Mickey Scott had been executed today, early in the morning. Now, it was night, around 9 PM, and Lennie Briscoe was in the last place he expected to be. He was in a bar, and drinking with the last person he expected to see in a bar.
Jack McCoy.
Lennie was fighting temptation tonight, fighting it with a passion. His jumbled feelings about the execution, the smell of scotch and beer heavy in the air, and his argument with his daughter; all of that together made for a very powerful trigger, and suddenly, Briscoe wanted a drink, a real drink, with all the good stuff, the booze and all.
You are better when they're already dead…
Cathy's parting comment certainly didn't help; and Briscoe might have fallen to the allure, and the need…
But Jack McCoy worried the hell out of him. He'd never seen McCoy outside of a work environment before, had never seen him in a relaxed social setting before, and certainly had never seen him drunk like this…
Although Briscoe had to admit, it was sort of hard to tell. McCoy wasn't staggering, or slurring his words. But, Briscoe knew.
Jack McCoy was drunk. He was utterly plowed. He was also rather pointedly looking at his watch.
Waiting on his girl to come and pick him up…
One scotch later, McCoy looked at his watch again, then showed it to Briscoe.
"I guess she's not coming," Briscoe sighed.
McCoy snorted, then hauled himself to his feet, only wobbling just a little.
"Hold on!" Briscoe laid a hand on McCoy's shoulder, just in case he needed steadying. "Maybe I should see you home."
McCoy shrugged his hand off, muttered something about it not being illegal to hire a cab while intoxicated, turned to leave, then paused, and looked back, a darkly bitter smile gracing his features.
"The hell with her…" he said softly before he headed outside.
Which left Lennie with two choices.
Either stay put, and enjoy Jack's new drinking buddies, Mike, and the other two guys, with all the triggering that would come with it…
Or step outside, and see to it that the intoxicated Executive Assistant DA made it to that cab.
Cursing softly, Briscoe stood, and made to leave.
"Hey!" Mike complained. "You haven't finished your Club Soda. Maybe something stronger?"
"Thanks, "Briscoe gritted his teeth, and wished this sudden, bone-deep craving would just…go away. "I want to make sure my friend gets home safely. Raincheck?"
"Jack's a big boy," Mike said. "Doesn't look like he needs someone to hold his hand walking home."
"Probably not," Briscoe agreed. "But, I'd just like to be sure…"
Today's been crazy for all of us. Jack McCoy's probably been feeling that too…
The detective pulled on his overcoat, made his farewells, and then turned to leave.
There was the sudden sound of squealing tires outside, cries, shouts, screams, and more screeching tires.
Briscoe ran outside, looked around. There was a clot of people standing around something on the sidewalk, one of them on his cell phone.
"What happened?" he demanded, showing his Police ID as he ran up.
"This c-car went r-right off the sidewalk," a young woman was trembling. "It hit this guy as he was waiting for a cab, went right over him like he wasn't even there, then went back on the road and drove off like nothing happened."
"Let me through…" Briscoe gently elbowed his way through the small group of…witnesses…a deep pit opening up in his stomach. He already sort of knew what he was going to find, so it was no real surprise.
I should have walked him out, made damn sure he got into a cab…
Jack McCoy…
"Someone call 911!" he ordered.
"Already did," One of the young men said. "Is he dead?"
Briscoe knelt by the body.
McCoy's body was twitching feebly, arms and legs in spasm, and there was so much blood, trickling from his nose, mouth, and his ears.
Oh…god…oh god…Don't die, Jack. Please, don't die…
Briscoe did the only thing he could think to do. He took off his overcoat, and draped it gently over the other man, hoping against hope, that the extra warmth would help a little.
He could hear the sirens in the distance, coming closer, getting louder. Then, they were here; the ambulance, the paramedics, a fire truck-just in case-and two police cruisers.
And, talk about perfect timing, there was Claire Kincaid, parking her car at the curb, just a few feet away, arriving just in time to see…this.
She's his girlfriend?
…..
Sometimes, Claire Kincaid just wanted to kill Jack McCoy.
There she was, having a wonderful late night Chinese feast with Lieutenant Anita Van Buren, when Jack McCoy called, clearly expecting her to drop everything and come pick him up right away.
She loved Jack McCoy. She knew that. But right now, right this instant, she would have gladly throttled him.
So, she drove off to this bar, expecting to find her…sometimes very irritating lover not-so-patiently waiting for her.
There were police cruisers, a fire truck, a paramedic truck, and an ambulance, all with lights whirling; and police taking statements from terrified witnesses.
What happened? Kincaid got out of her parked car, looked around.
Detective Lennie Briscoe was there too, coatless, standing by the gaggle of EMTs as they worked on a…victim?
Lennie looked grim. Then, he looked up and saw her, and she saw…realization in his eyes…and grief.
The EMTs working on the victim, still covered by…Lennie's coat.
"Oh…god no!" she heard herself whimper as she ran up, Lennie moving to intercept.
"No, Counselor," Briscoe's deep gravelly voice anchoring her. "There's nothing you can do. He's alive. They're going to take him to Manhattan General."
…..
Schiff Residence 11 PM
Adam Schiff, and his beloved Ruth, preparing for bed. The phone rang, and Ruth, ever polite, picked it up.
"Schiff residence, Mrs. Schiff speaking. Miss Kincaid? Yes. He's right here. Hang on…"
She held the phone out to Adam.
"It's Miss Kincaid," she explained. "She sounds upset."
"I'll take it," Schiff sighed as he took the phone. "Adam Schiff here. What's wrong, Claire?"
"It's…Jack!" Claire Kincaid didn't sound upset. She sounded absolutely terrified. "There was an accident. He was hit by a car!"
It felt so utterly non sequitur.
Dogs get hit by cars, and rabbits and squirrels…
He coughed slightly, clearing his throat, clearing his head.
"How?"
"Lennie said he was waiting for a cab when another car went off the road and rammed into him on the sidewalk."
"Okay…" Schiff sat on the edge of the bed, finally beginning to understand what the words, Jack was hit by a car meant. "Where is he?"
"They're taking him to Manhattan General," Kincaid's voice shook. "It's…bad, Adam."
"I'll be there." Schiff put the phone down, starting pulling his clothes back on.
"What happened?" Ruth asked.
"Jack was hit by a car..." He had prosecuted hit-and-run cases before, especially after MADD started.
In a contest between a pedestrian and a car, the pedestrian always loses…
…..
Manhattan General 7 AM
Claire Kincaid was beginning to feel more than just a little tired. But she didn't dare close her eyes.
"It's all right," she felt Adam Schiff's hand on her shoulder. "I'll wake you if they come with anything for us."
Lennie Briscoe was dozing, feet up on a chair he'd had the foresight to draw up.
Schiff led her to a chair in the Waiting Room, dragged up another chair for her feet.
When they had arrived, Jack McCoy had immediately been brought in for emergency cranial surgery.
A skull fracture, pieces of broken bone embedded in his brain…
A horrific injury, and even with a successful surgery, no guarantee of a complete recovery.
Kincaid let Schiff guide her to the chair. Then, as she sat down, a man, wearing surgical blues, walked up, and all thought of sleep left her mind.
"Hello," the man said, Texas-accented voice booming from his large, burly frame. "I'm Dr. Arthur Branch."
"Are you Jack's surgeon?" Kincaid hated the almost timid tone she heard in her voice.
"Yes, Ma'am," the big man nodded. "I take it you're Miss Claire Kincaid?"
"Yes,"
"Good. According to his info, Mr. McCoy named you his next-of-kin. The good news, he's alive."
"And…the bad news?"
"He's in a coma," Branch said. "For now, that's good. In, fact, if he weren't in a coma, we'd probably have to induce one. Mr. McCoy suffered a traumatic injury to the brain, among other things."
"Other things?" Schiff spoke up.
"Who's this?" Branch looked to Kincaid.
"Jack's boss," Kincaid said. "Mine too."
"All right…Mr. McCoy also suffered a broken collar-bone, and his right knee was shattered. Those can be easily dealt with; and other doctors will take care of them, in due course, when Mr. McCoy is stronger."
"How long before he wakes up?" Detective Lennie Briscoe had apparently been awaked by the doctor's arrival, had been listening quietly all along.
"And that's the Ten-Million-Dollar-Question," Dr. Arthur Branch nodded. "The answer is simple. We don't know. Could be tomorrow. Could be a year from tomorrow. Could be he never wakes up. We don't know, because there is so much about the brain that we don't know."
"Can I see him? Just for a minute?"
"Sorry…but no," Branch sighed. "He's hooked up to all sorts of machines right now. It wouldn't help him. And it wouldn't really help you either. If he survives the next few days, we'll see. But, for now, you people need to go home and get some rest yourselves. I'll call you if anything changes."
Branch nodded cordially to the trio, then headed back into ICU.
"There goes another Doctor God…" Lennie Briscoe muttered.
"I hate Doctor Gods…" Kincaid muttered back.
"Let's just hope this Doctor God performs a miracle, and keeps Jack alive." Adam Schiff said as he turned to Claire Kincaid. "Take the day, Miss Kincaid. I need you in my office, rested, and alert, tomorrow."
"Yes, Adam…" Right now, Claire Kincaid felt very small, very uncertain. But there was work to do in the DA's Office, and Jack McCoy wouldn't be around to do it for a while.
If ever…
So, Claire Kincaid was going to have to step up to the plate, and do it herself.