CHAPTER 1: EXECUTION
Author's Notes:
OK, I wasn't sure about doing this POV because as we all know, Claire's story ends rather abruptly. While I am in no way adverse to writing angstfic, I usually like to end with some kind of semblance of a happy ending.
There's no happy or tidy ending here, unless you're a believer in the afterlife. I'm not sure I am (being an agnostic, like Claire herself), but even if I were I wouldn't know how to write a chapter about Claire ascending to Heaven. If your beliefs lean in that direction, by all means go ahead and imagine that as the last chapter.
ooo000ooo
"I'm going to plead Carson down to Aggravated Assault," Claire decided, looking over one of the case files she'd brought for the long drive to Attica.
"Sounds about right. What does his lawyer think?" Jack asked, passing a large semi.
"He still thinks he can get off, but he hasn't taken a look at the witness."
"How is she?"
"Very credible."
"Put some pressure on him. Let him know we're eager to go to trial and get the whole nine yards, Attempted Murder, Conspiracy, all of it."
"We don't have enough to convict on any of that," Claire pointed out.
"He doesn't know that."
"Full disclosure, Jack? They know what we have and don't have."
"They also know you work with me," he grinned, eyes on the road.
"Does it make you happy to have a reputation as a prosecutor who withholds evidence?" she looked at his profile.
"As long as it doesn't get me disbarred and helps put criminals away, yes, it does."
"That's very funny, Jack. I'd really like to make through the next few years without being called to testify about your ethics again."
"We got through it all right the last time, didn't we?"
"All's well that ends well?" Jack shrugged. She shook her head and moved on to another file.
"Enrique Gomez. He tied up his ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend, made him watch while he raped her, then made her watch while he crushed the boyfriend's head in with a lead pipe. Then he tried to kill her with the pipe too. The boyfriend is dead and she's suffered extensive brain damage, especially in her motor skills area. Apparently she'll never walk normally or drive a car again. She may never be able to hold down a job either. They're asking for Man One, five to fifteen."
"Man One?" Jack's eyebrows climbed up. "On what grounds?"
"They're claiming it was a crime of passion, that she was cheating on him."
"'The bitch had it coming to her?'"
"That's the essence of Mr. Gomez's defense."
"Wait, the Gomez case? Isn't that the one where you had at least five witnesses who said she broke up with him months ago? And he stalked her?"
"The very same. Unfortunately, she also had sex with him twice, with no violence, during those four months. She claims he forced her to by threatening to kill her boyfriend if she didn't, he claims it was consensual and proves that they were still involved."
"She said, he said," Jack concluded. He ruminated for a moment. "You know, you could tell them we're going for Murder One, because of the viciousness of the murder. Call it a torture killing. Threaten them with the death penalty, then offer life instead of death."
The death penalty. Use it as a stick, and dangle life in prison as the carrot. Claire shuddered.
"Isn't his attorney Joyce Glacken?" Claire mhm'd yes. "She always pleads out. She'll probably tell him to take life and run."
"Great, so justice is served because of a death threat and a bad public defender."
"Would you rather have him out to do it again?"
Claire ignored that. "She also wants us to drop the sex charge. He doesn't want to be a convicted rapist."
"He's concerned about his image?"
"He's done time before, five years for Ag Assault. He knows what happens to rapists in prison."
"Good," Jack nodded with grim satisfaction. "Maybe some day another inmate will say the same thing about him, 'the bitch had it coming to him'."
"I don't think he'll take the plea if we don't drop the rape charge. Joyce said he's actually not that worried about his safety in prison, since the violence of the rape and the fact that he killed her boyfriend should earn him points. But he still wants it dropped. I think it has more to do with pride than concern for his safety."
"So he figures he'll be OK as a convicted rapist because he's a vicious convicted rapist, not a run-of-the-mill convicted rapist," Jack shook his head in disgust.
"Do you think it's worth a fight? I'd rather just drop it and take the plea."
Jack thought for a minute. "No. You're right. Go ahead. Offer life without parole and drop the rape charge."
As they talked, Claire privately marveled at Jack's sang froid. How could he be so calm about this? He was sifting through cases like it was just any other day at the office. The only difference was they were doing this in the car instead of over Chinese takeout at the office or one of their apartments.
I am not going to bring it up again. It goes nowhere.
Nine o'clock. Two and a half hours till Attica. Three hours left of Mickey Scott's existence.
She took out another file. "The Mandelay case, Kevin and Marisa."
"Bonnie and Clyde?"
"No, they're brother and sister. Silverman wants leniency for the girl."
Jack tried to remember what he knew of the case. "She'll be very sympathetic. She's got no record."
"She held up a bodega, Jack."
"He'll argue that she was just along for the ride."
"Silverman's a pussycat. I can take him," she said confidently.
"I happen to agree with him. I don't think a jury would convict her. Wasn't she on the honour roll?"
"You want me to take a lesser charge for her?"
"It's your call," Jack said dubiously.
"I want Man One for both. She knew what she was doing."
"OK... if you think Silverman will go for it." Jack looked at the clock on the dashboard. "Do you mind driving?"
"No, of course not," he drove to the shoulder and they switched places.
"I'm think I'll try to nap a bit." He leaned back and was soon dozing off.
Nine thirty. Two and a half hours left till they killed Mickey Scott.
Claire glanced at Jack, peacefully asleep in the passenger seat. How could he sleep? How could he be so unaffected by this?
She wondered if he thought about Scott at all. If he ever had any doubts. He just seemed so... cold about this. She felt like her heart was going to break, knowing that in a few hours a living, breathing, person was going to die at the hands of the State, and that she would be partially responsible for his death. And it didn't bother Jack at all. Jack was napping on his way to this State-sponsored murder.
It was absolutely chilling sometimes to be with a person who could be so passionate about some things and dispassionate about others. When it came to the death penalty, he not only didn't feel what she felt; he didn't even react with compassion towards her feelings. She had been almost in tears once, trying to express how wrong it was... and he'd just taken it as an interesting intellectual exercise.
The Paul Sandig case had been the worst. The first capital case she'd ever worked on - the first one since New York got the death penalty. She'd argued against asking for it, and he'd been coldly certain that it was the right thing to do. His reasoning was practical and despicable. The people were sick of crime, they needed a sense of control, they had a need for vengeance and if the State didn't want people to take vengeance themselves, they had to provide a legal means.
Which was despicable. Plain and simple. Jack felt that since the need for vengeance was a natural human instinct and it needed no apology. Well, murderous rage was also a natural human instinct. So were greed and prejudice and a host of other antisocial impulses. Civilized beings still tried to keep a lid on them. Just because something was a natural human instinct did not mean it should be indulged.
Ten o'clock. Two hours left to Mickey Scott's life.
Vengeance. What a horrible cause to champion. She believed wholeheartedly that the death penalty was wrong because the State should not be reduced to the level of a murderer, but at least if there had been some other reasoning behind it she could have accepted Jack's position more easily. If there were statistics that proved that the death penalty was any kind of a deterrent, or that it saved money that could better be used to improve society in other ways. But there weren't. It didn't reduce the crime rate and it actually cost the State money, money that could be better spent on actual crime prevention - literacy programs, drug counseling, prenatal care for low income babies.
Instead of pursuing those options, the State spent money fighting for vengeance.
A vengeance that was, moreover, arbitrary and unfair, as well as an awesome responsibility to place on the shoulders of those involved in the process. Who were they to decide life and death? Why would Paul Sandig and Mickey Scott die while other killers lived? Theirs weren't bloodless crimes, but neither were they as heinous as some she'd seen.
For example, Enrique Gomez. Why was he going to live? Paul Sandig killed a police officer and probably regretted it with all his heart. He had been an upstanding pillar of the community until he helped his employer launder money and then killed a cop. This other lunatic had brutally raped his girlfriend, to the point where she would probably never be normal again. Claire winced as she remembered the medical report of the girl's internal injuries. He'd tortured her and her boyfriend, forcing the boyfriend to watch, for the sadistic pleasure that gave him. Then he'd beat the boyfriend's head in with a pipe, in front of the girl, so that she could watch. Then he tried to kill her. And he showed absolutely no remorse. He was proud of the depravity of his crime, because it would earn him points in prison and because, as Jack had put it, the bitch had it coming to her.
And he would live. A full lifetime. Behind bars, but a full lifetime.
And what about Mickey Scott? He had raped Adele Saunders and then he'd murdered her. Just as horrifying as Gomez's crime, but only one victim.
Two lives destroyed by the first, one life by the second.
So why should Gomez live and Scott die?
Ten thirty. One and a half hours to go.
Claire sighed. Once again she asked herself why she was doing this. Why was she driving to Attica? Her presence wouldn't affect the execution in the slightest. Why was she putting herself through this?
She let her mind wander a bit, thinking over what she'd talked about with Lennie Briscoe. Lennie was also going to attend, with his partner Rey Curtis. She had no idea why Curtis was going, but she and Lennie had talked about the execution at length one night when he'd come in to give her some information on another case. Lennie was somewhat vague about his own reasoning, but Claire had gathered that he needed to make some kind of peace with the execution, and with his own stance towards the death penalty. It had been so refreshing to talk to somebody who wasn't totally sure about it. He wasn't entirely opposed, and he'd raised many of the same arguments Jack had, but she knew that in Lennie's case he was just playing devil's advocate, which Lennie did with some frequency. When she'd questioned him on his opinion, he'd admitted he wasn't that big a fan of the death penalty either.
I dunno, it just seems kinda wrong. We put people away for popping other people. Dunno why we think it's OK to kill if it's us doing the killing.
Jack says that's because there's a good reason for it.
Yeah, well, there's a reason for a lotta murders out there. I've put people away for killing somebody who killed their kid, and that's just about the best reason there is. We still put 'em away for it.
Lennie was a nice guy to work with. She'd been uncomfortable with him when they first started working together - she a brand new prosecutor and he an experienced cop. Her job often required that she give orders in the form of suggestions to the detectives who worked with her - question this guy, release that other one, pick that one up. And it was a little intimidating to give orders to a man who was old enough to be her father and who knew far more about criminal investigations than she.
But she'd quickly grown fond of him. He was somewhat abrasive, with a cynical manner and a sharp wit, and he didn't suffer fools gladly, but he was willing to do what she asked, willing to let her do her job. He was a damn good detective. And as long as she didn't do anything blatantly stupid, he was easy to get along with.
And he could see that the people they dealt with were people. He was even able to treat them with compassion on occasion. She was attracted to Jack's mind, his brilliance and his dedication, but often repelled by how little compassion he seemed to have. The law was like a game to him, all black and white and winning and losing. The human side of it seemed to escape him most of the time. Lennie said he often felt the same way about his partner.
Curtis was a strange guy. Claire often found herself wishing for Mike Logan, Lennie's previous partner, when she was in Curtis' presence. Not that she didn't like Curtis, in fact she found him rather attractive, but he was so rigid and judgmental. Very ethical in his own way and a very good detective, but he could so easily disregard some of the very things that she herself was the most passionate about, such as due process. He did things by the book and didn't cut corners like Lennie and Jack often did, but only in those areas that he had decided were worth doing by the book. Perjury was right out. Bribery was right out. Any kind of corruption was right out.
Areas where his rigid ethics didn't apply, he was reckless to the point of lunacy. Roughing up suspects? No problem. Disregarding the chain of command? No problem.
Violating the most fundamental right a person had, the right to live? No problem.
She knew he was very devout, as she herself was not. It baffled her. How could a man believe in God and believe that life was sacred but not have a problem with taking another man's life? It was beyond her.
ooo000ooo
The observation room was small, just two rows of people, ten witnesses in all. They sat facing a curtain that covered the execution chamber.
She looked at Adele Saunders' parents, sitting in the front. Mickey Scott's brother had come too, but his parents had declined to attend. Scott's family had been completely uninvolved in the case; Claire only knew of them because she'd looked up everything she could about him when she found out Scott was going to be put to death. Scott's family had apparently also been uninvolved in most of his life as well. Claire wasn't sure if his brother was here to show support for Scott during his final moments, to make sure he was dead and would never trouble them again, or just out of ghoulish fascination at witnessing a death. From what she'd learned about him, the latter two seemed more likely than the first.
Briscoe and Curtis were escorted in, Briscoe looking a little out of sorts and Curtis looking completely composed, as usual. She felt a brief surge of gratitude for Briscoe's presence here, for making her feel a little less alone. He might not be as appalled as she was by this whole procedure, but at least he wasn't out for blood like Jack and Curtis and probably just about everybody else in this room.
A man in a suit entered the room, cleared his throat, then spoke in a calm, quiet voice.
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen, my name is Philip Croisseaux and I am the Warden at Attica Prison. I'd like to welcome you to our institution tonight." He paused for a moment, calmly looking at each witness in turn.
"Mr. Scott will be brought into the room you are facing at approximately 11:50pm. He will then be prepared for his execution and will be put to death by lethal injection in accordance with New York State law at midnight. He will have the option to keep the curtain to this room open or closed. He will also have the opportunity to say a few last words."
"You have all been given the chance to ask whatever questions you may have about the execution and Mr. Scott prior to these proceedings. I would like to respectfully remind you all that this is a very solemn occasion and that your presence here is not mandatory or required by law. Please allow us to do our jobs with a minimum of distraction and please allow Mr. Scott the dignity of a calm, efficient execution. If any of you feel that you cannot do this, I would request that you leave the room now, out of respect for this institution, the family of Mr. Scott's victim, and Mr. Scott himself."
"Thank you ladies and gentlemen for your cooperation during these proceedings. I would like to remind you that our chaplains will be here for a few hours tonight to provide spiritual support for any of you that wish to avail yourselves of their services." He glanced down at his watch and flicked on a switch. There was a slight hiss indicating that an intercom was open.
11:48 p.m. Twelve minutes left.
Claire heard a sound from the intercom. It sounded like a door was being opened, people were walking, and there was the sound of equipment being moved. Probably the gurney that would hold Scott strapped in while he was being murdered.
"Heard you did pretty good," a voice said.
"Yeah. Had the meatloaf and mash, coupla Dr. Peppers," that was Mickey Scott. His voice sounded tense.
"I woulda gone with the pizza. Sausage and peppers," the other voice said.
"Maybe I should start over," Scott said, and Claire winced. There was a small pause. "I bet you get a real kick out of that," Scott said, his voice strained.
"Now is not a good time to go crybaby, Mickey," the first voice said.
"Yeah, right, in your dreams," Scott sneered. Claire breathed deeply. No, Mickey Scott wouldn't go out crying. He had too much pride. He would keep his dignity, as far as he could.
The Warden had said they should allow Scott the dignity of a calm, efficient execution. How could an execution be dignified? It was a killing, plain and simple, and all of this careful pretense that what was happening was dignified was obscene.
The Warden left the observation room, and Claire heard the door to the execution chamber opening.
"You're sure about the priest?" the Warden's voice asked.
"I'm sure," Scott answered tightly. Claire swallowed through the ache in her throat. It was fitting that there would be no priest to give this horror an air of religious legitimacy, a seal of religious approval.
"How about the curtain?" the Warden asked.
"What about it?"
"It's your choice, Mr. Scott. Open or closed?"
"What would you like?" Scott's voice challenged. There was a slight pause.
"Closed."
"Then open the sucker up," Scott said contemptuously. Of course Mickey Scott would say that. He always went against whatever anybody in authority wanted him to do. To Jack, that was part of what made him worthless. To Claire, it was part of what made him a human being.
"Fine."
The curtain opened, and there he was. Tied down, arms out, barefoot, no dignity there. Living his last moments. He looked up at all of them.
"Like damned fish in a barrel," he sneered at them. Yes, they were. Damned fish in a barrel, here to watch in ghoulish fascination while the State killed him. Claire felt a pang of guilt. Was she making his end worse by witnessing it?
"Want to say anything?"
"Do it."
Claire watched, her throat tightening as two men opened a panel and turned some dials. It had begun.
The two men closed the panel and left the room. Scott looked up at the lights. He looked incredibly tense. Claire wondered what it would be like to be facing your death. Knowing that poison was about to run through your veins and end your existence.
Claire blinked, willing the tears out of her eyes. A green light went on in the panel, then a yellow light. Jack was staring straight ahead. This man was about to die, and Jack was staring straight ahead, totally unaffected, as if he were watching krill mate on the Discovery Channel.
Scott was looking up at the ceiling. Staring at the lights above him, the last thing he would ever see. The heart monitor beeped steadily as Claire kept her eyes on Scott's face. Of all the people here, she might be the only one who was thinking of Scott. Of the man himself, depraved as he was, violent as he was. He was still a human being who was about to meet his end in an act that was no less savage than his towards Adele Saunders just because it was cloaked in terms like 'justice' and 'humane'.
And then his eyes closed. The beeps from the heart monitor became erratic, closer together, then turned into one long beep. Claire gazed at Mickey Scott's dead face.
The State of New York had just committed murder.
The curtain closed.
ooo000ooo
"Ms. Kincaid?" out in the parking lot, Claire turned to face Margaret Saunders. Mrs. Saunders had tears in her eyes, but her face looked set, satisfied. "Ms. Kincaid, thank you so much for coming tonight." Seamus Saunders, her husband, stood behind her, silent and grim.
"You're welcome," Claire said numbly, not sure what else to say.
"Mr. McCoy. Thank you for making the trip out here. I just - I just wanted to thank both of you for helping us so much. You know, for, for helping to make sure he got what he deserved."
"You're welcome, ma'am," Jack said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
"Those two men that just left - they were the two detectives, weren't they? They caught that man?"
"Yes ma'am," Claire said.
"It was kind of them to make the trip too. I wanted to thank them too. Please let them know we appreciate them coming," she paused. "It's good to have this all done."
"Yes it is," Jack said.
"I feel like Adele's finally at peace," she said tremulously, then turned to her husband. "Let's go, Seamus." They slowly walked away.
ooo000ooo
Jack had offered to drive for the first little while and Claire had decided to sleep. Feeling drained, impossibly sad and angry. She couldn't do anything about Scott's death now - not that she'd been able to do anything about it before. She had been unable to think of anything but the execution for the last several days, and now that it was over, she wanted to think of everything but.
OK. Make a few notes in the files, then go to sleep.
Mandelay: Man One for both, no deals.
Gomez: Murder Two, life w/o parole. Drop rape charge. Oh - she found a sticky note that had been hidden behind an ME's report - change name on charge, Gomez is an alias, real name Gonzalez. Very imaginative. Reminded her of a drug dealer and murderer whose real name was James Murch and whose alias was James March. Nobody said criminals had to be creative.
Carson: Aggravated Assault. Say we're eager to go to trial.
Another file that she hadn't even bothered to bring up with Jack, Cloris Simmons: Man One, five to fifteen. David would put up a token resistance and remind her that she had no physical evidence, and she would remind him that Cloris Simmons had stopped just short of publishing a newsletter about killing her husband and that hearsay heard by six separate people would probably go a long way towards convicting her. And that Man One was a very generous offer, considering the fact that there was no physical evidence of the spousal abuse Simmons claimed as defense for her crime.
She lay her head back and closed her eyes.
ooo000ooo
"Claire," Jack was saying her name, gently shaking her awake. "Do you mind taking over?"
"M-hm," she blinked. "Where are we?"
"At a truck stop. We passed Kingston a little while ago."
"That's - we're almost home, Jack, why didn't you wake me up before?"
"I was fine. You looked like you needed your rest. Why don't we go in, use the washrooms, you can get a coffee or something."
She yawned and got out of the car, stretching. It was chilly out here. What time was it? Almost five o'clock. The sky looked like it was starting to lighten up near the horizon, but that could just be the lights from a small town, it was hard to tell.
ooo000ooo
Compassion. She was driving along the I-87, thinking about compassion. So much of what she felt about the death penalty had to do with compassion, with the feeling that people were supposed to have for one another. After working in the criminal justice system for the last few years she was no longer under any illusion that it was a universal emotion, but it should be.
We should not lower ourselves to the level of the people we prosecute. As individuals, people commit crimes because they lack compassion for their victims. Because when they commit their crime, they have no sympathy for their victim, because they feel that their own self-interest is more important than the well-being or the life of another human being.
As a society, when we execute a person, we do the same thing. We decide that our societal need for revenge, or, if we can't do math, our societal need to save money by not paying for life in prison, is more important than that person's very life. We show lack of compassion when we kill.
But what good is compassion, really? Jack didn't feel compassion most of the time. He did good work though. He put people away. He didn't feel much compassion for the victims whose rights he championed so zealously, but she knew they were better served by his brilliance and dedication than by any other prosecutor's compassion. Cold as he was when it came to feeling for others, he made the world a better place.
She mentally reprimanded herself. She was skewing her perceptions of Jack because of her conflict with him, she knew that. He wasn't the cold unfeeling game-player she was painting in her mind.
She recalled a case they'd had a few months ago. Lonnie Rickman, a thirteen-year old boy. Shot a woman in her bed by accident, while trying to shoot his friend on the orders of a drug dealer who 'owned' him. Jack had pushed and pushed to have the boy tried as an adult, showing no sympathy for him whatsoever. Until at one point he'd finally come to grips with the fact that the boy had been driven to be what he was, behave in the way he did.
"Thirteen years old and living in a madhouse, what would any of us do?" he'd asked rhetorically.
As they had discussed the probable ending of the case with Adam, at one point he'd said, frustrated and angry, "So we throw in the towel. Ross Morales goes home, Cassie Rickman stays on crack, and her kid spends the next twenty-five years in a cell. Is everybody happy?"
"Didn't you say that's where he belongs?" Adam had asked.
"That must have been some other arrogant, moralistic, son of a bitch," Jack had said ruefully, and she had smiled. He was always so convinced he was right, but then every so often he'd come smack up against the fact that he wasn't perfect and he had the grace to admit it. Admit it, laugh at himself and reverse himself completely. Pursue his new goal with as much zeal as he had pursued his old one, as he'd pursued the goal of saving Lonnie Rickman as best he could. With sympathy and compassion.
Compassion. Why was it necessary? She felt compassion for Scott, but did this feeling do anything for him? She didn't stop his execution. She didn't even help it go any easier. She was thinking of him, feeling for him as he died, and what did that get him? Nothing. Like damn fish in a barrel, he'd said of the people witnessing his execution. And she'd been one of them.
And what about Adele Saunders' parents? Where was her compassion for them? Execution did give them a sense of closure, a sense that would never be served by Scott spending life behind bars.
One hour to go till New York. Dawn peering over the horizon. It was so nice out here, so peaceful.
Scott never would have seen any of this again. He would have lived his life in prison. Was that better than death? Was it more compassionate to force that on him? Maybe there was a good reason why he'd kept his lawyers from making any appeals. He'd probably wanted to die. Who was she to deny him that?
She blew her breath out with impatience. Spending so much time with Jack was making her doubt her own convictions. He had an answer for everything, but always from the point of view of legal technicalities or practical considerations. There was no higher standard for him, no ethical goal. It was all fine print or necessity.
Murder was wrong. Period. There had to be some kind of line that was inviolable. Somewhere where the State said, this is our limit and we don't go past it. If the Saunders family wanted closure, there were ways to get it other than committing murder. If Scott wanted to die, he didn't need to make the State an accomplice in his own suicide.
So where did that leave her? Where did it leave her, a compassionate accomplice to Scott's execution?
ooo000ooo
New York City traffic at 7:30am on a weekday morning. Not the best place to have a little heart to heart with Jack. He'd woken up and made some comment about a case and she'd immediately felt impatient with him. That's all he could think about. A case. That was probably all he'd thought about while he was driving too. Not Scott. Not justice. Just work, work, work.
"Is that really all that goes on in your head, Jack?"
"I beg your pardon?" he'd looked up from the file on his lap.
"Just work? Cases? Who to plead out, who to push to the wall?"
"What else should be going on in my head?"
Claire blew out her breath in frustration.
"Mickey Scott?"
"We saw him die, Jack. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Yes," Jack nodded, "He's dead. That case is very much closed." Jack put the file away and there was a long, uncomfortable pause as they stared out at the cars clogging the street. "Tell you what, they should ban cars in Manhattan," Jack commented. "What, no witty response?" he asked after a beat.
"You leave me speechless," she told him dryly.
"Nobody forced you to watch it," he said quietly.
"I can't imagine what it must be like, staring at a clock, knowing the exact moment-"
"Adele Saunders thought she was going to work. She ended up dead, your pity's misplaced," Jack repeated the same thing he'd been saying all along. As if she hadn't been part of the trial, as if she hadn't known exactly what kind of monster Mickey Scott was. As if that made any difference.
"I'm tired of arguing, Jack."
"Good."
"You know, I'm not feeling too well."
"Must be the flu," he commented.
"Yeah, the flu." The 'I can't believe I work with, let alone sleep with, a man who has no problem with having another man put to death' flu.
"Wanna take the day?" Jack asked her. She was startled. Jack, suggesting taking time off work? Unheard of. It sounded great. Unfortunately...
"No, I've got Silverman."
"Cover?"
Claire looked at him in surprise. "You sure?" Jack doing simple plea bargains? Jack nodded. Wow. "OK, fine, I'll drop you off at the office."
"No problem," Jack said, and got out of the car.
"You've got Schwinger," Claire reminded him.
"She'll wait. I'll take a cab. Maybe you'll feel better," they gazed at each other for a moment, words hanging unspoken between them. Jack was sweet when he worried about her. Maybe she would feel better if she just took a little time off.
Yeah, right.
"I'll call you later," Jack said finally, and walked off.
ooo000ooo
She found herself at a coffee shop and suddenly remembered that Jack didn't have her case notes for the Silverman meeting. No, that was OK, he'd remember what they talked about. There was just Mandelay, Carson and Simmons today with Silverman, Gomez was tomorrow with Joyce Glacken. Oh - she hadn't talked to Jack about Simmons.
She suddenly realized she really didn't care. Let Jack plead whatever he wanted with Simmons. Let Jack spend his time working on the day that he watched a human being die.
She let her mind drift, thinking about the Lonnie Rickman case, thinking of how she'd hung onto that glimpse of humanity as she hung onto so many other glimpses from Jack. She'd hung on to it as she'd hung onto the occasional professional compliments he paid her when she first started working with him and she was afraid that he just wanted to get into her pants. As she'd guiltily hung onto occasional personal compliments when she felt herself beginning to get interested in him and feared that she'd permanently set their relationship into a professional mode when they'd first met.
She remembered when they first started working together, the Dr. Haas case. She had gone into her first meeting with him with some trepidation. She was excited to still be working with an EADA, having gotten used to the status and level of work expected of an ADA assisting an EADA, but she was wary of his history with his assistants.
"Your reputation precedes you," he'd said.
"As does yours," she'd replied, and she'd confronted him with his record. She expected him to sidestep, expected 'dirty old man' sleaze - what had she expected?
In any case, it didn't happen. He told her bluntly that those relationships were mutual, that he felt no need to apologize for them, and that he didn't anticipate a problem working with her.
Excuse me?
No, she didn't want him harassing her. But 'didn't anticipate a problem'? What was that supposed to mean?
He'd been a good boss from the beginning, treating her well, not like a showpiece or an appendage or an errand girl. Not that Ben Stone had ever treated her that way, but Ben had been her boss when she first came to the DA's office. Ben had treated her with gentlemanly respect, but had not gotten to know her as a seasoned lawyer. She was still very much his assistant by the time he left, somebody he'd coached through the 'baby lawyer' years. Ben had been like the parent of a grown child who still sometimes treats that child as a child instead of a fellow adult.
Jack had requested her for her reputation, and accorded her the respect due to that. Yes, she was his assistant and he had the last word, but he didn't mind if she argued with him on the way to that last word. And she had a great deal of influence on what that last word would be.
And he showed her respect. Or, what passed for respect with Jack, since he was forthright and not deferent to anybody, not even Adam Schiff. He was no Ben Stone, consummate gentleman, but then, Ben Stone was no Jack McCoy. Ben was all dedicated ethics and earnestness. Jack was crafty brilliance. Ben was polite, gentle, kind. Jack was scathing and sarcastic when he disagreed with her, but that was challenging and attractive in its own way.
And he flirted with her, as Ben never would have dreamed of doing. Subtly at first, handing out casual compliments about her appearance in the same tone he handed out casual compliments about her work - and about as frequently too.
"Claire, I heard you got Oliphant to accept Conspiracy to Commit. Good work," pause, "Your hair looks good like that."
"Claire, why don't you draft the closing argument? You seem to have a better feel for this jury than I do. By the way what's that perfume? It goes well on you."
Then one day he took her out to dinner and made his move. They were both starting to stray into flirtation more and more, and she was starting to feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on an older man, chiding herself that she shouldn't indulge it because of his history, and because of her own with Judge Joel Thayer. Halfway through the entrees Jack had put his fork down and gazed at her speculatively.
"Claire, don't be shy about telling me to go to hell."
"About what?"
He'd put his hand on hers, very lightly, barely touching, ready to move away at the first sign of discomfort from her. "I'm getting the feeling that there's more than a coworker relationship going on here. From my side, definitely. What about from yours?"
"Uh-" she had stared into his serious eyes, totally flustered. Seen a twinkle in them. "Uh... Jack," she'd paused. Well, that was intelligent. OK. She'd gathered her thoughts. There were about a million excellent reasons to not let this go anywhere, and only one to let it develop: the fact that she was attracted to him. And that wasn't good enough. "Uh... maybe there is something, but..."
"But you don't want to pursue it."
She'd slowly shaken her head.
"Forget I mentioned it, then," he'd instantly segued into a case, so quickly she'd been a little taken aback.
"That's it?"
"Oh, I had a case on the ready in case you put me off. Gets over the initial awkwardness."
She'd had to laugh. "Yes, it does."
Weeks later, they'd ended up at another restaurant, and she'd brought it up. And he'd been completely casual, but she'd caught the dilation of his pupils, the raising of his eyebrows, the pleased smile on his face. And she was hooked.
But now...
What she and Jack had was exhilarating, exciting, but draining. Working and sleeping together: it could be heaven and it could be hell. For the last few weeks, as the subject of Mickey Scott had come up more and more frequently, as she felt more and more dissatisfied and conflicted about her role in the execution, her career, and her life, it had been hell.
All right. No more coffee and ruminations. Today was her day off. She might as well do something with it.
ooo000ooo
A good run. There was a certain soothing quality to it, a pounding rhythmic distraction. She felt the pleasant burn of her muscles, another distraction. It was almost impossible to keep any serious thought in her mind through the rhythm, so she thought of song lyrics instead.
"Hey, nice pace, what is it, a ten minute mile?" another jogger caught up with her.
"I don't keep track."
"Feels pretty good. Maybe nine and a half. You going the whole loop?"
"Yeah, if I'm still alive after Heartbreak."
"Mind if I use you as a rabbit?"
"Heh, be my guest," she thought fleetingly that the guy looked a little too tired to be able to keep her pace, but what the heck. If he wanted to push himself, she could respect that.
"So, you an actress or a student?"
"'Scuse me?"
"Well, you're running in the middle of the day. You look too smart to be unemployed."
Oh, great, a running pass. Just what she needed today. "I'm an attorney."
"Oh, lucky you. Chauffeured around town in limos, fancy lunches..."
Claire briefly thought about her small apartment and equally small car. Sure. Limos. If she'd gone into defense, maybe. "Yeah, some life."
"So what if everyone hates you, tell 'em to go to hell, that's what I'd say. You know, it's so funny, I thought once about going to law school once, but then I figured, three years, life's too short, you know what I mean?" Having heard enough, Claire picked up the pace. Creep. "Eh... lesbo..." she heard him gasp behind her.
Great.
Now what?
She continued her run, but her heart wasn't really in it. What a jerk. Ruining her 'alone time' with his awkward fumbling come-on.
Maybe being alone wasn't the answer. Maybe talking this out was. There was no way to talk it out with Jack, since Jack was part of the problem. She had talked it out and over and through and through with him, and she was sick of it. This wasn't an intellectual exercise to her. It wasn't a theoretical discussion. It had to do with ethics and feelings and soul-searching and about a dozen other subjects that just weren't Jack's forte.
It had to do with the fact that she didn't know what she was doing with her life any more. And Jack didn't get it.
But who else was there? That was the other problem with working and sleeping with somebody as work-obsessed as Jack when she was pretty work-obsessed herself. There really wasn't anybody else in her life. She hadn't spent time with anybody other than Jack in weeks, probably. She guiltily thought of her old college friend Marian Adams, who had been in town for a week a while ago but whom she'd completely missed because of the Taggart case. And Margot Bell, who had been bugging her to get together for coffee or racquetball for weeks now.
Margot. Maybe she could give Margot a call.
ooo000ooo
"Hello, this is Margot Bell at 555-3498. Please leave a message after the tone."
"Hi, Margot, it's Claire. I was just calling to say hi. I'm uh, I've got the day off, if you'd like to get together at some point for lunch or drinks or something. Give me a call. Bye."
So much for that. Well, that had been a long shot. Margot was usually pretty busy too.
She thought of her mother, who had been bothering her to come for dinner more often lately. Immediately felt a little guilty about it. Her mother wasn't bothering her, not unless you counted calling every few months and leaving a polite message inviting her to dinner 'bothering'.
The problem was that she and her mother really didn't have all that much to talk about. She didn't relate well to her. Her mother was mostly concerned with redecorating her home and playing canasta and gardening. And things had been somewhat strained between them for years, ever since she'd had that affair with Judge Thayer. Her mother had made no bones about her disapproval of the relationship, and it had angered Claire that her disapproval had more to do with 'what will people think' than anything else.
She got along better with Mac Geller, her stepfather, than her mother. At least she and Mac could fall back on legal discussions and reminiscences of her law school days, back when he was still teaching at Harvard.
Mac. Now that was an idea. Mac had argued eloquently and persuasively against the death penalty years ago at Harvard. Some of his articles had been required reading in 'Studies in Legal Ethics', a course of his that she'd taken. She and Mac had also had numerous discussions over the years about legal issues, the role of the law and lawyers in society, and how lawyers figured out how to live with their jobs. The very things she needed to work out now.
She would go see Mac.