CHAPTER 3: ACCIDENT
"McCoy, this is Rey Curtis," the young detective's calm voice floated out of Jack's answering machine. "I just got a call from Lennie Briscoe. He and Claire were in a car accident. They're at St. Vincent's. Give me a call at 555-0957 as soon as you get this message, I'll fill you in on what I know."
Jack picked up the phone, mildly alarmed. He dialed the number Curtis had left on his machine.
"Curtis."
"Detective Curtis. What's this about an accident?" he asked.
"I can't tell you much more than what I said on your machine," Curtis answered. "Claire's in the OR right now. You may want to come down here." Come down here? The OR? Jack drew in his breath. The message had sounded like it was a minor thing - Briscoe had been unharmed enough to call Curtis, so it couldn't have been that bad. What was Claire doing in the OR?
Jack registered that Curtis was still speaking, and replayed what he'd just said. Something about Claire's mother having had a message left on her machine. "Do you know if there's any other way to reach her?" Curtis was asking.
"Yes," he answered and hung up.
Somebody couldn't reach Claire's mother. Who? The hospital, probably. Why would the hospital be calling Claire's mother?
Because her mother was Claire's next of kin.
Feeling his head rapidly clearing of the alcohol haze, Jack picked up his phone book. Claire's mother had two numbers, one under Linda Kincaid. Jack couldn't remember why right now. That was probably the number listed in Claire's documents.
Geller, that was her new married name. There it was, Geller, M&L, 555-8723. He dialed.
Shit. What was he going to say?
"Hello?" a man's voice on the phone. Mac. Claire's stepfather. Fascinating man, Jack recalled vaguely, remembering the one time he'd had dinner with Claire's parents about six months ago.
"Mac, it's Jack McCoy," he was speaking before really knowing what he was going to say. "I just got a call, it seems Claire's been in some sort of accident. She's at St. Vincent's-"
"Good Lord!" Mac exclaimed, "Is she all right?"
"I don't really know. All I know is that she's in the OR right now," Mac drew in his breath sharply and Jack immediately mentally kicked himself for having said that - that sounded rather alarming, and she'd probably just broken her leg or something. He should've just said she was at the hospital, that would have been enough. Damn, he was still too drunk to think clearly. "She's probably just fine," he reassured Mac, "but I think you and Linda should go to the hospital anyway."
"Yes, of course. We'll meet you there," Mac hung up.
ooo000ooo
He entered St. Vincent's Emergency, looked around, heard somebody calling him.
"McCoy. Over here," Curtis was waving him over to where he was sitting with Briscoe.
"Anything?" he asked Curtis.
"No. No news, she's still in the OR. Did you get a hold of her parents?"
"Yeah. They're on their way." He looked down at Briscoe. Briscoe seemed completely unhurt. The only sign that he'd been in an accident was the hospital bracelet around his wrist. He looked disheveled and tired, slumped in his chair, but then again, Jack knew he himself probably looked somewhat off too. He suddenly peered closer at Briscoe. Briscoe didn't just look tired, he looked... he looked like maybe he'd had a few drinks. No, that couldn't be. "Detective Briscoe?"
"Yeah," Briscoe looked up at him slowly.
"Are you all right?"
"Fit as a fiddle. Nothing wrong with me," he answered. With a slight slur to his words. Jack had left him behind at the bar, totally sober, of course, since Briscoe was a recovering alcoholic. But now... he glanced at Curtis questioningly. Curtis hesitated for a split second, then nodded almost imperceptibly at his silent question. Shit. Briscoe had fallen off the wagon.
"What happened?" he asked Briscoe, dismissing that for now. First get the facts of the event.
"Claire came to the bar. You were gone. She was givin' me a ride home and some SOB rammed into us at an intersection," Briscoe droned automatically.
All right, so there was a guilty party. "Did they get the driver?"
"Yeah."
Good, the prosecutor in him was satisfied. At least whoever did this didn't just get away scot-free. All right.
Well.
That was that.
What else could he do now?
Nothing but hurry up and wait. He sat down, suddenly feeling a bit at loose ends. There was a brief silence, then he found himself saying, almost to himself, "She came... I thought she just decided to ignore me. I was paging her all day."
ooo000ooo
Linda and Mac were here. He had spent the last twenty minutes slowly coming to terms with what was going on, and one of the things he'd realized fairly quickly was that Briscoe hadn't said anything reassuring about Claire's condition. He hadn't said anything alarming either, but... even in his current state, Jack had easily figured out that if Claire were just in the OR with a broken leg, Briscoe would have said so. And he wouldn't be looking the way he looked right now. Curtis looked somber as well, but that didn't really mean anything; Curtis always looked somber.
He hadn't wanted to ask, though. Hadn't wanted his fears confirmed. Besides, it was quite possible that Briscoe and Curtis wouldn't be able to tell him anything; the hospital might not have released any information to them since they weren't family.
He stood, trying to think of what to say to Linda and Mac as they approached, Linda scared out of her wits and Mac reasonably composed.
"Where is she? Do you know anything?" Linda asked him, her voice panicky.
"No. Nothing. She's still in the OR."
"How is she? Why is she in the OR?" Jack turned to Briscoe and Curtis. Curtis cleared his throat and stood up slowly.
"I asked the nurse at the front... she said she couldn't really tell me much more than she's in the OR with a head injury."
Jack looked at him more closely as Linda gasped. Curtis hadn't said that when he'd come in, and it looked like he didn't want to say it now. Briscoe was looking away, lips pressed together, and Jack got the feeling that the two of them knew more than they were letting on. That Claire's condition was very severe and they just didn't want to scare the rest of them.
"I'm sorry, Linda, Mac, these are Detectives Curtis and Briscoe," Jack said automatically, taking refuge in standard social script to avoid thinking about Claire for the moment, "They work with Claire and myself. Detective Briscoe was in the car with Claire."
"What happened?" Linda asked Briscoe anxiously. He started to stand and Curtis put a hand on his shoulder, gently keeping him in his chair.
"Lennie, don't stand up," he said quietly, and turned to Linda. "Claire was driving Lennie home and a drunk driver crashed into them at an intersection. The other driver was also brought in to the hospital. Lennie's staying for observation, to make sure he's OK."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. I'm fine," Briscoe said, relatively clearly.
"If you want, I can try to see if there's been any progress," Jack suggested.
"We'll come with you," Mac said, "They may release more information to Linda than to anybody else."
ooo000ooo
No, they didn't. Severe head trauma, she's in the OR, we'll let you know as soon as we know.
We'll let you know.
He didn't want to know.
Well, he did, but as long as they were waiting here, there was still hope that she would be just fine. And he had a sinking feeling that at the end of this wait, "just fine" wouldn't be the way the doctors would describe Claire.
How much did he have to drink? he wondered out of the blue. Funny, he didn't feel drunk. He must still be, but he really didn't feel that way. Probably too upset to really be drunk.
So what was there to do? Nothing much, really. This wasn't a regular situation where you have to wait around for something and you start chatting to pass away the time. Briscoe was still drunk, Curtis wasn't a great conversationalist and seemed worried about his partner as well as Claire, and he, Linda and Mac were in no shape to talk about the weather or anything else inconsequential.
But not talking about anything really made you aware of what you were doing here, what you were waiting for.
Magazines. There were a few magazines lying around. He idly picked through the Vogues and Field and Streams and found a Newsweek from about two months back.
Some Nixon tapes were finally being made public. That was interesting, mildly, but in reality probably it would only have an impact on historians.
Reviews of some books. None of which he'd even heard about, let alone read. Didn't recognize the authors, either.
Some vacationer had fallen off a Carnival Cruise line ship and swum to safety.
"Jack!" He looked up, Linda's voice piercing through whatever he'd been reading.
"I'm sorry, what?" she was looking at him just like Claire when she had to repeat herself to get his attention. Funny, he hadn't noticed until just now how much Claire resembled her mother, but there it was, the same expression on a different face. It was the eyes - the same dark eyes.
"Mac is going to get some coffee, do you want any?" she repeated slowly.
"Oh - no, uh, no thanks," he told Mac, and Mac nodded and walked off. Jack looked back down at the magazine... what had he been reading about? Nothing looked even remotely familiar. A review of a book, a story about a cruise ship, a new album put out by some band. None of it struck a bell. He flipped through some more, trying not to think of Claire's eyes in Linda's face. Linda's voice, so different from Claire's but giving certain words exactly the same inflection.
They were so different, Claire and her mother. Other than both being petite, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, they were so very different. Linda might have Claire's eyes - or was that the other way around - but their personalities couldn't have been more dissimilar. Jack had only met Linda Geller once, but at the time he had been highly amused by the contrast between herself and Claire.
Meeting the parents for dinner. Such a regular "committed couple" thing to do, so unlike the way he and Claire normally behaved. Of course, he wasn't introduced as 'this is my boyfriend Jack' - even the word 'boyfriend' conjured up images of junior high school in Jack's mind - just 'this is Jack'.
How did she talk about him to her parents? Did she talk about him to her parents?
What the hell was he to her? They hadn't really talked about it - in part because at work, where they spent most of their waking hours, they already had defined roles and what they were doing outside of those defined roles wasn't really supposed to happen anyway, so putting a label on it didn't make much sense.
That dinner had been a little awkward at first. They had spent the first little while making small talk, then he and Mac had launched into a discussion of the pros and cons of reciprocal discovery and things had gotten interesting. They had debated back and forth, Claire joining in with a few comments, but seeming strangely reticent. Linda said practically nothing.
At one point, as Jack listened to Mac explaining away some legal point, he realized that Linda had absolutely no idea what was going on - that she was smiling and nodding in the wrong places. That Mac didn't even bother to look at her to include her in the conversation. It occurred to him to wonder why a man like Mac Geller, so brilliant and interesting, would be married to a woman like Linda. He couldn't imagine it. What would be the point of spending vast amounts of time with a woman who had nothing in common with you, with whom you couldn't discuss the subjects that interested you the most?
Jack had tried to include Claire in the conversation, encountered that odd reticence again. He'd asked her about it later.
"Why didn't you say anything? Too shy to talk in front of your old professor?"
"Because my mother wasn't saying anything, Jack. I didn't want her to feel completely left out."
That hadn't even occurred to Jack. He'd felt sorry for Mac, since the man obviously couldn't share his interests with his wife as he shared interests with Claire, but it hadn't really occurred to him to think about Claire's mother, stuck smiling vacantly while her husband went off on philosophical legal tangents.
Mac came back and gave Curtis and Briscoe their coffees, sat down next to Linda. Linda slowly leaned against him, closing her eyes, and he put his arm around her shoulder. Reached up and absently touched one of her dangling earrings lightly, making it swing. She just as absently reached up and stilled the earring, caught his hand, tugged it towards her, kissed his fingers, let go. It was done so quickly, so automatically. So obviously a well-worn ritual between them. It probably started as a joke or something, and had over time become thoughtless habit.
Like the way that Claire automatically moved his legs out of the way from the couch when he was lying down, working on something, and sat herself down with his feet in her lap, never breaking her narrative. Like the way that she knew precisely which piece of evidence to hand him in the courtroom, when he paused for a moment in the middle of cross-examinations. Like the way he never asked what she wanted to order out any more - it was always won ton soup, two spring rolls, sweet and sour chicken balls, mixed veggie rice and shredded beef. From Gow's.
The things that unexpectedly bring a stab of abject fear to your heart. Shredded beef from Gow's, wondering when you'll be able to order it for her again. If you'll ever be able to order it for her again.
No, of course he'd be able to. What kind of thinking was that? It just might be a while, that was all.
ooo000ooo
Another magazine.
Explosion at a steel mine. Big one. Evidence of negligence, said the story. Long history of safety code violations. Probably a civil suit in the works for that one, if not criminal.
The Menendez brothers were finally being sentenced, all their appeals exhausted. That was mildly interesting. Didn't Ben Stone have a case remarkably similar to that one a few years back? Was that around when he and Diana were working the Dillard case and he was trying to make EADA? He had no idea whatsoever. He wondered what the sentence in Stone's case had been, whether it was at all comparable to the Menendez case. And if not, why the difference.
Another magazine. Movie review of Dangerous Minds, with Michelle Pfeiffer - wait, that came out last year, didn't it? He checked the date on the front of the magazine. Yes. Because there was a review for Dead Man Walking, also from last year. He hadn't seen it. About the death penalty. What would Claire have thought about it?
What did Claire think of the Menendez case? And what would she think of the sentencing? He'd have to tell her about it when - all of a sudden he realized he didn't remember what he'd just read, what the sentence had been.
Did it matter? Would he be able to tell Claire about it?
She'd been in all this time. He checked his watch. She'd come in around midnight, and it was now 2am.
Severe head trauma. Even if she lived, this was going to be major. No sleepless night at the hospital followed by Oh, she's all right, go back to work tomorrow and don't forget to bring her flowers when you come visit, temporarily reassign her work to somebody else for a couple of days until she's good to come back.
No movie rental this Friday. No finishing off the Kirksen case together. They'd be lucky if they managed to take their time off together this summer in anything like the way they'd planned.
During Diana Hawthorne's trial, her attorney had asked how he and Diana celebrated after they won the Dillard case and he made EADA. He'd replied, "I took her to Ireland."
After the trial was over and Diana disbarred, Claire had teased him, "You never took me to Ireland, Jack."
"So now's the perfect time," he'd said. But she wanted to go to Tuscany instead, so they had taken two whole weeks together. Well, she'd taken two weeks - he'd had a last-minute emergency because the Stenson case had fallen through - and he'd had to send her ahead and join her three days later. Other than that, it had gone well. They'd promised each other they'd go to Ireland this summer, probably in July or August, if they could somehow coordinate their schedules.
He thought of their schedules. The cases they were working on together. Would she be able to work any of them? Even the ones in the most preliminary stages? Would he be able to tell her that he got all her plea bargains done, that she was right about David Silverman caving on Mandelay?
And what about Kirksen? What should he do with that case, what should he do with Glacken and the Gomez plea bargain tomorrow?
What was he going to tell Adam?
This threw everything off track. Everything was changed. He couldn't just stay in the hospital tonight and show up for work tomorrow.
Or if he did, it would only be because she was gone and there was nothing to be done except reassign her cases and work around her absence.
No, that wouldn't happen. It couldn't.
God, he hoped he wouldn't be back at work any time soon. He'd rather take a long time off, have all his cases go to hell, if that meant that she was still here.
Stop thinking about it. There was no point in obsessing over it until he had more facts. He looked at the magazine he was holding, realizing that none of it made any sense. It was all gibberish. There was one story that had to do with a sanitation company-
"Did you get a statement from the garbage collector in the Frunt case?" he suddenly asked Curtis, remembering something that had popped up in that file earlier today - no, that was yesterday, they were already into the wee hours of another day.
"No, not yet. It was our day off yesterday," Curtis replied. "We were gonna go talk to him tomorrow."
"Don't worry about it, it's not that important," he replied.
Useless. What would the garbage collector have to add to the case?
His mind felt like sludge. Coffee might make it better.
ooo000ooo
"I wish she'd come to dinner more often," Linda said softly. Mac put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in close. How many times had he held Claire like that? Not very many. They didn't tend to show much physical affection unless they were at each other's apartments, which didn't happen all that often. In public, they tended to maintain professional decorum. Not that that fooled anybody. Adam knew, most of the people at Hogan Place knew - hell, from what Briscoe had said earlier today - no, last night - even Briscoe knew.
Yet there was Mac, comforting Linda unselfconsciously while they all waited for word on her daughter. Jack gazed at them, trying to think of what to say. She'll be OK? No, she wasn't going to be OK. They were all coming to that realization. Somehow the knowledge had seeped through from Briscoe, the only one of them who had actually seen her injuries, to the rest of them. Claire wasn't going to be OK. She wasn't going to be going to dinner at Linda's house any time soon. If ever.
I'm sure she wishes she could come for dinner more often too? No, that was a lie. Claire wasn't comfortable around her mother. She tended to put off social engagements to see her, and from the one dinner Jack had attended at her mother's place, he could see why.
Just hope for the best? No, that was both trite and awful. Best to just keep his mouth shut. He had nothing to say that would comfort Linda, and he knew it had nothing to do with a brain sluggish from Scotch. The alcohol was pretty much out of his system, as far as his mental processes were concerned. Hell, even Briscoe looked like he'd sobered up, and Briscoe had been far drunker than he when he first got to the hospital.
He cleared his throat and picked up another magazine. Looked vaguely familiar. Flipped it open to some story about the Menendez brothers.
"Anybody want another coffee?" Briscoe asked, standing up. Speech fairly clear. Jack and Linda shook their heads no, Mac nodded yes. "Rey?"
"I'll come with you," Curtis stood too, and they left for the coffee machine. Jack spared a brief thought for Briscoe as he watched them leave. Lennie Briscoe, on the wagon for four years... tumbling right off. Why today, of all days? Had it been because of the execution? And why did he have to pick the bar that Jack himself was in, and why did he have to be there when Claire came to get him... and why couldn't he himself have waited just a little longer for her?
He closed his eyes. Why couldn't he have waited? Why couldn't he have called her one more time?
To hell with her.
The last thing he'd said about her. The last thing he'd felt about her. To hell with her.
Don't think about that. He made himself read through another magazine.
ooo000ooo
A doctor came by and gave Briscoe a perfunctory examination, murmuring to him quietly. It looked, from Briscoe's disinterested nods, that he was being told that he was fine. And told, and told, and told, with all the gibberish and jargon that professionals use even when the people they're talking to really have no interest in hearing it - they just want the bottom line. Briscoe wasn't listening.
One of the reasons he'd gone into prosecution instead of defense. Because he usually didn't have to explain to a client, in painstaking detail, facts and issues that the client didn't want to hear. Didn't have to watch the client's eyes glaze over as they waited for the punchline: will the jury find me guilty? Are the charges dismissed? Is the gun admissible?
At some point during the night, some doctor was probably going to come and talk to Linda the same way. And Linda wouldn't hear any of it. He wouldn't hear any of it either. They would just want to know the bottom line: is she alive? Is she going to be all right?
ooo000ooo
Briscoe was still there, as was Curtis. Jack had expected them to stay only as long as it took for the doctor to pronounce Briscoe fit to go, but they didn't look like they were going anywhere. They had conversed in low voices for a few minutes after the doctor had gone, and Jack had caught a low, "Can't leave now," from Briscoe. No protest from his young partner.
After their brief discussion, Curtis had asked the rest of them if he could get them anything, offering to find a vending machine since the cafeteria was no doubt closed. Linda had asked for a chocolate bar and Jack realized he could actually use one too. Or a fruit or something, if there were any vending machines around that had any. Such mundane things. Keeping the body going, while the spirit waited on edge.
He spared another glance at Briscoe, leaning with his head back against the wall. Idly wondered about what was going on there. Briscoe looked awful. Tired, old, depressed as hell. Falling off the wagon after years of sobriety could do that to you, Jack supposed.
Although who said that this was Briscoe's first time falling off? For all Jack knew, maybe this was just the first time anybody had found out. Right?
No. From what Jack understood of alcoholism, and thanks to Dad he understood quite a bit, people like Briscoe didn't just go back to dabbling in booze a bit. When they went back, they went all out, and it showed. And from what little he knew of Curtis, if Briscoe had gone back to drinking, Curtis would have noticed, and Curtis wouldn't be still partnered with him. That would be stupid and reckless.
He looked at Curtis, who, except for trips to get coffee or snacks, was sticking by Briscoe's side like glue. Briscoe would probably lose his job over this. Rumour had it he'd come damn close to losing his job over his alcoholism before already. So why was Curtis taking care of him now, when they probably weren't going to be partners very much longer? Jack had no idea.
Cops. He didn't understand them worth a damn.
Would Briscoe lose his job? Let's assume this was the first time he'd had a drink in four years. Might be the last time for four more years. He might still be allowed to work Homicide, if this was just a one-time thing. He might still be working with Jack.
Jack vaguely wondered how he would feel if Briscoe didn't get fired. Would he want to work with Briscoe now, knowing that Briscoe might not be on the straight and narrow any more? Knowing how Dad had lost evidence and cut corners when he was a lush with a badge... hell, knowing how much of a screw-up Briscoe himself had been when he was drinking... would he wholly trust whatever Briscoe sent his way from now on?
No, probably not.
He spared another glance at Curtis. If he were Briscoe's partner, would he want to trust his life to an unreliable alcoholic? No, he really wouldn't. So would Curtis want to partner with him?
He had no clue. He didn't understand cops. Dad had once tried to explain the bond between partners. You're not best buddies, he'd said. In fact you can hate your partner's guts. But you trust him with your life. And you'll do anything for him. You'll take care of him like a brother, because you know he'd do the same for you. He's your partner.
Of course, Dad had to follow that up with, Good thing you're not gonna be a cop, because who the hell would ever trust their life to you.
The closest thing Jack had to a partner in that sense were his assistants. Not the same thing, they didn't have to trust each other with their lives, but they did spend a lot of time together. They got to know each other very well. They got to trust each other in terms of getting the job done.
They got to rely on each other to fill in gaps, point out weak arguments, find ways around legal obstacles, find mistakes before they got before a judge or jury. To complement one another's strengths and weaknesses. For example, Claire was much better than he when it came to reading juries. When it came to seeing when he was going too far down a hard line path, or getting too extreme in one way or another. Yes, she often pointed it out in terms of ethics or whatever, but sometimes she did it from a purely practical point of view: Jack, that won't work.
It was a real joy watching Claire's mind sifting through a case, too. She was so brilliant - inexperienced compared to him, but that was all right. Sometimes that was an asset, as in the Kirksen case, when her inexperience translated into enthusiasm for tasks that had become rather dull to him.
She looked so gentle and feminine, and yet there was steel and razor-sharp intelligence there. He liked that in women. He'd once told Claire that he didn't feel the need to apologize for finding the women he worked with more stimulating than the women he met at the gym, and it was true. All of the women he'd been in serious relationships with, including the one he'd married, they were all brilliant. He couldn't imagine being with a woman who didn't share his passion for his work, who couldn't even understand the intricacies of the law. What would be the point? Once the sex was done, what would they possibly talk about? Home decoration? Potted plants? Their 'relationship'? The thought held absolutely no appeal for him.
Oh god. Sharp pang in his chest. Claire, please be all right.
ooo000ooo
Mac had taken out a notebook. Looked it over, glanced over at Jack.
"Jack, what have you heard on the Loving case?"
"Dwight Loving v. US?" Jack asked. Mac nodded. Jack tried to remember the case. He recalled a few heated discussions about it at Hogan Place - a few of them with Claire, as a matter of fact - but realized he had absolutely no idea of the particulars right now. Except that it was coming up before the Supreme Court and had to do with a court martial and the death penalty.
"I'm scheduled for a Lunch and Learn with the Constitutional students next Tuesday. We're examining the Loving case," Mac was staring at his notebook distractedly. "It's an interesting case from a Constitutional point of view. From a separation of the powers of State at least..."
"It's all smoke and mirrors. He's arguing that the President doesn't have the power to prescribe aggravating factors, basically that RCM 1004 is unconstitutional," Jack started to remember the facts more clearly. "Which is ridiculous. Besides, he would have been found guilty in a regular court as well, he committed felony murder-"
"I think he has a good point. He says that the framers of the Constitution intended that only Congress should possess the power to decide what aggravating factors justify sentencing a member of the armed forces to death."
"I don't buy original intent arguments."
"You wouldn't be very popular among our Constitutional students then."
"A lot of original intent fans among them?"
"This year's crop, yes. It comes and goes in fads," Mac stared at his notes a little longer, sighed, put down his notebook disinterestedly.
"Claire said that even looking at original intent, there was an argument to be made that the original intent wasn't simply to prevent the military from having power over death penalty cases, but to give Congress flexibility in terms of when to share the power and when not to."
"That's a good read on it. Claire said that?"
"Yes," Jack said distantly. Claire said that when they were waiting for a judgment on some case. Ida Estevez, also waiting around for a jury to come back in one of her trials, had joined them for lunch. Claire and Ida had started a debate on the Loving case. Jack had mostly just observed, amused to see Claire defending the right of a court martial to impose the death penalty, even though Claire had made it clear to Ida that she opposed the death penalty in principle and they were just having a theoretical debate about delegation of authority and Constitutional original intent.
Ida Estevez. The Barracuda. On maternity leave, Claire had said. Not terribly easy to imagine that rather abrasive PD as a mother. What case of Claire's was she working on before she turned it over to somebody else?
He couldn't remember.
He picked up another magazine.
ooo000ooo
What time was it? Almost 3 am.
ooo000ooo
"She came to see me this afternoon," Mac said suddenly.
"Did she?" Jack asked.
"Yes. Came into my class and stayed for a while afterwards." Jack nodded. "She wanted to talk... she told me about the execution." Jack sighed, closing his eyes. Damn it. Of course, she wanted to talk about it. He should have been there to talk to her. He should have... he had called her, left messages for her, but she... she probably just thought they were going to argue again.
"We argued. I don't think I was very helpful." Mac continued softly. "She... she said that what she'd seen would be with her for the rest of her life." Linda got up suddenly and walked away, and Mac, after a startled moment, quickly got up to follow her.
Jack gazed after them. So Claire had gone to see Mac and ended up arguing with him too. And she said that what she'd seen would be with her for the rest of her life. Jack sighed and put his head in his hands.
Please God, let that not be one of those awful prophetic statements.
ooo000ooo
How long had it been since he'd been in a hospital, waiting like this?
Not since Dad. The vigil at the end of Dad's life.
Dad again. He and his sister and his daughter had gone to visit a few times, keeping Mom company. Mom had grown more and more quiet as Dad's end grew nearer. When they weren't with her, she seemed to spend a lot of her time praying in the chapel. She'd all of a sudden found religion again in those last few days. Jack had even accompanied her there a few times, not really praying himself, but keeping her company. Making peace with Dad - or at least trying to. Knowing that there was really no point in hanging on to his resentments any more. Not that there had been any point before, but now, at the end of Dad's life, it was really time to let them go. So while Mom was busy asking for God's intervention in making her abusive husband hang on just a few more days, he'd thought about Dad. Tried to reconcile with him, in his mind, at least. There hadn't been any point trying to talk to Dad at that point in time - Dad was drugged out of his mind. He wouldn't have heard.
He stood and approached a nurse. "Excuse me - can you tell me where the chapel is?"
ooo000ooo
He knelt, his mind completely blank. He hadn't prayed in years. Never thought of prayer. It just didn't come up in the course of his regular existence.
What do you say to a Being that you haven't even thought of in years? Sorry, Almighty, I've been a little busy?
There are no atheists in foxholes. Who said that first? Was it a normal response, when faced with something like this, with something so overwhelming you didn't even know how you felt about it, to turn to a higher Power?
Was that all there was to religion, to faith? The childlike clinging to the hope that Somebody up there could make OK what was scary and awful, as your parents had chased the monsters out of your bedroom?
Whatever the reason for turning to God at times like this, here he was. Kneeling as he'd knelt in his childhood, turning to God when even his parents couldn't or wouldn't make things OK. When his parents were what was scary and awful, his father abusive, his mother ineffectual in protecting him.
He breathed in, feeling soothing peace in the chapel. This was a place to lay down worry and sorrow, at least for a little while. This was a place to try to gain strength, to try to feel some comfort from something. Someone.
Lord, I'm sorry, I've been away for a long time. I've forgotten how to pray, how to talk to You. I don't even really know what I'm doing here. I thought I was just coming here to think about Claire. To try to make peace with her like I did with Dad if she...
I don't think she's going to make it. Lennie Briscoe saw her, and drunk as he was, he knows what people look like when they're too badly damaged to live. And he's not holding out any hope. He's just staying with us out of a sense of obligation to Claire, to see this through to the end. Her end.
Please, Lord. Please spare her. She's so young. I never really think of how young she is, most of the time. She's just Claire, age isn't an issue. But... she's hardly any older than my own daughter. She's barely more than a child. She's too young to die. Especially like this.
Please, Lord.
Words failed him. He didn't know what he wanted to say to God.
He thought absently that he was never at a loss for words. He made his living with words, with negotiation and convincing. And yet here he was, speechless.
I'm sorry, I suppose I don't really have much of a right to turn to You. I... I don't think much of people who turn to You for every little thing, who aren't independent enough to live their lives without a security blanket.
But I need a security blanket right now.
I've never really rejected Your existence. Just haven't really had much time for You, which is... I don't suppose the brothers at St. Ignatius would have approved of that. I guess I've confused a lot of the small-minded attitudes of the Jesuits who educated me with You. I know You're not really all about making sure all the words are right when you say a Hail Mary, I know You don't really live in the Eucharist. But I guess I've thrown out a belief in Your presence along with my belief in the superstitions of Catholicism.
Lord, help me now. Help her. If there's any way to make her all right, to help her to fight and survive this accident, please...
I guess this is where people try to bargain. I'm... I don't really believe in bargaining with the Almighty. I just haven't ever seen what possible use You could have for what people offer You in times like this. Save my son and I'll give to the Church. Let my husband go free and I'll say twelve rosaries every night. Why should a Being who created Heaven and Earth care about minions on Earth saying rosaries?
But I'm asking, Lord. Please, I'm asking You to hear me and help Claire.
It doesn't make sense to me to mouth a bunch of words that have no meaning, but if I thought that would help Claire, I would. I would offer to go to church regularly, tithe, whatever it took.
In fact, I'm offering anyway. Help her survive this. I'll come back to the Church.
He almost chuckled to himself. This is pretty arrogant. Plea bargaining with God. God doesn't do plea bargains.
The flip side of bargaining is, if Claire's doesn't survive, I won't come back. Which is ridiculous. It doesn't work that way. Besides, it doesn't take into account all sorts of possible outcomes - if she's alive but crippled, alive but in pain, alive but brain damaged...
He felt his throat tighten. Alive but her personality completely changed, until she was no longer the Claire he knew. Would that be Claire, then? If she survived but wasn't anything like what she was before? Accident victims who suffer brain damage sometimes become unrecognizable. Some become mean where they were kind. Some become slow where they were once quicksilver bright.
What would that be like? Claire's intelligent, alert eyes turned dull and uncomprehending? Claire's smooth voice turned thick and slurred, or sharp and shrewish?
That wouldn't be Claire.
Please, let her live.
Whatever happens, let her live. We can work on the rest later. Just let her be alive to work on it.
I'll come back to the Church. No bargaining. Whether she lives or dies, I'll come back. I've been away too long.
Please, just let her live.
And if she doesn't, let me be able to deal with that. Let me know and believe that she's still somewhere. That her light hasn't been snuffed out for good. That she's somewhere better.
Please.
ooo000ooo
No.
Please, no.
He felt himself standing, along with Mac and Linda, as they watched the doctor approach, none of them needing to hear his medical jargon to understand the bottom line.
That was that. The wait was over, and as painful as it had been, he would have given anything to still be waiting. To not have to hear this quiet voice droning on, every word taking them farther down a road where Claire was no longer a part of their lives.
Still alive. Technically. But not on her own. Just a shell, there had been too much damage for the person that was Claire to survive.
And now the doctor was leaving, with a few final words of condolences. Linda was supposed to go and sign the papers needed to disconnect Claire's body from the machines.
Curtis was standing silently near him, and Jack finally looked at him. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked quietly. Jack shook his head. They'd done what they could, keeping vigil with them through the night. There was nothing more to be done.
"Take him home," he nodded his head at Briscoe. Curtis nodded and turned back to his partner. He and Briscoe said their condolences to Linda and Mac.
"It's OK. Don't blame yourself, please. It wasn't your fault," Jack heard Linda say to Briscoe before turning away with Mac at her side. Jack spared a glance at Briscoe. Briscoe looked exhausted, devastated as he'd never seen the cynical detective look. Probably feeling responsible for this. Jack wondered at that distantly - why should Briscoe feel responsible? He wasn't the one who'd asked Claire to come to that bar. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn't the one who'd said To hell with her. He dismissed Briscoe from his thoughts as he followed Linda and Mac to Claire's side.
ooo000ooo
Jack looked at the bed. There she was, a woman in a hospital bed, a heart monitor beeping too steadily for its rhythm to be natural. A machine inflating her lungs with mechanical exactitude.
That wasn't Claire.
Her black hair was shaved off, a bandage around her skull where the doctors had tried to deal with the bleeding into her brain. Her eyes were closed, but there was no movement beneath the eyelids, showing that the brain was still active even in rest. Just lids that had been pulled down over unseeing eyes like curtains over the windows of an empty house.
Machines were keeping the organs in this corpse alive until they could be transferred to living beings. All of Claire's individuality, all her sparkle and intelligence, had been taken from her. Reduced to total powerlessness, mindlessly awaiting her death.
He didn't feel anything.
Linda choked back a sob, taking Claire's limp hand in her own, silently pleading with her daughter to wake up.
He didn't feel anything.
She let go of Claire's hand and moved closer to her, kissed her forehead, and turned to the doctor, nodding. Then she stopped and looked at Jack.
"Jack? Do you want to say goodbye?" she asked quietly. Jack was momentarily puzzled. Say goodbye? To what? To the empty shell that Claire left behind? Then he found himself nodding, realizing that at some future point in his life he might regret not having taken his leave of Claire in the only way he really could. He approached her body.
Linda sobbed quietly and Mac put his arm around her shoulders as a soft keening sound rose from her throat. Jack didn't feel anything.
Come on, Claire. Wake up, he found himself thinking. This can't really be happening. You've got to wake up and tell me I'm a son of a bitch for not giving a damn about Mickey Scott's miserable life or for not taking your feminist rhetoric seriously enough or for having the nerve to order for you at a restaurant. Come on.
No movement. Of course not. Why should there be any? Dead was dead and people only woke up from irreversible comas in soap operas and children's stories. He gently stroked the side of her face, where the breathing tube didn't distort her features too much, and made himself look at her. He slowly raised her cold hand to his lips and kissed her fingers gently.
He didn't feel anything.
He put her hand down and stepped back from the bed, nodding to Linda. Linda beckoned the doctor over and he quietly and efficiently removed the tubes and lines from Claire's body. Her chest rose and fell one last time. And then she just lay there. One minute she was breathing... and then she was gone.