A/N: Another riveting chapter written by co-author, JellybeanChiChi. Which is apt, as tomorrow is the 1st Anniversary of when we first started posting this story. It's certainly grown, and become something much better than I ever imagined. A lot of that credit is down to Jellybean, who is not just an awesome beta , but an amazing writer on her own right. Who I'm proud to call my friend.

Chapter 58

Edmund Flanagan, a junior assistant district attorney, never enjoyed having meetings at the prison. It's not that he feared anything or tried to put on airs, it was just unpleasant being in that environment. The county lock-up facility carried similar characteristics of larger prisons — high fences topped with razor-sharp barbed wire; security checks at various points inside and outside the prison; one could literally smell the amount of testosterone and tension floating in the air.

But going to the county lockup was necessary in his job and since he was tasked with dealing with the case of State of Nevada vs. Patrick Davies, he was arrived at the prison to meet the former CSI and his own attorney.

Yet when he went to park his car he saw a man in a suit speaking on a cell phone and the man looked oddly familiar. Flanagan parked his car and kept an eye on the man. Before exiting the car he called his office. "Hey, Nicole, can you patch me through to Mr. Sayers office? … Is that right. Last minute? … Interesting. No word where?… I thought you knew everything, Nicole. Ha ha. … No, I will see you when I get back to the office."

He ended the call, smirking at himself at the jabs Nicole — one of the secretaries — and he could volley at one another. Once parked, he grabbed his portfolio case and got out of his car. He kept his eyes forward as he pushed the lock on his key fob and walked towards the man, who had just ended his own phone call. He turned around and smiled at Flanagan.

"Lucky Eddie," Ladd Sayers said, using a moniker Sayers knew Flanagan never appreciated. "You really like to cut the time short, don't you?"

"Mr. Sayers," Flanagan said professionally. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. Working a case?"

"Same as you," Sayers said. "Got knowledge of a call from Davies' lawyer…"

"Yes, he was trying to arrange a meeting with me," Flanagan quickly interjected.

"Yeah, well, you know how the chain of command goes," Sayers said. "I'm curious what Davies' lawyer has to say."

"And I was going to let you know exactly what happened," Flanagan said. "Especially if there is a hint of involvement of that Grissom guy you are so fond to implicate."

"Watch how you talk to me, Junior D.A.," Sayers said. "You want to waste some more time losing a pissing match for me or get to doing the job we're paid to do?"

Without another word, the two lawyers went through the necessary screenings to enter the lock-up facility. When a guard opened up the room where Davies and his lawyer sat, Sayers prompted Flanagan to enter first.

"Edmund Flanagan from the prosecutor's office and this is…"

"ADA Ladd Sayers," the defense lawyer said as he stood up. "Thank you for agreeing to meet us. I'm Carl Miller attorney for Mr. Davies."

The two prosecutors sat down across from Miller and Davies, who looked stone faced with his gaze seemingly upon something on the wall behind the two men.

"You called me for this meeting, Mr. Miller, so what is it you want to discuss?" Flanagan said.

"Mr. Davies clarified events on the evening that Mr. Jake Sullivan died and in light of his statements to me, I believe our two sides should discuss a plea arrangement."

"Our office isn't interested in a plea arrangement for first-degree murder," Flanagan said. "We would just assume go to trial."

"Sullivan's death was not first-degree murder," Miller said. "It was self-defense."

"Come on counselor," Flanagan said. "It's not self-defense when the victim Davies intended to kill fights back."

"Therein lies the fallacy of your argument," Miller said. "Mr. Davies never met Mr. Sullivan in that park with the intent of murder."

"Oh, so he invited him there just to chat?" asked Flanagan. "Sullivan was lured to the park via text messages from a burner phone sent by his murderer."

"Who you were originally convinced was Gilbert Grissom," Miller said.

"That is inconsequential," Flanagan retorted. "We now know it was Mr. Davies."

"Know?" Miller said without a hint of sarcasm. "It is merely another assumption, Mr. Flanagan and one based on the word – that might be too strong - based on the assumption offered to your office by the former prison guard who was undoubtedly involved in Rory Dunbar's master plan. A man who you know for a fact was at the scene of the bus transfer accident and a man who was found in the hotel room with Dunbar's dead, bleeding body. That is the man who you are basing your assumption about a text from a burner phone that has not only never been found in my client's possession but also has not been found period."

Flanagan took a quick glance in Davies' direction, whose gaze had not moved one iota since he and Sayers entered the room. "You mentioned your client offered clarification. I'm willing to listen to this clarification, but cannot guarantee it will change the course of the prosecution. We know that there are considerable amounts of money that Davies garnered from Rory Dunbar through their mutual associate, David Fromansky."

Miller offered a professional nod towards Flanagan, but the younger lawyer could tell the defense attorney's glance toward Sayers made it look as if he was addressing the older ADA.

"Mr. Davies does not deny knowing Mr. Fromansky. They were friends," Miller said. "And it is true that Mr. Davies did secure funds that were being transferred back and forth between Dunbar and Fromansky. They were not payments but middleman management of funds from one to another."

"So you're saying he laundered the money," Flanagan said.

"He believed he was helping Fromansky, his friend, to hide funds from his ex-wife," Miller said.

"OK, let's not get into the minutiae of all this," Sayers piped up after staying silent for so long. "Get to the night Sullivan died."

"Mr. Davies received a call from Fromansky stating he had sent a text to Sullivan from the burner phone to meet him in the park. Fromansky wanted backup from Davies and told him to be there in about an hour," Miller explained. "Instead, Davies went right away to the park to warn Sullivan."

"Why would he do that?" Flanagan asked.

"The two had become friends," Miller said. "That is something your CSI's discovered in the investigation. They became drinking buddies, and Davies couldn't stand idly by knowing the plot to kill Sullivan."

"And yet he still ended up dead," Flanagan said.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Sullivan was furious with Mr. Davies as he tried to explain what was happening," Miller said. "Mr. Sullivan charged at Mr. Davies, who had no choice but defend himself. A scuffle ensued and unfortunately, Mr. Sullivan succumbed to injuries."

"Wait a minute," Flanagan said. "If Mr. Davies here didn't go there to kill him, why was he wearing Gil Grissom's shoes?"

"Fromansky arrived on the scene and found Davies and Sullivan fighting. When he realized Sullivan was dead, he told Davies to wear the shoes and put them against Sullivan's neck to ensure there would be evidence on Sullivan and evidence on the shoes," Miller said. "We suspect that was the reason he asked Davies to come at all. To wear the shoes and create the evidence of Grissom being there."

"And you're saying that Fromansky was the owner of the burner phone and he called Davies that evening," Flanagan said. "Unfortunately, I don't remember seeing anything in Mr. Davies' call logs that back up that claim."

"I have lots of different phone logs you haven't seen."

Patrick Davies' voice came out of nowhere. He gave a quick glance in Flanagan's direction, then stared at Sayers. "A lot of interesting numbers on certain phone logs."

The room became silent once more. Sayers tapped his fingers against the table and turned to his colleague. "Mr. Flanagan, I'd like to speak with Mr. Miller and his client privately."

He had a feeling something was fishy from the get-go, and the senior attorney's request only cemented that feeling. Just the fact the attorney called him Mr. Flanagan instead of Eddie gave him pause. Morally he should have pushed, but Edmund Flanagan could recognize a losing battle when it came to working with Ladd Sayers.

So the younger attorney stood up, went to the door and knocked for the guard to open it. He didn't say anything as he left the room and waited in the outer corridor.

Some 20 minutes later, he noticed Davies and Miller sharing a word before the shackled prisoner was led back to the cell block. Miller past Flanagan who stayed seated. The defense lawyer slowed his gait to offer Flanagan a nod and a short message. "Sayers wants you back in there."

Unamused that a defense attorney relegated him to reenter a room where his case was discussed, Flanagan's face was red and he worked to taper his anger. "What's going on?"

"Sit down," Sayers said with an air of confidence. "Settled the case for you."

"I don't remember asking you to do that."

"Doesn't matter," Sayers said. "This case is not the slam dunk it originally was. It was time to cut our losses and get some jail time for him."

"That's all well and good, but you are not in charge of the case, I am."

"Second time today I tell you to watch your tone."

"All due respect, Mr. Sayers, I think I have the right to point out the obvious when I was asked to leave the room and a deal was made without my knowledge or consent," Flanagan said. "That's how back door deals are made, and I'm not fond of that."

"OK, let's calm down," Sayers said. "Honestly, Eddie, I was looking out for you. You don't want to take this case to trial. It would have unraveled and we would get nothing. The media would have a field day for you. Settling this out of court is the smart move."

"His story about how the death occurred doesn't even jive with the coroner's report."

"Jurors won't get that. There's just not enough evidence."

Unsatisfied but not willing to push the argument further, Flanagan asked, "What did you offer?"

"Two to five for reckless endangerment."

Flanagan's eyes became wide. "For premeditated murder for hire? He'll be out in a year."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But you have to add into the fact that he is a CSI and a murder against him could open a can of worms for the department."

Flanagan sat back in his chair, unimpressed by the show his boss was offering. Flanagan knew Davies was a low level CSI, and a murder trial would not be opening up a can of worms. Not like, say, if the defendant was the former supervisor of the night shift at CSI, which Sayers was salivating to try.

But again, Flanagan could read a lost cause when he saw it. "Fine. But my name isn't going on this. You made the deal, so it should have your signature and you should be the one arguing it to the D.A."

"The D.A. assigned you this case, Eddie. It should have your signature."

"I'll take the consequences," Flanagan said. "Unless there's a pressing, underlying reason you don't want your name on the papers."

They locked stares and were silent for perhaps 15 seconds. Sayers thought the younger man would concede but he didn't. "Fine. I have no problem signing these papers, because, mark my words, the sooner we close this case and put the death of Jake Sullivan behind us, the better."

"It seems like you're having a real tough time of putting Jake Sullivan's death behind you."

Oscar Jimenez said those words to Gil Grissom as the two sat in separate chairs in Jimenez's counseling office. Grissom had recalled his nightmares, especially ones where he feels he is personally witnessing Jake Sullivan's death.

"After you have these nightmares, how often do you think your mind goes back to thinking about Jake?" Jimenez asked.

Grissom shrugged and kept his attention on his hands positioned in his lap. "It's hard to say. It's just that… I know that I wasn't there to see him killed. I know physically I have nothing to do with his death…"

"Yeah," Jimenez said, using active listening to prompt Grissom to continue. "It wasn't you who killed Jake or put him in that position."

"But didn't I?"

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe… I did put him in that position," Grissom said. "I mean, I didn't do anything physically to Tyler Darrow that put him behind bars, but the family still blamed me for his imprisonment and his death. And, I suppose, I've been questioning… whether they are right."

Grissom poked his head up to see Jimenez looking at him with an intense face, but one that also revealed some compassion.

"And if they were right about me somehow… attributing to Tyler's death, maybe I did the same thing in Jake's case," Grissom continued.

"OK, I get your logic, man," Jimenez said. "I get it."

"You think it's correct?"

"I don't, but I'm a complete outsider who is able to have an opinion on this, pat your back and then go home and have a sandwich," Jimenez said, gaining a soft snort from Grissom. "You know what I'm saying here? My opinion doesn't mean shit if it's weighing on you so much that you can't sleep and can't get your mind from running circles around it."

"Well, I'm not certain how to put this behind me," Grissom said, frustration and sadness in his voice. "I mean talking about it seems to be meaningless and it's not like I can go back and ask for forgiveness from Darrow's family, and how the hell would Jake's family react if I, his former girlfriend's husband and former suspect in his murder, contacted them to say, 'I'm sorry.' It would be shallow and hollow, I'm sure."

Grissom rubbed his face and sighed. He stood up to stem the anxiety he felt.

"There is something you can do and it does involve forgiveness."

Jimenez's words prompted Grissom to turn around. "You really expect me to get in contact with those families?"

"No. That's not the forgiveness I'm talking about. What I'm talking about is much harder."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on. Sit down," Jimenez asked kindly. Once Grissom was seated, Jimenez pulled his chair closer to him. "I'm talking about you. You need to forgive yourself."

The incredulous look on Grissom's face spoke volumes as he seemed to be at a loss for words.

"I know," Jimenez said, obviously familiar with the look. "Here you are thinking over and over about your role and your responsibility in this situation, and here I am saying you need to think about forgiving yourself. Might seem a little…"

"Selfish," Grissom said, finishing Jimenez' statement.

Again, Jimenez didn't act surprised at that statement. He'd heard it before from others in law enforcement who can't let go of the notion that someone else's death was out of their control. "Looking for forgiveness is not easy. It requires a true evaluation of a situation that brings up a lot of memories and realizations. But that's what I need you to do."

"Fine. I forgive myself."

"Bullshit," Jimenez said with a smile. "It ain't gonna be that easy, dog."

"Well, I'm not so sure it's going to get farther than that."

"I do," Jimenez said. "How do you feel about attending a group meeting. Totally confidential. Me and a few more guys dealing with issues that need airing out. Interested?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice. That's what life is all about, isn't it?"

Grissom nodded.

"But there is a catch?"

"What?" Grissom asked.

"A letter. To yourself. Asking for forgiveness."

Grissom sighed. So many choices in life seem to come with a hard cost.