Thank you to those who continue to read and review my story. And who leave such kind and encouraging words. I value being able to share my CSI world with others who can take some pleasure from it. I hope that you continue to enjoy it and as always appreciate the feedback. Cathy.
Like a stately older matron receiving guests, the courthouse opened its doors Monday morning. Cecilia followed Catherine inside the building. The seal of Nevada graced the front entrance, and a large oil on canvas of the governor hung in the main rotunda. The tiled floors, trod so often by victims, by those who perpetrated crimes against them, by those who sought to defend the perpetrators, and by those who made it their life's mission to capture and bring those criminals to justice, gleamed with a waxy sheen that belied that any but theirs were the first feet to cross them.
There was an underlying sense of power that washed over Cecilia, as she stood looking up at the national, state, and municipal flags that hung crisply, high overhead from a curved balcony. Men and women in expensive suits, carrying leather briefcases, hurried to courtrooms, or up the wide staircase, or through one of the polished wood doors into one of the wood-panelled elevators. People were tried here by juries of their peers. Sometimes exonerated, and set free, sometimes found guilty and punished according to the enormous legal tomes that set the current societal standards.
Not all of those moving about were employees of the court, or attornies. Though almost everyone was attired neatly and in deference to their surroundings, clearly for many being inside this building was a serious, rare and perhaps life-altering event. Some of the faces that passed her held fear, others tired resignation, and others still were tight with hope that justice might at last be served.
There were uniformed police officers, local LVPD and state troopers as well, talking together in small clusters, many sipping coffee from styrofoam cups. Prosecutors stopped to give last minute instructions and to ask final questions.
Cecilia's dark eyes scanned a board that listed what cases were being presided over by which justices, in which of the courtrooms that branched off from the inner lobby. The evidentiary hearing for Michael Strickland was being held in courtroom four. Cecilia clasped her hands together nervously, wondering how Catherine managed to look so calm.
The blonde looked professional and demure, in a sage green linen skirt, and long-sleeved, pale green blouse, buttoned high. Her only jewellry was a pair of emerald studs that occasionally caught the light as Catherine turned her head, searching the rotundra. Her make up was minimal, a bit of cocoa shadow, a light dusting of rose on her well-defined cheeks, and a glossy pale pink on her lips. She carried a brown soft-sided briefcase, that contained her notes on the case.
Cecilia had mostly casual clothes, and the newly purchased dress that she had worn to the Kellerman's dinner party, but had managed to pull together what she felt was an appropriate outfit for an onlooker to the proceedings. A cream-coloured blouse, softly shirred at the bust, but not tightly so, and a pair of tan cotton pants would have to do.
"Catherine!"
Both women turned at the sound of the male voice. Jim Brass crossed from their left, moving easily through the crowd with a steady, purposeful gait. He'd gotten a haircut, Cecilia noticed first, close-cropped and neat. He wore a suit of dark grey, and beneath it a white shirt with thin, burgundy stripes. His tie was burgundy, held in place with a tie pin of brushed gold, graced by a small, yellow stone. His birthstone? Cecilia found herself wondering. It looked like something a woman would pick out. A gift perhaps, from someone special. Cecilia wondered why she would think such a thing, and a faint blush coloured her cheeks, even though no one could hear her thoughts, or sense her momentary discomfiture at the idea.
"Well, Jim, a few more hours and this part will be over," Catherine commented drily. "Then we look ahead to the trial and finally nailing this bastard." Her blue eyes were dark with emotion, in contrast to her relaxed stance and the evenness of her tone.
"Morning, Cecilia," Brass directed a greeting to the writer. Since the night of Strickland's interrogation, he had not spoken to the dark-haired woman at all, and had only seen her briefly once when he'd been at the CSI offices meeting with Grissom. After he had temporarily lost his cool with the suspect, Brass had waited with a quiet, dignified resolution for some kind of backlash.
He had been certain that Cecilia Laval would make an issue of the moment. That she would be disappointed and dismayed and want to see some sort of official censure of his actions. When one day had eased into the next, and he had heard nothing about that night, Brass came to realize that what had happened in the interrogation room was going to stay there. He had been unsure of what to think about that. It seemed that he was constantly having to re-evaluate his perceptions of the novelist.
She was regarding him now with openness and warmth. Not averting her eyes as though he was some terrible beast that she couldn't bear to look at. Brass was usually pretty good at sizing people up, of understanding their motivations, and of anticipating their behaviours. Perhaps he was just becoming too jaded. Too cynical. Maybe he was getting too complacent and losing his edge. Or...perhaps there was something different about this woman.
"Good morning," she replied softly, almost shyly.
"Judge Ramirez is presiding," Brass spoke to Catherine, unnecessarily, since he knew she would already be well aware of that.
Catherine nodded. "Elena Ramirez is a good judge. Fair."
Cecilia tilted her head to one side. "There isn't really any chance that the case won't be prosecuted is there?" She frowned slightly. "Or that any of the evidence will be inadmissable?" She had thought this more a formality.
"Naw, it'll go through," Brass assured her. "Strickland can't afford some slimey, underhanded defense lawyer who'll try every trick in the book to stall justice, and put the force on trial instead of the criminal." His nostrils flared wider in contempt.
Strickland's attorney turned out to be the same public defender who had been present at his interrogation and while the warrant had been served for Catherine to collect a sample of his DNA. From where Cecilia sat next to Catherine on a bench two rows behind the assistant D.A., she had a clear view of the rapist. He sat slumped in his chair, looking pale and haggard, and uncomfortable in an ill-fitting brown suit.
Cecilia wondered again what Jim Brass had whispered to Strickland that night, to completely change the man's demeanour from that of a cocky, unrepentent punk to a frightened, hollow figure. Her gaze went from Strickland to Brass, sitting at the outside edge of the first row. Brass was staring at Strickland, who studiously avoided eye contact.
They rose when Judge Ramirez entered the courtroom. Though short in stature, the middle-aged justice was an imposing figure, who carried herself with confidence. Her dark-eyed gaze behind gold, wire-rimmed glasses, as she surveyed her domain, was one of complete control. She smoothed the folds of her long, black robe around her ample hips then settled behind her bench.
As Cecilia resumed her seat, she felt a momentary dizziness. She had woken with a sore throat that morning, but had felt fine otherwise. Now, as she sat quickly, gripping the back of the bench in front of her, steadying herself, a wave of nausea swept over her. She swallowed tightly, concentrating on the judge's opening remarks, and willing herself to think instead about every small detail of the proceedings so that she could record them all later.
The hearing was barely underway when Cecilia shivered with the first chill, her skin rippling with gooseflesh. For a while she tried to kid herself that it was just that the air conditioning in the building was turned so high. But when she felt the perspiration bead her upper lip, and gather on her forehead, despite how cold she was feeling, she knew it was more than that.
Her throat felt tight and painful, and her head began to pound. During a lull, she leaned towards Catherine and excused herself for a moment, making her way out of the courtroom and into the hall. In the ladies' room, Cecilia stood at the sink, holding the marble ledge for support. She splashed cold water on her face, but instead of reviving her, that only increased how chilled she was.
Cecilia wasn't sure how long she stood there, with her eyes closed. She heard the outer door open, and the soft click of heels on the tiled floor, before a gentle hand touched her right forearm.
"Hey, are you okay?" Catherine's dulcet tones whispered with concern.
Cecilia opened her eyes and mustered a rueful smile. "Actually, I feel lousy," she admitted. "I had a sore throat this morning, but now I feel like I've been hit with some kind of summer flu."
Catherine reached a slender hand to touch the back of it against Cecilia's forehead in a comfortingly maternal gesture. "You're burning up," Catherine commented with a frown.
Cecilia sighed. "I guess I'd better just go home. I hope it's nothing contagious," she said apologetically.
Catherine smiled. "I never get sick." She observed the other woman for a moment. "Can you get home all right? Maybe you should call a taxi."
"I'll wait a few minutes, and see how I am," Cecilia replied. She saw Catherine glance surrepititiously at her watch, and then towards the door. "You'd better get back, I know you have to be there for when they call you." Catherine hesitated indecisively. "Really, I'll be fine," Cecilia told her.
"I should get back," Catherine agreed. "I'm off til Tuesday night. If you feel better by then, I'll see you at work. If not, just rejoin us whenever you feel able." The writer nodded. "Call the lab if you need anything, okay? Take care."
"Thanks," Cecilia said. Catherine touched her shoulder compassionately, and then returned to the courtroom.
Cecilia drove herself home, though by the time she pulled into the parking lot, she was questioning the wisdom of that idea. She'd had another wave of dizziness at one of the main intersections, and had closed her eyes, leaning her head on the steering wheel for a moment, concentrating on taking steady breaths. Irritated honking from the vehicles behind her let her know when the light had changed, and she had been grateful to finally be back at the apartment.
She stood in the shower on unsteady legs, hoping the warm water would ease the chill that had sunk deep into her bones. She towelled off, and slipped into satin pajama pants and a matching camisole, then crawled into bed. She curled up fetally, hugging a pillow tight to her abdomen, wishing that she had something for the ache in her head.
"Where's Cecilia?" Brass queried Catherine as the hearing broke for lunch. He had already given his testimony, and had noticed during the criminalist's statements and presentation that the writer was not in the courtroom. He had been surprised at that, because she had seemed very interested in the proceedings, and an evidentiary hearing wasn't something that they participated in every day.
"She's pretty sick, poor thing," Catherine recounted sympathetically. "Flu or something. She had to leave."
"That's too bad," Brass replied, a frown furrowing his brow.
"Let's grab lunch," Catherine told him. "Coopers or something quick like that sub place?"
Brass shook his head regretfully. "Not today, sorry. I'm done here, and have some things to clear up back at the office. You coming back after lunch?"
"Well, yeah," Catherine said, with a hint of indignation. "I'm not leaving til the judge sets the trial date."
Brass nodded his understanding. Normally he would have remained as well, but he was confident about the case, and had others that needed his attention too. "Do me a favour and page me when you hear something?"
"Sure," Catherine agreed. She smiled broadly at him. "Go catch some more bad guys!"
Cecilia thought at first that she must have imagined the knock. When it came again, followed by another just seconds later, she groaned her impatience and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her whole body ached, and she just wanted to be left alone. There was no one would be stopping by to see her, so she assumed it was someone trying to sell something. Vacuum cleaners. Chocolate bars. Religion. Or maybe a taxi that had the wrong address.
Cecilia peeked through the eyehole and her mouth dropped open. She couldn't have been any more surprised. Jim Brass stood outside her front door. Her first panicked thoughts were that something had happened to Catherine, or that something had gone wrong at Strickland's hearing. Fumbling with the lock, and then the safety chain, she swung the door inward and stood staring at the detective, her heart pounding in alarm.
Brass stood there with a large paper bag in his arms. "I hate to disturb you," he began apologetically. "Catherine said you were sick." He took in the unnatural, ruddy colour in her cheeks, and the hot brightness of her velvet brown eyes.
Cecilia nodded dumfoundedly. She was too relieved to realize that nothing was wrong, and feeling too ill to care that she wasn't really dressed for company, or to feel self-conscious about her skimpy camisole. She stood back, to allow him to enter, wondering for a moment how he knew where she lived, before remembering that he had dropped her home the day of Denny Martens' funeral.
Brass entered the apartment, and stood just inside the door, holding the bag to his chest. After leaving the courthouse, on route to the precinct, he had recalled with clarity a horrible flu that he had battled shortly after coming to Las Vegas, so many years ago. He had been alone in town. He had no friends here at that time, and his colleagues were merely co-workers still, some of whom harboured resentment for the work that he had done in back in New Jersey. Not liking the idea of 'dirty cops' any more than he did, but torn by that unwritten loyalty to the 'brotherhood'.
Having recently moved in, Brass hadn't stocked the medicine cabinet yet. And he'd been too sick to even leave his apartment to get some over the counter stuff to help alleviate his symptoms. He'd suffered in his room for three days and two nights, hardly able to get up to go to the bathroom, or to get a drink of water. He'd felt so alone and so miserable. Not the worst time of his life...not by a longshot...but unhappily memorable nonetheless.
It had been logical for Brass to think then of Cecilia Laval. To imagine that she might be in similar circumstances now. He didn't believe that she would have arranged for a temporary physician for the few months that she planned to be in Vegas. And the walk-in clinics would be overflowing. He had bet that if the novelist was feeling as badly as Catherine had indicated, that she probably would have come straight home, not even thinking to stop to pick up any medications. And he would have bet that her medicine cabinet probably was no more well stocked than his had been when he'd been new to the city.
So it had seemed natural that he had continued on past the station, called in to say that he was running a personal errand and would be in shortly, then had driven to a pharmacy near her apartment. "I, uh, I thought that maybe, being new to town and all, that you might, uh, need a few things," Brass offered by way of explanation. He jiggled the bag in his arms, clearing his throat nervously, hoping that Cecilia would say something.
"Forgive me," she said then. "Please come in." She swept an arm towards the small living area, and the small tweed sofa and the imitation leather easy chair. She closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, willing the swirling inside her head to subside.
Brass watched her pale for a moment. "Hey, you better go sit down," he cautioned. He moved the bag to his left arm, and crooked his right. Cecilia took it and he guided her to the sofa. He could feel the radiating heat of her arm against his, as her body battled whatever bug plagued her system.
"Thank you," she murmured, shifting her hip and drawing her legs up onto the seat, curling them.
Cecilia watched in stunned amazement as the detective moved to the small kitchen area. Brass took various items out of the bag, and laid them on the small, almond counter that jutted out between the kitchen and the living area. He had packed a small pharmacopeia into the bag, she realized.
"I wasn't sure what you had, if anything," he said, somewhat embarassedly. "Catherine said she thought it was probably the flu." He lined up the packages for her perusal. "Extra-Strength Tylenol, of course. Some ibuprofen tablets in case you prefer that. Neo Citran. Pepto Bismol. Nyquil. Throat lozenges. Did I miss anything?"
Brass spoke quickly, not looking at her, as he took two boxes of Kleenex out and set those to the side. He had thought of everything, Cecilia realized. The tightness in her throat now had nothing to do with her being sick. "I don't know what to say," she said at length. There was an emotional tremor in her voice that she hoped he would think was an offshoot of the flu. She blinked her eyelids quickly, horrified that she was going to burst into tears and embarass herself.
He busied himself removing two large styrofoam containers from the bottom of the bag. He set one inside the fridge and left the other on the counter. "I know you might not feel much like eating," he began, "but I thought maybe you could try. There's a little deli not too far from here...Mama Talia's...and they make a killer chicken noodle soup." Brass turned his back to her, rummaging through cupboards and foraging through drawers to find a couple of bowls and spoons.
As he poured the soup out of one of the containers he continued, "Real chunks of white meat chicken. Those curly pasta things. Carrots, celery, onions. Some kind of spices that Mama Talia refuses to divulge." He looked up at Cecilia then and grinned.
For a moment Brass was taken aback by how vulnerable she appeared, sitting there. So pale. Her normally dusky skin tone was stark against the deep purple of her pajamas. The high spots of crimson on her cheeks evidenced her fever. The dark eyes that regarded him now were brimming with trust and gratitude. His chest constricted for a moment. Brass couldn't remember the last time he'd really trusted another human being.
Sure, he was a cop, and most decent, law-abiding people had an instinctive trust of cops. But Cecilia Laval didn't really know him. He was a strange man in her apartment. But there was not the slightest trace of suspicion on her softly rounded features. Part of him wanted to lecture her for letting him in. The other part revelled in the trust.
Brass picked up the bowls and carried them the few steps to the other room, setting them down on the veneer coffee table. "Now, which would you like?" He jerked a thumb to the array of medications.
"The Tylenol, thank you," Cecilia requested politely. "Nyquil too, please." She felt that she should get up and get her own dosages, but she really didn't want to do anything except sit. In only a moment, Jim had returned with the small cup of the green liquid and two white pills. She tossed the tablets back in her throat and washed them down with the Nyquil.
Brass seated himself on the easy chair, leaning forward to reach for one of the bowls, then straightening. "It really is good," he told Cecilia again. "I've been going there for years. This soup will help cure whatever ails you."
His smile helped to take some of the chill out of Cecilia's limbs. The detective had shed his suit jacket, and removed his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. She thought that she liked the casual look much better on him. She reached for the other bowl, and dipped her spoon in, savouring the warm broth. "This is delicious," she said in surprise. Not that Cecilia had doubted the sincerity of his praise. Or the opinion of his tastebuds. She just hadn't expected her own to be functioning to capacity.
He chuckled. "If there's one thing I never joke about, it's food."
"I can't thank you enough for your thoughtfulness," Cecilia told him. "How much do I owe you?" She knew that the medicines weren't cheap, and hoped she had enough cash on hand to reimburse him right away.
The smile faded from Brass's face. "Nothing," he told her. Jim knew that it was natural for her to offer to repay him. But for some reason the offer wounded him. He had actually enjoyed walking up and down the aisle of the pharmacy. Reading the labels. Picking out the products he was most familiar with or those that he thought would be the most helpful.
Remembering how terrible he had felt years ago in similar circumstances, Brass had anticipated that his help would be appreciated. He had felt good about doing something for someone else, especially when it wasn't expected. It had been a long time since Jim had had someone else to think about. Someone else to do for. Outside of work, that was. There was no shortage of people who needed his help there. But that was different. That was his job. And to a certain extent people did expect things from him in that capacity. And he was compensated for it.
Financially, it wasn't a burden for him to pick up lunch and a few packages of cold and flu products. He wasn't swimming in dough, but he'd worked hard and lived simply over the years and he had a decent amount socked away. He wasn't going to have to cut back on groceries or his cable bill or anything in order to do this small thing for Cecilia Laval.
Rationally, Brass knew that Cecilia hadn't meant to insult him or to negate the kindness of his gesture. It was just that...as much as he had originally done it for her...he had found that the return for his actions filled some need he hadn't even known that he had. Christ, Brass, he thought to himself. Don't wimp out now. Geez, get a goldfish or a plant or something, if you need to get in touch with your nurturing side.
"Just pay it forward some time," he amended.
Cecilia nodded her understanding. "Oh, I can't believe I almost forgot! The hearing. Is it over? Everything went well?"
"We recessed for lunch," Brass explained. "Everything was fine. I testified, and Catherine did as well. No bumps in the road. I expect Judge Ramirez will set the trial date shortly after she reconvenes."
Cecilia looked relieved. "I'm glad to hear it." She hadn't taken more than a few spoonfuls of the soup, and even though it was tasty, her stomache rebelled at the idea of being filled. She set the bowl down on the coffee table, and leaned back against the sofa, closing her eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry that I missed things this morning. I was looking forward to watching you and Catherine."
"How are you liking your time with the graveyard shift?" Brass inquired lightly.
"Wonderful! They are so different from Ecklie's team. It's like night and day." It dawned on Cecilia that she had unintentionally made an incredibly corny pun, and she laughed at the same time that Brass did, their voices mingling. He had a nice, deep laugh she thought. "Seriously, I'm learning so much, and enjoying being with them. There are so many things that I never even considered.
"Sometimes, things move so quickly I don't see how they can keep abreast of it all, and at other times they move so slowly I don't understand how they keep from going crazy at the waiting around." Cecilia paused then spoke her next words without thinking. The medicine, coupled with the fever that it sought to combat, was making her head fuzzy. "But I guess you know all about that, as well as anyone, since you used to be with the CSI unit."
Cecilia raised her hand to her mouth in astonishment, wishing that she could unsay the words. Hoping that perhaps she had only thought them, and not actually spoken them out loud. Mortification washed over her. Jim Brass had been so thoughtful, so solicitous, and here she was speaking like some nosey busybody. Angry tears pricked her lids. She knew what he had thought of her initially, and she had worked to dispell his preconceptions. She had hoped that he would come to see that she wasn't like those carnivorous reporters he detested, always looking for a weak spot, always trying to bring someone down. More concerned with the stories than in the people behind them. Unable to set boundaries of decency and respect.
"I did," Brass acknowledged slowly. He wondered what Cecilia had heard. An Ecklie version, of the story. Or a Grissom one. Not that they were necessarily the ones who had spoken to her about his former glory and subsequent demotion. "Did you need clarification on something? Straight from the horse's mouth, as it were?" he asked sardonically.
"Oh please!" Cecilia said stridently, her eyelids flying open. "I'm so sorry!" Brass was surprised to see the novelist's eyes shining with unshed tears. "I wasn't trying to pry! Someone mentioned something one night in passing. One of the lab assistants. It's none of my business, and I wasn't trying to make it so."
Her distress was too genuine to be a subterfuge, Jim thought. "Hey, it's okay," he reassured her. "It's not a big secret or anything." He watched as her lower lip began to tremble. "If you don't know the story, then maybe it's best if I fill you in. It's not just my story, but I think I'm qualified to tell it. And it's not a happy story. Maybe this isn't the best time though," he considered. He looked at Cecilia, amazed at how she was reacting. Almost as though she was worried about him. About what he might think or might feel.
Cecilia felt so exhausted and emotionally drained. She struggled to gauge the detective's mood. Looking for the coldness that she was sure would emanate from his sturdy frame. Watching for the distaste in his dark eyes. Searching worriedly for some sign that bringing up bad memories might have hurt him. "Whatever it is, or was," she told him softly, "it doesn't matter."
Brass stared at her thoughtfully. "I appreciate that. But it probably does. In the greater scheme of things. Because a young woman, a young CSI lost her life. And she deserves not to be forgotten." He smiled gently at Cecilia. "But we can save that for another time."
Cecilia nodded her agreement, and leaned back against the sofa again, snuggling into the corner, and closing her eyes for a moment. She was so tired. The sleep aids in the Nyquil were working their magic, and she felt their inexorable pull. She would just sit here quietly for a moment.
Brass watched the dark-haired woman relax. Soon the evenness of her inhalations and exhalations told him that she had fallen asleep. That was good. She would need it. He observed her for a moment. Unsure of what to think about her. Finally he stood up, reaching for a light cotton throw at the back of his chair. He shook it out, and laid it gently over Cecilia's lower body.
He had noticed a blank memo pad by the telephone on the kitchen counter. He picked up the pen now, and held it in midair for a moment, trying to decide what kind of message to leave. Finally he settled on, Feel better. Brass. He stood looking down at it for a few seconds, before ripping the page from the pad, wadding it up and stuffing it in his pants pocket. He rewrote it, with a minor alteration.
Feel better. Jim.