Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to update... :( I think, every few weeks, I just need a day to read and day dream deeper into the story, to refocus myself. I had such a hard time writing before the time off.
Unfortunately for you lovely readers, we're heading out of town for my nephew/godson's baptism on Thursday, so there won't be any updates from Thursday afternoon through Sunday. I'm sorry about that, especially because of my few days of not updating. :) I'll try to get in as many as I have time for between now and then.
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 9: People Stuff
I would have liked to say that, with Catherine's folly, I could claim that I had been right all along and leave the case behind me. Of course, this wasn't possible. Even if the young woman's death had been accidental, the case had gotten under my skin in a way that most didn't. Maybe it wasn't even the case, but the people-stuff that came up in the midst of it. Not to mention it felt like my emotions were so much closer to the surface with Sara constantly around. I felt a little out of control, truth be told.
The worst of the people-stuff, I suppose, had been concerning Warrick and his stint in 'purgatory.' I had found him in the evidence locker, when he should have been in court—apparently there'd been a continuance he hadn't been told about. I had watched him in a moment of silent pride; he'd been working his ass off ever since Holly had died, to make it up to me and the rest of the team. And I told him so—and that I'd made him a level three, although it was bit belated.
He was so happy… there was a glint in his eyes that was brief, but reminded me of the way Nicky often looked at me… and then he'd caught me in the hallway, and a conversation I had certainly not been ready for had commenced in my office.
"Griss… that night, with Holly… I told you that I'd gone to lay a bet. …What I didn't tell you was… I was laying it for Judge Cohen. It was his price for the warrant I'd asked him for."
I remain quiet, my lips pursed, mind leaping several steps ahead of his story, a dim sort of understanding beginning to form as the young man before me runs his hands through his hair, pacing the floor of my office, unable to meet my eyes.
He, too, reminded me of Amber… how she'd avoided my gaze when she'd done something she knew would get her in trouble. That was perhaps the first moment in which I realized that Warrick did look at me the same way Nick did, he was just… more guarded, less trusting. He didn't let it show because it was a bit of a vulnerability… but it was there.
"I made a mistake—laid the bet on the wrong team, but I paid him the money back… and then he told me we were going to be doing business together. That he owned me. He wants me to… compromise the chain of custody, in the Henderson rape case. This is the first time he's asked me for anything, he said that I'll be off the hook after this…"
He turned to look at me, and his wide, bright green eyes were frantic.
"Listen, Griss, I know as my… supervisor, you have to tell me to follow protocol and to turn Cohen in and… and all of that. But, I'm… I'm not asking my supervisor for advice. I'm asking… a friend. A man I respect, who has given me the benefit of doubt more often than I deserve…"
I draw in a deep breath, and nod, slowly, amazed at my ability to remain calm with the information he's just given me. He nods too, and then moves swiftly to sit in the chair across from my desk, his entire being earnest… nothing like the cool, confident man I see each and every day. I wonder briefly if the Warrick I have known and befriended has been as false as Sara's bravado, but I shake that thought away. I'll have time to consider that later—just now, it doesn't matter what his mask is or when he wears it… what matters is that his emotions are laid bare across his features and he is begging with them, for help.
"With Judge Cohen... I know the score. I know a young, black man, with only a few years in law enforcement under his belt, accusing a respected, white judge whose been 'serving' Las Vegas for the greater portion of his life without any proof… not only is it career suicide—I'll barely scratch the man's ego, and end everything for myself—but it's… well, quite frankly, I'm… starting to believe it's dangerous."
I watch him for a long time, and I know the position he's in. I know what I want to tell him, and yet I remind myself that he knows what a supervisor would say to him. He wants to know what his friend thinks. I sigh, softly, and avert my gaze briefly to the surface of my desk, before looking to the man again.
"You know that… that I chose this particular vocation because of my… devotion to evidence… truth… justice." He nods, and looks almost resigned, but I forge ahead.
"So believe me when I tell you that it isn't the supervisor in me speaking that believes, as a matter of principle, you shouldn't compromise those things with which you have been entrusted." I pause a moment, holding his gaze. "But on a personal level… I can't tell you to sacrifice everything you've worked for… for a fruitless endeavor. I simply wonder whether you'll… even have that which you've worked for, if you cow tow to a man like Cohen."
He bows his head, deeply, and I take a moment to let this sink in, before continuing.
"That being said—it is my experience that men like Cohen… there is never an end to their demands. You do this for him, and he has something far more serious than a matter of trading a legal bet for a warrant you could have gotten from another judge anyway—although that is hardly something to be taken lightly, you understand. And, again, men like Cohen… have a way of distancing themselves, so that they are never held accountable for their roles in the corruption. …You do this for him, and he's right when he says he owns you, 'Rick."
He lifts his head swiftly, and there's fire in his green eyes now. "Nobody owns me." It comes out almost as a growl, and yet I smile affectionately at the sound. That's more the Warrick I know—perhaps he didn't have a mask, after all. Most people simply didn't naturally wear their hearts on their sleeves as Sara did, when unmasked.
"Then, I think… you need to bury him before he buries you. …I'll call Jim."
His eyes widen, and I remember Jim's influence in the night in question… but I also know that Jim feels exceedingly guilty for his behavior that night, towards Holly and everyone else. …I know that Jim used to be called 'Squeaky' because he was a clean cop in a dirty district. And I know that he would never pass up the chance to reveal a dirty judge for what he is…
I give a tight-lipped smile. "Even if he's still mad at you, War', I guarantee his anger will be focused on the judge. If there's one thing he hates, it's a dirty… well, cop, judge… you understand."
And those eyes, though still fiery, are calm and trusting too. Trusting me. He nods, just once, and I make the call.
Warrick's dilemma was definitely big—personally and professionally as alarming as Catherine's… although a minor interaction kept playing in my mind, along with the larger concerns of this 'people stuff' with Warrick and Catherine. Of course, it was Greg.
Somehow, it was always Greg. He and Sara both had a way of getting under my skin… Sara could do it with a word or two, and it was generally intentional, though occasionally not. Greg generally needed a whole conversation… on bad days, a complete sentence… but he could still do it, usually blissfully unaware.
This time, it was my realization of how similar his view of me is to Sara's view of me, minus our history. On a purely professional level, I realized that he too remembered things I'd said that I didn't remember saying myself… and that was… worrying, though I couldn't truly explain to myself why.
Despite being irritated that he was teasing me that Catherine's old-fashioned leg-work had found our victim's boat faster than my experiment—by mere seconds, really—I was rather impressed that he knew my Robert Frost reference. I had been of the impression that, although thoroughly skilled in the DNA lab, he was otherwise a walking stereotype for his generation. But no, he surprises me again.
"Come on, level with me. Who do you think killed her—the husband or the boyfriend?"
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "And you've narrowed it down to just two suspects?"
I wasn't surprised that he was thinking about the case—that was one of the reasons he was so good at DNA. Besides his skill and speed, he had a gift for understanding evidence in context, and therefore being able to make the right comparisons and associations without being told.
"Actually… you did. You see, my second week at CSI, you told me that when a cheating spouse is murdered there's always two suspects at the top of the list—the lover and the betrayed."
"I told you this?" I didn't remember saying this, though it certainly sounded like me… Those first few weeks, the only thing I remember of Greg was my abject dislike for him, and his obnoxiously bright good-spirits. …Although, in truth, that optimism had begun to grow on me. A little bit. …A very little bit.
"Mhmm. You see, I'm thinking that the husband caught Wendy with the boyfriend and when she left his house, he killed her in a jealous rage." He says, with too much enthusiasm… obviously a man who deals with murder in the theoretical every day, rather than up-close and personal. It's different, being in the lab…
I try not to sound too impatient as I stand, thankful I'd mostly finished my Chinese food before he'd entered. "And this theory is based on…?"
"Nothing. I'm just trying to help."
For the record, he was less than helpful.
And as if it wasn't enough, dealing with Warrick's personal demons and the very real knowledge that I would have had to turn him in before he could compromise evidence if he hadn't made the right decision on his own, and Greg—so very young—serving only to remind me how young Sara was… hardly an acceptable object of desire for a man my age, there was Catherine.
The woman whose death we'd been investigating had been having an affair. Catherine, in the course of our investigation, revealed to the husband this truth… probably because there was a large part of the husband that already knew, and probably because she was still dealing with Eddie's infidelities, and probably because she made no secret that she hadn't completely forgiven me for not telling her of said infidelities, when I discovered them.
We fought—and Catherine and I rarely fought, though it did always seem to involve her philandering husband, when we did. I told her she needed to separate herself from her cases—keep a level of emotional detachment. And she accused me of living a lonely, empty, meaningless shell of a life. My meager defense—that my personal stuff never interfered with work—hardly fazed her. Her response was simple, and biting.
"What personal stuff?"
And even when we walked into the boyfriend's house to find him dead at the hands of her widowed husband, because Catherine had led him to believe that her lover had killed her… I couldn't bring myself to believe she'd been wrong.
Well, no… she'd been wrong to tell the husband, even if he did deserve to know… it wasn't our place to tell. But she hadn't been wrong about the nothingness in which I lived, day in and day out.
Make that three people who could get under my skin.
