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Fate is a Choice
It had been an impulse, perhaps rooted in the way Lindsey's face had looked as she stood by her grandfather's graveside. At that moment, Gary had seen something that he'd seen before, that he knew, because he looked at in the mirror every morning. He'd never quite been able to figure out what it was, but he'd made the decision the instant he felt the flash of recognition.
Things had seemed so clear, so easy, so right at the time.
It'd have been nice if they'd stayed that way.
He sat at the bar in McGinty's, turning a glass of ice water around and around in his hands. They'd long since closed for the night and he'd sent Marissa home, thinking he would have one last beer and then head for bed. It had been a long day, after all.
That had been hours ago. The sky outside was just starting to brighten from the gloom it had taken on before they'd closed. And the volume of beer on the tap was exactly the same as it had been since the bar had been wiped down.
Gary turned the glass around again, echoes of the conversation playing in his mind.
My mom says that we just have to accept that it was his time. You know, God's plan and all that.
Well you know what I think? I think maybe sometimes we've got a say in that plan.
But she hadn't had a say in the fate he'd saddled on her in an instant, had she? It was more than just a responsibility. When he gave her the pocket knife, he'd passed along a lifetime lived out in Chicago, a responsibility heavier than the one her grandfather had borne, a perpetual link to the events of a single night she'd likely rather forget.
The worst of it is that he knew she'd do well. Just as Lucius Snow had known it about him. He wondered when and how Snow had crossed paths with the fateful pocket knife.
Gary roused himself out of his thoughts at the sound of tapping. Looking up, he saw a figure outlined in the glass of the doors. "We're closed. Open back up at eleven."
The figure tapped again. Sighing, Gary slid off the bar stool and walked to the doors. He raised his voice. "We're closed, I said. Go on now."
"Let me in anyway, Hobson."
Already turning away, Gary stopped and stood still for a second. Then, reflecting that it was probably against his better judgment, he turned back and unlocked the door, opening it to see the figure of Detective Paul Armstrong.
"Saw your lights on," he said, seeming to look anywhere but directly at Gary. "Wanted to make sure nobody'd broken in."
"That's the weakest weak excuse I've heard in a long time." But he stepped back to let the other man in. "You're up early."
"More like up late," answered Armstrong. "Bad night."
"Yeah." Gary returned to the bar and his glass, flicking at drops of condensation with his fingertips. "Hard to sleep."
Armstrong shoved his hands into his pockets. "You, ah, I saw you speaking to that girl yesterday. The judge's granddaughter. About him getting shot?"
"Kind of." What was this, twenty questions? "Not really."
"It's probably not the best idea to do that, you know. Seeing as you're going to be a witness and all. Better to keep away from the family."
"A witness? Witness for what?"
"Are you kidding? The prosecution. Baylor's murder trial." Armstrong paused. "You were right there when he was shot. Still haven't figured out why you were there, but you were."
"I wasn't the only one. This shouldn't be a hard case."
"Come on, Hobson, we're talking about Baylor. The guy who's already gotten away with murder. Literally. Because he can afford a big-shot lawyer who doesn't miss any of the details."
He thought about the last time he'd spoken with Judge Romick, and why the judge had even been at the bar last night. "I don't think that'll make any difference."
"For a conviction? Sure. But conviction for what? Murder? Manslaughter? Slap on the wrists for self-defense?"
Still staring down at the bar, Gary turned the glass again.
"You took it this far, Hobson, you ought to take it the rest of the way." Armstrong sat down next to him. "Make sure that low-life gets what's due him this time."
Gary didn't answer.
"That girl you were talking to deserves that, you know."
"Look, Armstrong, you want me to testify, go get a subpoena from the D.A. If you haven't already started on that anyway." His laugh was small. "I'll tell the truth."
"I know you will, just like you did about the traffic stop." Armstrong sighed. "I hate to admit it, but you did right to do that."
"Yeah." He wondered if that hadn't started the chain of events that had led to his split-second decision to pass on a legacy he hadn't even wanted himself. "You're welcome."
Silence stretched between them. Outside, the sky had turned pale gray. Cat would be delivering the paper soon. He hoped it would be upstairs like the usual. It would be hard to explain if Cat brought the paper down here, where he was, while Armstrong was present.
He wondered where Cat would deliver the paper to Lindsey.
"Hobson?"
"Yeah?" He'd almost forgotten the other man was there. Almost. Didn't the guy have to start a shift soon or something?
"You're probably going to want to think of a reason why you were there that night. Defense counsel's going to want to know. Which means the D.A. is going to want to know first." Armstrong chuckled ruefully. "Hell, I'd still like to know. You've got time to come up with an answer, though."
"What makes you think I won't just tell the truth about that too?"
"See, that's the one time where I know you won't. Or, at least, you won't tell all of it." He was looking directly at Gary now. "You'll just say that sometimes you know things but when the lawyers ask why, you'll claim not to understand it or something like that, just like you always do."
"That's because I don't understand it," he answered. "I just know what it's like to live with it." Lucius Snow had known when he handed him that pocket knife. Our newspaper, he'd called it. Before yesterday, it had been theirs. Now the paper belonged to Lindsey Romick too.
She just wasn't going to find out for a few decades yet.
Armstrong's voice pulled him back out of his reverie. "Know what it's like to live with what?"
Gary shook his head, wondering what had possessed him to blurt that out.
"There is something, though, isn't there? It's not just 'feelings,' is it?"
He turned the glass around again. The water inside was nearly room temperature now. No fresh drops of condensation formed in the areas his hands wiped clean. "No."
"What is it, then?"
Gary sighed. "You believe in fate, Armstrong?"
There was a long pause before the other man answered. "Well, I don't not believe in it."
"I guess that's what it is, then." Suddenly needing to move, Gary got up from the bar and dumped the water down the drain. "Sometimes you get to choose it. Sometimes you don't."
"You wouldn't have chosen this one." It wasn't a question.
"No." He filled a kettle with water, put it into its place, and fished a coffee filter out of the box. "Someone else chose it for me. Someone I didn't even know." Now, he reflected, he'd chosen it for someone else, someone who might have been just as unwilling if she'd known.
"Well, whoever chose what, you still have a choice whether you're going to do right by that girl," said Armstrong. "I've got to get going. I just wanted to let you know that you'd be getting a call, probably later today." He paused before standing up from the bar. "How you handle it is up to you."
"Yeah," said Gary. "Thanks for the heads-up."
"You're welcome. And, Hobson..."
He flicked the switch on the coffee maker and looked up.
"I saw your face when you were talking to that girl, the judge's granddaughter. You want to think about fate, think about the way it might be if someone else witnessed Romick's murder." Not waiting for a reply, Armstrong let the door close behind him.
Written for Maryilee for Yuletide 2008. Previously titled "For Her Sake."