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Frank Cosgrove was not known for a silver tongue. In fact, he was certain that having a silver tongue was in his lieutenant’s requirements for his partner on the job. Between him and Kevin Bernard, everyone in the 27th precinct knew Bernard was the diplomat of the two . . . as evident on multiple occasions. Jalen Shaw, while green in the homicide department, had already proven to be the perfect counterpart to Frank, which was why he had asked Dixon to transfer the young detective from the 32nd to his side at the 27th.
No, Frank left the silver tongues to the attorneys. While he absolutely despised some of the politics that took over some of the cases (why couldn’t every homicide be a case of black and white instead of shades of grey that barely changed?), he knew their precinct had the highest conviction rate of homicide departments. That wouldn’t be possible if EADA Nolan Price and ADA Samantha Maroun didn’t have the skills they possessed. Sure, Frank often found himself at Nolan’s throat when they disagreed (he knew Shaw had already been warned about the blow-up from the Jimmy Doyle case), but he heard about how much time and effort the right hand of DA Jack McCoy put into weaving his case and trapping the jury in his web. That was why, even though he had been just as pissed as Stabler at the turn in Sirenko’s case, he had sent a bottle of Nolan’s preferred bourbon to his office after Stabler had confronted him in broad daylight. Frank wouldn’t want another person to prosecute the 27th’s cases.
That was why, when he and Shaw got the call to the aftermath of a mass shooting at Canal Street subway station, Frank got a sinking feeling when he heard Nolan, of all people, had been one of the first on the scene. Even if he rarely showed it, he appreciated the work Nolan and Sam did in the District Attorney’s office. He and Shaw were trained to respond to these scenes, they saw these types of scenes on a daily basis. At worst, the prosecutors might find video footage of homicides, but never see the actual scene and victims themselves. So far, in the time Frank had worked at the 27th, that had been the case.
Not so much in the last few weeks. Not only had Nolan and Sam witnessed two shootings in as many weeks, both had been murders. Daniel Rublev had bled out under Nolan’s hands, and Drea Clark had been shot on the courthouse steps after Sam convinced her to testify against Blake Carter. In Frank’s eyes, that was two murders more than he would want them to witness. He knew their jobs were to prosecute killers . . . but if he had his way, they would be far, far away from any killing that actually happened.
And the first thing Frank noticed when he jogged down the stairs, geared up in case he came face to face with a shooter in this investigation, was Nolan speaking to one of the street officers, his hands caked in dried blood, his suit stained red as well. The sight of the prosecutor in such a disheveled state, the younger man’s multicolored eyes darting around the station as he spoke, made Frank hesitate when he reached the end of the staircase. Still, when Nolan finished his statement and caught sight of him, the remaining tenseness in his stance appeared to ease. He looked even more disheveled when he turned fully to face Frank; the detective had never seen his hair in such disarray, and he’d never seen him without a tie, either. In short, Nolan looked like a mess.
And given the amount of blood Frank could see just in the station, not in the subway car, there was no way he could blame him.
The officer returned to examining the scene, and Frank crossed the distance to Nolan in a few quick strides. “You OK, Nolan?” he asked, eyes raking the younger man up and down, searching for any visible injuries.
“I’m fine,” Nolan nodded, each action stiff. “The blood, it’s . . . it’s not mine.”
Frank nodded sympathetically. “You’ve already given your statement?”
“At least twice,” Nolan confirmed with a sigh. “If you need it again - ”
“No,” Frank shook his head. “No, we’ll get it from the officers.” Nolan gave a shaky smile in relief, and Frank looked around the station with a sigh. “Have they told you anything about this?”
“It looks like a hate crime,” Nolan answered, watching as gurneys with white sheets draped over victims were pushed out of the station. “According to the ME, all seven DOA appear to be East or Southeast Asian.”
“And the injured?”
“I’m not sure,” Nolan admitted. “Numbers are still coming in. There’s at least . . . eleven are critical.” He shook himself over and took a deep breath. “But, yeah . . . from what I”m told, most of them are Asian.”
Frank nodded, then turned as Shaw approached. “So all the shell casings were 9-millimeter,” he reported. “So I’m guessing the shooter was using a TEC-9.”
“Anyone get a look at the guy?” Nolan asked hopefully.
“Not a good look,” Shaw shook his head, looking down at his notes. “He was wearing a mask, but multiple witnesses said that he was short, medium build, white male, wearing a baseball cap, and had a camouflage gym bag with him.”
Frank tilted his head at the last piece of information. “Did they see a label or any brand in particular?” he asked.
“No, but they said one of the straps was broken.”
Frank nodded. “That’s good. It gives us something to work with.” He turned, peering up at the cameras around the station. “Hopefully, one of these cameras works.”
Nolan knew Jack and Sam would be expecting him at the office once the police declared him free to leave . . . but he found any excuse to stay, watching Frank and Shaw comb through the scene themselves, the two detectives bouncing information off each other like they had been partners for more than a few weeks. Even though his tie was still wrapped around the leg of the girl he helped, his throat still felt tight, as if he was waiting for another shoe to drop. Having Rublev bleed out under his hands had been hard enough . . . if the girl he stopped to help had died as well?
Don’t think about that, he told himself sharply, watching Frank answer his phone. Don’t you dare.
He hadn’t witnessed the shooting, but he had witnessed people bleeding in the station, had seen the seven victims in the subway car with his own eyes. If something could be found while he was still in the station, then he was staying until the 2-7 detectives dismissed him themselves.
“Copy,” Frank suddenly said, straightening to his full height. “We’re on it.” He put his phone in his pocket, and Nolan watched attentively as the detective made his way down the platform, his other hand on his sidearm. Frank’s eyes moved back and forth, then he pointed at the ground. “Check it out,” he told Shaw, clicking on his flashlight. “That’s blood . . . ” He turned, looking down the station to Nolan. “Were there any vics down here?”
“No,” Nolan shook his head. “None I saw.”
Frank nodded, crouching down to get a closer look. “And there,” Frank aimed his light down on the track. “That’s a spent shell casing.” He craned his neck, looking down the tunnel. “Looks like he fired one off right before he ran down the tunnel.” He got to his feet and pointed at two of the officers. “You two, with us.”
“Yes, sir,” the officers nodded.
Frank looked at Nolan. “We’ve got it from here. Maybe let McCoy and Maroun know you’re safe and sound.”
Nolan nodded. “Thanks, Frank.” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Good luck.”
Frank smirked. “Thanks.”
As Nolan turned to ascend the steps out of the station, he saw Frank jump off the platform and down onto the track, ready to pursue a mass shooter. If you had to ask Nolan, the detectives had the easy job in this case.
The detectives definitely had the easy job for the case.
“Special Assistant US Attorneys?” Shaw repeated Dixon’s words in surprise. “They’re allowing this?”
“It’s part of the compromise McCoy struck with the US Attorney’s office,” Dixon explained. “Price wants this case, and this is how he gets it.”
“Is he calling the shots?” Frank asked.
“He is,” Dixon nodded.
Shaw raised an eyebrow. “So if we win, the US attorney’s office gets the credit. If they lose, the blame’s on Price.”
“On McCoy’s team,” Dixon corrected.
Shaw shook his head. “Price is the lead prosecutor. That’s what people will see.”
Frank snorted. “Politics,” he grumbled.
Shaw shrugged. “It’s not pretty.”
“This case especially isn’t,” Dixon told them. “The deal is settled on one condition.”
Frank sighed, leaning back in his chair and tapping his pen on the edge of his desk. “What more could they ask for, Lieu?”
Dixon bit her lip. “Price asks for the death penalty.”
Frank’s tapping stopped, and Shaw’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
Dixon nodded. “That’s the only thing that made Price hesitate.”
“But he’s doing it anyway?”
“Of course, he is,” Frank knew before Dixon answered. “This happened in New York, and he saw exactly what John Nelson did. Price and I have had our differences, I’ll be the first to admit it . . . but he always adheres to the law, and if the federal law is telling him this bastard qualifies for the death penalty . . . he’ll ask for the death penalty.”
Shaw sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “I do not envy Price and Maroun.”
Frank didn’t, either.
Just like Frank wasn’t known for a silver tongue, he also wasn’t known to attend court sessions. After the disaster where Frank had brought up Nicole Bell’s confession despite Nolan telling him not to, Bernard was the detective the DA’s office pulled when testimony in front of the jury was necessary. Since then, the only time Frank had attended court was for the arraignment and sentencing of Kendra Daniels, and only one of those appointments had yielded a result that Frank deemed satisfactory. Still, it had been that case, when Nolan convicted the murderer of a friend of his on the force, that solidified Frank’s respect of the DA’s team. He would have liked to see Kendra Daniels convicted for murder, but Nolan had gotten Jimmy the justice he deserved. Frank couldn’t argue that.
So when Nolan asked for him to map out John Nelson’s escape route from the Canal Street Station and how they found it, Frank found himself in the 27th precinct well past when he was meant to leave, making sure he gave as many details to the EADA, leaving no room for any defense to pick it apart.
He heard the light to Dixon’s office click off, and he merely gave a small wave to acknowledge his lieutenant’s departure. “I’m almost finished with this,” he told her. “As soon as I send it off to Price, I’m out of here.”
“You’ve been working on that all day,” Dixon noted.
“It’s the federal court,” Frank shrugged. “Make it as ironclad as I can, right?”
“Price will appreciate that more than you know,” Dixon nodded. “McCoy called to update me on the case. Even though she was subpoenaed, Jessica Farrell was no help at all. Price had to declare her a hostile witness, and because she didn’t cooperate, the murder weapon’s out.”
Frank stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” Dixon shook her head, making Frank sigh. “What makes this worse is, according to Maroun, Counselor Rankin used to work with Price before he joined the DA’s office. She’s taking every chance to get under Price’s skin.”
“Particularly about him going for the death penalty?” Frank guessed.
“Bingo.”
Frank narrowed his eyes, looking back at his work with a critical eye. While he hadn’t visited the federal courthouse since the start of the case, he heard from other officers about Nolan’s and Sam’s resignations about prosecuting a case that could end in John Nelson’s death. Despite their vehement opposition of the death penalty - Nolan’s especially - they wanted Nelson convicted. And even if it meant the death penalty, Nolan wanted him convicted. He didn’t need a former friend to rub salt in that open wound. “Guess I better make sure she can’t use this against him,” he finally said.
Dixon patted his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Frank.”
At some point during the evening, Frank decided shooting his statement via email was not what he wanted. Instead, when he found the schedule for the next part of the trial, he was grateful his ex-wife had their daughters for the next week. Federal court was not kind to sleep schedules.
Still, he exited the taxi in front of the federal courthouse with time to spare before the start of the trial. In fact, while he couldn’t find Nolan, he saw Sam approach the courthouse from the opposite direction, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. “Morning, Sam,” he greeted.
“Frank!” She looked surprised, yet pleased, as she joined him, accepting his help up the steps. “We didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Well, Nolan wanted Nelson’s escape route, and I thought about sending it over to the office,” Frank held up the folder in his other hand. “Then a little bird told me he could probably use a little support against Nelson’s lawyer.”
Sam’s face darkened, and it was a look Frank had never seen from her. “This woman,” she muttered darkly, making Frank’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know if this is just her general demeanor, or if she’s just taking Nolan prosecuting this as some personal offense. Either way . . . I don’t like it. Her manner, or the way she’s treating Nolan.”
“Sounds like it might be the same thing,” Frank noted.
Sam sighed. “Neither of us are for the death penalty, but under federal law, he qualifies.”
“And Nolan prosecutes as the law tells him,” Frank nodded. “Well, I look forward to seeing him kick this woman’s ass.”
Sam snickered. “She deserves it.”
“So I saw it was witness testimony today?” Frank prompted as they walked through the courthouse.
“Yes, one of the survivors of the shooting,” Sam nodded. “Kimmi Hsu. When we searched for shooting victims to testify, I didn’t finish asking before she agreed to testify. She practically volunteered when I made the call.
“Really?” Frank asked in surprise.
“Really,” Sam nodded as they arrived at the courtroom. “She feels she owes it to Nolan. According to her, he’s the reason she’s alive.”
The image of Nolan with blood covering his hands and splattered on his clothes vividly crossed Frank’s mind, and he winced. If all of that blood came from one woman, then she was very lucky to be alive, and it was no wonder she agreed to testify for Nolan. “Investigating detectives are still allowed in the courtroom, right?” he asked, holding open the door for her.
“They are, yes,” Sam nodded, stepping into the room. “You’re sticking around?”
“I plan to,” Frank nodded, seeing Nolan speaking to a young woman of Asian descent, the woman nodding as she listened. On the opposite side of the courtroom, the blonde with John Nelson was shuffling her papers and occasionally throwing Nolan burning looks he didn’t like one bit. “You aren’t the only ones who want to see him convicted.”
Sam smiled. “Thank you, Frank.”
“Were you on the 6 Train at the Canal Street Station on August 16th?”
Kimmi nodded, her eyes on Nolan as he addressed her. “Yes.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Nolan asked.
Kimmi took a shaky breath. “I was on my phone, doing the Wordle,” she began, “when all of a sudden, I heard these loud noises. At first, I didn’t know what it was.”
“They were gunshots?”
Kimmi swallowed. “Dozens,” she nodded. “People started falling to the ground, diving under their seats. Some of us got hit.”
“Were you struck by the gunfire?” Nolan asked, walking back towards his desk.
“In my leg,” Kimmi confirmed. “I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for you.”
Nolan looked like he had been about to ask a question, but he paused, momentarily looking at Kimmi in surprise. From his seat in the back, Frank’s eyes widened in realization. When he and Shaw had reached the Canal Street Station, his initial observation of Nolan had been that the prosecutor had blood all over him, and he had been missing a tie from his attire. Kimmi had been shot in the leg, and she credited Nolan with saving her life. If she had been shot in the leg, a tourniquet could be used to slow the bleeding . . . and as a last resort, a tie could be used as a makeshift tourniquet. Kimmi wasn’t wrong: she would probably be dead if not for Nolan. Good job, Nolan, he thought, seeing Sam’s proud look of agreement.
Nolan cleared his throat, gesturing to the panel to Kimmi’s left. “Please tell the members of the jury what happened after you were shot.”
Kimmi swallowed hard. “I fell to the ground,” she recounted. “I just remember looking at the filthy floor. And I saw a pool of blood forming . . . and I realized it was my blood.” She bit her lip, trying not to cry, but her voice trembled with the effort of retelling her story. “He was moving up the train like he was hunting us. I closed my eyes, and . . . I pretended I was dead.” She inhaled shakily, trying to regain her composure. “The train pulled into the station, and he stopped shooting. The doors opened, and everybody ran out. People were screaming and pushing. Somehow, I managed to drag myself onto the platform.”
Nolan nodded. “Do you believe you were targeted because of your race?”
“Objection!” Rankin rose to her feet. “Relevance?”
“Overruled,” the judge shook his head, looking at Kimmi. “The witness may answer.”
Kimmi looked once at Nelson, then set her jaw and turned to the jury. “He aimed his gun at the Asian people,” she told them. “He moved past people who looked white, and he shot at anybody who appeared to be Asian.” She gave a bitter smile. “This is what it’s like to live in America these days.”
Nolan held up his hand, stopping her from saying more. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice not unkind.
“I was born in this country,” Kimmi burst out. “Not that it should matter, but I’ve lived here my entire life. And I’ve seen hostility before, but not like this. COVID and the lies that are being perpetuated about its origins . . . it’s unleashed a hate like I have never seen before. Every time I leave my apartment, I worry that someone might bash me over the head with a rock because of how I look. My parents are afraid . . . my grandmother . . . ”
The family sitting in the front row behind Sam clung tightly to each other, and Frank saw Nolan’s carefully constructed attorney mask crack for a second, showing his sympathy for the girl. While the prosecutor had seen the aftermath of the shooting, Kimmi had experienced it. She almost died during it. “Do you see the man who shot you in this courtroom today?” Nolan asked softly.
Kimmi’s eyes immediately turned to Nelson. “I can’t be 100% certain, because I didn’t see his face,” she admitted, pointing at Nelson with a hard look. “But he looks like him. His height, his weight . . . his eyes.”
Nolan nodded, turning to the jury. “May the record reflect that the witness indicated the defendant, John Nelson.”
“The record shall so reflect,” the judge nodded.
“Thank you,” Nolan nodded to Kimmi, then to the jury. “Nothing further.”
“Cross-examination?” the judge turned to Rankin.
The blonde cleared her throat as she stood. “The defense has no questions,” she responded. “In fact, we stipulate that this was a hate crime.”
Frank’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and he saw Nolan give Sam a similar look. It wasn’t often you heard a defense attorney agree with the prosecution in court.
“So, just to make sure it wasn’t my ears deceiving me,” Frank said as he joined Nolan and Sam in walking down the staircase in the courthouse. “She did agree that this was a hate crime?”
“That’s what I heard,” Nolan confirmed.
Frank made a sound of confusion. “Why?”
“It makes our lives a hell of a lot easier, though,” Sam mused, searching for her phone when it buzzed.
Nolan wrinkled his nose. “Rolling over and agreeing to a crucial element of the offense is not Andrea’s style.”
“So she’s got a plan?” Frank guessed.
“Yeah, she does,” Sam nodded, stopping in her tracks. “She’s agreed to the hate crime theory because she wants to use it against us.”
“How?” Nolan demanded.
“They’re changing their plea to not guilty by reason of insanity, claiming pathological bigotry is a mental disease or defect,” Sam answered.
Frank looked incredulously at Nolan. “Seriously?”
“If she can argue it, she can do it,” Nolan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And our lives just got a hell of a lot harder.”
Frank had yet to have a conversation with Andrea Rankin, but after her performance with Dr. Thibodeau and the smug look she had given Nolan after his testimony, he came to a conclusion he was confident with. “She’s a bitch,” he told Sam as they walked through the courthouse.
“Glad it’s not just me who thinks that,” Sam glowered. “You know what happened when we met? Nolan introduced her, and the first thing she did was knock him for taking this case. ‘We used to fight like hell to keep people off death row’ were her words, if I recall.”
Frank scowled. “I repeat. A bitch. Does she not know he’s a prosecutor now?”
“It’s not the prosecution part that’s her problem,” Sam shook her head. “But she’s acting like she’s the know-it-all when it comes to Nolan. It’s like she thinks just because she used to know him, she can get him to drop the death penalty.”
Frank clenched his jaw. “In all the time I’ve known Nolan, he prosecutes according to the law. If the evidence says manslaughter, he goes for manslaughter. So if the law says someone qualifies for the death penalty - ”
“He’ll go for the death penalty, even if he hates doing it,” Sam finished, looking relieved by his words. “Exactly.” She sighed, checking her watch. “We need you for pep talks more often.”
“I’ve decided I probably need to come to trials more often,” Frank admitted. “And this is the first time I’m seeing one most of the way through.”
“Thinking about switching teams?” Sam teased.
Frank snorted loudly. “Nice try, Sam.”
“Hey, I tried!” Sam grinned, heading for the exit. “See you tomorrow?”
“You will,” Frank promised.
Sam waved as she left, and the detective in Frank waited to continue through the building until he saw her call and enter a taxi. Considering the defense’s plea change, he wondered if there was anything he and Shaw could do for Nolan to bring the case home. He had seen the prosecutor maneuver through the offices on the lower level, likely to plan for the next day’s part of the trial. Recalling the path he took, he walked through the other federal attorneys. He caught sight of Nolan by the elevator, the man stepping aside to let others exit before he entered the elevator, probably heading back to his office. Maybe a phone call would be better, Frank mused, slowing in his steps.
When he caught sight of a familiar blonde in a pantsuit striding towards Nolan, her face set determinedly, Frank changed his mind and moved through the throng of people, his longer stride allowing him to cross the hallway faster than Andrea. “Hold the elevator!” he barked.
“Yep!” he heard Nolan answer, and the prosecutor held his arm in front of the door, stopping it from closing.
Andrea stopped in her tracks, giving Frank an incredulous look. He smirked in reply before ducking into the elevator. “Thanks,” he told Nolan.
“No problem,” Nolan nodded, tapping the button to close the door. “You’re still around?”
“The courtroom drama is growing on me,” Frank smirked.
Nolan let out an inelegant snort, leaning back against the wall. “Like fungus?”
“No, that’s your friend who looked like she would come in here and continue to nag you to death,” Frank shook his head.
Nolan groaned in annoyance, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “God, this is eating at me enough. I don’t need Andrea making it worse.” He opened one eye, giving Frank a grateful look. “Thanks for coming after me instead.”
“You’re welcome,” Frank chuckled. “I got the rundown from Sam. If you need someone else watching your six when it comes to her, I’ve got you covered.”
Nolan frowned at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Frank Cosgrove?”
Frank gave him an innocent look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nolan rolled his eyes. “Come on, Frank. How many interactions have we had where one of us hasn’t been at the other’s throat?”
Frank sighed as the elevator doors opened. “Far fewer than I’m currently wishing we had.” At Nolan’s surprised look, Frank shrugged, gesturing out of the elevator. “After you.”
Nolan stepped out of the elevator, leading the way towards his office. “Explain?”
“You know, I can also count on one hand and have fingers left over if I think of how many trials I’ve actually attended,” Frank admitted, walking with Nolan down the hall. “And I think that needs to change. My place is in the squadroom and out investigating, but I don’t think I ever fully appreciated what you and Sam face after our investigation is completed. Just watching how everything’s going down in this case - and how everything ended up with Sirenko - proves that. So I apologize for how much of an ass I was before.”
Nolan blinked in surprise, then let out a laugh. “Apology accepted. Thank you, Frank. I appreciate it.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t choose to do it now because of this case, did you?”
“No,” Frank shook his head. “I owed you a better apology than that bottle of bourbon.”
Nolan smirked. “I thought that was an apology because of Detective Stabler?”
Frank shrugged. “That entire case was one big clusterfuck, no matter which end you worked. And despite everything the investigators went through, you still had the toughest job. I don’t know how you manage.”
“Someone has to,” Nolan ran a hand through his hair before opening the door to one of the conference rooms. “It’s in the job description.”
Frank tilted his head. “Miracle worker?”
Nolan paused in putting his briefcase on the table, and he gave Frank an inscrutable look. “Thanks for the flattery.”
“Is it flattery if it’s the truth?” Frank smirked, dropping into one of the chairs.
Was it the minimal light in the office, or did Nolan blush? “Now you’re just going overboard,” he muttered, sliding out his laptop and the files he needed. “You don’t have to stick around.”
Frank shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere to be. With Rankin’s change of plea, I thought you might want another sounding board.”
“Not a bad idea,” Nolan admitted, checking his watch with a frown. “You sure? What about your daughters?”
The genuine concern made Frank smile. Yeah, he and Nolan didn’t know each other too well, but due to the strains of the job, they knew of each other’s families . . . or, in Nolan’s case, lack of family. Nolan knew Frank’s daughters were his priority, especially after Lily had seen the aftermath of Ava Marchenko’s death. “With my ex-wife for the rest of the week,” he told him. “Considering the magnitude of this case, I wanted to be available if I was ever needed.”
“At this point, it’s all on me,” Nolan sighed, tapping his fingers on the table as he looked over his materials. “Not that Rankin’s going to make it easy. She likes to put on a show.”
“As evident by her entire attitude so far,” Frank muttered under his breath, eyes darkening as he took in the photographs from the crime scene.
Nolan looked up, blinking. “What was that?”
“Nothing important,” Frank lied, picking up the photographs, frowning as he looked at the mess left behind. “Yeah, she can put on a show, but so can you. Your biggest wins in the courtroom prove that. You just need to find out how to bring home that Nelson isn’t mentally ill and he’s an evil monster who deserves everything the law can throw at him.” Nolan hummed in acknowledgement, typing on his laptop, and Frank looked over the rest of the photographs. “What do you need?” he asked. “Another witness, some piece of evidence that can bring the jury to the scene?”
The clack of a keyboard stopped, and distracted by the lack of sound, Frank looked up from the photographs. “Say that again?” Nolan asked, looking at him intently.
Frank paused, rewinding his thought process. “Another witness or a piece of evidence that brings the jury back to the scene?”
Nolan’s eyes fell upon the photographs, and he swallowed visibly. “I think we can do one better,” he whispered.
Why did Nolan’s reaction fill Frank with dread?
Dixon’s call the next day proved that yes, Frank had every reason to dread Nolan’s thought process. It was clever, absolutely, and Frank had no doubt this was the show that would convince the jury. He just wished he could ensure Nolan didn’t have to go through this again.
Yet Frank stood with Shaw inside the 6 Train, sharp eyes watching every juror’s face as they stood where Nelson’s victims died. Rankin’s eyes were dark, her arms folded, but even Sam, who had seen the photographs time and time again, looked slightly pale as she saw the actual scene.
Nolan stepped into the subway car, his face set like stone as he surveyed his audience. “You saw his escape route,” he told the jurors and the judge. “Now please take note of where the victims were situated. You heard that the train was packed, a variety of ethnicities and races . . . and yet, he was able to locate and gun down those who appeared to be Asian.” He stopped in the middle of the car, gesturing to a seat covered with blood. “Kimmi Hsu testified that she was over here when a bullet struck her in the leg. Nicked her femoral artery, almost ended her life.”
A few of the jurors averted their eyes from the blood, and Frank tore his gaze from the seat to watch Nolan continue down the car. While the man’s voice never wavered, he could see the stiffness in Nolan’s stance after he stood where Kimmi had been seated. Nicked her femoral artery, he repeated in his head. A lethal wound if Nolan hadn’t found and helped her when he did. The dread he felt rose higher as he watched Nolan brace himself at the end of the car. He had left Nolan to plan his concluding arguments and examine all of the crime scene photographs again, and he knew where this was headed. The younger man had nerves of steel to go through with this.
Nolan stopped close to Sam at the end of the car, taking a deep breath. “And you heard evidence that 12-year-old Jimmy Park died right here,” he gestured to the pool of dried blood on the floor, “clutching his baseball mitt after a bullet pierced his lung, lodged in his heart.” He pointed to the seat next to where Sam leaned against the wall. “Jimmy’s 72-year-old grandmother, Heejin, died first. She was sitting on that bench, right there . . . when three bullets hit her in the head and chest.” The juror closest to the bench flinched and looked away, choosing to instead focus on Nolan. “According to Jimmy’s father, they were on their way to Yankee Stadium.”
The silence in the car was deafening.
When the subway car was evacuated, Shaw quietly departed, choosing to return to the 27th precinct in case he was needed. Frank, however, followed the group back to the courthouse, eyes on Nolan the entire time. The prosecutor refused to look anywhere but forward as they returned to the courtroom, quietly directing Sam to pull up the crime scene photographs he and Frank had pored over previously. Frank settled at the back of the courtroom, watching the pale jurors as they sat. Their discomfort was clear, and Frank knew that had been exactly Nolan’s point. It was one thing to see evidence in photographs . . . it was another thing to stand where the victims died.
“Consider the planning and the concentration that went into this horrific crime,” Nolan said, pacing in front of the jury. “The decisions and the choices the defendant made in order to carry out this despicable act. If John Nelson was really suffering from the acute mental illness that Dr. Thibodeau described, there is no way in hell he’d ever have been able to pull off a crime . . . ” He turned to point out the crime scene photograph of the victims in the subway car, and for the first time, Frank saw Nolan’s mask crack. The prosecutor cringed as he took in the picture, and while he took a deep breath to regain his composure, his voice still shook when he spoke. “A crime of this magnitude.”
Sam was trembling from her place at the prosecution’s desk, whether from rage or sorrow, Frank didn’t know. Perhaps it was both. After a glance at the defense’s table, Frank wished he could have an excuse to shoot Nelson himself as the man stared coldly at the picture, a faint speck of glee in his eyes. Andrea was gripping her pen so hard, Frank thought she might succeed in breaking it. That was the face of a woman who didn’t like to lose. No, scratch that - it was the face of a woman who refused to lose.
And as Frank turned back to Nolan, he had a feeling Andrea wasn’t going to like this outcome. “We’d all like to make sense of what happened,” Nolan said softly, and his tone of voice clearly indicated he included himself in that statement. “Chalk it up to mental illness - ” Andrea’s eyes flashed, and if they could shoot lasers, Nolan would be a pile of ashes on the floor. “ - but the hard truth is that some people are just evil. John Nelson opened fire in that subway because he is a hateful, rage-filled, evil man.”
The only sound audible in the courtroom was Nolan’s footsteps as he returned to his place at the prosecution’s desk, leaving the images of Nelson’s bloody carnage on the screen for all to see.
“I’m worried about him,” Sam admitted quietly as they waited outside the courtroom, the attorney juggling her phone from hand to hand. “This case . . . it’s hard enough without knowing - ”
“He was there to see the immediate aftermath?” Frank finished.
Sam wilted. “Yeah,” she whispered, voice breaking.
“Hey, you’ve been with him in this ever since this case landed in front of you,” Frank told her. “You’ve done everything you can to help him get through this. That’s what he’s needed. It’s good work, Sam.”
“Why does it not feel like enough?” Sam sighed.
Frank eyed the pacing blonde at the end of the hallway, passerbys avoiding her like she had the plague. “I don’t think she’s helping.”
Sam scoffed at the sight of Andrea. “Can you shoot her?” At Frank’s surprised look, Sam shrugged. “What? She’s tearing into Nolan every chance she gets, hoping to get him to back off. When he doesn’t - and good for him not to - she just cuts deeper and deeper. I don’t think she wants anything left of him by the time she’s done.”
Frank narrowed his eyes at the statement, then tilted his head, considering the proposition. He finally looked at Andrea and decided it was a good thing he wasn’t a vigilante. “Not in public.”
“Damn,” Sam muttered. The chime of her phone startled both of them, and as Andrea’s phone pinged as well, Sam checked the incoming message. She swallowed hard, looking up at Frank. “Well . . . here we go.”
Frank looked over the railing, seeing Nolan on the next floor, leaning on one of the railing posts. “Nolan?” he called. When he didn’t get an answer, he frowned and called louder, putting a bit of authority in his voice. “Nolan!” Nolan started and turned to look up, and Frank’s grip on the railing tightened when he saw the disheartened look in his eyes. “You with me?” he asked in a softer tone.
Nolan offered a tight smile in answer. “With you.”
Frank and Sam exchanged concerned looks, then Sam held up her phone. “Jury’s back,” she told him.
Nolan’s expression shuttered, and Frank wanted nothing more than to find some way to wipe that despondent look off his face. Still, Nolan had his attorney mask back in place as he ascended the steps, looking up at the plaque above the windows. “Fiat iustitia, et pereat mundus,” he recited.
“What’s that mean?” Frank asked, looking up at the writing.
Nolan sighed. “May justice be done, though the world perish.”
And didn’t that sum up Nolan in one sentence? Frank thought as he followed Nolan and Sam back to the courtroom. The world could be falling apart around them, and still, Nolan would be fighting to ensure justice was delivered by any means necessary according to the law.
The judge watched those at the defense and the prosecution tables stand, then turned to the man in the front seat of the jury. “Mr. Foreman, having previously found the defendant guilty of seven counts of murder, have you agreed upon a sentence?”
“We have,” the foreman nodded.
“What say you?”
The foreman opened his folder, iron in his voice as he read. “We sentence the defendant, John Nelson, to death by lethal injection.”
Shocked whispers rose in the courtroom, and Frank let out the breath he’d been holding, watching Nolan and Sam’s grim, guilt-traced faces. For assistant district attorneys given temporary promotions to prosecute a federal case, this was an enormous win for them, a win that could potentially define the rest of their careers. And yet, Frank wondered how many of those in the courtroom realized that, while this was a victory for them, it would forever stick with them that they had convicted a man who was now on death row.
“Join me for a drink?” Sam offered as she and Nolan stopped at the bottom of the courthouse steps.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrea walk down the steps, her eyes fixed on him intently. He held in a sigh, knowing there was no way he could avoid the oncoming explosion. Sam didn’t deserve to be in the middle of it. “Rain check,” he shook his head. Sam saw Andrea’s approach anyway, and for a moment, Nolan thought she was going to stay. He gave her a pleading look, though, and Sam finally nodded, giving his arm a comforting squeeze as she walked down the sidewalk, throwing one last concerned look at him. Nolan watched her leave in one of the taxis, then he braced himself as Andrea reached the end of the steps. “Andrea,” he extended his hand. “You did a nice job.”
She ignored the gesture and glared at him. “I can’t believe you actually went through with it!” she burst out. “You sent a man to his death!”
Her words were like barbs, and Nolan clenched his jaw, keeping his voice steady. “I did my job, just like you.”
Andrea stared at him, then shook her head. “You’ve changed, Nolan,” she spat. Nolan recoiled that time, unable to hide the hurtful reaction her words caused. He could have sworn he saw a smirk of satisfaction on her face as she turned to leave.
“Has she always been this heartless, Nolan?”
Andrea whipped around, her jaw dropping in shock. Nolan, too, struggled to hide his shock as Frank descended the steps, the detective’s stride purposeful as he joined Nolan. “Excuse me?” Andrea snarled.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Frank deadpanned, making Andrea sputter. “Nolan? Has she?”
Nolan, however, found himself in a very rare situation: he couldn’t find the words to answer. “He spent years trying to keep prisoners off of death row!” Andrea growled, glare vitriolic as she stormed up to Frank. “And now he’s sending them there!”
“You say Nolan’s changed?” Frank narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, Counselor - ” Nolan suppressed a shudder; he never wanted that kind of disgust aimed at him. “ - how many people have you had die right in front of your eyes?”
Andrea’s mouth opened and closed, similar to a fish. “That doesn’t have anything - !”
“Oh, it does,” Frank cut her off. “And I want an answer. You started this conversation with a blatant, vicious accusation. How many have died right in front of you? Or a better question . . . how many have you tried to keep from dying?”
Nolan had to reach behind him for the rail on the stairs so he could keep his balance. He could still remember the minutes he spent in the courthouse restrooms in the aftermath of both Rublev’s shooting and Nelson’s mass shooting. He could have sworn the white sinks were stained pink from the amount of blood he had to scrub off his skin each time. Kimmi had survived, but Rublev . . . even though Nolan had despised the man . . .
Andrea was vibrating with rage, but she didn’t answer Frank’s question. “None,” Frank guessed, nodding. “I thought so. I think that would change a person, don’t you? Nolan’s done it twice, once for a man who I, admittedly, would have shot if I had been given an excuse. Kimmi Hsu was lucky. Daniel Rublev, not so much. Three shootings in as many weeks. What the hell gives you the right to accuse him of changing when he’s working his ass off to make sure the victims get the justice they deserve?”
Andrea’s jaw clenched so tightly, Nolan was surprised he couldn’t hear her bones creak. “This man was sick - ”
“He’s sick.” Frank’s flat voice stopped Andrea cold. “If Jimmy Park’s father came up to you and demanded to know why you defended his son’s murderer, do you think he would like that answer? That ‘he’s sick’ is an acceptable reason to clear him of his son’s death? If one of my daughters was murdered and I was given that excuse, I sure as hell wouldn’t accept it.”
Andrea’s mouth opened, but no sound came from her mouth. “Frank,” Nolan whispered, his voice strangled.
Frank drew himself to his full height, staring down at Andrea. “Nolan has always prosecuted according to the law, and that’s what he did with this case,” he said firmly. “That’s it. End of story. So please stop harassing him, and either apologize or leave. I won’t ask politely a second time.”
Andrea’s eyes darted from Frank to Nolan. “Nolan - ” she began, her rising volume indicating she wasn’t about to apologize.
“Leave, Andrea,” Nolan raised a hand to cut her off, closing his eyes when he heard how weary his voice sounded. “Just . . . please leave.”
Andrea bit her lip, then turned on her heel and walked away. Frank bristled next to Nolan, scoffing when the woman was out of earshot. “Good riddance.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Nolan whispered.
“No, but I wanted to,” Frank shook his head, turning to look at him. “You didn’t deserve any of that, Nolan. Not from that bitch who wanted to make you hurt as much as possible.”
“She wasn’t always like that,” Nolan told him.
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Then maybe she’s the one who changed.”
Nolan nodded in agreement, chewing his lip. “I guess we both did.” They stood in semi-awkward silence for a few seconds, then Nolan looked at him. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “For . . . well, everything.”
“You’re welcome,” Frank nodded with a smile. “I’ve got your six, Nolan. I mean it, from here on out.”
Nolan smiled appreciatively. “That means more than you know.”
Frank nodded, checking his watch. “Well, after all of this, I think we both need a drink,” he declared, looking at Nolan. “I’ll buy.”
Nolan opened his mouth to decline, then reconsidered. He had declined Sam’s offer to try the impossible task of mending bridges with Andrea. Since that was obviously never going to happen (and honestly, he would rather it stay that way), the offer of a drink was looking more tempting the longer he thought. Add in that he and Frank were working on mending (or had they ever been built in the first place?) bridges . . . “Just one?” he couldn’t help but ask.
Frank snorted. “After your performance in there, I think you could convince me to have more than one.”
Nolan bit his lip to smother his glee at the quip, enjoying Frank’s offer more and more. “Tell you what,” he checked the time himself. “Given the hour . . . you buy the drinks, I buy dinner. How’s that sound?”
Frank threw back his head and laughed, delighted at the counter. “Told you so!” he grinned, raising his hand to hail one of the taxis. “You have a deal, Counselor.”
Nolan shook his head fondly, watching one of the taxis veer to stop in front of them. “I think this is the start of a wonderful partnership, Detective.”
“And it only took us a year to get to this point,” Frank riposted, opening the back of the taxi, gesturing him in first.
Nolan shrugged, sliding in to the other end. “Better late than never, right?”
Frank’s smirk promised an entertaining evening. “Absolutely.”