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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
- 19
- 20
- 21
Monday October 23^rd 1989 (10.12 a.m.)
Gareth Williams took off his glasses and laying them on his large, solid wood desk, he tented his fingers under his chin and drawing his bushy eyebrows together, he peered at Tom through narrowed eyes. “I’ve got to be honest with you Mr. Hanson, it doesn’t look good.”
Tom started to speak but Booker interrupted him and leaning over the desk, he gave the middle-aged defense attorney an exasperated look. “What do you mean it doesn’t look good? Surely there’s something—”
The obvious tension in Booker’s body reminded Tom of a coiled spring and laying a gentle hand on his lover’s arm, he pulled him back into his seat. “C’mon Dennis, let the man talk.”
With an exasperated sigh, Booker sat back in his chair but his body remained tense. This was not the news he had been hoping for when he had engaged the services of Gareth Williams; high priced attorney extraordinaire. An eternal optimist, he had assumed that by procuring the best of the best, the attorney would find a technicality in the case against Tom and his lover would be free to begin his new life. But now it appeared even Williams did not have the talent to wave a magic wand and make the last seven and a half months of Tom’s life disappear into the ether, and the news was devastating.
Williams picked up his glasses and settling them on his bulbous nose, he scanned through his notes. “So the good news is that the charge of negligent homicide is circumstantial at best. Whilst there’s no argument that it was a bullet from your gun that inflicted the fatal wound on Officer Penhall, Officer Ioki cannot give a clear and precise account of what transpired that night in the warehouse and Officer Booker backs your recollection of events. There is no proof you were negligent in your duty as a police officer and I am confident I can convince a jury that it was just an unfortunate accident."
Heat flamed Tom’s face and he quickly ducked his head. Both he and Booker knew exactly what had occurred that fateful evening and although a huge part of him knew he deserved to go to prison, he was terrified of the actuality. A part of his soul had died the day Doug drew his last breath and he lived with the guilt every second, of every minute, of every day. Since becoming sober, his shame and remorse had intensified and although he did not remember the terrifying nightmares that now plagued his mind, he was certain that in his dreams, he relived the moment the bullet from his gun pierced his best friend’s chest and began the ticking time bomb that ultimately ended his life.
A tender hand squeezed his thigh and looking up, he saw Booker’s charcoal eyes gazing affectionately at him through dark lashes and he managed a watery smile. He needed to keep it together for the duration of the meeting because if he allowed his emotions to take hold, he knew he would break down completely.
Unaware of Tom’s inner turmoil, or the loving look from Booker to his friend, Williams continued to read from his yellow legal pad. “In contrast, the charge of drug trafficking has direct evidence. There are both audio and visual tapes of you selling narcotics to two undercover agents. There was no entrapment, it is a clear case of trafficking an unlawful controlled substance; there is no wiggle room, you were caught red handed.”
Booker’s brow creased into a deep frown. “What about Tom’s mental state? He was grieving the death of his partner and he had suffered another tragic loss only a year before. Surely we can use that in his defense. He was clearly not in his right mind and…”
Tom closed his eyes and shut out the sound of the two men’s voices. He was tired and depressed and he felt as though his entire future rested in the hands of others. Booker was footing the bill for Williams, and whether or not he went to prison rested on the proficiency of the attorney. He had no control over his life and he felt impotent and worthless, almost childlike in his need for assistance. All his life he had been independent and now, at the grand old age of twenty-four, he was reliant on others for help and the truth did not sit well with him. Never before had he felt so powerless.
Opening his eyes, he tuned back into the conversation just as the two men appeared to be wrapping it up. Even though he was the one facing prison time, he had barely spoken a word during the hour-long discussion and the fact only added to his misery. He felt like the invisible man who would only become corporeal when it was time to parade him in front of a marauding crowd of onlookers, each one of them baying for his blood because of his indiscretions and once sentenced for the heinous crimes he had committed, he would once again, fade into oblivion.
His only significance lay with his crimes.
****
Monday October 23^rd1989 (11.02 a.m.)
The atmosphere during the cab ride back to the apartment was tense and uncomfortable. Booker tried on several occasions to talk to Tom about their meeting but his lover rudely refused to acknowledge his presence, preferring to stare out the passenger window at the people going about their everyday lives with seemingly not a care in the world. Seeing others so happy when his world was slowly imploding made him bitter and angry and his mind turned to Amy. He now wished with all his heart that he had tackled the gunman and either saved Amy’s life or been killed himself because if either one of those scenarios had played out, he would not be where he was today.
When the cab pulled up outside their building, he exited the car and without waiting for Booker, he climbed the stairs up to the apartment. He unlocked the door with the key Booker had given him and leaving it ajar, he walked into the bedroom and slammed the door closed with a resounding bang.
A minute later, Booker entered and looking around, he sighed when he saw the closed bedroom door. It not only stood as a physical barrier between him and Tom but also a metaphorical one, symbolizing their growing detachment. Since Tom had stormed from the apartment two days before, there had been an uncomfortable formalness to their relationship. They still slept in the same bed, occasionally kissed and hugged but there was no fire, no fervor in their affections. If he attempted more, a tender caress that just days before would have led to a passionate encounter, Tom immediately froze before pulling away, signaling that Booker had over stepped the boundaries. Booker was astute enough to know Tom felt awkward about the amount of money he was spending on providing him with clothes, food and the best attorney he could afford but that did not make the situation any easier to accept. For the briefest of moments, he had experienced the psychological, physical and spiritual pleasure of being a significant part of Tom’s life. But now he could feel him slowly slipping away and a pain stabbed at his heart. He had waited so long to hold his lover in his arms and he would be damned if he would lose him now.
Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he tossed it onto a chair and walked over to his bedroom. He paused for a moment before rapping his knuckles on the door. When he received no answer, he called out, “I’m coming in,” and turning the handle, he walked inside.
Tom lay curled on top of the duvet with his knees drawn up to his chest and his back facing the door. From where Booker was standing, he looked small and vulnerable and another physical pain stabbed at his heart. He could not bear to see his lover slowly plummeting into a black pit of depression and he knew he needed to be the strong one and offer reassurances that everything would be all right. However, deep down, he knew it would not be okay because unless there was some divine intervention, Tom was going to prison. The only uncertainly was for how long.
Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he hesitated for a fraction of a second before laying his hand on his lover’s shoulder. “Talk to me baby,” he murmured.
Tom’s body stiffened under his touch and with a sigh, he removed his hand. “Williams is one of the best. There’s no point in worrying until we have something to worry about.”
When Tom remained stubbornly silent, he attempted a different tact. “I’m sure Amy’s death will carry some weight, you lost the love of your life and then when Penhall—”
“I didn’t love her,” Tom interrupted in a barely audible voice.
Taken aback by Tom’s admission, Booker faltered for words. “What? I, er… I don’t… I thought she was—”
“She wasn’t” Tom stated unemotionally, as he continued to stare at the wall. “She died in my arms and I felt nothing, except relief that I wouldn’t have to have the awkward breakup talk.” He wavered for a moment before turning over and whispering up at Booker in a voice filled with pain and self-loathing, “What kind of a monster am I?”
Booker’s heart hammered in his chest and he remained motionless, staring down at Tom as he attempted to digest the startling information his lover had just revealed. To hear him admit that he had remained unmoved by the death of his girlfriend, a young woman in the prime of her life who had died bleeding in his arms was both shocking and confusing and he briefly wondered if Tom really was emotionally incapable of true love. He thought back to the motel when he had muttered the harsh statement, “You’re a selfish prick Hanson, you don’t know the meaning of love and you never will,” and he now wondered if he should have heeded his own words and never entered into a relationship with a man who appeared to be hollow inside. However, Tom had grieved for Penhall with the propensity of a man who had lost a friend he adored, but his emotional disparity between the death of a lover and the death of a friend confused him. Tom had shared the most intimate of moments with Amy, he had made love to her, their bodies joining as one as passion flared from their loins and yet it had meant nothing. When she ceased to be he had not mourned the loss of a young life or felt an overwhelming emptiness in his arms, he had, by his own admission, felt nothing.
Rubbing a shaky hand over his mouth, he struggled to find the words to ease Tom’s pain but instead, he blurted out the question that was foremost in his mind. “If you didn’t love her, why did you stay with her?”
“Because I’m a coward,” Tom muttered miserably. “I wanted her to break up with me, I wanted…” His voice trailed off and sitting up, he gave Booker a sad smile. “It’s obvious by the look on your face that you feel differently about me now. Thanks for all your help but I think it’s best that I leave.”
When Booker did not answer, Tom stood up and pulling his battered bag from the closet, he started packing his clothes. The sound of drawers opening and closing pulled Booker from his fugue-like state and shaking his head, he stared at Tom in bewilderment. “What are you doing?”
Tom gazed back in surprise. “I just told you, I’m leaving and once I’ve gone, you can—”
Booker stood up and placing a hand on Tom’s arm, he gripped it tightly. “Do you love me?” he asked in a voice that was a little too loud, even to his own ears.
Taken aback by the question, Tom did not have time to answer in any other way except honestly. “Of course I do. Jesus Dennis, why would you doubt that? I’m doing this for you, I’m setting you free from all this bullshit because you don’t deserve it. I’m a fuck up. I know it, you know it and soon the rest of Los Angeles is going to know it. There’s no sugar coating what is going to happen to me, I’m going to prison and…”
As Tom continued his speech, Booker studied him as though for the first time. If Tom went to prison, his young, slim body and beautifully hypnotic face would make him stand out in a world filled with depraved, sex starved men. He would become the sacrificial lamb to the slaughter and he would not stand a chance against their advances.
He would be devoured.
His stomach churned and hot bile rose in his throat. No matter what Tom had done or how he had reacted to Amy’s death, he loved him more than he had ever loved another human being and it was then that he formulated his plan. What he was plotting to do went against everything he stood for and if it ever came to light that he was responsible, he would lose his job, but he had no choice. He needed a way to save Tom because they were rapidly running out of time and therefore, he was willing to take the risk.
Relieved that he had finally come to a decision, he brushed his lips over Tom’s moving mouth. “I don’t give a damn what you think,” he murmured against the soft flesh. “You love me, I love you, end of story. So shut the fuck up and unpack your things, you’re staying.”
“Dennis…” Tom began but when he saw the devotion and understanding in his lover’s eyes, his lips tilted into a tender smile. “You’re more screwed up than I am. How can I ever thank—”
“I don’t want your thanks,” Booker whispered softly. “I just want you in my life.”
Wrapping his arms around Booker’s waist, Tom rested his head on his lover’s broad shoulder and closed his eyes. Although he knew his life was doomed, it was a little easier to deal with knowing that Dennis really was by his side.
****
Wednesday October 25^th1989 (5.45 a.m.)
Having spent the last two nights slowly reacquainting himself with every inch of his lover’s toned body, the shrill ring of the telephone pulled Booker from the first deep sleep he had managed in days and disentangling himself from Tom’s limbs, he fell from the bed in a daze and stumbling into the living room, he snatched up the receiver. “Booker.”
The loud, furious voice of his Captain sounded down the phone. “Hanson’s tapes were stolen from the evidence room and you’d better tell me you had nothing to do with their disappearance or I swear to Almighty God I’ll—”
“Whoa, Cap’n slow down,” Booker replied hurriedly. “Of course I didn’t have anything to do with it. Give me half an hour and I’ll meet you at the station. I’m sure they’ve just been misplaced.”
“They’d better have been misplaced or someone’s ass in on the line!” Captain Hollis screamed and the line went dead.
A slow, knowing smile played over Booker’s lips as he placed the receiver back on the cradle. He was going to have to give an Oscar worthy performance and convince his Captain that he had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of the most vital piece of evidence in Tom’s case, otherwise, he was screwed.
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Chasing a Butterfly