CONFLICT RESOLUTION
Carlton Lassiter arrives at the office complex at eleven in the morning on a Wednesday, destined for Suite 114. He wears one of his usual suits, because Wednesday is a workday, and this is a work-related event (he carries official paperwork: a SBP Form 217, filled out and awaiting one signature in the bottom, left-hand corner). The receptionist in Suite 114 is young and pretty, snapping her gum between each sentence, the first of which, after Lassiter gives his name, is, "The paper? Form 217? I need it."
Lassiter smirks. He's not about to let official police paperwork out of his custody. "I think I'll keep it."
The receptionist holds out her hand, palm up. "I'm thinking you want it signed. Bob won't sign it later if you don't give it to me now."
"Bob," Lassiter repeats. "Dr. Studebaker?"
"He prefers Bob."
"Inspiring," Lassiter says, but hands the paper over anyway, because he does need it signed.
"See? Not so hard." The smile on her face is almost worth the trouble that's come so far.
----
"Are you listening?"
"Of course I am," Lassiter says.
He isn't. He's staring out the window, watching Shawn Spencer stroll across the parking lot, a blue slurpee in his left hand. Shawn's friend is with him, as usual, talking animatedly, pointing at his watch. He starts walking off in a huff, and Shawn follows, because Shawn doesn't have anywhere else to be. He doesn't have an appointment to meet with some incompetent therapist because the Interim Chief ordered him to.
"Detective Lassiter." Call Me Bob's voice is sharp.
Lassiter looks away from the window; Shawn hasn't reappeared. "Yes?"
"There's no point in you being here if you're not willing to take part in the healing process."
Lassiter nods. "Does that mean I'm free to go?"
The therapist blinks. "No."
Lassiter sighs, drums his fingers on the armrest. He'd check his watch, but it isn't there. Call Me Bob explained when the session started that he wanted this to be an authentic sharing space unencumbered by outdated timepieces.
"Detective Lassiter, this is a counseling session mandated by your supervisor to avoid an assault charge. Most people would be grateful for that chance."
"I'm not most people." This is of the things Lassiter knows is true down to the core of him, the same way he knows his eyes are his best feature, and that he'll always regret how things ended with his ex-wife. The same way he knows Shawn Spencer is a fake. "And this whole process is unnecessary."
"You struck a coworker."
"Shawn Spencer is not my coworker." He's also not in the parking lot anymore. He's probably waiting for him by his car, which is out of sight. Waiting to bait him into a fight.
"What would you call him?"
"An annoyance. A fraud."
"Hmm," the therapist says, making a note on his pad.
"What?"
"I'm detecting a lot of unresolved anger here."
"Oh, give me a break." Lassiter leans forward and fixes the therapist with his most imposing stare. "I had a bad day. I lost my temper. It happens."
Bob looks down at the pad in front of him. "This bad day - was it this past Monday?"
"Yes."
"Wasn't that the day--?"
"Yes, the day Delaware St. Clair was found."
"You would characterize that as a bad day?"
"Of course not. We were all relieved." Lassiter shifts in his chair. "There were extenuating circumstances."
"Shawn Spencer?"
"Maybe."
"Shawn Spencer seems to be a problem for you."
"That's because he is." Lassiter sees a flash of movement in the parking lot. Shawn has returned, and now he's looking right at him, sucking the slurpee so enthusiastically that his cheeks are caved in. He even has the nerve to wave. "See? Right now. He's in the parking lot, right there."
The therapist looks over his shoulder, but Shawn ducks out of sight behind a car.
"Of course," Lassiter says, waving a hand in frustration when Bob looks at him.
"Can you see him now, Detective Lassiter?" Bob says, and Lassiter grits his teeth.
----
"Thank you very much," Lassiter says when he arrives at his car a half hour later. Shawn is leaning against the driver's side door, blocking the handle, his posture relaxed. The slurpee is gone, but his lips are blue in a way that matches the skin around his left eye.
"You're welcome! What for?"
Lassiter jingles his keys in one hand. "My therapist is convinced I'm experiencing hallucinations. He's just scheduled me for five more sessions."
Shawn's eyebrows go up. "That's, what? A couple of weeks off the force?"
"At least." Lassiter wants to shove Shawn out of the way, but instead he just jerks his hand to the side in a clear suggestion. A show of restraint he wishes his therapist was there to see. "Move."
"In a minute," Shawn says, as if he's got all the time in the world, and then whistles. "A couple of weeks. You know what this teaches you?"
Lassiter shouldn't answer. He should ignore him, but the sun is hot on his back, the day is slipping away, and he's got five more sessions with Call-Me-Bob to look forward to.
He doesn't ignore him. He says, "Not to punch someone when you've got a gun handy?"
"Whoa, hostile! Gus, did you get that?"
Shawn's friend pops up from between a Chrysler and a tiny blue Ford. He's wearing outdated surveillance equipment from the police department and nodding in a proud way. "For shizzle," Gus says, holding up a blocky piece of plastic Lassiter knows holds a tape recorder.
"Gus," Shawn says, shaking his head. "Don't say 'for shizzle.'"
Gus shrugs. "I got excited."
"That's no excuse." Shawn looks back at Lassiter. "Now, where were we?"
Lassiter can feel the rest of the month slipping away from him, taking his whole career with it. "You know that wasn't a threat."
"All I know is how to treat a black eye, thanks to Gus."
Gus shrugs, jostling his oversized headphones. "I watch a lot of boxing movies."
"I see. " Lassiter steps away from Shawn, starts to make his way toward Gus.
Shawn puts a restraining hand on his arm. "Hey now," he says, and his voice is low, the kidding gone.
"I'm taking off," Gus says, and jumps into the tiny blue Ford. Lassiter knows he can't catch him, so he doesn't even try.
"Do you know what sucks about this?" Shawn says. "He was my ride."
----
Of course traffic is bad.
"Do you ever whip out the flashing lights to get through something like this?"
Lassiter looks over at Shawn, who is adjusting his hair in the visor mirror. "No."
"Neither would my Dad." Shawn flips the visor up and looks at him. "You know, you remind me of him. A lot. It's uncanny. Let me ask you - do you ever find yourself constructing elaborate scenarios to teach young people lessons? Do you find joy in crushing the spirits of those around you - wait, don't answer that. Do you have kids, Lassie? I assumed you didn't, but maybe-"
"No, I don't."
"You don't. Makes sense."
Lassiter looks over. "What does that mean?"
Shawn shrugs. "You know, all that time at the station, working around the clock. Tough to do when you've got kids, even if you've got an ex-wife picking up the slack most of the time. And if you do have an ex-wife picking up the slack, odds are you're not much of a dad." Shawn shakes his head. "Wow, I think you've got therapy cooties or something, Lassiter. This ride has made me go all confide-y."
"I noticed." Lassiter sighs. "Spencer, I know your partner has that tape somewhere, which is why I let you in my car, and so I'm forced to ask - what do you want?"
Shawn shrugs. "World peace. A Saved By the Bell reunion movie. Juliet to go out with me. Do you think she would?"
"No."
"Me either." Shawn sighs. "She's pretty."
"Okay, that's it," Lassiter says, and turns on his right blinker, looking over to see if there's enough of a shoulder for him to pull over and drop Shawn off safely without him getting run over or his car getting hit.
"Okay!" Shawn says, holding up his hands. "What do I want? I want us to talk."
"Talk?" Lassiter turns of his blinker, keeps the car in traffic.
"Talk. Like adults."
"Do you think you can manage that?"
"Very funny. I knew that deep down, under that whole, 'I'm a humorless bastard' exterior lay the heart of an old-school kidder."
"Shut up," Lassiter says.
"Or what, you'll punch me?"
Lassiter doesn't have much to say to that.
In Lassiter's defense, the incident happened at seven in the morning on a Monday, and he had been awake since the Saturday before. Missing persons were always difficult, missing children even worse, and adding celebrity to the mix made the case the perfect storm no cop ever wanted to see. Delaware St. Clair, the eight-year-old star of the film franchise Bridget Bright and the about-to-be-released summer blockbuster Chunnel, went missing sometime Friday night, and Lassiter hadn't slept since he got the call from Juliet on Saturday morning.
Lassiter spent Sunday night in a frustrating interrogation of his top suspect, who refused to say anything useful. Spencer insisted the guy was innocent, but Lassiter knew, absolutely positively knew, that Eric Bogosian was responsible for Delaware St. Clair's disappearance. It didn't deter him one bit that the guy refused to crack in a meaningful way, breaking down in tears every time his step-daughter's name was mentioned. Lassiter gave up and left to get a cup of coffee when Bogosian's latest crying jag didn't look to be wrapping itself up.
That was when Shawn Spencer and Gus walked in, looking rumpled and tired but triumphant, with good reason: Delaware St. Clair was walking in with them, looking sheepish and afraid, but very much alive and apparently unhurt.
Lassiter dropped his coffee mug (his favorite coffee mug, the one his ex-wife gave him when she was his fiancée); the handle broke off on the floor of the station, but no one noticed, because Delaware had run over to her mother, and was sobbing into her shoulder.
He had given up hope after twenty-four hours, and to see her walk in was like seeing a ghost, like feeling some ugly part of himself fall away. He looked across the station at Juliet, who had a hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes. She was looking back and forth between Delaware and Shawn, who was smiling in a proud way. Something about his expression made the joy inside Lassiter shrivel up a bit, curl in on itself. He could feel something else taking its place, feel it grow when he saw Delaware's mother look up at Spencer with adoration in her eyes.
"How did you find her?" Delaware's mother asked.
"I had a, you know," Shawn said, pointing in a suggestive way in the direction of his head. "I think Della should tell the rest."
Delaware did. She didn't want to make another movie, didn't know how to tell her mother, and wanted to run away to a place where no one knew her. A tent in the woods behind her friend's house was the only place she could think of where that would be true.
"I'm sorry," Delaware said at the end of her story, and then sniffed. She looked around, nervous. "Where's Eric?"
Every head in the station turned toward Lassiter, who held the keys to the interrogation room in his left hand. The last he'd seen Eric, the man had his face on the table, sobbing about his little girl. Swearing he didn't do anything. Begging Lassiter to find the one who did.
"I'll be right back," Lassiter said.
He wasn't. He went into the interrogation room, unlocked Bogosian's handcuffs, and told him he was free to go and that Delaware was waiting for him in the other room.
"I would like to take the opportunity to apologize-"
"Fuck you," Bogosian said, pushing Lassiter out of the doorway. Lassiter stood there for a bit, remembering the disbelief on the man's face when Lassiter first put the cuffs on his wrists. He sat down at the table in the chair he'd sat in for most of the night, now facing a blank gray wall instead of a desperate father. He liked the new view better.
Juliet came to check on him first. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"All the signs pointed -"
"Right, I know."
"You should get some rest."
"I will. I'll see you tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp."
"Okay," Juliet said, her voice tentative.
"Good-bye," Lassiter said, his voice as sure as Juliet's wasn't.
Lassiter could feel the energy shift when Shawn came in the room. Maybe it was his honed police instincts. Maybe Spencer walked with a really heavy tread. Maybe Lassiter was a little bit psychic, too.
"Go away."
Shawn didn't. He shut the door instead.
Lassiter looked over. "You happy?"
"Of course I am," Shawn said. "Aren't you? It's a good day, Lassiter. No one's dead. We can't always say that at the end of one of our cases."
"Our cases," Lassiter repeated. The last three Shawn was brought in for, or took on of his own volition, Shawn solved. For two of them Lassiter already had someone in custody. The wrong someone.
"Yeah, our cases," Shawn said. "We're both being paid by the City of Santa Barbara, correct? And we're both investigators, correct?"
"I am a detective, you are - "
"I am a psychic. A psychic detective. The psychic thing doesn't negate the detective thing, it just makes the detective part more awesome."
Lassiter didn't answer. Shawn didn't leave. Instead, he sighed, and his voice, when he spoke, had lost its typical casual cadence, the nonchalant tone. "What is your problem, Lassiter? I solve the case, bring the girl home, and you're going to be a jerk about it? Are you that immature?"
"I'm immature?" Lassiter said, standing up, looking Spencer over. The sight of him, and the memory of Shawn walking in wearing an outfit not unlike that of the eight-year-old walking next to him; both things make Lassiter's blood boil. "I'm not the one who showed up here in an old T-shirt and jeans."
"No, I'm the one who showed up here with the missing girl. Yeah I did!" Shawn executed one of his most annoying, elaborate fist-pumps, and then shook his head. "You know -"
Lassiter didn't find out what Shawn thought he knew, or should know. He didn't remember throwing the punch. He felt pain in his right hand, though, and looked down to see Spencer sprawled on the floor of the interrogation room, half-sitting against the door he must have stumbled into after catching Lassiter's fist with his eye.
"Holy shit," Spencer said, holding his hand over his eye. "I think you broke my face."
There was a knock on the door to the interrogation room, and then Gus's voice. "Shawn! You okay?"
"I'm fine, Gus, give me a minute." Spencer got up, slowly. "I just want you to know, I would fight back, only you're a lot bigger than me, and also, I'm in excruciating pain."
"Shawn!" Gus banged on the door again, and rattled the doorknob.
Lassiter reached around Shawn to the doorknob, opened the door and walked out, out of the room, out of the station, out to his car. When he got home, there was a message on his answering machine from the Chief, telling him to come back in for a meeting, where he picked up Form 217.
"Gus was the one who narced on you, you know," Shawn says, after the car had been quiet for almost five minutes. Lassiter knows because he had been timing Shawn, testing his theory that Shawn would fill any silent stretch of time longer than three minutes with his own voice.
"What?"
"He was the one who told the Chief. He gets protective." Shawn shifts in his seat. "It was a nice change of pace, actually, because when we were kids, he was usually the one getting beat up. He was such a huge nerd. He belonged to Math Club in junior high, went there for lunch meetings and everything."
"I belonged to Math Club."
"Really. Well, you two have something in common, then," Shawn says. "Anyway, my point is that he doesn't watch a lot of boxing movies - he just remembers junior high, when he practically walked around with a target on his back. That was before we got to high school and crafted his angry black dude persona, which he doesn't use so much anymore."
"As fascinating as this is -"
"Ah yes, back to the topic at hand." Shawn pulls a folded-up piece of notebook paper out of his pocket. "I have some notes. I actually came up with a title: 'Why You Punched Me and How We Can Get Past It.'"
"Oh, for the love of-"
"Now, listen, I think this could really be helpful! Gus and I hammered these out over breakfast at Denny's, with the assistance of this website on conflict resolution Gus found. Number one says that we should establish a culture of mutual respect."
Lassiter looks over at Shawn, sitting there in a frayed green T-shirt and jeans, dirty sneakers on his feet, hair askew. "That may be difficult."
"Right back atcha. But I think we should try. At least for this car ride."
"Fine. I'll respect you until we get out of this traffic jam."
"Since we've moved approximately eight feet in the past twenty minutes, I think that should work. Okay. Number two says that we should avoid accusatory language and use 'I-statements' to express our feelings. For example," Shawn says, looking thoughtful. "I am feeling hungry right now."
"Didn't you just finish that giant blue thing?"
"Yeah, but that was liquid, it's not really filling. Do you have anything here? Gus always keeps Power Bars in his glove compartment-"
Lassiter slaps Shawn's hand away. "No Power Bars. No food at all. I don't eat in the car."
"Oh," Shawn said, looking around the car. "So, you're one of those."
"One of what?"
"One of those obsessively neat drivers who never gets real joy out of their cars because they're so obsessed with keeping it clean."
"Do you know what real joy is? The feeling I get when the dealer tells me the excellent trade-in value because of the car's immaculate interior."
"Ah. I wouldn't know much about that, since cars typically come to me at the end of their lifespan." Shawn looks down at the paper again. "Anyway, I-Statements. We should use them to express our feelings and move past the problems that led to our, whatever you want to call it. The time you broke my face."
"I did not break your face."
"Not quite, but you sure came close. You know, the doctor I went to said that if you had hit me two inches to the right, you would have fractured my skull and possibly killed me."
"Really?"
"No, not really. Who do you think you are, Rocky? Anyway, as I was saying -"
"I'll start. I," Lassiter says, stretching out the word to emphasize his adherence to the rule, "- think that you're childish and annoying."
"Okay, while admirably honest, that's not really in the spirit of the exercise."
"Then you start."
"I will. I think that you're uptight and mean-spirited."
"Is that in the spirit of the exercise?"
Shawn shrugs in a sort-of-apologetic way.
Lassiter looks out at the sea of unmoving cars; still no sign of the cause of the disturbance. "I am not mean-spirited."
"But you'll agree to the uptight?"
"More than the mean-spirited," Lassiter says. "I give generously to charities, have never forgotten my mother's birthday, and just last week I helped an old lady with her groceries."
"Seriously?"
Lassiter nods.
"Okay, that's kind of awesome. I'll give you points there." Shawn looks at the paper and then folds it up, puts it in his pocket. "Okay, you know what I think is mean-spirited? Sucker punching unsuspecting people, like me. It really hurts and it's made it more difficult for me to pick up girls."
Lassiter remembers looking down and seeing Shawn there on the floor, the way pain and surprise were there in equal measures. The memory makes him grip the steering wheel a little more tightly, press down on the brake. All he says is, "You're breaking my heart."
"Seriously, man. Punching a guy with no warning is not cool."
"What, am I supposed to give you a heads up? Announce the fact that I'm about to hit you?"
"That'd be nice! That's why there's that whole, 'Why don't we take this outside?' thing. Give the other guy a chance to get his dukes up and ready." Shawn opens up the visor mirror again, pushes at the skin under his eye and winces. "This really hurts!"
"You've mentioned that," Lassiter says, looking at Shawn, at the way the bruise makes his annoyingly familiar face strange and different. "And it wasn't like I planned to hit you."
"You didn't."
"Of course not," Lassiter says. "I just - it just happened. I hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, I wasn't at my best."
"Well, neither had I, but I wasn't punching people."
"No, what you were doing was gloating."
"No, I wasn't."
"Yes, you were."
"Well, maybe a little bit." Shawn smiles, no longer looking at his reflection. "I mean, come on. Wouldn't you?"
"No."
"Oh, come on. You totally would. I solved a huge missing persons case! I brought the girl home, safe and sound! It was awesome. Who wouldn't feel - oh. I get it."
"You get what?"
"You were jealous."
"I was not jealous."
"You were totally jealous." Shawn snaps his fingers. "I can tell because you get the same expression on your face when Juliet laughs at one of my jokes. It's okay to have a crush on her, by the way."
"I don't have a crush on her." Lassiter doesn't. He's learned his lesson about dating your partner.
"It's okay, she's cute. I'd think it was weird if you didn't have a crush on her, actually."
"Let's not talk about Juliet."
"Why not? She's the reason we're here."
"What do you mean?"
"She asked me to come. And what Juliet asks, I cannot refuse, for lo, she is blonde and adorable, and I have no defenses for blonde adorableness." Shawn turns, holding up a finger. "Redhead adorableness, brunette adorableness? I can totally handle it. There's just something about blondes."
Lassiter's ex-wife had been a blonde, and so tiny her head barely reached his shoulder. She's probably still a blonde. Lassiter hasn't seen her in a year and a half; maybe she's not blonde anymore. Maybe she's a redhead. Maybe she's married, married to someone who knows how to be a husband.
Shawn snaps his fingers, startling Lassiter. "What?"
"Traffic's moving," he says, and it is.
Lassiter presses on the gas, and gets the car into second gear. "Good, this is good."
"This is excellent," Shawn says, a little overenthusiastically. "That blue thing was really big and really liquidy."
"Oh, please-"
"Come on! It happens to all of us. And I didn't go into detail or anything."
"Thank you for that," Lassiter says, and shifts again. Traffic is picking up.
"As glad as I am to be moving, it's a little worrisome, because with the traffic jam goes our culture of mutual respect, and I promised Juliet I'd get this figured out, because we've got this case, and apparently only you can help her with this -"
"What case? What does she need help with?"
"I can't tell you about it till you're reinstated, and in order for that to happen, you need to tell me why you punched me."
Lassiter pretends to be focused on the traffic, squinting at a merging car. Stalling for time. "I thought we went over that."
"No, we didn't. I told you why I thought you did, you didn't say anything."
Lassiter lets a car merge in front of him, and then another. The car behind him honks. "Maybe I was a little jealous."
Shawn makes a fist-pumping motion. "Yes! I knew it!"
"Because of sleep-deprivation and extreme stress, I might have felt a bit of jealousy, but that has long passed, and -"
"Enough, enough. You admitted it. That's what matters." Shawn grimaces. "Do I have to go on and tell you that you're a good cop and build up your self esteem and all that stuff? I think you'd rather hear that from Juliet, and she seems pretty primed to tell you, since she was all insistent on getting you back there, but if you need me to -"
"Trust me, I don't." Lassiter knows he should apologize for the punch, for the bruise around Shawn's eye. He remembers the fist-pump and can't bring himself to; instead, he says, "I fail to see how this is supposed to get me back on the force. Bob - Dr. Studebaker is the one with my form, not you."
Shawn waves a hand. "No worries. Pull a U-turn up here, we're heading back."
"Heading back?"
"I told you, there's this case -
"Spencer."
"Just trust me. Get us back to Studebaker's office, I'll take care of it. I promised Juliet, and remember, she is blonde, and -"
"Adorable, I get it. Fine." Lassiter does not make a U-turn, but he does turn around at the next exit. When merging back onto the highway, he remembers, suddenly, the reason Shawn is in his car. "What about the tape?"
"What tape?"
"The tape, the one your partner made in the parking lot?"
"Oh, there's no tape. We just did that to get you to give me a ride."
It's just ridiculous enough for Lassiter to believe it, coming from Shawn. "Why didn't you just call me, or stop by my house?"
"Are you kidding? This way, we got to use spy equipment! Way more fun."
----
When they get back to Studebaker's office, Shawn insists on taking the lead.
"I'm Shawn Spencer, here to see Dr. Studebaker," he says, smiling down at the receptionist.
"Oh, he's gone for the day," she says, and then looks at him more closely. "Are you that-"
"Yes, that psychic," Shawn says, leaning on one elbow on the counter.
The receptionist leans in closer to Shawn. "Can you, like, see the future? Can you tell me what's going to happen on Lost when it comes back?"
"Well, I could, but that would be ruining it for you. I'm telling you, I miss the days before my 'gift' came along," Shawn says, making air quotes around the word. "Now, I can't watch a movie, read a book, without knowing the ending immediately."
"That is so tragic."
"I know. It is." Shawn shifts his weight, puts both elbows on the counter, and brings his voice down to a quieter register. "Do you know what else I know? I know that you can almost perfectly forge Dr. Studebaker's signature."
The receptionist's mouth forms a perfect 'O'. "Shut up. How did you know that?"
"How do you think I knew?" Shawn tilts his head forward in a meaningful way. "Do you know what else I know? I know that you are going to sign the bottom left-hand corner of the Form 217 Detective Lassiter left for you."
"No, I really can't -"
Shawn reaches forward, holds the receptionist's hand. "It's not a question of whether you can or cannot. You will. I have seen it. It shall be."
The receptionist nods, slowly. "So, like, you've already seen this happen?"
"I had a vision," he says. "They always come true."
"Always?"
Shawn nods. "Always."
The receptionist looks tentative for a minute, and then nods. "All right, then," she says, and opens a drawer of the filing cabinet next to her. She pulls out a file folder Lassiter recognizes, and takes out a piece of paper Lassiter knows well. "Are you sure you've seen this?"
"Positive," Shawn says.
The receptionist signs, and hands it to Shawn. "Have you seen whether I get fired?"
"I see you moving on, to better things," Shawn says, handing the form to Lassiter. "Soon, and whether you get fired or you quit. Like, say, dinner with me."
"Spencer," Lassiter says, pushing the office door open.
"Call me," Shawn says, scribbling something on the back of the receptionist's hand. "I see us having a great time."
"Do you have to do things like that?"
"Like what? Save your butt? Or pick up cute girls?" Shawn smiles. "Apparently, yes to both. Get used to it, man."
Eventually, Lassiter does.
END