A/N: A real SVU/Ring crossover—Actress Shannon Cochrane, who played Anna Morgan, Samara's mother so memorably in The Ring, made a guest appearance on L&O:SVU's sixth season episode 'Charisma'. The episode is about a David Koresh-like figure called Abraham, a messianic preacher who takes multiple 'wives', including underage girls, and has children by them.

Cochrane plays his senior 'wife', Sarah/Cindy, who gave her twelve-year-old daughter Melanie to the preacher Abraham as his youngest 'bride'. (Olivia gets to chew her out good.) As well as the similarities between Anna and Sarah/Cindy—unbalanced mothers of abused daughters whose parenting is toxic, the young actress who plays Melanie has a passing resemblance to Samara (once you overlook the fact that Melanie is supposed to be thirty weeks pregnant). Both are pale, with oval faces and long dark hair. Melanie's hair is red, however. Melanie also gets to kill someone. Girl Power!...uh, sorta.

No one is completely bad or completely good, not even SVU detectives. Don Cragen's demon was alcoholism; Odafin Tutuola neglected his family in favor of his work. John Munch was known to make cruel and mean-spirited generalizations about women loudly and without consideration for the feelings of his female co-workers. Elliot Stabler fought his dark and cruel side every day, that part of him which wanted to brutalize and kill the molesters and rapists who crossed his path. And Olivia Benson lusted after a married man—her partner.

For her part, Jude Weiss loathed and despised Doctor Graham Scott for two and a half years before Samara Morgan set foot inside the doors of Eola, and one of the many and complex reasons she persevered with the girl was because Scott had failed so miserably.

Doctor Scott was a better man than he seemed. For many years now he had provided long hours of free therapy to combat veterans with post traumatic stress disorder, helping to keep lives and families together, generously and without any desire for recognition.

Anna Morgan had been an Olympic gold medalist for individual show jumping in the equestrian division, not only winning glory for her country but inspiring young girls from coast to coast. Riding was the only sport in which women and men competed equally, the only one in which pure skill carried the day. Her victory was the victory of every female child who burned at the words, 'You (pitch/catch/run/fill in the blank) like a girl!'

Richard Morgan had his virtues too. Although he could not be bothered to stop his wife from abusing their child, or to do anything about Anna's deteriorating mental condition until it inconvenienced him, he would spend long sleepless days and nights by the side of a horse in trouble, performing even the most disgusting tasks as well as or better than any veterinarian. When he lost one, he would weep as though he had lost a brother.

So, too, did Gordon Clay have his good points. He was a thief, a petty drug dealer, and he had not only ignored the abuse Samara suffered at Eola, he had added to it. But he was an active volunteer with the Urban Feline Rescue Association, which sought to find a home for every stray cat rescued. He was one of their best fosterers, someone they relied on to take in pregnant strays and care for them and their kittens until they and their mother were ready to be adopted. He loved doing it; he loved to watch the new mother wash and care for her kittens, waited with increasing anticipation for their eyes to open, for the first uncertain, wobbly steps they took, until they were eight-week-old terrors who tore around his apartment at top speed. Sometimes he laughed so hard he came close to pissing his pants.

The people who adopted 'his' babies always commented on how happy and well-socialized they were, how friendly and loving. (However, he did give them extremely rude temporary names. The last litter had included 'Booby', 'Farts', and 'Dingleberry'.)

So his greatest concern as he waited in the interview room with his lawyer at his elbow was for Lil' Titties, his latest mother cat. She was mostly Siamese, he thought, going by her elegant bone structure and her loud, expressive voice, but she was also highly strung. She had given birth only three days before, and it was her first litter.

Had he left enough food out for her, if he had to spend the night in jail? What if she stressed out and ate her kittens? It had never happened to one of his mother cats, but another volunteer fosterer had it happen once, and she had cried for weeks. No one knew exactly why a mother cat would turn and devour the fuzzy little ones that suckled at her side. Sometimes something went wrong inside the mother's head, something that maybe made her see her babies as a threat, parasites which drained her strength and caused her pain. And then she ate them. She didn't just kill them. She ate them. Maybe she was trying to make them a part of her again, to make them part of her forever.

Sometimes something went wrong…

Clay pulled himself out of his funk and looked over at his lawyer. The man's shirt was stained. He was there in the police station, under arrest, and this guy, this guy who was supposed to get him out of there had on a shirt with a filthy collar and, Clay suspected, sweat rings under the arms. What good could this guy do?

Maybe he should have gone with the legal aid attorney after all. This stinking whale of a lawyer worked for the legal service Eola offered as part of their benefits package, just like vision and dental. Twenty dollars a week, and you got a number to call with any legal questions, a place that would do your wills or write letters threatening to sue without charging you an arm and a leg. You also got a card to keep in your wallet with a special number in case you ever got arrested, and a promise they would make bond for you up to 100,000. All of that was nice, but the lawyer who came out to represent him as promised turned out to be this bored loser who smelled of eggs.

Legal aid attorneys were different than this, weren't they? Weren't they passionate believers in the rights of the accused?

"Let's go over this again," said the smelly whale. "You were just doing your job. You work in a mental hospital, that is, a dangerous environment. Just like the police, and just like the police, sometimes you have to use force, and if somebody who wasn't there were to judge you, they might not understand what you have to do. It might look like assault, but it wasn't. You're sorry for any pain you might have caused, but you don't admit any wrong-doing."

"Uh, right." Clay hadn't said anything about who he'd used the force against, having realized that there wasn't any way he could make it sound good. Nobody would believe the truth, and—well, admitting he was arrested for hurting a seven-year-old girl (or something that looked like one)—it would be like saying he liked to kick kittens into an electric fan. It would just make him feel sick.

And that got him worried about Lil' Titties all over again. Would she be okay? Who could he call to check on her? He ran over his mental list of the other volunteers, trying to remember who lived closest, and if his neighbor who had the spare keys was home. Would he be allowed another phone call?

"As for the drug possession, they misinterpreted what they saw. You were getting the meds together according to your own system. No theft was involved. You just panicked when you saw the cop, that's all."

"Right," Clay agreed, hoping nobody ran an inventory check on Eola's pharmaceuticals.

Then the cops came in, the same two as before, the tough looking black guy and the good looking white guy. "Hi. I'm Detective Tutuola, and this is Detective Stabler." said the black guy.

"Barry Giffen." The sweaty whale went on to reel off his firm's name. "My client is totally innocent. His actions were misinterpreted, and once the truth is known, everything will be explained."

"Uh-huh. Explain this." Tutuola—stupid name, it sounded like margarine for ballet dancers—put two pictures down on the table. They were photographs of Samara Morgan, although they showed more of her face than Clay had ever seen in person. Unfortunately they also showed big purple bruises.

"What are these?" his lawyer asked.

"These are pictures of the patient he assaulted." Tutuola drawled.

"Didn't he tell you he was arrested for hurting a little girl?" asked the white guy, Stabler. He still looked like he took that personal, as if Samara Morgan was one of his own kids.

"No, he didn't." Giffen had a look on his face like he had bitten an apple and found half a worm left in it. "A moment." He held a folder up to cover his face and hissed into Clay's ear. "What the hell is this? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I—I knew how it would sound."

"Goddamnit. Goddamnit. Who witnessed it? Who reported it? Who took those pictures?"

"I don't know—oh. Wait. It was probably Doctor Weiss. Or Beatrice Dover, no, she's off this week. Doctor Weiss." Some people weren't bothered by Samara Morgan at all, but even most of them didn't go out of their way to get involved. Bea Dover didn't give a shit about anything but putting in her time and going home. Doctor Weiss, though. His hours and hers didn't usually match up, so he didn't know for sure, but rumor had it she spent hours in Room 506 when she pulled the overnight shift. Weird.

"Doctor Weiss. Who's he?"

"She. She's a resident at Eola."

"Does she count for anything around there?"

"Hell no. Not since Scott realized he goofed up."

"Goofed up how?"

"Well, she goes by the name Judith now, but her name's really Jude. Scott forgot who all he interviewed and picked her thinking he was getting a guy. Everybody knew it because he was talking about 'he' and 'him'—before 'he' showed up with tits and a ponytail. She's all girl, too. Not a tranny."

"How do you know? Did you—?"

"No." Dr. Weiss wasn't bad looking, but she hardly ever smiled, never giggled, and her eyes narrowed when she thought hard, which was most of the time. He liked wide-eyed girls who were fun and flirty. "Her—her figure. Trannies don't have hips like hers."

"Is she reliable?"

"Yeah. That's why Scott can't kick her out to the curb. She'd have the review board down on him to show cause."

"Goddamnit. Look, have you ever worked with children before?"

"No."

"Ever have any training in how to handle child patients?"

"No."

"So they expected you to work with her cold? Nobody offered to train you?"

"No," he said, forgetting that Dr. Weiss had sent out e-mails offering a quick course in how to safely subdue even the most violent child patient.

His lawyer straightened up. "Sorry. Detectives, my client was placed in a position where his training was inadequate. While he did injure—?"

"Her name is Samara Morgan." Stabler told him.

"Samara Morgan. While he did injure Samara Morgan, it was unintentional. He has no experience with children, and his employer failed to prepare him. He would have availed himself of any—."

"Oh, you mean like the class Doctor Weiss offered to teach on her own time?" Tutuola had that look on his face again, the 'You stink' look. "Nice lady. She documented everythin'."

The folder came up again. "Why didn't you just dig your own grave and lie down in it? Never mind. Detectives, my client is prepared to plead guilty to assault if the drug charges can be dropped."

"Like hell I am!" Clay spluttered.

"Unfortunately, the stakes got higher while your client was down in holding." Stabler informed them. "Three of Samara Morgan's ribs are cracked because your client knelt on her. He knelt on her chest." The detective's voice was getting louder and angrier as he went. "According to Doctor Walker and Doctor Ueda at Children's hospital, your client came this close," the man held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart, "to breaking her ribs, puncturing her lung, and drowning her in her own blood. I hope you appreciate how lucky you are." Stabler leaned over the table, right in Clay's face. "Because you're only looking at attempted murder charges."

"By the way," Tutuola slipped into the moment. "what was Mariposa Gonzales doin' while you were kneelin' on the kid?"

"Mariposa?" Clay asked, surprised. "She had the syringe and the pills."

"So she gave her an injection and had her swallow the pills?"

"That's right."

"She do anythin' else?"

"No."

"Thanks."

Clay's lawyer sighed. "Is there anything my client can offer you as his part of a deal?"

"That depends on what he knows." A blonde chick who was even less smiley and narrower eyed than Dr. Weiss entered the room. "Alexandra Cabot. Assistant District Attorney."

"About what?" his lawyer asked.

"About why Dr. Scott had Samara Morgan on three times the recommended dose of lithium, among other things."

His lawyer looked at him.

Clay licked his lips. "Uh—can I make another call first? My cat just had kittens a couple of days ago. I want to call someone to take care of her, because explaining this is going to take a while."

The blonde woman shook her head. "What's your cat's name?"

He didn't hesitate. "Lil' Mittens." This woman scared him. A name change was nothing compared with keeping his balls.

"Lil' Mittens. All right. Someone loan him a phone, and let's get on with it."

A/N: BTW, Lil' Titties (or Lil' Mittens) and her new family were just fine. Overthemoon, this chapter is dedicated to you, so you have something more substantial to finish your weekend.