"In that case, Mr. Specter, we have no choice other than to revoke your license to practice law, effective immediately."
There's no actual gavel but he can hear one in his mind, sealing his fate.
He's not surprised, not really. He plays to win every time and you can never know how a trial will go, but the truth is he's been preparing for this since last night. He's replayed the words in his head, getting acquainted with their sound and taste. He spent extra time in front of the mirror this morning telling himself this was a very real possibility and he'd just have to find a way to be okay with it, for the sake of everyone else.
He's as prepared as he can be and he thinks he's done a good job of that because when he hears the actual words he's oddly peaceful. Too many people could have gone down because of this, and the fact that they didn't is enough of a win. Besides, the last thing he wants is to give Hardman the satisfaction of knowing he broke him.
So when the decision is announced he focuses on reassuring Louis, knowing he'll take it personally and think he failed him, which couldn't be further from the truth. The mood on his side of the benches resembles a wake, everyone silent and shocked, unable to fully comprehend that Harvey Specter is not a lawyer anymore. He thinks the penny will only fully drop for him a few hours from now, too much adrenaline running in his veins for him to think about all the repercussions of this.
Hardman and Simon walk over to gloat and Harvey's just started to worry his composure will slip when Robert gets up and manages to stop the men, somehow convincing them to be on their way. Harvey shoots him a thankful glance and nod, and then there's an eruption of fuss around him, everyone apologizing and offering help and suggesting they go out to clear their minds, dozens of worried eyes cast on him.
He kind of wants to be alone, wants to grieve in peace, but everyone worked so hard on this case, he feels bad shutting everyone down. He has good friends, and he's abused their good will enough already. Besides, he figures he should start contacting his clients soon; there's no doubt in his mind that Hardman will make a big deal out of this and he'd rather his clients heard it from him first. So he just suggests they all go back to the office instead, to have a drink and regroup.
On his way out of the hearing room, Thomas stops him, looking mournful.
"I'm sorry things ended like this, Harvey. I know you were trying to fix things and it's not fair that you got punished like this for it. I hope you know this was never my intention."
"I know, Thomas," he replies, because he does. The guy got shafted left and right, he was just trying to protect his company. And when it came down to it, Thomas did what Harvey asked of him: he protected Donna, which was all Harvey was worried about. As far as he's concerned, he and Thomas ere even, no hard feelings.
The men nod their goodbyes and the second Harvey steps out of the room he draws his phone, pressing Donna's number on speed dial. Thomas said she told him she couldn't stomach coming but he needs to talk to her, needs to hear her voice telling him he'll be okay, but he gets her voicemail instead. After a few more attempts he tries her landline but it just rings endlessly. So he texts her, asking her to call him as soon as she can, takes a deep breath and catches up with his partners, making their funeral march back to the firm.
His early afternoon is spent split between calling clients and calling Donna. His phone tallies 27 calls to her already, which feels mildly psychotic, but he just doesn't understand why she won't pick up. He knows she was feeling guilty about the proportion this whole thing took, and he guesses he understands her not wanting to go to the hearing, but doesn't she want to know what happened? Does she not care?
He's told by Louis that he hasn't been able to reach her either, and despite his best efforts to trust her, it's looking more and more likely that no, she doesn't care.
It occurs to him that Thomas probably told her about the verdict, and maybe her curiosity has been satisfied. Still, he wishes she'd just pick up, or call him back, or text him, or reach out in any way because this is the worst day of his career and not having her there to help him through it stings more than he thought.
It only takes him a few hours to notify all his clients - he makes sure to tell his side of the story as best as he can, now that Simon isn't his client anymore and he doesn't have to worry about not ruining his reputation - and organize a few more urgent things. He's exhausted and no one seems to be able to get any work done so they all just call it a day and go home. He tries Donna one last time, finally hearing that her voicemail is full. That's when he decides to give up. She doesn't want to talk to him, and he's losing the will to talk to anyone at all with every new minute that passes.
He's entering his condo when his phone rings and his heart almost leaps out of his chest, but it's Mike and he doesn't feel like explaining everything right now, so he declines the call and texts him instead, saying he's okay and he needs some space and he'll call him tomorrow. Louis or someone else at the firm can fill him in on the details. He doesn't want to worry Mike, but he doesn't have it in him right now to carry anything more than his own guilt and sorrow.
He doesn't even make it to his bedroom, shedding his jacket, tie and shoes in the living room and letting them fall unceremoniously. He goes straight to his bar cart, getting himself a dose that doesn't last more than five seconds in his glass. He refills and makes his way to the couch, plopping down and rubbing a tired hand over his face.
He got disbarred today.
He trudged through four years of college; worked his way through three years of law school; busted his ass day and night for decades at the firm, fighting his way to the top, fending off attacks from all sides; he became junior partner, then senior partner and finally name partner; he worked side by side with Jessica and Louis, he became managing partner when she left; he merged and demerged, made other people name partners, became the best closer in the city. And today all of that got taken away from him.
Hours of sleep and free time sacrificed, relationships strained, stress and headache, threats overcome. The fame, the glory, everything he's achieved over the last twenty-odd years, gone, just like that.
He takes a swig of his drink. The tranquility he felt at the hearing is gone. He can feel anger and regret bubbling up, coiling venomously in his stomach and making him start to resent everything and everyone that put him in this position, because he's done a lot of shit through the years but this time, this time it wasn't his fault. He was just trying to help, trying to do the right thing, trying to keep anyone from getting hurt and this is how he gets repaid? By losing everything?
His breathing picks up and he feels like breaking another glass and he can't have that. He can't trash his apartment and point fingers because it will only make things worse. The only way he can survive this and have any hope whatsoever of coming out on the other side in once piece is to keep reminding himself that this was his decision. This is no one else's fault. This is the product of his ethics, his efforts, his character and his willingness to do whatever it takes to protect the people he cares about. And he did all that. It may not have ended up how he would have wanted but he didn't cave to the very end. That's what he has to hang on to.
He repeats the words to himself like a mantra, interspersing it with sips of his drink until he's pleasantly buzzed. It's a pretty day outside, still sunny, and he can't remember the last time he was home at this hour on a weekday, so he tries to shut his brain off and focus on watching the city outside as he makes his way through a bottle of Macallan. He focuses on the sunbeams shining into his living room, washing the place with golden light. He focuses on the way New York City looks peaceful from up here, birds flying by occasionally, a plane here and there, lights flicking on and off in buildings far off, the sun glinting off the mirrored surfaces. He focuses on the quiet around him, not a single sound beyond his easy breathing and the slight sloshing of the whiskey whenever he brings it to his lips.
He clings tightly to this moment because in the background, behind his intoxication and his newfound peace of mind, there's a thought silently unraveling: if he still wants to be a lawyer, he'll have to leave all of this behind.
He drowns the realization in more alcohol, letting the hours blend together, the sun set, life pass him by. He almost feels like he's in a bubble, an impenetrable vacuum where no one will ever find him, where he can maybe spend the rest of his days.
This fantasy is interrupted by knocks on his door. He struggles a little to get up, the world spinning harshly around him for a second before he gathers himself. He thought he'd been clear enough with Louis that he wanted to be alone. The fact that he decided to sidestep Harvey's explicit instructions grates on him, and he has half a lecture ready when he opens the door and finds Donna standing there, more casual than he's ever seen her, face bare and puffy.
He's reminded in an instant of everything he fought the last hours to forget. Donna didn't go to the hearing where he got disbarred. Donna didn't take his calls. Donna didn't call back. Donna.
"I am so sorry," she whispers and starts crying and it makes him feel inadequate. He doesn't know how to comfort her, especially when he's spent the entire day barely managing to comfort himself. So he takes a breath, trying to get his thoughts in order and figure out something to say to her, but it's difficult, too many topics he needs to avoid. Their entire relationship feels like a minefield right now. He swallows, trying to temper down the alcohol, and for some reason it looks like his action physically pains her.
"It's okay, Donna, it's not your fault," is all he can offer, and he does so as earnestly as he can because ultimately, at her core, Donna is someone who takes care of the people around her and he couldn't really have expected her to behave any differently this time.
"It is," she insists, tears streaming, and it takes everything in him not to give her a hug or something, because she's with Thomas and they're both a wreck right now and there's no telling what will happen if he does, so he grits his teeth and fists his hands at his side to prevent them from reaching for her.
"It's not, Donna, I screwed up. I shouldn't have let things get that far," he shakes his head, and saying all this out loud, which is almost more than he's said about the matter since it happened, brings up a weird mix of catharsis and despair, as if the words are dredging up the bottom of the lake, bringing everything to the surface, forcing everything to be seen. And he's not ready to do that yet.
"There has to be something we can do. If I contact the committee...," she suggests, and he appreciates her efforts but he's tired and upset and lonely and he doesn't want to contact any committees, he just wants to go back to his vacuum.
"They'll know I lied to them. And I'm not letting you destroy what you fought so hard to achieve," is what he goes with, hoping she'll listen to reason and let it go. He wants her to come inside, to hug him, he wants to carve a hole out of her chest and climb inside, and stay safe and sound and warm right next to her heart for the rest of his life, but that's not on the table.
"And I should just sit back and watch as you destroy what you fought so hard to achieve?" She sounds offended, but he's struggling to understand what she wants from him here. Thinking of alternatives and ways out will only give him hope and make him feel worse when it inevitably fails. Pinning it all on Donna doesn't help anyone because it's too late now; besides, he wasn't willing to do it before and he's still not willing to do it now. If she wants to martyrize herself, he's not going to help her do it. And he can't keep trying to convince her it's all on him, it's too exhausting.
"I made peace with it, Donna," he counters, and it's only partially a lie. He's not there yet, but he thinks he will be, because, like he concluded earlier, he did what he thought was right, and a younger version of himself might not have been as willing to forego money for ethics, so he decides that has to be enough.
"No, I don't believe you," she shakes her head and desperation rises within him. He can feel the walls crumbling on top of him, trapping him beneath the weight of all of his bad decisions put together. "Just tell me how I can fix this," she begs him, and he wishes he could, with all his heart, but he searches his brain and comes up empty.
"There's no way to fix it," he tells her weakly, suddenly feeling like a huge failure, like a pathetic shell of the man she used to admire him for being. The man who could find his way out of any situation.
"Harvey, you didn't do this, it's my fault, you can't just give up like that," she starts rambling, and every word accompanied by a tear is like another stake to his chest. Her expectations and hopes hang ominously over his head and this time he doesn't have an answer, he doesn't have a quip or a bluff. He's all out of tricks, and beneath the smoke and mirrors and the confident veneer, there's not much that's worth anything. It was painful enough to reach that realization himself over the past few days, he can't face Donna reaching it too, not right now.
"Donna-," he tries, desperate, but she interrupts him.
"I'm sorry. I never should have done that," she goes on, and he thinks she's not even listening to him, "You were right, I did lose faith in you and I-"
"Donna," he repeats, a little louder this time, and that stops her in her tracks, long enough for him to think of a way to end this conversation because he could take Louis' worry and Alex's remorse and Sam's anger but he can't take Donna's pain. The look on her face is making him breathless and it's terrifying. So he tries to be as delicate as he can with the truth, hoping she'll be in any way consoled, and persuaded to drop it. "Look, I know you feel bad about what happened and I appreciate you coming over here but I've had a really long day and I just don't think I can have this conversation right now."
He wants to be able to reassure her, to give her everything she's asking of him, but he can't do that when he knows it would just be a bunch of blatant lies designed to pander to her, and they've always preferred to deal in hard truths than pretty lies, and that's what he's trying hard to uphold here, through the noise in his head.
Her eyes shine at him like a child being told Santa Claus doesn't exist. He thinks he can almost hear her heart breaking, and he kicks himself internally for being too direct, but he's too all over the place at the moment; he doesn't have anything else to offer.
There's silence for a moment, and he's about to cave, about to apologize and ask her what he can say to make it better, to make it go away, against his better judgment, but then Donna nods and turns around, not even offering a "Goodbye". He supposes it's in keeping with her theme for the day.
The thought makes him feel bitter towards her, which is the last thing he wants to be because he can see she feels bad, so he just rushes to close the door and down another dose so he can go back to the stupor she shook him out of.
He finishes one final glass an hour later and makes his way to bed, deciding the best course of action is to just sleep this day away.
Except sleep does little to improve anything. He wakes up with a migraine and a hangover he suspects are unrelated. His alarm blaring through his bedroom is aggressive, urgent, and he'd never noticed how much he hates this sound before now. He gets up dutifully and showers, shaves, grabs a shirt and a tie. It's not until he's tying his shoes that he realizes that all this is futile.
The pomp and circumstance has no place in his life anymore. He's not a lawyer anymore, and he can dress up and pretend all he wants, sit in his glass tower and putter with his computer keys all day, but nothing will change that. And, sure, he still has some damage control to do and some loose ends to tie, but in a day or two that will be over and he'll have nothing left. His work, his career, the very thing that's occupied most of his life so far is gone, and he doesn't know who he is without it.
Rationally, he knows this is stress talking, but right now it feels like he has nothing. His friendships, his connections, his sense of accomplishment, his money, it all came from the firm. Everything he has and everything he is is tied to that place and suddenly he doesn't belong there anymore but he doesn't belong anywhere else yet and he feels his stomach lurch at the realization. They told him he'd always be welcome there and he could keep his office for as long as he needed but he realizes now it was all said in the way you say those things to someone who's on their way out.
He's the past now, no longer one of them, and the thought of going to work and facing everyone's pity and watching them continue to build his empire without him makes his heartbeat pick up, cold sweat running down his temples, lungs struggling to capture enough oxygen and soon enough he's getting dizzy, clawing helplessly at his tie in an effort to loosen it.
He hadn't felt like this in a long time - he never thought he'd feel like this again. And yet he can tell that if he doesn't do something soon he'll pass out. He runs through a list of options, but he has no pills and can't get any, it's the middle of the night in Seattle, he doesn't want to worry Louis even more and he's not ready to let Samantha and Alex know about his panic attacks and things with Donna are unclear and he feels himself sinking, with no one to call, no one who can help him.
With a strength he didn't know he possessed, he yanks off his tie as a last-ditch effort, grabs his phone and his wallet and his keys and storms out the door, one single goal in mind.
He doesn't know if it's prudent to drive like this, let alone for a long period of time, but with every new task he accomplishes - locking the door, riding the elevator down, getting in the car, turning it on - his brain feels a little bit clearer. He focuses all his energy on doing this, and as the minutes tick it feels more and more like a solution.
He calls Louis when he hits the interstate, telling him he won't come in today and that they should talk in about two hours when he arrives at Marcus' house.
His brother is worried by the fact that he came unannounced, not at all something Harvey would normally be prone to do, but the explanation is simple and Marcus doesn't ask any more questions, which is exactly what Harvey needed.
He gets him inside, offers him comfortable clothes, sets up a bed for him, makes him toast and coffee. Harvey feels a level of peace at being with his family that he hadn't felt in a long time, maybe because his family is back to being his only family now.
He asks for space to call Louis, and he doesn't spare any details. Louis needs to know this isn't him running, this is him trying to survive.
He's reminded of how much Louis has grown when the man assures him it's okay, they'll handle everything for him. What matters is that he's okay. His clients have all been notified anyway and anything he might need to take care of can be done remotely.
"You do what you have to do, Harvey," Louis tells him confidently, and Harvey gives him the most heartfelt thank you he's ever given him. They agree he'll stay here for a little while, nothing set in stone, and he never imagined himself doing this, up and leaving to another state, dropping everything behind, but the more Louis and him iron out the details, the more he feels like this was the right choice. He needs space, and comfort, and he needs to be able to forget, even if for a minute, everything he's lost.
He thinks about calling her but the truth is, he's ashamed. He told her last night that he'd made peace with it but not only did he apparently not make peace with it, the lack of peace was so intense and overbearing it made him run home scared. They've never discussed his panic attacks, even though he's pretty sure she knows about them by now, and he doesn't know how to talk about them with her in a way that won't break him, her or both of them. He's ashamed, and Donna is at the same time the person he's most comfortable letting in, and most afraid to. So he doesn't call, trusts Louis to relay the message, trusts life to sort itself out because he is in no condition to sort anything.
Days blend into weeks and being with his mother and his brother, seeing his niece and nephew, breathing in the purer air of the suburbs and not having even one tenth of the responsibilities he used to have helps him ignore reality. The people he left behind, the firm, the clients, even Donna, it all becomes a bit of a blur, like he's trying to peek into his old life through foggy glass.
There's pain, of course. Not being there, with his friends, in his firm, feels like he lost something of himself that he'll never get back. But eventually he learns how to make do with the hollowness. Soon, it stops seeming impossible and it becomes not just possible, but plausible. He thinks he's probably burying everything, and there's a tiny part of him that's only vocal late at night, before he falls asleep, that tells him it will all erupt eventually, like an angry volcano that slept for too long.
But he doesn't care, not when being here is a far cry from the terror he felt that morning when he woke up and was slapped in the face by reality again. So he keeps sleeping, trying not to pay any mind to the lava bubbling underneath the surface.