AN: This took forever to complete because I was in a Turkey coma for a couple days, plus I had a 10-page research paper due. Yay for school. (BTW: can you tell what my major is from this chapter? lol) Anyway, this isn't my best work, but again, I wanted to get the story moving along. Hope you enjoy! Also, in case anyone needs a little refresher: Bart Rainey is Woll's hitman from "For the Defense"

27th Precinct

Uptown Manhattan

Tuesday, September 22

The interrogation room was stark and outdated, painted an odd shade of mint green. It smelled slightly musty, and there was visible dust coating the chain-linked windowsill. Connie slumped in her chair, mindlessly wringing her hands, trying to erase the ink residue that stained her fingers. Her neck and shoulder ached from spending the night on the worn bed in the holding cell. She had hardly slept, the humiliation of being subjected to fingerprinting and unflattering photography replaying continuously in her head. Mike had made a few appearances in her thoughts as well. He had never shown up at the precinct, and she couldn't help but be disappointed. She had been reluctant to admit it, but she needed him, now more than ever. Where was he? Detective Lupo entered, wielding two cups of coffee with a folder tucked under his arm.

"Decaf," he announced, setting one of the cups in front of her. "I brewed it…just for you."

"Thanks," she replied almost inaudibly. "What time is it?"

"Almost 7:30." He sat down in the chair across the table and sighed heavily. Studying her for a moment, he finally spoke. "Connie, I'm not going to pretend that this is easy for me."

"That makes two of us," she replied wryly.

Opening the file in front of him, he cleared his throat, exhibiting an obvious apprehension. He retrieved a photocopied paper and slid it toward her. "The visitor's log from Bayview from this past Saturday... Do you wanna tell me why you were there?"

Finding the strength to maintain composure, Connie responded evenly to the allegations. She knew that becoming upset would have no positive outcome. "I went to see Natalie… I wanted answers. I needed to understand why she did what she did."

"And what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Connie massaged her neck, puzzlement and disinterest marking her weary face. "We talked..."

"The CO on duty gave a statement saying that within 30 minutes of your departure, Natalie was complaining of headache and shortness of breath. 15 minutes later, she was dead."

"I had nothing to do with that." Her voice wavered slightly with exasperation. One friend had tried to kill her—no, destroy her—and, now, another was accusing her of murder? "Maybe the guilt finally got to her."

Lupo slid a second paper toward her—a copy of a toxicology report—this time, more brusquely. He wanted to help her, but she wasn't cooperating. "Then tell me how a fatal amount of secobarbital ended up in her system, the same secobarbital that you were given a prescription for when you were released from the hospital in July."

"Those pills were to help me sleep. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I tossed them in the trash. Anyone could have found them in the dumpster behind my apartment."

"True, but you were her roommate; you shared a medicine cabinet with her. You knew that Natalie was taking phenelzine for anxiety and panic attacks. Mix that with a deadly dose of Seconal, and she didn't stand a chance."

Connie was tired and irritable, and the Detective's accusatory tone pushed her over the edge. "I didn't even know her boyfriend's name! You think I knew that she was taking anti-anxiety pills? I mean, even if I had wanted her dead, I wouldn't have done it by waltzing into a secured facility and asking her to swallow a bottle of downers! Have you even considered that? Do-…do you think I pinned her down and shoved the pills down her throat one by one? And was that before or after I took a trip to the landfill, spent hours of my abundant free time digging through the piles of waste to find the pills, and then sneaking them into Bayview in my purse? This is absurd. I shouldn't be here, and neither should you! You should be out searching for the son of a bitch who's setting me up!"

His expression toeing the line between frustration and compassion, Lupo placed his hand on her frail wrist. "Look, I understand that you've been through something… unimaginable. Everyone has a breaking point; but, I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Talk to me, Connie."

She recoiled, her eyes dark and distrustful. "If you want to help me, get me my lawyer."

Like a scene out of a murder mystery movie, Jack McCoy burst into the room, tailed by the Lieutenant. "This interview is over."

Looking to his superior for guidance, Lupo challenged Jack's abrupt intrusion. "The DA has time to personally handle cases, now?"

"I make time when one of my own is hoisted up on the stake as the sacrificial lamb. These charges are outrageous."

"As much as I don't want to believe it, the evidence says otherwise."

Jack extracted a folded paper from the inside pocket of his coat. "The evidence is hardly prejudicial enough to warrant an indictment from my office. The People have no interest in pursuing a case against Ms. Rubirosa. In my hand, I have an order, signed by Judge Braden, releasing her to my custody on her own recognizance."

Van Buren held the door open and shot Lupo a don't-you-dare-open-your-mouth glare. "Ms. Rubirosa, you're free to go."

Outside the building, Connie winced at the harsh brightness of the sunlight. She hugged her jacket tightly around her waist, feeling a wave of nausea. Out of sheer contrariness, she had refused to eat, resulting in a debilitating hunger and weakness. She sunk into the soft black leather seats of the Town Car that was double parked next to a police cruiser. Jack instructed the driver to take her home and took a separate car back to the office. Once on Broadway, Connie redirected her driver to Mike's address. She needed to see him.

The apartment was dark and chilled, an indication that it had been empty the night before. Connie's briefcase was lying on the counter, her Blackberry beside it. Quickly, she dialed Mike's office—no answer. She tried his cell phone, only to hear an automated voice. You have reached 646-481-6-… A thousand thoughts of panic began to race through her mind. Had he disappeared—or worse, had he been killed, an abhorrent finale to the tragedy her life had become? Refusing Refusing to succumb to hysteria, Connie shook the terrible possibilities out of her head. Jack hadn't mentioned anything to her. Mike was probably on his way to work or already in court. However, this small comfort couldn't explain why the bed was still neatly made up, just as she had left it Monday morning. She crawled onto the mattress and collapsed. She contemplated a much-needed nap, but decided she would not be able to rest until she had poured her heart and soul out to the person who knew her best. She pressed a single number on her speed dial, lighting up the shadowy bedroom with the bright screen of her phone. The line rang several times before a familiar voice answered. "Hello?"

"Apá?"

"Consuela! Mija! Cómo estás?" Her father was elated to hear from her; she hadn't called in several weeks.

She hated to truncate his joy, but she could not disguise the sadness and distress in her tone. "Dad... I'm so sorry. I've been so distant lately."

"Well, you're very busy. I understand... But, are you okay? Mija, pasa algo?"

Connie held her breath, valiantly trying to stifle the fiery ball of anguish that threatened to overcome her. The resistance was futile, and she found herself retching through her words. "Apá, me...siento...avergonzada."

Attica Correctional Facility

639 Exchange Street Road

Tuesday, September 22

Sitting in the driver's seat of a nondescript rental car, Mike drank the bitter last sip of his gas station coffee. He tossed the cup into the back seat and heaved open the car door. His grip on his briefcase was slippery with sweat. He paused in the shadow of the ominous stone turret that marked the front gate, silently praying that he was not wasting his time. In the reception building, he breezed through the motions of showing credentials, being frisked for weapons and contraband, and turning his belongs into the visitor's station. The desk attendant handed him a badge with a number and directed him to a line of anxious and emotional fathers, wives, husbands, uncles, brothers, nieces, nephews, grandparents, and friends. He was wrangled into the visiting room with everyone else, a bright and cheery space that seemed more like a middle-school cafeteria than a maximum-security conference room. He waited for the okay from the guard and took a seat across the table from a small man with a receding hairline, who seemed more than surprised to have a visitor from the Manhattan D.A.

"Well, if it isn't my old buddy, Mike Cutter. Are you here to sweeten the deal?"

"Actually, Mr. Rainey, this visit is unofficial and completely off-the-record. I can't believe I'm saying this, but," Mike cringed at the folly of the situation, "I'm asking you for a favor…in good faith."

"What's in it for me?" Bart leaned back, resting his arm on the table.

"The satisfaction of doing the right thing for once," Mike snapped. "Look, my colleague is in trouble. I haven't slept for over 24 hours because I've been digging, finding everything I can to help her… and I think I might have something. I drove up here on adrenaline and not nearly enough caffeine because I need you to help me put the pieces together."

Bart surveyed the room, weighing his options. He could tell this Cutter guy to piss off—he didn't owe him anything. On the other hand, he could throw Karma a bone and hope that he'd be compensated, somehow, for his assistance. "Alright, I'm listening."

"I need you to get me some information...from Marcus Woll."