If This is Justice

by J.P. D'Osty-Fernandez

Post-"Ghost"; Casey has to deal with a new threat, but will the price of security be too great?

If This is Justice…

-by J.P. D'Osty-Fernandez

dedicated to all who have risked their lives and to all who have been murdered, injured or bereaved because they stood up for justice, and, as ever, to Diane Neal, the wonderful young actress who brings us Casey Novak each week.

Standard Disclaimer: The SVU regulars and guest characters from past cases belong to Dick Wolf, every other character belongs to me.

"When did this happen?"

Casey stood in the lobby of her building, questioning her new super about the fate of his immediate predecessor. The new super, a tall, well-muscled, trim dark-haired, olive-complexioned man in his early forties, worried Casey. He was too young and good-looking to be a super for starters. Then, there was something not right in his beady brown eyes, which seemed to penetrate her soul when they met hers. There was also something in his voice, with its sing-song accent, which was discomforting.

"Mr. Washington, he only told usa two days ago. The boss, he felta sorry for Mr. Washington. Such a nice man. Itsa shame this thing, it happened to him."

"Yes it is…"

Casey stopped. She was going to say that Mr. Washington, a warm, grandfatherly African-American man, went behind the landlord's back and helped her install an alarm system in her apartment. One that covered not only the doors, but the windows as well.

But Casey breathed an inner sigh of relief for stopping just in time. Mr. Washington had always been the picture of health. Never drank, never smoke, had given up both after he married. He had been wounded twice in Korea and had a permanent limp, but that did not stop him from getting his exercise every day. Despite his years, there was hardly an ounce of fat about him. In fact, Mr. Washington had helped Casey practice during the summer. He was still the excellent pitcher he had been in his youth, back before African-Americans were allowed in the Majors and had to form their own teams. He could throw almost every permutation of a pitch at Casey, which proved to be a quite useful when she was up on the diamond. He even knew a trick or two that Uncle Jimmy didn't.

All of this made it hard for Casey to accept that he would suddenly develop cancer, and, moreover, quit without saying goodbye. And when Casey added these suspicions to those she had of Mr. Washington's replacement—Mr. Attia, the man called himself—alarm bells went off.

"But, don'ta worry, Meessa Novak. I take-a good care of this building and I take-a good care of you too."

"That's nice to know, Mr. Attia. Did Mr. Washington leave a forwarding address, someplace I can send a note too?"

"Oh, I don'ta know about that, Meessa Novak. I have to check with the boss. Mebbe he know."

"Thank you. I would appreciate that."

Attia bowed slightly, European style.

"It will be my pleasure, Meessa Novak. Now, iffa you excusa me? I hava beezeeness to attend to." Attia then turned and headed towards the door to the stairwell leading to the basement.

"Now I know what poor Alex must feel like." Casey thought to herself. "Never knowing if this is the one who will kill me."

It had been good to see Alex again. They had been friends. Casey, like everyone, was hurt when she heard that Alex had been "murdered." She didn't know whether to be joyful or angry when it turned out that Detectives Stabler and Benson knew all along that Alex was alive, and let her file the indictment anyway. Inside, she felt an immense rush of relief and joy. But she also felt angry at Elliot and Liv, angry that they did not trust her enough to tell her.

And angry that they would put their own behinds at risk by doing this. At first, there had been some antagonism between Casey and the detectives, a normal probationary period where she and the squad felt each other out, and tested each other. Then, one-by-one, the squad warmed up to her, and treated her as one of their own. Liv was the first, reassuring her after a lineup gone wrong. Liv also tried to warn her to protect herself when Casey told Andy Abbot's wife about his HIV status, and Elliot had told her the same thing when she announced her intention to go after the sanctimonious social engineer masquerading as a judge that was Oliver Taft. Even Cragen, albeit with some reluctance, allowed her the man-hours necessary to get Taft.

Casey also felt some empathy for the squad. When Cragen came to her unannounced and in a desperate hurry to get Alex Vega released, she had tried to reassure him that he was not to blame. He said "We'll have to agree to disagree on that one, Counselor." But, still, Casey felt something for the squad. And the squad felt something for her too. Elliot had come to her after his wife left him, and he had opened up to her. She was touched that he had felt enough confidence in her to do that.

"Maybe that's why." Casey thought to herself "These people, they're my teammates. I wouldn't want anything to happen to them. And I sure as hell will give them grief when they do things that put their stupid behinds at risk."

"Risk!" The thought jolted Casey from her reveries, and she turned towards the door that led upstairs to her apartment, a door which, she was happy, led to another direction than that "Mr. Attia" had just taken. She opened the door, stepped unto the landing, and turned, making sure the door closed behind her. Then she looked through the window of the door for a few seconds to make sure no one was following her. Satisfied that the lobby was empty, she turned towards the stairs. She climbed them slowly, not from weariness,—although there was some of that—but from wariness.

A week after the Marshals had whisked Alex and Antonio into anonymity, they rounded up Casey and the detectives and had them meet in a DOJ safehouse. The Marshals warned all of them that the Colombians now knew that Casey and the Detectives knew that Alex was alive. The Marshals said that each and every one of them was now at risk, that the Colombians would try to get to them to find out where Alex was. They mentioned the brutal tortures of the victims. They told all seven of them to look out for suspicious people hanging around their places of work and residence, and to look out for anyone who might be following them.

"I wish we could take you all into WP," the lead Marshal said, "But it's just not possible." Then he left.

"Well, that's a very comforting thought!" commented Casey, in her usual dry manner, as the door closed behind the Marshal.

"The thing is, Casey, what are you going to do about it?" asked Liv.

"Alex was brave enough not to let those bastards stop her. She was—is my friend too…"

"WAS, Counselor, WAS!" corrected Cragen "Don't let yourself remember that she is still alive. If you think and act like she is dead, there is less of a chance of a slip."

"Thanks, Captain. Alex WAS my friend too. She didn't let those scum stop her from doing the right thing. I figure—for me, anyways, I can't ask the same of anyone else—that if I stop doing what I'm doing, they win. If I continue doing my job and doing so in public, they lose because they fail to intimidate me."

"Casey, no one doubts your courage and integrity" said Liv, putting her left hand on Casey's right arm. "We're just concerned about your safety."

"I appreciate that, Liv. I do." Casey's right hand came up and squeezed Liv's left forearm. "And trust me, I will take precautions. I am just not going to go into hiding because of them. You know, every day, I get calls from classmates who are now practicing corporate and criminal law asking me to join their firms. I would be making more than I am now, and I could afford to build—or buy—myself a fortress. But that would be giving in, and I'm not going to do that. I'm going to play it safe, but I'm not going to run away."

This brought a smile to Liv, which brought a smile to Casey. Gentle smiles, smiles of friendship and camaraderie. Each gave the other a reassuring, confirming squeeze with their hands, which then fell to their sides.

"You may not need to be rich to have yourself a fortress," interjected Munch "I have a pal of mine who is a spook. He'll be able to get you a top-of-the-line alarm for your apartment. But, I've been to your place. You don't have a buzzer downstairs. I was able to walk right up to your apartment unchallenged."

"You had to get past Mr. Washington, my super."

"The elderly gentleman with a limp? He asked me for identification, and let me go when I flashed my badge. He didn't ask for photo ID. The Colombians can come up with a fake badge easy enough."

"They still won't make it past Mr. Washington. If he let you up, it's because he sensed you were alright. Otherwise, you would have never made it beyond the lobby."

"But the Colombians can drop him dead with a silenced .22 before he even hears them."

"You're wrong there, John. Mr. Washington was in Korea. He may be old, but his instincts are still as sharp as they were fifty years ago. Last year, some punks tried to bust in. They had switchblades and a baseball bat, and there were three of them. Thirty seconds after they had broken in, all three were on the floor. Two were nursing their tummies gasping for air, the third had his two hands over his crotch trying to scream a scream that wouldn't come out. Mr. Washington called 911, and that was the end of that."

"But Casey," Elliot broke in, "These punks weren't the Ghost. The ones Colombians'll send will be more like the Ghost than those punks."

This caused Casey to pause for a moment.

"I'm still putting my money on Mr. Washington. He may not stop them, but he'll sure hurt them, and make enough of a commotion in the process that people will hear. I have a nice building, Elliot. We look out for each other. And the Colombians can't kill everyone on the floors under mine without someone getting through to 911."

Only, now, Mr. Washington was gone…and Casey would have to rely entirely on the alarm Mr. Washington and the man Munch sent had installed. And that was only when she got into her apartment. Sure the alarm, if triggered, would also alert the nearest precinct. But what if the Colombians got to her before she could get to the alarm? What if they sent someone like "Mr. Attia?"

"Elliot!" Casey's exclamation came out in a hiss "What are you doing here?"

"Inside." whispered Elliot, tilting his head leftwards towards Casey's door.

Casey put key to lock and opened her door. Then, she reached just on the other side of the door frame to disable the alarm long enough to let her and Elliot in…and froze.

"It's…not whining! It's supposed to do that until I key in the code!" Casey whispered in a mixture of disbelief and impending fear.

"I know," said Elliot in a low voice "Just go in."

"Ssshhhhhhhhh! Quiet! There's someone in here."

"There isn't, Casey, trust me!"

Casey trusted Elliot. He hustled her inside, and then quickly closed the door behind him, turning the two locks. Casey set the alarm, whose keys glowed in the dark, then reached for the light switch.

"Bad idea, Casey. You already silhouetted yourself in the ambient light in the corridor when you opened the door. Turning on the light now will just give the Colombians a better sight picture."

"What? I thought you said there's no one here!"

"There isn't! I'm just showing you how to stay alive."

"Alive…I don't understand…and how did you know about my alarm?"

Elliot opened his trench coat and revealed what looked like a metal-detecting wand.

"Buddy of mine from the Corps gave me this. It can read and figure out the combination to your alarm from the outside."

"If you can get one…"

"The Colombians can too. I know. That's why a buddy of mine is coming by with a little anti-tampering card for your alarm. Once that's in, anyone using this…"

Elliot held up the wand

"Will just trigger it and send an alert down to the precinct as well."

"Until some 14-year old comes up with a way of getting around the anti-tampering card…"

"Yes, that might happen…in a few years. Munch's alarm is available to the general public. This device here, and the anti-tampering card are strictly SOCOM. Force Recon Marines train with this little gizmo, and the anti-tampering card is a version of the same technology used on the safes of aircraft carriers and submarines, modified to fit Munch's alarm. There are others like it in existence, but the public does not know anything about these particular models. Heck, not even most Marine Bird Colonels know about them. So, even if some kid did get a hold of them, it would take a long time or a very rare type of mathematical gift before they could figure out a countermeasure. And even if they did, what would they test it against? They would probably damage the card taking it out, so it would be useless to them."

That relaxed Casey for the first time since she clapped eyes on "Mr. Attia."

"Well, that's reassuring…thanks Elliot. You want a drink?"

"That would be nice. Coke or water."

"Diet Coke. It's in the fridge, help yourself. I have to get out of these damn heels."

Casey came back a few minutes later in a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. Her hair, worn down all day, was tied back. She sat down on the couch next to Elliot.

"Elliot, do you remember a couple of weeks ago, I talked about Mr. Washington, my super…"

"Yes. Jerome Washington Junior. Amazing guy. Loyal as hell, too. It was one helluva fight to try to get him to agree to keep quiet about this…"

"Keep him quiet about WHAT, Elliot?"

There was anger in Casey's voice and eyes.

"About the fact that you were in danger, and that we had to install someone else as super."

"You did WHAT? And what happened to Mr. Washington? He would have NEVER told the Colombians where I lived, so what the hell do you mean 'getting him to agree to keep quiet about this?' "

"Your new super, Mr. Attia? Friend of a friend. Former French Marine Parachutist and a combat veteran. And Mr. Washington is safe and sound. Back in Independence, Missouri, living close by to where his wife is buried. And you're right, he would have never told the Colombians. Hell, he was fighting us all the way until we practically swore on the Bible that we would keep you safe."

"You took this dear, seventy-seven year old man out of this building which he cared for for…" Casey looked down, trying to calculate the number of years Mr. Washington had been there, "since before I moved in here, and whisked him away in the middle of the night? Did you think what that would do to him? To this building? People will miss him…"

"Mr. Washington fully appreciated the danger you were in once we told him. Like you said, he has an instinct for these things. His only condition was that you were safe. Once he was assured of that, he understood what had to be done."

"You did all of this behind my back. Why couldn't you trust me? Why CAN'T you trust me anymore, Elliot?"

"I DO trust you, Casey. We all do. And we all care about you too. That's why we had to do it this way, without your knowing it. If you didn't react to Mr. Attia the way you did, and the Colombians happened to have a scout in the building at that moment, the scout would have known that Mr. Attia is on our side. He would have become a priority target, and they would have paid special care to neutralize him before getting to you. The way it is now, he's just another joe-nobody to them. They'll get sloppy with him, and then they'll get dead. Attia is that good."

"How is he better than Mr. Washington?"

"For starters, he's about thirty years younger. And his skill set—especially when it comes to dealing with people of the calibre of the Ghost—is more up-to-date and finely-tuned than Mr. Washington's is.

"As for Mr. Washington, yes, his sudden departure will be felt, and I am very sorry that had to be necessary. But we needed to do that to make sure you were safe. And besides, his departure is not the only change this building will see. You knew that 2b and 2h were recently vacant, as was 1-ac—the one in the front with a perfect view of the street and which opens on the lobby?"

Casey nodded.

"Well, they will soon be getting new tenants. So will 7h, which has a view of the rooftop of the next building over. 2h covers one alley, and 2b the other."

"7h? Mrs. Murphy has been on a waiting list to get into a long-term care facility for six months now…"

"An opening just came up. She got it."

Elliot reached into his jacket and produced a piece of pasteboard with seven wallet-sized mugshots framed by a slip of yellow paper into which seven wallet-sized holes had been cut to fit over the mugshots, so that only the photographs were visible to the viewer.

"Have a look at these seven faces. Remember them well. These seven men and Attia are going to be your guardian angels until this thing is done."

Casey took the pasteboard and looked intently at all seven faces for several minutes, committing every detail to memory.

"Who are they Elliot? And why should I be remembering their faces."

"Some are former Marine Parachutists, like Mr. Attia. Others are former Foreign Legionnaires. And you should remember their faces so that, if you see them tailing you, you'll know you're safe and that it isn't a hit man sent by the Colombians."

"But wouldn't I be better off not knowing who they are, just like I didn't know who Mr. Attia was at first?"

"Big difference. These seven won't get close enough to you for anyone to see your reaction to them. I mean, they might see a reaction, but these guys will be so far away, that anyone snooping won't know it's them you're reacting to. And, in the first place, no one they have a bad feeling about will get close enough to you to see your reaction to anything. And there is another reason…"

Elliot reached into the large pocket of his overcoat and pulled out what looked to be a thin cigar box with a polished mahogany finish. He placed the box between Casey and himself, undid the clasp, and then turned the box 180 degrees, so that Casey could see what was in it.

"This is a Glock 33. Fires a .357 Magnum round. Not .357 SIG, but US .357 Magnum, which means that ammunition won't be that hard to find. Weighs about 28 ounces fully loaded. Recoil takes some getting used to, but it can be done. I had the licensing bureau expedite you a carry permit."

Casey picked up the pistol and expertly dropped the magazine before pulling the slide back to check the chamber.

"Uncle Jimmy started me off with a Mauser Hsc and a Detonics .45 when I was about ten. I figure I can handle a .357."

"With some practice, yes. The Glock is only a hair longer than the HsC. The Detonics only takes six rounds. The Glock takes eleven."

"That's illegal in New York."

"So are HecklerKoch MP-5's. Emergency Services uses them all the time. Your license allows you to carry an 11-round mag."

Casey drew the slide all the way back to eject the round in the chamber, which bounced off the backrest of her couch and then fell on the cushioned seat, and then let the slide forward. She put the round back into the magazine. Then, she pointed the Glock at the floor, dry-fired it, replaced the magazine, and placed the Glock back in its box."

"Elliot, thank you…really…but, I don't like the idea of having to carry a gun around. As sick as what you and I have to deal with every day is, I would still like to think that we live in a world where we don't have to go around carrying guns to protect ourselves. I mean…"

Casey's forearms thrust forward and then flicked left-right-left-right like a set of windshield wipers gone horizontal in midair.

"What if I get spooked and shoot someone by mistake? What if I lose my gun and it falls into the wrong hands? What if one of the Colombians grabs my gun from me and turns it against me? Glocks don't have safeties."

"Training, Casey, training. You still play ball?"

"Yes."

"When the ball's hurtling at you, you and the bat are one, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course, but that's not the same thing as a gun."

"No, not exactly. But practice and more practice will help make it so that you and your gun are one. It can be done. There will even come a time when having your gun on your side will be as natural as having your arms."

Casey exhaled, almost in resignation.

"I still don't like the idea."

"Okay," Elliot responded slowly, considering his words carefully, "I can understand that. I don't like the idea of anything happening to you. And I am going to make damn sure nothing does."

"You're starting to sound like Uncle Jimmy!"

"I take that as a compliment. And that's the first time I seen you smile since we were at the DOJ place. It's nice to see."

"Thanks…" Casey's face suddenly darkened "Uncle Jimmy…and my parents and brothers and nephews and nieces…"

"Are safe." continued Elliot. "Very hard for a stranger not to get noticed in a small country town where you don't need a license to carry a gun. I know. My guys kept getting dirty looks the couple of days they were there doing surveillance."

"Your guys, your guys…we…Elliot, who is "we" here? Captain Cragen and the Department don't have the resources to have eight former French paratroopers protecting me 24/7. And this Glock isn't exactly a low-end pistol."

Elliot sat back, took a deep breath, and exhaled it.

"When I was in the Corps, my unit was on a joint training mission in Corsica with the French Marine Parachutists—the 'RIPMA's,' they're called. They're descended from the French Colonial Paratroopers who cleaned up Algiers in 1957. We had to navigate the Massive de Cinto—real hard mountain country, if the ground isn't bad enough, it gets real windy and cold, which is loads of fun on top of all the gear you're packing. It was a challenge to see who would make it up Monte de Cinto—which is close to nine thousand feet high—first, the US Marines or the French Marine Parachutists.

"We're about two thirds of the way up, when I saw this French Marine Para Captain who had sprained his ankle. He had ordered his platoon to leave him behind so they could get to the top first. Looks to me like they objected, but he was the CO, so that was that.

"We approached him and asked if he was OK. He told us we should worry more about ourselves than about him, because his guys would radio for help once they got to the finish line on top. We told him, in effect, 'To hell with the challenge. We're Marines, and we leave no one behind.' So, we picked him up and helped him to the top. When the French Marine Paras saw us come up, they refused to take the prize and insisted we split it between us. The Captain never forgot it. We were brothers from that day on."

"Okay…I can understand brotherhood and loyalty…but for how long? I mean, we don't know the Colombians' timetable. They could strike tonight, or tomorrow…or they can strike six months from now. I understand loyalty, Elliot, but loyalty enough for your Captain friend to keep eight of his guys here for that long? There must have been something more to it than that…"

"Nothing gets by you, does it Casey?" A smirk cracked across Elliot's face. As he sat up, his face became more somber.

"You're right, Casey, a deal was made. My Captain friend? He's a Colonel today, and he works for Service Action, the executive department of French Intelligence. You see, when it comes to terrorism, the French don't mess around like we do. No Carter ban on assassinations, and they don't knock…"

Casey glared at Elliot, her eyes telling him that she did not like where this was going.

"Now, it just so happens that there are people in this country who we KNOW are working for Al-Qaeda, but who we cannot touch. Information is capital these days. That's why, no matter how many committees of congressmen look into it, our Federal law enforcement agencies will still resist sharing every detail with each other, much less us or the military. That's why, even though links have been confirmed between Al-Qaeda and the FARC in Colombia, we can do little more than watch. We know of the links, but none of the details that would let us make an arrest.

"In France, it's different. The French intelligence service works for the Minister of Defense. A lot of their people come from the military. And the French are a lot more liberal than we are when it comes to defining 'terrorist'…and to how to deal with them…"

Casey suddenly sprung up, and took two strides towards the kitchen, her back to Elliot. There was a long and awkward silence.

"Elliot, you're telling me that you are aiding and abetting a foreign intelligence agency to track down and possibly murder people on American soil."

Casey whipped around and locked Elliot's eyes in her stare.

"Well, isn't that what you're telling me?"

"Foreign intelligence agency? No, not that you can shake a paper trail at, anyways. Your eight guardian angels are officially retired. The only thing they're members of now is the Sudden Deaths."

Casey's eyes widened and her voice rose.

"The BIKER GANG? The ones that are wanted for murder in several countries?"

"Wanted for, not convicted of. And all of their alleged vics also happened to be drug dealers, pimps, extortionists and so on…even a few scam artists and forgers who just happened to be connected to terrorists.

"As for 'murder,' dead men tell no tales but they make excellent martyrs. They are more useful when they can talk, and when no one can figure out what happened to them."

Casey collapsed into her easy chair. She felt like putting some distance between herself and Elliot.

"It's still kidnapping, then, and operating outside the law…AND knowingly associating with members of a criminal organization, or an "alleged" criminal organization as the case may be."

There was another long silence.

"Elliot…you really put me in a bad position here. I am touched by the lengths you went to to protect me. It solves almost all of my problems in one stroke. But, as an officer of the court, I really should report everything that you told me. And I am having a very hard time with the idea that gangsters are protecting me. What's more, I am having an even harder time trying to think of you knowingly associating with gangsters"

"Counselor," Elliot's face grew cold. "You do what you have to do."

"How do you know that I won't?"

"I don't, Casey, I don't. In fact, I have everything to tell me that I am way past strike three with you. The Walker case, when I went over your head to Branch in the Pritchard case, and then when you had to do a tightrope walk because I kept Alex's secret from you. Add them all up, and I have no reason to expect that you wouldn't report everything you just told me."

Casey considered that for a long moment. Her eyes never left Elliot's.

"For someone who is so certain of being reported, you don't look particularly upset."

"I'm not."

"Why not?"

"Couple reasons. First, there's what you told Liv and me after you found out Alex was alive and we knowingly signed a false affidavit 'We work together, we're supposed to trust each other' you said. Well, I am trusting you. I can assure you that other than what I told you, there is no way any of this can be traced back to you…"

"But there is always…"

"Not here, Casey. You deal with sexual predators. You used to deal with white collar crooks. Spooks are a completely different story. You and me are on the clock. They work 24/7. When this is your life, no detail goes unattended to. Everyone hears about it when one of Langley's ops goes south. We almost never hear about all the ops that work, at least not for decades. That isn't an accident. The only way you or I can get into trouble over this is if you go forward and say something."

"You sound like you know what you're talking about…" conceded Casey. But, she was far from calling off the dogs. "But if I did report you, your friends might get away, but you would be in for some serious questioning, to say the least."

"Yes, that's true. But that's a chance I'll have to take."

"Why? Why are you willing to take that chance?"

"I can think of a couple of reasons, Casey. I could tell you that, after you let me cry on your shoulder that night in your office, I owe you that much. That's certainly true, although it would be more of a "I scratch your back" type of thing, and I have a feeling you wouldn't like that very much."

"You're right."

"Then, there is when you told Andy Abbot's wife to get an HIV test, and ended up in pretty much the same position I'm in now. There was also—and for me, this is the most important reason—what you said to me when I asked you what good would it do anyone for you to throw away your career after you told me you wanted Taft off the bench. Do you remember what you said, Casey?

"You said, 'If this is justice, I don't want this career.' THAT, Casey, told me all I needed to know about you. Your conscience is so strong, that you are willing to put yourself at risk. You have that in common with Alex. I couldn't do anything to protect Alex, not then, not now. But I DAMN SURE am going to do what I can to protect you, even if it means going to jail for it. It's not just about our friendship, Casey, it's bigger than that. Brave people like you are the last hope this world has."

They stared at each other in silence for what seemed to be an eternity. Then Casey stood up, and Elliot mirrored her. Casey grabbed Elliot in both her arms, her right hand closing tight around the back of his neck. Her left hand, her left arm reaching around his back, caressed his left upper arm. Elliot's arms went around Casey, squeezing her as well.

"The world is a better place because of you, Elliot."

"Because of both of us, then. And don't worry, this can't go on forever."

"What do you mean?" asked Casey

"One day, the Colombians will act. When that day comes… remember how Dr. Blair just happened to spend two more nights in prison than he was supposed to?