Psych: Cause and Effect (Part 4)
Title: Cause and Effect (Part 4/4)
Author: rockinhamburger aka Nikki
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Detective Carlton Lassiter is named primary investigator on a particularly close-to-home case in which Shawn's not available for a consult -- because he's the victim. As Lassiter searches for Shawn's attacker, and Shawn lies in a comatose state, he begins to do some inner soul-searching. Struggling to remain objective in light of his new, alarming feelings for Shawn Spencer, can he overcome his insecurities and prove exactly why he's the youngest Head Detective to ever be named to the force?
Word Count: 18,850!
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own Psych, as it belongs to the wonderful Steve Franks, and the lovely USA Network. I just like spending stupid amounts of time on these characters!
Notes: Firstly, I need to give my eternal love and thanks to brevityis, my beta-reader, who (perhaps unwisely) offered her brilliant editing services to me shortly after I started writing this monster. She is entirely responsible for its coherency, and she deserves much more than this measly shout-out. Thank you so much, hon! Additional thanks to deadlybride and luna_moonsilver for the extra encouragement.
There are a few legal details later in this story that I needed to go off-book with. If you are familiar with criminal law, you may find this aspect somewhat grating, and I apologize ahead of time for it. I assure you it is for the good of the story, and that it isn't anything too serious!
***
Carlton spent that evening in front of the television drinking scotch. The weight of the glass in his hand was comforting, as was the droning of the 24-hour news programming in the background of his brain.
Carlton was having trouble figuring out what it was that he wanted from Shawn. His… feelings, or whatever the hell they were, were deepening so drastically. It was staggering to him that only a month earlier Carlton had been throwing Shawn out of his crime scenes, and now he was just a few hours away from helping him win his own.
If they didn’t win this; if Shawn lost; if Peters and Meyer got away with this, Carlton would make sure the two men never put another toe out of line for the rest of their miserable lives. He’d make sure they watched their backs every waking (and, for that matter, sleeping) moment.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t had a proper conversation with Shawn since before the attack. Shawn hadn’t even been around the Station as often as was par the course.
Having thought over the subject in great detail, he had come to the realization that he actually missed Shawn’s crazy rambling self. Somehow, he missed Shawn barrelling in on their cases and making a general ass out of himself. As bizarre as it was, he had gotten used to Shawn being around.
He was surprised to find that he couldn’t wait until this was all over and Shawn would be back in his life, thrashing around during one of his stupid visions, intruding in on their cases, and grinning that damned smile of his.
What was happening to him? When had Carlton become so unlike himself? And more importantly, how? He still had no idea.
***
After grabbing a coffee from Starbucks on his way to the courthouse, Carlton felt almost ready to face the next few hours. He was going to be first up this morning, and he had to be ready to answer any of Hornstock and Roswell’s questions.
Parking one block away, Carlton made his way up to the building, took the stairs two at a time, and went through the front doors. The first thing he saw was Shawn and Hornstock talking right outside the courtroom. There was no way he could avoid them.
“Lassie!” Shawn exclaimed, turning to face him completely. “You’re here! And lookin’ dapper as usual!”
Carlton ground his teeth together. “Don’t call me that, Spencer.”
“Sorry, Lassie,” Shawn said, grinning. Carlton tried to fight the warmth that began to fill his body at the sight of that grin, but it was a lost cause. Shawn was dressed in the same suit as the day before but with a nice red tie instead of the blue one.
Nice? Ugh. Carlton was getting way too soft.
“Hey, is that for me?” Shawn asked, grabbing Carlton’s coffee with quick-as-a-whip reflexes. He took a sip and pulled a face. “Seriously, Lassie, you gotta cut down on the sugar. You’re gonna develop Type 2 Diabetes!”
“Spencer, that’s my damn coffee,” Carlton said, stepping forward to take it back from Shawn, who responded by putting a hand on Carlton’s chest to halt him.
“Wait a minute, dude. I just got a vision.”
Carlton rolled his eyes. “Don’t care. Give me my coffee.”
“No, no,” Shawn said, grinning and holding the coffee away. “It’s a big vision.” Shawn raised his right hand to his temple. “It’s you… you’re smiling… and you’re not wearing a suit?”
“Spencer!” Carlton began with an irritation he didn’t truly feel. His next words never made it out of his mouth because they were interrupted by Gus hurrying over to them.
“Shawn!” he said. “You left the jerk chicken out on the counter at the office!”
“Oh, that wasn’t me, it was the Jerk Chicken Gnomes,” Shawn said. “They love leftovers, but they’re just so messy,” he added, directing that last part toward Carlton for some reason.
Guster expelled an irritated breath. “That’s ridiculous, Shawn! You obviously left it out, just put it away next time.”
“I’m telling you, it was the gnomes!” Shawn insisted.
With Shawn distracted, Carlton reached over and retrieved his coffee, walked around the assembled group, and entered the courtroom. He headed for the place he had sat the previous morning.
Shaking his head, he took a sip of his coffee. Gnomes?
“Hey Lassiter,” Gus said from Carlton’s right. He moved past Carlton and sat down in the seat beside him.
“Guster,” Carlton greeted.
An awkward silence descended upon them, and Carlton raised his coffee to his mouth, took a gigantic gulp, and focused his attention on the back of a woman's head two rows away.
“Do -“ Gus paused, and Carlton looked over. “Do you think we’re gonna win this thing?”
Carlton considered Gus for a moment. After several long moments he sighed. “I don’t know for sure. But I think so.”
Gus was staring ahead. A brief smile flickered across his face as he mumbled, “Yeah, me too.”
“Carlton! Gus!”
They turned to find O’Hara standing at the entrance to their aisle. She quickly took the seat on Carlton’s right side.
“Vick gave you the day off?” Carlton asked.
“Yup!” she replied with a smile. “Said something about moral support. I couldn’t agree more.” Carlton glanced over, and they shared a significant look.
Henry Spencer announced his presence at that moment by sitting down in the empty seat next to Juliet, who smiled over at him. “Hi Mr Spencer!”
“Detective,” he greeted, nodding at her.
Shawn and Hornstock began making their way down the aisle to their seats. Shawn smiled at the four of them sitting there. Roswell, Meyer and Peters entered next, and as they took their seat, the Bailiff announced Judge Everard’s entrance.
“You may be seated,” Everard said from her desk. She sat down along with everyone else. “Deliberations today, April 23rd, 2009 are regarding the assault and attempted murder of the Plaintiff, Mr Shawn Spencer. The accused are Kyle Peters and James Meyer, who have pleaded not guilty to all charges, including obstruction of justice. This second day of proceedings is regarding the crime that occurred in the early hours of April 3rd, 2009. Representing Mr Spencer is Prosecution Attorney Adam Hornstock. Mr Peters and Mr Meyer are represented by Defense Attorney Benjamin Roswell. Mr Hornstock, if you’re ready, you may call your next witness to the stand.”
Hornstock rose and gave her a half-bow. “Thank you, your Honour. Prosecution calls Head Detective Carlton Lassiter to the stand.”
Carlton’s heart-rate picked up. He looked at Juliet, feeling paralyzed. She smiled at him warmly, gently took his coffee from him, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and gave his arm a firm squeeze. It did the trick. He stood and made his way to the stand, where he sat down and looked out at the courtroom.
The bailiff walked up with the Bible in his hand, which Carlton put his hand on top of.
“Detective Lassiter, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Carlton nodded, “I do.”
The Bailiff moved away as Hornstock walked over. “Detective, how long have you worked with the Santa Barbara Police Department?”
Carlton took a deep breath and folded his barely perceptibly shaking hands in his lap. He needed to exert an air of calm, even if he felt anything but. “13 years."
“And when were you appointed Head Detective?” Hornstock asked, turning to face the Jury.
“April 30th, 2005,” Carlton responded simply.
“Is it safe to assume you have worked many cases while working with the Santa Barbara Police Department?”
Carlton forced himself to smile, “I’d say so, yes.”
“And you were the Lead Investigator on Mr Spencer’s case, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Carlton replied.
“Would you please give the court a detailed report of your investigation?”
“Of course. The investigation began on the morning of April 3rd,” he iterated, speaking with as much assurance and clarity as he could wrangle up. “Officer McNabb approached me with the announcement that Mr Spencer had been discovered at the scene of a crime, and was being treated for assault injuries of some kind at Emcare Hospital. Myself and my partner, Detective O’Hara, went immediately to the hospital. After speaking briefly with Mr Spencer’s father, we made our way to SOHO Restaurant, where we spoke with Jeffrey Connor. He reported that Mr Spencer had in fact been at the restaurant the previous evening, entertaining the customers with his…” Carlton paused ever so briefly, “psychic abilities.”
“We had very little to go on. The Department combed through the crime scene for any and all evidence, but we found nothing particularly substantial. The only bit of information we had regarding the case at that point was the report from…” he tried to keep the venom out of his voice, “Mr Meyer. He indicated in his report that he in fact discovered Mr Spencer at two-thirty am on April 3rd, immediately called for an ambulance, and stayed to give his report to the Police.”
As he spoke, Carlton decided to direct more of his attention to the Jury. “After two days of nothing, I discovered something while examining the photos of the crime scene and Mr Meyer’s written report.” He paused and looked to Hornstock. “I noticed an inconsistency between the photos and what Mr Meyer reported. Mr Meyer reported discovering Mr Spencer at the very back of the parking lot behind SOHO. But the streetlamp directly above the spot where he was discovered was smashed. I made the supposition that it would have been incredibly difficult if not impossible for Mr Meyer to have seen Mr Spencer from the sidewalk across the parking lot.”
“So I decided to make a few phone calls. I called SOHO Restaurant and asked to have the credit card receipts set aside from April 2nd and 3rd, and Detective O’Hara and I retrieved them. Using the receipts from those who had been at the restaurant that same evening, I called and spoke with two separate eye-witnesses who confirmed that the street lamp was not smashed before 1 AM, meaning the lamp must have been smashed between 1 and 2:30. I also made a call to Mr Meyer who came into the Station to answer my questions regarding the confusion in the report. I interrogated him, and though he confessed to nothing, he did exude an air of guilt.”
“We also had Mr Peters called in for questioning, but he wasn’t talking either. Once Mr Spencer woke from his coma, he confirmed what I had determined, and I filled out the appropriate paperwork and filed the case with the District Attorney office.” As he finished, he nodded at Hornstock and cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Detective. I just have some questions for you. Did you yourself take Mr Spencer’s statement?”
“Yes. He filled out a report the day after he came out of his coma, April 6th, 2009,” Carlton said, and he glanced at Shawn, who met Carlton’s gaze intently. Carlton looked away quickly, heart racing.
“Detective, do you believe that Mr Meyer and Mr Peters committed this crime?”
“Objection, your Honour,” Roswell said. “He is asking the witness to speculate.”
Hornstock turned to Everard. “As established earlier, Detective Lassiter has worked many cases in his time as Head Detective. I would simply like to ask if, in his opinion and with his experience with these types of cases, the Defendants could have committed these crimes beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Everard hesitated. “Overruled, Mr Roswell. I’ll allow it, Mr Hornstock, but stay in the confines of the case.”
“Yes of course. Detective,” he said, turning his attention back to Carlton. “What, in your opinion, is the likelihood that Mr Meyer and Mr Peters are guilty of these crimes?
“The evidence points to the defendants as the ones who committed these crimes," Carlton began, thinking and speaking carefully. “The evidence we gathered suggests that Mr Meyer and Mr Peters witnessed Mr Spencer exhibiting his abilities at SOHO that night, and became spooked by the accuracy of them. It seems likely that Mr Peters attacked Mr Spencer while Mr Meyer looked on. The evidence suggests that he got carried away, and that when Mr Meyer attempted to stop Mr Peters, he panicked and realized what could happen if they were caught. It is reasonable to assume that he convinced Mr Meyer to help move Mr Spencer to a location furthest from the road. This clearly signifies intent to kill, as the evidence suggests he then smashed the street lamp so that no one would find him. Mr Meyer likely felt remorse for the incident and returned shortly after the attack to make things right. I believe he deliberately lied in the report to cover for himself and Mr Peters. The credit card receipts will indicate that they were both at SOHO on the night of the attack, and certainly that they were there when Mr Spencer was. The photos and the report give solid evidence to back up these allegations.”
Hornstock nodded and turned to face the Judge. “The credit card receipts have been submitted as evidence, as have the crime scene photos and the report from Mr Meyer and from Mr Spencer. Detective Lassiter,” he said, turning to address Carlton again. “Would you say that Mr Spencer is a reliable witness?”
Carlton did not hesitate. “Yes.”
“Would you personally trust a statement from him?” Hornstock asked.
“Yes,” Carlton repeated.
“Why is that, Detective?”
Carlton looked straight at the Jury as he responded, “In his work with the Santa Barbara Police Department over the last three years, he has solved every case that’s come his way.”
Carlton couldn’t bring himself to look at Shawn. He could tell by the whispers in the courtroom that this sounded quite impressive. Many members of the Jury wore expressions of deep concentration, while several were sharing looks of awe and surprise.
“Thank you, Detective. No further questions, your Honour.”
Hornstock walked back to his seat as Roswell approached the bench.
“Detective Lassiter, is it true that you are the youngest Head Detective to be named to the force?”
Carlton wasn’t entirely sure where Roswell was going with this, but he answered calmly, “Yes.”
Roswell smiled. “Thank you. Now, I just wanted to clarify; you said Mr Spencer consults with you on cases?”
“No, with the Department,” Carlton corrected. “Not me specifically.”
“Right. But he works with you on a fairly regular basis, is that right?”
Carlton grasped for an appropriate response. “When cases come up that require his help, he often works closely with Detective O’Hara and myself. I couldn’t tell you how regular that is. It varies.”
“I understand. Detective, how long has Mr Spencer been working cases for the Department?”
Carlton paused. “That depends on how you look at it. He wasn’t officially working cases until about three years ago, but he called in a number of tips to the Department hotline several months before he began consulting for it.”
“And how did you two meet?”
“Objection,” Hornstock called. “Relevance?”
Roswell turned to the Judge. “I am trying to gain an understanding of the working relationship between Mr Spencer and Detective Lassiter. That does pertain to the case, does it not?”
“It does. Overruled,” Everard said.
Carlton glanced at Hornstock, who looked sulky, and at Shawn, whose attention was now on Roswell, who had a satisfied smile on his face as he walked swiftly toward the Jury and turned to face Carlton again.
“How did you and Mr Spencer meet, Detective?” Roswell asked.
Carlton hesitated briefly. “Mr Spencer called in a very reliable tip about three years ago regarding a bank robbery, and the Department suspected he might have something to do with the incident the tip pertained to. We called him in for questioning, and deduced that he was not responsible.”
“Was that when he told you that he was… psychic?” Roswell asked, hesitating on the last word in a very significant way.
“Yes,” Carlton replied.
“Did you believe that he was psychic?”
Carlton hesitated again. “No,” he answered truthfully.
Roswell smiled and faced the Jury again. “And yet he is still working cases for your Department. Why is that?”
Carlton levelled Roswell with a cool expression. “You would have to take that up with Chief Vick. She is the one who generally hires Mr Spencer for cases.”
“I understand. But if you had to guess, what would you say is the reason?”
Carlton didn’t look away from Roswell as he responded, voice carefully measured. “I would say that it is most likely because Mr Spencer has proven himself to be a reliable source of information on a variety and number of cases in the last three years."
“Detective, I would like to be absolutely sure about this. You did not believe he was psychic initially; do you still believe that he is lying? Or are you saying that you believe he is Psychic after all?” Roswell asked.
Carlton hesitated again. “I’m saying that he has been useful to the Department.”
“Detective Lassiter, it is a simple yes-or-no answer. Do - you - believe - that Mr Spencer is psychic?”
Carlton paused. There were two options. He could tell the truth and risk losing the case, or he could lie and help solve the case for Shawn. It took the space of exactly three seconds for Carlton to realize that there was in fact only one option. There always had been.
“Yes.”
He dared not look at Shawn.
Roswell scoffed. “You are saying… that you, Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department, believe that the Plaintiff is a psychic?”
Hornstock stood. “Objection!” he shouted. “He’s badgering the witness!”
“Sustained,” Everard announced. “Do you have anything new to ask, Mr Roswell?”
Roswell didn’t look remotely chastised. “No, I have no further questions. Thank you, your Honour.”
“You may step down, Detective,” Everard said, nodding to Carlton, who stood and walked the short distance to his seat. Once he was seated again, he turned slightly to find O’Hara looking right at him with an expression on her face akin to having been clubbed over the head.
“Wow, Carlton,” she breathed.
He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just took his coffee back and drank some, trying to calm his nerves. He’d done it. He’d actually said, in the presence of over a hundred witnesses, that he believed Shawn was psychic.
“Mr Hornstock, you may call your next witness to the stand.”
Hornstock rose. “Of course, your Honour. The Prosecution calls Mr Shawn Spencer to the stand.”
People were moving in their seats to get a better look at Shawn as he rose and approached the bench. He sat down and flashed his audience a grin. The Bailiff stepped forward again, and Shawn vowed to tell the truth.
“Mr Spencer,” Hornstock began, and Shawn turned his infectious grin on the attorney before him. “Could you please tell the courtroom what happened to you on April 3rd?”
“Of course!” He smiled a little wider. “After cracking a particularly difficult case, I decided to treat myself to a decent meal and a couple drinks at SOHO. I’m a big fan of their pasta. I don’t know what they put in their meat sauce, but it’s so good I could inject it right into my veins.”
Carlton glanced at O’Hara in time to see her glance his way. They shared a look that was equal parts exasperated and bemused..
“Anyway,” he began as Hornstock placed his hands on his hips, “I sat down at the bar and started talking to the bartender, who was a cute little thing from Texas. She pretended to be uninterested in my charm at first, but eventually she warmed to me.” His grin was so wide now that Carlton had to look away. Sensory overload. “Then Jeffrey and I started chatting and I received a vision about him. I just knew he needed to talk. Once I made the prediction about his divorce, everyone else at the bar started asking me what I could read about them and their futures, and before I knew it, I had an audience.”
Hornstock nodded. “Did you see Mr Meyer and Mr Peters at the restaurant?”
Shawn smirked. “Oh yeah. How could you not notice that hair?” he demanded, flashing a cheeky grin to Peters, who had hair an orangey-red colour that definitely stood out.
“I see. And what time would you say you left?”
“2:02,” Shawn responded.
Hornstock turned to the Jury. “You recall the exact time?”
Shawn nodded. “Yep. I looked at my watch as I was leaving ‘cause I wanted to see if I’d have time to swing by the office and grab the Xbox - mine’s broken,” Shawn added for clarification. “I had an early 11 o’clock meeting the next morning, and I need my beauty sleep, so I didn't want to be out too late.”
“Then what happened?” Hornstock asked, steering Shawn back on track.
“Well, I went out to the parking lot behind SOHO where my motorcycle was parked,” Shawn informed them.
“Mr Spencer,” Hornstock said before Shawn could continue. “Sorry to interrupt. Detective Lassiter mentioned in his testimony that according to eye-witnesses, the street lamp above the parking lot was not smashed at least one hour before you left the restaurant. Was the lamp smashed when you arrived at your motorcycle?”
“Nope,” Shawn replied. “It was definitely smashed afterward.”
“So you were able to see your attackers?” Hornstock asked.
Shawn smiled. “Yes, but not right away. I was examining a scratch on my bike that wasn’t there before I ate, so I didn’t notice them right away.”
“All right, Mr Spencer. Did the defendants, Kyle Peters and James Meyer, attack you?”
“No,” Shawn said. “Just Redhead over there.” His eyes landed on Peters, at which point he smirked.
There was a moment of silence and then frenzied whispers broke out around Carlton. They grew in volume until Judge Everard pounded her gavel and said, “order in the court,” and then, “Mr Spencer, please refer to the defendants by their names.”
Shawn grinned at her pleasantly. “Sorry, your Honour. Will do. So, uh, Kyle attacked me. James didn’t.”
Hornstock rushed to gain clarification. “What do you mean? What was Mr Meyer doing?”
“He was standing off to the side.”
“All right. Could you please begin to describe the attack?”
Shawn nodded. “Sure. Like I said, Kyle snuck up on me from behind. He shoved me, and because I was hunched over my bike, I sort of stumbled into it, and it fell over. So I turned around to tell him to watch it, and then I recognized him from the restaurant.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“Yeah. I said, 'What's your problem? I know the crab puffs weren’t up to their normal standard, but there's no reason to take it out on me…’ I sensed that he had ordered them at dinner, and I told him that I’d seen, in a vision, that the usual cook was out sick, which explains why they were sub-par. Crab puffs are tough to make. I make ‘em myself, so I know pretty well. He didn’t really appreciate what I was saying,” Shawn explained.
“How did Mr Peters respond?”
“Well, he punched me in the face,” Shawn said calmly, as if he were sharing how the weather had been. “After I recovered, I said, ‘Come on, dude, I know you want to try out your street fighting abilities’. He took street fighting classes in college; I saw it in a vision,” Shawn elaborated. “So I explained that I am actually a pacifist and that he should probably find someone else to try his moves out on.” He smiled endearingly at the Jury as Hornstock came closer to Shawn.
“How did he respond to that?”
“Punched me. In the stomach.” Carlton saw two members of the Jury flinch.
“Did you fall to the ground at that point?” Hornstock asked.
“Yes,” Shawn said. “I have a weak constitution for being punched in the stomach, and when it happens I tend to have trouble staying on my feet.”
A ripple of laughter went up around the room. Carlton looked at Juliet again, who shook her head. “What’s he doing, Carlton?” she muttered, eyes still on the scene playing out before them. Carlton shook his head as well, though it was obvious what was going on. This was what Shawn did. He deflected serious matters like this by making jokes. But this wasn’t a joke, and it wouldn’t do to appear unaffected by the whole thing. It was distressing.
“Mr Spencer, what happened once you were on the ground?”
“He kicked me a few times. Broke a few of my ribs, which is surprisingly more painful than they make it out to be in the movies.”
“Was James Meyer saying anything? Was he cheering Mr Peters on?”
“Nah, he was pretty quiet.”
“What about Mr Peters? What was he saying?”
“Shouting,” Shawn corrected, inclining his head momentarily. “Called me a freak.” The nonchalant way he said it came off as more than a little jarring. “Something about teaching me a lesson.”
“What happened next?” Hornstock asked gently, thought it was unnecessary considering Shawn’s unaffected, casual tone.
“He kicked me in the head. And that’s when things start to get fuzzy.” Carlton felt his fists clench in anger and saw Gus, O’Hara and Henry were all wearing varying degrees of anger on their own faces.
“I remember James saying, ‘stop it, he’s not moving anymore’, and then I lost consciousness.”
“You don’t remember anything else?” Hornstock urged.
“Nothing ‘til I woke up at the hospital,” Shawn said, looking for a moment apologetic.
“Mr Spencer, why do you think Mr Peters attacked you?”
Shawn smiled wryly. “I don’t have to think; I know. It was his reaction to my abilities. People have different reactions to paranormal activity. Some people swoon, cry, laugh. I know,” he said, raising his hand to his temple and closing his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again and looking over at the Jury, “that he was scared by my connection with the spirit world. Thought he’d take me down a couple pegs. You know, scare me.”
Hornstock paused to let that sit with the Jury, and then he smiled. “Thank you, Mr Spencer. Nothing else for the moment, your Honour.” He sauntered back to his seat, clearly happy with how the questioning had gone.
As Roswell approached Shawn, Carlton straightened up. This was going to be… interesting.
“Mr Spencer,” Roswell began, “how long have you been… psychic?”
“Well, that’s a point of debate, my friend. I’m convinced I was born this way, but I'll admit I didn’t realize the full extent of my abilities until I was about eighteen.”
Roswell smirked and turned to the Jury, an amused expression on his face as if sharing a funny joke. “Mr Spencer. You do realize that there is no way to prove psychic ability?”
“Yes, I do,” Shawn replied.
“Awfully convenient, don’t you think?”
Shawn fixed a thoughtful expression on his face. “It's got nothing to do with convenience. It’s about faith.”
Roswell barked out a laugh. "Oh, so you expect people to simply believe something when there is no evidence to suggest it exists?”
Shawn shook his head. “I don’t expect it; I hope for it. I hope people will trust in my ability to see things in a way that few people do. I hope they’ll appreciate my process. But I don’t expect it.”
Roswell changed directions at lightning speed. “You heard Jeffrey Connor’s testimony, and Kimberley Christie’s. You heard what I asked them. What do you think?”
“About your claim that I’m merely hyper-observant?” Shawn asked. Carlton glanced over at Henry, who was leaning forward and watching the proceedings intently. Shifting his gaze to Juliet, he saw her looking on with captivation, and finally, he saw that Gus looked worried. Which, in turn, made Carlton worried.
Shawn looked out at the people behind Roswell, his gaze sweeping over the audience. His gazed fized a few feet away from Carlton, on Henry, and then he turned his attention back to Roswell’s question. “To be honest, Rossi,” he said, and Carlton and Juliet looked at each other, dismayed. What was he doing nicknaming the DA? They turned back as Shawn continued speaking. “I think it’s a little farfetched. I mean, hey, maybe I’m hyper observant.” He laughed in a disbelieving, dismissive manner. “Or. Maybe I have perfect photographic memory. I mean, if I did I could probably tell you exactly how many people there are in this room right now. How many people were in the room yesterday. I could tell you how many people were at SOHO the night I was attacked. I could recreate the exact image of the parking lot behind SOHO and tell you how many cars were there when I arrived, and when I went to leave.”
He paused and the silence that followed Shawn’s monologue was palpable. Carlton saw the expression on Gus’ face in his peripherals, and it told him the truth. This was how Shawn did it.
“But come on, Rossi!" he continued. "Being psychic makes much more sense! I mean, come on. It’s how I know that you’re a middle child. That you grew up in South Carolina and moved to Santa Barbara with your father when you were… 15? It was after your mother passed away, wasn’t it?” He paused for a moment, and raised a hand to his temple. “You studied law at Berkeley. Class of... ’95? And your middle name is,” he closed his eyes for a moment, paused, then finished with a confident, “Patrick.”
Carlton was struck with a wave of intense affection for the man before him. For the first time since he’d discovered these crazy, uncomfortable feelings, he wasn’t bothered or worried by them. As he watched the Jury take in every moment; as he watched Roswell stand there motionless; as the people around Carlton began to whisper frantically, he realized he was most definitely in love with Shawn Spencer. In that moment, the realization wasn't as distressing as it could have been.
Roswell continued to stand there, unmoving, for some time. After nearly half a minute, Everard cleared her throat. “Mr Roswell? Do you have any other questions for Mr Spencer?”
Roswell was unresponsive for a moment longer, and then he managed a feeble, “nothing further, your Honour.”
He slowly made his was back to his seat, and judging by the dazed expression on his features, it was clear that Shawn was dead on with every single thing he’d predicted.
“You may step down,” she told Shawn, who nodded and walked back to his seat, looking extremely satisfied. “Mr Hornstock, if you’re ready…” Everard trailed off as Hornstock rose.
“Your Honour,” Roswell called, standing as well. Attention immediately snapped back to him and Everard turned her gaze on him.
“What is it, Mr Roswell? I thought you said you were finished questioning the Plaintiff.”
“I am,” Roswell said. “The Defense would like to call for a recess.”
Everard blinked. “What for?”
“A conference. With my clients, Mr Hornstock and his client, and yourself, your Honour.”
The Judge looked out at Roswell and nodded. “All right. Thirty minute recess, beginning now,” she ordered, pounding her gavel.
The courtroom immediately erupted into excited conversation.
“What was that about?” Juliet asked.
No one said anything initially, but it was Henry who finally spoke. “Sounds like negotiations are in order.”
At these words, Carlton rose and pushed himself out into the aisle. He needed to stretch his legs.
He walked around the block, his thoughts on overdrive. They were such a muddled mess that the beginnings of a headache began to press in on him. By the time he sat down next to Juliet again about ten minutes later, the dull ache had become a full-on migraine.
"Carlton," Juliet spoke, tentatively once he'd setlled in. "What do you think's going on back there?" She jerked her head in the direction of the judge's chambers. Carlton breathed out slowly, his head hurting so much he could barely remember what she'd just asked, let alone try to give her a coherent response. He looked over and saw Juliet peering at him with concern.
"Are you all right, Carlton?" she asked quietly and hesitantly.
'No!' he wanted to shout. 'I am not all right! I just committed perjury, I have a headache the size of the precinct, and I'm in love with Shawn fucking Spencer. I have never been less all right in my life.'
And that's when it hit him like a ton of bricks. Crisis of sexuality and being in love with an annoying (yet endearing) fake psychic absolutely trumped his miserable divorce. Carlton was overwhelmed with the desire to block out all thought. He wished he could just shut off his brain. He needed a vacation from his distressing thoughts and feelings, but it was one he was never going to have the luxury of taking.
Not with Spencer around.
"Carlton?" Juliet repeated again, looking quite alarmed.
"I'm fine, O'Hara," he muttered finally, his voice monotone. He didn't sound remotely convincing, but he was spared further questioning by the entrance of Judge Everard, announced again by the Bailiff. Without Carlton noticing, Shawn and Hornstock, and Roswell, Meyer, and Peters had all returned.
"You may sit," Everard spoke, and as everyone assembled did so, she sat down as well and cleared her throat, opening up a folder and pulling out a sheet of paper. "Jury members, thank you very much for your time and attention. You are dismissed, as your duties are no longer required."
Conversations sprang up all over the courtroom, and Everard pounded her gavel. "Order, please."
The jury members slowly rose, at different times, and left the room, and Carlton watched all of this with bated breath. When the last jury member had exited the courtroom, Everard pounded her gavel again for attention.
"Let it be recorded that, after confering with Attorneys Hornstock and Roswell and their clients, a verdict has been reached. James Meyer has confessed in writing to the counts of obstruction of justice, and accessory to attempted murder. I am sentencing James Meyer to five years in prison without parole. Kyle Peters has confessed to obstruction of justice, assault and battery, and attempted murder. I am sentencing Kyle Peters to 10 years in prison with no chance at parole. Court is dismissed at 10:34 AM, April 23rd, 2009. Thank you," she finished, and at the sound of her gavel hitting her desk, the noise level in the room jumped considerably.
Carlton forgot about everything else, and turned to Juliet. Her smile was as wide as one of Shawn's trademark grins. He returned it immediately, feeling happier than he had since questioning Meyer weeks ago.
He couldn't help it. He looked over at Shawn, who was on his feet talking to Hornstock. As he watched, Shawn's eyes cast about the room and eventually settled on Carlton where he was seated. They held each other's gaze for a long moment. Time seemed to stand still. Then Shawn smiled at Carlton, looked away, and the strange moment was over.
Carlton got to his feet and manoeuvered his way along the row of seats, into the aisle, and out the door of the courtroom. He hurried down the hallway, exiting the courthouse at top speed, and walked to his car as fast as he could without breaking into a run. God, he was completely unnerved by Shawn, and he was pretty sure he would be for the rest of his life.
His car was parked across the street, so after looking both ways, he crossed it and unlocked the door. Just as he opened the door he heard someone shout his name, and turned around to see who it was.
"Carlton!"
It was Juliet. She was standing across the street, and after the car passed, she made her way across. She came to a stop in front of him, out of the way of traffic, and looked up at him.
"O'Hara. What can I do for you?"
Juliet smiled hesitantly. "Can we sit in the car for a minute?" she asked eventually, after chewing on her bottom lip for some time. He watched the nervous habit for a bit, then shrugged.
"All right," he said. He opened his car door and climbed in as Juliet rounded the Crown Vic and let herself in. He looked out the windshield at the lady walking the dog on the next block as Juliet shut the door.
They sat silently for about a minute, Carlton having no idea what Juliet wanted, and Juliet presumably with no idea how to ask for it. When she finally did speak, it wasn't to ask for anything at all.
"Carlton, I just want to say something, and I'd like for you to please hear me out." She paused as Carlton tilted his head slightly toward her, not quite looking at her, so that he could hear every word. "We're partners. But, to be honest, I like to think we've become friends over the last few years as well." Carlton's heart predictably swelled at these words. He turned his head fully, and there she was, looking straight into his eyes.
"I didn't get to be the detective I am today without some finely honed observational skills. I pay attention because... well, I can't help it. It's what I've always done. So when I say that you've been acting out of character this past month, I need you to understand that I'm not talking crap."
Carlton started at her frankness. It was one of Juliet's best qualities, but it still surprised him occasionally. He continued to watch her, intrigued.
"You're more withdrawn than you've ever been, which is really quite something," Juliet continued. "You're more guarded. But the truth is that you're letting some of it through." She paused, and he felt a shift in the air around them. Suddenly he wanted to be as far away from Juliet as possible. He wanted nothing more than to shut Juliet and her words out, but he couldn't. He just... couldn't.
"Ever since Shawn's attack," she began cautiously, "you've been acting like a different person. I understand, okay? He's one of us now, whether we like it or not, and he's a part of our lives for better or worse. It's hard seeing someone who's so..." She stopped short, looking for the right word.
"Central?" Carlton supplied.
Juliet's gaze intensified. "Yeah. Central," she echoed quietly. "It's hard seeing someone so central to our lives... in that condition." Another pause. Carlton could feel his heart pounding inside his chest like a drum. "And I get it, Carlton, I do. What I couldn't figure out is why YOU felt that way. But I get it now."
Juliet paused again, and Carlton found that he couldn't breathe. Had he really been so transparent all month, acting like some lovesick, terrified moron?
The pause she gave felt like one of the longest of his life. It was at least as long as the pause he gave before finally signing those papers; longer than the pause Chief Fenich gave before announcing he was Head Detective. And when she finally started speaking again, Carlton was fairly certain he'd never been more scared, of her and in general, in his life.
"There's nothing wrong with it, Carlton," she finally said in hushed tones, but he'd have heard her if she'd whispered. "There's nothing wrong with you. It's okay if you..." She hesitated again, and her eyes were shining now as they burrowed into Carlton. "You don't have to beat yourself up over it. You can't help who you love." There was yet another break in Juliet's monologue at this point, and then she took in an audible breath and finally finished speaking.
"If you want it, Carlton, go for it."
And then she was scrambling to open the door, leaving the same way she'd come without so much as a backward glance.
***
He drove for miles and miles, stopping only when his heart finally quit racing. Somehow, hours had passed, and it was quite late when he finally pulled into the parking lot of Tom Blair's pub, intent on getting utterly wasted. He just wanted to stop thinking!
He made his way inside and sat down at the bar, ordered a drink from the bartender, and, when it arrived, downed it in two sips. "Another one," he grunted. With the second, he planned to take his time.
And then the words, "Shawn Spencer, Psychic," traveled across the room to Carlton at the bar, and his well-laid plans of oblivion were completely shattered. He could not believe this was happening to him.
Swivelling on his stool, he found Shawn sitting at a table with four other people he apparently did not know. Of course. On the one goddamn night Carlton wanted to forget everything, the very person he could not escape from was there. It was clear some higher power completely loathed him.
"You... have two sisters and one brother?" Shawn offered to group, and the closest woman to him gasped.
"Oh my god! That's absolutely right!"
Carlton placed a ten dollar bill on the counter, finished his drink in one go, and marched over to their table, blood boiling.
"Spencer," he said as calmly as he could once he'd reached them. Shawn looked up from his audience, and the expression on his face seemed to say 'shit!' until his usual obnoxious grin chased it away in seconds.
"Lassie!" Shawn said with relish. "Guys, this is Lassie. Lassie, this is Julia, Alex, Greg, and Sally." He pointed to each one of them as he said their names, and they all gasped in unison. It would have been funny if Carlton hadn't found it incredibly annoying.
"How did you -" Greg began, but Shawn just raised a hand to his temple and winked slyly in response. This angered Carlton even further, and he cleared his throat loudly.
"Spencer, I need to consult with you on a case, if you have a minute." His voice was strained with the effort to remain passive.
Shawn visibly hesitated, then smiled. "Sure thing, dude. Sorry guys," he said to his audience. "I'll be back in a bit. Keep the seat comfy for me."
Carlton led the way across the room and outside, and over to his parked car. Shawn followed and, after a few seconds, began running his mouth off as usual.
"So, Lassie, what case do you need help on? Crazed serial killer? Your car clearly isn't stolen, so are you being arrested for murder again?" he asked in a manner that suggested he was scolding a six year-old.
Something inside of Carlton snapped. Losing his composure completely, he whipped around, grabbed Shawn by the collar of his shirt, and pushed him roughly against the wall of the pub. He was about to start shouting in Shawn's face when Shawn gave Carlton an enormous, violent shove that sent him stumbling backward on to the hood of his car. He righted himself quickly, and looked up at Shawn, incensed, ready to spit fire, but then he got a good look at the man.
Shawn's head was bent, face unexposed, his fists clenched at his sides and his breathing hard. A silence stretched on between them for several minutes as Shawn's breathing eventually evened and his shoulders stopped heaving with the effort. Then Shawn took a deep breath and stepped forward.
"Sorry. Where were we?" he asked with a pathetic attempt at nonchalance, but he couldn't hide the tremor in his voice.
And that's when Carlton realized that Shawn was actually scared. He had been affected by Peters' attack, and in a profound way that went far beneath the surface. Shawn was pretending, as usual, that everything was fine. But it was now clear to Carlton that it was simply a ruse. After all, he had thrown Shawn around numerous times, never provoking this strong a reaction.
Carlton let go of some of the tension in his body, lowering his shoulders, and fixing Shawn with a serious expression. "Look, I'm sorry," he said honestly. "But I just thought --"
And now that he was finally here, with Shawn in such a vulnerable state, he couldn't seem to stop the words from coming. Words that had been building up for days, perhaps weeks (and maybe even years, considering how often Shawn put himself at risk) tumbled out of him.
"Spencer, the department has worked damn hard to put Peters and Meyer behind bars. You're here, on the same night they've been booked, showing off again. This is exactly what got you into this mess in the first place. Damn it, Spencer, if you could wait - oh, I don't know - a week, maybe, before shouting your abilities to the world, it would at least give the impression that you give a damn. That you're grateful for their efforts."
Shawn flinched. "I - I am grateful," he said quietly but firmly.
"Well, you sure aren't showing it!" Carlton shot back. "Your father and your best friend were at your side every minute until you woke up, and then for several days after, while you recovered. So why aren't you with them, celebrating with them? Thanking them? Juliet! That woman worked her ass off to bring those scumbags in, and how do you repay her? By virtually mocking her sacrifice and hard work -- and for what? Because it makes you feel important? Makes you feel cool? I know you don't have a lot of respect for police work, but I never thought you'd be this ungrateful, this selfish toward your family and friends." He said all this with surprising calm, and yet Shawn reacted to the words as if they'd been shouted at him, flinching and taking what looked like an involuntary step back.
"I AM grateful!" he insisted loudly.
"Yeah? Well, prove it, Spencer!"
Carlton would look back on this moment in the days and weeks to come, and he would reflect on the way some moments have the ability to completely transform your life. Moments like that had certainly occurred in Carlton's life prior to this one, but he knew without a doubt that this one topped them all.
Without a hint of hesitation, Shawn took two steps forward, and pulled Carlton into an urgent kiss. Carlton had time to register shock and confusion before he was responding to the kiss; tilting his head to kiss Shawn even more deeply. His hands traveled trough Shawn's hair, gripped his shoulders, explored every part of Shawn that he'd been thinking about for months (and maybe even longer, if he was honest with himself).
When Shawn let out a raspy moan, Carlton felt his entire body burn with arousal. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, and he responded by biting Shawn's lower lip.
Shawn growled and pulled away long enough to push Carlton against the same wall he'd been shoved against mere minutes before. It was as if Carlton's brain had short-circuited. There were no errant protests racing to pull him away from Shawn, no inner voice telling him this was a bad, bad idea. Every reason he might have had not to do this had vanished the moment Shawn kissed him.
And now Shawn was pressing short, hot kisses to Carlton's throat, taking Carlton's earlobe in his mouth. Carlton gasped, and couldn't stifle a moan at the pleasure this sent throug his frame.
Suddenly, Shawn was speaking, voice low with arousal, but clear nonetheless: "I am grateful, Lassie. Very grateful," he gasped when Carlton tightened his grip on Shawn's hip and let his tongue swipe a path from Shawn's collar bone to his ear.
"Mmm," Carlton grunted, pressing a kiss the pulse-point on Shawn's throat.
Shawn chose that precise moment to pull away, and the sudden lack of Shawn in Carlton's personal space was unwelcome and unpleasant. The magic, or whatever the hell it had been, disappeared. Carlton's arousal vanished in a matter of moments, and suddenly he was leaning against the brick wall of Tom Blair's pub with his arms stretched out toward the place Shawn had been standing seconds before, and his eyes were clenched tightly shut. With a deep breath that took a great deal of effort, Carlton lowered his arms and opened his eyes.
Shawn was looking at him, but it felt more like Shawn was looking through him, memorizing every detail. Carlton shivered and pushed himself away from the wall to disguise it.
Fuck, he felt completely out of sorts. Ten minutes ago, he'd been ordering a drink, lonely and confused. Now look where he was!
Shawn shuffled his feet and took a step forward. "So, uh. You didn't push me away, and you're not yelling. That's a good sign, right?" Carlton knew he was momentarily incapable of speech, so he didn't even bother trying to respond. There was a significant pause, and then Shawn spoke again, "you lied today."
What!? Carlton could only stare at the man before him, honestly and truly baffled. He cleared his throat and thrust his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to do with them. "What?" he finally grunted succinctly.
"You lied," Shawn repeated, "To the court. You committed perjury. And I don't know if you know this, Lassie, but that's a crime."
Ahhhh. Now Carlton was following. However, that still left him without an explanation for his actions. He was still thinking of a response when Shawn added, "You and I both know you don't believe I'm psychic. Why'd you lie?"
Carlton looked away. He watched a car turn a corner in the distance, racking his brain for the right words. In the end, he realized that any words at all were entirely unnecessary. So he kissed Shawn. And after several long moments of kissing that left Carlton practically breathless, he pulled away. "We clear now?" he asked, surprised at the clarity and affection in his voice despite its gravelly tones.
Shawn's reply was his usual, glorious, beautiful grin. The one that made his eyes crinkle and shine with mirth. The one that absolutely, positively took Carlton's breath away. Carlton smiled back and pressed his lips to that stupid, addictive smile again.
And again.
-
"Seeing's believing, but feeling's the truth."
-Blaise Pascal.
The End!
A few notes, for the curious, and because I like to ramble, clearly!
+ SOHO Restaurant and Emcare Hospital both exist. I researched a fair bit for this story, most of which I did using the wonderful tool of Google. Everything apart from their addresses and their names are ficitious. Obviously the owners and employees of these establishments and the characters in this fic are not the same, and I mean no harm or slander by including the restaurant and hospital in this fanfic.
+ The legal aspects of the story were incredibly difficult to pin down. I, quite obviously, do not have a background in criminal or civil law, and so I had to a great deal of research, hours upon hours if I'm being honest, and yet I still made some grave and no doubt obvious errors to someone who's studied law, despite that. This is basically an amalgamation of a criminal and civil law case, and I apologize severely if these details pissed you off. I can assure they pissed me off as well. I just hope they didn't detract from or interfere too much with your enjoyment of the fic!
+ Finally, thank you so much for reading! And please leave a comment on your way out!!
Love and Kisses,
rockinhamburger aka Nikki
Author: rockinhamburger aka Nikki
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Detective Carlton Lassiter is named primary investigator on a particularly close-to-home case in which Shawn's not available for a consult -- because he's the victim. As Lassiter searches for Shawn's attacker, and Shawn lies in a comatose state, he begins to do some inner soul-searching. Struggling to remain objective in light of his new, alarming feelings for Shawn Spencer, can he overcome his insecurities and prove exactly why he's the youngest Head Detective to ever be named to the force?
Word Count: 18,850!
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own Psych, as it belongs to the wonderful Steve Franks, and the lovely USA Network. I just like spending stupid amounts of time on these characters!
Notes: Firstly, I need to give my eternal love and thanks to brevityis, my beta-reader, who (perhaps unwisely) offered her brilliant editing services to me shortly after I started writing this monster. She is entirely responsible for its coherency, and she deserves much more than this measly shout-out. Thank you so much, hon! Additional thanks to deadlybride and luna_moonsilver for the extra encouragement.
There are a few legal details later in this story that I needed to go off-book with. If you are familiar with criminal law, you may find this aspect somewhat grating, and I apologize ahead of time for it. I assure you it is for the good of the story, and that it isn't anything too serious!
***
Carlton spent that evening in front of the television drinking scotch. The weight of the glass in his hand was comforting, as was the droning of the 24-hour news programming in the background of his brain.
Carlton was having trouble figuring out what it was that he wanted from Shawn. His… feelings, or whatever the hell they were, were deepening so drastically. It was staggering to him that only a month earlier Carlton had been throwing Shawn out of his crime scenes, and now he was just a few hours away from helping him win his own.
If they didn’t win this; if Shawn lost; if Peters and Meyer got away with this, Carlton would make sure the two men never put another toe out of line for the rest of their miserable lives. He’d make sure they watched their backs every waking (and, for that matter, sleeping) moment.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t had a proper conversation with Shawn since before the attack. Shawn hadn’t even been around the Station as often as was par the course.
Having thought over the subject in great detail, he had come to the realization that he actually missed Shawn’s crazy rambling self. Somehow, he missed Shawn barrelling in on their cases and making a general ass out of himself. As bizarre as it was, he had gotten used to Shawn being around.
He was surprised to find that he couldn’t wait until this was all over and Shawn would be back in his life, thrashing around during one of his stupid visions, intruding in on their cases, and grinning that damned smile of his.
What was happening to him? When had Carlton become so unlike himself? And more importantly, how? He still had no idea.
***
After grabbing a coffee from Starbucks on his way to the courthouse, Carlton felt almost ready to face the next few hours. He was going to be first up this morning, and he had to be ready to answer any of Hornstock and Roswell’s questions.
Parking one block away, Carlton made his way up to the building, took the stairs two at a time, and went through the front doors. The first thing he saw was Shawn and Hornstock talking right outside the courtroom. There was no way he could avoid them.
“Lassie!” Shawn exclaimed, turning to face him completely. “You’re here! And lookin’ dapper as usual!”
Carlton ground his teeth together. “Don’t call me that, Spencer.”
“Sorry, Lassie,” Shawn said, grinning. Carlton tried to fight the warmth that began to fill his body at the sight of that grin, but it was a lost cause. Shawn was dressed in the same suit as the day before but with a nice red tie instead of the blue one.
Nice? Ugh. Carlton was getting way too soft.
“Hey, is that for me?” Shawn asked, grabbing Carlton’s coffee with quick-as-a-whip reflexes. He took a sip and pulled a face. “Seriously, Lassie, you gotta cut down on the sugar. You’re gonna develop Type 2 Diabetes!”
“Spencer, that’s my damn coffee,” Carlton said, stepping forward to take it back from Shawn, who responded by putting a hand on Carlton’s chest to halt him.
“Wait a minute, dude. I just got a vision.”
Carlton rolled his eyes. “Don’t care. Give me my coffee.”
“No, no,” Shawn said, grinning and holding the coffee away. “It’s a big vision.” Shawn raised his right hand to his temple. “It’s you… you’re smiling… and you’re not wearing a suit?”
“Spencer!” Carlton began with an irritation he didn’t truly feel. His next words never made it out of his mouth because they were interrupted by Gus hurrying over to them.
“Shawn!” he said. “You left the jerk chicken out on the counter at the office!”
“Oh, that wasn’t me, it was the Jerk Chicken Gnomes,” Shawn said. “They love leftovers, but they’re just so messy,” he added, directing that last part toward Carlton for some reason.
Guster expelled an irritated breath. “That’s ridiculous, Shawn! You obviously left it out, just put it away next time.”
“I’m telling you, it was the gnomes!” Shawn insisted.
With Shawn distracted, Carlton reached over and retrieved his coffee, walked around the assembled group, and entered the courtroom. He headed for the place he had sat the previous morning.
Shaking his head, he took a sip of his coffee. Gnomes?
“Hey Lassiter,” Gus said from Carlton’s right. He moved past Carlton and sat down in the seat beside him.
“Guster,” Carlton greeted.
An awkward silence descended upon them, and Carlton raised his coffee to his mouth, took a gigantic gulp, and focused his attention on the back of a woman's head two rows away.
“Do -“ Gus paused, and Carlton looked over. “Do you think we’re gonna win this thing?”
Carlton considered Gus for a moment. After several long moments he sighed. “I don’t know for sure. But I think so.”
Gus was staring ahead. A brief smile flickered across his face as he mumbled, “Yeah, me too.”
“Carlton! Gus!”
They turned to find O’Hara standing at the entrance to their aisle. She quickly took the seat on Carlton’s right side.
“Vick gave you the day off?” Carlton asked.
“Yup!” she replied with a smile. “Said something about moral support. I couldn’t agree more.” Carlton glanced over, and they shared a significant look.
Henry Spencer announced his presence at that moment by sitting down in the empty seat next to Juliet, who smiled over at him. “Hi Mr Spencer!”
“Detective,” he greeted, nodding at her.
Shawn and Hornstock began making their way down the aisle to their seats. Shawn smiled at the four of them sitting there. Roswell, Meyer and Peters entered next, and as they took their seat, the Bailiff announced Judge Everard’s entrance.
“You may be seated,” Everard said from her desk. She sat down along with everyone else. “Deliberations today, April 23rd, 2009 are regarding the assault and attempted murder of the Plaintiff, Mr Shawn Spencer. The accused are Kyle Peters and James Meyer, who have pleaded not guilty to all charges, including obstruction of justice. This second day of proceedings is regarding the crime that occurred in the early hours of April 3rd, 2009. Representing Mr Spencer is Prosecution Attorney Adam Hornstock. Mr Peters and Mr Meyer are represented by Defense Attorney Benjamin Roswell. Mr Hornstock, if you’re ready, you may call your next witness to the stand.”
Hornstock rose and gave her a half-bow. “Thank you, your Honour. Prosecution calls Head Detective Carlton Lassiter to the stand.”
Carlton’s heart-rate picked up. He looked at Juliet, feeling paralyzed. She smiled at him warmly, gently took his coffee from him, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and gave his arm a firm squeeze. It did the trick. He stood and made his way to the stand, where he sat down and looked out at the courtroom.
The bailiff walked up with the Bible in his hand, which Carlton put his hand on top of.
“Detective Lassiter, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Carlton nodded, “I do.”
The Bailiff moved away as Hornstock walked over. “Detective, how long have you worked with the Santa Barbara Police Department?”
Carlton took a deep breath and folded his barely perceptibly shaking hands in his lap. He needed to exert an air of calm, even if he felt anything but. “13 years."
“And when were you appointed Head Detective?” Hornstock asked, turning to face the Jury.
“April 30th, 2005,” Carlton responded simply.
“Is it safe to assume you have worked many cases while working with the Santa Barbara Police Department?”
Carlton forced himself to smile, “I’d say so, yes.”
“And you were the Lead Investigator on Mr Spencer’s case, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Carlton replied.
“Would you please give the court a detailed report of your investigation?”
“Of course. The investigation began on the morning of April 3rd,” he iterated, speaking with as much assurance and clarity as he could wrangle up. “Officer McNabb approached me with the announcement that Mr Spencer had been discovered at the scene of a crime, and was being treated for assault injuries of some kind at Emcare Hospital. Myself and my partner, Detective O’Hara, went immediately to the hospital. After speaking briefly with Mr Spencer’s father, we made our way to SOHO Restaurant, where we spoke with Jeffrey Connor. He reported that Mr Spencer had in fact been at the restaurant the previous evening, entertaining the customers with his…” Carlton paused ever so briefly, “psychic abilities.”
“We had very little to go on. The Department combed through the crime scene for any and all evidence, but we found nothing particularly substantial. The only bit of information we had regarding the case at that point was the report from…” he tried to keep the venom out of his voice, “Mr Meyer. He indicated in his report that he in fact discovered Mr Spencer at two-thirty am on April 3rd, immediately called for an ambulance, and stayed to give his report to the Police.”
As he spoke, Carlton decided to direct more of his attention to the Jury. “After two days of nothing, I discovered something while examining the photos of the crime scene and Mr Meyer’s written report.” He paused and looked to Hornstock. “I noticed an inconsistency between the photos and what Mr Meyer reported. Mr Meyer reported discovering Mr Spencer at the very back of the parking lot behind SOHO. But the streetlamp directly above the spot where he was discovered was smashed. I made the supposition that it would have been incredibly difficult if not impossible for Mr Meyer to have seen Mr Spencer from the sidewalk across the parking lot.”
“So I decided to make a few phone calls. I called SOHO Restaurant and asked to have the credit card receipts set aside from April 2nd and 3rd, and Detective O’Hara and I retrieved them. Using the receipts from those who had been at the restaurant that same evening, I called and spoke with two separate eye-witnesses who confirmed that the street lamp was not smashed before 1 AM, meaning the lamp must have been smashed between 1 and 2:30. I also made a call to Mr Meyer who came into the Station to answer my questions regarding the confusion in the report. I interrogated him, and though he confessed to nothing, he did exude an air of guilt.”
“We also had Mr Peters called in for questioning, but he wasn’t talking either. Once Mr Spencer woke from his coma, he confirmed what I had determined, and I filled out the appropriate paperwork and filed the case with the District Attorney office.” As he finished, he nodded at Hornstock and cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Detective. I just have some questions for you. Did you yourself take Mr Spencer’s statement?”
“Yes. He filled out a report the day after he came out of his coma, April 6th, 2009,” Carlton said, and he glanced at Shawn, who met Carlton’s gaze intently. Carlton looked away quickly, heart racing.
“Detective, do you believe that Mr Meyer and Mr Peters committed this crime?”
“Objection, your Honour,” Roswell said. “He is asking the witness to speculate.”
Hornstock turned to Everard. “As established earlier, Detective Lassiter has worked many cases in his time as Head Detective. I would simply like to ask if, in his opinion and with his experience with these types of cases, the Defendants could have committed these crimes beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Everard hesitated. “Overruled, Mr Roswell. I’ll allow it, Mr Hornstock, but stay in the confines of the case.”
“Yes of course. Detective,” he said, turning his attention back to Carlton. “What, in your opinion, is the likelihood that Mr Meyer and Mr Peters are guilty of these crimes?
“The evidence points to the defendants as the ones who committed these crimes," Carlton began, thinking and speaking carefully. “The evidence we gathered suggests that Mr Meyer and Mr Peters witnessed Mr Spencer exhibiting his abilities at SOHO that night, and became spooked by the accuracy of them. It seems likely that Mr Peters attacked Mr Spencer while Mr Meyer looked on. The evidence suggests that he got carried away, and that when Mr Meyer attempted to stop Mr Peters, he panicked and realized what could happen if they were caught. It is reasonable to assume that he convinced Mr Meyer to help move Mr Spencer to a location furthest from the road. This clearly signifies intent to kill, as the evidence suggests he then smashed the street lamp so that no one would find him. Mr Meyer likely felt remorse for the incident and returned shortly after the attack to make things right. I believe he deliberately lied in the report to cover for himself and Mr Peters. The credit card receipts will indicate that they were both at SOHO on the night of the attack, and certainly that they were there when Mr Spencer was. The photos and the report give solid evidence to back up these allegations.”
Hornstock nodded and turned to face the Judge. “The credit card receipts have been submitted as evidence, as have the crime scene photos and the report from Mr Meyer and from Mr Spencer. Detective Lassiter,” he said, turning to address Carlton again. “Would you say that Mr Spencer is a reliable witness?”
Carlton did not hesitate. “Yes.”
“Would you personally trust a statement from him?” Hornstock asked.
“Yes,” Carlton repeated.
“Why is that, Detective?”
Carlton looked straight at the Jury as he responded, “In his work with the Santa Barbara Police Department over the last three years, he has solved every case that’s come his way.”
Carlton couldn’t bring himself to look at Shawn. He could tell by the whispers in the courtroom that this sounded quite impressive. Many members of the Jury wore expressions of deep concentration, while several were sharing looks of awe and surprise.
“Thank you, Detective. No further questions, your Honour.”
Hornstock walked back to his seat as Roswell approached the bench.
“Detective Lassiter, is it true that you are the youngest Head Detective to be named to the force?”
Carlton wasn’t entirely sure where Roswell was going with this, but he answered calmly, “Yes.”
Roswell smiled. “Thank you. Now, I just wanted to clarify; you said Mr Spencer consults with you on cases?”
“No, with the Department,” Carlton corrected. “Not me specifically.”
“Right. But he works with you on a fairly regular basis, is that right?”
Carlton grasped for an appropriate response. “When cases come up that require his help, he often works closely with Detective O’Hara and myself. I couldn’t tell you how regular that is. It varies.”
“I understand. Detective, how long has Mr Spencer been working cases for the Department?”
Carlton paused. “That depends on how you look at it. He wasn’t officially working cases until about three years ago, but he called in a number of tips to the Department hotline several months before he began consulting for it.”
“And how did you two meet?”
“Objection,” Hornstock called. “Relevance?”
Roswell turned to the Judge. “I am trying to gain an understanding of the working relationship between Mr Spencer and Detective Lassiter. That does pertain to the case, does it not?”
“It does. Overruled,” Everard said.
Carlton glanced at Hornstock, who looked sulky, and at Shawn, whose attention was now on Roswell, who had a satisfied smile on his face as he walked swiftly toward the Jury and turned to face Carlton again.
“How did you and Mr Spencer meet, Detective?” Roswell asked.
Carlton hesitated briefly. “Mr Spencer called in a very reliable tip about three years ago regarding a bank robbery, and the Department suspected he might have something to do with the incident the tip pertained to. We called him in for questioning, and deduced that he was not responsible.”
“Was that when he told you that he was… psychic?” Roswell asked, hesitating on the last word in a very significant way.
“Yes,” Carlton replied.
“Did you believe that he was psychic?”
Carlton hesitated again. “No,” he answered truthfully.
Roswell smiled and faced the Jury again. “And yet he is still working cases for your Department. Why is that?”
Carlton levelled Roswell with a cool expression. “You would have to take that up with Chief Vick. She is the one who generally hires Mr Spencer for cases.”
“I understand. But if you had to guess, what would you say is the reason?”
Carlton didn’t look away from Roswell as he responded, voice carefully measured. “I would say that it is most likely because Mr Spencer has proven himself to be a reliable source of information on a variety and number of cases in the last three years."
“Detective, I would like to be absolutely sure about this. You did not believe he was psychic initially; do you still believe that he is lying? Or are you saying that you believe he is Psychic after all?” Roswell asked.
Carlton hesitated again. “I’m saying that he has been useful to the Department.”
“Detective Lassiter, it is a simple yes-or-no answer. Do - you - believe - that Mr Spencer is psychic?”
Carlton paused. There were two options. He could tell the truth and risk losing the case, or he could lie and help solve the case for Shawn. It took the space of exactly three seconds for Carlton to realize that there was in fact only one option. There always had been.
“Yes.”
He dared not look at Shawn.
Roswell scoffed. “You are saying… that you, Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department, believe that the Plaintiff is a psychic?”
Hornstock stood. “Objection!” he shouted. “He’s badgering the witness!”
“Sustained,” Everard announced. “Do you have anything new to ask, Mr Roswell?”
Roswell didn’t look remotely chastised. “No, I have no further questions. Thank you, your Honour.”
“You may step down, Detective,” Everard said, nodding to Carlton, who stood and walked the short distance to his seat. Once he was seated again, he turned slightly to find O’Hara looking right at him with an expression on her face akin to having been clubbed over the head.
“Wow, Carlton,” she breathed.
He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just took his coffee back and drank some, trying to calm his nerves. He’d done it. He’d actually said, in the presence of over a hundred witnesses, that he believed Shawn was psychic.
“Mr Hornstock, you may call your next witness to the stand.”
Hornstock rose. “Of course, your Honour. The Prosecution calls Mr Shawn Spencer to the stand.”
People were moving in their seats to get a better look at Shawn as he rose and approached the bench. He sat down and flashed his audience a grin. The Bailiff stepped forward again, and Shawn vowed to tell the truth.
“Mr Spencer,” Hornstock began, and Shawn turned his infectious grin on the attorney before him. “Could you please tell the courtroom what happened to you on April 3rd?”
“Of course!” He smiled a little wider. “After cracking a particularly difficult case, I decided to treat myself to a decent meal and a couple drinks at SOHO. I’m a big fan of their pasta. I don’t know what they put in their meat sauce, but it’s so good I could inject it right into my veins.”
Carlton glanced at O’Hara in time to see her glance his way. They shared a look that was equal parts exasperated and bemused..
“Anyway,” he began as Hornstock placed his hands on his hips, “I sat down at the bar and started talking to the bartender, who was a cute little thing from Texas. She pretended to be uninterested in my charm at first, but eventually she warmed to me.” His grin was so wide now that Carlton had to look away. Sensory overload. “Then Jeffrey and I started chatting and I received a vision about him. I just knew he needed to talk. Once I made the prediction about his divorce, everyone else at the bar started asking me what I could read about them and their futures, and before I knew it, I had an audience.”
Hornstock nodded. “Did you see Mr Meyer and Mr Peters at the restaurant?”
Shawn smirked. “Oh yeah. How could you not notice that hair?” he demanded, flashing a cheeky grin to Peters, who had hair an orangey-red colour that definitely stood out.
“I see. And what time would you say you left?”
“2:02,” Shawn responded.
Hornstock turned to the Jury. “You recall the exact time?”
Shawn nodded. “Yep. I looked at my watch as I was leaving ‘cause I wanted to see if I’d have time to swing by the office and grab the Xbox - mine’s broken,” Shawn added for clarification. “I had an early 11 o’clock meeting the next morning, and I need my beauty sleep, so I didn't want to be out too late.”
“Then what happened?” Hornstock asked, steering Shawn back on track.
“Well, I went out to the parking lot behind SOHO where my motorcycle was parked,” Shawn informed them.
“Mr Spencer,” Hornstock said before Shawn could continue. “Sorry to interrupt. Detective Lassiter mentioned in his testimony that according to eye-witnesses, the street lamp above the parking lot was not smashed at least one hour before you left the restaurant. Was the lamp smashed when you arrived at your motorcycle?”
“Nope,” Shawn replied. “It was definitely smashed afterward.”
“So you were able to see your attackers?” Hornstock asked.
Shawn smiled. “Yes, but not right away. I was examining a scratch on my bike that wasn’t there before I ate, so I didn’t notice them right away.”
“All right, Mr Spencer. Did the defendants, Kyle Peters and James Meyer, attack you?”
“No,” Shawn said. “Just Redhead over there.” His eyes landed on Peters, at which point he smirked.
There was a moment of silence and then frenzied whispers broke out around Carlton. They grew in volume until Judge Everard pounded her gavel and said, “order in the court,” and then, “Mr Spencer, please refer to the defendants by their names.”
Shawn grinned at her pleasantly. “Sorry, your Honour. Will do. So, uh, Kyle attacked me. James didn’t.”
Hornstock rushed to gain clarification. “What do you mean? What was Mr Meyer doing?”
“He was standing off to the side.”
“All right. Could you please begin to describe the attack?”
Shawn nodded. “Sure. Like I said, Kyle snuck up on me from behind. He shoved me, and because I was hunched over my bike, I sort of stumbled into it, and it fell over. So I turned around to tell him to watch it, and then I recognized him from the restaurant.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“Yeah. I said, 'What's your problem? I know the crab puffs weren’t up to their normal standard, but there's no reason to take it out on me…’ I sensed that he had ordered them at dinner, and I told him that I’d seen, in a vision, that the usual cook was out sick, which explains why they were sub-par. Crab puffs are tough to make. I make ‘em myself, so I know pretty well. He didn’t really appreciate what I was saying,” Shawn explained.
“How did Mr Peters respond?”
“Well, he punched me in the face,” Shawn said calmly, as if he were sharing how the weather had been. “After I recovered, I said, ‘Come on, dude, I know you want to try out your street fighting abilities’. He took street fighting classes in college; I saw it in a vision,” Shawn elaborated. “So I explained that I am actually a pacifist and that he should probably find someone else to try his moves out on.” He smiled endearingly at the Jury as Hornstock came closer to Shawn.
“How did he respond to that?”
“Punched me. In the stomach.” Carlton saw two members of the Jury flinch.
“Did you fall to the ground at that point?” Hornstock asked.
“Yes,” Shawn said. “I have a weak constitution for being punched in the stomach, and when it happens I tend to have trouble staying on my feet.”
A ripple of laughter went up around the room. Carlton looked at Juliet again, who shook her head. “What’s he doing, Carlton?” she muttered, eyes still on the scene playing out before them. Carlton shook his head as well, though it was obvious what was going on. This was what Shawn did. He deflected serious matters like this by making jokes. But this wasn’t a joke, and it wouldn’t do to appear unaffected by the whole thing. It was distressing.
“Mr Spencer, what happened once you were on the ground?”
“He kicked me a few times. Broke a few of my ribs, which is surprisingly more painful than they make it out to be in the movies.”
“Was James Meyer saying anything? Was he cheering Mr Peters on?”
“Nah, he was pretty quiet.”
“What about Mr Peters? What was he saying?”
“Shouting,” Shawn corrected, inclining his head momentarily. “Called me a freak.” The nonchalant way he said it came off as more than a little jarring. “Something about teaching me a lesson.”
“What happened next?” Hornstock asked gently, thought it was unnecessary considering Shawn’s unaffected, casual tone.
“He kicked me in the head. And that’s when things start to get fuzzy.” Carlton felt his fists clench in anger and saw Gus, O’Hara and Henry were all wearing varying degrees of anger on their own faces.
“I remember James saying, ‘stop it, he’s not moving anymore’, and then I lost consciousness.”
“You don’t remember anything else?” Hornstock urged.
“Nothing ‘til I woke up at the hospital,” Shawn said, looking for a moment apologetic.
“Mr Spencer, why do you think Mr Peters attacked you?”
Shawn smiled wryly. “I don’t have to think; I know. It was his reaction to my abilities. People have different reactions to paranormal activity. Some people swoon, cry, laugh. I know,” he said, raising his hand to his temple and closing his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again and looking over at the Jury, “that he was scared by my connection with the spirit world. Thought he’d take me down a couple pegs. You know, scare me.”
Hornstock paused to let that sit with the Jury, and then he smiled. “Thank you, Mr Spencer. Nothing else for the moment, your Honour.” He sauntered back to his seat, clearly happy with how the questioning had gone.
As Roswell approached Shawn, Carlton straightened up. This was going to be… interesting.
“Mr Spencer,” Roswell began, “how long have you been… psychic?”
“Well, that’s a point of debate, my friend. I’m convinced I was born this way, but I'll admit I didn’t realize the full extent of my abilities until I was about eighteen.”
Roswell smirked and turned to the Jury, an amused expression on his face as if sharing a funny joke. “Mr Spencer. You do realize that there is no way to prove psychic ability?”
“Yes, I do,” Shawn replied.
“Awfully convenient, don’t you think?”
Shawn fixed a thoughtful expression on his face. “It's got nothing to do with convenience. It’s about faith.”
Roswell barked out a laugh. "Oh, so you expect people to simply believe something when there is no evidence to suggest it exists?”
Shawn shook his head. “I don’t expect it; I hope for it. I hope people will trust in my ability to see things in a way that few people do. I hope they’ll appreciate my process. But I don’t expect it.”
Roswell changed directions at lightning speed. “You heard Jeffrey Connor’s testimony, and Kimberley Christie’s. You heard what I asked them. What do you think?”
“About your claim that I’m merely hyper-observant?” Shawn asked. Carlton glanced over at Henry, who was leaning forward and watching the proceedings intently. Shifting his gaze to Juliet, he saw her looking on with captivation, and finally, he saw that Gus looked worried. Which, in turn, made Carlton worried.
Shawn looked out at the people behind Roswell, his gaze sweeping over the audience. His gazed fized a few feet away from Carlton, on Henry, and then he turned his attention back to Roswell’s question. “To be honest, Rossi,” he said, and Carlton and Juliet looked at each other, dismayed. What was he doing nicknaming the DA? They turned back as Shawn continued speaking. “I think it’s a little farfetched. I mean, hey, maybe I’m hyper observant.” He laughed in a disbelieving, dismissive manner. “Or. Maybe I have perfect photographic memory. I mean, if I did I could probably tell you exactly how many people there are in this room right now. How many people were in the room yesterday. I could tell you how many people were at SOHO the night I was attacked. I could recreate the exact image of the parking lot behind SOHO and tell you how many cars were there when I arrived, and when I went to leave.”
He paused and the silence that followed Shawn’s monologue was palpable. Carlton saw the expression on Gus’ face in his peripherals, and it told him the truth. This was how Shawn did it.
“But come on, Rossi!" he continued. "Being psychic makes much more sense! I mean, come on. It’s how I know that you’re a middle child. That you grew up in South Carolina and moved to Santa Barbara with your father when you were… 15? It was after your mother passed away, wasn’t it?” He paused for a moment, and raised a hand to his temple. “You studied law at Berkeley. Class of... ’95? And your middle name is,” he closed his eyes for a moment, paused, then finished with a confident, “Patrick.”
Carlton was struck with a wave of intense affection for the man before him. For the first time since he’d discovered these crazy, uncomfortable feelings, he wasn’t bothered or worried by them. As he watched the Jury take in every moment; as he watched Roswell stand there motionless; as the people around Carlton began to whisper frantically, he realized he was most definitely in love with Shawn Spencer. In that moment, the realization wasn't as distressing as it could have been.
Roswell continued to stand there, unmoving, for some time. After nearly half a minute, Everard cleared her throat. “Mr Roswell? Do you have any other questions for Mr Spencer?”
Roswell was unresponsive for a moment longer, and then he managed a feeble, “nothing further, your Honour.”
He slowly made his was back to his seat, and judging by the dazed expression on his features, it was clear that Shawn was dead on with every single thing he’d predicted.
“You may step down,” she told Shawn, who nodded and walked back to his seat, looking extremely satisfied. “Mr Hornstock, if you’re ready…” Everard trailed off as Hornstock rose.
“Your Honour,” Roswell called, standing as well. Attention immediately snapped back to him and Everard turned her gaze on him.
“What is it, Mr Roswell? I thought you said you were finished questioning the Plaintiff.”
“I am,” Roswell said. “The Defense would like to call for a recess.”
Everard blinked. “What for?”
“A conference. With my clients, Mr Hornstock and his client, and yourself, your Honour.”
The Judge looked out at Roswell and nodded. “All right. Thirty minute recess, beginning now,” she ordered, pounding her gavel.
The courtroom immediately erupted into excited conversation.
“What was that about?” Juliet asked.
No one said anything initially, but it was Henry who finally spoke. “Sounds like negotiations are in order.”
At these words, Carlton rose and pushed himself out into the aisle. He needed to stretch his legs.
He walked around the block, his thoughts on overdrive. They were such a muddled mess that the beginnings of a headache began to press in on him. By the time he sat down next to Juliet again about ten minutes later, the dull ache had become a full-on migraine.
"Carlton," Juliet spoke, tentatively once he'd setlled in. "What do you think's going on back there?" She jerked her head in the direction of the judge's chambers. Carlton breathed out slowly, his head hurting so much he could barely remember what she'd just asked, let alone try to give her a coherent response. He looked over and saw Juliet peering at him with concern.
"Are you all right, Carlton?" she asked quietly and hesitantly.
'No!' he wanted to shout. 'I am not all right! I just committed perjury, I have a headache the size of the precinct, and I'm in love with Shawn fucking Spencer. I have never been less all right in my life.'
And that's when it hit him like a ton of bricks. Crisis of sexuality and being in love with an annoying (yet endearing) fake psychic absolutely trumped his miserable divorce. Carlton was overwhelmed with the desire to block out all thought. He wished he could just shut off his brain. He needed a vacation from his distressing thoughts and feelings, but it was one he was never going to have the luxury of taking.
Not with Spencer around.
"Carlton?" Juliet repeated again, looking quite alarmed.
"I'm fine, O'Hara," he muttered finally, his voice monotone. He didn't sound remotely convincing, but he was spared further questioning by the entrance of Judge Everard, announced again by the Bailiff. Without Carlton noticing, Shawn and Hornstock, and Roswell, Meyer, and Peters had all returned.
"You may sit," Everard spoke, and as everyone assembled did so, she sat down as well and cleared her throat, opening up a folder and pulling out a sheet of paper. "Jury members, thank you very much for your time and attention. You are dismissed, as your duties are no longer required."
Conversations sprang up all over the courtroom, and Everard pounded her gavel. "Order, please."
The jury members slowly rose, at different times, and left the room, and Carlton watched all of this with bated breath. When the last jury member had exited the courtroom, Everard pounded her gavel again for attention.
"Let it be recorded that, after confering with Attorneys Hornstock and Roswell and their clients, a verdict has been reached. James Meyer has confessed in writing to the counts of obstruction of justice, and accessory to attempted murder. I am sentencing James Meyer to five years in prison without parole. Kyle Peters has confessed to obstruction of justice, assault and battery, and attempted murder. I am sentencing Kyle Peters to 10 years in prison with no chance at parole. Court is dismissed at 10:34 AM, April 23rd, 2009. Thank you," she finished, and at the sound of her gavel hitting her desk, the noise level in the room jumped considerably.
Carlton forgot about everything else, and turned to Juliet. Her smile was as wide as one of Shawn's trademark grins. He returned it immediately, feeling happier than he had since questioning Meyer weeks ago.
He couldn't help it. He looked over at Shawn, who was on his feet talking to Hornstock. As he watched, Shawn's eyes cast about the room and eventually settled on Carlton where he was seated. They held each other's gaze for a long moment. Time seemed to stand still. Then Shawn smiled at Carlton, looked away, and the strange moment was over.
Carlton got to his feet and manoeuvered his way along the row of seats, into the aisle, and out the door of the courtroom. He hurried down the hallway, exiting the courthouse at top speed, and walked to his car as fast as he could without breaking into a run. God, he was completely unnerved by Shawn, and he was pretty sure he would be for the rest of his life.
His car was parked across the street, so after looking both ways, he crossed it and unlocked the door. Just as he opened the door he heard someone shout his name, and turned around to see who it was.
"Carlton!"
It was Juliet. She was standing across the street, and after the car passed, she made her way across. She came to a stop in front of him, out of the way of traffic, and looked up at him.
"O'Hara. What can I do for you?"
Juliet smiled hesitantly. "Can we sit in the car for a minute?" she asked eventually, after chewing on her bottom lip for some time. He watched the nervous habit for a bit, then shrugged.
"All right," he said. He opened his car door and climbed in as Juliet rounded the Crown Vic and let herself in. He looked out the windshield at the lady walking the dog on the next block as Juliet shut the door.
They sat silently for about a minute, Carlton having no idea what Juliet wanted, and Juliet presumably with no idea how to ask for it. When she finally did speak, it wasn't to ask for anything at all.
"Carlton, I just want to say something, and I'd like for you to please hear me out." She paused as Carlton tilted his head slightly toward her, not quite looking at her, so that he could hear every word. "We're partners. But, to be honest, I like to think we've become friends over the last few years as well." Carlton's heart predictably swelled at these words. He turned his head fully, and there she was, looking straight into his eyes.
"I didn't get to be the detective I am today without some finely honed observational skills. I pay attention because... well, I can't help it. It's what I've always done. So when I say that you've been acting out of character this past month, I need you to understand that I'm not talking crap."
Carlton started at her frankness. It was one of Juliet's best qualities, but it still surprised him occasionally. He continued to watch her, intrigued.
"You're more withdrawn than you've ever been, which is really quite something," Juliet continued. "You're more guarded. But the truth is that you're letting some of it through." She paused, and he felt a shift in the air around them. Suddenly he wanted to be as far away from Juliet as possible. He wanted nothing more than to shut Juliet and her words out, but he couldn't. He just... couldn't.
"Ever since Shawn's attack," she began cautiously, "you've been acting like a different person. I understand, okay? He's one of us now, whether we like it or not, and he's a part of our lives for better or worse. It's hard seeing someone who's so..." She stopped short, looking for the right word.
"Central?" Carlton supplied.
Juliet's gaze intensified. "Yeah. Central," she echoed quietly. "It's hard seeing someone so central to our lives... in that condition." Another pause. Carlton could feel his heart pounding inside his chest like a drum. "And I get it, Carlton, I do. What I couldn't figure out is why YOU felt that way. But I get it now."
Juliet paused again, and Carlton found that he couldn't breathe. Had he really been so transparent all month, acting like some lovesick, terrified moron?
The pause she gave felt like one of the longest of his life. It was at least as long as the pause he gave before finally signing those papers; longer than the pause Chief Fenich gave before announcing he was Head Detective. And when she finally started speaking again, Carlton was fairly certain he'd never been more scared, of her and in general, in his life.
"There's nothing wrong with it, Carlton," she finally said in hushed tones, but he'd have heard her if she'd whispered. "There's nothing wrong with you. It's okay if you..." She hesitated again, and her eyes were shining now as they burrowed into Carlton. "You don't have to beat yourself up over it. You can't help who you love." There was yet another break in Juliet's monologue at this point, and then she took in an audible breath and finally finished speaking.
"If you want it, Carlton, go for it."
And then she was scrambling to open the door, leaving the same way she'd come without so much as a backward glance.
***
He drove for miles and miles, stopping only when his heart finally quit racing. Somehow, hours had passed, and it was quite late when he finally pulled into the parking lot of Tom Blair's pub, intent on getting utterly wasted. He just wanted to stop thinking!
He made his way inside and sat down at the bar, ordered a drink from the bartender, and, when it arrived, downed it in two sips. "Another one," he grunted. With the second, he planned to take his time.
And then the words, "Shawn Spencer, Psychic," traveled across the room to Carlton at the bar, and his well-laid plans of oblivion were completely shattered. He could not believe this was happening to him.
Swivelling on his stool, he found Shawn sitting at a table with four other people he apparently did not know. Of course. On the one goddamn night Carlton wanted to forget everything, the very person he could not escape from was there. It was clear some higher power completely loathed him.
"You... have two sisters and one brother?" Shawn offered to group, and the closest woman to him gasped.
"Oh my god! That's absolutely right!"
Carlton placed a ten dollar bill on the counter, finished his drink in one go, and marched over to their table, blood boiling.
"Spencer," he said as calmly as he could once he'd reached them. Shawn looked up from his audience, and the expression on his face seemed to say 'shit!' until his usual obnoxious grin chased it away in seconds.
"Lassie!" Shawn said with relish. "Guys, this is Lassie. Lassie, this is Julia, Alex, Greg, and Sally." He pointed to each one of them as he said their names, and they all gasped in unison. It would have been funny if Carlton hadn't found it incredibly annoying.
"How did you -" Greg began, but Shawn just raised a hand to his temple and winked slyly in response. This angered Carlton even further, and he cleared his throat loudly.
"Spencer, I need to consult with you on a case, if you have a minute." His voice was strained with the effort to remain passive.
Shawn visibly hesitated, then smiled. "Sure thing, dude. Sorry guys," he said to his audience. "I'll be back in a bit. Keep the seat comfy for me."
Carlton led the way across the room and outside, and over to his parked car. Shawn followed and, after a few seconds, began running his mouth off as usual.
"So, Lassie, what case do you need help on? Crazed serial killer? Your car clearly isn't stolen, so are you being arrested for murder again?" he asked in a manner that suggested he was scolding a six year-old.
Something inside of Carlton snapped. Losing his composure completely, he whipped around, grabbed Shawn by the collar of his shirt, and pushed him roughly against the wall of the pub. He was about to start shouting in Shawn's face when Shawn gave Carlton an enormous, violent shove that sent him stumbling backward on to the hood of his car. He righted himself quickly, and looked up at Shawn, incensed, ready to spit fire, but then he got a good look at the man.
Shawn's head was bent, face unexposed, his fists clenched at his sides and his breathing hard. A silence stretched on between them for several minutes as Shawn's breathing eventually evened and his shoulders stopped heaving with the effort. Then Shawn took a deep breath and stepped forward.
"Sorry. Where were we?" he asked with a pathetic attempt at nonchalance, but he couldn't hide the tremor in his voice.
And that's when Carlton realized that Shawn was actually scared. He had been affected by Peters' attack, and in a profound way that went far beneath the surface. Shawn was pretending, as usual, that everything was fine. But it was now clear to Carlton that it was simply a ruse. After all, he had thrown Shawn around numerous times, never provoking this strong a reaction.
Carlton let go of some of the tension in his body, lowering his shoulders, and fixing Shawn with a serious expression. "Look, I'm sorry," he said honestly. "But I just thought --"
And now that he was finally here, with Shawn in such a vulnerable state, he couldn't seem to stop the words from coming. Words that had been building up for days, perhaps weeks (and maybe even years, considering how often Shawn put himself at risk) tumbled out of him.
"Spencer, the department has worked damn hard to put Peters and Meyer behind bars. You're here, on the same night they've been booked, showing off again. This is exactly what got you into this mess in the first place. Damn it, Spencer, if you could wait - oh, I don't know - a week, maybe, before shouting your abilities to the world, it would at least give the impression that you give a damn. That you're grateful for their efforts."
Shawn flinched. "I - I am grateful," he said quietly but firmly.
"Well, you sure aren't showing it!" Carlton shot back. "Your father and your best friend were at your side every minute until you woke up, and then for several days after, while you recovered. So why aren't you with them, celebrating with them? Thanking them? Juliet! That woman worked her ass off to bring those scumbags in, and how do you repay her? By virtually mocking her sacrifice and hard work -- and for what? Because it makes you feel important? Makes you feel cool? I know you don't have a lot of respect for police work, but I never thought you'd be this ungrateful, this selfish toward your family and friends." He said all this with surprising calm, and yet Shawn reacted to the words as if they'd been shouted at him, flinching and taking what looked like an involuntary step back.
"I AM grateful!" he insisted loudly.
"Yeah? Well, prove it, Spencer!"
Carlton would look back on this moment in the days and weeks to come, and he would reflect on the way some moments have the ability to completely transform your life. Moments like that had certainly occurred in Carlton's life prior to this one, but he knew without a doubt that this one topped them all.
Without a hint of hesitation, Shawn took two steps forward, and pulled Carlton into an urgent kiss. Carlton had time to register shock and confusion before he was responding to the kiss; tilting his head to kiss Shawn even more deeply. His hands traveled trough Shawn's hair, gripped his shoulders, explored every part of Shawn that he'd been thinking about for months (and maybe even longer, if he was honest with himself).
When Shawn let out a raspy moan, Carlton felt his entire body burn with arousal. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, and he responded by biting Shawn's lower lip.
Shawn growled and pulled away long enough to push Carlton against the same wall he'd been shoved against mere minutes before. It was as if Carlton's brain had short-circuited. There were no errant protests racing to pull him away from Shawn, no inner voice telling him this was a bad, bad idea. Every reason he might have had not to do this had vanished the moment Shawn kissed him.
And now Shawn was pressing short, hot kisses to Carlton's throat, taking Carlton's earlobe in his mouth. Carlton gasped, and couldn't stifle a moan at the pleasure this sent throug his frame.
Suddenly, Shawn was speaking, voice low with arousal, but clear nonetheless: "I am grateful, Lassie. Very grateful," he gasped when Carlton tightened his grip on Shawn's hip and let his tongue swipe a path from Shawn's collar bone to his ear.
"Mmm," Carlton grunted, pressing a kiss the pulse-point on Shawn's throat.
Shawn chose that precise moment to pull away, and the sudden lack of Shawn in Carlton's personal space was unwelcome and unpleasant. The magic, or whatever the hell it had been, disappeared. Carlton's arousal vanished in a matter of moments, and suddenly he was leaning against the brick wall of Tom Blair's pub with his arms stretched out toward the place Shawn had been standing seconds before, and his eyes were clenched tightly shut. With a deep breath that took a great deal of effort, Carlton lowered his arms and opened his eyes.
Shawn was looking at him, but it felt more like Shawn was looking through him, memorizing every detail. Carlton shivered and pushed himself away from the wall to disguise it.
Fuck, he felt completely out of sorts. Ten minutes ago, he'd been ordering a drink, lonely and confused. Now look where he was!
Shawn shuffled his feet and took a step forward. "So, uh. You didn't push me away, and you're not yelling. That's a good sign, right?" Carlton knew he was momentarily incapable of speech, so he didn't even bother trying to respond. There was a significant pause, and then Shawn spoke again, "you lied today."
What!? Carlton could only stare at the man before him, honestly and truly baffled. He cleared his throat and thrust his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to do with them. "What?" he finally grunted succinctly.
"You lied," Shawn repeated, "To the court. You committed perjury. And I don't know if you know this, Lassie, but that's a crime."
Ahhhh. Now Carlton was following. However, that still left him without an explanation for his actions. He was still thinking of a response when Shawn added, "You and I both know you don't believe I'm psychic. Why'd you lie?"
Carlton looked away. He watched a car turn a corner in the distance, racking his brain for the right words. In the end, he realized that any words at all were entirely unnecessary. So he kissed Shawn. And after several long moments of kissing that left Carlton practically breathless, he pulled away. "We clear now?" he asked, surprised at the clarity and affection in his voice despite its gravelly tones.
Shawn's reply was his usual, glorious, beautiful grin. The one that made his eyes crinkle and shine with mirth. The one that absolutely, positively took Carlton's breath away. Carlton smiled back and pressed his lips to that stupid, addictive smile again.
And again.
-
"Seeing's believing, but feeling's the truth."
-Blaise Pascal.
The End!
A few notes, for the curious, and because I like to ramble, clearly!
+ SOHO Restaurant and Emcare Hospital both exist. I researched a fair bit for this story, most of which I did using the wonderful tool of Google. Everything apart from their addresses and their names are ficitious. Obviously the owners and employees of these establishments and the characters in this fic are not the same, and I mean no harm or slander by including the restaurant and hospital in this fanfic.
+ The legal aspects of the story were incredibly difficult to pin down. I, quite obviously, do not have a background in criminal or civil law, and so I had to a great deal of research, hours upon hours if I'm being honest, and yet I still made some grave and no doubt obvious errors to someone who's studied law, despite that. This is basically an amalgamation of a criminal and civil law case, and I apologize severely if these details pissed you off. I can assure they pissed me off as well. I just hope they didn't detract from or interfere too much with your enjoyment of the fic!
+ Finally, thank you so much for reading! And please leave a comment on your way out!!
Love and Kisses,
rockinhamburger aka Nikki