Just Another Day

by Drakkenfyre

On the first anniversary of Claire's death, does Jack explore his inner feelings, or pound the bottle like it's goin' outta style?

Just Another Day

Just another day, Jack's thoughts seared.  Doesn't anyone else know?  Does no one care?  My God, it's only been a year.

               Then he saw her.  At first only legs gliding along the floor that his downcast eyes were attached to.  Long, slim, beautiful legs.  Then they were gone. 

              

But he knew.

              

               And so the day began…

               He had a meeting at 10:00 a.m. that he had to be prepared for, not that the paperwork wasn't finished, but he had to be mentally ready.  The legs proved he wasn't.  Okay, the case: patriarch of a wealthy family wouldn't give a dime to his crack-addicted daughter by a hooker.  Second-degree murder, at least that's what he'd threatened.  No one took his threats seriously any more.  Not lately, at least.  Well, the father had taunted, humiliated, and degraded her; he could understand those feelings.  Those maddening drips of poison from someone you were supposed to love, or at least respect.  But Jack McCoy was not known for leniency, or even mercy.  Not lately, at least.  It was like the good part of him died too.

               Gazing out his office window, he caught sight of a blue Honda, so much like hers.  How many times had she driven him home from long nights of drinking?  How many times had they kissed in the very car she died in?  One year ago.

               This room, his office, had so many ghosts, so many memories, but they had to be pushed aside: he had work to do.  So, a knock at the door and he was a DA again.  Two women walked into the room, the lawyer followed by the accused.  Lynda Kim was a familiar sight in her smart, solid black pantsuit.  He had fought against her in the courtroom many times and had learned that inside her diminutive frame was a powerful force.  In addition, Lynda had once shown him that winning was not necessarily the only factor to take into consideration.  She was the sort of person that Jack was proud to call a friend.  He extended his hand, which she shook lightly in greeting.  In contrast, the accused was a pale, thin, haggard looking woman to whom the world had not been kind.  Her brittle hair had been bleached one too many times and her sickly pallor betrayed a body destroyed by years of drug use.  That twinge came to Jack's stomach.  Pity?  Sadness?  He didn't know anymore.

               He began the conversation on a light note, "Lynda, I haven't seen you since I ran into you at that restaurant.  How is Luc?"

               Lynda seemed to ignore the friendly comment and cut to, "Jack, this is Cheryl Kaczmirzak."  He held out his hand to the savage murderess, but she only stared up at him with dead eyes.

               They seated themselves at Jack's desk.  He knew it conveyed his authority, even when he felt none.  Like when a murderer is about to go free on a technicality, or pure lack of evidence, he is a paladin suddenly abandoned by his god.

               "Dealing with the devil?" the lawyer asked of McCoy, "Obviously you have nothing."

               "Oh you don't think so?"  McCoy was slipping into that old bravado, a familiar side of himself, "So why are you here?"

               She lowered her head just the slightest when he called her bluff.  Cheryl glanced over at her attorney, who unconvincingly covered with, "Just being generous."

               McCoy eyed Lynda with the look of a predator ready for the kill.

               She appeared meek.  "So what are you willing to offer?"

               "Murder two, twenty-five to life."

               "It was a stabbing.  You know, crime of passion sort of stuff; the kind of stuff juries forgive, especially when the deceased wasn't exactly a nominee for 'Father of the Year'."

               Jack raised his eyebrows and lowered his jaw in his patented "cut the crap" look.  "It was over money.  You're the expert in morals here; you don't think the jurors will have any?"

               Lynda sighed.  Jack wondered what had happened to her; she's a top-notch lawyer.  Come to think of it, where did this crack addict get an attorney like Lynda Kim?  Jack McCoy had a gift.  If you showed him the tip of an iceberg, he knew what lay beneath the murky waters of deceit. 

               "We just can't take it."  With that remark, they stood to leave, but before reaching the door, the mute defendant hissed, "'Specially when a 'witness' saw some young Spic running from my father's house just after it happened.  He even had blood on him."

               He had to be drenched in blood, with the viciousness of that stabbing.  It was a crime of passion, no matter how dark that humor was.  But then a chill slithered up Jack's spine when he realized he had been wrong.  It had been a cold, calculated, premeditated murder.  He may have threatened murder two, but he would have allowed manslaughter.  All the while they had this planned.  McCoy shot a steely look at Kim, before his eyes erupted into the flames of judgment aimed at Cheryl Kaczmirzak.  What could money not buy?  Her siblings had as much motive as her and their wealth could have made things happen.  Which, he guessed, they had. 

               "Lynda, why wasn't this 'witness' on the list?" he asked quietly, not wanting to know.

               She gazed at her shoes and replied in equally hushed words, "Sudden development."

               Why?  Why would a brilliant lawyer with the moral backbone of a cardinal suddenly throw the law out the window?  Why would a woman I counted as a friend choose to lie to me?  There were fewer answers these days, as betrayal and its thousand synonyms became familiar language to him.  Black and white no longer existed in the form they held in his youth.  Instead, a foggy new hybrid emerged and, like a small child, he was lost in the formless mist.  If she were here, everything would be clear.  So often she was his moral compass, his lifeline in the storm.  In those days he feared if he ever lost her, he would lose himself.

               He was right.

               He sneered like the wounded animal he was, "Out.  Get out of my office."

               "Gee Jack, did you get a morality transplant?  Since when have you been able to distinguish right from wrong?  Is it really…"

               He cut her off, "You know nothing.  No, wait; I'm the one who was confused.  You were always…"

               "Now I'm just like you."

               "Out!"

               At that they left.  A murderer and a liar.  In the eyes of the law they were equally guilty.  The law, his law, how dare they denigrate her?  The rage and the raw emotion of this day coursed through his veins.  Those puny little people had no excuse, none whatsoever.  They aren't battling for justice, not like me.  Damn it, I'm on the side of justice!  In a moment of fury and self-doubt he lashed out and his fists met the top of his desk.  The papers scattered and fluttered to the ground. 

               He fell back into his chair, drained of all the fight he had left.  Alone in the room like this, he felt small and insignificant.  When she was here, she made him feel important; she made him feel like he mattered.  He hesitated and suddenly he wasn't quite as sure of himself as Jack McCoy should be.  Maybe they were right…

               Just in time, Adam Schiff stepped into his office.  His keen eye saw many things that were not visible, and many that were, like the documents that lay in disarray on McCoy's floor. 

               District Attorney Schiff issued an order to his subaltern, "Go home."

               "What?"  Jack asked in surprise.

               "Don't you think I know?  You're certainly not going to be effective today; you may even be a liability.  Go home."

               Jack studied the floor as the emotion and the accompanying embarrassment filled his chest, "To what?  To whom?  I'm alone."

"Do you really want to wallow in misery here?  You can't evict the ghosts.  Anywhere is better than here."  Seeing that Jack only slumped further into his chair he offered, "Let's go get lunch."

"It's not even close…"

"I'm the District Attorney; lunch is when I say it is."

At that, Jack's spirits seemed to rise slightly and he stood and reached for his coat.

The men entered a secluded café in one of Manhattan's lesser-known districts.  Schiff guided them to a booth at the back where he motioned for the younger man to sit across from him.  Adam pondered the events that brought them to this restaurant, to this situation.  Jack McCoy had a habit of sleeping with his assistants, which was not something that he normally tolerated in an Assistant DA, but he didn't really have much of a choice.  When Ben Stone had left in a torrent of guilt and disenchantment, he could have promoted the stellar prosecuting machine that was John James McCoy, Jr., or he could have chosen the ineffective Neil Cooghan, who couldn't prosecute his way out of a wet legal envelope.  In the end he had to get rid of Cooghan, anyway, while McCoy was just as good a lawyer as promised.  Unfortunately, Jack came with a habit.  While it wasn't against official office policy, Adam held the unofficial position that office relationships were a destructive influence and counterproductive, therefore they were a terminable offense.  When Jack began an affair with yet another assistant, he held off for a while, hoping the EADA would come to his senses.  That was where the real trouble began.

After they had ordered, they spoke of small things: recent depositions, verdicts, Supreme Court decisions.  Eventually Adam asked, "Why didn't you request the day off?"

Jack looked down at the table and answered, quietly, "I don't know.  Maybe I thought it would keep me from doing something stupid.  Drinking the day away.  Finding some other crutch.  I'm near to her there, you know.  Everything there reminds me of her.  I don't even know why I'm telling you this.  You probably wanted to fire me for it."

"I was going to."

Jack's features clouded over and a confused pain began to seep in.

"Until I found out what was really going on."

"What?"

"You loved her, Jack.  For sex I could have fired you, but not for love.  To tell you the truth, I didn't think you had it in you."

"Love, you mean?  I didn't have a clue, until I met her.  I know that sounds like a cliché, but I was always more interested in the hunt.  I never thought of myself as an attractive man, so, in my own little way, I always had to prove that I could have any woman I wanted.  Don't get me wrong, I loved every one of them, but she was the only one of them who made me love myself."  He whispered into his soup bowl embarrassed at the loss of his mask of masculinity, "She made me feel beautiful."

The men shared a quiet moment, taking in the sunshine that streamed in the window, a rare commodity in the dim hallways of Hogan Place.  Jack thought for a while about how empty their workplace had seemed without her.  When Jamie Ross replaced her, he reacted with hostility; he hoped she understood.  Understanding was something sorely lacking in New York.

"Jack.  Jack," Schiff called.  The younger man finally snapped his head up, "Apparently reality is an infrequent visitor to your reveries."  Noticing the forlorn look was getting the upper hand, Adam took charge, "Wherever you go is obviously not a good place to be.  Let's head back."

The men strolled through a tree-filled park on their return to the office.

Jack broke their self-imposed silence, "Adam, I'm sorry."

"What for?" he responded in his usual gruffness.

"It's… so soon after your wife passed away, I don't mean to burden you."

Adam's tone softened, "Jack, if I couldn't handle it, I would have left you to wallow in misery in your office."

Jack smiled slightly, and then turned serious again, "How have you been handling it?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose, but today is your day to grieve."

Jack felt a wave of sorrow wash over him and he nearly stumbled.  He tried to draw in a sharp breath, but it stuck in his constricted throat.  He struggled to keep up the pace and succeeded, for now.

When they arrived back at work, Schiff offered again, "Are you sure you wouldn't like to go home."

"Home would not be good for me right now."

"Well, since you insist on staying and I can't let you carry on like this morning, I am forced into drastic action.  Today you are demoted to clerk.  Report immediately to the photocopy room.  I've already taken the liberty of canceling all your appointments."

Jack tried to protest, but Schiff cut him off, "After you finish the stack that is there, then you can think about being a DA."  At that he walked away.

Bolstered by the time with Adam, McCoy entered the photocopy room and noticed a young woman with her upper torso deeply imbedded in the inner workings of the great reproduction machine.  She nearly hit the back of her head when she realized someone else was in the room.  She peeked out, then, recognizing the EADA from around the office, asked, "How many of each?"

He replied, "Actually, I'm hoping for some direction."

"Aren't we all?" 

"No, I mean I'm looking for some work to do."

At that, she rose from her prone position.  The first things he noticed about her were her youth and dark hair.  She bore a faint resemblance to his daughter.  So now the ghosts of the living choose to haunt me.

She smirked in bemusement, "Not enough criminals to go around?"

He replied sarcastically, "Not in New York.  But seriously, there should be a big pile of papers with a note on them for me to do."

"You're not serious.  I thought the note that said "McCoy" meant they were for you.  It must be my lucky day.  I thought I'd be here all night working on those."

At that, McCoy set to work.  As they toiled in that small room, his thoughts drifted.  After a while he said, "You remind me of my daughter."

The girl's face seemed to brighten at this, "Oh.  How old is she?"

McCoy turned slightly into the conversation, "Twenty-three."

"Is she in university?"

"As far as I know.  She's a bit of a free spirit and," his eyes turned down, and he was reminded of the constant loneliness that was eating at his soul like a caustic chemical, "we don't talk much."

"Why not?"

Jack, more willing to entertain questions than work, answered, "Well, her mother and I are divorced.  When we broke up, she took it pretty hard."  He looked up at the girl and wondered why he was confiding in her.  "I wasn't a very easy person to be around at the time."

What was this, some sort of penitence?  Was confession really that good for the soul?

"When's the last time you spoke with her?"

"It's been at least a month."

"Why don't you phone her?"

Thinking of the now independent woman who lives in a world apart from him, "I don't think she's very interested in talking to me."

The girl stopped her work completely.  She began, "When I was ten, my father abandoned my mother, baby brother, and myself.  We struggled for years, many of which I got through on sheer hatred for him.  After all that, I wish only that sometime he would have picked up the phone and called me.  I am an adult now, capable of adult reasoning and all I want is a phone call.  Daughters are far more forgiving than you realize."

Jack thought for a moment.  Is it possible?  Oh God, I have to try.  If there's one thing I have learned by now, it's that you only have one chance.

Jack stuck out his hand and offered, "I'm Jack McCoy, pleased to meet you."

She shook the hand and returned, "Terra Lewison."

They returned to work.

After he was finished with Schiff's distraction, Jack returned to his office, pulling the door shut quietly behind him, lest he disturb the resident ghosts.  He intended to phone his daughter the instant he returned to his office, but he realized with dismay while walking the corridors that he did not even know the phone number.  Now he was trapped in his office with no issues that pressed from the outside world.  Paperwork, paperwork, that's all he had to do and maybe that was best.  While the wolf had been put down, he feared it was only temporary.  He feared the ghosts would return.  He stood from his desk and leaned against the window frame, gazing not at the people below, as he usually did, but at the clouds on the horizon.  It was going to get colder, as the sea air rolled in at the end of the day and with the clouds it might just rain.

She loved the rain, as did he, but for a different reason.  He enjoyed it when the clouds blocked out the incessant sun.  She, on the other hand, had a genuine affection for it.  Maybe it was her youth.  How would she have aged?  Thoughts like this battered at Jack's mind often, threatening to drive him mad.  He couldn't even bear to think of her name, her precious name.  So beautiful, so smooth and fresh, like her skin.  As he lay in bed each night, he was haunted by flashes of their time together there, alone with nothing to hide.  He knew he was older and at times he was patronizing, but there they were complete equals.  All those years he wasted studying to improve his technique, when he should have learned to let go, with enthusiasm, into the moment.  She taught him so much.  But never again.  Never never never never again!  He clenched his teeth to the point of pain as his control eroded away.

A sharp knocking emanated from the door, dislodging him from his state.  Jamie Ross walked in and, sensing something was wrong, took a step back.  She stood, too stiff as always, with her hands folded behind her back.  "Is everything all right?" she asked in a sympathetic tone.

He responded in a voice weaker than he had intended, "Yeah."  Then, remembering, "Oh, the Kaczmirzak case.  Let's go to the conference room."

He could not stand his office any longer.  She was there.  They had even made love there, once.  But never again.  Then he saw her.

"Claire…" he said under his breath, jerking his head towards where he saw her.  She was as lovely as ever, young and noble, not like the dreams he often had of her mangled body.  She stood straight and perfect and, to his surprise, she looked right at him.  His heart nearly stopped.  He felt hands on his shoulders, but not hers…

Jamie shook him again, "Jack.  Snap out of it."

Jack looked at Jamie, then back at Claire, but she was gone.  He noticed the people were staring at him, not at where he thought she stood.

"Jack, what's wrong with you?"

"I saw her again."

"Again?  Who?"  After a moment's thought she understood, "Are you trying to tell me the ghost of Claire Kincaid roams the halls of Hogan Place?"

Jack simply stood there while he bowed his head, then hunched his shoulders and closed his eyes.  Without opening them, he stated, "I have to go."

Jamie pressed her lips together then asked, "It's going to rain, would you like a ride?"

"No, there's something I have to do."

She furrowed her brow, "Jack, are you going to be all right?"

"As well as can be expected."  At that he swept into his office.

Jamie was worried.  She had never seen him like this.  They were not close, but she knew that something was seriously wrong.  She followed him in.

"Jack…"

He was nearly in tears at this point as he furiously changed for the ride home, or wherever he was going, "Jamie, can't you see?  Can't anyone see?  I'm this close."

"To what?  Look, I'm worried; we're all worried.  Adam told me you were upset, but I didn't realize it was this bad.  Don't leave alone.  Come to my house, have dinner with Katie and me."

"I… I can't.  Not tonight," he paused, "not tonight."  He nearly ran out the door.

She called after him, "Jack, where are you going?"

But he was gone.

The rain had already begun in a tiny sprinkle that seemed nearly a fog, it was so fine.  The air should have felt fresh, but to Jack it was oppressive.  He was sitting at the exit of the parking garage, atop his black Honda, unable to decide where to go.  The answer came to him suddenly, but he couldn't summon the courage to go there, yet.  Where now?  To the bar, of course, to summon that courage.

He drank too much; he knew that.  It often seemed the only defense against the cold and loneliness.  Some nights the chill of the sheets of his empty bed was too much to bear without a drink.  He was just like his father.  So many years of so many fights and still he knew Junior was just like Pop.  Was that why he first bought a motorcycle?  To rebel?  Yes.  As an escape?  Yes.  He was much better at running away than at dealing with anything and he was much better at running away with a motorcycle.

He finally decided that he would do better to think while riding than to just sit there.  He turned the key in the ignition and thumbed the start button.  The engine roared pleasingly to life and the machine began to rumble rhythmically between his legs.  She had once pointed out the possible sexual aspect of sitting with a powerful and violently vibrating machine between your legs.  For him it was a feeling of comfort and control; definitely control.  He applied the slightest bit of throttle and released the clutch to the friction point.  The engine growled with waiting power and the bike tugged at the pavement like a bull pawing at the earth.

All that was clear was that after tonight, nothing would ever be the same.  This was his last chance to just go home and lead an ordinary life, never daring to disturb the universe.  This, he knew, was the point of all possibilities.  Somehow that idea came as no comfort.

He pulled to a stop in front of "The James Joyce", a pub he visited often these days.  He had shown her this place, long ago, when they had wanted dinner late at night.  He always played out these little scenes in his mind where he had only told her.  But what use would she have with a wounded man like him?  He was like this before, to a degree, but the edge had never been this close.  If he had said how much he really cared for her, what then?  It could have ruined the relationship.  Yeah, right.  Jack, you're deluding yourself in the hope that it will either dull or confuse your pain.  Oh yes, Jack remembered, dulling pain, that's why I'm here.

Jack stepped into the bar and shadowed into a booth in the back.  They had always loved this booth, the privacy it offered for them, Jack and Claire: the couple.  She had this idea, it seemed foolish to him, but she thought that their romance would have made for a fascinating movie or TV show or something.  Yeah, right.  Try a Shakespearean tragedy, my dear.  My poor, dear Claire.

The waitress cleared her throat, "The usual?"

"Yeah, make it a double.  Nothing after that, though, I eventually have to drive," he rasped with the pep of a man who desperately needed love in his life.  Or Prozac.  She had told him once that most of the people on those kinds of drugs just needed a little love in their lives.  Love heals all wounds, except the ones it creates.

The waitress silently brought the drink.  Jack held it for a moment, reflecting on the words she spoke in an attempt to help him.  She had said, "Jack, when you drink, you don't deal with things.  It won't make the pain go away."  At that point she had offered her hand, then her embrace.  She made him feel like a child again, but without the fear.  "But you aren't here, are you?" he now stated coldly.  Why was it that every place that reminded him of her left him feeling empty and alone?  Every suffocating room trapped the scent that melded so well with hers.  He felt a nauseating claustrophobia come over him and he knew he had to leave.  Jack dropped a bill on the table and gazed longingly at the picture of her in his open wallet.  Just as he had come in he left.

It wasn't the best neighborhood and it was getting late, but Jack decided to walk to the nearest liquor store.  It would give him a chance to think and scare off the dark clouds forming in the back of his mind.  The rain sprayed lightly on his jacket and hair and he inhaled the cool, moist air, tinged with the acid of the city.  New York, why New York?  He never really asked himself that question before.  If not for here, then nothing, the nonsense words spilled into his mind.  He had little control over his thoughts these days, and strange poetries interrupted the usual logic.  Upon closer examination, they often seemed to make sense.  If he had never come to this city, he would never have met her.  Jack wondered, for a moment, if that would have been for the best, before violently ejecting those ideas from his capacity.

The cold of the rain did not bother him because of the armor of the alcohol, but he began to feel a far more profound chill, emanating from the pit of his tortured soul.  If there was anything in the world he wanted now, it was to feel her arms around him now.  Or any arms…

Jack stopped dead cold in the street.  What the hell are you thinking?  His thoughts traced the anatomy of that self-deception.  Though the streets around him were teeming with the temptation of flesh for sale, he found the lot repugnant.  In any case, he was not that desperate.  Or was he?

Keep walking, Jack.

McCoy made it to the liquor store with his dignity intact.  He chose a sufficiently numbing variety and size of scotch and moved his long legs to the back of the checkout line.  Something about his loss of mental control made him think in strange melodies and rhythms.  He began to compose a foreign strain of thoughts as he stood behind a young and joyous couple that touched each other affectionately.  They stared into each other's eyes boldly.  Jack lifted his chest, heavy with despair, and breathed in their scent of perfume and anticipation.  His mind searched the archives of those past events that seemed to have no bearing at the time.  It drew upon the times that Claire and he were together in public.  Their affection and longing was almost solid in the air between, but they were far too serious for the gestures, for the manifestation of those feelings in public.  He wished that once, even just once, he had simply kissed her, full on the mouth for the entire world to see.  To say, to shout, "This is how I feel.  I love this woman!" But they always kept their impersonal distance as show for the world.  The air felt colder to Jack as he remembered this slight.  And so the couple left in quiet joy and Jack was left only with his loneliness.

He walked slowly, yet purposefully back to his bike, past the legions of living parasites that made no contribution to the human race.  Why not them, he asked himself.  Jack knew that was the true cruelty of life: there are no answers for the absurdity.  No guiding hand forms the fates of men.  Well, he was going to visit her, the righteous within the ground.  He was going to sit upon the damp earth and dream of her face.

He rode between the gates, rain hitting his helmet with an audible tapping.  Cemeteries had never been his favorite place, but with a pain this fresh it was almost unbearable.  Being alive, he felt like a trespasser, here among the dead.  He opened the throttle fully and held his machine tightly as he searched for the unpaved road that led to her.  As if he could ever get to her.

The path led through two gates of trees before telling him to stop.  This was the place where the voices would begin to call to him; the ghosts of the past always beckoned him, but here they were audible.  His boot sunk slightly into the wet gravel as he stepped down.  It was as if he suddenly entered another world, a world of mist and mystery, where the accusations flowed freely and love could be breathed, but not absorbed.  The odor of decomposing leaves hung heavily in the fog, along with what reminded him of decaying human flesh.  When you have inhaled that, you will never forget it.  Jack thought, how difficult it is to take in the air with that smell, when it triggers memories of the last time you saw her and breathed in her beautiful and unique fragrance mixed with the futile hospital antiseptic.  Jack remembered how he wept as the little pieces of her died.  Starting at the toes, her body grew cold.  Her kidneys had failed, he knew, as her eyes were darker and darker each time the doctors shone their examining penlights into them.  Oh, yes, and by the blood flowing through the catheter.  Her body had begun to decay as the machines kept her alive.  It seems the everyday horrors mar the soul.

His boots sunk into the loamy earth as he walked the seldom-trodden path between the graves in search of hers.  In spite of the fog, he did not worry that he would not find it, though he did wonder if he would ever find his way back.

The grave appeared to Jack, just as it had before.  A maddening constant in a dynamic world.  He approached it, knelt, and traced a short outline of the edge with his finger.  He shifted and sat beside the headstone, leaning up against it for comfort, as the rain seeped into his pants.  All alone here in the mist and the rain, with silence and ghosts as his only companions, Jack McCoy opened his bottle of scotch.  He briefly lifted the bottle to his lips before resting it between his legs.  He extracted two small glasses from the pocket of his leather jacket, placed them atop her headstone, and filled them.

He spoke aloud, his breath steaming in sharp contrast to the chill of the air, as he pleaded, "Claire, have a last drink with me."

Of course she never came; what did he expect?  The ground was very cold now and his clothes were soaked through.  His body shook uncontrollably in a feeble attempt to keep warm.  The sun had retreated and the moon, though full, could not offer much light through the clouds.  He had consumed much more of his liquor than he should have, to ward off the cold and the darkness. Well, the bottle was empty, but the darkness would not stay away.

Jack's thoughts took him down the road that they had traveled in the past.  Oh Claire, oh Claire, oh Claire, what were we thinking?  I never knew you. I committed every inch of your body to memory, but I never knew who you really were.  Would I have ever known?  Yes, all I needed was a little more time.  But time is something none of us has in this existence.  We squander it and then blame some other tragedy.  What were we thinking?  For God's sake, I was old enough to be you father.  I tried to treat you like an equal, but I was older… and I was your boss.  It's not like it ever could have worked.

And so the beginning of the madness of regret and mourning descended upon Jack McCoy. 

               How can we rationalize our love?  It simply was.  When we first met I was enthralled with your form and beauty, but that alone does not bring on love.  Then what was it?  You were intelligent, insightful, compassionate.  But most of all I noticed your passion, which rivaled mine.  Claire, you understood that I have passion for all things.  Most people in life simply drift and half complete all tasks.  Not us, my beloved, we grasped life with both hands and immersed ourselves in it.  We were above most people, especially the people we prosecuted.  They were a filthy lot.  It was always nice to cleanse myself of the dirt of life with you.  I had never been so happy… and I never will be again.

               Claire, I remember the first night we spent together.  I think of it often.  I was so nervous I nearly shook.  We were drinking red wine and you traced your finger around the rim of the glass over and over again, so sensuously.  I think that was when we began to communicate on a level we never had before, that of men and women.  I know I thought only as a man every time you moistened your lips with the tip of your tongue.  To this day I wonder whether that was an intentional signal or if you were just as nervous as me.  When we finally touched, it was different than all those flirtatious invasions of personal space that had occurred before.  After that, there was no going back.

               You'd think that the first few nights alone would be the hardest, then things would get easier from there.  If only that were true.  I survived in the beginning through denial alone.  Then I somehow believed that I could make some sort of deal with God or the Devil.  Then the anger came and stayed to mingle with my pain and depression.

               But Claire, do you realize none of it matters anymore?  Not without you.  I sit some days, immobilized with grief and bottomless sorrow.  I can't do it anymore.  No more, my dear.  I will not wait.  If only the rain could, I would melt away; I would sink into the ground, only to be with you.  I would trade myself for you, you matter that much.  Claire, everything is falling apart.  I can't compete at work, I have no business being a DA, I sit at home with this endless loneliness eating away at me.  I'm not the person I once was; I'm not the man you loved.  I've become this ugly beast who is a mere shadow of the real Jack McCoy.

               Jack sat in the wet grass and the rain, shivering.  His hot tears mingled with the cold water running down his face. 

                Finally, what was left of Jack McCoy said, "I will not wait any longer.  I don't have the strength…"  At that he removed his coat, then his shoes, then the rest of his drenched clothing.  He curled up into a ball on top of Claire's grave, feeling the icy prickling of the wet grass against his skin, and wept, "Take me back, Claire."

               The twin beams of light pierced the darkness and illuminated the gravel path.  The car came to a stop inches before a motorcycle lying on its side, an omen foreshadowing the awful sight ahead.  Two figures emerged from the vehicle and stepped into the headlights.

"It's just beyond those trees," one silhouetted figure gruffly stated.

The other shape turned back and said, "I'll get a blanket and flashlights from the trunk."

The man began his journey beyond the trees alone and picked his way between the graves, names invisible in the blackness of that obsidian night.  The taller figure, a woman, found her companion knelt by a headstone.  When she illuminated the carved-out letters, which revealed the name "Kincaid", she gasped, "My God!"

A man with a bluish tint to his skin lay naked, curled into the fetal position, at the base of the grave.  The shorter figure pressed his fingers against his neck, then motioned to his companion and called, "Miss Ross, the blanket."  Jamie placed the blanket over Jack McCoy, then said to Adam, "I'll try to bring the car closer," as she jogged back.

Adam remained with the unconscious Jack, tucking the blanket beneath his ice-cold body.  The older man asked, "Oh, Jack.  What have you done?"  He sat upon the grass and propped Jack's head in his lap, trying to shield it from the rain and cursing, "You fool!  Self destruction won't bring her back to you."  Then wryly he mused, "Just be happy you have friends that care this much for you."

Jamie parked as close as possible to the men, which wasn't really close enough.  She ducked her head and futilely tried to protect it from the rain with her small hands, as she stepped out of the car.  She opened the back door, then jogged towards the shadow of the grave.

Adam spoke, "Well, neither of us are as young as we once were."

"I'll take his torso," she replied, then to Adam's questioning glance she stated, "I'm a lot tougher than I look."

"Miss Ross, of that I have no doubt."

After many curses and near-catastrophes, the exhausted and muddied duo sat in Jamie's car with Adam driving and Jamie upright in the back seat.  Jack was lying with his head upon her lap.

Jamie said, "I'm never persuading him to finish my leftover lunches again."

Adam turned his head and slightly curled the side of his mouth, "So that's how you stay so slim."

She grinned slightly, then turned serious, "The nearest hospital is only a few minutes away."

Adam bowed his head and said, "Do you really think that's the best plan?"

"Of course it is.  He's still very cold and could need medical attention."

"And then Jack McCoy will be the joke in tomorrow's headlines.  I can see it now, 'Drunken Nude Romps in the DA's Office'.  Do you know what that could do to this office?  A hospital is out of the question."

Jamie furrowed her brow and replied angrily, "Then what happens if he dies?  Are you willing to take that risk?"

"No, no I'm not.  I had something else in mind.  We're going to my house, but we are making a stop along the way."

Ross and Schiff sat outside his guest room door, studying the floor.  Finally she spoke, "So what could have brought this on?  I mean, he seemed stable enough."

"It happened a year ago today."

"Oh.  Doesn't he have someone to talk to?  Family?  Friends?"

"We are as close to friends as he has."

The guest room door opened and a gentle-looking older man stepped out.

They both stood and Jamie asked, "Doctor, is he all right?"

"He's suffering from mild hypothermia.  My best advice is to put him into a lukewarm bath and continue to add warm water every few minutes for two hours.  Then feed him plenty of warm fluids, soups, the like.  He should be fine by morning.  If he complains of headache, give him acetaminophen or Aspirin.  And he will be complaining of a headache.  I bet if I had his bloodwork done, his blood alcohol concentration would be greater than the age of my married granddaughter."

Adam shook the doctor's hand and said, "Thanks again, Bill.  I owe you one."

"No, I think we're even.  You'll owe me after I help you get him into the bath."

"Remind me again why we're doing this," Adam said to Jamie as he sat upon the closed lid of his toilet.

She sneaked a glance at the bathtub, "So we can complain to Jack when he wakes up?  You know, I never thought I'd see Jack McCoy naked."

"Congratulations, Jamie.  So where does that leave me?  I have thought of that point many times, though.  I came to the conclusion that an award should be presented in the Manhattan DA's office to the only ADA able to resist Jack's charms."

"You mean… he slept with all the others?"

"All the women."

Jack groaned weakly, "Claire…"

Jamie rolled her eyes and said, "If he can walk, we should get him into bed.  Maybe we can get some sleep."

The night was uneventful for Jamie and Adam, but the same could not be said for Jack.  He awoke, in this night of contrasts, to the sound of storm shutters slapping in the rain and wind whistling between the houses outside.  He felt cold, but his body was drenched in sweat.  He vaguely remembered the time he spent at the graveyard, but could recall nothing after.  Every joint in his body was stiff and sore, not like they had been used, but like they had been abused.  He dizzily stumbled to his feet, dragging the sheet with him, in a quest to shut the storm shutters.  Halfway across the hardwood floor in the darkened room, a wave of vertigo and nausea overtook Jack and he fell to his knees.  He did not have the strength to lift himself off the floor, so he resigned to momentarily rest his pounding head upon the chilled surface.  It was only then that the full memory and crushing weight of the evening descended upon Jack McCoy.

Jack's mind returned to his overwhelmingly dark feelings of loneliness and rage, as hopelessness pressed heavily on his chest, threatening to choke out his breath.  He struggled to his feet and traveled to the window on his unsure legs.  After fumbling with the latch of the storm shutters through the icy air of the open window, he dragged himself back towards the bed.

As he walked away from the window, the shutters once again blew apart and this time the window was forced open.  Jack, exasperated, turned to quell the flow of biting wind and was struck by the shocking vision before him.  Floating in the air between he and the wall was the form of his beloved, vaporous in the moonlight and wavering with every shift in the breeze.  Jack, amazed and frightened, took a step back and tripped on his protecting sheet, landing hard on the floor.

He tentatively whispered, "Claire?  My God, is it you?"

To his utter amazement, the gossamer figure replied, "Yes, it's me."

Jack's blood ran cold and he asked, "Does that mean… I'm dead?"

"You could be, Jack, you could be.  What were you doing tonight?  You're a Catholic; you know that if you succeeded in your little stunt, we could never be together again.  Oh, Jack, you make me so sad…"

Her voice trailed off and the specter of Claire Kincaid lowered her head as a mournful expression overtook her face.

Tears began to stream down Jack's face and he said, "I'm so sorry, but I get so lonely some nights I think my heart is going to stop.  I can't go on like this, Claire, I miss you so much."

Bittersweetly she said, "Know that it is only temporary.  Someday we will be together again."

"But why you?" he cried, "Why couldn't it have been me?  You were so young, you had so much ahead of you; I'm just a lonely old man who has nothing left to live for."

"Don't talk like that!" she scolded, "Have you ever considered that you might have been put on this earth for a reason?  The way you talk, it's insulting.  There are things you have to do, before you run out of time."

"What things?  Do I really matter that much?" he replied, skeptically.

"Those are things you will have to find out for yourself."

The room fell silent as he tried to commit her image and words to memory, knowing that this was the last time he would ever see his true love, Claire Kincaid.  The tears continued to fall as he said, "There's so much I have to say…"

"…And so little time to say it in."

"Don't leave me, Claire.  Please don't leave me again.  I… I love you, I've always loved you."  His voice trailed off as she smiled sweetly and his gaze fell to the floor.  "There were so many things I wanted to do.  I wanted to…"  He raised his head only to find an empty window with the rain streaming in.

The rest of the night was uneventful for Jack McCoy.  He awoke, secure in the knowledge that he had been given something very special: a second chance.