Work Text:
“Need I say more?”
No, Frank thought darkly as he sat at his desk, absently twirling a pen between his fingers. Violet hadn’t needed to say anything after the video clip James Pell had sent Ezra Nichols. The video had been very damning, and it was no wonder Nichols had agreed to any demands Pell asked of him.
It was, after all, a death sentence if a video was released of an influential lawyer, one who fought for the LGBTQ+ community and minority rights, calling the first gay nominated to the Supreme Court a . . .
Frank wasn’t even going to think that word.
A grim-faced Kate had ordered him and Jalen to get ready to have a more difficult conversation with the attorney, and without further prompting, Jalen had left the bullpen, preparing to leave for the school. Frank watched him without saying a word, knowing his partner needed something else to do. Jalen had said Nichols was the reason he had chosen to become a lawyer, and even though he was now a cop, he had immense respect for the man. To realize this video existed, that Nichols had said . . . that . . . Frank could only imagine how much Jalen was reeling.
The faint sound of nails clicking on a surface registered in the back of his mind, and with a start, Frank realized the noise had been occurring for a good few minutes. With a frown, he spun in his chair, opening his mouth to complain. He stopped before he spoke when he saw Violet staring blankly at a spot on her monitor, her fingers tapping on her desk. It didn’t look like she knew she was doing it, based on the way she was gnawing on her lip.
She had a similar look on her face back when John Nelson had crossed their path.
Concern bubbled in Frank, and he checked his watch to estimate how much time he had before Jalen returned. Deciding he had enough, he rose from his chair and crossed to Violet’s station, gently clearing his throat. “Violet?”
The young woman sat up straight with a jump, and surprised dark eyes looked up at him. “Sorry, Cosgrove,” she blushed, fiddling with her fingers. “I didn’t hear you.”
“You were tapping your fingers pretty hard there,” Frank nodded.
Violet paused. “I was?” she asked meekly.
Frank’s eyebrows rose, and he gestured towards the break area. “Cup of coffee?” he offered.
Violet’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I could go for one.” Frank nodded, leading her over to the area, plucking the carafe from the burner and a mug from the tree. It took only a few seconds to fill it, and he slid the mug towards the young detective. Violet blinked, looking at him. “You aren’t getting one?”
Frank considered, then snorted and grabbed one of the mugs. “What the hell. Might as well be as prepared for this uncomfortable visit as possible.”
“Because of what you’re going to talk to him about, or because we know how Jalen looks . . . or looked . . . up to him?” Violet asked.
Frank sighed. “Take your pick. I wish I could personally say it was the latter, but it’s not.”
“I don’t understand it,” Violet said in frustration, cradling her mug with both hands as she leaned against the counter. “How someone could stand up and defend all of those rights, then get recorded saying . . . ”
She visibly struggled, and Frank shook his head. “You don’t need to say it.”
Violet put her mug down with more force than needed. “It just reminds me a bit of the academy,” she admitted, eyes darting around nervously. “Every so often, I would hear someone say something, and they would say it was only one time. And it would make me wonder if it was a one and done, or . . . ”
She trailed off, and Frank sighed. “Or if they just made sure no one ever heard them say it again.” Violet’s head shot up, her eyes wide, and Frank grimaced as he shrugged. “There were times the academy wasn’t kind to me, either. I didn’t necessarily hide I’m bi, per se, but if I was asked, I shared. There were some who sneered that it wasn't the case since I was married to my ex-wife at the time.”
“I’m sorry,” Violet whispered.
“Don’t be,” Frank shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”
“No, but I openly had a girlfriend when I went through the academy, and I know some people judged me for it,” Violet smiled sadly. “I’m just sick of all the hate, no matter what it’s directed at.”
Frank silently extended his mug to her. “You’ve got a good heart, Violet. Do your best to keep it that way.”
Violet’s smile widened as she tapped her mug against his. “I’ll do my best.”
Ezra Nichols was a titan in the world of law. Sam knew his name as a man who championed the rights of the LGBTQ+ community, minorities, those who were disabled . . . and now his wife was under arrest for murder, likely because she wanted to keep the video of her husband using a gay slur from being released to the world.
It was times like this that she was glad she handled the arraignments because she knew Nolan was readying himself to throw himself into this case. Their team never liked prosecuting their own, but she knew just like Detective Shaw, Nolan had also admired Nichols and his work. It was no secret to the prosecutors in the District Attorney’s office that Jack’s right hand was openly bisexual, and in the time they had spent working together, Nolan had no better champion than Sam. While Sam herself was straight, she had several friends during her time in law school who identified as members of the LGBTQ+ community, and she had fiercely defended them whenever they needed her.
And while she had never seen Nolan in the company of another man in the time they had been partners, he had admitted that her defense of her friends in college had been a reason why he had personally wanted to work with her. Sam had already set the goal to be the best partner he could have, but after that conversation, her dedication was secured. As long as she worked alongside Nolan, he would have her absolute loyalty and unwavering support.
“Calling docket ending in 8733,” one of the courthouse clerks announced, handing a folder to Judge Hernandez. “People v. Michelle Nichols, charging murder in the second degree.”
Hernandez reviewed the file, then looked at the defendant table. “How does the defendant plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Seaver answered as he stood.
Hernandez looked expectantly at Sam. “People on bail?”
Sam cleared her throat as she stood. “People request remand. We have evidence that proves the defendant was aware the victim, James Pell, was blackmailing her husband and that she murdered him to stop it.”
“Your Honor, Mrs. Nichols is anything but a flight risk,” Seaver argued. “She serves on the boards of the Children’s Defense Fund, America Reads, and the Riverdale Country School. She’s never had so much as a speeding ticket!”
“Given her significant financial resources and extensive international connections, she may be accumulating funds in order to flee the country,” Sam countered.
“OK, enough,” Hernandez held up his hand, stopping the attorneys from speaking. “Bail is set at $500,000 and Mrs. Nichols is to surrender her passport.”
Sam nodded in satisfaction as the gavel hit, and as she collected her belongings, Seaver set a piece of paper on her table. “Motion to exclude,” he informed her.
Sam blinked, then picked up the paper to review the motion. She quickly skimmed the document, then narrowed her eyes at the request to exclude the video they had found of the Nichols at the dinner. She suppressed a sigh as she finished packing her briefcase, and she turned to leave the courtroom.
She paused in her steps, however, when she discovered someone had been waiting for her. “I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve attended arraignments, and I’d have fingers left over,” she finally said, walking to the back of the room.
“I’m working to expand my appreciation of the work of the DA office,” Frank shrugged, pushing off where he leaned against the wall.
Sam gave him a look that clearly said “bullshit.” “Uh huh.”
Frank sighed, then extended his arm for her. Sam blinked in surprise, then nodded and curled her hand into the crook of his elbow, letting him escort her through the courthouse. “Let’s just say a handful of us at the precinct are very interested in how this case proceeds. Jalen especially, since he went through law school, but Violet and I have personal interest in this, too.”
Sam chewed her lip, letting the statement sink in. “Will it interfere with how you handle this case?” she asked. “If we need testimonies or more investigations?”
“No,” Frank shook his head firmly. “We’ll be professional through this.”
“Good,” Sam nodded in relief, her grasp on Frank’s arm tightening as she felt the eyes of Seaver burn into her back. Frank looked down at her hand, then raised an eyebrow curiously. “Professor Nichols had his pick from the cream of the crop to defend his wife. Seaver will find the smallest detail and pick at it to make it bigger if it’ll damage our case.”
“Ah,” Frank nodded, sending a warning look behind them as he intentionally pulled his arm closer to his side, guiding Sam to walk closer as well. “Don’t worry. We’ll behave.”
Unable to help herself, Sam snorted. “I know Shaw can. Will you?”
Frank blinked once, then twice, then barked in laughter. “Who do you think I am, Maroun? The idiot from last year who fumbled in court?”
“You better not be,” Sam threatened through a grin. “We need to make this case, and we can’t do it if the old Cosgrove makes a reappearance.”
“He won’t,” Frank promised as they reached the part of the courthouse where the prosecutors operated.
“Good,” Sam slowed when she caught sight of Jack and Nolan debriefing in the office at the end of the hall. “You, Jalen, and Violet aren’t the only ones who have personal interest in this case.” Frank blinked, but before he could ask a question, Sam smiled at him and gave his arm a squeeze before she let go. “Thank you for walking me back, Frank. I appreciate it.”
She could see the flash of momentary irritation from the detective when he couldn’t get his question into the conversation, but Frank recovered quickly and nodded. “Any time, Sam.”
Sam saw him glance down the hall, and as she turned to finish her trek, she saw Nolan turn from his conversation with Jack as if sensing the eyes on him, a professional mask on his face. She sighed, reviewing the motion in her hand once again as she finished her trek, her heels clicking on the floor. Frank was far from clueless, especially when it came to Nolan. As she heard the detective’s own footsteps, signaling his departure from the offices, she knew he had pieced together her words and Nolan’s expression. Frank knew it was Nolan who had the personal interest in the case.
And she knew if Frank had been interested in this case before, his interest was now unconditional.
Frank had made it his goal to attend the trials as often as his schedule allowed, and while he had significantly improved since his spectacular fallout with Nolan during the Jimmy Doyle case, there were still times when he worked at the precinct when court was in session. So far, he had been lucky when most of those times were arraignments or testimonies that weren’t completely necessary but were included to drive points home.
Unfortunately, today was not one of those days.
Jalen had looked up multiple times during the day when Frank had absently started drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk, and even Violet had occasionally peered over from her post. It was only when his phone trilled in the middle of his exploration of bank statements that he realized he had been constantly doing the action, and he cleared his throat as he reached for his phone. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s fine, man,” Jalen shook his head, checking the time. “This is a point we all wanted to be there to see.”
“No kidding,” Violet mumbled before squinting. “Hey, Jalen? Check this out.”
As Jalen rolled his chair to join Violet, Frank checked the Caller ID and did a double take, then he quickly sat up straight and answered. “Cosgrove.”
“Sorry for the abrupt call,” Nolan told him. “But are you able to make it to the courthouse in the next hour or so?”
Frank blinked in surprise, then looked down at the statements in his hand. “Yeah, what I’m working on can wait,” he said, tossing the papers onto his desk and rising to his feet. “I can head over now. What’s going on?”
“Magda Chezlak didn’t show up for her testimony today,” Nolan explained, the irritation in his voice enough to make Frank wince as he reached for a pen to scribble on a Post-It note. “I need you to recount her statement for the jury.”
Frank paused in the middle of his writing with a frown. “Isn’t the defense attorney gonna have a problem with that?”
“He can complain about having a problem all he wants. When you give your testimony, the jury’s gonna see what we do: witness tampering.”
Frank nodded, finishing his writing and turning the pad to Jalen, pointing at the message he wrote: At the courthouse. “I’m on my way.”
“Thank you, Frank,” Nolan told him as Jalen nodded. “I’ll need you on the steps.”
Frank was in luck that rush hour was still in the distant future, and the drive to the courthouse was only about twenty minutes. The area was a flurry of activity as prosecutors, defenders, clerks, and the like went about their day, maneuvering about each other as if in a dance.
And every dancer avoided Nolan, who awaited at the top of the courthouse steps, clad in a suit Frank thought he was more likely to see ADA Carisi wear instead of his best friend. Three-piece suits were a constant part of the SVU prosecutor’s wardrobe, and as Frank wracked his brain, he couldn’t remember a time when he had seen Nolan don one. Today, however, the EADA was decked in a three-piece suit the vivid shade of dark royal blue, his normally blue-green eyes the color of the darkest of thunderclouds. Unbidden, a shudder went down Frank’s back as he ascended the steps; there weren’t many times he felt unnerved around the other man, but Nolan was dressed for war.
It was a relief when Nolan’s hard expression softened ever so slightly when Frank reached the top of the steps. “Frank,” he greeted with a strained smile. “Thank you for coming.”
“I told Sam we’d be on hand if we were needed, and here I am,” Frank nodded, falling into step with Nolan as they entered the courthouse. “What exactly do you need from me?”
“Seaver’s gonna try and object to you giving us the nanny’s statement, but since she was afraid for her job, Judge Boyd should overrule it,” Nolan explained. “Then we need you to tell the jury what she told you: that Michelle Nichols was gone from the house in the timeframe of James Pell’s murder.”
“Understood,” Frank nodded as they reached the courtroom. He paused when he saw the stiffness in Nolan’s spine, and after a careful look around, he reached out and wrapped a gentle but firm hand around his elbow, stopping Nolan. “How are you handling this?” he asked lowly.
Nolan looked down at Frank’s hand on his elbow, and he seethed, reaching up to rub his forehead. “It’s not the case that’s pissing me off right now, Frank,” he muttered. “It’s the reason this case even happened to begin with.”
“Yeah,” Frank’s expression darkened. “A lot of us at the 2-7 are thinking the same thing.”
Familiar heels clicking made the men turn, and Sam peered around the door into the courtroom. “Hey, Frank,” she gave a tense smile.
“Sam,” he nodded in return.
“We’re back in two minutes,” Sam told Nolan.
He sighed. “Thank you, Sam.” His partner nodded and disappeared back into the room, and Nolan shoved his hands into his pockets, giving Frank a firm look. “We never did that bar crawl after the Niles Harper conviction, did we?”
Frank snorted loudly. “No, we did not,” he shook his head, unable to help a grin from forming as they walked to the doors. “You calling it in?”
“To the point I may need a cab to take me home,” Nolan admitted, grinning as they strode into the courtroom. “Assuming you’re free when the dust settles with this case.”
“Considering these circumstances, I’ll make sure I am,” Frank nodded, sliding into the bench behind the prosecution table.
Nolan nodded in agreement, joining Sam at their table. “Another drinking date?” she asked under her breath with a small smirk.
Nolan paused in shuffling his files, then he narrowed his eyes at her. “It is not a date,” he hissed, eyes darting to make sure Frank couldn’t hear them.
A giggle fell from Sam’s mouth as the rest of the jury seated themselves. “Uh huh.”
Nolan sighed, sitting next to her. “Shut up.”
“Detective Cosgrove, in the course of your investigation, did you meet Magda Chezlak, the Nichols’ nanny?” Nolan asked once Frank was settled on the stand.
“Yes,” Frank answered simply.
“Did Ms. Chezlak tell you that Michelle Nichols left the house the morning of James Pell’s murder?”
“Objection!” Seaver rose from his chair, nostrils flaring. “Hearsay!”
Frank smothered a snort. Nolan had been right on the money when he said the objection would be coming. The prosecutor smartly turned away from the jury and addressed Boyd directly. “Ms. Chezlak’s statement falls under an exception to the hearsay rule. It’s a declaration against pecuniary interest.”
“What exactly is Ms. Chezlak’s pecuniary interest?” Boyd asked.
“Her job,” Nolan answered, gesturing to Frank. “She told Detective Cosgrove she was afraid she’d be fired if she said anything that got the Nichols in trouble.”
Boyd pursed her lips, then nodded. “Objection overruled.”
Seaver clenched his jaw as he sat, and Nolan nodded for Frank to speak. “Yes, Magda Chezlak told me that she saw the defendant leave the house at 5:30 that morning,” Frank explained.
Nolan hummed, rocking on his heels as he leaned on the railing in front of the jury. “And what time was James Pell killed?” he asked.
“The medical examiner determined that it was between 5:00 and 7:00 in the morning,” Frank recounted.
“Did Ms. Chezlak say anything else about the defendant leaving home so early that day?” Nolan tilted his head.
“Yes,” Frank nodded. “She said that was highly unusual. She seemed in a hurry and extremely upset.”
Nolan nodded in return. “Thank you, Detective Cosgrove.” He turned to Boyd, walking away from the jury. “I have no further questions.”
As Nolan returned to his seat, Seaver rose from the defendant’s table, his eyes narrowed on Frank. “How many years have you been with the New York City Police Department, Detective?” he asked.
“Twenty-three,” Frank answered promptly, a note of pride in his voice.
“And in those years, how many times have you been called as a witness in a criminal case?”
Frank raised an eyebrow. Seaver really expected him to recall every time he was a witness in those twenty-three years? “I wouldn’t know the exact number.”
“Public records show that you were called to testify in 208 cases,” Seaver informed him.
Frank caught Nolan and Sam exchanging wary looks at the prosecution table, and hidden behind the stand, he curled his fingers into a reflexive fist. Seaver was gearing up for some form of attack, and like Sam had said, he had to be professional. “Really?” he asked, tilting his head. “That many?”
Seaver smirked. “In how many of those cases was the defendant African American?”
And there’s the attack, Frank thought grimly. “Objection!” Nolan rose from his seat. “Relevance?”
“It goes to bias,” Seaver answered.
“Overruled,” Boyd decided. “But be careful, Mr. Seaver.”
Nolan sat again, dark eyes meeting Frank’s pale ones. Be careful, his best friend warned. Frank gave an infinitesimal nod in reply, and he turned back to Seaver. “I don’t keep track,” he answered.
“Maybe you should,” Seaver turned to the jury. “Over half . . . and eighty-five percent of those cases resulted in convictions. That is well above the statistical average. Did you know that?”
“Like I said,” Frank said slowly. “I don’t know the exact numbers.”
“You should,” Seaver scoffed. “It’s in the public record. It seems whenever a person of color is on trial, you always seem to bring in some extra evidence to the equation.”
Sam, who had been writing notes to keep track of the trial, had long since stopped writing, and now her fingernails tapped the desk, her frustration clear on her face. Nolan looked like he was itching to stand and protest the line of questioning again, but while Frank was no attorney, he knew enough about the proceedings to know he had no opening . . . not yet, anyway. That didn’t mean one couldn’t show up. “Are you trying to say I make stuff up?” he asked, letting warning coat his words. “Because that’s not how it works.”
“Quite the contrary,” Seaver shrugged. “It’s simple math. And it adds up to you having a racially-motivated ax to grind. There’s no other way to explain it.”
“I’m pretty sure there is,” Frank countered; as he let ice seep into his tone, he could see even Sam shift uncomfortably in her seat. “But I’m not a sociologist. I’m a homicide detective. I follow the evidence, and I arrest bad guys regardless of their race. That’s what I do. And in this case, the evidence points at Michelle Nichols.”
Seaver’s frustration showed in his eyes as he tried to corner Frank. “A black woman!”
“No,” Frank shook his head. “A murderer.”
“Says the man who only arrests black people!” Seaver spat.
Gotcha, Frank thought in satisfaction. “Objection!” Nolan surged to his feet, multiple colors swirling in his rage-filled eyes. “The defense is out of line!”
“Sustained,” Boyd agreed.
Seaver glared at Frank, but the detective merely tilted his head to the side. Go ahead, he silently challenged. Try your luck again. Seaver glowered as he backed away from the jury box. “No further questions,” he ground out as he returned to his table.
Boyd nodded, turning to Frank. “Witness is excused.”
Frank bowed his head in acknowledgement and rose from the stand, buttoning his suit jacket as he walked back to his bench. Nolan had perfected his poker face after years in the courtroom, but he let a small smirk slide into place as Frank passed. The detective raised an eyebrow, silently asking his opinion, and Nolan nodded thankfully at him. Frank nodded in return, sliding into the bench behind the prosecution table. He had been asked to be professional, and he had delivered. How could the defense twist the evidence they had?
“Mr. Price?” Boyd asked.
“The People rest, Your Honor,” Nolan told her.
Boyd nodded. “Mr. Seaver, call your first witness.”
Seaver rose. “Defense calls Ezra Nichols.” Frank sat back in his seat, watching with interest as the professor was sworn in. The best-case scenario with this was that a conflicting witness report would place Michelle at home, not out at the boat house. He couldn’t see Seaver doing much with this. “Where were you on the morning of James Pell’s murder?” Seaver asked.
“I got up early and went to the Hudson boathouse,” Ezra answered.
Sam looked at Nolan in alarm, and warning bells went off in Frank’s head. That had not been where he expected the questioning to lead. “Why did you go to the boathouse?” Seaver asked.
“Because I knew James would be there,” Ezra answered.
“And what did you do when you found him there?”
Ezra barely hesitated. “I killed him.”
The courtroom erupted with murmurs, and even Frank’s composure cracked as he looked at Sam in disbelief. The woman looked just as stunned as him. It was left to Nolan to make the next move, and the prosecutor stood, acid dripping from his tongue as he spoke. “Request to meet in chambers, Your Honor.”
Boyd could only nod in agreement.
“So this family is just lying left and right to try and cover each other up?” Violet asked in disbelief as she pored over her computer.
“It’s pretty damning no matter who takes the fall,” Frank snorted, flipping through the files he held. “Wife, father, son . . . hell, the only clean one at this point is the nanny.” He plopped the files on the desk. “Enough about the parents. Price and Maroun asked us to dig into the son’s testimony. What have you got?”
“I dug up everything I could,” Violet gestured to her computer. “He seems like a really good kid. Straight-A student, debate team, varsity water polo, literally feeds the homeless on Sundays.”
“And the day of the murder?”
“Shaw talked to the water polo coach,” Violet checked her notes. “Confirms Cyrus was at practice at 7:15 a.m., and I found video of him a block from the school at 7:12. Doesn’t really prove that he saw or didn’t see his father that morning, just means he went to water polo practice.”
Frank shook his head in frustration. This whole case had them running in circles, and if they didn’t find what they needed, Frank was fairly certain when he and Nolan went on that bar crawl, they were more likely to get blackout drunk before they called cabs. “Nothing before then?”
Violet hummed as she searched, then she blinked. “Hang on,” she leaned forward. “Cyrus used his cell phone to call his parents’ landline that morning at 5:49 a.m.”
“5:49?” Frank parroted, leaning over Violet’s shoulder to check. “Why the hell would he call if he was . . . ” He trailed off as realization hit him like a freight train, and he closed his eyes. “Shit,” he seethed, hearing Violet nod as she came to the same conclusion as him. “Ping where he was when he made that call.”
“On it,” Violet nodded, her fingers clicking her keyboard rapidly.
Frank pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found Sam’s number. “Hello?” the woman asked when she picked up.
“Sam, it’s me,” Frank told her with a sigh as he returned to his desk. “We have a situation.”
Sam stared long and hard at the video on her screen, the same video she had viewed five times in a row. “This can’t be happening.”
“It is,” Frank told her. “Violet scoured everything in the timeframe the medical examiner gave us. This is the real thing.”
Sam closed her eyes, dropping her head into her arms as the video of Cyrus Nichols dropping the murder weapon into a dumpster finished playing. “Shit.”
“I said the exact same thing.”
“OK,” Sam sighed, clearing her throat as she sat up straight. “I’ll get this to Nolan. We’ll make an appointment with the parents.”
Frank nodded, seeing the emotions warring on her face. “Is it bad that I kind of wish it was one of the parents?” he asked.
“We’ll be charging their son with murder,” Sam whispered. “A man is dead, and a family is destroyed . . . all because Ezra Nichols said a foul, ugly word.”
“The worst word he could have said at the worst time,” Frank shook his head in disgust. “For his sake, I hope that’s the only time he’s said it.”
“You aren’t the only one,” Sam sighed. “The only upside to all of this . . . the case will be over.”
“Nolan wasn’t kidding,” Frank huffed. “We may not even make it to cabs when we’re done with this bar crawl.” He saw Sam bite her lip and twist the bracelet around her wrist, and he raised an eyebrow. “You OK?”
“I’m fine,” Sam looked up at him, lip between her teeth. “Just . . . promise you’ll look out for Nolan?”
Frank narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What happened?” he asked, assuming the worst as he glanced around the offices.
“Nothing,” Sam quickly told him. “No, nothing happened. I just . . . ” She sighed in frustration, closing her eyes and resting her forehead in her hand. “How do I put this?”
Frank waited patiently for her to sort through her thoughts, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. “He’s my best friend, Sam,” he told her. “He had my back when I needed him. I’ve got his, too.”
The relief in Sam’s eyes settled Frank’s hackles, and she smiled up at him. “You’re a good man, Frank,” she told him softly, raising her hand to rest on top of his.
Frank squeezed her shoulder in reply. “I’m working on it.”
The final meeting with Judge Boyd had been scheduled late in the evening at the insistence of the Nichols to get the ruling finished. “Your Honor, the People have agreed to drop the murder charges against Michelle Nichols,” Nolan told her. “We have also agreed not to charge Ezra Nichols with perjury.”
“The Nichols family understands that it is in the best interests of the child to plead guilty in family court, and the record will be sealed,” Seaver added.
Boyd pursed her lips, then peered past the attorneys. “Cyrus,” she addressed the boy, and Cyrus meekly stood with his father. “Do you understand what this means? A judge in family court will be sentencing you for murder.”
Cyrus visibly swallowed. “Yes, ma’am,” he nodded. “I understand.”
Boyd sighed heavily and nodded. “The case against Michelle Nichols is dismissed,” she declared. “Court Officer, please take Cyrus Nichols into custody.”
Michelle burst into tears from her place next to Seaver as one of the officers in the room moved forward and fastened handcuffs onto Cyrus. “He’s just a boy!” she sobbed, Ezra reaching over the rail to hug her. “For God’s sake, he’s barely fourteen!”
Nolan sighed, snapping his briefcase shut and looking at Sam as they departed the room. “You OK?” he asked.
Sam shrugged. “A man is dead, and a family’s been destroyed, all because one man blurted out a stupid, hateful word,” she murmured so the Nichols couldn’t hear her. “I told Cosgrove the same thing.”
“Well, let’s hope that’s the last time he says that word,” Nolan muttered, closing the door behind them.
Sam tilted her head. “And Cosgrove said almost the exact same thing, too.”
Nolan smirked, pulling out his phone when it chirped. “Great minds think alike.”
Sam noticed the slight pause in Nolan’s step when he checked his screen, and when his mood brightened, she couldn’t help but smile. “Just a great mind?” she prompted.
Nolan did a double take, giving her a wide-eyed look. “Excuse me?”
Sam gave him a fond look. “Nolan. It’s me. I would rather be drowned in the Hudson than spill any of your secrets. And in the time I’ve worked with you in homicide, I haven’t seen you look at anyone like you have at Frank.”
Nolan sighed, looking over his shoulder as Seaver escorted a grim-faced Ezra and a stumbling, crying Michelle out of the courtroom. “I’d rather not have this discussion now. I just need a drink.”
Sam conceded with a nod. “Enjoy your bar crawl.”
“Hey,” Nolan reached out and took her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Rain check on the discussion?”
Sam smiled brightly. “Name a day and a time.”
Nolan nodded and headed for the main doors of the courthouse, leaving Sam to watch him. Her phone buzzed in her suit pocket, and as she fished it out, she checked the Caller ID. She blinked, then answered with a pleasant smile. “Maroun.”
“Hey, Sam,” Jalen told her. “Frank was out the door not too long ago. I take it that means everything’s wrapped up?”
“Yes, it’s done,” Sam confirmed. “Nolan just left, too. I’m just keeping my ringer on in case one of them needs a driver or something.”
Jalen’s laughter made her smile widen. “Well, I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch. If those two are out and about, are you interested in grabbing dinner somewhere?”
“I would be delighted.”
Ever since Frank had joined the 27th precinct, Forlini’s had been the bar of choice for first responders. With that bar now closed, he had spent evenings hopping from bar to bar, determining which haunts he preferred and which he wanted to avoid. While he had nowhere as impressive a salary as the prosecutors in the DA’s office (and considering the designer brands he had seen Jalen wear, he figured his time as a lawyer had been kind to his bank account, too), he found he preferred the more affordable bars, where he didn’t necessarily stand out in the crowd.
As he sat on the edge of the bar, tracing the rim of his glass as he watched one of the TV screens display the news, he figured that was exactly what he and Nolan needed. Maybe Nolan had a higher-end bar or two on his list, but Frank certainly didn’t want his friend to waste his salary on him. Even though that means better whiskey and bourbon, he thought with a snort, turning away from the screen as the news cut to commercials.
A brief gust of wind blew through the bar, and Frank looked towards the entrance just in time to see Nolan shut the door behind him. Those multicolored eyes, looking hazel in the dim lighting of the bar, started to scan the room, and Frank held up his hand in a wave. Nolan’s eyes sharpened when he saw him, and he nodded, starting to work his way through the tables towards the bar. As he approached, Frank flagged down the waiter. “Bourbon, neat,” he requested.
“Coming right up,” the bartender nodded.
Frank sat back and gestured to the stair next to him for Nolan to sit. “You look like hell.”
“Well, thanks, Frank,” Nolan rolled his eyes, removing his suit jacket and draping it over the back of his chair. “That’s exactly what I want to hear even if it’s exactly how I feel.”
Frank couldn’t help but smirk, glad Nolan at least felt comfortable going down to shirtsleeves like him. “You’ve had to work through hell on this case.”
“No kidding,” Nolan grumbled, loosening his tie as he took his seat. “If it wasn’t murder on the table, it was perjury.”
“So what ultimately ended up being the verdict?” Frank asked, nodding as the bartender returned with Nolan’s drink.
“Thank you,” Nolan smiled at the bartender, taking the glass and taking a long drink. “Case dropped against Michelle Nichols, no perjury charges pressed against Ezra Nichols, and Cyrus Nichols will be sentenced for murder in family court. We cooked up one ruined family with this.”
Frank shook his head, feeling sorry for Cyrus while also feeling disgusted about the entire situation. “All because the good professor was caught saying that damn word.”
Nolan’s face twisted with the same disgust Frank felt, and he abruptly took another long drink. Frank was impressed - this was the quickest he had ever seen the prosecutor drink. “God only knows what he meant when he said it, but no one’s going to care now that the press will get a hold of it,” he muttered. “That’s a stain on him that’s never going away.”
“And clearly he realized that, given the testimonies we heard from him,” Frank agreed with a scowl.
Nolan’s glass hit the bar with an audible thud, his eyes narrowed. “This was just one big clusterfuck.”
“And I’m glad it’s over.”
Nolan held out his glass. “I will drink to that.”
“Cheers,” Frank clinked his glass against Nolan’s.
The two men finished their drinks, and as Frank flagged down the bartender to refill their glasses, Nolan ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the style. “You know what else is gonna follow him from here on out?” he asked.
Frank didn’t have to think. “Was it a one-time thing and he’s actually apologetic about it? Or was this just the one time he got caught and he’s trying to save face?”
Nolan blinked, surprise clear on his face. “That didn’t take you long at all.”
“Because that’s the question I’ve been asking since this case started,” Frank said simply. As his neat whiskey was returned to him, he hesitated before completing his thought. “Pretty common question I’ve asked since I entered the academy, too.”
Nolan tilted his head. “The academy?” he repeated. “Why would you ask - ”
He abruptly cut off, eyes widening in realization, and Frank gave him a wry smile. “Some people could be very vocal when they weren’t being watched by someone who could interfere,” he shared. “And some bigots idiotically thought I couldn’t be bi since I was married to my ex-wife at the time.”
Nolan’s scoff was very audible over the chatter in the bar. “So they were assholes.”
Relief filled Frank at the response, and he laughed and raised his glass in agreement. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. I think most of them didn’t make it through the academy.”
“And look at where you are now,” Nolan grinned. “Karma, huh?”
“Yeah, we’ll go with karma,” Frank rolled his eyes. “It got easy to tune them out.”
“Good for you,” Nolan nodded. “And if anyone does bother you - ”
Frank snorted. “Unlikely.” Nolan glowered at him, and he smiled innocently behind his whiskey. “What?”
Nolan sighed. “If anyone bothers you, I know Sam gives a wicked verbal thrashing in our defense. It’s part of why I wanted her to partner with me when she got promoted to homicide.”
“Can she really?” Frank grinned widely.
“Oh, yes, she can,” Nolan nodded, matching his grin. “And some people think she’s just a pretty face. She’s vicious as hell when she’s pissed off.”
“I know,” Frank snickered. “You know, she asked if I could shoot Counselor Rankin while we were waiting for the Nelson verdict?”
“She did?” Nolan did a double take. When Frank grinned into his whiskey as he nodded, the prosecutor sighed and rolled his eyes fondly. “Of course, she did.”
“If I didn’t like her then, I definitely liked her after that,” Frank chuckled, then blinked, rewinding Nolan’s words. “Our?” he repeated.
“I’ve always been open about my bisexuality in the DA’s office,” Nolan shrugged. “In my early days, if anyone spoke up against it, Jack made it clear that kind of person wasn’t welcome on his staff. Nowadays, nothing ever reaches me . . . because Sam has already sniffed them out and given them a piece of her mind.”
Frank laughed loudly, relief coursing through him. While it was true he could easily shrug off comments aimed at him, he wasn’t certain he could have done that if Nolan hadn’t accepted him. Now that he knew that not only had Nolan accepted him but was also bi . . . that felt like a massive weight off his shoulders. “Well,” he raised his glass. “To Sam being the walking definition of ‘ride or die.’”
“And to karma being the ultimate equalizers to anyone who tries to stir up trouble for us,” Nolan held up his glass in reply.
“Amen,” Frank agreed heartily, knocking his glass against Nolan’s. As both men drank, he finally touched on a subject that had been on his mind for a while. “So I have to ask . . . the three-piece suit?”
Nolan grimaced. “Not my favorite thing to wear, but it sure as hell makes a statement.” He gave Frank an intrigued look. “Too much?”
Frank looked at Nolan like he said Earth was flat. “Did you look in a mirror?” he asked bluntly, relishing the way Nolan’s eyes widened, one of the few signs that showed the other man was caught off-guard. He was kind of proud of himself for that. “Feel free to wear them more often.”
Maybe it was the dim lighting, but Frank swore he saw Nolan’s cheek flush. He definitely saw the hazel coloring in his eyes darken further into brown. “Good to know,” Nolan murmured, downing the rest of his bourbon in one go.
He was going to be having that discussion with Sam much sooner than he thought.