Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story

by Ariadne Beckett

  Was it getting worse? Was that why he couldn’t control his reactions or even his vision?

  He felt paralyzed, but a door closed behind them and he heard Kasdan’s voice, and realized he’d been propelled inside.

  “Good job, Nick. You’re gonna be just fine. Hang in there.”

  Someone appeared beside him. “Aster. It’s Sergeant Larson. Do you remember me?”

  Affection. He liked that voice. “Larson?”

  Nick’s vision cleared. He was facing a burly black prison guard nearly twice his size, with a shaved head and muscles that made Nick look like a twig. He was also on Nick’s favorite people ever list.

  He was an idealist, an honest and patient man, and his size gave him a confidence many COs lacked. The confidence to be kind. His every move didn’t need to be infused with a menacing air of I can take you down because it was patently obvious.

  “Hey, kiddo. What complete and utter bastards did this to you?” Larson stepped forward and hugged Nick, patting him on the back. His face went serious, and he pushed Nick away to get a closer look at him. “You’re shaking.”

  “I was fighting for my life,” said Nick. “I was beaten and chained up and fighting for my life, and they're charging me with a crime for it.”

  Larson hugged Nick again. “You’re safe. Your friends remember you here.”

  The guard put a hand on his elbow and led him down a hall with an easy amble paced to allow for Nick’s slow shuffle, the closest thing to a walk his hobbles would allow. “Warden Welch called me in to walk you through this.”

  The intake room had a steel door and unbreakable polycarbonate window. Inside there was a fingerprint scanner, a camera, a green-grey metal table bolted to the floor, a set of flimsy plastic chairs, a long metal workstation bolted to the wall, and a privacy curtain. And four men with batons and pepper spray and handcuffs on their belts. Nick knew it well. The intake room attitude was a bipolar mix of polite professionalism and screaming nutjob.

  Polite professionalism, because these guys were well coached on getting terrified new inmates through one of the worst days of their lives.

  Screaming nutjob, because just as common were inmates who chose the minute the restraints came off to punch, kick, and chew their way through the staff. One wrong twitch, and you’d be slammed to the floor and screamed at until your ears were bleeding.

  Grey-greenish-yellow painted cement walls and metal fixtures made the place look like a morgue. In an effort to make it a little less “abandon hope all ye who enter,” there were posters taped to the walls. They were different each time he came through; this time botanical identification drawings from the Forest Service.

  They had to put up new ones about once a month because someone would go berserk and rip them off the walls. The chairs were made of lightweight, flimsy plastic so they wouldn’t injure the intake officers too badly on the frequent occasions a new inmate grabbed one and started beating them with it.

  In it, he would be fingerprinted and photographed, asked questions like what gangs he was affiliated with and how many people wanted to murder him today, and his restraints would be removed. Then he’d be ordered to take his clothes off behind the curtain, step forward, and show complete strangers his tonsils. And other things. He’d step through a door into the world’s filthiest and most depressing-looking shower room, take a nice tepid shower in front of the tonsil inspectors, and get handed a hospital gown.

  Through the next door, he’d leave the state’s least erotic porn set and step into a completely normal doctor’s office. Providing, of course, that normal doctor’s offices had handcuffs lying around and their exam tables had restraining straps dangling from them.

  Those decorations had never been used on him. He’d be questioned about his current and past medical condition, examined, given every vaccination known to man, and have his blood drawn. As a reward for his cooperation in being repeatedly stabbed with sharp objects, he’d be handed a pile of prison clothing.

  “Guys, this is Nick Aster,” Larson told the intake officers.

  “Oh, right,” said the lead officer, looking at Nick with professional interest. “Guy who got beat to hell and stabbed in Rikers. Pics’r all over the internet.”

  “Yep,” said Larson. “Warden says he’s harboring some pretty deep fear issues. Wasn’t just beaten, he was tortured. He’s from my block in here -- nonviolent, compliant, tough, nice guy. We need to cut him a lot of slack, even if he struggles.”

  “Okay,” said the intake officer with a shrug. “C’mon over and get your picture taken, Aster. You know the drill. Don’t so much as move unless we tell you. Obey commands immediately. Speak respectfully. Play nice and this’ll go smooth.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nick, shuffling over to the background behind the camera.

  He lifted his chin and smiled, making eye contact with the camera. So far, so good. His heart was racing and his whole body hurt, but no terror-stricken nonsense. He just needed to really, really not look at what the officers had on their belts.

  “Step in front of the fingerprint scanner, facing away from the device, and put your feet in the yellow footprints for me.”

  He obeyed, but when the officer turned his hand and tugged it down towards the plate, his wrist was pulled hard against the cuffs. It’d hurt his previous times through too, but nothing like this.

  “OW -- ow -- stop,” he pleaded, using all his self-control not to jerk away.

  “Let go,” snapped Larson. “Print him once the cuffs are off.”

  Nick tried to feel relief, but his wrist still ached. His whole body hurt, and he realized he was overdue for his meds.

  “Sir?”

  The intake officer looked at him, not as a person but a lethal object. A sentient firearm.

  “I’m taking quite a few prescriptions, especially for pain. Marshal Wills brought them -- I’m overdue, I need to take them.”

  “No can do. We can’t give you anything. But as soon as we’re done with this, you’ll see the doctor and he’ll take care of all that.”

  “Thank you,” said Nick, gritting his teeth.

  There was no arguing in here, so he’d just have to wait. They ground through the mind-numbing list of questions about everything from whether anyone wanted to kill him, to whether he wanted to kill himself, to his work history, family members, and who he wanted on his visitor list.

  “Okie-dokie,” said the lead officer finally. The others were mainly there for muscle. “We’re gonna remove your restraints. Once we do, no sudden moves whatsoever. No wandering around, ask permission if you need to so much as scratch your head. We tell you to hit the floor, you do it instantly and lace your fingers behind your head. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nick weakly.

  The officer grabbed the handcuffs in a rough grip, twisting the chain to put the key hole in easy reach. Nick managed to reduce his cry to a low howl.

  “Ahhh -- owwww. Ow.”

  To his surprise, the officer let go. “Sorry.” The guy sounded like he meant it. “I forgot your wrists were tore up. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Nick tried to catch his breath and push back the lump of nausea growing in his throat.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Aster.” It was Larson, his voice rough and kind. “I know you’re dreading this. But we are going to need you to undress, and take us through a cavity search, then shower. We’ll give you a gown, an’ you go see the doctor. It’s awkward and humiliating, but you are safe, and the guys who do this are professional.”

  Nick managed to meet his eyes. He thought Nick was stalling. “I was in here for years. I’m used to searches. I’m kind of over the humiliation factor.”

  He’d gotten over the humiliation of strip searches. It was a simple matter of distance, realizing the people doing it disliked it as much as he did, and feeling secure in his own body. The full cavity searches he was facing now were worse, and made him feel awful about himself and humanity in general. None the l
ess, they were polite, hands-off, and tolerable.

  But after having been beaten and his clothing cut off while he shivered helpless on the floor, the idea did make him sick now that Larson brought it up. People seeing him naked didn’t really seem worth getting upset over. But one more shred of vulnerability was. The idea of guards seeing where the damage was and how to hurt him.

  Nick was shaking, his face and feet and hands were cold, and he was trying not to break down. He was patently terrified.

  “Aster?” His intake officer was adjusting his attitude, realizing he didn’t need to dominate or intimidate. “We know this is frightening, we process incredibly scared people almost every day. I can assure you, nothing you face behind these walls is going to warrant the amount of fear you feel right now.”

  “I’m - trying.”

  “We know you’re injured. Force is going to be a last resort, and we’re taking you to a private cell in the infirmary. You will be safe, comfortable, and well cared for. Agent Kasdan is going to remain with you for a while.”

  Then an unexpected, forceful hand gripped one of his cuffed wrists and he screamed and jerked away.

  “Get away from me!”

  There was silence. No blows struck him.

  A voice said words he didn’t register.

  “Aster, we’re doing this. Like it or not.”

  He heard them, but couldn’t put them together to mean anything but white.

  Another touch, this time someone holding the cuffs. White went red, his eyes burned, and pain shot up his arms. He kicked.

  “Get the fuck away from me!”

  He’d be beaten for it, but that was going to happen anyway. He wanted to die at least knowing he’d fought for himself.

  His kick didn’t connect. The chain linking the leg irons brought him up short with a searing jerk on his tender ankles. He stood, and stood, like a white marble statue in a white-walled gallery trying to blend in so the prying eyes of visitors and their cameras wouldn’t roam over him. The world went sideways, and he got clobbered by a cement floor.

  Nick’s mind was a white-hot blank. The pain, the fear, the ability to think...all were gone in this suspended blank that was waiting to die, his mind trying to get him through the last few minutes without absorbing the agony. Any attempt to escape it would be unbearable, so he focused on not focusing on anything.

  The floor hit his chin. Claws ripped at his ankles and wrists and stomach. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be eaten by a lion?

  Nick screamed, and his vision went black, except for the red spots swimming around in it. He struggled, and things choked him like snakes, and hands touched him, and people gave orders. And reassurances.

  “Nick. Nick. It’s okay. Nobody here wants to hurt you.”

  He tried to force himself to see. Force himself to cooperate. These were familiar faces, voices, scenes. Not abusive or mean ones.

  They were hurting him. Pressing on his body, grabbing his clothing, holding him in place with those godawful chains that felt like they were made of razor wire slicing down to bone. He convulsed, frantic, and tried to throw them off his back.

  He screamed again. The one way to make these guys hurt you was to fail to comply with orders, or to resist. That was exactly what he was doing, and he was going to get hurt, hard, by guys he actually liked.

  “HOLD STILL!”

  Something yanked at the bandages, they pulled away, and the pain in his wrists got worse. They pinned his head, and rough fingers pressed against one of his eyes, and he howled. There was no limit to how miserable these people could make him, and it hurt so badly he released a sob of agony.

  Then he managed to plead with them. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m trying - I don’t want to resist, I’m sorry.”

  There was a soft pat on his back. “We know, Aster.”

  “Jesus Christ, what did they do to him?” another voice sounded horrified.

  Nick was cold, and realized he’d been stripped down to his boxers. They’d cut his clothing off, like the Rikers intake gang. The bandages had been removed not to increase the pain, but so he could be searched.

  He let out a moan that was so many things. He was nearly overwhelmed by exhaustion, agony, fear, and most of all, grief. His beloved handler and friend had sent him away to prison from another state.

  John had known he would go through this. John was okay with his being dragged painfully through his worst nightmares.

  Their partnership was over.

  Nick closed his eyes and let the hot tears start flooding across his face and onto the floor.

  John. I loved you, John.

  Nick’s world reversed on its axis and everything grew cold and slowed. His tears washed over his face in a hot wave along with a stark realization.

  It wasn’t I loved you, John.

  It was I’m in love with you, John. I’m in love with you and my fucking heart is breaking.

  I fell in love with my straight, married, male FBI handler, and now I’m sobbing on the floor of a prison.

  “We can’t do this,” said yet another voice, very sober. “We can’t force him through intake, not injured like this. We’re triggering every single traumatic memory we possibly can, and we’re causing a hell of a lot of pain just restraining him. No wonder he’s freaking out.”

  “I know this guy. Nobody with even a fraction of a functioning soul could beat Aster like this,” said Larson.

  The door burst open, and a furious voice shouted from the entry.

  “What the HELL are you doing to him? What the fuck - you fucking bastards --” it was Kasdan, and he was livid. “I heard him screaming!”

  “It was fear, not-”

  “You back away from - oh, dear God.”

  Kasdan was staring at him, stunned. With Nick all but naked, the wounds in his stomach and the worst of the bruising were easily visible. Kasdan went pale.

  “How in -- why -- how were you at work?”

  Larson knelt by his side. “Aster, I need you to let me take these restraints off. I’ll be gentle.”

  Gentle felt like fireworks blew up in his hands. Nick jerked away and rolled onto his side before he even registered he’d done it.

  “I’m sorry,” said Nick miserably. “I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” said Larson.

  The intake officer let out a heavy sigh. “Aster, our policy is not to do cavity searches by force. It’s too easy for that to feel like sexual assault. Behind that door near the curtain is a cell with a restraining chair in it. That’s where we’re gonna put you until you calm down enough to handle this. It’s not a punishment, and we’ll release you as soon as you ask to try again.”

  “You gotta do that?” asked Larson.

  “Policy,” said the now-annoyed intake officer. “It really is calming unless you’re a dick and leave someone strapped down for hours.”

  Nick curled his legs up closer to his chest. He’d heard horror stories about that. But anything was better than another wrestling match with steel right now. He hit his foot on something, and realized it was the table leg.

  I hid under the table?

  Kasdan and Larson hauled him out. “Sorry,” said Nick, cheeks burning.

  “It’s okay.” Larson was a huge guy, but surprisingly gentle. He’d managed to use his enormous strength to move Nick without hurting him. He addressed one of the other guards. “Bring me the strap from one of those ratcheting tie-downs in the loading dock.”

  Larson used the inch-wide webbing to tie Nick’s wrists together well above the handcuffs, and pulled it tight until the broad, soft strap took the tension of holding his arms behind his back, not the handcuffs. It made his strained shoulder muscles burn even worse, but the relief of not having the metal cuffs pressing into his wrists was immediate. He gasped, and sucked in air.

  “Thanks. God that feels better,” said Nick.

  “Never thought tyin’ someone up would be an act of mercy,” said Larson dryly. “You tell us
when you think you can handle havin’ those cuffs touched, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Larson, Kasdan, and a mob of officers hauled him into the cell. Like in Riker’s Nick couldn’t walk, or really even get his feet under him. Unlike Rikers, nobody used handcuffs to drag him, yelled at him, or forced pepper spray into his eyes.

  They lowered him with care into the molded plastic chair and the intake officers strapped him in tightly. The straps were broad though, and didn’t hurt.

  His head spun. The worst had happened. He’d completely flipped out, even tried to kick one of the guards, and been unable to obey rudimentary commands. And he hadn’t been beaten to death. He hadn’t been hit once. He was strapped down, utterly helpless against retaliation, and they were reassuring him. What was it Wills had said?