A/N: Inspired by this little ditty. Prompt Two: Sam is a cop and Kurt is an attorney. Should take place in the big city of your choice. Kurt used to be a high-powered corporate lawyer, but he found it spiritually unfulfilling and quit to become a public defender, but he still has enough cash from his big money-making days and good investments to live a fairly posh lifestyle. Sam is a hardworking, blue collar guy - he can be closeted or not, but it would probably add an extra layer of interesting tension if he is. He probably has a really cute dog that he loves. Kurt takes on a case - the details are up to you - and Sam is one of the key witnesses for the prosecution. For some reason Finn is the defendant/client in my mind but this isn't at all imperative. You can use Glee characters to fill out the other necessary roles (judge, district attorney, ADA, bailiff, etc.). Sam shouldn't be knowingly in the wrong - he is being tricked or manipulated in some way as to what he thinks he saw or he thinks happened, and eventually finds out the truth about what really went down and why Kurt's client is really innocent (after he has already testified to what he had believed happened, which should be an extremely intense scene between Kurt and Sam, with their obvious mutual attraction a crackling undercurrent to what is already the extremely tense interaction between a witness and opposing counsel during direct examination). I'm imagining Karofsky as the crooked cop (or district attorney) here - the real bad guy in this story. The rest of the details of the case and the outcome are up to you, but obviously Kurt and Sam should fall in love along the way, with as MUCH dramatic tension and UST and conflict as you can squeeze in.

Other stuff. Sam is 29. Born in 1982, 19 at the time of the 9/11 attacks. Sam served in the army from 2001-2004, he joined the police force in 2006. Kurt is 32. Finn is 37. I picked Omaha as the setting because that's where I'm from. Warnings for character death.

Mens Rea

Chapter 1: Believe Half What You See

SamPOV

It was an uneventful early February morning in Omaha, Nebraska. My partner, Noah Puckerman, was out sick, so I was out and about alone on patrol. There wasn't much to do. The cold kept the criminals off the streets, and the bums in the shelters. I was in my squad car not enjoying a bad cup of coffee I got at the gas station when the call came in.

"Evans, we got a report of screams coming from the Penthouse Suite at the Doubletree Hotel on 16th and Dodge."

Fumbling with the radio mic, I acknowledged the situation. "I'm five minutes away. Over and out."

I set the bad coffee in it's holder and gunned the engine. Turning on the siren I flew down the streets of Omaha toward my destination.

I made my way inside the lobby, greeting the harried desk clerk, his nametag read Mark.

"Officer Evans, responding the distress call. Where is the penthouse suite located?"

"Top floor sir. I've got a keycard, if you want me to accompany." Mark replied.

"That won't be necessary, the situation could be dangerous."

Mark handed over the keycard and I made my way to the elevator, taking it to the top floor. The penthouse suite was clearly labeled, but I couldn't hear anything. I radioed for backup, and slid the keycard in the door. The light flashed green, and I opened the door into a foyer. I knocked again on the door, which I assumed led into the room proper, identifying myself. I got no answer, so I drew my gun and opened that door.

I've had the displeasure of going into a murder scene more times than I'd care to, in my 6 years on the force. After awhile, you can sort of get detached to it, but you never really get used to it. The victim was a female with dark hair. Multiple stab wounds.

I flicked on my two way and spoke into it. "Evans here. Requesting backup. Victim deceased, female, late 20's. Multiple stab wounds." Blood everywhere too.

There was another form on the bed. His dress shirt was unbuttoned and covered in blood. I walked over to him, mindful to avoid stepping in the blood of the victim on the floor.

"Possible second victim. Male." I spoke into the radio.

The rise and fall of his chest confirmed that he was still alive. There was no blood coming from him as a result of those breaths. He stunk of scotch, and there was an empty fifth, along with two empties of champagne on the coffee table. The crackling of my radio caused him to stir. His eyes slowly opened.

I recognized him. Finn Hudson. Former Quarterback for the Nebraska Cornhuskers. Heisman trophy winner. Presumptive Republican Senate nominee to take on Ben Nelson. Shoo in for that spot. Nebraskans' love college football. They also hate same sex marriage, or any other rights for gay people in general. Finn Hudson was certainly no different in that respect.

Memories came back, unbidden, toward the surface. I knew Finn Hudson from our time in the service together. I had joined the national guard after September 11th. I was 19 at the time, and had spent the year since my graduation taking classes at the community college. I didn't really have a fixed purpose or sense of direction.

At the time, I was involved with a guy who I had went to high school with. Jesse St. James. He was charismatic. He was like the sun. I was Icarus. I vaguely had a notion of going to New York with him, once I had scraped up some money.

Finn was a sergeant in the guard when he wasn't doing sports commentary for KFAB. He was our platoon commander. A couple of months later, we were on our way to Afghanistan. The initial success of the war there along with the successful establishment of the Karzai government gave a sense of optimism to the Bush administration, I guess, so they thought it would be a good idea to invade Iraq. Jesse and I maintained communications by letter, as he thought it was more romantic.

I got leave before going to Iraq, and I used it to visit New York. The city had an energy about it that was really something. I wasn't attuned to it though, so I felt like a fish out of water. Jesse had become more sophisticated, and discouraged me from talking about Omaha when he would let me hang out with his friends that he had made. He seemed uneasy at my presence there. It was probably because neither of were sure where I fit in the orbit of the people surrounding him.

We were initially successful at taking the regime down, but an insurgency developed quite rapidly around us. Tensions began to rise in the unit. In the summer of 2004, I received a letter from Jesse. It was written while he was back in Omaha for a spell. The envelope was addressed to me, but the letter inside wasn't. Dearest Blaine, it started off. It ended with him quoting "A drinking song" by Yeats.

I opened my footlocker, getting out the letters I had received from him. I made my way over to the fire where the company incinerated its trash. That's where Finn found me, methodically incinerating the first relationship I had been in. He saw the florid signature that Jesse liked to use, and deduced that Jesse wasn't a girl. I had been lying about it to people here.

I looked over at him. "Does it matter to you. Are you gonna report me?"

"As long as you're not a weak link in the unit, it doesn't matter."

Life went on. The insurgency dragged on. Their tactics evolved. Casualties mounted. We were on patrol in Karbala when I got shot by a sniper. I was manning the machine gun on top of one of the humvees in our convoy at the time. A bullet slammed into my arm. The convoy sped up, in response to the gunfire, and they ran into the IED that the insurgents had planted for just that purpose. It took out the head vehicle in the convoy, and the second one, which Hudson was in, swerved to avoid the wreckage, flipping over in the process.

The rest of the unit managed to get the guys from the wrecked humvee out. We hightailed it back to base, where they operated on my arm. It wasn't a big deal, it was a through and through, so it just left an impressive scar.

Hudson's knee was much worse though. It was a war ending injury, something which he resented.

So, while I was in the hospital, Colonel Schuester came by for a visit. Hudson had reported me to Major Goolsby, who kicked it up the line to the Colonel. My war was over too. Goolsby wanted me dishonorably discharged, but Schuester decided against that. He didn't want the negative press, or the possibility of me fighting it. Frankly, I was too tired from everything by that point to even bother.

I got back to the states in time to see Bush win a second term by getting a whole slew of states to put measures on the ballot defining marriage to exclude me. My uniform wasn't the only thing that went into the closet.

"Who the fuuuck are you?" He slurred out, throwing the blanket off of him. Bloody shirt, tighty whities (didn't need to see those, thank you), blood on his hands, and a bloody knife to boot. Case closed. He seemed oblivious to all of the above.

I pointed my gun at him. I was hoping that he would rush me. It would give me the satisfaction of shooting him. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put down the knife."

He looked down at it, and he sobered up real quick. "Evans? What the fuck? Who's blood is this?" He looked over at the dead girl. "Rachel?"

Hell, I could shoot him right now. I'd be placed on administrative leave for a few weeks, paid. I could say that he rushed me with a bloody knife in his hand. I could blame him for getting me kicked out of the military. He obviously blamed me for his injury.

Killing in the heat of battle is forgivable. You're usually firing from cover, like behind a wall, with your gun being the only thing visible. They're usually firing from cover, from within a building, for instance. You can, and everyone does, delude themselves into thinking that it's not their bullet that did it. It's not their bullets that killed a guy who was playing at war. It's not their bullets that struck a bystander who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If I shot him right now, I would know.

He was still holding the knife. "I'm going to ask you again to put the knife down."

The knife fell and landed on the carpet. Finn stammered. "I-I-I know. . .know what this looks like, but I swear. . . I swear I didn't do this."

The evidence certainly pointed to the contrary. Two more officers came in at this point. Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford.

"Oh wow." Matt said.

Mike was speaking into the radio. "Get crime lab down here, along with a photographer for the crime scene. Gotta preserve the scene."

I still had my gun trained on Finn. "Sir, I think the best thing to do would be to take you in for questioning."

"Can I put on some pants?"

"Sure." I said, going over to the dresser and fishing a pair of tuxedo pants out. I searched the pockets, making sure there wasn't anything dangerous, and tossed them over to him. He put them on wordlessly.

"Ok, turn around, hands behind your back." He followed my orders. I got out my handcuffs and placed him in them. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

"Yes." Finn said, his voice breaking. "Oh Jesus!"

"Chang, Rutherford, could you escort him back to the station? This is my crime scene."

"Sure thing, Evans." Mike said.

I holstered my firearm. Looks like Baxter wasn't going to get his morning walk. It was going to be a long morning.