Prosecution Rests 4/?
Title: Prosecution Rests
Author: beama_casey
Pairing: eventual John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: complete disregard of police questioning procedure,
Summary: A Prosecutor is meant to be in control, reserved and ensure that justice is served. No matter who the defendant may be.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or the London Met. PoliceSorry for the wait for this chapter guys. Thanks for reading and commenting!
Chapters 1 - 3
Chapter four
“How’s that, sir?”
George looked over the shoulder of the officer sat at the computer desk. PC Hall had done a good job with the image, actually, and it was possible for George to see that in the picture it was, indeed, John Lennon walking out of the Silver Hammer with the late Bill Eddings.
“Great job, Hall,” the Inspector answered, patting the man’s shoulder. “Right. Time to make an arrest.”
******
Turned out, John Lennon didn’t live in squalor the way that Eddings had done. That just served to make George even more suspicious of him.
The Inspector had foregone the squad car, hoping for a clean, quiet arrest. Any man with half a brain cell, after all, could tell you that you don’t run when police come to the door. To do that, you may as well put in your measurements for a brightly coloured boiler suit there and then.
John Lennon was one of the smart ones.
******
Paul had been invited along to the questioning of their key suspect, but with strict orders to stay behind the one way mirror.
“I don’t need the Bar Council suing me because one of their best barristers was stupid enough to get himself attacked by a murder suspect,” Captain Starkey had said.
The prosecutor nodded his greeting to Sergeant Frazer, who was also on observation duty, though he was recruited to hold back any suspects who got a bit too violent.
“Punching they’ll allow,” he had explained in his strong Scottish brogue. “They don’t mind so much when suspects punch. They can handle that. Weapons they cannae handle, and that’s when I come in.”
As Paul entered the room now, Frazer looked up with a raise of his thick black eyebrow. “Thinkin’ of a change of career, are ye, McCartney?”
Paul smiled, but shook his head. “For some reason they want me to ‘keep an eye on things’.”
“Oh, aye?” Frazer nodded knowingly. “Well, aren’t you lawyers supposed to be well learned on the art of body language?”
Paul cocked an eyebrow. That did make sense. From this position he could see things that perhaps Starkey and George missed.
They were already inside when Paul turned his gaze to the room on the other side of the glass. They were sat so that the prosecutor was granted a profile view of each of them, which was good enough for reading Lennon’s body language.
The first thing that Paul noticed, quite against his will it should be noted, was that John Lennon was strikingly handsome, with his almond shaped eyes, his lips that were curved into something of a sarcastic smile, his long Grecian nose, and long-ish auburn hair that in the 1960’s would be called a mop-top, but now was called a shag.
The next thing that Paul noticed was that his face was flawless, and this was not purely an appreciation of aesthetics. There was no bruise on his forehead, chin, cheek, or anywhere else on his face.
“Your full name, please?” Starkey was saying, and Paul tuned out everything else to listen and observe.
Lennon paused, scrutinising the two policemen before him. “John Winston Lennon,” he finally answered. His voice was pure Liverpudlian, almost gravely but more nasal than harsh. Paul had the strange notion that John Winston Lennon probably had a marvellous singing voice.
“And you live in Kenwood, Surrey, correct?”
“That’s where you found me, isn’t it?”
Paul raised his eyebrows in shock. He looked to Frazer, who was sat beside him shaking his head and smirking. “Another smartarse,” he murmured.
“Let’s start again without the attitude. You live in Kenwood, Surrey, correct?” Starkey asked with a glare.
“Yes.”
“A rather high class area,” the captain remarked, while George nodded along. “What do you do?”
“I’m a paid assassin and a thief on the side.” The two officers looked anything but amused at Lennon’s answer. The suspect laughed. “Tough crowd. That’s called a joke, by the way. I play the guitar.”
“Professionally?” George asked, and Paul felt himself desperately wanting to know the answer. ‘From one guitar player to another,’ he reassured himself.
Lennon shrugged. “No. Just on the side - busking and playing small gigs here and there every once in a while. But I make enough to get by from month to month.”
Paul’s brow furrowed. That was very suspicious and, clearly, he was not the only one who thought so.
“Unstable takings,” Starkey remarked, his droning Liverpudlian voice suddenly sharp. “Yet you have a rather good lifestyle. Big house, able to live on music. A lad of leisure, you could almost say.”
Lennon leaned forward, and is ever present smirk turned bitter. “I had a very rich daddy,” he said, “who loathed me and the responsibilities I came with enough to abandon me when I was five years old, but who loved my mother enough to leave her a... generous sum of money. It got passed on to me when she died.”
“When did she die?” George asked.
The suspect’s eyes narrowed. “Bit personal, that, Inspector.” He sighed and answered nonetheless. “When I was seventeen.”
Paul couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. He had lost his own mother to cancer when he was fourteen years old.
“She died, you see,” Lennon was saying, “when an off-duty, drunken policeman mowed her down outside me auntie’s home. So, excuse me if I’m not exactly forthcoming with the co-operation.”
George and Starkey looked at each other, and now Paul could see the guilt in the Inspector’s eyes, as he was facing the prosecutor.
“You have our deepest sympathies, of course, Mr Lennon,” the captain said. Lennon’s eyebrow rose, and Paul could practically *hear* him thinking ‘Now it’s “Mr” Lennon.’ “But with all due respect, it was a long time ago, and we like to believe that the police have mended their ways.”
“Oh, you have,” Lennon said almost sincerely. Then, “You don’t need to get drunk as an excuse now, do you?”
Paul gasped, and beside him Frazer muttered a few choice curses.
“You’re already walking a very thin line, *mate*,” George seethed. “So I suggest-”
“Harrison!” Starkey suddenly shouted, and the Inspector was instantly quiet.
“Hm, very feisty,” Lennon said with a smirk. “You’d better get a short leash for you lapdog, Captain.”
Immediately, George was on his feet, and so was Frazer.
“Control yourself, Inspector!” Starkey yelled. He, too, stood, and grabbed George’s arm. “Outside! Now!” They exited the room leaving Lennon alone to smile smugly to himself at having caused such a ruckus.
“McCartney! Take over!” the Captain was suddenly at the door to the small room, and Paul jumped at his voice.
“M-me?” he stuttered.
“Yes!” Starkey barked. Paul had never seen him this angered, and rushed to the door without needing to be told again. He left the room just as Starkey was admonishing his Inspector. “If you can’t control yourself, Harrison-”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me.”
The prosecutor winced in sympathy for his friend, but lifted his guarded walls and mask as soon as he stepped into the questioning room.
“Well, at least you’re prettier than the last two,” Lennon remarked with a grin that Paul did not at all care for. “And you are?”
“I am Prosecutor McCartney.”
“Ooh, a Prosecutor,” Lennon said, still leering. “Very powerful. Very sexy.”
Paul didn’t respond, not even to give Lennon a condescending look, deciding that to ignore him was the best course of action - or inaction in this case - and began his questioning. “Mr Lennon, when you-”
“Please,” the suspect interrupted. “Call me John.”
Paul paused. “Mr Lennon. When you entered the club on the night in question, did you do so on the premise of meeting someone there?”
Lennon shook his head, as if clearing it. “I’m sorry, I was so taken by your attractiveness that I didn’t even realise you were talking. What was the question again?”
The young prosecutor fought to keep calm. This man wasn’t worth his irritation. “Mr Lennon, this is a serious matter,” he said in his best I-am-a-Prosecutor-and-therefore-*will*-be-listened-to voice. “A man has been murdered, you are the key suspect, and yet you’re treating this as some kind of game.”
“That’s because I’m waiting for someone to jump out from under the desk and shout ‘Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!’”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Paul said firmly. “Now, unless you co-operate, you are going to be spending tonight in a very uncomfortable cell.”
“Fine.” Lennon leant forward again, keeping and maintaining eye contact with Paul. “I didn’t kill anyone on the night in question. Or ever, if it comes to that. What kind of bastard goes around killing strangers, anyway? There, that co-operation enough for you, Prosecutor?”
Author: beama_casey
Pairing: eventual John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: complete disregard of police questioning procedure,
Summary: A Prosecutor is meant to be in control, reserved and ensure that justice is served. No matter who the defendant may be.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or the London Met. PoliceSorry for the wait for this chapter guys. Thanks for reading and commenting!
Chapters 1 - 3
Chapter four
“How’s that, sir?”
George looked over the shoulder of the officer sat at the computer desk. PC Hall had done a good job with the image, actually, and it was possible for George to see that in the picture it was, indeed, John Lennon walking out of the Silver Hammer with the late Bill Eddings.
“Great job, Hall,” the Inspector answered, patting the man’s shoulder. “Right. Time to make an arrest.”
******
Turned out, John Lennon didn’t live in squalor the way that Eddings had done. That just served to make George even more suspicious of him.
The Inspector had foregone the squad car, hoping for a clean, quiet arrest. Any man with half a brain cell, after all, could tell you that you don’t run when police come to the door. To do that, you may as well put in your measurements for a brightly coloured boiler suit there and then.
John Lennon was one of the smart ones.
******
Paul had been invited along to the questioning of their key suspect, but with strict orders to stay behind the one way mirror.
“I don’t need the Bar Council suing me because one of their best barristers was stupid enough to get himself attacked by a murder suspect,” Captain Starkey had said.
The prosecutor nodded his greeting to Sergeant Frazer, who was also on observation duty, though he was recruited to hold back any suspects who got a bit too violent.
“Punching they’ll allow,” he had explained in his strong Scottish brogue. “They don’t mind so much when suspects punch. They can handle that. Weapons they cannae handle, and that’s when I come in.”
As Paul entered the room now, Frazer looked up with a raise of his thick black eyebrow. “Thinkin’ of a change of career, are ye, McCartney?”
Paul smiled, but shook his head. “For some reason they want me to ‘keep an eye on things’.”
“Oh, aye?” Frazer nodded knowingly. “Well, aren’t you lawyers supposed to be well learned on the art of body language?”
Paul cocked an eyebrow. That did make sense. From this position he could see things that perhaps Starkey and George missed.
They were already inside when Paul turned his gaze to the room on the other side of the glass. They were sat so that the prosecutor was granted a profile view of each of them, which was good enough for reading Lennon’s body language.
The first thing that Paul noticed, quite against his will it should be noted, was that John Lennon was strikingly handsome, with his almond shaped eyes, his lips that were curved into something of a sarcastic smile, his long Grecian nose, and long-ish auburn hair that in the 1960’s would be called a mop-top, but now was called a shag.
The next thing that Paul noticed was that his face was flawless, and this was not purely an appreciation of aesthetics. There was no bruise on his forehead, chin, cheek, or anywhere else on his face.
“Your full name, please?” Starkey was saying, and Paul tuned out everything else to listen and observe.
Lennon paused, scrutinising the two policemen before him. “John Winston Lennon,” he finally answered. His voice was pure Liverpudlian, almost gravely but more nasal than harsh. Paul had the strange notion that John Winston Lennon probably had a marvellous singing voice.
“And you live in Kenwood, Surrey, correct?”
“That’s where you found me, isn’t it?”
Paul raised his eyebrows in shock. He looked to Frazer, who was sat beside him shaking his head and smirking. “Another smartarse,” he murmured.
“Let’s start again without the attitude. You live in Kenwood, Surrey, correct?” Starkey asked with a glare.
“Yes.”
“A rather high class area,” the captain remarked, while George nodded along. “What do you do?”
“I’m a paid assassin and a thief on the side.” The two officers looked anything but amused at Lennon’s answer. The suspect laughed. “Tough crowd. That’s called a joke, by the way. I play the guitar.”
“Professionally?” George asked, and Paul felt himself desperately wanting to know the answer. ‘From one guitar player to another,’ he reassured himself.
Lennon shrugged. “No. Just on the side - busking and playing small gigs here and there every once in a while. But I make enough to get by from month to month.”
Paul’s brow furrowed. That was very suspicious and, clearly, he was not the only one who thought so.
“Unstable takings,” Starkey remarked, his droning Liverpudlian voice suddenly sharp. “Yet you have a rather good lifestyle. Big house, able to live on music. A lad of leisure, you could almost say.”
Lennon leaned forward, and is ever present smirk turned bitter. “I had a very rich daddy,” he said, “who loathed me and the responsibilities I came with enough to abandon me when I was five years old, but who loved my mother enough to leave her a... generous sum of money. It got passed on to me when she died.”
“When did she die?” George asked.
The suspect’s eyes narrowed. “Bit personal, that, Inspector.” He sighed and answered nonetheless. “When I was seventeen.”
Paul couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. He had lost his own mother to cancer when he was fourteen years old.
“She died, you see,” Lennon was saying, “when an off-duty, drunken policeman mowed her down outside me auntie’s home. So, excuse me if I’m not exactly forthcoming with the co-operation.”
George and Starkey looked at each other, and now Paul could see the guilt in the Inspector’s eyes, as he was facing the prosecutor.
“You have our deepest sympathies, of course, Mr Lennon,” the captain said. Lennon’s eyebrow rose, and Paul could practically *hear* him thinking ‘Now it’s “Mr” Lennon.’ “But with all due respect, it was a long time ago, and we like to believe that the police have mended their ways.”
“Oh, you have,” Lennon said almost sincerely. Then, “You don’t need to get drunk as an excuse now, do you?”
Paul gasped, and beside him Frazer muttered a few choice curses.
“You’re already walking a very thin line, *mate*,” George seethed. “So I suggest-”
“Harrison!” Starkey suddenly shouted, and the Inspector was instantly quiet.
“Hm, very feisty,” Lennon said with a smirk. “You’d better get a short leash for you lapdog, Captain.”
Immediately, George was on his feet, and so was Frazer.
“Control yourself, Inspector!” Starkey yelled. He, too, stood, and grabbed George’s arm. “Outside! Now!” They exited the room leaving Lennon alone to smile smugly to himself at having caused such a ruckus.
“McCartney! Take over!” the Captain was suddenly at the door to the small room, and Paul jumped at his voice.
“M-me?” he stuttered.
“Yes!” Starkey barked. Paul had never seen him this angered, and rushed to the door without needing to be told again. He left the room just as Starkey was admonishing his Inspector. “If you can’t control yourself, Harrison-”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me.”
The prosecutor winced in sympathy for his friend, but lifted his guarded walls and mask as soon as he stepped into the questioning room.
“Well, at least you’re prettier than the last two,” Lennon remarked with a grin that Paul did not at all care for. “And you are?”
“I am Prosecutor McCartney.”
“Ooh, a Prosecutor,” Lennon said, still leering. “Very powerful. Very sexy.”
Paul didn’t respond, not even to give Lennon a condescending look, deciding that to ignore him was the best course of action - or inaction in this case - and began his questioning. “Mr Lennon, when you-”
“Please,” the suspect interrupted. “Call me John.”
Paul paused. “Mr Lennon. When you entered the club on the night in question, did you do so on the premise of meeting someone there?”
Lennon shook his head, as if clearing it. “I’m sorry, I was so taken by your attractiveness that I didn’t even realise you were talking. What was the question again?”
The young prosecutor fought to keep calm. This man wasn’t worth his irritation. “Mr Lennon, this is a serious matter,” he said in his best I-am-a-Prosecutor-and-therefore-*will*-be-listened-to voice. “A man has been murdered, you are the key suspect, and yet you’re treating this as some kind of game.”
“That’s because I’m waiting for someone to jump out from under the desk and shout ‘Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!’”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Paul said firmly. “Now, unless you co-operate, you are going to be spending tonight in a very uncomfortable cell.”
“Fine.” Lennon leant forward again, keeping and maintaining eye contact with Paul. “I didn’t kill anyone on the night in question. Or ever, if it comes to that. What kind of bastard goes around killing strangers, anyway? There, that co-operation enough for you, Prosecutor?”