The officials were less than thrilled about his request to see Nick, and Fisher got the impression Langley had been making himself something short of completely popular there.
“Fine,” snapped a tired-looking Sergeant at long last. “Do me a favor and don’t yell at the staff, cuddle the inmate, share your weapons with him, steal him food out of the staff break room, recite his medication schedule four times a day to the nurses, or complain that there’s no adequate outdoor paradise for the wheelchair-bound inmate to walk around in. Is that too damn much to ask?”
“No ....” said Fisher. Langley ....didn’t exactly strike him as cuddly. The yelling part, that he could buy.
With a few more dirty looks, he was practically shoved into Aster’s cell and told to yell when he wanted out. Fisher noted that there was no promise to actually let him out, just that he should yell if he wanted it. Years ago, a CIA agent had made that distinction very clear by leaving him locked in a cell with a terrorist, turning the lights off, and walking away and getting on a plane.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced,” said Fisher dryly. Aster was blinking sleepily and trying to prop himself up on one elbow, yawning.
“No problem, come in and have a seat,” said Aster, gesturing expansively at the wheelchair. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”
Fisher snorted, and sat in the wheelchair. “Soooo ....you’ll be delighted to know Starr is now plotting your untimely demise.”
Aster raised his eyebrows, crinkling his forehead. “He’s turned into a character in a British detective novel?”
“I think he’d prefer to be thought of as a Bond villain,” said Fisher. “Earlier today, we intercepted a surreptitious meeting in the park with a woman named Tara Vineil.”
“Seriously?” asked Nick. “Vinyl?”
“V-i-n-e-i-l,” said Fisher. “She’s a Captain out at Riker’s, and happens to run one of the larger solitary confinement units for violent inmates out there. One we’ve noticed has an awful lot of non-violent inmates in it, who seem to have an abnormal level of fatal heart diseases.”
“Sounds like Starr’s type,” said Nick.
“Yeah. So they set up a meet in person to make sure they can’t possibly be overheard.”
“Awwwwww,” said Nick. “Such adorable innocence. You don’t sound like you hold his brains in high regard.”
“My pet rock is smarter, and has a nicer disposition,” said Fisher. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt and crossed his legs. “We were listening in on the meet, of course. Turns out Starr wants to know how a guy might go about arranging for the death of an inmate in Sing Sing. Vineil cottons to him right away, asks if it’s Aster, Starr says well, who else.”
“Not so adorable,” said Nick.
Fisher shoved his glasses down tight over the bridge of his nose. “Vineil opines a bit on how easy it’d be if you were in Riker’s. There’s a few dozen unpleasant ways to make an inmate stop breathing, and it turns out Riker’s has a pet ME with a rich wife and fidelity issues. He’ll put anything they suggest on the death certificate. Starr says he doubts the lawyers’ll give them another shot at that.”
The door was buzzed open without warning, and a nurse entered, backed up by a uniformed guard. They gave Aster a cup of pills and a bottle of water, and made Aster prove via an open mouth and a flashlight that he’d actually swallowed them. The nurse checked his vitals and wished him a good night while the guard looked on coldly.
Fisher grimaced when the door slammed behind them. “Caring medical staff they got here.”
“They have a real problem getting too emotionally attached to their patients,” agreed Nick. “We had fun earlier, turns out that nurse got stabbed on the job six months ago and almost died. Two jumpy stabbing victims, one needle, lots of jumping and yelping, one John Langley holding everyone’s nerves together.”
“Remind me to make a reservation,” muttered Fisher. “Anyway, Vineil’s gonna find out for Starr how to take a run at you here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Shifting Lines
JOHN
Frantic pounding on the door froze John and Mari mid-giggle.
Fire was John’s first thought, and his gaze jerked between the windows - fire escape - and the bathroom - water - and the door - flames? - before he started to worry about who it might actually be out there.
“Agent Langley!”
The voice was familiar, and Mari covered herself with a blanket while John dragged pants on. “Who is it?” he hollered, grabbing his shoulder holster and throwing it across his bare back.
“Agent Kasdan.”
John dragged the door open, and Kasdan looked in and glanced at his shoes.
“Sorry to disturb -- I just drove from New York, Agent Fisher wanted me to get you. Starr’s trying to get Aster killed, and Fisher’s out at the prison. We should get down there.”
NICK
Dan Fisher looked sober, but more human than before. Tired. He sat heavily on the wheelchair and put a hand on Nick’s elbow, sighed, and closed his eyes.
“I’m gonna be investigating Starr for a year, Aster. Two, maybe. Rikers ....I want to shoot myself in the head. That place is a sprawling, horrifying human nightmare that nobody sees inside and nobody cares about. I bet you I’ve had three hundred people break down in tears and beg us to review their cases, and when we do they’re in there on shitty evidence and can’t afford bail and they’ve been in there for a year on a crime they’d get maybe two months for if they were convicted, and they’ve lost their jobs and their homes and their pets and there’s no button I can press to end it, and that makes me scream.”
Nick sat up, and reached out to hug the slumped, depressed, kind-hearted FBI agent. Fisher tensed like he'd been zapped with electricity and startled sideways. He threw his arms up, driving his elbow into Nick’s chest. The blow slammed Nick's upper body back, and the back of his head smacked against the cinderblock wall of the cell.
Nick bit his lip and clenched his fists, but didn’t cry out. He braced himself against the cold surface of the wall, gripping fistfuls of the thin white blanket. He was getting pretty accustomed to pain, and this wasn’t some of the worst.
“Oh, God.” Fisher stared at Nick, his eyes wide in horror.
Little spots swam in Nick’s vision, and he struggled to get breath into his lungs in the wake of the blow. He got pain instead of air, and gagged.
“Aster, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. God - Aster, you startled me and I’m used to being around people in orange who want to kill me and - oh, God.”
Breathing deeply, Nick managed to vanquish the blurry tunnel of darkness that threatened his vision. He bit his lip, telling the buzzing to go away. He touched his chest, near the base of the ribs where Fisher’s elbow had connected, and bit harder.
Fisher went pale. “Oh, God. My career is over. I can’t be trusted alone with a suspect -- or even a crime victim -- ever again.”
Fisher looked so devastated that Nick tried again to comfort him, this time cautiously reaching out a hand for his. “Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Nick.
Fisher’s hand was shaking, but he gripped Nick’s firmly and steadied his breathing. “That’s the way it should be. They won’t fire me, not unless I’m convicted of assault -- but FBI agents just can’t go around hitting people.”
Nick forced himself to see straight. He recognized that voice, because he’d heard it come out of his own mouth. “I -- punched out the nicest FBI agent I’ve met in my life a couple days ago. I get it.”
“I’m sitting here wondering if there’s any kindness or compassion at all left in this world, an unjustly imprisoned man tries to hug me, and I lay the guy out,” said Fisher. “Think I just answered my own question, and shooting myself sounds like a nice constructive plan right now.”
“Try again?” suggested Nick, catching his own hands starting to shake at the idea of getting near the guy once more.
Fisher reached forward and almost
tenderly helped Nick sit, lowered his head, closed his eyes, and hugged him. Nick timidly wrapped his arms around the agent’s back, and not getting punched or elbowed for it, held on.
It wasn’t a warm, relaxing experience like hugging John. They were both tense as hell, barely breathing. Fisher’s hand on Nick’s back, clutching a fistful of orange jumpsuit, was almost desperate for something to hang onto.
“Revenge,” said Nick. “That’s our problem. That agent I punched could send me to prison for years, I could sue you, and when it comes down to it we’re all just scared and hurt and want to feel safe.”
“Tell me about it,” muttered Fisher, pulling away. “I worked in Gitmo. I just wanna know where we turned into such heartless bastards we take revenge on people who have a mere passing resemblance to the ones that hurt us.”
“We should talk, punching FBI agents and guys in orange jumpsuits,” said Nick dryly.
“Jesus.” Fisher looked into Nick’s eyes, and when he spoke again, sounded almost shy. “I got into it with the CIA over enhanced interrogation. I was in a foreign country, at a secret location, telling off the only other Americans there. They decide the reason I’m ‘soft’ on these assholes is I somehow don’t think they’re dangerous. They left me locked in a cell with a terrorist -- wearing orange scrubs just like yours -- twice my size and literally flew away. It’s no excuse, but I was pretty close to dead when someone happened to find me the next day.”
Nick shrugged. “Hurt people get scared, and scared people hurt other people, and that’s the way it’s been since the dawn of humanity. Throw in some good old-fashioned bullies, tyrants, and sadists, and we’ve got a fun little party going.”
“Yeah.” Fisher polished his glasses. “So, you got me by the balls. What is it you’re after? I warn you, I’ll end my own career before I do something corrupt, and I’ll take you down with me.”
Nick’s lips formed a smile. Bitter, cynical ....Fisher reminded Nick of himself, from an era before John beat it into his head that some people really were good guys.
“If I get to make demands of you?” Nick raised his eyebrows. “Okay. Quit drinking and talking about shooting yourself. We need you, and you should be the first to know that. Don’t be afraid to reach out to individuals. They’re a lot easier to cope with than the entire criminal underworld or the entire legal system, and a lot better. When you talk to those guys in tears, learn to see them, and pat them on the shoulder and tell them to hang in there. They need hope and caring just as desperately as they need an investigation, and it’s the one thing you can give no matter what. What’s the worst that can happen, you showed a bad person compassion? And maybe you reach some good guys who really need it.”
Fisher blinked, staggered. “Okay, Aster,” he said, his voice thick. “Any other suggestions for me? Because right now, I’m awfully damn inclined to listen.”
“I don’t believe that the bible is anything beyond well-crafted fiction,” said Nick. “And I’m not a pacifist, and I fight. But I think Jesus knew what he was about when he said things like love your enemies and turn the other cheek and forgive those who know not what they do and those who trespass against you.”
Fisher set his jaw and looked away, and gulped, and his eyes still got a little moist. “I do believe in God. And I think you just validated my entire career.”
JOHN
“You might want to get down there,” said the Sergeant processing them in, his voice grim. “Control room just caught Agent Fisher on camera driving an elbow into Aster’s chest and slamming his head against the wall.”
“What?” John’s mouth stayed open. What?
“Looks like they made up, he’s not beating on the guy or anything. We were trying to decide what to do - he’s FBI, and Aster ....” Rescue me, pleaded the CO’s expression.
“Get me there, now,” ordered John.
NICK
When John burst in through the door, a look of protective fury on his face, Nick and Fisher were sitting there holding hands. Fisher tightened his grip.
“Steady,” whispered Nick, unable to keep a faint smile off his lips even as he empathized with Fisher. So he wasn’t the only one John could intimidate the living hell out of just by bursting into a room.
JOHN
John brought himself to a dead halt, and blinked. Nick was clutching Fisher’s hand reassuringly, and Fisher looked like he was waiting to be shot. There was blood, not much of it but blood none the less, on the concrete wall above the bed where Nick’s head had hit.
“It’s okay, John,” said Nick softly. He looked okay, not rattled or in pain. There was something almost protective in his expression.
“No, it’s not,” snapped John. He'd had it. He'd had it with bad agents and he'd had it with watching Nick get kicked in the teeth over and over again. This was going to goddamn well end. “Agent Fisher, stand up. You’re under arrest.”
Fisher stood, his head down and his one free hand open, palm toward John in surrender. Nick still held his other hand, and Fisher unconsciously squeezed it to steady himself, then closed his eyes.
“No,” said Nick with steel in his voice. “Give this man one fraction of the chances you’ve given me. He needs it and he deserves it.”
“Nick, of all the things I’ve tried to teach you -- I’m afraid one ended up being that it was okay for you to be a human punching bag.”
Nick's hair was messy, like he'd been asleep when Fisher arrived. The blankets still covered his lower body. His expression was exhausted, his eyes worried. But there was confidence in the way he held himself, and held Fisher's hand. He wasn't cowed, and he wasn't acting like a victim. He was protecting someone he viewed as more vulnerable than himself.
“You haven’t," said Nick. "And what I hope I’ve taught you is that good men screw up, and mercy hits a lot harder than punishment.”
Nick glanced at Kasdan, who was standing just outside the open cell door, his left cheek and nose swollen and colored red and purple. “Agent Kasdan didn’t charge me with punching him. Fisher deserves that same mercy. We're humans and we're messy and freaked out and doing our best.”
“We can’t sweep this under the rug,” said John.
“Fine,” said Nick. “But he gets counseling, not fired, not arrested.”
John fixed Fisher with a glare, hoping the agent could read what he was thinking. I'm not as nice as Nick, and I want to beat you to a bloody pulp. Remember that next time you think about so much as looking at my partner.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” asked John coldly.
“That -- I hit an injured crime victim, and I deserve whatever consequences come of that.”
John’s resolve softened. “This guy dangerous, Nick?”
“No,” said Nick firmly. And he, as the one in the vulnerable position, would be the one to know.
John sat down on the bed beside Nick. “Let me see your head,” he said in a soft voice.
Nick lowered his head so John could look. “Don’t touch the blood,” he reminded John.
John rested his hand on Nick’s back. All that Nick was having to deal with ....and the fear that he might get HIV on top of it? He’d seen agents psychologically crippled by that dread.
“You’re gonna be okay, Nick. The chances are so small ....”
“I know. I’m not scared. But I couldn’t live with exposing you, so deal,” said Nick.
John patted him softly and peered at the slightly darker, damp area on the back of his head. No way to tell without gloves how serious it was, but given the way even minor head wounds bled and the fact that there wasn’t much blood, it probably was a trivial injury.
“Doesn’t look bad. Should have a nurse put some antiseptic on it though.”
He remembered the no-touching rule, and sensed Nick’s contentment with the hand on his back. Nick was relaxed, clearly not frightened or angry or in pain.
When John had waited in the hospital during Nick’s surgery, he’d prepared himself. He knew
very well what that kind of brutality did. The loss of faith in humanity, loss of personal sense of security and autonomy, the self-blame, the dehumanizing humiliation, the loss of self-worth ....not to mention the pain, fear, and horrific memories. He resolved to be there and counter those things with every word, every move, and every touch until Nick felt whole again.
But now, he was seeing the truth of how badly Nick had been treated for years. What he was subject to on any day he got out of bed, and the practiced ease with which he brushed off everything from torture to being struck by an FBI agent he was trying to comfort. His plea to John to back off when John hit him with the file.
John gulped down a horrible, enveloping sense of guilt. He’d spent years trying to smack down a smug, arrogant, recklessly overconfident, self-centered criminal. Support him and heal him and protect him too, but ....
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 34