Back to Major Case
HIS MOTHER'S FUNERAL
"I'm going home for the night," Eames said to Goren after they left the interrogation room.
He tilted his head and looked to the ground, "—okay—I guess I'll talk to Wilson."
Eames could see the frustration on his face. "I have to go, Bobby. I'm going to get Grace."
"Yeah, sure."
Goren watched Eames put on her coat and walk to the elevator. Despite his confidence in his own interrogation skills, he had little hope that Wilson would talk to anyone but Eames. As she stood in front of the elevator, the captain walked up to Eames and began gesturing to the holding cell where Wilson sat. Even at a distance Goren could see Eames was aggravated. Her body language changed only slightly, but he learned long ago that those slight changes in her expression were more telling than her larger outbursts.
The elevator doors opened but she did not get in. The captain and Eames walked back to Goren.
"Goren," Eames said with a sigh, "the captain thinks that I'll be the only one to get anything out of Wilson. I told her you're the one who can get anyone to talk."
Goren looked to the captain then back to Eames. He was unsure what to say.
"Detective," the captain said to Goren, "I believe Eames has gained slight trust with Wilson, and if we want him to talk tonight, then it should be with her. Do you agree?"
Goren maintained eye contact with Eames. He knew what she wanted him to say, but he could not. "I agree," he said softly.
"Good," the captain said. "Eames, within the next few hours I want you to talk to Wilson again."
Eames waited for the captain to leave before she said, "Thanks a lot, detective. I appreciate you helping me out."
"The captain is right, Eames. You need to be the one to talk with him."
"I just want to go home and see my daughter, but now I can't."
"Hey, it wasn't my idea take on this case. No one forced you."
She walked back to the elevator. Goren had never been one to chase her down, but he felt compelled. "Eames, where are you going?"
"Don't worry; I'll be back to talk to Wilson just like the captain said."
The elevator doors opened and Eames stepped in. Goren held the doors and said, "I didn't want to come back here," he pointed to her forcefully, "but I did it because you asked me. I don't see what the big deal is if you spend a few more hours here tonight."
She didn't look at him when she said, "In the past, whenever you needed me, I covered for you. I never had to think about it."
Two people stepped into the elevator with Eames. Goren moved out of the way and watched the doors close. He went back to his desk and tried to concentrate on the case, but found it impossible.
Eames sat across the street from One Police Plaza on a cold bench and called her sister and spoke to Grace. Regretfully, she told Grace that she would be working late again and would not see her until tomorrow. Grace was a bright and good-natured child who took the news in stride. It was Eames who was having a difficult time.
She watched the sun dip below the horizon and let the cold air fill her lungs. For about an hour Eames sat on the bench and questioned her decision to return for this one case. Knowing it would demand the kind of hours she was no longer willing to give, she wondered why she even agreed. As a cop, she loved major case, but as a mother, she did not. The feeling of guilt and obligation made Eames resent Nichols for dragging her into this. She didn't need to be here. All she wanted was to go back to her small precinct and have dinner with her daughter.
"Alex?"
Eames looked over her shoulder and saw Goren standing next to her bench with two hot drinks and a large paper bag.
"May I sit down?" he asked.
She nodded.
He sat down and handed her a steaming drink. "It's tea," Goren said.
She nodded again.
He reached into his bag, pulled out a sandwich and handed her half.
Eames was slightly softened by his thoughtfulness, but she was also upset that he came and found her. She wanted to be alone. They ate in silence while the sky darkened and air cooled.
In spite of her anger with Goren, Eames was reminded of the thing she liked most about Goren: his quietness. He was the only man she had ever known who could sit in complete silence without filling the void with meaningless chatter. Even her husband couldn't sit in silence for long. Eames liked the fact that she didn't have to talk to Goren.
"If you want," Goren said, ruining the silence, "you can leave. I know you feel obligated to be here, but you can quit the case. I'll finish up."
Eames sighed, "I don't want to quit, Bobby."
"You don't like being away from Grace, and working here you don't have a life—I get it."
"No, you don't get it, Bobby, because if you did, you would've told the captain you could handle interviewing Wilson."
Goren ran a hand through his hair, "you're right. I wasn't thinking of you when I agreed with the captain. I was thinking of the case," he paused, "and more than that I was thinking of myself."
"Grace has a Thanksgiving play coming up." Eames rubbed her eyes, "I should be home helping her memorize her one line."
"Then go."
"I don't really have a choice at this point."
"I'm sorry, Eames. I know you would have covered for me—you always did. I should've told the captain that I could interview Wilson alone."
She sipped her tea.
"You know," he said softly, "it felt great to be in the interrogation room again. It was like old times, like no time had passed, but I can see that this isn't us anymore."
"Maybe not, but we still need to finish."
In a lot of ways it was like old times. There was a time when Goren and Eames worked together well but were privately dissatisfied with each other. One moment things would be fine and the next they had a hard time being in the same room. They overcame that rough patch, but it took a toll. Moments like these are evidence of that rough patch, but they would overcome this as well.
"I'm happy you're okay, Bobby."
He tilted his head.
"The accident—I happy you're okay after the accident."
Eames watched his face soften and his eyes fixate on her.
"Thanks," he whispered.
Eames pressed her lips together before saying, "even though we lost contact, I always felt like you were still around—just a phone call away. If something had happened to you—" she fell silent while trying to process her words.
"I'll always be around," he said.
"I hope you're right."
"Then stop thinking about this," Goren said. "It was a while ago, and I'm fine."
"It just worries me to think that you could've died and I would've had no idea."
Goren ran his hand through his hair. "If I had died," he said softly, "you would've found out eventually."
"Eventually—"
He rubbed his hands together. "You're in my will, so eventually someone would've contacted you."
Her eyebrows rose.
"It's true, Eames."
"Do I get your criminology books?" She mocked.
He shrugged, "and anything else you want."
"What?"
"I don't have a lot, but I named you executor of my estate. There are instructions about family documents and things like that. If my nephew is around—and granted he's nothing like my brother—you can give him a small sum. Then you can keep the rest."
"You never told me about this."
"It never came up," he said seriously.
"Why me?"
"You'd know what I want. I trust you."
Eames took a deep breath, "When did you decide this?"
He chose his words carefully. "After my mother's funeral. I felt like you were the only one who—" he paused and rubbed his eyes, "you were the only person who ever knew me."
Eames thought back to his mother's funeral. It was a hectic time, and even though it was a horrible time for Goren, Eames felt the pressure too. "Your mom's funeral?" Eames said to herself trying to jog her memory.
Goren heard. "You were the only person who took care of me when I needed it."
"I don't remember doing much for you—"
"It was one of those times where you had my back. You may not remember, but I do."
"I remember—" she said softly. And she did remember. She remembered the funeral, Goren's vacant eyes and the church where the funeral was held.
The church was old, small and charming. It had the qualities of being in an old photograph, with its brick exterior and stained-glass windows. Eames remembered the front staircase and the heavy wooden doors. Inside had the same photographic qualities as the exterior, and when she walked, her footsteps echoed through the room.
Eames remembered that there were not as many people at his mother's funeral as she had hoped; the first three rows were only sparsely filled and the last rows were empty. The casket was closed and flowers were neatly placed. Eames walked down the center aisle slowly and saw the Goren sitting alone in the first pew. Standing behind Goren was Declan Gage, he chatted loudly with other mourners as if this was a gathering for him. Eames couldn't stand the sight of Gage.
The service was about to begin, so she slipped into a pew next to an elderly woman who was so elegant and proper that Eames felt awkward and underdressed in comparison.
The woman smiled at Eames and whispered, "Good day."
Even the way the woman enunciated her words spoke of class and elegance. "Hello," Eames said with a smile.
"How did you know Mrs. Goren?" the woman whispered.
"I know her son."
"It's nice of you be here."
"How did you know her?" Eames asked.
The woman smiled, "I lived next door to her when we where children. We always wrote to each other, even after we were grown."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
The woman gave a grateful nod and then turned her attention to the front of the church.
The service was short but nice. A few people spoke, but Goren did not. Then service moved to the burial site and went just as quickly. As things ended, Eames realized Frank still had not shown. She felt a trace of anger.
People stopped to talk to Goren and then filed away. Through the light crowd, Goren spotted Eames and gave a slight nod of recognition. Eames smiled warmly.
"Will you be attending the gathering at her son's home?" The woman asked Eames.
Eames thought for a moment; she had not planned on it, but in light of Frank not being around, she thought maybe she better. "Yes. I'm going there now; would you like to come with me? I can drive us."
"Yes, please."
As Eames drove the woman to Goren's house, the woman said, "My dear, I do not believe I gave you my name. I'm Grace Weaver."
"I'm Alex Eames."
"Just Alex?"
"Well, Alexandra."
"It's a very beautiful name, you shouldn't shorten it."
Grace sat very straight with her small hands folded neatly in her lap. Eames couldn't help but to be enthralled by her. Grace Weaver was the kind of woman who didn't seem to exist anymore. She was proper and well spoken, but most of all, she seemed to have the knowledge of the entire world tucked away in her simple handbag.
"Tell me, how do you know Robert?"
"We work together. We're NYPD detectives."
"Oh, what a difficult profession, especially for a young woman."
Eames smiled at being called a young woman. "Yes, it can be difficult."
"Do you enjoy it?"
Eames thought about it for a moment. No one had ever asked her that question before. "It's not a job that's always enjoyable," Eames finally said. "It's a job where the reward has to make up for the lack of enjoyment, I guess. On a daily basis, I think I would enjoy being a gardener more than a cop, but I don't think I would feel the same way about being a gardener. I feel like what I do is important. It's something I'm good at. In fact, my ability as a detective is the only thing I feel completely confident in."
"You're blessed to have found your talent."
She nodded. "It's almost like an obsession." Eames had never vocalized this feeling, but continued, "I feel like with every case I solve, the world is that much better. It's a simple idea, and maybe a naive one, but I feel like I'm putting the world back in order. It's thankless and frustrating and difficult, but I'm doing my part."
"You are putting the world back in order," she said.
"Thank you," Eames said. "Did you say you and Mrs. Goren were childhood friends?"
"Yes. We knew each other as children, but around high school I moved away. We still wrote to each other, though."
"You kept in touch your entire lives?"
"No. We lost contact for about ten years. One day, I was reading the paper and saw an obituary with her name. I couldn't be sure if it was her or not, so I did a little detective work of my own. Thankfully, it was not her, but it made me realize that I truly missed her. After that we stayed in touch as well as we could."
"I've never had a friend for that long."
"It takes work, but it makes life better."
The way Grace Weaver spoke, made Eames want to be her best friend. Eames couldn't remember the last time she connected with another person so quickly. She felt strangely comfortable with this woman.
They got to Goren's house and mingled with the other guests. Eames did her best to make sure there were enough drinks and give directions to people who were from out of town. Other than that, she maintained a low profile. Declan Gage monopolized most of the guests' attention and told bombastic stories Goren as a young man. Eames could see the embarrassment on Goren's face.
Soon, Grace Weaver said goodbye to Goren and left. Eames walked her out and was truly sad to see her go.
"It was very nice talking with, Ms. Weaver," Eames said.
"It was my pleasure," she said in a warm tone.
"Do you live in the area?" Eames asked. "I can drive you home."
"Thank you, but I called for a driver."
Across the street there was a car waiting for her with the driver waiting on the sidewalk.
"I must catch my plane home."
"Where do you live?"
"London."
Eames paused, "you came from London?"
"It was a long trip, but I asked myself the 90-year-old question and decided to make the effort."
Eames tilted her head slightly, "the 90-year-old question?"
"It is a rule I made up for myself when I was young. The 90-year-old question is this: When I am 90 years old, will this decision matter, will I regret it? I knew I would regret not coming."
Eames nodded.
"I have always tried to live my life as it comes. I try not to miss out," Grace said. "Whenever I have a significant or even insignificant decision to make, I ask myself the 90-year-old question. It's why I live in London."
"I'm guessing this 90-year-old question also requires a little risk."
Grace Weaver smiled, "maybe, but I like to think of it as faith in myself. Courage in my convictions."
"Bravery."
Grace laughed, "risk, faith, courage, bravery—all of the above. Little things can change a life."
Eames didn't want her new friend to leave, but she wished her a safe trip.
Eames sat on the curb and watched Grace Weaver's car pull away. She wondered if there were missed moments in her own life that could have gone better if the 90-year-old question had been applied. The first thing that came to mind was her husband.
If they had had children like they planned, would everything have changed? Would he have taken the undercover assignment that killed him? Would he still be alive? She thought about this as she went back inside Goren's place.
As the last few people trickled out, Eames began to clean up. Goren closed the door behind the final guest and walked to the kitchen. He watched Eames wash the dishes for a moment and realized he had not said a word to her the entire day. He wondered why she had not left yet; it was late. "You don't need to do that," he said softly.
She didn't look up. "I don't mind."
"If you do any more," he said, "I won't have anything to do when you leave."
When she didn't stop scrubbing the plate in her hand, he went the living room and sat at one end of the couch.
Eames thought about what he said and decided maybe it was best to leave the dishes to him. There was a fresh pot of coffee, so she poured two cups and went to the living room. She set one cup on the table next to Goren and sat down at the other end of the couch.
He was motionless with eyes halfway closed, jaw slacked, and posture slumped. He removed his tie and tossed it on the armchair where his jacket already resided. Then he unbuttoned and removed his neatly pressed shirt and tossed that aside, too. He sat staring straight ahead in his white t-shirt and black slacks.
Eames sipped her coffee and wondered if she should leave. "Some of your mom's friends," she broke the silence, "came long and far. They spoke of her kindly."
He leaned forward and took his coffee cup in his hands but did not drink from it. "It was nice of them to come."
"It was Jeff, right? The guy who grew up down the street from you? He was nice. Do you still keep in touch with him?" Eames asked.
"No, I haven't seen him in years. He was Frank's friend. I don't even know how he knew about the funeral."
Goren sat holding his full cup of coffee without any movement.
Eames sipped her coffee and studied Goren; she suspected he hadn't slept in days. "Jeff told me about the time you, him and Frank sold book reports to high school students when you about ten years old," Eames said. "And then your mom found out."
Eames could see Goren's expression change slightly as she watched his profile, but he was still slumped and motionless.
She continued, "He said Frank figured out what books were required at some of the high schools and then you would read them and write reports. Then Jeff would sell them."
"I liked reading and going to the library," Goren said. "Frank told me he'd take me to the library every week if I read the books he wanted me to. I agreed. I was happy he wanted to spend time with me. Then he said I needed to write book reports, too. So I did. After a few months, I asked him what he did with all of the reports. That's when Jeff told me what they were doing. They said they would pay me if I kept writing." Goren paused and finally sipped his coffee.
"He said you didn't want to because it was cheating," she said.
"Yeah, but I liked being included. They paid me $1 a report."
"Jeff said they sold them for $10."
"Exactly. I finally felt so bad, I told my mom." He lifted his head a little and straightened his back. "She was so mad that she made them read all the books I'd read. They hated it."
"Did you get any more of the money?"
"No, are you kidding? Frank spent his share the day he got it, but I saved the money I earned for years."
"I'm sure you did."
There was a long silence, and just as Eames was thinking about leaving, Goren shifted his weight and faced her.
"I thought he'd be here," he said. Goren chose every word carefully, "I learned long ago not to trust him, but I never thought he would miss our mother's funeral."
Eames shook her head, "some people just can't handle this kind of thing—I'm not saying it's an excuse—but—I don't know what he could be doing that's more important than being here with you."
Goren set his coffee down and took a deep, deliberate breath. She knew he did this when he was trying to maintain composure. He shifted his weight as if he were profoundly uncomfortable and took another breath. He turned and met her gaze.
Eames felt helpless and awkward. They maintained eye contact as he searched for words—she felt like he was searching for words deep inside of her. He wanted to say something, but nothing vocalized.
He finally said, "Frank is a disappointment."
There was nothing Eames could say or do to fix that problem. She lightly placed her hand on his forearm.
He shifted his weight again, still seeming uncomfortable, but this time he lay down on the couch. Cautiously, Goren rested his head in her lap. Once he settled into a comfortable position on his side, with his cheek against her dress pants, there was a long time of stillness as they both did all they could not to move.
Eames didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to comfort him or how to be the friend he needed.
Gently, Eames placed one hand on his head and stroked his hair. She slowly pulled her fingers through his wavy hair and listened to ticking of the wall clock. Though she could not see his face very well, she could tell that his eyes were closed. His chest began to expand and contract with deeper breathes, and it seemed as though his body heat was rising. She felt his cheek burning through her pants to her thigh. Even though he was burning, she noticed goose bumps up and down his arm.
She placed her other hand on his upper arm and patted it softly. He reached up with his other hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. His hand burned as hot as the rest of his body. She suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness for him.
"You did so much for your mom," she said in a whisper, "and I know she was proud of you. Maybe she wasn't always good at showing it, but you took care of her and you—" she paused. "You should know that when I met her, just that once, she spoke so highly of you. You meant the world to her."
He squeezed her hand as she continued to stroke his hair.
"She raised a wonderful man," she whispered.
His breathing continued to be heavy and uneven. Suddenly, she felt a small drop of moisture on her thigh. She looked down and saw his eyes were still closed with a trail of tears running down his cheek, on to her pant leg and through to her skin.
This made Eames more uncomfortable and nervous, but still she stroked his hair. Eventually, his breathing slowed and his tears were gone. His body relaxed and his fingers slipped away from hers. Eames felt as if his head were heavier all of a sudden. As Eames began to relax, she felt a wave of exhaustion overcome her. Her eyes were heavy.
Suddenly, Eames' eyes shot open. She wondered how long she had been asleep. What time was it? She turned to the clock over her shoulder and saw it had been about twenty minutes since she last looked. Goren was still stretched across the couch using her thighs as a pillow. She couldn't be sure, but she thought he might be asleep.
His apartment was silent, and even the street noise seemed to be gone. It was as if the outside world had stopped and they were completely alone. The silence scared Eames. She pulled her fingers through his hair again and listened to his every breath. She looked down the length of his body and noticed how his legs were folded to fit on the large couch. Despite his size, he seemed fragile.
Even in her uneasiness, she felt closer to him in that moment than she had with anyone in a long time. She thought back to when she first met him and how she immediately disliked him. She saw him as arrogant and self-indulged. She was often embarrassed and angered by him when they were in public or around other cops—he was unlike anyone she had ever known. Things got better and she began to reevaluate him, seeing his flaws as points of interest. Things were good for a long time. And when things between them began to be not so good, the pain and resentment was enormous. They had been together for so long and had been through so much. She wondered if things would ever go back to the way they were. She wondered if they would be partners until they retired. She wondered if she could handle being his partner for that long.
Heaviness gathered in her eyes and she wanted to get home. With a slight shift in her weight, Goren took note and sat up. His hair was in disarray, but oddly enough he looked better than he had all day.
"Thank you," he whispered.
She stretched and asked, "Is there anything I can do before I leave?"
He whispered something she could not quite understand.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he shook his head, "I couldn't ask you for anything more."
They walked to the front door where Goren grabbed her jacket from the closet and tenderly helped her into it.
He opened the door and avoided eye contact. She squeezed his hand and left.
