Chapter Ten: Circumstances Brought Me to This

Don drove toward downtown Los Angeles like he was competing in the 500 series on the California raceway. He was halfway there before he remembered to turn on his emergency lights and siren. He wanted people to know he was coming and give them a chance to get out of his way.

He just wanted everybody to stay out of his way.

The rain began to taper off as Don reached the police barricade that now had a full square block around the courthouse cordoned. He showed his badge and was allowed to pull the SUV through and up to the front of the building. He was tempted to pull up onto the sidewalk in much the same way Colby had done earlier in the morning, but opted for an empty spot on the side of the street.

As he walked through the empty frames that once enclosed the front of the courthouse lobby, Don remembered the last time he had walked through those doors.

"See, aren't you glad I made you get your raincoat?"

"Maybe I like the rain."

"And the rain makes the flowers grow. But I'll take the glaring sun over this mess any day."

"It takes both sun and rain to make the flowers grow, Robin."

He was being intentionally facetious and she had laughed. She had tossed her hair back and laughed. He could still hear her. He could still see her smile. He could practically feel her standing next to him. He glanced around the almost empty lobby and tried to bring himself back to the present and focus on what had brought him back here……to this place. As a light breeze sent a shiver though him, Don realized he was no longer wearing his raincoat and had no recollection of when or where he had taken it off. His suit jacket was missing too. His white shirt was sticking to his skin and the blood……Charlie's blood, which had started to dry across the front had been suddenly rehydrated by the rain and the coppery smell wafted up into his face.

Don found himself in the bathroom, kneeling in one of the stalls and not entirely certain how he had made it there. He held tightly to the toilet seat and allowed his stomach to expel its contents into the basin. He continued to retch for several minutes until he was able to contain the spasms that were racking his body.

Don had just pulled himself back to his feet when a knock at the stall door made him start in surprise.

"Eppes?"

The forceful voice of Lieutenant Walker echoed in the room.

"Saw you come in. Thought you could use this."

He slung a gray FBI t-shirt over the stall door.

"One of your HRT guys had a spare."

"Thanks."

Don was disgusted by the vulnerability he could hear in his own voice.

He took a deep breath and tried again.

"I appreciate it."

It was still there.

Walker was silent while Don changed his shirt. When he opened the stall door, the officer was leaning against the countertop. He watched Don toss his soiled shirt in the trash can.

"I'm sorry. I know there's little solace in it, Eppes….but I don't know what else I can say."

Don pursed his lips together and leaned over the sink, splashing water in his face and then making an attempt to wash the blood from his hands. After a few moments he gave up and grabbed a handful of paper towels, rubbing his face dry. He didn't want sympathy, but the idea of keeping his face covered with the paper towel and running back to the truck ran though his mind in an almost comical fashion. No, he wasn't going to crack. Instead, he reached back down into his waning soul and recollected the rage that had led him back to this building. He waited for it to piece itself together again and then he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

"Somebody set this up, Gary."

"And we will find them. We have the whole crew on surveillance video from the street side cameras. We will find them."

Don nodded and tossed his paper towels into the garbage on top of his blood stained shirt.

"Yeah, I heard Megan say there was an officer hit. How is he?"

Walker raised his eyebrows. Don's attempt to maintain a standard case attitude bothered him more than hearing the staunch federal agent lose his lunch like a rookie at his first homicide. But he nodded and answered.

"He was DOA."

Don stood still over the garbage can, his eyes fixed on the shirt he had thrown away. After a moment, he lifted his head.

"And that bastard from the elevator. How did he get that chiv through the metal detectors?"

Walker expelled a deep breath and harrumphed.

"It was made of molded plastic, Eppes. He got it past security. The other guards saw him just outside of Holding talking to Henry Matachini. New guy, clean record. He was logged as his visitor. We don't know why yet, but Henry gave it to the those prisoners."

"Henry, huh?"

Don felt his anger growing stronger.

"Let me talk to him."

Walker shook his head.

"He's dead, Eppes. They used him as a hostage, overpowered the guard….. once they got a gun, they stuck the chiv in his neck. The guy bled out in five minutes."

"Damn."

Don turned almost as gray as his clean t-shirt, but quickly recovered and headed for the door.

Lt. Walker stepped forward and blocked Don's exit.

"What are you doing here, Eppes? Is it Charlie…..is he?"

Don's eyes glazed over at the mention of his brother's name.

"I don't know. I….…..I had to leave."

Walker shook his head perceptively and dropped his line of questioning. He could tell from the look in Don's eyes, that he had found a way to focus on something other than his grief. And he wasn't going to stand in his way.

"What do you need?"

"I need to talk to Marcus."

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Marcus propped his feet up on the conference room table and leaned as far back into the chair as he could without tipping it over. The LAPD officer was glaring at him and that was pretty much the reaction he had been going for. Despite his relaxed posture, Marcus felt like he was in the middle of a bad dream. The guy from witness services had shown him some video of the elevator before his brother had gone upstairs. He had recognized the guy right away. He didn't know his name. But he knew who he was and he wanted nothing to do with this any more. He told the agent he didn't recognize anyone. The man hadn't seemed convinced, but had left, giving the officers instructions to take them both home if the paramedics decided Frankie didn't need to see a doctor at the hospital. He turned his eyes to his brother. His face was still and somber and that bothered Marcus immensely. By the time he had realized the danger that Frankie had been in, it had all been over. A cop had taken him to a private office where an EMT had been looking his younger brother over. He wasn't injured. Not physically. But now the kid had his head down on the table and was staring blankly at the wall, only blinking occasionally. The paramedic had said he was going to be fine, it was only shock from what he had seen. But somehow Marcus wasn't so sure. Frankie wasn't fine.

This was the second time this kid had witnessed something like this. He has just watched that lady lawyer take a bullet to the head. She was nice to him. She was nice to both of them.

And then there was Charlie. Mathman extraordinaire. Mr. Eppes.

The kid talked about him constantly and Marcus had even found himself a little jealous of Frankie's new-found hero.

Now his brother had just had to endure sitting and watching his new role model bleeding to death all over the courtroom floor. How was he going to be fine? He'd already seen enough violence to last a lifetime and he was only twelve years old.

Marcus found himself harboring a revulsion for life. For this city and for its occupants. He hadn't felt it this strongly since they had seen Jose and his sisters shot to death in their living room. Watching the FBI guy die in the elevator had been no picnic for him. Violence is always shocking if you are not expecting it, but he'd seen people get shot before. He had watched his cousin bleed to death because the ambulance driver was afraid to enter his neighborhood without a police escort. He had been a year younger than Frankie was now. His cousin had been nine years old. The injustice of the shooting hurt as badly as the bullet that had passed through his own arm. It had been his first. Crossfire between two rival gangs. And when he had healed, he wanted nothing more than to join one of them.

Meeting Charlie on the metro had been the beginning of a realization for him. This guy….he was so damn smart. And yet so naive. It seemed like that guy knew everything, but he didn't have the knowledge to be as scared as he should have been. Oh, the guy had been scared, Marcus could tell that. But he'd been scared too. That night was supposed to be his graduation party. Not from high school. He'd dropped out over year before. But Roberto had sent him out with a mission.

He was supposed to pick somebody. Anybody. And shoot them.

And he had picked that spaced out, wild haired brainiac who really never did have any idea how close he'd come to pulling the trigger that night. He still wasn't sure why he hadn't. There was just something about that guy………and about killing someone in front of his brother. But Frankie knew what Marcus was supposed to do and he had tagged along. Charlie had been right. Frankie had always wanted to be a part of everything his older brother did, no matter how tasteless or horrific. And he was gonna do it. He was gonna do it anyway. And then here came Charlie. This guy…...he wasn't nearly scared enough and because of that, he had told Marcus the truth. And an adult had never done that before. Not his mother, not the doctor who had treated his last gun shot wound and certainly not Roberto. They just patched him up and sent him back out to get shot again….and to shoot someone himself. It was just part of growing up here and he had always accepted that.

Until he met Charlie. Damn him.

Why'd that guy have to be right? If Jose hadn't been killed and Charlie hadn't convinced him that it was his duty to tell everyone what he had seen them do, there was no telling where Marcus would be now...where Frankie would be now. Maybe they would be one of those statistics that the mathman was always talking about. The ones he had used to convince Marcus that there was more to life. More to life than gangs and guns.

He shook his head and unsuccessfully attempted to swallow the indifference that had been his world for as long as he could remember. They needed to know and he knew he should tell them. The guy from the elevator. It would just be too big of a risk. His testimony against the group of murders today was inconsequential in comparison. Maybe Charlie would have been able to get it out of him. Maybe he could have convinced him. But they didn't have that option. The only adult he had ever respected wasn't going to be around to talk him into anything. And it make Marcus feel sick. He almost felt remorse…...…for having ever looked at the guy on the Red Line Metro train.

Maybe this was all his fault.

But he had tried to tell him. He had tried to explain to Charlie that there really was only one way out of a gang. Now he wondered how someone could have managed to use numbers to convince him that he had to try. For Frankie. He was supposed to try for Frankie.

He eyed the two cops that were standing by the door and curled his lip at them.

"What are we waiting for? I thought you guys were gonna to take us home?"

The uniformed officer looked impatiently at the young man.

"That was the plan. They asked us to wait a minute."

Marcus let out a huff.

"For what?"

"For me."

The chair he was leaning back in almost slipped out from under him and he quickly dropped both feet back on the floor.

"Agent Eppes."

Frankie's head lifted from the table.

"Charlie?"

It was the first word Frankie had spoken since they had brought him down from the courtroom, and speaking it seemed to bring his younger brother out of the trance he had been walking around in for the past hour and half. When the FBI agent remained stone faced and didn't answer, Frankie's eyes quickly filled up with tears. The older cop who had entered the room after Agent Eppes answered for him.

"They don't know anything yet. But we'll let you know as soon as they do, okay?"

He turned to look at Marcus, and addressed the uniformed officer at the door.

"Sergeant, would you see to it that Frankie gets home? We need to spend a few minutes alone with this young man."

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Chapter Eleven: The Basis of Optimism is Fear

Authors Notes: Thanks for reading! I'd love it if you'd leave a comment and let me know you were here.