-23-

New York City

16th Precinct, Manhattan Special Victims Unit

Sunday, 6:00 p.m.

(Present Day)

Donald Cragen could remember only a few occasions in his 37 years with the New

York Police Department when so many members of the press assembled outside a precinct building. He had interrupted his day off – one of the first he had taken in weeks – when John's phone call had come a few hours earlier.

"We're bringing Jordan in now," John had announced a few hours earlier.

"His lawyer's meeting you there?" Cragen asked.

"Yeah. And you'll never believe who it is."

"Don't tell me."

"Trevor Langan."

"Figures," Cragen had grumbled. "Never met a camera he didn't like. OK. This is going to make quite an impression on the boys and girls outside."

Half an hour later, Ferrars was at the station and placed in an interrogation room to await Langan's arrival. Fin called John to confirm that he and his former coworkers in Narcotics were in hot pursuit of Sergio Medina, after obtaining an address from an ex-girlfriend in Harlem.

After leaving Ferrars in the interrogation room, Olivia joined Cragen, Casey, and John in the bullpen.

"We only have half the story," she'd muttered to John after leaving Ferrars in the room with the rookie. "You know he agreed to let Medina's thugs break in and steal the bat – he pays off Billy's debt, and he gets to claim the loss on his insurance, so he's out nothing but the bat's sentimental value."

"Hello, Detective Benson," Casey said, a little indignantly. What was Olivia's problem?

Olivia nodded a hello.

Casey continued, "I need you to get everything Ferrars has told you on the record; and a description of everything he knows about the men Medina sent into his apartment. Of course, even if he does know something, Langan's going to advise him to remain silent."

"Fuck Trevor Langan. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on," Olivia snarled.

John had smirked. He still didn't know exactly how Langan had wronged Olivia, but he knew it must have been a doozy. She wasn't any defense attorney's greatest fan, but had always seemed to especially have it in for Langan.

"I'm very hesitant to give him an incentive to talk," Casey shrugged. "Jordan's been lying all along, and he might be lying now. Maybe he knew that the bat wasn't the target."

"You think Jordan Ferrars arranged his own son's murder?" Cragen asked, his eyebrow raised.

"I think we can't trust him," Casey clarified. "Not unless either he or Billy comes up with a name. I doubt Sergio Medina does his own dirty work."

"Fin's en route to Medina right now," Olivia informed her. "Any luck and we'll have him here by the end of the night."

Casey's cell phone rang. "Novak," she answered, and then glanced at everyone in the room. "Langan's here," she said, closing the phone and replacing it in her coat pocket. "Let's see where this goes."

-24-

Reyes Residence

Williamsburg, VA

Sunday, 7:45 p.m.

(Present Day)

Alex knew that the pizza she bought at the grocery store and threw into the oven was a far cry from the restaurant variety. She also knew that to an eleven-year-old boy, her own presence was a poor substitution for that of young Angie Hendrix. Nevertheless, she marched grandly into the living room with a smile plastered firmly on her face, and announced that dinner was served.

Antonio barely looked up from his seat in front of the television. "So, these are the big plans we had?"

She looked at him quizzically, inviting him to elaborate.

"I get that you're not interested in Mr. Hendrix, for whatever reason," he said, something strange and unrecognizable in his voice. "But I like Angie, and it's not like we get asked to have dinner with people that often. I don't see why you had to tell them that we had plans when all we're doing is sitting at home eating Tombstone."

She looked at him with consideration. In the three years he had spent living with her, she had clearly been rubbing off. His nature was sweet and amiable – that hadn't changed – but he was growing less cautious about questioning authority. Just as she had once driven her parents crazy by never raising an objection to a house rule without having already anticipated their response and developed counterpoints to whichever arguments they might present, Antonio clearly intended to attack both the logic and equity of her decision to turn down Nathan Hendrix's offer of a trip to Pepe's.

Despite feeling bone tired and thoroughly homesick, she knew she would never be able to face herself if she fell back on the "because I said so" card, so she acknowledged his statement with a nod and replied, "If I had agreed to spend time with Nathan two nights in a row, he would have gotten the wrong idea."

"What idea?"

"That I'm interested in him."

"Why don't you want to be his friend?"

"It's not that I don't want to be his friend." She felt herself becoming irritated, and motioned for Antonio to join her at the table.

"Can't we eat here?" He gestured to the couch.

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"We're going to eat at the table like a civilized family."

"Whatever," he said, standing up from the couch and slumping miserably into a chair.

She briefly considered letting that one slide, but ultimately decided that she couldn't. If there was anything that had been drilled into the head of the only child of Alexander and Julianne Cabot, it was that there was absolutely no excuse for poor table manners. "Enough," she cautioned, hearing the evidence of her annoyance in her own voice. "If there's something you want to discuss, let's discuss it, but you're not going to just sit over there moping all night. It's unbecoming."

"Fine," he said, his eyes flashing. His voice lowered, and she recognized the element that had seemed so strange and nameless earlier. It was confrontation. Fearlessness. "You want to know how I feel?"

"Yes, of course." She was a bit apprehensive about where this was going, but relieved that they were going to air whatever it was.

"I think it sucks that I can't go to New York and see my real family and my real friends," he said, his dark eyes focused on her.

She exhaled slowly, pushing her plate away from her, her appetite shrinking from its already tiny state. "You know what? I agree. It does suck that we can't go back to New York." She knew he was anticipating her to argue; attempt to placate him with her usual insistence that they were doing what had to be done, that their lives were in danger in New York, and that their only option was to try to make the most of their lives in Virginia. She found that she didn't have the energy to repeat the same tired arguments anymore.

"Well, why don't we go back?" Antonio asked, his eyes widening. "We could go tonight."

"You know that's not an option."

"I don't care if it's not safe," he said, indignantly, anticipating the rest of her argument. "I miss my uncles and my aunts. I miss my friends and my school. I miss not having to remember lies and not having to pretend to be someone I'm not!"

She leaned back in her chair, willing herself to listen to Antonio as he yelled and gave voice to everything she had been feeling herself. "You're right," she said, her voice even. "Ours is not an easy life."

"It's not our life, even," he said, tears spilling out of his eyes. "It's not fair."

"No, Honey, it's not," she said, reaching across the table to cover his hand with hers. "Nothing about this is fair."

He looked at her with liquid brown eyes, and her mind was drawn to the last time she'd looked into another pair of beautiful chocolate eyes – that morning in the courtroom, the day she and Antonio had both offered the testimony that had put Liam Connors in jail for the rest of his lousy life.

"Don't you want to go back?" he beseeched.

"Of course," she admitted. "I think about New York every day." She immediately wondered whether that confession had been a mistake. "I miss my family, too," she confided. "I miss my friends. I miss my job, my apartment… I had a life there, too."

"What happened to your apartment?"

"They sold it after I left the first time," she answered. Saying she had 'left' sounded somehow less finite than the truth. Her family had sold the penthouse after she had died. "So, even when I go back… I won't be going back to exactly what I left."

"I won't either," Antonio said softly, his tears still flowing. Alex stood behind his chair, her arms loosely hugging him. "I'm scared my friends won't still be there." He faced her squarely. "When I grow up, can I go back? Can I decide to go back?"

She frowned, wondering if it really was as simple as deciding to go back, and knowing in her heart that it wasn't. "Honey, I sincerely hope that by the time you grow up, we'll have been back for a long time," she said softly.