John half-smiled. “I can’t tell you the number of warnings I’ve gotten about Nick. But I trust the man with my life, and my wife’s life. Prison didn’t make him violent, and being beaten at Riker’s didn’t make him violent. Basic good nature is a lot stronger than that.”
“Did he adapt okay?” asked Matharu. “When he was released?”
John nodded. “Bear in mind, Nick was not innocent. He shouldn’t have ever been in maximum security, but he was guilty of far more than he was convicted of. He never had reason to feel betrayed by the system. Getting out of prison early was a gift for him, not justice at last.”
“But he — I hear it’s really hard for prisoners to go from that much structure and confinement, back to ordinary life.”
“That’s where being on an anklet actually helped him, I think,” said John. “Nick took the transition in stride, but he did — does need boundaries, structure, and a lot of emotional support. It’s not something in your face, it’s subtle. He was capable and basically well-adjusted at the office from day one.”
Their sandwiches were served, and they ate in silence for a bit. Matharu seemed like a kind and intelligent man. Lyndon Green had seemed hurt, but not resentful. He too struck John as having the same quiet intelligence.
“I think you two would get along well,” said John. “That’s the thing with me and Nick. We like each other. That makes all the problems surmountable.”
Matharu’s face softened. “To be honest, I think you’re right. Some people, you connect with and care about during an investigation, and he was one of them.”
“If it helps, I’ve talked with Lyndon in prison a number of times now,” said John. “He strikes me as well-adjusted, stable, and not at all resentful. He’s holding in a lot of grief, but he feels well-treated at Sing Sing and he’s resigned to making the best of his life there.”
“That helps a lot,” said Matharu. “I’ve been talking to his lawyer and ours, and they say if I’m willing to do it, there’s a good chance he could at least be out of prison faster even if it takes the courts a long time to vacate his conviction.”
NICK
A lost Matisse found. Sort of.
Nick peered at the photo, a poorly exposed snapshot of a small home gallery. An early flat-panel television set identified it as post-war, but not recent. The image was thankfully focused on the Matisse on the wall, the painting Kasdan referred to as one of his best portraits.
Art critics would probably not agree, and that buoyed Nick's hopes of recovering it.
It strayed more towards realism than most of Matisse's work, making it more deeply valuable to a grieving family than any more abstract masterpiece. The couple was sitting on the grass beside a path, Kasdan's grandmother young and wispy and cocooned in her husband's lap, the two focused only on each other.
The clarity of the features and the outdoor setting reminded Nick of Liseuse à l'ombrelle. The vulnerability of love was plain, the figures relaxed toward each other in deepening evening shadow.
Mari let Kasdan in when he rang the doorbell, served him coffee, and ushered him towards the couch.
Nick stood, and Kasdan's face went sober as he approached. The seriousness with which Nick was looking at the photo unnerved him.
"Is it of you again?" asked Kasdan. His voice even cracked a little, his forehead tightening.
Nick stuffed the photo into Kasdan’s hand, not wanting to draw out his distress. Sweet damn FBI agent.
"It's not recent," warned Nick. "We haven't found the painting yet."
"It survived the war," said Kasdan in a hushed voice. "It survived the war."
Nick was unprepared for the sheer emotion the sight of that one piece of art induced. Kasdan stepped closer, his eyes dark and shiny, and pressed his face against the side of Nick's arm before falling completely silent into his own world. He was there next to Nick for protection, disarmed in the face of the world.
It reminded him of the soft closeness that the photo of him in John's arms in the cell had invoked when they'd viewed it in Kasdan's office. Of how the process of painting a portrait transformed a grieving, suicidal son of a mob boss into a sober but confident and good-hearted young man.
“I was telling my grandmother about you,” said Kasdan.
“Your grandmother who was -- in Birkenau?” asked Nick.
Kasdan nodded. “She cried, because once a society can ignore the abuse or murder of prisoners behind closed walls, it can turn its back on the next indignity, and soon comes slaughter and the outcries of ‘how could such a thing be allowed to happen?’”
Nick was ashamed, thinking of the misery and trauma he’d allowed himself to indulge in. “I was -- I think I was there maybe four hours. I was rescued and given top medical care and support and protection and love. There is no way what happened to me can compare with years of starvation and torture and experimentation and the murder of an entire people.”
Kasdan drew a deep breath. “I was six when my grandmother started telling me stories of what went on in the camp. Seven when she told me how my grandfather died. Ten when she started teaching me about the sociology and politics of it. And I grew up knowing that the slide towards inhumanity starts with a people’s willingness to turn away because it’s ugly and not quite big enough to make a real stir about.”
“Do you think she’d like to accompany me to the Times’ office?” asked Nick.
“What for?”
“To make a stir.”
JOHN
The next morning, John sat down with coffee and the paper while Nick was still upstairs showering. There was an article on the mysterious posters that had been appearing all across the city.
All of them portrayed graphic, horrifying scenes of cruelty and abuse of power by authorities, mostly law enforcement, on the left. The right-hand photo was always of equally striking compassion, mercy, and trust in what could be a similar situation to the horrible one.
These aren’t leaks, they’re art, read the article. The powerful emotions evoked by the visceral human horror of witnessing the scenes on the left are expertly toyed with when one’s gaze moves right, and every fiber of the soul unclenches in relief.
The artist has given compassion the magnetism usually claimed by images of violence. It’s impossible not to be drawn towards the sanctuary offered by the images on the right, and equally impossible to resist its call on humanity to do better, to be the image on the right.
This could be one of the most important art projects of our time, and it’s spreading through the streets of our city at the hands of college students and grandmothers bearing tape and staplers. It’s reaching the eyes of those who enforce the law and those who break it. Never has abuse of power been so visually conquered by the power of mercy.
The artist, said the article, was anonymous. The images were being distributed anonymously, with activists urged to print them as large as possible and post them in public. Ten print shops throughout the city had been given funds to print copies professionally. And with the artist’s identity being held in the strictest of confidence, the Times had been given permission to print a new work to accompany the article.
“These interactions can be beautiful,” says the artist. “We have a deep need to feel protected and safe, and so many who enter law enforcement are deeply protective, idealistic people. Police departments have to get away from the predator and prey, us against them mindset that’s contaminating what can be such a powerful force for good.”
John flipped the page, and his whole world ground to a halt along with his breathing.
The left image was of Nick in Rikers, screaming as a guard rubbed pepper spray into his eyes while another hauled his cuffed arms up behind his back so high it was a miracle Nick’s shoulders hadn’t dislocated. It was too clear to have been pulled from the CCTV footage; John guessed that someone, maybe an inmate with a contraband phone, had taken a photo of the scene.
It instantly brought tears of grief to John’s eyes. Ima
gining gentle, playful Nick Aster being made to suffer like that was unbearable. But it was the photo on the right that pulled him in, and made a career FBI agent cry in earnest.
It was the crime scene photo from the cell that had been leaked on the internet.
Nick in red scrubs. John, with his badge and gun. Blood and cement and leg irons. And none of that mattered visually in the slightest, because of the arresting trust and love evident in every facet of their beings. An FBI agent and a prisoner holding each other, two natural enemies embracing and holding on for dear life.
John’s expression couldn’t have been more fiercely tender and protective and compassionate. Nick’s face was too battered for facial expressions to be plain, but his eyes and body language conveyed absolute trust and adoration. He was safe in John’s arms, and knew it.
The mutual caring was palpable at a glance, and somehow made the other image more horrifying yet completely irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the fact that these two human beings cherished each other. It cut through the horror at a glance, reassuring and soothing the soul.
John heard Nick’s steps as he entered the kitchen, and tried to hold his voice steady. “Nick, where did you go with Kasdan yesterday?”
“Went to meet his grandmother,” said Nick, pulling cereal out of the cupboard. “Amazing lady. And we’ve got a lead on that painting.”
“Yeah?” John’s voice cracked, and Nick walked up behind him.
Nick saw the paper, and inevitably, John’s tears. He pulled a chair up next to John’s side, and sat.
“Didn’t happen to stop by the Times office, did you?” asked John with growing certainty that he had.
Nick was silent.
“This is powerful stuff, Nick. I saw two of them yesterday, and they were in my head all day. I only know one artist who would have such a personal connection with these particular images.”
“I forge art,” said Nick. “I steal art. I’m not an artist.”
John turned to face him. “The poster I saw first yesterday had an injured suspect being cared for with the most obvious empathy and reassurance.... You know we don’t rough up our suspects. But I walked back into the office thinking about how I might be able to make open kindness and compassion like that a thing our agents feel safe displaying. I think law enforcement officers all over the city are going to be having a lotta similar thoughts.”
Nick looked down, and licked his lips. “I wasn’t trying to be that on the nose about it,” said Nick at last. “I just - I was feeling so horrible when those leaked photos came out, and so was Kasdan. Then that photo of you and me in the cell popped up, and it changed everything. Seeing that made the world okay again. We all know the violence exists, I just wanted to show — the other stuff too, and how powerful it is.”
John reached out and pulled Nick into his arms, hugging him. “You, my little felon, are an artist. And I think you just did something incredibly powerful.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Don't Blow it All on Ivory Carvings
NICK
Nick walked into Curry' office with a certain amount of trepidation. The man was the definition of tough but fair, and Nick both liked and feared his moral compass.
"Sit."
Nick sat, wincing internally. Get convicted of one measly bond forgery, and people order you around like a dog for your foreseeable future. He didn't mind when John did it, because it was an affectionate sort of reassuring "abuse." But with Curry and everyone else, it stung.
Curry tented his fingers on his desk, looking thoughtful. “How you getting on, Aster?”
“Fine,” said Nick.
“I mean it,” said Curry, still examining him with a serious gaze.
“Recovering fast, sir,” said Nick. “Thanks to your letting me be with John instead of in prison, and giving him the time off …that’s had a big impact on my life.”
“You and I both know I trust you as far as I can throw you, Aster. But when it comes to your safety and well-being, you’re FBI. When they attacked you, they attacked an agent, and we do not stick our agents in prison when they get hurt. You recover wherever and with whomever you please, for as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” said Nick, trying not to beam like a little kid. "What's up?"
Curry studied him for an agonizing twenty seconds. Then one side of his mouth twisted in amusement. "The NYPD made a settlement with the BOP where they'd pay your medical bills. They just got the tab. I'm just sadistic enough towards people who hurt my agents to have found their reaction quite satisfying."
Nick grinned, more elated than any sane grown adult should be to hear Curry group him with 'my agents.' "Let me guess, they were expecting to pay for prison standards of care."
Curry' eyes twinkled. "They weren't expecting that somehow the hospital got confused, thought you were an FBI agent injured in the line of duty, and gave you the best and most expensive care possible. I just learned how loudly a bean-counter can scream when confronted with the bill for specialist cosmetic surgery on an inmate."
Nick subconsciously touched the cuts on his face, healing flawlessly. "I appreciate it. I don’t want to carry scars from something this traumatic."
"They're roped into paying all your medical bills from this," said Curry. "Including follow-up. If there's any residual scarring, of course you'd want to have it taken care of. You could probably use physical therapy for your shoulders, maybe weekly counseling for that trauma you mentioned ....it's going to be a long and expensive recovery process."
Nick bit his lip to hold back laughter. "I'm stiff and sore all the time, sir. I think what I really need is regular massage therapy."
"Daily, perhaps," said Curry, nodding dryly. He hesitated. “I — hate to ask. And whatever the answer, you will have our full support and backing.... your first HIV test should be back now? Or soon?”
Nick grinned. He and John and Mari had celebrated that so exuberantly, it seemed like the whole city must know. “It came back clean, sir. I need follow-up testing later on, but I’m pretty much in the clear. And Fisher said his investigators believe the blade that stabbed me was clean, and that would have been the most likely route of infection.”
Curry let out a low whistle of relief. He pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Nick.
It was a check. For a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Nick blinked in disbelief. "What?"
"It's a PR move, of course. They went to the media and said they would pay you restitution. AUSA Werner held them to that. Personally, I would want a hell of a lot more, but it's better than the zero dollars you signed yourself up for."
"Wow." Nick held it up to the light and studied it. Real.
"Do me a favor and use that for something more substantial than an antique ivory carving of a Ferrari, Aster."
"That's the most adorable rendition of 'Don't blow it on drugs and hookers' I've ever heard," said Nick.
Curry didn't crack a grin, but his eyes were twinkling uncontrollably. "Out."
Nick paused with his hand on the door. “Will they be reimbursing me for the apple cider?”
NICK
“Did I deserve it?” Nick asked, feeling timid. “I know -- I deserved to go to prison. But I really only know that because people like you tell me. Do I deserve to be locked up and chained and strapped into things? You can say yes.”
“No,” said John firmly.
“Why do I deserve one form of misery, but not another?” asked Nick. He knew the questions sounded obtuse and childish and leading, but he simply, at this moment, didn’t know the answer.
John was silent for a long time. Finally he answered. “Nick, you ever been in a low-security Federal prison?”
“No.”
John patted his shoulder. “Get up. We’re going for a drive. And no, I’m not locking you in one.”
It was a two and a half hour drive out to FCI Otisville, a medium-security federal prison with a minimum security camp.
Nick's gut tightened wh
en they pulled in. The surroundings were beautiful, but he could sense the prison that lived there.
John caught him looking. “We’re going to the minimum security camp,” he said in a gentle voice. “The medium security area is a prison, with cells. It’s a lot calmer and safer and prettier than Sing Sing, but I don’t think you need to tour a prison. I want you to see where a white-collar, non-violent first-time federal offender should have been sent.”
Nick swallowed and nodded, glad to be spared a trip behind razor wire. He didn’t really fear prisons in the abstract, but they made him tight inside.
It was a sprawling place, out in the country, with a wooden rail fence, not a chain link one. They picked up visitor passes, were searched, and given the run of the place.
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 54