Sara, I-I'm so, so sorry, are you—"

She interrupted him, smiling assuredly. "I'm good. What's wrong, are you in pain? Do you want me to get a nurse?"

"No, don't." He shifted again, obviously finding it difficult to get comfortable. It was impossible to find a position in which he wasn't laying on bruises, cuts, and sore muscles.

Sara decided not to drag an explanation out of him. Some silence passed, and Greg looked like he could barely keep his eyes open. She expected him to fall asleep soon, but he was battling it. She hoped that she could at least give him something else to think about by changing the subject.

"So, uh, everybody at the lab says hello. They wanted to come and visit today but didn't want to crowd you right after your procedure."

He smiled, but the smile didn't extend beyond the corner of his mouth and it swiftly faded. He looked thoughtful. "I know…I know I need to give my statement. How am I supposed to do that when I don't even know what day it is?"

"It's alright, Greg. You've been through a lot, and nobody is expecting you to recite the entire experience in one sitting. Besides, you still have a few days to let your voice heal before he asks for your story."

Greg attempted to clear his throat but this proved a mistake as he began to cough. Sara reached for the call button, but he shook his head as he held his side gingerly.

"Your doctor said you shouldn't be using your voice too much. He's going to kick me out if he sees what a bad influence I am."

He took a few more shallow breaths before settling back into the pillows. "Oh, god," he groaned suddenly after more silence.

"What?"

"My parents."

"Don't worry about that. They know that you've been found. They're flying in as soon as they can."

"No," Greg shook his head again, grimacing. "How much do they know?"

Sara sighed, somewhat puzzled and wishing Greg would allow himself to rest instead of worrying about everyone but him. She recalled Grissom mentioning that Greg didn't want his parents contacted after he was almost beat to death in that alley, but that was six years ago. He barely talked about his family, especially his parents, but surely by now they would know he was no longer working in the lab? She also felt another pang of guilt; she'd been a lousy friend recently. Of course he wouldn't talk about his personal life when no one was listening. "I'm not sure exactly what they were told. Nick was the one that talked to them. I'm sure they at least know that you were missing and then found, and that you're in the hospital. Dr. Holland asked me to give them his cell number."

Greg frowned, "Did you?"

"Well no, not yet. This all just happened. I was going to call them after I checked on you."

"Please, don't."

"Greg, I think they would—"

"I'm begging you. I-I can't have them learn about what happened, about my uh, injuries…from anyone other than me. My dad, maybe, but not…" he trailed off. After a moment he tried to continue, but coughed some more.

Sara wanted to argue, but as she took in the sight of Greg battling to both breathe normally and stay conscious, likely in immense pain, she quickly lost any resolve. "Okay. I'll make sure they don't get any details until they talk to you." She sat at the edge of the chair and reached to stroke his tousled hair, noting his grateful glance to her before his eyes closed. Apparently placated by her words and her touch, he fell asleep almost instantly.

It suddenly became almost frightening to listen to Greg sleep, breathing without the ventilator. The initial pride she had felt in him was still there, but his breaths were now raspy and irregular and Sara found herself worrying: If Greg stops breathing, what will keep him alive?

She quickly dismissed that thought, knowing it was a bit histrionic. Greg was still in serious condition, but nothing like a week ago. His heart pumped strongly, he could talk, and She trusted Dr. Holland's judgment that he would do fine off the ventilator. Besides, even if Greg did have an emergency, he was hooked up to numerous machines that would set off alarms at the nurses' station, and within seconds staff would arrive.

She stayed with him for another half-hour before stepping outside of the room and nodding a greeting at the bored-looking guard posted there. She made a stop at the nurses' station to leave a note for Dr. Holland, who was on a lunch break. Sara didn't leave too many details, but the message included Greg's parent's number, along with the request of 'no details—see Greg with questions'. Even if he still insisted on delivering the specifics himself, Greg's parents still deserved to hear from his doctor that he was on the mend.

Next, Sara stepped outside into the beaming Vegas sun and made the call she was dreading: to her ex, and the prosecutor on the old Adams case, Nathan Phelps. He sounded glad to hear from her, but strangely unaffected when she briefed him on the developments with Whitney Adams since her release from prison.

When she finished explaining what had happened and the reason behind her call, he was silent for a moment, then: "I know. I saw the news out of Vegas, and I've kind of been keeping tabs on her…"

"Wait, what?" Sara hoped she had misheard him.

"The family hired me back after—Sara, hold on a second will you please?"

"Uh, sure." She listened to a short, muffled conversation, then some shuffling about as if Nathan was moving to a different location and closing a door behind him. When he spoke again his voice was hushed.

"Mr. O'Bryan called me shortly after the sentencing. He wanted to know how we could avoid that her release, or at least get her back in right away. I looked into things a bit, and let him know that she'd met all of the terms of her release, and—"

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Is that why you moved to New York?"

"Yes. The family paid for my relocation."

"How generous. I thought the O'Bryan's were satisfied with the jury's verdict?"

"They were, publicly. And Mr. O'Bryan went along with it for Mrs. because she wanted to move on, forgive and forget. But as the days passed he just couldn't take the thought of one of his son's murderers walking free."

Sara felt more than a hint of anger stirring inside of her. "What did you already know?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said you've been 'keeping tabs on her'. How closely?"

"Watching her wasn't a fulltime gig. I checked in on her every couple of weeks, and I was monitoring her credit and bank transactions. I did know that she had purchased a warehouse in Nevada."

She balked. "So, you had to know that she was using an alias."

"Yes, but—"

"What didn't you find suspicious about an ex-con using a fake name to purchase an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the desert?"

"Adams relocated back to New York when she got out—with permission from her legal team. I thought she was still living in New York, until I saw the news from Vegas. Lots of people buy abandoned buildings renovate, rent out and make a profit. And her name…Maybe she changed it to escape the stigma of the trial. She wouldn't be the first criminal to do that." Nathan Phelps's voice was gradually growing less hushed as he struggled to explain himself.

Not even attempting to keep the anger out of her own voice anymore, Sara laughed derisively. "There's a process to legally change a person's name, Nathan. I wouldn't have expected you to just let that go. Stigma or no stigma, buying a property under a fake name is still a crime, and that should have been the end of it."

"A crime that would put her back in jail for, what? A few more years at best, with her record?"

"You were waiting on her to do something like this so that you could put her away for good. Except you wouldn't have even noticed, because you weren't all that good at 'keeping tabs on her'. You don't happen to know where she is now?"

"From the sounds of it? Dead. Hell, I didn't even know she was in Vegas, Sara, I swear. I'm sorry about your coworker, but sometimes you have to make—"

"I've gotta go. I'm sure you'll be hearing from Captain Brass soon about this." Sara tapped the button to terminate the call and fought the urge to throw her new phone against the side of the hospital.

She couldn't believe it. All of this could have been avoided if Phelps had simply handled his information about Whitney Adams appropriately. She didn't know how she could have misjudged him so seriously. She made one more call to update D.B. about Phelps, then returned to Greg's room to find him sleeping fitfully, snoring lightly in between coughs that sometimes woke him but usually didn't. Sara spent the rest of the day there, watching over him and counting his breaths while pretending to read a book.

One week later

"Hey Sanders, how are you feeling?" Captain James Brass greeted as he and Nick entered Greg's room. It wasn't the first time either had visited, but the last time Brass was there Greg had still been unable to talk. This time, Greg was wide awake and eager to get his statement out of the way.

The hospital bed was raised so that Greg could sit up without too much effort, which was a relief because his first physical therapy session had been earlier the same day. He was sore and exhausted even after the two-hour nap he'd taken.

Within the past week, Greg developed pneumonia as Dr. Holland had predicted, and this complication further delayed both his recovery and his statement. The infection coupled with his ongoing fever and figuratively knocked him on his ass. At this point it still wasn't completely resolved, but his voice was much better and they couldn't put the statement off any longer. The physical search for Whitney Adams had been called off. Even Brass's last-ditch effort of flying in a group of ten cadaver dogs and their handlers resulted in nothing. In the absence of a body, Greg's information could prove crucial to wrapping up the case.

As usual Sara spent every second that she could with him at the hospital. She'd patted his back lightly through every seemingly endless coughing fit and comforted him through the burning in his ribs at every inevitable movement. She talked him through each panicked minute that he felt he couldn't breathe, even the time two days into the pneumonia took hold that everyone feared Greg may need to go back on the respirator. He'd been unable to breathe normally; every time that he took a breath deep enough to satisfy his lungs, it was interrupted by coughing and turned into a terrifying cycle that left him exhausted and helpless…

(flashback)

"We have to get him back on the ventilator."

"There has to be another way."

"Right now he has an SpO2, or blood hemoglobin oxygen saturation, of eighty-four percent. He needs to be much closer to one hundred. If we could convince him to wear the face mask, it would supply him with a lot more oxygen than the nasal cannulas."

"Can I try?"

Dr. Holland glanced nervously at his patient from just outside the door where he stood with Sara. "Five minutes, then I'm sedating and intubating him. I'm sorry."

The doctor stayed in the doorway watching as Sara approached the bed slowly, mask in hand behind her back. She couldn't help feeling that she was betraying Greg. He was laid out on his left side, curled around himself and shivering, gasping, sweating.

"Greg, I'm so sorry that you're going through this."

He looked to her almost pleading, eyes shimmering with tears that he stubbornly refused to let fall.

She pointed to the SpO2 readout on one of the machines. It still sat at 84%. "See this number, Greg? Doc says it needs to be higher, and it's not going to get there with the nasal tubes alone."

After saying this, Sara slowly pulled the oxygen mask to her front, letting Greg register what it was. His eyes widened and he glanced between it and her. Sara inched closer.

"Do you trust me?"

Another coughing fit shook his body. It took him several minutes to recover but through wheezes and shudders he managed to nod his head.

"Do you want to put it on yourself?"

"N-No. You." His eyes shut, and Sara felt panic nearly envelope her as she took in how much he was struggling. Her mind was tossed back into that room, that dungeon, as she tried to convince Greg to breathe, to stay alive. In all honesty she didn't want to be the one to put the mask on him. She worried that he would see her as Whitney Adams, forcing him to breathe carbon dioxide through a mask that he couldn't avoid.

She fully expected Greg to freak when the mask touched his face, but he only twitched slightly. She tossed aside the tubes that had been going to his nostrils and positioned the elastic strap behind his head carefully, turning the motion into a calming stroke through his hair. After a quick look to Dr. Holland, Sara continued to lightly stroke Greg's hair, forehead, and cheeks and murmured comforting words into his ear. She was now leaning over him and blocked his view of the doctor hurrying in and connecting the mask to oxygen hosing.

Greg startled slightly again when he felt the slow trickle cool of air into the mask, but relaxed when he could still breathe and Sara resumed whispering to him. She didn't budge from her position even when her back began to ache; Sara soothed him for the next several hours as his Sp02 climbed to a much healthier number and Greg finally slept.

(back to present)

Sara had a mandatory meeting with Ecklie the morning of Greg's statement, and as much as Greg needed her support, he wouldn't have asked her to be present even if she was able. The thought of talking about the events of that week with Sara listening was for some reason more frightening than any other person doing the same. He figured he would have to tell her eventually. Besides, given the nature of her meeting, he wouldn't have switched places with her either. She'd already attended two of her four counseling sessions required by the department after the Adams incident, and Ecklie insisted on checking in with her to make sure she was taking it all seriously. Fortunately, D.B. would be there as well, and would surely help protect Sara…although, knowing the Wrath of Sara, Ecklie might need that protection more.

It was recommended that Greg have one additional ally present, however, so when Nick offered himself up Greg readily accepted. He didn't want any of his coworkers to hear all of the gruesome details, but if he had to pick Nick was a good friend to have on his side.

Brass pulled a chair to Greg's bedside and took a seat. Normally he preferred to stand, but didn't want to make the poor guy any more anxious than necessary. He set a small tape recorder next to them and press 'record'. "So, should we start at the beginning? Do you remember anything about going to the tavern the morning that you were taken?"

Greg took a deep, shaky breath and caught himself wishing that Sara was at his side after all.

"I know this is tough, Greg. If there's..." Nick, who had taken a seat as well, began.

But there was nothing that Nick or anyone could do to make any of this easier, so Greg simply started his story. "I remember being outside of the tavern. I called Sara to see if she wanted to come with me, I left her a voicemail, then…I—I went inside. It's on the surveillance, right?"

The captain nodded. "We have you entering and exiting, but no working cameras caught the 'in-between' part. Do you remember anything about the bar? What you did inside, who you saw or met?"

"There are bits and pieces. I remember talking to Am—Whitney, because I recognized her later. It wasn't my first time there, and I already knew William Harris. I think I drank some beer, but I never had meant to stay long if Sara didn't show. I don't remember any specifics about what we talked about while we were there, but I do remember feeling a lot drunker than I should have. Then nothing."

"Okay. What's the next thing you do remember?"

"Waking up, alone in a room tied to a wooden chair. My legs were tied with rope to the chair legs and my wrists together behind the back. I had a huge headache, and I was nauseous. I tried to figure out the smartest way to get out of there, but I couldn't think straight." Greg paused and chewed his lower lip for a moment. It was obvious he was picturing himself back there. "It smelled awful. I can almost still...There was excrement, urine in the buckets already. Blood and other things on every surface. Who else did they do this to?"

Brass frowned. "We don't have solid information on that, yet. All of the other samples came back to unknown males."

Nick tried to veer the conversation away from the 'other' in that sentence, because it angered him to think of the samples Greg himself was forced to contribute. "What happened next?"

"Um," Greg cleared his throat, wincing. "The chair seemed kind of flimsy. I figured if I could tip it, it might break. I managed to rock far enough to knock it over, but it didn't break. I did hit my head, though. Next thing I knew I heard voices; I don't remember their conversation though. Harris kicked me in the stomach, and Whitney had him pull my chair upright. She told me to call her Amber, but it was clear that it wasn't her real name. I, uh, I don't remember everything that she said but she did bring Sara's name up, said she'd been watching her. She also mentioned that if she killed me it would be an accident."

He paused again to catch his breath. In fact, Greg did remember his conversations with his captors; at least, most of them, but he left out some of the details that he didn't think would pertain to the case. He did recall his doctor mentioning that he had been drugged. "She poked me in the arm with something, and I passed out again. It was a syringe, wasn't it?"

Nick nodded.

"Whitney was on her own when I woke up. That was when—" Greg made a vertical motion with his fingers over the deep cut on his neck, which still had a lot of healing to do. The flesh surrounding it was bright red with infection, and any movement pulled at it and triggered a sharp pain.

"Did she give any indication of why she cut you? Or did it seem completely random?" Brass inquired.

"I think I talked back to her or something. Made some smart-ass comment. It uh, it bled a lot. I thought I was a goner, although as time went on and I didn't bleed out I realized she must not have hit any big vessels."

Nick grimaced, remembering something he'd heard from Dr. Holland: Just an eighth of an inch in either direction and the knife would have lacerated either the jugular vein or the carotid artery.

"I don't know how long I was passed out that time, but when she came in next, she talked. She talked about her family, about abuse that she endured, but I still couldn't remember who she really was. Later, she mentioned Harris stopping at LVPD. I thought that must have meant he was questioned, and I got my hopes up that you guys were on the right track. And you were."

"Just not fast enough," Nick muttered under his breath.

"Nick," Brass warned quietly.

"I'm sorry, man, I just can't help but be pissed that we didn't work faster, find you sooner."

"I don't blame you guys, Nick. There was barely any evidence to follow," Greg shrugged.

As if it was no big deal.

"Please go on, Greg," the captain prompted after a sideways glance at Nick, who sighed but shut his mouth.

"She finally gave me enough hints, and I remembered the case from ten years ago. She knew that I worked DNA on it, and that because Sara and I were both involved, we were equally responsible for taking her sister from her. I asked why she took so long to make a move after being released from jail, and she said it took her time to plan, that there were setbacks." Greg stopped here. This had been when she choked him with the rope and talked about the pleasure it gave her. He knew this would likely all be important information, but he hated discussing it. He chanced a quick glance at his friends, knowing he was flushing slightly. They remained silent and gave him no out, so he went on.

"Whitney had a rope. She stood behind me and put it around my neck. As she pulled tighter, she talked about, uh…how she likes to control things, especially someone's breathing. She's either done her research or she's had some medical training. Has she had medical training?"

"Not that we're aware of," Brass responded after exchanging a glance with Nick.

Nick then leaned forward. "What makes you say that, Greg?"

"She knew her human physiology, and the body's response to different types of anesthetics, disassociates, and…to carbon dioxide. I guess it wasn't anything she couldn't have picked up from textbooks, though. But she had access to controlled drugs...What was it they found in my system?"

Brass shrugged a shoulder, but Nick remembered. "Trace amounts of midazolam and meperidine. But Whitney could have acquired them on the streets, or maybe Harris had a source."

Greg nodded. Perhaps it was the way that she explained her actions and his reactions in such a cold way, using the correct anatomical terms and descriptions that made him believe she had medical training. However, he had also known psychopaths to behave in that fashion. "Anyways, I passed out, and next thing I knew Harris was cutting my arms and legs loose. I couldn't support myself, so I fell forward and landed on my shoulder." He left out the talking scorpion. He acknowledged was his mind's way of dealing with the torture and stress so didn't feel it was pertinent to finding Whitney. It was also a bit embarrassing.

Nick and Brass both frowned. They'd had a chance to review Greg's injury list, unfortunately. "That must have been when you dislocated it."

"Yeah, but I didn't feel it, not at first. Harris pushed me against the buckets, made me…uh, use the bathroom, then take off my shirt and pants. I tried to argue but he punched me in my back and threatened to 'help' me. I had a feeling he was acting on Whitney's orders, but I also think he…he liked his job." Greg had rushed through this part. He stared at the floor intently and blushed. He hurried on, "He attached me to one of the walls, this time with a chain around my throat and a padlock. I asked for some water, but he said 'that's Amber's decision', and left me alone."

Nick was flushed also, but in anger rather than humiliation. "For how long?"

"I think it was at least a day. It was hard to keep track of time…"

"Greg," Brass interjected, curiosity overwhelming his ability to let Greg tell the story at his own pace. "Your doctor said that your shoulder was put back into place at some point. Did Adams and Harris do that when they came back?"

"What? Why would they—" The young investigator shot him a confused look. "No, I did that."

Nick and Brass just stared at Greg, baffled.

"I couldn't use it the way it was." Greg avoided meeting Nick's eyes at all costs now. After all, it had been his voice that talked him through the process, and it was a conversation the two shared years ago. He wondered if Nick remembered. "It's my dominant arm. At least if it was in place, I could defend myself better. Except it didn't help very much. I still couldn't fight back. When they showed up next, they put me in a different room, in a bathtub full of cold water. Harris held me under, and Whitney watched with this look…Harris let me up, but not for long before dunking me back under, and just kept doing that over and over. I thought I was going to die, again. I think I managed to bite his hand—it was on my face—and that's when he let up and I managed to drag myself out of the tub. He was angry, kicked me in the side a couple of times, and Whitney had him tie me back up. Then they left me again."

Greg took a break from talking to sip some water from a cup at his bedside. His left arm was feeling stronger, but that didn't take away from the fact that his other three limbs were essentially useless until he could have surgery done on them. His throat hurt a lot, especially now that he'd talked more than he had in weeks, and his voice was beginning to grow hoarser.

As Nick watched Greg cautiously, he grew concerned that they might not be able to make it through the entire statement in one sitting. He had thought, hoped, that the man wouldn't remember much of his experience, but that seemed to not be the case. As grateful as he was for the amount of information that Greg was giving Brass, telling it was obviously wearing him out. And if Nick was being honest with himself, hearing it was wearing him out.

His mind inevitably drifted to that glass coffin. The hours upon hours he spent in that claustrophobic nightmare; alone and hot and panicking and suffocating and trying to survive. There's a reason that isolation is used as torture. From the sounds of it, Greg spent days in isolation, interrupted only by brief, torturous visits by his captors. Although very different, their experiences shared some similar elements, only Greg's casket was slightly larger and his suffocation had not due to the lack of oxygen in his environment but at the hands of Whitney Adams. Nick hoped that meant he could help coach Greg through his recovery.

Nick stood up abruptly. "That'll be it for today."

Both Greg and Brass looked to him, surprised.

"Nick, we need to do this sooner rather than later," Brass reminded him.

"I know that, but we'll do the rest tomorrow."

"I'm okay, I want to finish this," Greg piped in.

"And we'll finish this tomorrow." Nick was resolute, and somehow managed to get both the police captain and Greg to back down.

"Fine." Brass stood and straightened his jacket. "Thank you, Greg. I'll be back in the morning."

After the older man left, closing the door behind him, Greg glared at Nick. "Why did you do that?"

"Because you need a break. You're gonna lose your voice if you keep going, Greg. So for the rest of the day, we're going to watch some dumb soap operas, eat some real food that I'll have Sara bring to us after her meeting, and then you're going to get some rest and you'll finish this tomorrow morning."

Nick would never admit that it was primarily him that needed a break.