"Thank you for coming Tara," Margaret Murphy murmured low. She smiled kindly up at Tara, who returned the kind gesture. They turned and slowly walked side-by-side down the long corridor. The petite red-headed administrator looked straight ahead towards the double doors that led to St. Thomas' Critical Care Unit.
"You're welcome," Tara returned. Her hazel eyes lingered on the tightly locked doors. "Can you tell me why I am here? I mean, I really shouldn't be, given everything that's…"
"Going on," Margaret finished. Tara nodded. Margaret sighed. She was sympathetic towards Tara's cause. Her mind wandered backwards to that now infamous night. She'd been home when she received the call. She had just finished loading the dishwasher when her cell buzzed in her pocket.
"Hello?" she said, exasperated. The hospital was annoying as hell sometimes. There was no time to be a wife or a mother; her every waking moment seemed to be absorbed in St. Thomas, and she was beginning to resent it more and more. She raked a semi-wet hand through her ginger hair as the other one gripped her phone.
"Margaret, it's Marie Christopher," the voice on the other end calmly. Margaret rolled her eyes. St. Thomas' newest ER physician was also quite the prima donna when she wanted to be. In the five months since Dr. Christopher's arrival, the ER had completely changed, and much of those changes could be attributed to the gorgeous, headstrong doctor. Margaret had been at the receiving end of many of the new physician's after hours tirades, and she simply wasn't in the mood for more.
"Yes, Marie, what can I do for you?" Margaret tried to maintain a sweet tone, but there was fire cutting her words. She couldn't help it. Marie Christopher made her skin crawl.
"I have a very bloody Tara Knowles in my ER." Typically, Margaret's blood would boil at the suggestion that the ER was anyone but hers, but the mention of Tara's name caused her blood to run ice cold. Flashbacks of she and Tara, tied back-to-back assailed her. She remembered Hector Salazar screaming at them. She remembered the glimmer of his gun as it pointed at them both.
She saved me. Margaret's brain ran away with thoughts unbidden. She was pregnant with Thomas, and she saved me. She knew this would happen. The last few weeks had been pure hell on her friend. She had tried so hard to escape the club, and she was so, so close. Margaret felt her throat catch at the prospect of a bloody Tara Knowles. That goddamned club got her.
"Margaret, are you listening to me?" Dr. Christopher's voice crackled over the line.
"Is...is Tara…" Margaret didn't want to say the word.
"She's alive, Margaret. She was beaten pretty good, but she's better than I expected after the call in we got. I expected her to be a DOA, but her mother-in-law got that distinction." Margaret's heart pounded with relief. Tara is okay. She's not dead. She's alive. She blinked and stared. But Gemma is dead. The mere thought was pure insanity.
Now, in the dark corridor outside CCU, Margaret laid eyes on Tara for the first time since that night. She hadn't gone to the funeral. It brought back too many memories of her own scandalous biker past, and she couldn't deal. She sent a spray of roses instead.
"Juice is his name, right?" Margaret asked.
"Juan Carlos sounds so formal," Tara returned. At first, she intended it as a joke, but the reality of his name set in: Juan Carlos was indeed too formal for the boy with the sweet smile. Boy. The word was the only one appropriate enough to describe Juice, even though he was the same age as she and Jax. They seemed light years apart. She couldn't believe she was here, alone, at his request.
Margaret nodded. "He's in terrible shape, Tara. Dr. Christopher was astounded he was alive, and truthfully, after what I read in his report, I am too. He had enough OxyContin to kill ten men."
"Jesus Christ," Tara whispered.
"Looks like there's fucked up crank in his system as well." Tara gaped at Margaret's colorful language. Fucked up crank? Really, Margaret? It never ceased to amaze her. She smiled. You can take the girl outta the biker gang, but you can't take the biker gang outta the girl. "Marie said that's what is contributing to his multiple organ failure."
"Marie?" Tara asked. Margaret sighed.
"Dr. Christopher," Margaret replied. The two women began walking towards the double doors. Margaret slid her ID through the scanner, and the doors flew open. They walked in and Margaret made a hard left. Juice was in the first bay; the curtain was partially pulled, and Tara winced as her eyes rested on the once sweet faced kid.
"Oh Juice," she said sadly. Her breath caught as she walked closer to him. He was asleep. He was a strange gray color, and Tara could see the signs of death creeping up his mottled hands. His lips were blue, and huge black circles shadowed his eyes. His cheeks, once plump with life and vitality, now appeared gaunt, and the sharp angle of his cheekbones cut into his cyanotic skin.
"I'll leave you alone with him, Tara," Margaret said quietly. Tara's nod was barely noticeable. "Call me when you're done. I'm sticking around." Again, Tara nodded. Margaret pulled the curtain closed as she left the room. Tara rested her hand on his, shocked at how frozen it felt to her touch.
"Juice?" Tara said gently. She squeezed his hand. His eyes, once a brilliant, beautiful brown, were hazy and unfocused. He glanced around the room before his eyes rested on Tara. A sad smile spread slowly across his lips as he clutched her hand.
"Hey doc," he whispered hoarsely.
"I'd ask how you're doing, but I already know," Tara talked to him like she talked to Abel. It was all about caring undertones and short sentences. "Why Juice? Why did you do this?"
Juice retained his boyish smile, but it was trapped in the face of a weary, haggard addict. It damned near broke her heart.
"I'd rather die by my own hand than the hand of your husband," Juice responded, and chills raced down Tara's spine. She had seen Jax kill. Stacks of dead bodies were etched on her soul, and some of those she had her husband to thank. Still, she didn't realize things had gone so badly between Jax and Juice. She was too caught up in trying to get out of Charming to worry about the strange subplots in her husband's club. Juice looked at Tara and shrugged slightly.
"Why would Jax-?" Tara began. She stopped when Juice held up his hand.
"It doesn't matter now," he said serenely. "We both know I'm living on borrowed time. Jax gets what he wants, after all, either by his hand or someone else's." Juice closed his eyes. Tara watched as he appeared to fall asleep again. She squeezed his hand once more. His eyes remained closed, but he began to speak.
"You must be wondering why I wanted you here," he said. Tara nodded, even though he couldn't see her do so.
"I wondered why you didn't want Jax here," she countered slowly. "But now that I know he wanted you dead, I—"
"It's not about that, Tara." His voice was low, so she grabbed a chair and sat. The closer proximity made it easier to hear him. "It's about you. I didn't want him here, because I wouldn't be able to say anything. You probably realize by now that your husband's presence fills the room before he even enters it. This life we're a part of, it's always about him and what he needs. This really has nothing to do with Jax Teller at all. I didn't see the need to ask him here, especially now."
Tara's forehead knitted in confusion. She didn't want to ask questions. She just wanted to listen.
"I saw you," he whispered brokenly. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. His frigid hands shook as he continued on. "I saw you on the floor. I saw you covered in blood. I spoke to you as lay face down on the kitchen floor."
"I thought you were Jax," Tara returned. She was trembling as hard as he was. Juice did this? Tara closed her eyes and shook her head. No. I refuse to believe that. I cannot believe that. Her eyes scanned the monitors that recorded his every move, and the doctor in her took over. Blood pressure was 80/70. Pulse was 54. The mottling is spreading over his elbows now. She gritted her teeth. Oh my God, she thought. He's actively dying.
"I didn't kill them, Tara," Juice said slowly. Tara exhaled with relief. For a moment, she thought that was what he summoned her there for. Deathbed confessions were not her strong suit. Just ask Otto, her conscience cried. Memories of the suicidal SAMCRO biker screamed in her skull. She shivered.
"Do you know who did?" she questioned. Juice shook his head quickly.
"I wish I did." Juice's lips were darkening as they stretched into a tight line. "I came in after it was done. Whoever did it was long gone." Tara wanted to cry in frustration. Scared and uncomfortable, she scanned the room for a slight diversion. Her eyes spied a pair of black combat boots, and her mind flashed with recollections. Those were the boots I saw.
"I'm sorry, Tara," Juice croaked. His was the voice I heard. Her throat burned with unshed sobs.
Her mind raced with flashes of memories. The pop of the gun. Gemma's screams. Eli's voice. All the memories were ones she already knew, nothing new. Just the same goddamned shit I already know! Her fingers tightened around Juice's bedrails and scalding hot tears fell down her face.
"If you know nothing, then why did you ask me here?" Tara asked with more force than she intended. Her hazel eyes were blurry from crying, and her stomach churned with nausea. She quickly swallowed the urge to vomit. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, but it did little to abate the sick feeling.
"I have to make things right, Tara," Juice's eyes, always so soulful, were fading. Tara scanned the monitors again. Blood pressure 74/50. Pulse 16. She was surprised Juice could even speak, much less speak so coherently. She shook her head as her eyes caught the sign above Juice's bed. Huge, red letters reading DNR rested above Juice's head. Do Not Resuscitate.
"You signed a DNR, Juice?" Tara queried. Juice nodded.
"I don't want to live, Tara. Not without my club." His voice was flat and calm. His eyes were starting to droop. There's not much time. Tara inhaled deeply.
"Juice, I can talk to Jax, I—" Juice shook his head.
"Don't, Tara. It's too late. I'm okay with my choice." He reached out and squeezed her hand. His skin was arctic. "Do you have your phone?"
Tara nodded. She pulled it out of her pocket, unsure of why it was necessary.
"Get a nurse, a doctor, anyone. I need another witness," he instructed. His breathing was shallow. Tara rushed out to the hallway. Dr. Christopher and Margaret stood at the nurse's station. They looked as if they were in a heated conversation, but Tara didn't care.
"Margaret, can you come help me?" Tara called. Margaret left Dr. Christopher mid-sentence and walked almost eagerly to Tara. Together, they entered Juice's room. Tara drew the curtain tightly closed around them.
"Do you have a phone, Red?" Juice wheezed, his eyes glued to Margaret. She nodded, just as Tara did seconds ago.
"Take it out, Margaret. Please." Tara's urgent voice spoke. Margaret took it out.
"Film this," Juice ordered. Margaret and Tara turned their phones on. They both stood in front of Juice, eyes fixated on his face. He was now a strange shade of grayish blue, but he continued on.
"My name is Juan Carlos Ortiz. Yesterday, I injected my body with a lethal dose of OxyContin. I, as you can see, did not die, but it was only a short reprieve." A ironic smile spread across Juice's face. Tara opened her mouth to speak, but seeing Juice's labored breathing, she stopped.
"I want to die. I have turned on my club, and I deserve this punishment." Juice licked his lips at the end of the sentence. He was breathing like he'd run a sprint. Tears filled Margaret's eyes. Images of her long lost life gripped her heart and wouldn't let go. She struggled to keep the camera upright.
"You see, Jackson Teller wants me dead," he continued. Tara bit her tongue. His eyes stared straight at her as he spoke the next sentence. "I went against the club. For the last year, I have been running guns for the Byz Lats behind Teller's back. I am the one who obtained the KG-9s, and I am the one who placed them in the hands of Arcadio Nerona. His girlfriend Darvany is the mother of boy that shot that school up."
Tara couldn't breathe. She couldn't believe what Juice was saying. She didn't know the details of the school shooting, nor did she want to, but she also knew that the words leaving Juice's mouth were blatant lies.
"SAMCRO had no idea what I was doing. I told no one of my plans. I didn't want Jax as my president. Without Clay, I chose other options. Jackson learned of what I was doing after Arcadio and Darvany took off," Juice stated. His eyelids were falling, but he still managed to look at Tara and Margaret. "And he made no secret of his hatred for me. I fled to Stockton, where I checked in a motel and wondered what the fuck to do with myself. I knew Jax might turn me in—or just kill me. I just beat him to it."
A beautiful smile glossed over Juice's features as tears filled his eyes.
"Jackson, I am sorry for betraying you. Tell Chibs I love him." The confession was over. He gasped for air. Tara handed her phone to Margaret as she rushed to his side. She glanced at the monitors. His blood pressure plummeted, as did his pulse, and they weren't reading on the screen. Tara lost her breath as her fingers skimmed his throat in search for the pulse. It was barely there. She reached for the oxygen by Juice's bedside.
"Don't Tara," he whispered. Those brown eyes begged, and she listened.
"Juice, please…" She began to weep. They'd never been close. Never. But their lives were destined to flow into one another, and she couldn't help but remember him in better days.
"Just hold my hand, Tara," he croaked. "I just don't want to die alone."
Tara found Juice's hand and held it gently. She ran a hand over his head. She continued rubbing, and a faint smile etched his face. She smiled sadly.
The monitors screamed as Juice's heart stopped. Tara squeezed Juice's hand tightly.
"He's going into cardiac arrest," a strident voice filled the room. Margaret turned.
"Yes, Dr. Christopher, he is. He's a DNR, as you know."
"Yes, Margaret, I am well aware of that. Someone has to call the time of death. Who's the doctor here, you or me?" The physician rested her hands on her hips and glared at the administrator.
"Both of you: shut the fuck up." Tara's voice was stone cold. "This man is dying, and I will not let your bitchiness be the last thing he hears before he leaves this Earth. You can call it when he's dead. As of this second, Juan Carlos Ortiz is still breathing, if only barely."
Marie Christopher was speechless. She opened her mouth to speak, but Tara's hazel eyes were fire as she stared at the doctor. Tara turned her attention back to Juice as the sound of a flatlining heart filled the air. She wept freely, unashamed of her tears. She gasped as she felt his fingers tighten slightly around hers.
Then he was still. There was no breathing, no movement, no words. More importantly, there were no worries, no pain, and no sadness. Juice was free. Marie moved behind her, shutting the loud machines off. There was silence. Margaret didn't move; she just stood at the end of the bed, convinced she was seeing a ghost.
"Time of death: 12:27 am." Dr. Christopher's voice was low as she wrote the time of death in Juice's chart. Tara pulled her fingers carefully from his. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she walked towards Margaret. Wordlessly, she returned Tara's cell.
"You know how to find me," Margaret reminded her, "When you're ready."
Tara knew what she meant. She watched Margaret slide her phone in her pocket. It amazed her how they could speak without exchanging words. She nodded awkwardly as guilt assaulted her. She wanted to stay. She wanted to hold his hand a moment longer. She wanted him to know he had a purpose, but it felt like a lie. It felt wrong. Juice was a man. He was SAMCRO, and at the end, he died for that club. Other than that, what legacy was left behind? Just one of carnage and senseless death, nothing more. He wasn't like Jax or Chibs or Bobby or even Tig; they all had children. He had nothing. There was no one outside of the club she'd have to call. Her heart was broken, but it would do no good to stay and watch as Juice was zipped into a body bag. Without a backward glance, Tara walked past her boss and left Juice's room. Her sneakers squeaked slightly as she walked down the hallway.
Her soul was bruised all to hell. The moments she just witnessed—Juice's final moments—were horrific, but what hurt more was that she was leaving St. Thomas with more questions than she'd come in with. She was no closer to finding Gemma and Eli's killer, and to top that off, Juice unleashed a Pandora's Box of secrets that made no sense.
The night air felt good on her skin as she walked to the car. She climbed in and clasped her seatbelt shut, and as she cranked the car to life, she knew what her next move needed to be.
Charming was so quiet at night. There was no noise, no tremble of life. Everything pretty much shut down at ten and didn't wake again until seven the next morning. It had been that way her entire life, and now, more than ever, she welcomed it. It helped her clear her mind, and she definitely needed it. She drove slowly down the streets, letting her memories find her. As she drove, she let the smiles and the tears fall where they needed to. It felt good to drive alone. She hadn't done it since that night, and she didn't realize how much she missed it.
She sighed as she drove down the most familiar street of all, and her heart felt heavy as she pulled into the driveway. I'm home. The lights were out; not even the porch light remained on. The grass was in desperate need of cutting, and the shrubs definitely needed some tender loving care. She cut the car off, determined to not let her throbbing heartbeat or sweaty palms deter her. She stepped out of the car and walked towards her front door. She hesitated for a moment as her fingers grasped the doorknob, and when she turned it, she was shocked to see the door open.
No one bothered to lock it. The thought should have scared her, but it didn't. All she could think of was the memories the place held. Pictures of Jax and Abel and Thomas flooded her psyche, as did the ghosts of Clay and Opie and Donna. A chill covered her body as she stepped inside, but she accepted it. Tara knew that to remember, she'd have to resurrect all the ghosts that hid both in her mind and in her old house, no matter what it brought in return.
