"I can't accommodate for anything outside the judiciary of Manhattan, you know that," Dad spreads his hands wide, sitting at the head of the table in the Loft. I've just broken the news to the team that today is the day where we meet Helena's niece and see where the pieces fall. "The MDP aren't cooperative when it's beyond their boarders, and you have no solid proof of Quade's accusations―and you know the jury won't believe anything Helena says when put against Quade's attorney."
"Half of Oliver's entire case will break since Blake's memory's been wiped," I say, pacing the entire Loft. "Ergo, he can't give a witness statement."
"But how do you know that this entire case is based entirely around Blake's accounts with that Colville guy in the taxi?" Banks pipes up. "For all we know Quade's friends have a dozen witnesses saying otherwise."
"As for the niece," Snag bites down on his knuckle, "her situation is extremely unfortunate but you, Akira, cannot be the one to take her under your wing and nurture her back to health. The inevitable is that Helena Quinn will get a ten year sentence at bear minimum, and she won't see her niece until she's released."
"I can't go back on my word, I promised Chloe and Helena that I'd at least get some charges dropped," I clench my fists. "If we can't nail Oliver for setting Helena up, we can get him for our case."
"The soul focus in that court room will be on Helena Quinn, not the victims of Angel Blue," Sam sighs. "Whatever we do, it's not going to be good enough. I know for a fact that Helena hasn't spoken to her attorney to build solid grounds, I'm afraid that Quade's resources will tear her apart and there's nothing we can do about it."
Maybe my good intentions were going to bite me in the arse quicker than anticipated. I turn on my heel and stomp to the elevator, pivoting and then pacing the entire section underneath the incline where everyone sits to stare at me. I've had four days to prepare some evidence to give Helena a fighting chance against those of the law, but everything will become equitable. Her mouth-accounts won't be taken into consideration, there's no proof to back up her story, the entire Bureau seems to be against her, there aren't any alibi's to give...
"I'll testify," I say.
"Like hell you fucking won't!" Banks stands up. "You're not a lawyer Akira, there's no way you'll be allowed to say your piece unless it's as a witness, and even if you're called back to the stand, Quade's an FBI―if you name yourself as a Detective of the NYPD, you will be ripped a new arsehole. You've got to think of all the other options."
"What other options do we have?" I shout. "If I don't object to what Oliver puts forward, Helena's going to be given capital punishment when he appeals for a retrial in Washington!"
"Why would he push for a retrial in D.C. if the verdict's decided here?" Dad frowns.
I clamp my mouth shut and throw my arms up in the air, admitting 'defeat' to get the team off my trail. They don't know anything about the deal I've made with Quade or the fact that he's threatened me and them. If I tell the team about what Helena knows, then I'm in deep shit. I clear my throat and stomp back up the stairs to take my seat next to Sam.
Banks rubs her temples, "No offence but Akira you don't act...reasonably when under pressure. If the attorney asks one wrong question, you're going to probably impale them on the scales of justice. Now I'm not a Diablo so I don't know how you guys work, but from what I've seen so far―Akira's primal trigger is rage, if you get angry, you'll get reprimanded by the judge."
I groan and rest my forehead in my cupped palms. My anger will evidently be my downfall sooner or later, it doesn't matter if I go to my 'happy place' or count to ten in my head―it feels like the emotion eats away at my insides and boils my blood unless I release it all at once in a torrent of foul words and/or fist fights.
"I'll keep a lid on my temper," I say.
"Can you guarantee that?" Snag folds his arms.
"Yes," I nod.
No.
Snag raises a peppercorn eyebrow at me. Arsehole, he should know how I feel seeing that he's the one with the flaming JH Complex that's always on the verge of appearance. He flares his nostrils at me in challenge when my own brow twitches, I swear that since he's found out about me and Sam, Snag's taken it upon himself to bring on the hate parade. Perhaps my relationship reminds him of the one he never had with Maria.
I look down at my phone and see the minutes tick by. Quade graciously reminded me the last time I saw him (when he threw me down on the damn table) that the hearing's at 9 o'clock and is ticking towards the 7 o'clock mark. I have to get Chloe Quinn and her legal guardian Cindy Horton from JFK International. If the traffic is decent it'll take me and Sam 45 minutes, having enough time to make the trip there and back with a few spare minutes to compose ourselves before entering court.
"Oh would you look at the time," I say with mock-cheer.
"You're doing your thing again," Banks rolls her eyes. She's referring to the fact that I put on fake enthusiasm to get out of uncomfortable situations; apparently that's my second defence mechanism. "I swear are all Diablos like this?" Banks directs the statement to Sam and Snag who are trying not to laugh.
"Nope," Snag says. "Though it is quite amusing to watch."
"I second that," Sam agrees with a smirk.
The ride to JFK International is rather soothing, since there are no major dips in traffic, Sam pleasantly holds my hand. I relish the feel of his thumb brushing over my knuckles in slow circular motions. To me, it's the simple touches like hand-holding that makes relationships all the more intimate and special―I think I speak for Sam too because before we ever start anything against protocol, the little touches lead up to the grinding against each other in an unorthodox manner.
A fine example is what happened this morning at 5 A.M. I was in the bathroom re-dying my hair, only half dressed in a black bra and my slacks (since we're all dressed formally today in our uniforms) when Sam comes in only wearing black boxers and starts massaging the tight coils in my shoulders. Before long, as you can guess like a pair of horn bags, we're wrapped around each other on the couch, kissing to the early morning weather report.
Sam turns onto Van Wyck Expressway and all we have to do from there is go to the Red Lot and wait in front of Terminal 9 for Chloe Quinn and Cindy. I have their files to ensure that I don't walk up to some strangers and invite them to a court room. Sam and I decant from the SUV and try not to inhale the petrol and unfiltered cigarette fumes in front of the check-in.
Immediately as we breeze through the glass doors, the hundreds of people cramped into JFK International turn to look at the two uniformly dressed law enforces with matching guns, two imperfect peas in a pod. A few tourists turn to discreetly take photos (because apparently it's not every day that the FBI and NYPD peruse the airport) whereas a school tour group mumble their 'Oh my God's' and 'Are those guns real?'.
I ignore the public interest for a while as we navigate to the correct terminal, but it's a single mother carrying her toddler and young son that catches my attention. The son is no older than seven and is decked out in the entire New York Yankees gear even though it's the off-season, the mother is trying to control both children, the trolley and her mobile phone all at once.
They mustn't be from around New York because the mother frantically looks at the flight boards before ending the call. Sam himself is looking at the illuminated map and doesn't notice that the little boy has dropped the baseball he was formerly tossing. The ball makes its way to nudge Sam's leather shoes, his green eyes flick down to the ball at his feet and picks it up.
The mother looks mortified but Sam smiles politely and slowly approaches the little boy, noticing that he flinches back behind the trolley when he sees the gun at his hip. The mother apologises in a southern drawl and says to Sam that they've gotten lost and are looking for Terminal 6.
Sam turns to point in the direction over my shoulder and instructs them to go down the hallway and take the escalator until they reach the lounge area. The mother thankfully breathes a sigh of relief and pats her son's head, pushing his two-sizes-way-too-big Yankees cap to an appropriate height above his hairline.
"Let's get goin' Mickey, you don't wanna bother the nice policeman," she says.
"Aw c'mon Mamma, can't we just take one photo?" Mickey pleads, turning to Sam. "My friends back at school won't believe that I met the nice policeman that gave my baseball back."
To my surprise Sam winks at me, "Blue, care to be the photographer?"
My neck flares with embarrassment since I've been standing in the background awkwardly, unsure of what to do. I hum in agreement and nod, walking over to the family. The mother breathes a 'thank you' into my ear and hands me her phone that's open to the camera widget. Since I'm no skilled photographer I move around for a moment so the lights don't reflect in the backdrop.
Sam's on his haunches with his arm around Mickey with the mother and her younger child behind them. As I capture the photo of them all smiling, I can certainly see Sam as a father, one who would move mountains for his children. For me, the white picket fence and letter box is becoming a detailed image in my mind. I hand the phone back to the mother and wave Mickey off after he shakes Sam's hand.
Walking down the hallway to Terminal 9 and the smoking rooms, it's rather quiet. Sam has his hands in his pockets and doesn't say anything, my brow twitches and I bump my hip against his, causing him to snap out of whatever daydream he was imagining.
"You made that kid's day," I say.
"It's not all about the badge Stevens," he shrugs. "Mickey's mother was on the phone to her attorney, apparently they're going through a bad divorce. I know when my parents were going through a tough time like that and I dropped a baseball, someone wouldn't have picked it up for me...being a Special Agent doesn't mean I'm above everybody else, at the end of the day I'm a twenty-three year old man that just wants to do his part for society."
"With those qualities, you'd make the perfect father," I comment.
"I don't know if I want to bring children into this world, I mean it's all just too corrupt. Over fifty-percent of all American marriages end in divorce, I wouldn't want my children to choose which parent to go with," Sam murmurs. "Besides, in such a high-risk profession I wouldn't want my son or daughter growing up without me."
The metaphorical neighbours in my mind are telling me to knock down the white picket fence surrounding the all-American dream. I sigh and fiddle with the file in my hands, I mean, I don't think I'd want to start a family anytime soon―I want to live my life and travel, but when I'm forty or if Dad ever tapes my resignation back together, I could consider settling down.
"What's the time?" I ask Sam, resting my cheek against his shoulder.
He slides an arm around my waist and looks down at his watch, "Almost eig―"
The shrill squeal of a teenager only means one thing, Chloe Quinn has entered JFK International and will probably be running down from the conveyer belt like a bullet out of a gun.
Three.
Two.
One.
"Chloe," a reasonable voice chides, rather breathless. That must be Cindy. "Don't point, it's rude!"
I swivel on my heel and almost get thrown into the far wall of the terminal. Chloe charges at me with such force that I'm torn from Sam's arms and I stagger back, dropping the file and all of its contents at my feet. I don't get a chance to blink, Chloe's already on her knees sweeping all of the paper back into the file and handing it back to me, frazzling her newly dyed red and blue pixie cut.
Hm, do I have a poser on my hands?
"I'm so sorry," Chloe puffs out her creamy cheeks. "You must be Akira―hi! I'm Chloe, um, I hope you're not going to cuff me because I made you drop your Detective file thingy," she cuts me off before I can open my mouth. "Oh wow is that your FBI partner―I mean boyfriend?"
Perhaps inviting a hormonal fourteen-year-old girl from Washington to Manhattan wasn't one of my brightest ideas. I try to say something but Chloe's already bouncing off the walls and grabs her bags from Cindy, a blonde woman who's hair is already falling out of the loose ponytail at the back of her skull. Thankfully, Chloe doesn't attack Sam, she just simply rocks on her heels blushing, her eyes darting between me and him.
Sam raises an eyebrow at me in question.
"Oh," Chloe drawls, giggling. "I wasn't supposed to say you guys were dating, was I? Is it against the rules or something―oh my God is it a conspiracy and you both are running from the government? How did you guys meet―I mean it would be so romantic if it was on the job and you both stay up really late and―"
If it was legal for me to arrest a 5'3 fourteen-year-old wearing ripped black stockings, knock-offs of my NYPD regulation boots, very...short denim shorts and a grey anti-Christ jumper―I most certainly would, not only for the kid's sanity but my own.
"Manners Chloe," Cindy chimes in, still collecting her breath. "I have to thank you both so much for arranging this. Helena's been my childhood best friend, what's happening to her has really hit home for me. I apologise for her niece, Chloe can get a bit carried away sometimes."
"Stevens organised it all, I'm simply her support in this case," Sam says.
"That is so adorable," Chloe chimes in.
This is going to be a long day.
• • •
Sam turns into Foley Square and immediately, I see evidence of a shit storm. On the steps of the Pantheon-like building, Dad's giving a statement to the eager reporters and media personnel whose camera flashes make Dad squint. Next to him, Banks stands with Snag and they both lean into each other, whispering.
Since we wasted a few minutes dropping Chloe and Cindy's belongings at their hotel room, the media storm has beaten us and struck with the intent of destruction and slander. The grey steps to the USDC seem to shift and move as the reporters push against the feeble barrier of NYPD Patrol Officers that act as the barrier.
I'm almost tempted to tell Sam to drive around the block until the trial is over.
I get out of the car first, as soon as my chunky boots hit the sidewalk, reporters and photographers slowly pull away from the main bulk of the storm to get information out of me. I'm surprised I don't have claustrophobia because I'm boxed in between arseholes with mics, and arseholes with cameras. I have no choice but to literally push my way up each individual step until I reach Dad. At least I've cleared a path of muttering reporters so Sam and co. can get through easily.
"Chief Stevens are you and your daughter here because you feel remorse for Helena Quinn?" shouts a reporter within the sea of faces.
"My past relationship does not impede my presence here today. As Chief of Police, Quinn's obstruction of justice concerning NYPD personnel who shall remain nameless, I'm required to be here," Dad rubs his stubble. "No further comment."
Other questions fly by regarding rumours with me striking deals with the jury or other wild accusations that aren't true, most of it is lost beneath the screams of 'Detective what do you think about this', 'Detective what are your thoughts on that', 'Do you condone the death penalty?', 'What do you have against the Federal Bureau of Investigations?' and even, 'Are you going to put Pingelly on trial?'.
I extend my arm protectively across Chloe and Cindy, ushering them quickly through the doors of USDC. Sam and the rest of team AB follow my lead and the glass doors slam behind us, quietening the media shit storm to a bearable hum in my ears.
Introductions are in order and I familiarize Chloe and Cindy with the AB gang. Cindy gets rather teary eyed because apparently she never would've thought that an ex-boyfriend would be on Helena's side―Dad, full of amiable qualities, just a shame that his taste of women has gone down the drain since Janine Stevens. Chloe, however, shakes Banks and Snag's hands before sitting on one of the plush seats down the hall towards the court room.
"Hey," I say, sitting down next to Chloe. "You okay?"
"I'm scared for Aunt 'Lena," Chloe sniffs. "But I guess it won't be so bad if you and Cindy are with me."
People start to file into the courtroom, mainly the jury and magistrate. I spot a few reporters that've been deemed access for their latest scoop on conspiracy against the government. I know how today's going to pan out, it's going to be a battle between FBI attorney against one another―one representing the victims of Helena's crimes (whatever they may be), the other which will try and give Helena a fighting chance to get off death row.
"Chloe," I say slowly. "I legally can't enter the courtroom."
"What―why? You're a Detective, of course you can!" she shouts.
I shake my head, "You don't understand. I'm a witness for the Defence; I can't reside in court when someone else is testifying because I'm on the registered list."
"B–but I thought you'd be up there arguing to free 'Lena," Chloe grimaces.
"I'm a Detective, not a barrister," I take hold of her hand and squeeze.
The Bailiff calls everyone to attention including the District Attorney (Quade's side) and Public Defender (Helena's side). The Clerk and Judge say their piece and the opening statements are soon to begin.
I walk Chloe to the door where two Officers block me from walking any further, I nod at them to indicate that I know where my place is. I swallow the lump in my throat, the crushing feeling of failure is impeding and I just pray to God that Helena Quinn survives the trial.
Sam's hand brushes the small of my back, "Makita and I will take Chloe inside. You're going to be fine Blue."
I fist-bump Banks and hug Dad before taking my place back on the plush seating, staring at the closing doors. Sam's ushering Chloe to her seat but she turns back in the aisle to watch me take my own seat, by myself since the Prosecution witness is already in there.
The tears in Chloe's eyes mirror my own.
• • •
USDC must be a place of last resort when it comes to nailing FBI, especially since Helena's Defence is only me as a witness. The downside of having me testify is that I have nothing to say that won't get Helena into more shit than she already is. I'm the one that fucking arrested her and now I'm magically doing a plead-dance with God to make her a free woman?
The Prosecution will laugh in my face when I take the stand.
A few family members, grievers I presume, loiter around outside smoking to relieve the tension or slumped against the columns, not being able to continue on in the court room. Is it really going that bad?
To pass the time I think of going to the vending machine in the far corner of the room. The steady trade of soft drinks and chips are a temptation for a Detective like me with an attention span of a goldfish but then I think to myself, vending machines are much like the government―all they do is take your money and don't have anything to show for it.
So, I settle for sitting back down in my seat and imagine how the trial is turning out. I can hear a heated argument from inside, perhaps Quade's trodden on a few legal toes―maybe Helena's strangling him with her handcuffs, maybe the Defence is yelling at Quade while Helena's strangling him with her handcuffs. I believe that is victory in one mental image, the downfall of the Godfather of Extermination.
When I saw Quade sneak into the courtroom (he avoided me when he saw me with the AB team) he didn't seem to be phased that Blake wasn't present to testify for the Prosecution, in fact, Quade looked too relaxed. I bet he's reclining on the front left wooden bench with a devious smirk on his face, smugly glancing over at Sam and the party of Pro-Quinn supporters.
Okay, thinking about Oliver Quade being an arsehole isn't calming my churning stomach or sodden armpits. Damn stress sweating. I'm on edge; a blind man could see how nervous I am. My knees are trembling and I'm biting my clenched knuckles. I'm starting to feel the pressure of court as the moments tick by. I don't know when I'm going to be called or what position Helena's wedged herself in. What I do know that there's a very slim chance Helena's going to get off scotch free unless the Prosecution literally fuck up their entire case.
Right now, I could do with a hand-hold from Sam or even have Chloe whisper in my ear if Helena will be okay. Honestly, I am more than willing to roast my own liver with some fava beans and serve it to Hannibal Lecter if that means an easy witness statement and a free Helena Quinn.
It's about an hour into the trial and the heated debarkle between the Prosecution and Defence is still steadily waging. I've gathered that the Prosecution has mainly laid out the facts, statistics and evidence, which Helena has feebly tried to defend herself against. She obviously doesn't remember to incriminate Quade I don't catch his cocky voice through the wood.
My ears prick up when I hear, "...Call your next witness."
I'm trying not to destroy my black NYPD cap when the wooden doors open and the Bailiff is there to escort me inside; I can barely control my erratic breathing as I slide the cap on my head and tug my ponytail through the back. I keep my chin up and roll my shoulders back, the key is to appear confident and psych out the opposition. I can do this, I can do this, I can―oh my God there's so many fucking people staring at me.
Quade gets up from his front bench on the left to pass me in the aisle. Ah, so the sneaky bastard is the witness for the Prosecution. Bastard. We brush shoulders slightly and I narrow my eyes at him and say in the softest voice possible, "Deals off." To which he has no time to respond because he's escorted from the court room, I can feel his glare already on the back of my skull.
When I share eye contact with Helena, she practically quakes the stand in her orange prison smock and grey sand shoes. She's shackled around the wrists, waist and ankles as she exits the wooden box. The senior counsel addresses her as the 'accused' and when they do so; Chloe grips Sam's forearm.
I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, just ignore the people staring at you as if you're either going to make their day or destroy someone's entire chances of living. No pressure, right Akira? Breathe.
The Clerk presents me with a Holy and I'm told raise my right hand (ironic because I was metaphorically praying to God in the foyer when I'm not religious). My throat feels so dry and I can feel the beads of sweat run down my back, it's times like this where my mind over processes everything, useless points that don't relate to saving Helena's arse or the case. Thoughts such as: What if I stress-sweat so much that my shirt becomes transparent? What if I stumble over my words and throw up in front of the jury?
"Do you so solemnly state that the testimony you may give in the case now pending before this court, shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
"I do," my voice sounds like a raspy croak.
"Please state your first and last name," the Clerk instructs.
"Akira Stevens," I swallow.
"Can you please spell out your name for the record?" asks a reporter.
"A-K-I-R-A," I pause until the reporter motions with his hand for me to continue. "S-T-E-V-E-N-S."
"You may be seated," the Clerk says.
I exhale a deep breath through my nose and clench my fists together on the wooden outskirt of the sweat box I'm currently seated in. The judge, Hiran, sits above me in his black robe, leaning over intently to see what the Prosecution has in store for me to stuff up and make them win.
The Deputy DA, a woman with greasy blonde hair and navy blue eyes, steps forward in her black pencil skirt and form-fitting black blouse. I can tell immediately she has low expectations that I'm going to save Helena Quinn from a guilty verdict but looks can be deceiving, I consider blue as a lucky colour.
"Akira, what is your profession of work?"
I frown, "Detective of the New York Police Department."
"Which precinct do you reside in?" the Deputy DA presses. Surely she has my records already? However, I can't really talk back to the Prosecution so early into the case. I must remember that I'm not a barrister, I can't yell with free will in court.
"Seventh," I say. "Nineteen Pitt Street."
"And where you on duty on September Eighteenth?"
"Yes, I was," I reply.
"It's reported that you and your partner where at Hell's Kitchen regarding questioning to the case you were working at the time, is that correct?"
"Yes," I nod.
"It's also reported that you entered private property to conduct the questioning. However, the occupants jumped you when you found a Jane Doe. You followed protocol and requested back up immediately but was bluntly denied by your father's own office. Did Helena Quinn answer the phone?"
I'm can feel my throat close up, why is the Deputy DA questioning me about a hiccup that was dealt with months ago? Surely it's been put on record that Derek had resolved all conflict by extraditing Helena from all precincts including the Seventh? My frown turns into a scowl as I sit there, what exactly is the Bureau playing at? I then remind myself that I'm under oath, I have to tell the truth or I could be in more trouble than Helena.
"Um yes, she did," I can hear the gasps of breath from the Defence side of the court.
"With permission from the judge I would like to read a printed transcript of the thirty second conversation Akira Stevens had with the defendant," the woman announces and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. This is not good.
"Objection, Your Honour!" says the Public Defender.
"Overruled," Hiran dismisses. "Ms Porter, continue with the questioning."
The Deputy DA, Porter, struts back over to stand a few paces in front of the witness booth with a piece of A4 paper in her hands. As she reads out the short, yet incriminating phone call conversation, Helena rests her head in her hands and cries while Chloe whimpers into Sam's side. He puts his arm around the girl and rubs her shoulders, his green eyes hold so much worry that they almost shake out of his sockets. Sam mouths something like, 'You're fine'.
"Akira, what did you do once the conversation was over?"
"Objection, Your Honour!" the Public Defender cuts in again. "This evidence has previously been dealt with."
Hiran, in his late fifties with thinning grey hair, expels a soft breath and looks at me (shaking like a leaf), Ms Porter (flaring her nostrils) and the Public Defender (whose currently sporting a confident smirk). Hiren leans forward in his leather chair and says, "Sustained, Rothwell you may speak."
The Public Defender, Rothwell, enters the rectangular space with a piece of paper and hands it to Hiran. The judge quickly skim reads it and hands it back. There's an uncomfortable silence in the court room between both parties and I can't help but sink a little lower in the sweat box. Helena's entire life rides on my shoulders, if I fuck this up, she could be dead.
"It's documented that on September Nineteenth, the former Chief Derek Banks dealt with the perversion of justice and extradited my client from all precincts and forbade interaction with any identifiable Officers. My client was present and accepted the consequences, no charges were pressed and a written complaint was sent to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations," Rothwell says. "Akira, is this true?"
"Yes it is, and from that day forth, Helena did not enter any precincts to my knowledge or involve herself with anyone within the NYPD," I say.
Rothwell grins triumphantly, "Thank you, I have no further questions."
Hiran leans forward, "Does the Prosecution have any questions?"
"Not at this time," Porter huffs, "Your Honour."
"The witness is excused," Hiran says.
• • •
Both Quade and I are recalled to give evidence and such, the war between the Defence and Prosecution starts up again like a newly lit candle. Each time Quade and I pass each other when being escorted by the Bailiff; we narrow our eyes and bear our teeth. I can tell that Quade's tempted to rip my throat out in front of the jury, but he won't get the chance, not when I nail his arse to the pole.
Porter has already asked me about how long I've been a Detective (over eighteen months) and a few personal questions such as if I've had any disagreements with any of the force. She's also touched on the fact that it could've been the NYPD's fault that the 'defendant' had access to Derek's corpse but was overruled. So far I assume that perverting the course of justice, accessory to kidnapping occasioning death and felony murder has been dropped.
The Bailiff sits me back down at the stand and I await the fresh new questions Porter has in store for me. She looks under the pump to be honest, strands of her hair fall around her face and I notice the sheet of sweat that lines her forehead. Perhaps the Defence has a chance in this after all.
However, Porter doesn't ask me questions, Rothwell does.
"On November Ninth, the Belvedere massacre occurred, killing almost all of the protection detail. Earlier that night you requested Amanda Jane to be escorted from the premises because she did not have a pass, is that correct?" Rothwell states.
"Yes that is," I say.
"And almost forty-eight hours after you were called in to report a body found at Belvedere. You arrived at the crime scene in the midst of processing. However, a phone call was documented at the time of processing, with permission from the judge I would like to play the recording to the jury," Rothwell, been given the okay by Hiran, marches over to the defendant table to retrieve the recording device.
Oh my fucking God.
'Amanda, is it done? Have you compromised Angel Blue?' Helena's voice carries over the tape.
My voice is on the recording, matching Amanda Jane's. Oh my God they think Amanda Jane was alive at the time to answer her phone. Oh my God does this count as tampering evidence. Oh my God.
'Yes I have,' I said.
'He will be pleased to hear that, where are you? I can come and pick you up, I may not be allowed on NYPD turf but they can't stop be from helping a fellow Agent,' urged Helena.
I try to control my erratic breathing, Helena's grinding her cuffs together at the Defence table and I can see the alarm in her eyes. I'll have to lie in front of an entire court room under oath. Frantically, my eyes dart to Sam's, his jade-green offcuts are unblinking as he stares at me―he shakes his head at me, if I get found out, I'll be named a disgrace, but if I don't, Helena will be found guilty.
When the recording is finished, the court is once again plunged into silence. I can hear my heartbeat thump against the fabric of my bra and I'm surprised it doesn't beat out of my chest entirely. The beads of sweat continue to fall down my back and my knees are quaking, I try to appear calm but I can barely keep my lungs going.
"A voice comparison has been issued and the voices are a distinct match to Amanda Jane," I don't understand why Rothwell doesn't know Amanda Jane's body has been exhumed until I think, the Bureau obviously kept a lid on it; they probably think she's MIA. I hope they think she's MIA. "Tell me, Akira; was the body at Belvedere Amanda Jane's?"
You're under oath.
Under oath.
OATH.
Dad's rocking back and forth on the front bench behind the Defence table; his brown eyes are squeezed tightly shut. Banks chews nervously on the brim of her NYPD cap and seems to be freaking out as much as I am. Snag nods his head at me; if this goes for a retrial (or even better a mistrial) he can say that the body we found wasn't Amanda Jane's. Chloe's still nestled at Sam's side and she looks expectant at my answer. Sam's still shaking his head ever so slowly at me; he doesn't want me in jail for perverting the course of justice.
My answer is what will make or break this case.
"Akira?" Rothwell addresses.
I inhale a deep breath, "No."
A pin could've dropped in the court room and it would've sounded like a nuclear blast. My black painted nails leave crescent indents in the wood on the stand as I stare directly at Porter and Rothwell. The woman's mouth is agape, her case blown wide open, whereas Rothwell is probably having an internal party. I try not to throw up, to keep my breakfast down.
I've lied under oath.
Holy fuck.
"Thank you, Akira. I have no further questions and no other witnesses, Your Honour," Rothwell praises.
Hiran's lips press into a thin line, "Does the Prosecution have any questions?"
"No, Your Honour," Porter's lip quivers slightly.
"The witness is excused," Hiran waits for the Bailiff to escort me down the aisle before saying, "Does the Defence rest?"
"Yes, Your Honour," Rothwell says.
I don't pay attention to anything else; all I care about is that I've lied under oath to an entire court room of people. If this is ever investigated or I come under suspicion, I might as well tie my own noose.
When the court disperses, I'm pacing the corridor, chewing my knuckle with damp cheeks. I keep thinking I'm the guilty one. The AB team files out uniformly before Chloe runs down the hallway to knock me off my feet again. Her arms tighten around me as she cries, causing me to burst into hysterics.
I've condemned Helena.
"The jury couldn't reach a verdict," Sam's voice comes closer until I can feel his warm hand against the sodden cotton of my back. "The judge sent the jury back to talk more to see if they could reach a unanimous decision but couldn't. It's been declared a mistrial―Quinn's off the hook for now."
She's...she's free?
"I knew I could count on you. You're, like, the best chick ever. This means 'Lena can come back to Washington or I can move here with her!" Chloe releases me but notices that I haven't stopped howling.
I sink down against the marble wall and cup the sides of my head. I've gone against the law, my oath, my badge...would Helena have been guilty if I had said the body was Amanda Jane's? All of the possibilities cloud my mind, I'm so close to screaming, to run back into the court room and tell Hiran that I was mistaken―but I feel a colder set of hands around my own. I blink to see Banks crouched in front of me, her full lips in a tight pout.
"You did what you had to do," she murmurs. "In fact, what you did in there showed you have balls. If the DA's office doesn't know what to do, you're not going to be put on trial or anything like that. You did good Top Cop."
I'm pulled to my feet and Dad hugs me, boxing me against his golden pinned lapels. His hand smooths down my ponytail and I feel him jerk his head to the rest of the team to give us a few minutes, but Sam lingers, his hand is on my back again. It takes a few minutes to collect my bearings but Dad holds me at arm's length and scrubs at my cheeks.
"I would have done the same thing for you in there if you were the defendant," he cups my face in his hands and kisses my forehead. "Your mother and I always told you to do what you think is right. I know you went against your oath, but you saved a little girl from becoming orphaned and a woman going on death row."
I give a simple nod and start towards the stairs.
"I believe congratulations are in order," I hear Quade's snarky tone over the eager reporters. Sam's in front of me on the stairs and doesn't hear Quade, but I feel him dug on the sleeve of my white dress shirt. I don't turn around to punch him but I feel his stubble by my ear, "Think on your sins Akira, you will regret the day you double cross me."
I'm released almost immediately and I emotionlessly continue down the steps, Quade's lost in the sea of screaming reporters and photographers wanting to know how the trial went.
When I get to the SUV, Sam's waiting with a slow smile creeping on his face when I lean against the passenger side door (street side). He gives me a quick kiss on the lips and rests his forehead against mine, "I'm proud of you Blue, you're a person first and a person of the law second. See? I told you it wasn't all about the badge."
• • •
A/N: ever since the writing format of wattpad changed, the Microsoft Word-looking quotation marks are different. [CANT. DEAL. WITH. NON. MICROSOFT. QUOTATIONS.]