Actions

Work Header

Running With Scissors

Chapter Text

Cameras have become part of Trixie’s life now, much as she despises them. She hated them when she was younger, capturing her crooked teeth and the way her gut would hang over the waistline of her pants in a muffin top that hadn’t ever really shifted, and she still hated them now. It’s less about her appearance though, these days. She knows she looks good; she’s tall with an hour glass figure, all tits, ass and bouncy blonde hair, thick thighs and fuckable lips. These days her hatred of cameras has more to do with the fact that they just won’t leave her the fuck alone whenever she comes out of court, with reporters and their mics following her round like she’s some kind of lame ass celebrity. They also have the unfortunate habit of still capturing the old crooked teeth and muffin top, not to mention that time a button popped on the blouse that had been straining over her boobs all afternoon. She longs for when she gets made State Attorney and she can afford Invisalign and a fucking good pair of Spandex. Or better yet, one day in the future, a day that seems to move further from her grasp with every passing minute, she’ll be a judge, and she can get herself a fucking nutritionist and her own personal dental surgeon.

When she emerges from the courthouse at six in the evening, Trixie is too exhausted to be furious about today’s loss, and groans inwardly at the crowd of journalists that await at the bottom of the steps, clamoring for a statement from the People. Her heels clack as she elbows her way past the cameras, open trench coat flapping around her calves as she repeats ‘no comment’ over and over, until she can get in the waiting cab and make her way home. She collapses into the back seat and slams the door shut, plucks her phone from her purse and swipes the local news alerts about her own case off of the screen, firing off a quick text to her best friend.

Where are you? I need a drink stat.

She heaves out a sigh and lets her shoulders drop for what feels like the first time in hours, staring out the window as the cab takes her into the city, the lights near the top of Willis Tower already twinkling in the distance against the darkening sky. Her phone vibrates in her hand, and she turns it over.

I’ll be at Holloway’s in fifteen, but I’m trying to get some pussy tonight so don’t show up all miserable because you lost, you’ll cockblock me

Trixie rolls her eyes and shoves her phone away. Violet’s always trying to get some, and she usually succeeds, probably because she’s young, hot, and unlike Trixie, has free time to date or fuck or lounge around or whatever the fuck she does. Trixie leans forward in her seat to reapply her lipstick in the driver’s rear view mirror, fluffs up her hair and tugs her dress down a little, showing a little more cleavage between the deep V neckline. When they pull up to the bar she pushes two twenties through the partition and all but hurls herself out of the car, crashes through the door and hurries up to the first floor. Violet is there, perched elegantly on a stool at a circular table by herself, looking like a slutty Loretta Young, the bowl of a martini glass balanced on three fingertips, and her eyes flicker over to Trixie before going back to their previous focus: the tight, round ass of a forty-something woman waiting at the bar.

“Nympho night came early this week,” Trixie smirks, shucking her coat off and draping it over her stool as she sits down, flinging her satchel beneath the table and sipping at the negroni that Violet had bought her.

“Every night is nympho night for me babe,” Violet chuckles, dragging her gaze away from the woman and taking in Trixie’s appearance. “You look like shit, girl,” she says offhandedly, sliding her olive off of the cocktail stick with her teeth and talking around the salty fruit. “You come straight here from the trial?”

“Yeah, I told you, I needed a drink,” Trixie huffs once she’s swallowed her whole cocktail down, wiping at her mouth gracelessly with the back of her hand. “You want another one?” She’s up out her seat before she’s finished the question, and when she returns back to the table minutes later with a fresh drink for them both, Violet is looking at her with mild concern.

“That bad?” she asks quietly, and Trixie’s stomach twists. They’ve been friends for five years, since Trixie was thirty and Violet was twenty-three, when Trixie had broken up with her long-term girlfriend and gone on a shopping splurge at Saks. She’d booked an appointment with a style advisor who had turned out to be Violet, and after convincing Trixie to spend over a thousand dollars of her grandpa’s inheritance money on two pairs of shoes, they spent the rest of the afternoon eating wings and drinking Manhattans in Z Bar at the top of the Peninsula Hotel next door, talking shit about Trixie’s ex and Violet’s boss until the sun set. Violet, despite her aloof demeanor, sharp tongue and cold features, can be kind, sensitive and affable when she wants to be, usually just for Trixie. She is able to soften up and be emotionally available for Trixie to rant at, cry on, and eventually, cuddle until she falls asleep in Violet’s skinny arms. But tonight, Trixie needs the spiky, viciously funny Violet to critique other people’s clothes, make crass comments about other patrons’ bad haircuts, and feed her alcohol until she can’t feel her legs, until she can’t remember anything of the shitty day she’s had.

“It’s whatever,” she shrugs, gulping at her cocktail and scanning down the drinks menu at the shots on offer. “I lost the case, a murderer walks free, same old same old. I just want to forget.”

“My advice? Get some ass,” Violet grins, her perfect eyebrows curved temptingly.

“Please, this is hardly lesbian Mecca,” Trixie scoffs, finishing her drink. “Getting some ass is your answer to everything.”

“What’s wrong with that? It works. When was the last time someone railed you?”

“Fuck off, Violet,” Trixie snipes at her. She pushes herself up off the stool, and starts towards the bar. “I’m getting tequila. You in or out?”

-

The moment Trixie steps into the squad room the next day, she’s greeted by a flurry of noise as a young police officer drags a man into a holding cell, while a woman clutching two hysterical babies cries in the Commander’s face that he didn’t do anything wrong and that she doesn’t want to file charges anymore. A detective is trying reason with two agitated teenagers as his partner detains a third across the room, while the phones ring off the hook and everybody ignores them. As Trixie takes stock of the havoc in front of her, she feels a presence at her side. “Good mornin’ Counselor, you look like shit,” Detective Taylor says, handing her a piss weak coffee in a paper cup. “Hope you’re not too bent outta shape about yesterday. New day new case. Come on, you’re gonna love this one.”

Before Trixie can say anything she’s away, weaving through the commotion towards the observation room, reeling off information as she goes. Trixie only hears the last part of it. “...We got this guy for the Humboldt Park double homicide. Need a warrant for his DNA.”

“On what grounds?” Trixie asks as she shuts the door behind her and turns to the one way glass, dumping her satchel on the floor as she watches the man in the interrogation room scratching at the table and rocking his chair back and forth where the legs are uneven.

“Witnesses put him at the scene, leaving the park at the exit on Augusta opposite the pool, ‘bout 500 yards from where the bodies were found, right around when the M.E. puts time of death.”

“I’m gonna need more than that, Trinity–”

“Workin’ on it.” Detective Taylor winks at her as she yanks on the door handle and marches over to the suspect, but before she can open her mouth there’s a loud clatter from behind Trixie as the door bangs open, followed by some muttered curses. She spins on her heel and her heart sinks at when she sees who enters the room, irritation already bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

“Commander,” Trixie greets him, ignoring the person he’s accompanied by, “I–”

“I sincerely hope that your detective is not about to question my client after he has requested legal counsel, Ms. Mattel.”

Trixie snaps her mouth shut and straightens her spine, drawing herself up to her full height and resting a hand on her cocked hip. “Of course not, Zamo,” she says sweetly, painting a fake smile across her face and turning back to the glass. She raps on it twice with one knuckle, her own expression mirroring Trinity’s sullen face when she slumps out of the room, looking like a kid who’s just been told no more cookies before dinner. They watch as the woman who had entered with the Commander pushes past them, and shuts herself in with the suspect. “You know better, Trinity,” Trixie hisses to the detective, “how long have you been doing this? Anything he says without his lawyer after he’s asked for one is–”

“Inadmissible, I know, I fucking know,” Detective Taylor grunts at her. “Should’ve known it’d be that bitch, as well.”

Trixie nods in agreement. That bitch is Katya. She’s sharp, annoying, knowledgeable, argumentative, and fucking hot. Trixie hates it. They’ve come up against each other three times to date, and Katya is winning two to one. She is by far Trixie’s least favorite defense attorney to deal with, because aside from being irritatingly good at her job, she seems to make it her personal mission to get under Trixie’s skin and rile her up. They bicker constantly whenever they’re in each other’s presence, and Katya will do anything to knock Trixie off her stride, be that asking for deals that are outright insulting, or flirting shamelessly with a dangerous glint in her eye. She comes to Trixie’s office and wheedles at her while she’s trying to make phone calls, flicks pieces of stationery at her, asks for her number, turns the tv volume up and down, messes with her papers, switches her computer monitor on and off, anything and everything she can do to get on Trixie’s last nerve. And it works. Trixie rises to the bait every time, always eventually losing her temper and telling Katya to fuck off, rolling her eyes at the cackles that echo down the hall when she leaves.

Hours after she’s chewed Detective Taylor out for trying to bend the rules yet again, Trixie’s folded over her desk, head in her hands as she goes over the witness statements in the Humboldt Park case. She’s looking for something, anything, something they or the suspect has said that the police might not have thought anything of, to lead them on a path to a warrant... she knows a judge that owes her a favor and if she could just get something

“Bad day?”

Her eyes are rolling with annoyance before she’s even looked up to see who it is, because she knows damn well it’s Katya standing there. She’ll never admit it, but she could tell from the rhythm of the heels clipping down the hallway outside her office. “What do you want?”

“Ooh, touchy,” Katya gives her a toothy grin, and slides down into one of the seats opposite her. “You’re having a bad couple of days actually, from what I can gather. The Tim Jackson case yesterday–”

“Do you have something you need, Zamo?” Trixie interrupts her, slamming a file shut and leaning back in her chair. “Because I have a lot to do, so whatever it is, get on with it.”

Katya smirks. “Yes, you do have a lot to do,” she says quietly. “Because you and your merry band of idiots have got nothing on my guy. You know you can only hold him for another ten hours without filing charges, Trixie. The clock is ticking–”

“I’m perfectly aware of how long we can hold a suspect for, thank you,” Trixie says coldly, scowling at Katya. “There’s DNA all over those bodies, and when I get ahold of his and it matches, you’ll be crawling in here begging me for a deal.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Katya scoffs at her. “You can’t get a warrant for his DNA because there is no sufficient evidence that he did anything wrong. And even if you did have it, it wouldn’t match what’s on those bodies.”

“Oh you think? Because–”

“Come get a drink with me,” Katya butts in, leaning forward in her seat and bringing a finger up to pull at the neckline of her dress. Her eyes shine as she watches Trixie shift a little in her seat. “Come on, we can talk this out over a scotch rather than the rat piss this place calls coffee–”

“I’d rather eat a beehive,” Trixie sneers, keeping her eyes on Katya’s face and determinedly not staring at her cleavage. Katya brays with laughter and stands, pushing a stack of files off the desk and onto the floor like a disgruntled cat as she rises, her gaze daring Trixie to retaliate. She moves slowly round to Trixie’s side of the desk and leans over her shoulder, her breath ghosting over the shell of Trixie’s ear and her hair falling onto Trixie’s collarbone. “This is wildly unprofessional,” Trixie mutters, tensing her neck and shoulders and leaning away from Katya with a grimace. She chooses to ignore the way her thighs clench under the desk, the way goosebumps have risen on the skin of her arms, and the way her nose chases the smell of the cologne Katya is wearing.

“Ten hours,” she purrs into Trixie’s ear, and then she’s gone, hips swaying as she struts out of the office and down the hall. Trixie watches her tight little ass clench under her tiny black dress, the muscles in her calves shifting deliciously as she walks with her chin high and her shoulders back, like she fucking owns the place. Trixie’s head is back in her hands as she tries to build a case, and force how good Katya had smelled out of her mind.

-

“Docket ending one four zero nine seven, People versus Steven Peters, two counts murder in the second degree.”

“How do you plead, Mr. Peters?”

Trixie glances to her left. She means to look at the defendant, the man charged with the Humboldt Park murders, his shoulders slumped and his chin pressed to his chest as he mutters, “not guilty, Your Honor.” She actually ends up looking at Katya, stood straight-backed next to him with a light smile playing across her lips. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing a fitted navy suit with a white shirt buttoned right up to her throat. Her red lipstick is a shock on her pale, thin face and her eyelashes are thick with mascara as they flutter against her cheeks. She looks so gorgeous. Trixie can’t stand her.

“Bail, Ms. Mattel?”

She jerks a little in surprise, and looks up as the judge addresses her. “The People request remand, Your Honor,” she stutters out, ignoring the heat rising on her neck. She can feel Katya’s heavy stare. “Given the serious charges against the defendant, and the fact that he is a flight risk as he has no ties to the community–”

“I have to disagree,” Katya interrupts, and Trixie bristles involuntarily. “My client is a well liked and respected member of his Church–”

“Oh please,” Trixie scoffs, “his Church?”

“–and has a young daughter who is dependent on his care. He’s also an entrepreneur who is in the process of setting up his own tech business, so he is highly unlikely–”

“Save it, Ms. Zamolodchikova,” Judge Davis says, rolling her eyes. “I’m inclined to agree with you. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars, and the defendant will surrender his passport.” She bashes her hammer down and Trixie huffs, gathering up her things and bustling from the courtroom before Katya can say anything to her. She shoulders her way through the throng of people milling around in the foyer, looking for Detective Taylor or the Commander in the crowd.

“Hey, Trixie! Wait up.” Trixie sighs at the yell she hears over the general rumble of chatter and turns around, folds her arms as best she can around her files and raises an eyebrow at Katya. This arraignment was the last thing standing between her and getting tequila with Violet, and now there’s something else in the way.

“What do you want, Zamo?”

“I know you’re thinking of vodka right now,” Katya grins at her. “I’m Russian, you know. I could really help you out with that.”

“Tequila, actually. And you’re not invited.” Trixie turns and walks away, smirks a little at the sound of Katya hurrying after her, shorter legs trying to keep up with Trixie’s long strides. She gives up on trying to find Trinity, and heads for the exit.

“Hold on a second–”

“Look, you got bail, even though you and I both know that guy should be locked up. Why are you still here?”

“Because I–”

“And another thing,” Trixie rounds on her, and waves a finger in her face. “I might spare you the time of day if you actually did something worth shouting about, if you were a public defender helping people who can’t afford to be helped, but you work out of Bianca Del Rio’s law offices, who, by the way, is the biggest fucking shark in the sea–”

“Trixie–”

“–and you’re defending rich assholes who commit heinous crimes and think they can throw money around left right and center to avoid justice. It’s fucking abhorrent, I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

“Hey, I work every pro bono case we take on, okay, I am not a bad person, I just went where there was a fucking job–” Trixie takes off again and Katya scampers after her, following her outside and onto the courthouse steps. She finally catches up close to Trixie, plants a hand on a shoulder to slow her down. “Stop for a second, come on.”

Trixie stops, and looks at her expectantly. “Get on with it, Zamo, I haven’t got all day.”

Katya takes a breath. “You know the grounds for that warrant were bullshit.”

Trixie takes a step back and cocks her head. “Are you accusing me of lying to a judge?”

“I’m accusing you of... bending the truth. The grounds were that you found fibers on the victims’ bodies that were specific to an area of woodland my client admitted under questioning that he had visited recently.”

“I don’t need you to read my own grounds back to me, I fucking know what I put to the judge–”

“Then you probably know that while those fibers are specific to the woodlands my client visited, they’re also specific to two other forests in the tri-state area,” Katya snaps back at her, “so the grounds for the warrant are bullshit because you neglected to tell the judge that, and now I have reasonable doubt.”

“You do not have reasonable doubt, because we matched his DNA to the DNA found on the victims,” Trixie replies hotly. “His blood, from a scratch he received when the woman tried to fend him off. You are deluded–”

“I can get the DNA thrown out based on the fact that it was obtained under a dubious warrant,” Katya says calmly, stepping forward into Trixie’s space until their chests are centimeters apart and they’re breathing the same air. Time seems to freeze as they stare at each other, and Trixie feels a sudden pull towards Katya, deep in her core. Her eyes flicker down to Katya’s lips and back up again, and she hears Katya’s breath hitch. “I will get it thrown out, unless you offer me a deal. Fifteen years.”

The moment is gone. Trixie steps back and shakes her head disgustedly, choking out a disbelieving grunt from the back of her throat. “You’re a fucking idiot,” she snarks at Katya, and starts making her way down the steps. “Fifteen years for murdering two people, get out of my sight.”

“You know what, you can be a real bitch Mattel,” Katya calls after her as she storms away towards a cab. “You’ve got a real fuckin’ hard-on for me, and something’s gotta give! Someday soon you’re gonna have to fight me or fuck me, get it all out of your system baby.”

Trixie throws her the dirtiest look she can muster, slams the car door, and doesn’t look back as it speeds away.