Last Train Home

Hey all! I know… another fic… can I keep up?

No. Probably not, but you love me all the same, right? Heh. I promise to finish out HWKT and Intervention. I do. I just don't promise when. I know they're both wrapping up. And, for those of you that follow my A/O fic, that one will be accomplished to the end as well.

This one is a request that I've been sitting on for some time. I fell in love with the idea of it, and I really want to do it justice, so I've babied it for a while, researched a little, and tried to figure out what I can get away with in terms of creativity. It all sort of settled into place for me on the last train home tonight. Hopefully, you'll get a few laughs, a few feels, and a few tears because that's my goal.

As always, please let me know if I'm accomplishing this.

Chapter One: A Blessing and a Curse

"I want a new co-chair," I snapped, no grace and all rage as I walked into Jack McCoy's office with all the humility I could muster – which, at the time, was just about none. "I can't believe you have the nerve to ask me to split my docket with her. She was suspended for a reason, Jack."

DA McCoy has always had a soft spot for me. Even before he was the elected official, he would go out of his way to make me happy. I think it had something to do with the fact that he was a close friend of my uncle's, Judge William Hermann, and was, by proxy, an extended sort of uncle to me. At any rate, he had seen me at my best and at my worst, and that day was not one of my better days.

"Alexandra," he said, his tone starting in on me like I was an unruly child. Some days, I would have agreed with him. My temper has always ruled my head. I just tended to be more diplomatic about my anger management issues than most people did. "Did you even look at her statistics when she was here while you were – away?"

I heard the pause. He had been among those who had truly believed me to be dead while I was in witness protection. I had always felt a little bad, especially when I had seen the hurt in his eyes when I had walked into the DA's office during the prosecution of my attempted homicide. I had truly believed Olivia and Elliot would have told Don and Jack, if no one else. But, they had not. In some ways, I was glad.

"That doesn't excuse her blatant willingness to break the law," I said, my arms folded across my chest.

He eyed me. "You've come close, Alex," he reminded me. "In fact, I would wager you've probably broken the law yourself when it comes to prosecuting. Just because you're more subtle about it does not make her any less an ADA than you. She's dedicated to her job, Alex. That's all."

"No, Jack," I huffed. "I'm dedicated to my job. I bend the law, yes, but I am intelligent enough not to break it." He gave me that classic look of his that said I was lying to myself. I hadn't thought he knew about that, but then again – he was a mysterious man. "Brady rules, McCoy. Brady rules. What half-witted attorney can't get those right?"

"Did you ask her why she did it?" he suggested, leaning back in his seat.

I shook my head. "I don't need to."

"So, you have no idea if she's half-witted or not."

I fumed at him, glaring at him with icy daggers in my eyes. And, I knew I looked scary. But, good old Uncle Jack knew this Ice Queen too well.

"My office, Alex. My decisions. Don't like them, go work for another county."

Pursing my lips, I pondered if looks really could kill. They couldn't. I tried. Jack did not have a heart attack and die. He knew I would never leave the Manhattan District Attorney's Office for very long if I didn't have to. My heart and soul were here. I had dreamed my whole life of working in this very office while nursing a political career. I hated that he did that to me. I hated that he acted like he could so easily dismiss me. "Maybe I will."

He called my bluff. "We both know you won't do that, but if you like, I could accept your two weeks."

"No," I said with a sigh.

"You don't have to like her, Alex, but you do have to work with her."

It took everything I had not to slam his office door on the way out. I did, however, lock mine on my return. Not even five seconds later, a light knock on my door told me it was not my secretary looking for me. Marla had been my secretary for years. Minus the break of me being in Witness Protection when she had been Casey Novak's secretary. She had been shuffled over to the Special Victims Unit because no one else would take it. She had turned into my greatest asset when I was working, though. If I needed something, I had but to call, text, or email, and I would get it. She was my lifeline if ever I had one. But, she was also firm. My senior by at least twenty years, she had no problem putting me in my place. Maybe that was why I liked her.

No, this knock was quiet, hurried, nervous. Whoever was on the other side really did not want to talk to me. "Yes?" I barked.

"Can I come in?" the object of my frustrations called through the heavy oak door. The bonus about returning from Witness Protection was that I got my old office back with my old leather couch and my old oak desk and my lamps and my books, less my old statute books and more the newer versions. I was a senior ADA which meant I got choice pick, and although McCoy had hired Casey Novak back as a senior ADA, she was still below me. She got my hand me downs by way of library and legal material. I hated to feel superior about that because it was really a disadvantage for both of us that she had to keep borrowing my statute books, but in my rage that I had to put up with her, I needed something to grasp on to. Later, I could be ashamed that I had stooped to that.

"What do you need?" I called back, neither inviting her in nor sending her away.

I could see her out there, in my mind's eye, chewing at her lower lip. It was a habit I noticed she had when around me. She hadn't been like that when she had been the prosecutor on my attempted homicide case. In fact, I had believed her to be at least competent despite not really being likeable during that case. She needed obvious guidance. But, following her suspension, every time she saw me, she looked down and bit her lip. I half expected her to apologize to me for letting the office down the way she had. Not only that, but I felt personally attacked by it because it was my position she had sullied. I had been assigned to Sex Crimes to clean up the police portion of the unit. And, I thought I had done a good job of that. In her years as prosecutor plus those months following before I was freed from Marshal custody, the unit had successfully gone to Hell again. I resented her for that.

"Can I staff a case with you?" she asked me. I could hear the hurt in her voice, and I cringed.

Sighing, I turned my computer on with a hard jam of the power button and ran my fingers through my hair, pulling slightly. It helped to relieve a little of the frustration I felt. "Now? I'm a little preoccupied."

"Sorry," she said. "I'll come back later."

I did not hear her leave, but she must have because silence followed for a good five minutes while I tried to unwind my tension. I would staff it with her later. She needed more than a hand with most of her work, and I had to admit, I was a little peeved that she needed so much work for the recommendation she came with. Outside of her Brady violation, all reports indicated she was a good attorney. If I were honest, my fear was that her disregard for legal rulings would lead to more messes than clean ups, and I would have to swoop in and handle not only my cases but fix hers as well. I did not have the time for that.

A firm knock on my door told me that I probably wanted to answer this one. Still, I ignored it for a moment. "Alexandra Victoria Cabot," Marla's stern voice always had a way of carrying completely through the door. And, down the hall. Possibly through the elevator. "You open this door right now because I promise you that what I have to say is not something you want the rest of the office to hear."

I did because she would have the conversation through the door, and the entire floor would know by that afternoon how thoroughly I had been scolded by my secretary. The floor seemed to know anyway, but, nevertheless, they did not need to know what I had been told off for. "What?" I snapped, my anger refueling as I opened the door.

She came in, shutting the door behind her. "Don't you think you're a little old for this?" I eyed her strangely as I crossed my arms over my chest. "Temper tantrums, Alex. You're forty years old for Christ's sake, not three."

"I'm not having a tantrum. She really is too incompetent for this unit."

"She would give her world for the victims, Alex. She's not unlike you. Give the girl a chance. You think you're Miss Big Shot Attorney, then fine. Give her a guiding hand. She's younger than you, Alex."

"Not that much. If she were fresh out of misdo court, then, yes, I would have patience. She's incompetent," I retorted. "Maybe McCoy should have started her back in misdos. At least, then, she would re-earn her right."

"Is that what that is to you?" Marla asked me, her hands on her hips as she looked down her nose at me. On top of being my senior in age, she was actually an inch taller than me, despite being in her sixties, and she used that small height advantage often enough that she had long since learned how to make me feel about three inches tall. "You think she didn't earn her right to be here? Who else in this office would you staff, Alex? Because, I'll tell you what, no one else wants to be here. This unit is dirty. It gives nightmares unlike even the homicide unit. People do not have the reserve to last in this unit. Only you and Casey have. That should tell you something about her. "

I shook my head. "She's got no nerve. Maybe she had talent once," I agreed with a sigh as I sat down at my desk. "But, it was a stupid Brady violation. She knows she fucked that up royally, and she's lost her nerve. She has no drive. I mean, Marla, do you hear the way she knocks on my door."

"You intimidate her."

"That's my point exactly. If I intimidate her, how can I trust her not to lose her cool up against some of these defense attorneys, Marla? If a defendant walks because she can't keep it together, then the defendant gets to rape one more woman – probably far more than that – before we get another crack at him. The opportunity for justice is lost."

Marla shook her head. "Give her a fair chance, Alex. Like the chance you asked Abbie to give to you."

"I was twenty six, Marla. I was green. I was fresh out of misdo court."

"Not everyone advances like you do, Alex. She's gone about ten steps back since she worked this unit solo. Show a little confidence in her, and she'll start to show confidence in herself. You forget, Alex, I was her secretary, too. I know her the same way I know you."

"That's terrifying," I scoffed. "Fine. If. If, Marla, and don't you go suggesting to her anything. If she comes to me and asks, I'll grant it."

"You know, the best doers become educators," she said with a small smile. It was a victory for her. I had conceded to her whim, though that was usually the case. I might have had the hotter temper, but she was more stubborn than a mule. If Marla wanted something, talk about getting it. Why she had never pursued a job beyond secretarial work was beyond me.

"She's five years younger than me, by the way," I said. "That's not a lot. I was in Witness Protection for three years. She was suspended for three years. I didn't lose my nerve."

"You lost something, Alex," she said. "And, whatever it was, you didn't find it in the ICC, Appeals, or Homicide."

I bit my lip as she walked out. Yes, she had made me feel tiny. Three inches tall was too high at that point, and I collapsed onto my couch with a sigh as she closed the door behind her. I had bounced around between Special Victims, Homicide, and the Appeals Courts for four years. Marla was right. I had lost something. I had lost my place. I had not wanted to return to SVU with the memories I had, so I had tried homicide, but I could not sit still. I had lost my fiancé there because I had needed someone stable but had been so unstable myself. I had applied to work appeals, moved upstate, and found myself a really good therapist. I liked to think I was doing better, but maybe Marla was right. Maybe I had lost something, too, in the trauma I had felt.

Still, Casey was not injured pursuing a case. She had been censured by the bar because she had lied to a judge and violated Brady rules. That wasn't exactly traumatic. It was stupid. It was overzealous. It was arrogant.

Regardless of my personal opinion, though, Marla had a point. I still had a professional obligation to my unit, and that meant that I needed to give Casey whatever guidance I could. Calming down as much as I could, which did not say too much considering my temper had been on edge since returning from the International Criminal Court, I pattered over to her office, my own law books in hand.

"Casey?" I queried, peering into her office. "Do you still need to staff that case?"

The red head looked up from her desk. She had a habit of working in the dark that I did not understand. My office was dim, but the only light in hers was from her computer. It cast an eerie glow over her already too pale skin, and I fought the urge to wrinkle my nose. It was not so much that I found her physically unappealing, but I worried about how pale she was sometimes. There was no way she was healthy. She nodded at me, her eyes both fierce and apologetic. It was like she was divided between two ideas of herself, and she could not figure out which one to be. That was bad. It spelled a world of trouble, and I did cringe.

"Which case?" I asked, flicking on her lights. She blinked rapidly, as though I had just shined a megawatt bulb directly into her eyes. "Why are you always in the dark?"

She shrugged. "Easier on my eyes," she murmured, looking away. I dismissed her easy answer without saying anything. Honestly, I did not want to ask. I didn't want to know. I didn't care. "It's the Morgan case. I'm running into a few dead ends here."

I was familiar with the case. Sarah Morgan, a six year old little girl, was found dead behind a dumpster during the winter months. Initially, police had assumed no foul play, that she had frozen to death by accident. But, when she did not come up in the missing persons database, the medical examiner took a close look at her. Evidence suggested long term sexual abuse. And, further investigation by the squad showed that she did not have a birth certificate. She had been Jane Doe until we had found her birth mother through a DNA test. The birth mother was dead, though. She was a cold case in homicide.

"What dead ends?" I asked, skeptical. The detectives we regularly worked with had picked up a suspect in her death shortly after the M.E. ruled it a homicide stating that the girl had been poisoned with anti-freeze in a quantity that was more than enough to kill and far more than a little girl with otherwise normal characteristics would ingest accidentally. The guy, a Fred Markson, had all but confessed to her murder, though the defense attorney was now claiming that statement had been given under duress. I hated when defenders threw that word around, but I still could not see why Casey was having such a hang up.

I watched her wring her hands. Sighing, I leaned back in the chair. "Casey, this one's pretty straightforward. How did you mess it up?"

"Why did you assume I messed it up?"

I just gave her a sharp look. "Did you?"

She shook her head. "No. I just-" She looked at me, suddenly, her brow furrowed, and sighed. "You know what, never mind. Forget I asked. I have to be in court in fifteen minutes. Excuse me."

Casey Novak had the audacity to leave me sitting in her office after she had asked for a staffing. I sighed and contemplated returning to my own office and locking the door again. I did not have the patience for her. I found myself wanting her to screw up again so that I could ask McCoy to fire her. Chances were, he'd have my job for not helping her as well. I would have to play the field there.

Truth be told, I did not want to see her fired. I just did not want her on such a specialized docket. I had not been kidding when I thought that she needed to go back to misdemeanor court and start fresh. Maybe it would remind her how important the seemingly small things were.

Still, she had left her Morgan case file on her desk, and I picked it up, opting for a little light reading. How badly could she have mucked it up, anyway? Nothing I couldn't fix, surely. I glanced through her notes on the case. The last hearing was a motions hearing. People's motion to include human services records granted. Defense motion to reconsider bail denied. Defense motion requesting additional discovery granted. There were a handful of other standard motions to the case, none of which the outcomes surprised or vexed me. I saw nothing in her notes that indicated she had messed up.

My second task was to peddle through her emails with the defense attorney. Had she offered something she regretted? Had she forced a trial? I did not mind trials. In fact, a large part of me wanted this to go to trial. I wanted him to walk away with nothing less than a Class A first degree murder conviction if not several sexual assault – child convictions as well. Everything about what I leafed through, though, seemed to me to be very much on task with where I expected the case to be. I read through her denied motions to see if and what I would have written differently. There were some changes that I would have made, but none that I could say with certainty would have changed the outcome of the motions.

I didn't understand it. I didn't understand her. The three months we had been working together, I just didn't get it. She would be so fierce one moment and so needy the next. Independent and then flustered. More than once, I had caught her fleeing to the bathroom to vomit after a hearing. I had asked a couple of times if she was alright, but she had dismissed me every time. Two moody women in Special Victims did not bode well for our professional relationship.

Sighing, I took the file with me to her office. I knew it would force a conversation later, but I wanted a straight answer from her. I had to know if she thought she could hack it. Because, if she couldn't, I was going to ask her to resign.

So, maybe I was taking the file with me knowing full well it would force an argument. It probably was not fair of me. Between the two of us in a verbal argument, I would easily have the upper hand. She was not as good as I was, and I did not mean that to gloat. She simply was not. There were attorneys better than me. There were a lot of attorneys better than me. Casey Novak was not one of them. She gave me a run for my money. If she were a defense attorney, she would be amusing. But, she could not hold her own against me for long. I knew it. She knew it. Most defense attorneys knew it.

So, when that argument came around, I was ready for it. She slunk into my office looking worn out and tired, her hands draped on the couch. I raised my brow. "Did you get a chance to look over everything?" she asked me, her voice not calm but not angry either. She was nervous.

"I don't know why you feel like you're having trouble," I began, trying to be civil about it.

She shook her head. "I'm second guessing my every move right now, Alex," she admitted. "I just – am I headed the right direction on this?"

"Let me be so cliché as to answer your question with a question – why do you feel like you're bound to mess things up?"

"I've messed things up before," she said, sucking her lower lip into her mouth. "Pretty bad. I let a monster go free. I can't do it again."

"You can't be so nervous. You need to have confidence in what you are doing, Casey, or you don't need to be doing it."

She nodded, hugging herself. I swore she looked paler than she had earlier that day. "Yea, maybe. I have a meeting this afternoon. You don't need me for anything, do you?" I shook my head. "Okay. Can I have my file back?"

I handed her the file, not sure how I felt about our little exchange. She had rolled over for me. She had tucked her tail between her legs and rolled over. It felt somehow wrong. I don't think I'm a bitch. Harsh, maybe. Cold, yes. But, a bitch? No. I have feelings. I do. And, it saddened me that she did not respond to my anger except with hesitation and the makings of fear. In a way, it was good to know she feared me. In a way, it made me feel like a terrible person that my coworker thought of me that way. I was a fearsome woman, but not someone she needed to be afraid of.

"Casey," I said on her way out.

She paused, her hand barely touching the wooden door frame. "Yea?"

"Why don't I cover your docket tomorrow? You look sick. Take the day and rest up."

She nodded. "Okay. I might. Thank you."

"Casey," I said again, stopping her a second time. She paused and looked at me but said nothing. "I know a good therapist in the New York area you could talk to if these cases are getting to be too much."

"I'm fine," she said. "Just coming down with a Spring cold."

"Okay," I said.