Eight Days
Glass Crucible #3
by maven
Standard Disclaimer: Characters owned by CBS Television, Jerry Bruckheimer and a few other production and distribution companies.
Spoiler Notes: For the season finale, of course. Any CSI episode I've seen is fair game to be alluded to.
Rating Notes: PG-13 for language. Maybe AA. I think I'm mixing my Canadian and American rating system. No sex, no nudity and less blood/gore than the episode had. Language will be stronger but gore less.
Story Specific Notes: A) I came up with a sequel idea (hence the new series title to avoid any confusion with the Diurnal Dreaming stores). Came up with (in my opinion) a great and applicable title. Started writing. Suddenly the title was no longer applicable. Renamed the sequel. Moped a bit about my wonderful and now orphaned title. Came up with another sequel. Soooo, yes, there's another story coming but don't hold your breath. B) I've arbitrarily decided that Sara and Catherine's ages are 5 years less than Jorja F. and Marg H. because it made Sara 12 when her mom went to trail (which works better than 17) and if I was going to shave off five years from one I should both to be fair. C) Finally, I love lawyers. My best friend is a lawyer. This doesn't prevent me from having as much fun as possible with them. That and product placement are my main amusements when writing.
Feedback, Nitpicks, Comments and Flames: Email at maven369@sympatico.ca or post here at the list where it was originally posted. All is cool.
Day Zero
I'm pretty sure neither heaven nor hell smells antiseptic. I mean, why would heaven have germs and why would the devil care if you got an infection? Probably gets a kick, actually, gangrene and septicaemia.
Therefore, I'm not dead.
I crack open an eye and give a quick look around. Bright lights, curtains and a nurse. My keen analytical mind comes up with a hospital.
"Are we awake?"
"Yeah." I bite back the sarcastic comment on the nursing professions stereotypical misuse of pronouns because, frankly, my head feels like someone just used it for target practice and if I'm snarky I might not get the nice drugs.
"The doctor is just looking over your x-rays. He'll be a few minutes. I'll just let him know you're awake."
I take stock when she leaves. I'm in an examination gown. I smell of fresh earth and sweat. My clothes, looking dirty and sweaty, are in a LVPD evidence bag. Damnit, I'd just got those boots comfortable and now they're impounded.
"Ms Sidle, I'm Dr. Jameson. How are we feeling?"
Message to self. Self, the morphine had better be good because keeping the sarcasm to ourself is aggregating the headache.
"Good. Head hurts. Actually, everything hurts."
"What's the last thing you remember?"
I decide that 'Catherine's lips on my forehead' is a politically incorrect answer and struggle to remember anything after that.
"Dirt falling and a big bang?"
He nods. "X-rays came back clear. A bit interesting…" he pauses but I ignore him with a pleasant smile… "but no recent damage. No sign of concussion but I've a bed with your name on it. I'd like to keep you twelve hours for observation."
"Is this optional?"
He looks at my chart again. "Yes. You can either stay here for 12 hours or you can convince me that you'll be accompanied for the next 24 hours with someone who will read the 'Signs of Concussion' brochure in front of a nurse."
"I'll stay and enjoy your fine cuisine."
"Excellent. Your colleagues are waiting outside. You up to seeing them while I make the final room arrangements?"
I'm pleased to see that his use of pronouns has improved. "Sure."
After a few minutes there's a knock on the curtain and Grissom sticks his head through the slit. "C'mon in."
Grissom comes in followed by Greg, Brass and, much to my surprise, Catherine. They're all shifting with hands in their pockets, staring anywhere but at me.
"How you doing?" Brass asks, breaking the spell.
"Good. Twelve hours," my brain freezes at the term and then skids to a start, "observation. Piece of cake, really. Then I'm discharged. I don't know if that clears me for work…" I begin, turning to Grissom.
"Ecklie reminded me that department policy dictates a seven day leave of absence."
"Oh. That all?"
"You want more?" Grissom asks in shock.
"No, I meant is that all he said?"
They exchange looks. "That's all he said that matters," Catherine finally says. "The rest was ass covering hot air."
"I should pursue other interests, huh?" They exchange the looks again so I figure I'm right. "Screw that," I mutter.
"Do you need anything?" Greg asks, "Stuff? A ride home tomorrow?"
"I have a change of clothes in the truck. I can take a cab to the lab to get my…"
"I'll be here," Greg says. "I'll bring your things over before I go home."
I'm not sure where this aggressive and possessive Greg has come from but, by the lack of surprise in the others, this isn't the first manifestation.
"Okay, thanks," I say, managing a smile which he doesn't match.
There's a stir at the curtain. "It's time to get Ms Sidle to her room," announces my nurse firmly. There's some awkward cheek kissing and hugs from everyone and I'm alone.
"Ready?" asks the nurse. I nod and slide into the wheel chair.
"He did write up some drugs, right?" I ask.
"Don't worry. We'll look after you."
Day One
The apartment looks the same; a fact that is vaguely disconcerting and I realize that I expected it to be different somehow. I stare at the flashing lights on my answering machine and program it to switch to record on the first ring. I ignore the flashing that tells me there are already three messages.
I look at the take-out menus that have accumulated again on the fridge and throw them away.
Inside the fridge is a United Nations of leftovers. An emergency session is held in my trashcan. Several cartons of questionable milk and juice are dumped down the sink.
I finally give in and hit play on the answering machine.
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just calling. Bye."
"Ms. Sidle, this is Charles Smythe of Slitherin, Scabies and Associates. We heard about your ordeal caused by the woeful inattention of the sheriff's department to protect you and, should you wish to pursue the matter, we would be happy to assist you. Our number is, of course, area code 702, 555-0523."
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
"Sara, it's Greg. It wasn't a problem." There's a muffled sigh. "I'm sorry I missed you. If you need anything just call."
I dump the trash down the chute and return to my apartment. I haven't yet succumbed to the collecting magazine and catalogue stage but I gather up my forensic magazines and dump them into a banker box. I'll sort them later.
Maybe.
I grab the banker box of framed pictures and rearrange the walls. Strip and change the bed. Clean out the kitchen cupboards, wash the dishes and wipe down the cupboards. I regard the oven but decide some pleasures are best postponed. Besides, it's not like I use it enough for it to be dirty.
Message to self. Self, next time insist on the really, really good drugs that actually turn off the brain.
Day Two
Libraries are interesting, an eclectic blend of the traditional and the modern. I return after four hours with a file folder full of computer printouts, some downloaded video on DVD and newspaper photocopies.
I'm pretty sure Andy Warhol and his promised 15 minutes hadn't anticipated CNN or the Internet.
The pictures of me are old, hair still curly from my San Francisco days and my face more, I dunno, less jaded, perhaps. The morgue had taught me the fragility of the human body. CSI had taught me the fragility of the human soul.
I press the play button on the machine and turn off the mute.
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
I read the photocopies and downloads. I find out about the case. Me. How I'd been snatched and disappeared off the face of the earth. I watch first Ecklie and then the Sheriff assure the voters that they were personally moving heaven and earth to find me but no ransom would be paid.
Note to self: Self, are we insulted or impressed that we're apparently worth a ransom that no one will pay?
I read about the explosion on Boulder and how everyone knows it's connected to the case but no one actually says anything. There're some nice shots of David taking out an oddly shaped body bag. Unconfirmed reports of an investigator being injured and a zoom shot of hundred dollar notes pasted to the window with blood. Bet-ya the document guys had a bitch of a time trying to clean and tape it all back together
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just…"
I grab the phone. "Grissom."
"Sara," says a clearly disconcerted Grissom. "The machine…"
"Who paid the ransom?"
There's a pause. "The department doesn't negotiate with terrorists."
"That's the political answer. Who paid the ransom? Who was hurt?"
The pause turns into a prolonged silence.
"Grissom. I have a right to know."
"Catherine."
"Catherine paid the ransom or Catherine was hurt?" I ask. Even to my own ears I sound incredulous.
"Both. She, ah, arranged for an anonymous contribution to pay the ransom and insisted on making the drop. He blew himself up anyway. She was shaken but the paramedics cleared her at the site."
"Yeah, I've seen her pull that before."
"Seriously. Ringing ears and a few scrapes. She wasn't hurt."
I breathe a sigh of relief. "Why?"
He doesn't bother to ask why what. "You'll have to ask her."
"Okay. Thanks," I say, sounding distracted even to my own ears.
"Sara! How are you doing?"
"I'm fine, Grissom. Don't worry," I say, hanging up. I turn back to my research.
"Sara, it's Greg. If you need anything just call."
Message to self. Self, we need more answers, not more questions.
Day Three
"Sara, it's Greg. If you need anything just call."
"Greg," I say, picking up the phone hopefully before he can hang up. I've been practicing this since yesterday.
"Sara. I was just leaving work."
"Figured. You're still at the office," I ask casually.
"Yes," he says suspiciously.
"Look, it's been four days. You guys done with my boots?"
"Grissom signed off the case yesterday. Want me to bring them by?"
"That'd be great. Actually Greg, why don't you bring the whole box?"
Message to self. Self, practice that whole casual tone.
"Sara…"
I try the same argument I used on Grissom. "I have a right to know."
"Sara…"
"Greg."
He sighs. "I'll see what I can do."
"Ms. Sidle, this is James Watson Finch III of Avarice, Voracity and Partners. If you should wish to pursue litigation into the possible malfeasance of your employers we would be interested in representing you. Please call 555-4733."
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just calling. Bye."
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
The doorbell rings an hour later and I peek out at a nervous looking Greg. I open the door and usher him inside, grabbing the top box and bag before they slide off. He glances around curiously while I lead the way to the coffee table.
"Coffee?"
"Thanks."
I bring out two mugs and he bobs his head in thanks. "Anything new at work?"
"Murder, mayhem and administration hassles. Nothing special. The rumour mill says shift changes and a scheduling shake-up but no memos to flood the cubby-holes."
I cut the seals on the first box and he winces. Inside are the paper files. Crime scene notes from three sites. A copy of a 2003 closed case labelled "State of Nevada versus Gordon, Kelly." Several files marked "transcript" with time indicators. Autopsy report on "unidentified remains; canis". An autopsy report on "Gordon, Walter".
"Husband?"
Greg has been concentrating on his coffee. "Father. Discovered the link through DNA. Not sure what…" He trials off as I do the math. If someone hadn't run DNA, a long shot at best, they wouldn't have found me.
This hasn't answered any questions. This has, again, raised more.
I slit open the bag and shake out my clothes and boots looking much like they did at the hospital. "I brought a release form for the clothes," Greg says. "Sorry, I should have washed them."
I look up in surprise and he looks stricken, like he committed some crime. "It's okay, Greg."
"What are you looking for?"
"Why," I answer, slitting open the second box. It contains the small evidence. Bits of electronics and a Styrofoam cup. Pictures of a Ford and a scattered sampling of bank notes. A memory stick and several DVDs marked Webcast. Some audio cassettes, both department and WalMart.
"He was crazy," Greg says. "I don't think you should watch those," he adds when I hold up a DVD.
"Why?"
"I don't think you should watch those," he says again.
"Why, Greg? Unflattering camera angle? Did I pick my nose?"
He doesn't smile. "There's about 10 hours. Of you trapped and you never really freaked out or lost it. And we were so afraid we miss something, misinterpret it, make the wrong assumption. And each time we'd catch a break there'd be hope and then it's dead-end and…"
"Hope," I say. I'm looking at Kelly Gordon's booking photo and then the one taken during the interview with Brass, Nick and Greg. "You guys didn't lose hope?"
"Sometimes," he whispered as if at confession, staring at his coffee.
I dig through my newspaper clippings and look at the photo they used of me and compare it to Kelly's booking photo. I look at the picture of Kelly taken last week and I don't need to compare it to the one on my ID badge. "But then… we had each other to keep going, to keep strong."
I look up at Greg. "I knew you guys would find me."
"I didn't. I was afraid I'd lost you."
If the pronoun didn't tip me off the raw emotion in his face would have.
"Greg…"
"It's okay," he says with a slight smile. "I know you don't feel the same way right now…"
"Greg…"
"… but maybe some day…"
"Greg…"
"… you'll, I dunno… "
"Greg!" I yell. "I'm…"
"Flattered. Friends. Got it."
"Greg, I can't do this now," I say desperately.
His slight smile gets all crookedy. "It really is okay."
"Can we talk later? When I get back to work? Back to normal?"
Message to self. Self, like Cockburn sings, the trouble with normal is it always gets worse.
Message to self. Self, shut the hell up.
"I should go?" Greg asks.
"Yeah."
"If you need anything…"
"I'll call."
"I'll need to get them back soon," he says, motioning to the evidence boxes. This is never going to trial but evidence is still sacrosanct.
"Yeah," I say, looking again at the 2002 picture of Kelly Gordon.
I barely notice when he lets himself out.
Day Four
I spend the forty-mile drive from LAX to the California Institution for Women trying to find decent radio station on the rental car's radio. That and constantly adjusting the air and making acrostic sentences out of licence plates and anything else to stop my self from thinking. About life, genetics, California Penal Code sections 187 to 199 and fate.
This is a mistake.
When Laura went in there wasn't a lot of options in correctional facilities, especially one doing 25 to life, because Frontera was the only one. And when the Northern California and then the two at Chowchilla were built no one saw the point in moving her. Guess she was a fixture.
After she's returned to the cells I stand and stare at my feet when a guard smiles sympathetically at me.
"Hey, glad you're okay."
"What?" I asked confused.
"You were on the TV. The last name is uncommon enough. Your mother…"
"Yeah?"
"She followed it. She was worried."
"You know I don't care, right?" I ask angrily.
"Yeah. I can never keep my nose out of other people's business."
I scub my face with my hand. "Thanks," I finally manage as I walk out.
I spend the forty-mile drive from the California Institution for Women to LAX cursing fate, God, California Corrections, CNN and genetics. I turn in the rental and buy a book for the flight back that I know I won't read.
The apartment looks the same; a fact that is still disconcerting and I wonder when it'll pass. I stare at the flashing lights on my answering machine and smash the play button hard enough to almost knock it from the table.
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just calling. Bye."
"Ms. Sidle, my name is Frank. Yeah, look, a dog bit me while I was fixing a pothole on Stewart -I use to work for the public works department until this dog took a chuck our of my leg. Anyway, my cousin Bob says we should get together and sue the county for a couple of million. If you want to get together just call me. 555-4733."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
"Sara, it's Greg. If you need anything just call."
I grab the Easy Off Oven Cleaner.
Day Five
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just calling. Bye."
"Sara, it's Greg. If you need anything just call."
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
I head north on I-15 toward Nellis, wonder whose idea of a sick joke it is to build a correction facility on a street named Smiley.
I wonder, also, why I'm doing this. I'd known in California that I'd be making this drive, visiting this prison, this prisoner. Perhaps the words will come when I get there.
I wonder what happened to make Walter Gordon give up on his daughter after three years when it took me over twenty to with my mother. And I wonder if that's what I actually did or just what I told her.
Day Six
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just calling. Bye."
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Sara, it's Greg. If you need anything just call."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
"Ms. Sidle, first I must solicit your strictest confidence in this transaction. I am sure and have confidence of my ability and reliability to prosecute a transaction of this great magnitude involving the litigation to punish most severely the reprehensible lack of action and diligence by your employers. If you will forward us a thousand dollars in small, unmarked cash to cover the court filing fees we will begin to undertake this procedure on your behalf.
I read the transcript and then dig through the box until I find the original tape. The transcript is what the lawyers and judges use. It's the facts. It's the data. Even I know that facts and data only go so far. Sometimes you have to hear the words, catch the nuances that the written word doesn't hold.
"Okay, interview between James Brass, Captain LVPD and Catherine Willows, CSI three. You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"
"The paramedics cleared me Jim. Let's get this over with so I can get back to work."
"Right, take it from the top. You arrived at the warehouse?" Jim prompts.
"I entered the warehouse and identified myself. I observed a white Ford Explorer that matched the suspect vehicle. I observed a dead dog. It was half covered with a tarp. A workbench I think. I called out and a voice from an interior room answered."
"Did you recognize the voice?"
"No. Not anyone I've talked to recently. Anyway, the warehouse was lit with natural light but the office had a bright light aimed at the doorway. Dazzled me."
"So you didn't recognize the suspect?"
The frustration is evident. "No. Can't even describe him except for build. Big and bulky, like a football player."
"Go on."
"He seemed surprised that I came alone, that I had the money and no tricks. That you could put a million dollars into a duffle bag."
"Yeah, that always surprises me too. Did he say anything else?"
"Just mind game questions. Taunting me. Us."
"Like what?"
"He asked," Catherine said and I recognize her tone. Frustration and anger and confusion. She gets that way -hell, we all do- when we have all the jigsaw puzzle pieces and no box lid to look at. "He asked what Sara meant to me. How it felt to watch her and know there was nothing I could do to rescue her."
There's a long pause as Jim, and I, wait to see if she answers the 'what Sara means to you' question. "Interesting," Jim finally says. "Sounds personal."
"But not Sara-personal," Catherine agrees. "And then a bit more about being impotent and helpless, that we had four hours and then he blew himself up."
"Nearly you as well."
"No," Catherine said after a slight pause. "He warned me. Told me to back off." A slight edge of irritation enters her voice. "Blew up the money though. The document guys are going to have a bitch of a time trying to clean and tape it all back together."
I listen to the rest of the interview. Brass patiently asking an increasingly frustrated Catherine to go over details and impressions and thoughts. Finally I switch it off.
"What does Sara mean to you?"
She never answered Brass. I wonder if she answered Gordon.
Day Seven
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just calling. Bye."
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
"Sara, it's Greg. If you need anything just call."
I awake at four. At five I get up, tidy the clean apartment, shower, dress, eat a meal, pack my emergency clothing bag for work, clean the dishes and pull on my jacket.
Seven-thirty.
A half hour to drive to work. I'd arrive around 8pm, the golden hour.
My Ecklie decreed, Grissom enforced exile is over.
Like an addict I take off my coat. One more hour without sucking my thumb. One more hour without taking a drag. One more day evening without taking a drink. One more day without going to work.
One more to prove I can. That I don't need it.
I look at the hall mirror.
Self, what does Sara mean to you?
I grab my coat back, check that the keys are in the pocket and head for my car.
Three hours later I let myself back into the apartment, tossing my gym bag in the general direction of the laundry closet. I turn on the scanner and CNN and NPR and fall asleep on the couch.
Day Eight
"Hi. It's Grissom. Umm, just… I'm just calling. Bye."
"It's Warrick. Just saying hi. Give me a call."
"Sara, it's Nick. Callin' to see how you're doin'. Talk to you later."
"Sara, it's Greg. If you need anything just call."
I awake at four. At five I get up, tidy the clean apartment, repack my gym bag, shower, dress, eat a meal, clean the dishes and pull on my jacket.
Seven-thirty.
A half hour to drive to work. I'd arrive around 8pm, the golden hour.
My Ecklie decreed, Grissom enforced, Sidle enhanced exile is over.
Message to self. Self, it's show time.
THE END
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