1(Disclaimer: Law & Order: SVU belongs to that brilliant man, Dick Wolf and the big company called NBC. If they were mine, I would be on a beach right now, instead of in the middle of a messy Atlantic Canadian spring/winter. It's April. And it's snowing!)
(A/n: This is another one of my very odd ideas that I've had rolling around in my brain for a couple of days. I thought I'd post it and see what you think. It's weird for the sake of weirdness. Oh, yeah. One more little thing. I'm kind of shaky on the rating, so if you think it's too low, tell me.)
You can't keep her off your mind. Staring at the plain, grey walls, the steel bars, listening to the conversations between inmates and guards and the jingling of keys as the same guards walk through the prison, you can't get her out of your head. Her face, her smile, her laugh. . . . She's like a ghost, determined to haunt you until she makes you go mad.
You push yourself up from the bottom bunk and pull an old photo from where it's stuck to the wall. You're carrying her on your back, the strong young man you were back then. She's all smiles, with those wide, innocent dark eyes, long dark hair and those long legs wrapped around you. She's laughing, leaning over your shoulder. You were children. You thought you were adults, but in reality, you were just children.
You remember that day even though it was over twenty years ago. She caught a cab from Manhattan to your mother's house in Queens. You remember that your mother adored her. It was the fall - November? No. October. A couple of months after her birthday. She hounded you about not getting her a present, like women do.
You remember giving her the ring you'd bought a few days before. A promise ring, she called it, as she slipped it on her left hand. You were too young to get married, according to your meddling parents, but you were sure she was going to be yours.
Watching that smile come across her face, as she shyly leaned in to kiss your cheek - that's a memory you're not ever going to forget. Then she jumped up on your back, wrapping her arms around you. You can see the ring on her finger in the photo - a simple gold band, set with her birth stone, because you were too poor to afford what you wanted to give her - a diamond.
Your cell mate, some Spanish kid you think is named Ruiz, looks down from his bunk and sighs. "Hope she was worth it, man." He comments, sounding uninterested. "Pretty girl, though."
Yeah. She was a pretty girl. You wonder if she still is. Probably. You wonder if she's married. Probably - no man in his right mind would have let her go. And you didn't let her go. She left you. One day everything was going fine and the next, she was crying and packing. She left her ring behind, too.
You pull the chain from under your grey prison jumpsuit and study the ring hanging off it. It's a simple thing - you were just seventeen when you bought it, after you saved three months to buy it for her. She mentioned her birthday and you kicked yourself when you realized you didn't have enough to get her what you wanted her to have. So you waited and you scraped every penny to buy her that.
And that winter, you took her to bed for the first time. She was terrified, you remember. She'd heard so many horror stories from her friends that it took a lot of persuasion on your part to calm her down and get her to trust you. She never was very trusting. And she was quiet. Unlike other girls, she never talked your ear off for hours on end about pointless things, like who was dating who and the lives of the stars under the Hollywood sign. She only talked a mile a minute when she was excited.
"Hey, Lombardo." One of the hacks is standing outside the cell door. "C'mon."
You blink at him for a minute, startled. Then you remember. You've got a parole hearing, today. It's not like it matters, anyway. She'll haunt you whether you're behind the wall or a free man. Your lawyer's convinced you've got a shot at getting paroled - you've been in twelve years. It doesn't make any difference to you - your life went on hold, after she left.
You married a nice young girl three years after she said goodbye. Your new wife was beautiful and intelligent, but she just wasn't the woman you wanted. The marriage ended in divorce about a year after the wedding, to your mother's disappointment. But you just kept on going - kept working, kept winning cases, kept your life together, until those damned cops showed up at the door. They had you cornered.
You let the prison guard put the cuffs on you, hearing the familiar, sharp click as they lock. He's beside you, one hand on your arm, urging you to move down the hall. Prison's been a cold place. You've never been accepted here. Maybe the outside world won't be so damned bad.
When she left you, she took a piece of you with her. And you want it back. She took half of your heart with her - you want it back. For the first six months, you tried to kill her memory with cheap bourbon, whiskey and stale cigarettes in various bars all over Manhattan until your older brother, dispatched by your meddling mother came and pulled you out.
Ma. You think about her - she was always so worried about her boys, but she only ever got in the way of things. There was a song that suited your mood back then - something sung by some cowboy - you half-remember it, now, walking down the halls of a prison. A prison that cops put you in.
She's a cop. The love of your life is a New York City Police Officer. The same as the bastards who put you here. You can still see her, sometimes, when it's late and the cell block's quiet. All polished up in her formal uniform, when she graduated from the Academy. She was so proud to be a cop.
If you get out, today, you have to see her. You have to talk to her. Part of you argues that she's a cop and you're a felon - she won't come near you, so why risk it? Why risk getting hurt again? You're like a damned junkie - you crave the thing that hurts you the most. Another part of you asks a question. Why the hell can't you just leave her alone? Move on.
But you know you can't leave her alone. You can't move on until you know why she left. She hurt you before - the smart thing would be to leave her alone and find someone else. You're like a child, playing with fire - you know you're going to get burned, but you can't pull away. You're fascinated by it. Or in your case, her.
If she's married, then you're screwed. Some people still take 'til death do us part' and 'I do' seriously. And if you remember right, she's one of them. If she's got the wedding band and a husband, she won't leave him for you - her ex-boyfriend the felon. You pray she doesn't. Even though you know you don't have a shot with her, a wedding ring will put more walls in the way.
Huh. The mind of a lawyer, one educated at Fordham is still with you, even after twelve years in prison. You did legal work for your fellow inmates for a year or two, until you got bored. A top-rated education, a career on the rise - you were this close to partnership in the firm when it all went down the tubes. And it was your fault. You didn't cover your tracks well enough - you got cocky.
You remember the prosecuting Assistant District Attorney - another brunette. Pretty, young and a fine attorney. What the hell was her name? Carmichael. You vaguely remember arguing a case against her, once, and she sunk you. Fast. Just like she did when she put you away.
You didn't have a chance, even with one of the best attorneys your father's money could buy defending you. Carmichael had a rock-solid case that had been made by first-rate detectives. You knew you were screwed, when you were picked up. You didn't think they'd suspect you - a nice lawyer, with a solid career, no record - you didn't think they'd look at you.
The guard steers you into a room and frees you of the cuffs. You walk in and find yourself looking at the parole board. Here's your chance. Maybe your expensive, fancy education will do you good here.
Two hours later, you step back to your cell, a free man. You've called your mother - she cried and talked intelligibly for a few minutes. You clean out your cell, taking what few personal items you have. You stop, looking at the scattering of notebooks, papers and photos - you don't want them. You don't want anything to remind you of this life.
The guards let you change into normal clothes and they hand you a hundred dollars - money that comes with release. You have terms on your parole, of course - no weapons, no drugs - the usual. Plus you have to go see a shrink for therapy. After they release you from the prison, you catch the next bus back into civilization.
Your mother's waiting for you, crying. You pretend to be her loving son for a few minutes, then hail a cab. This is what it's like to be a free man again. You have family you should go see - your father, your brother and your little sister, but right now, you want to see the apartment that your father bought for you and that your mother has kept neat for twelve years.
You use the elevator and unlock the door. The place is bright and clean - the way your mother likes things to be. You're a free man again. No bars, no guards, no other guy on the bunk above you. You have space. Not a cramped cell. You realize you're hungry - you need to buy food, if you're going to survive. Through letters, your cousin has promised you a job at his law firm. You'll have to go see him tomorrow morning. But right now, you just want to breathe the clean air and enjoy the freedom.
You wonder what she's doing now. Is she still a cop? Is she happy? A beautiful woman like that should be happy. Is she still single? You wonder if she ever thinks about you. You don't know what's happened to her. You don't know if she's married, or worse, hurt or killed in the line of duty. It doesn't matter. You have to see her, so her ghost will leave you alone at night.
(A/n: This is just a prologue - the next chapter will involve everyone's favorite detectives.)