Chapter Six

It was 6am and Richie was finally asleep. Jon had practically had to beg one of the paramedics for something to knock him out. Jon's personal lawyer had arrived moments after the detective had begun to question Richie and had firmly but politely suggested to Richie that he be quiet. Richie, for once in his life, had acquiesced and had stayed shocked but silent as the detective had begrudgingly agreed to meet them all down town later that day.

The staircase was a double staircase that ran up both sides of the marble laid hallway with a balcony level at the top. Jon had watched, sitting on the left hand staircase, fascinated in spite of himself as the CSI crew had invaded the large, spacious hallway. He had watched the TV series a few times, mainly as he knew Bill Petersen, after having met him the set of Young Guns 2 and as he watched the various goings on he wished he'd taken a bit more notice so that he had a heads up on what they were doing. He recognised the taking and logging of fingerprints on the banister but most of his attention had been taken up with one guy who was dilligently scraping something up from the edge of the wooden floored mezzanine level that split the right hand staircase in two. It had been from that level that Denise had fallen.

Jon had watched as the large works of art that were hung on the right hand wall, were lifted carefully off the wall and passed over the banister to be wrapped in bubblewrap and marked with Police Crime Scene Tape. The expensive black carpet that covered both the top and bottom stairs seemed at one point to be covered in pieces of tape as hairs and other fibres were lifted off and stored carefully; to be disected back at the lab.

The CSI team had finally left at around 4am and Jon had then had the herculean task of getting an increasingly hysterical Richie into bed to sleep. He'd finally snapped and had grabbed the taller man and had forced the sleeping tablet down Richie's throat. He had then led him up the stairs into Richie's large, light and sound-proofed bedroom. The tablets had worked almost immediately and Richie had drifted off into a deep but troubled sleep.

Jon's mind was numb. Nothing like this had ever happened to him or any of his loved ones before and he was scared. Jon knew he was what Richie liked to call "A hard assed control freak", but this was something new; something he had absolutely no control over and he was scared, terrified even. He turned to Larry Detwiler, his personal lawyer and gratefully accepted the mug of coffee the older man pressed into his cold hands.

"So what happens now?" he asked the grey haired man.

"That all depends on the autopsy."

"Worse case scenario?" Jon asked, sipping the scalding liquid trying to stave off a wave of exhaustion that was threatening to overwhelm him.

"Worst case scenario. He killed her; manslaughter 10-12 out in 5."

"Fuck, five years. Shit. Richie couldn't..I couldn't." he stopped, feeling tears forming.

He put his mug down on the pale wooden breakfast bar and sighed heavily. He blinked furiously keeping the tears at bay. Richie would not survive prison - he just wasn't hard enough for that kind of life. Shit, he was a softy who gave his heart; his all, to everyone, even if they then broke it. Fuck, Richie had just started to smile again after the worst couple of years of his life and Jon was damned if he was going to have that smile wiped from his best friend's face.

"What does your gut tell you?" Larry asked as he sipped english breakfast tea from a china cup he'd found hidden in the back of the cupboard.

"My gut? Jeez..I don't know. That's what it's saying. I just don't fucking know."

Larry finished his tea and replaced the cup delicately back onto its saucer. He walked over the the younger man and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll get back to the office to prepare for this afternoon. You, on the other hand ought to take some of your own advice and keep the faith. Whatever has happened we'll get Richie out of this. Take my word for it and get some sleep young man."

A slight smile crept onto Jon's mouth as he looked at his lawyer.

"Cheeky fuck" he murmured.

"That's right but i'm a cheeky fuck who you pay a lot of money to because i am the best at what i do."

Jon watched as Larry crossed through the kitchen and out into the hallway, never once looking at the staircase or the crime scene tape that lingered on the carpet, and left the house.

Jon put his head in his hands and willed his tired, overwrought mind to start working. Shit, he just knew he wasn't going to get much sleep over the next few days.

Wearily he made his way up the uncluttered staircase and made his way to the guestroom to try and sleep. Maybe he could get back to the Superbowl but he doubted it.