Supreme Court Building

4.15 pm Sunday May 13th 2007

"Ms Dyson." Regan paused, just a beat, the way McCoy always did when he used a witness's name, to get that tiny, reflexive nod or turn of the head that most people gave instinctively when their name was said, that minute gesture of agreement that brought the witness one step further along the road to co-operation each time it happened. "On the night of – "

"Stop," McCoy said. "You've got your shoulder to the jury, Regan. Turn towards them – no, not that far. Between the witness and the jury. There."

Regan looked down at her feet and tried to memorize their direction. "Okay." She took a deep breath and started again. "Ms Dyson." Pause. "On the night in question, you and Mr. McCoy traveled from the Lord Roberts to his apartment by taxi, is that correct?"

They had the same 'Keri Dyson' as last time, Susan Kawoski. The young actress nodded. "Yes."

"And Mr. McCoy seemed somewhat intoxicated?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by – "

"Stop," McCoy said again. "Start that question with 'Help me out here'. It'll – "

"Oh, come on, Jack," Serena said from the prosecutor's table. "Regan's your lawyer, not your ventriloquist's dummy."

McCoy ignored her. "Not too sarcastically," he told Regan. "Don't get the jury off-side. You want them to like you, and wonder why you don't like her."

"Because she's the defendant's lawyer and Keri is a prosecution witness," Serena said. "I think they'll get that, Jack."

Regan took a deep breath. "Help me out here, Ms. Dyson. What is 'somewhat' intoxic- "

"Stop," McCoy said again.

A sharp bang made Regan jump, and she turned to look up at the bench to see Nora with the gavel in her hand. "I think it's time for a ten minute recess, counselors."

"We don't have time to waste, Nora," McCoy snapped. "We have to get this right by tomorrow morning."

He means, I have to get this right by tomorrow morning, Regan thought exhaustedly. They had been at it all day, her opening address, her cross-examination, McCoy scrutinizing every gesture, every phrase and intonation.

It didn't help her feel any more ready to face the next day, didn't make her feel any more like Jack McCoy.

More like a beggar in Jack McCoy's cast-off clothes.

Nora pulled off her glasses. "You might not want a recess," she said. "But I need one. Too much coffee. Ten minutes, everyone."

Susan Kawoski slipped out of the stand as Serena turned around to say something to Danielle in a low voice. Regan let her shoulders slump from the confident stance she'd been forcing herself to maintain, and leaned against the jury box.

McCoy sighed. "Okay," he said. "We'll use the time to go over your opening again. Try and remember to make eye contact with the jurors this time, and – "

"Conversational tone, I know," Regan said. She stood up straight again, turned to what she thought was the right angle. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You've heard the prosecution throw a lot of mud at Jack McCoy over the past few days of this trial. I can understand why Mr. Cutter has chosen that particular strategy."

"Move," McCoy reminded her quietly.

Regan lost her train of thought, recovered it, and began to pace slowly along the front of the jury box. "He doesn't have a case. And all lawyers know that when you can't make a case, you throw as much mud as you can. Mud sticks. Mud gets in the jury's face, in their eyes, and obscures their view of the facts. But it's your job, ladies and gentlemen, to look at the facts, no matter what you might think about the prosecution's innuendo. So let's look at the facts, the facts already proven and the facts I will prove to you over the rest of this trial."

"Hands," McCoy said, and Regan held up her right hand, raising one finger for each point she made. "Fact. Mr. McCoy is not known as a lightweight when it comes to liquor, but after just a couple of drinks with Ms Dyson, he became, apparently, noticeably intoxicated. Intoxicated enough to lose consciousness during the short taxi ride to his home. Intoxicated enough to need to be carried into his apartment by his doorman. Fact. This young man was so concerned by Mr. McCoy's persistent stupor that he called Mr. McCoy's personal physician, Dr Margolis, and remained with Mr. McCoy until the doctor arrived. Fact. Keri Dyson left the apartment at that time, uninjured. Fact, Dr Margolis was also concerned enough about Mr. McCoy's condition to remain with his patient throughout much of the rest of the night. And fact, Mr. McCoy was not alone with Keri Dyson at all, not for one minute, from the time they got into the cab – and she was uninjured – until the next day, well after the time given on her medical report."

McCoy's voice made her jump a little. "Eyes."

She paused, looking along the jury box, catching and holding the gazes of the imaginary jurors one by one as she spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, by the time this trial ends you will have the facts before you to prove beyond any doubt that Mr. McCoy could not possibly have committed the crime he has been charged with. These are the facts before you, and they compel you to return a verdict of not guilty."

When she turned back to the bar table, McCoy gave her a grudging nod. "Not bad," he said. "You'll do better with more practice, but not bad." Regan had time for one breath of relief before he tore a page off the legal pad in front of him. "I made some notes. When you – "

The chirping sound of her phone came as a blessed reprieve. "Sec," Regan said, pulling it from her pocket.

"Saved by the bell," Danielle said drily. As Regan lifted the phone to her ear she caught Danielle's next words despite the other woman lowering her voice. "Ease up on her, Jack, nerves will just make her – "

"This is Regan," Regan said into the phone, not wanting to hear the next word out of Danielle's mouth, knowing in her gut it was going to be 'worse'.

"Ms. Markham." Mike Cutter's voice was smooth and self-possessed, sounding as usual as if he had a private joke he wasn't about to let anyone else in on. Smug son-of-a-bitch. "I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time."

Regan made her own voice neutral, impersonal, the same voice she would have used to say Please step out of the vehicle, sir back in her days in Highway. "No, Mr. Cutter. What's this regarding?"

The Mr. Cutter caught the attention of the others and their conversation stopped, heads turning towards her. Even Nora stood still on her way back to the bench.

"I'd like to discuss it in person," Cutter said. "Can you come to my office? And Mr. McCoy?"

A plea, Regan thought instantly. He wants to discuss a plea. "When?"

"Now. Or as soon as possible."

Regan couldn't suppress a grin, saw McCoy's expression lighten as he caught it. Cut-throat Cutter really wants a deal. He must have accepted his case is weaker than a damp paper bag. "I'll have to check with my client, Mr. Cutter, and let you know what time is convenient."

"I'll be here," Cutter said.

Regan cut the call, and let out a gusty sigh of relief. "Cutter wants to see us," she told McCoy. "I'm guessing he's got a plea on offer."

"Or he wants to drop the charges," Serena said.

Let it be that, Regan thought with a pang of hope so keen it hurt. Let it be that.

She was surprised to see McCoy shake his head. "I hope not."

"Why the hell not?" Regan asked. "I mean, come on, Jack, I appreciate the vote of confidence but everyone here knows I'm not going to set the world on fire in court tomorrow. You said yourself that juries are unpredictable."

"It'll look like a fix," Nora said. "Without a not guilty verdict from a jury, there's always going to be people who think it was a fix."

.oOo.

A/N: Thank you to all reviewers — you are the reason I write.