Osser- Yiddish for forbidden
IWB- Inside Waistband carry (for concealed weapons)
Any departures from actual NYPD procedures are meant to serve the purposes of this story.
Rob Dolan is from the L&O episode "Ghost"
Warning: there are some bad words in this chapter.
Dinner #1 at Rocco's
4th Avenue
Brooklyn, NY
21 July
The tableau was the same as at Nick's Pizzeria on Sunday: Joe Fontana, this time in a tangerine golf shirt worn untucked, seated in a booth to the right of the door, Randolph J. Dworkin, in a rumpled brown suit with his tie loosened, across the table from him. The space between the two men was covered with silverware, water glasses, a plate holding a slice of cheese pizza, a legal pad, and two manila folders. Dworkin's briefcase occupied the space next to him.
Other than semi-polite greetings and Dworkin's food order, nothing had been said by either man. The attorney had busied himself with his pizza and his papers. Fontana was staring at the door, lost in his thoughts.
It's been almost a week and not a damn thing has been fixed... Monday, I had to go to the Oh-One and voucher my off-duty piece... thankfully, I know the desk sergeant, and he didn't question my turning in only one weapon.. I gave Judith the good stuff with the 'sales' paperwork dated from before I got canned...
The snub-nosed .38 at his waist and the P232 in his ankle holster had never been registered so Joe had felt no need to mention them to his friend at the First Precinct.
I'm risking three and a half upstate because of the calls and mail I'm getting—not that I have anything to worry about from them... besides, all my slacks are tailored for a IWB carry... without the .38, they look terrible...
Dworkin gestured at his pizza.
"I don't get you, Fontana. You keep scheduling our meetings at restaurants, but you never order anything."
Fontana sneered at his attorney.
I told you last time, I don't want to eat with you... I'm here because I'm meeting Judith for dinner, and you're here because you wanted to see me right away... if this is so urgent, then why waste my time eating?
When Joe did not reply, Randy Dworkin took another bite of his slice.
"I mastered the art of pizza eating at Harvard," he said. "Notice how none of the sauce or cheese ever lands on an important paper. That was my main take-away from first-year law—professors may not read every paper, but they do check for food stains. Tomato on my notes—okay. Tomato on my briefs—osser."
Joe slammed his hand palm-down on the table, letting its impact make his point.
"Just tell me what you found and be quick about it."
Dworkin smiled at his client.
"So abrupt. So dour. Very well, I'll be the same."
He set his half-eaten slice on its plate and turned down the corners of his mouth. His shoulders sagged and his head slumped over his pizza.
"Fontana," he said in a glum voice, "you're screwed."
Joe snorted at the attempted humor, but Dworkin did not smirk back.
"This time," he insisted, "I'm not kidding. Those complaints I read you on Sunday? They're in your personnel file, but no record of them exists in IAB's files, nor in the files of the Employee Management Division. None of the programs for tracking problem officers has ever heard of these complaints or of you—except by reputation, which somehow always seems to precede you."
Fontana stared at him blankly for a moment.
"You saying these complaints exist, but not officially?"
Dworkin nodded, the glum frown still in place.
"Every one of the standard NYPD procedures for handling complaints of harassment or abuse was disregarded for you. Complaints were filed, but they went only into your jacket—they were never acted upon. Now, can you explain why this might be?"
Joe lifted both hands in an expressive shrug.
"I remember the names you mentioned—Dolan, Reyes, Petrovich—but I had no idea anyone but Dolan had filed a complaint against me and Dolan was years ago. Most perps, they just bluff. They never go through with it."
Threats from humps are nothing but hot air... that's been true for over thirty years... nothing to worry about then... nothing to worry about now...
Dworkin regarded him with a thoughtful frown.
"Well, these nine 'perps' filed complaints," he told Joe, "complaints that no one did anything about, complaints that somehow got lost in the system. Now, why would multiple complaints from nine separate individuals get lost like that?"
Joe stared Dworkin straight in his eye.
"I don't know."
And don't say it's my fault... I had nothing to do with this...
Dworkin ignored Fontana's wounded sensibilities. He glanced at the tables nearby, but the nearest diner had his iPod's earbuds in, and the other couple in the room were busy with their own conversation. To Joe's consternation, the attorney then leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"Fontana, level with me. Did you bribe someone to bury these complaints?"
Joe squared his shoulders and glowered down at the attorney.
"I did not, and I don't like your question."
Dworkin kept his voice low.
"You carry enough cash to carpet Grand Central Station. Are you sure some of it didn't find its way into the pocket of a helpful clerk?
"Look, you little twerp," Joe snarled, "I just answered that question and my answer was 'No!'"
Despite the heat of Fontana's fury, Dworkin held his ground.
"Can you prove it?" he asked.
Joe opened his mouth to reply, but Dworkin's question made clear the threat he was facing. That knowledge closed his throat, and sucked the moisture from his tongue.
What proof? A photo of me not slipping cash to a clerk? Signed statements from every pencil-pusher in the department saying I never got a favor from them? Hell, the whole damn place runs on favors, but I never asked for this one...
His white-hot indignation drained away. The chill it left behind felt alarmingly like fear.
"Does the deputy commissioner," Joe asked, "have someone who says I bribed him?"
Dworkin shook his head.
"No, but the burden is on us, not Balzano. That's why you're screwed."
Joe sank back against the booth.
Balzano will point to the rules and regs that cover discipline for bad cops... he'll claim I got around them somehow... he doesn't have to show how—that's my problem... I get to prove the negative...
"So, what now?"
Dworkin pursed his lips as he thought.
"If I'm lucky, you tell me that you document every penny you spend. You give me that documentation—day books, receipts, vouchers—whatever you have to show where your cash goes. If I'm truly lucky, your cash withdrawals all tie to that spending so we can prove there are no unexplained cash left over for bribes."
"And," Joe growled, "if you're not lucky?"
"I look stupid at your appeal hearing, and you lose."
"No problem," Joe told him, pulling out his fountain pen and grabbing a loose sheet of blank paper. "Here's the phone number for my accountant. She has everything you need."
Dworkin raised his eyebrows at the name on the paper.
"I know Carol. So, you really do keep records?"
"Damn right I do. I don't mind paying my fair share of taxes, but I refuse to pay one cent more. I have vouchers for every C-note I've slipped a snitch and receipts for every round I've stood. It's all documented."
Dworkin slid the paper into his folder.
"I underestimated you, Fontana, but this doesn't get you off the train. The department brass can claim you have access to other sources of cash. Do you?"
A chill ran down Joe's spine.
Every time we worked a case in or near a bank, I'd tell Ed how I keep my money in a mattress... now, that stupid joke might bite me in the ass...
"No," Joe replied, "but who's gonna believe me?"
Dworkin flashed a cherubic smile.
"That, Fontana, is why you're paying my unreasonably high fees."
He made some notes on his legal pad.
"That should do it for now. After I talk to Carol, I'll arrange to have a forensic accountant go through your records. If we can account for all your cash, that will help blunt their claim that you bought your way out of those complaints."
Joe pointed his finger at his attorney's nose.
"It won't explain why those complaints aren't in the system. What about them?"
Dworkin slid the legal pad into his briefcase.
"One step at a time. Let's get proof you're not dirty—then we'll tackle why you're the lucky recipient of a massive bureaucratic error."
Joe thumped his finger on the table by the half-eaten pizza slice.
"Don't you leave until you tell me what my chances are."
Dworkin packed the folders with his legal pad before answering.
"Because of those complaints, the best we can hope for is your reinstatement at rank and pay grade, but under Special Monitoring."
Joe froze with his finger still pressing the table.
"But that's only one step away from termination!"
As he snapped his briefcase shut, Dworkin nodded.
"Given where you are right now, it's not too shabby. Got to go. Thanks for the nosh."
Dinner #2 at Rocco's
4th Avenue
Brooklyn, NY
21 July
I'm on a date... I'm not on-call and I'm on a date... if nothing blows up and no cases heat up, I might even get to finish a date... damn, I hope so—I'm so sick of getting called in dressed for dates that never happened...
Olivia Benson mentally crossed her fingers that no perp or uni would get to see her moss green crinkle skirt and sleeveless floral blouse.
And heels... nothing like working a crime scene in heels... and it's great to wear them and not worry about being taller than my date... I'd have to wear fourteen-inch heels to do that tonight...
Dave Viks had picked her up at her place in his tan Caravan, a minivan that still had Sunday's soccer gear piled in its cargo area.
"Sorry about the mess, but it's easier to leave it there than to bring it inside," he explained. "This way, Danielle can't 'accidentally' forget it for the next game."
As he drove Olivia back to Brooklyn, Dave also apologized for his choice of clothing.
"I don't usually wear Hawaiian shirts," he said, gesturing at the greens and mauves of the tropical print fabric, "but Danielle bought this for my birthday and she demanded I wear it tonight."
Olivia chuckled, remembering the tomboy whom she had seen kick two goals the previous Sunday.
I should offer to take her shopping... can't have her growing up thinking green and purple go together...
"You look fine," she assured Dave. "At least it isn't sequined or jeweled."
After Dave finished shuddering, they spent the drive chatting about kids and team practices until he pulled into a parking space on Fourth Avenue.
"You'll love this place," he said as he opened the passenger door for her. "Third generation family-owned and the best pizza in Brooklyn. My dad took my mother here for their first date, and they ate here twice a month until she passed."
Olivia allowed him to help her from the minivan. Instinct made her scan the locale for threats.
Storefronts, apartment buildings, parked cars... no one skulking, lurking, or giving marks the once-over...
She happily slipped out of cop mode and relaxed.
"So," she asked as they walked, "is this place where all the Viks take their dates?"
Dave shook his head.
"Ann was lactose-intolerant. Our first date was Chinese food."
The front door opened at their approach, held for them by an older man in shirt-sleeves and with a plastic take-out bag. Once they were inside, Dave pointed at his departing form.
"You see the grin on that man's face? It proves what I was saying—everyone loves Rocco's."
Inside, Dave was greeted by name by the counterman working his dough. The teenaged hostess asked about Danielle's soccer game as she seated them in a corner booth at the rear of the restaurant. While he took their beer and pizza order, the waiter wondered if Dave's father would be coaching CYO basketball again in the fall. The older woman who brought their mugs and pitcher of Blue Point Summer Ale asked if Lars had enjoyed Cub Scout day camp.
All of them eyed Olivia as though measuring her against the late Ann Viks before they granted their approval with a nod to Dave and a warm smile for her.
It's like meeting the family... if I took Dave to my local pizza joint, I'll bet no one would recognize me, let alone compare him to former boyfriends... I much prefer this...
Unfortunately, the mood shifted when Dave asked about work. Her immediate sigh prompted him to ask, "That bad?"
Oh, yeah... that bad...
"Our captain," she replied, "decided it was time to shuffle partners. I'm still with Elliot, but he broke up everyone else, and made them trade desks."
Fin and Couch... Judith and Chester... John and Donna...
"No one is happy about it."
She punctuated her sentence with a long sip of beer.
"And unhappy people do crappy jobs," Dave noted.
"You said it."
Fin's digging at Couch like he's trying to find the last straw so he can break it... Couch assumed Judith asked for a new partner because of his concerns about her fitness for duty—since Judith assumed the same about Couch, those two aren't getting along at all... John is still ignoring Fin and vis-versa plus he's pissed at some cracks about his age that Donna made... and he's worried about her ability to back him up on the street—a worry Donna has about John... it's a damn shame, because John worked really well with Jeffries... Chester's still steamed about his transfer... Elliot's had it with Cragen and he's barely tolerating Fin and Couch... if only they'd give each other a chance... but no one seems to have any patience to spare...
"Running the shift right now," Olivia admitted, "is like negotiating with street gangs. All they want to do is posture and fight. The only bright spot is Judith's phone calls from Fontana."
"How's that?"
"He talks and she tries to get a word in edgewise. We take her words and use them to figure out what's going on between them."
Olivia put her mug down so she could tick off a list on her fingers.
"Today, it was: Chicago, Nick, the Cubs, oh, okay. Everything except 'oh' and 'okay' were questions, and Judith really stressed the 'oh' like she was impressed or enlightened."
"And what did you figure out from all that?"
"Elliot knew that the Cubs have a home game on Judith's next day off. John knows that Fontana's brother is named Nick. Therefore, Judith has agreed to fly to Chicago on her day off to meet her future in-laws and watch the Cubs lose."
Dave grinned as he shook his head in disbelief.
"You're more inventive than we are. For us, it's Buzzword Bingo during staff meetings."
Olivia grinned back.
"I glad we don't do sit-down meetings. Everyone would have to check their weapons at the door."
Their pizza arrived. Conversation ceased as they divvied up slices—pepperoni for her, pepperoni and anchovy for him. Dave's first bite was accompanied by a hum of pure bliss.
Olivia nibbled at her slice.
It's okay... I mean—crust, tomato sauce, cheese, and sausage—how much variation in flavor can there be?
She smiled to show Dave she liked it.
"The Greeks were wrong," he said after swallowing. "The gods dined not on ambrosia, but on Rocco's pizzas."
"I think there's a historical problem with that," she told him. "The Italians didn't even get tomatoes until after the Greek gods became myths."
He shooed the fact away with a wave of his slice.
"I never let reality ruin my metaphors. Besides, it's not just the pizza; there's also the person I'm sharing it with."
Olivia felt her cheeks warm from the compliment. Dave smiled back, then went to work on his slice. They ate in silence for a while then he peered at her.
"You know," he said, "when I asked you about work, I thought you'd talk about your cases, not your coworkers."
She smiled in apology.
"Sorry—partner problems are my current worry. The cases—well, they are what they are. Brutalized victims whose lives are ripped apart, and all I can do is try to get justice for them. Stopping the perps before they strike—now, that would do some good, but we're always behind the curve, never in front of it."
Olivia sighed then said, "You learn to cope—you have to, or you break."
Dave peered at her for long enough to make Olivia uncomfortable.
"Cope with it," he finally asked, "or tune it out?"
The question came at her like a slap to the face, but his expression held sincerity, not censure.
I need to drop the suspicion... just because my unit is at each other's throats doesn't mean Dave is out to get me...
She deliberately took a sip of her beer to give herself time to form a calm response.
"Why do you ask?"
She took Dave's half-smile as an apology for the personal question.
"Mostly because I see the 'tune it out' response in a lot of the kids we handle. The scientific term is habituation, meaning the decrease in response to a stimulus due to its repetition. A caregiver yells too often, the kid stops hearing it. Too much abuse, the kid stops feeling it. That's one of the reasons abuse escalates; the abuser can't get the needed reaction out of the victim anymore."
Before Olivia could agree with him, Dave continued.
"I also see it in my people. Some of them tune out their clients because they've seen so much hurt and need, they can't respond to it anymore. They're my burn-outs, the ones I need to replace—assuming I can catch it in time, and can get a replacement for them. It doesn't always work out."
He picked up his beer mug as though to drink only to put it back untouched.
"I figured you guys would have the same problem, only worse. At least we see some happy cases—mothers cleaning up their acts and getting their children back, children finding forever homes—for us, it's not all doom and gloom."
Olivia mulled over his comments while she finished her slice.
The rule of thumb for SVU is 'two years and out,' but Elliot, John, Fin, and me—Chester, too—we've all been around longer than that... are we habituated? Are we fighting amongst ourselves because we've lost our common outrage at what our victims have suffered?
"I hadn't thought about it like that," she admitted. "My shift recently had some major fallout from an undercover case we worked. Everyone's been blaming that for all the inter-personal shit. Maybe we're blaming the wrong thing."
Dave shrugged then he refilled their mugs from the pitcher.
"Hard for me to say. I do know it's a stupid thing to discuss on a date. How about we change the topic—Giants or Jets?"
The familiar gauntlet of first-date questions brought a smile to Olivia's lips.
"Jets. You?"
"Same here. Now, Yankees or Mets?"
"Doesn't matter. I'm not big on baseball."
"Okay—baseball or hockey?"
She crinkled her nose at the selection. Dave grinned back at her.
"For me, it's football or nothing. I only do soccer because Danielle loves it."
"Sounds good to me," she said. "Movies or plays?"
Dave chuckled. "What's a play? Right now, it's all Disney on DVD."
"DVDs for me, too. Last play I tried to see, I got called in to work a case."
"Bummer," he replied. "Beer or wine?"
Olivia gestured at her mug. "Wine, but it's close."
"Beer with pizza," he told her, "wine with pasta. Alka-Seltzer with Chinese."
She snickered and he joined his laugh to hers.
I'm really enjoying this... just forget work and live my life... Dave makes it easy to do...
She stared into his ice blue eyes, and marveled at how the joy in them made her happy.
I may actually have lucked out with this guy...
Dinner #3 at Rocco's
4th Avenue
Brooklyn, NY
21 July
Joe grunted in response to Dworkin's departure then he drew his hand back to his lap, and fixed his gaze on the water glass before him.
Special Monitoring? That's for the rotten apples—the scum that dishonor the badge and stink up the station house... I don't deserve that... I don't deserve any of this... getting tossed out on my keister... my picture in the paper under the headline 'Kid-Killing Cop Gets Canned'... the letters from the humps I busted who saw the paper: 'This made my day'... 'Couldn't happen to a nicer fuckwad'... or the one from Golja—'You're a easy target without the badge'... and that phone message telling me to watch my back 'cause Crespo's thugs are gunning for me... good thing I know how to take care of myself...
A hand came into his field of vision and snapped its fingers, startling him from his thinking. Joe twisted to his left, ready to chew out the man who had interrupted him.
One look at his face and Joe's stomach lurched.
Rob Dolan... the guy I tried to collar for his daughter's rape and murder... where the hell did he come from?
Dolan stood at Joe's shoulder. He was wearing a white short-sleeved dress shirt with its collar open. His left hand held a plastic take-out bag, and his face wore a tight-lipped smirk.
"Detective Fontana," Dolan said in greeting, "or should I say 'ex-Detective Fontana'?"
Joe's gaze darted over the nearby booths. All were now empty.
I didn't notice them leave... I didn't see Dolan walk up...
"Or maybe," Dolan continued, his glee growing with every syllable, "you prefer 'the Fontana formerly known as Detective.' The title doesn't matter to me. However I say it, it still sounds damn good."
He slid into the booth opposite Joe and brushed aside Dworkin's plate and silverware. Joe sat as though mesmerized, unable to protest or leave.
We ruined his life, Salone and me—we decided he had to be guilty, and we overlooked Johnny Zona, the real rapist and killer... I'm the one who reopened the case... I'm the one who put it back in the news... this time, me and Ed found Zona and, after he was convicted, I'm the one who tried to apologize for everything... but I'm the one Dolan can't forgive...
He stared at Dolan's hands as he pushed the silverware out of his way.
He could have shot me... that's how sloppy I got... he could have slit my throat—that's how close I let him get to me...
Another wave of nausea hit him.
"So, Fontana—what brings you to Park Slope?" Dolan asked.
He paused for a reply. When Joe did nothing but swallow, the disdain in Dolan's voice thickened.
"You know, this is a great place to start over again. You can rent a storefront to take the place of your corner office, and run a small business to replace the seven-figure income you once had. You can rent a house that would fit in the foyer of your Park Avenue brownstone, and then you can watch your wife sicken and die in it."
Dolan folded his arms on the table and rested his weight on them. The sneer distorting his mouth and his hate-filled glare gave the lie to his friendly posture.
"And, while you're pretending to enjoy your new life, you can listen to the locals talk behind your back. For me, they discussed how I raped and murdered my own daughter. For you, they'll discuss how you deliberately ruined people for fun and press coverage."
Joe swallowed hard. No response came to mind or to his tongue.
It wasn't fun and it wasn't for the press... it was because I made a mistake... one you paid for in spades...
Dolan raised up on his elbows and leaned forward, putting his face so close to Fontana's that he pressed Joe back against the booth.
"You know that article telling the world what a rotten cop you were? I taped it to my bathroom mirror. It's the first thing I see in the morning, and the last thing I see at night. I put it there to remind me..."
He paused to savor Joe's discomfort.
"... that lying, press-hungry detectives who don't give a shit about the people they ruin sometimes get what's coming to them."
He sat back down with a smug smile. Joe eased forward, unable to meet Dolan's mocking glare.
I never bought that karma stuff... but I owe this guy for what I put him through... if this is how I have to pay up, so be it...
"What's wrong, Fontana? Cat got your tongue?"
Joe shook his head.
"You deserve a free shot at me."
"Damn right I do," Dolan snapped back. "It's a good thing I'm not a violent man. You were so busy wallowing in your own self-pity, I could have stabbed you, shot you, maybe even strangled you. Next time, you won't be so lucky."
Joe licked his lips as he checked out Dolan's stance and tells.
"Is that a threat?"
Even to Joe's ear, his voice sounded weak. Dolan chuckled.
"Not from me. I'd rather see you live a long, miserable life then die in agony like my Amy and my Sarah did. I want to be the only mourner at your funeral, and I plan to piss on your grave."
Dolan slid out of the booth to stand next to Fontana. The hatred in his eyes brightened into a truly terrible joy.
"It was good seeing you like this, ex-Detective Fontana. This really made my day."
With that, Dolan picked up his take-out bag and walked away. Joe watched him stop at the entrance and hold the door for an incoming couple.
That's Benson...
He turned his head and hunched his shoulders so she wouldn't recognize him. When the hostess directed Benson and her companion to the rear of the place, he slumped forward.
Like an unwashed shirt... I've got no starch in me at all...
His mind's eye pictured again those fingers snapping in his face.
Dolan's right... he could killed me... that's how much attention I wasn't paying... I'm damn lucky he wasn't Golja or one of Crespo's thugs... problem is—there's no way I can watch my own back... I gotta think about this—figure out how to handle it...
The front door opened again, this time to let Judith enter the restaurant. She spotted Joe immediately and came straight to his booth.
She looks great in blue... not at all like a cop—okay, so her walk and her quick check of the premises gives her away, but she still looks great...
"Sorry I'm late," Judith said as she slid into the booth. "What—you've already eaten?"
She indicated the half-eaten slice and the silverware that had been shoved to one side. Joe tried a smile, but his lips refused to budge.
"You want to move somewhere else?" he asked.
"Nope. They'll clear it away. How you doing?"
Joe shrugged as though his circumstances weren't worth discussing.
I don't want to lie to her... but I can't tell her this, neither... I don't know what she'll do...
"Can't complain. You?"
"Busy. Chester and I got a weird one today. A woman is accusing her boyfriend of having sex with her Corgi."
The oddness of her reply somehow unfroze Joe's facial muscles. He quickly raised his eyebrows and gaped at her.
"Corgi? Isn't that a dog?"
Judith nodded. "Specifically, a Pembroke Welsh Corgi—looks a bit like a large dachshund with big ears and no tail. According to its owner, the lack of tail is what attracted her boyfriend to Pumpkin."
The waiter arrived during Judith's explanation. While he bussed their table, Judith said nothing, but her smile told Joe she was dying to say more.
And I'm all for it... every minute she talks is one I don't have to...with any luck, I can get through this evening and never mention my problems...
Joe's luck held. During the placing of their order, the sharing of a bottle of Vernaccia, and while they consumed a veggie pizza with anchovies, Judith carried the conversation. She told Joe about her case load, the friction at SVU, and how Cragen had again left them all hanging so he could play a round of midweek golf with Beale.
All I had to do was look interested and make a few comments...
The only bobble came when they were leaving. Judith glanced at the back of the restaurant then tipped her head at a couple seated in the back section.
"That looks like Olivia," she said.
Joe made a show of examining the back of Benson's head.
"Naw," he replied. "I saw her come in. She's someone else."