CHAPTER 4: ABSENCE
Jack looked out the window of the cab. Early dawn in New York City. Amazing how much of the city was still alive, even at this late hour. Or rather, at this early hour. Newspapers being delivered. Garbage trucks going to the poorer neighbourhoods. Trucks delivering groceries. Hard-core joggers. The city was waking up. Not very many private cars though.
Tell you what, they should ban cars in Manhattan... What no witty response?
You leave me speechless.
Nobody forced you to watch it.
Jack closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the seat.
ooo000ooo
He unlocked his door, distantly remembering how hard it had been to unlock it last night. Walked in and glanced around his empty, dark apartment. Pile of files to review on the table. Books scattered haphazardly all over every surface. His motorcycle helmet on the kitchen counter. Dry cleaning that he'd picked up two days ago.
He'd left Linda and Mac at the hospital, Linda sobbing tiredly in Mac's arms and Mac looking old and worn.
After they'd left the room where Claire had died, a social worker had approached, said a few vague comforting words, and put a card in Linda's hand, with numbers for grief counselors, insurance advisors, and funeral homes. Linda had stared at the card.
"Oh god. My own daughter's funeral - I can't-"
"Linda, I can do that, if you want," Jack had offered numbly.
"It's all right," Mac said. "You don't have to do that, we'll take care of it."
Linda nodded tearfully, then looked at Jack more closely. "Do you want to?" He nodded. May as well. "I don't think she would have wanted anything elaborate, just... she said once that she... that she wanted to be cremated-"
"Yes, I know," Jack said. "I don't remember how it came up, but she said once that she didn't want to take up space after her death."
Linda smiled slightly and wiped her eyes. "Just call the funeral home on the card, Jack. Make it as soon as possible. And call the people you know from her workplace."
"All right."
They hadn't talked much beyond that, other than Mac quietly telling him to go home and get some rest before making the arrangements.
He looked at the clock. Too early to call the funeral home. He rubbed his jaw, felt rough stubble, decided to shave.
ooo000ooo
What now? Sleep? He hadn't really slept since two days ago. He'd slept some in the car on the way to Attica and back, and fallen into a drunken slumber last night, but that wasn't enough. Didn't feel tired, though. So why not make a list.
- call Adam
- call judge re. Kirksen
- breakfast
- call funeral home
- reschedule cases, appointments
- inform re. funeral at work
- call C's contacts
He decided to tackle what he could for now. Breakfast. Then call Adam at six. Adam should be awake by then.
ooo000ooo
"Yes?" Adam Schiff answered his maid irritably as he finished buttoning up his shirt.
"Mr. Schiff, phone for you," she called from behind his bedroom door.
"Take a message."
"It's Mr. McCoy, he says he needs to speak to you."
Adam opened his door and took the phone, intrigued. Why would Jack be calling him at home at this ungodly hour?
"Jack?"
"Adam. I'm calling to let you know that, uh, Claire was in a car accident last night. She died this morning at about 4 a.m."
Adam sat down heavily, speechless for a moment. "Claire Kincaid? Died this morning?" he glanced at his watch. Two hours ago?
"Yes, I thought you should know - there are a bunch of cases we're working - we were working on together, that's all going to get screwed up."
"Jack, for God's sake-" Adam stopped himself. It sounded like Jack was on autopilot. "All right, don't worry, I'll call the secretarial staff, everything at work will be taken care of. Is there anything I else can do? Do you want me at the hospital-"
"No, no, that's all right, I'm not at the hospital, it's just Claire's mother and stepfather there - actually, I suppose they've probably gone home too..." he trailed off, cleared his throat. "Push a few of my cases back for me too, would you? We - I'm supposed to be at the Kirksen closing today, but-"
"That's fine, that's fine, I'll handle it," Adam said brusquely. "Who's the judge?"
"Fraser."
"No problem, I'll give him a call. I'll get an indefinite continuance."
"No, just give me a few days, the case was close to wrapping up anyway."
Adam bit his tongue before asking Jack what the hell he could possibly be thinking, "Fine, I'll get it recessed till Monday. Is there anything else? Anybody I can call for you?"
"No, I think that's it."
"Where are you?"
"I'm at home. I just need to - Claire's mother wants to hold the funeral as soon as possible, I said I'd arrange it."
"Do you need any help with that?"
"No, I think it's just going to be a simple ceremony. I'll probably just call the funeral home and go with whatever they say. Claire wouldn't have wanted anything big, I don't think." He cleared his throat again. "I'll see you at work in a couple of hours, I'll let you know if there's anything else that needs doing."
"You're coming in to work?" Adam couldn't quite keep his tone even.
"Yes," Jack said, as if that were what any normal person would do in these circumstances. "I have to get going, Adam, I'll talk to you later." He hung up.
Adam shook his head in disbelief. Everybody deals with loss in their own way, he supposed.
Claire Kincaid. Gone. He stared at the phone in his hand. Good Lord. It didn't seem possible.
"Adam?" his wife appeared by his side. "What is it?"
"That was Jack. Claire Kincaid was in a car accident, she just died two hours ago."
"Oh my God." She sat down next to him. "Oh my God. Adam, dear Lord, she's just a child." Adam nodded. "How is Jack?"
"He says he's going to plan her funeral and then go to work."
"You're joking." Adam shook his head. "It hasn't hit him yet, has it?" she asked grimly.
"No." Adam reached out and held his wife close. "No, I don't think it has."
ooo000ooo
Jack put down the phone. Good of Adam to not say I told you so, he thought vaguely. Adam had always said it was a bad idea to get involved with assistants, and this pretty much proved it. Well, whatever, Adam had nobody but himself to blame for this. He should have known better than to assign Claire Kincaid to him, given his reputation.
Who had been his assistant before Claire? Steve Millchamps. Decent guy. A mediocre litigator but an excellent researcher. He and Steve had been motoring along just fine until Steve had decided to bail on him - the lure of defense finally got too strong. Almost simultaneously, Ben Stone had abruptly up and quit. Some ethical reason - a witness he'd pressured into testifying had been killed by the Russian Mob, and Ben, sensitive soul that he was, just couldn't live with that. So Jack had gone to Adam and requested an assistant.
"Now that Steve's jumped across the aisle on me I need an assistant. A permanent one, not temps from the pool."
"Do you have anyone in mind?"
"How about Kincaid?"
"Miss Kincaid?"
"Yes. I read some of her work, she's been doing very well for herself. And she's helped you to mop up the mess Stone left behind. She's short a boss, I'm short an assistant - seems a match made in Heaven."
"Really."
"I read that case comment she wrote on the Manuel trial - it was brilliant."
"Brilliant."
"Yes."
Silence.
"Do you know how old she is?"
He'd been puzzled. "Are you saying she's not a seasoned lawyer? She's been working with Stone for over a year, she's hardly right out of law school. She hasn't done much more than second chair for Stone, but that's probably just because Stone's not the best when it comes to assistants, he doesn't let them spread their wings. How he kept Paul Robinette for three years is a mystery to everyone." Adam was still gazing at him with his habitual sour expression. "Besides, what's she going to do instead, prosecute welfare fraud? She's been helping on all of Stone's cases, the really interesting cases. She'll probably jump at the chance to stay on as EADA assistant."
"You think so?"
"Yes, of course." Adam gave him an indecipherable scowl. "Adam, what is it?"
"You have a reputation. A good one in the courtroom. Not so good with your female assistants."
"Adam!" he protested.
"Miss Kincaid is a bright young woman who might have aspirations other than becoming another notch on your bedpost."
"Adam, give me some credit, she's half my age. Besides, I haven't dated an assistant since Diana."
"Oh, yes, it's been three whole years. How time flies."
He'd been intensely irritated. He vaguely remembered having seen Claire Kincaid a few times, didn't remember much about what she looked like other than too delicate to really be his type, but it was galling to think that he might not get a top-notch assistant just because Adam decided to get Puritan about office politics.
"Do you want me to sign a contract? No footsie with the assistant?"
"If I thought signing a contract would make any damn difference to you, I would have written one up years ago." Jack grinned, acknowledging that he probably deserved that. "Just so we're on the same page," Adam said gruffly, "I will ask Miss Kincaid if she wants to be assigned to you. And you will conduct yourself with the dignity that befits the position of Executive Assistant District Attorney, and not turn this office into your personal dating service for the fourth time."
"Yes, sir," he'd smiled, pleased to be getting his way.
ooo000ooo
By nine thirty, he was entering Hogan Place. He had gotten in contact with the home that was listed on the card, Ginghampton Funeral Home, and spent some time agreeing to everything that the home suggested. Yes, flowers, yes, music, yes, 2pm tomorrow is fine, yes, reception afterwards, no, not religious, fine, here's my work number and pager. They were going to call him back, ask him about Claire for the eulogy. They wanted the numbers of any of Claire's close friends and family that they could contact as well.
Jack went to Claire's desk. Where did she keep her contact book? It was blue, he knew that much - oh, there we go. He flipped it open, started to scan through.
Adams, Marion. Claire had spoken of her. Some college friend she was very close to. She didn't live in New York any more, and Claire had been upset when she'd been in town a few months back and they hadn't been able to connect. Jack wrote down her number.
Bell, Margot. Defense attorney from the Weber case, also a good friend of Claire's. He wrote that one down too. Methodically went through from A to Z, finishing up with seven names.
Right. He also needed to contact people to come to the funeral tomorrow.
No, there were too many people. He should probably get a secretary to type up an internal memo and go through and call names in Claire's book. He didn't have the heart to do it himself - besides, there was going to be a hell of a lot of work to do reassigning her cases. He picked up his phone to contact the secretarial staff, waited blankly for a minute while it rang, then put it down with a sigh of impatience. He'd automatically dialed Claire's number - she was the one who normally dealt with the secretarial staff.
Claire, send these diagrams to get blown up so the jury can see them.
Claire, here's the sentence recommendation, could you get the secretary to type it up?
He picked up the phone again, looking up the number for the secretarial pool. Didn't know who was their regular secretary. His regular secretary, now. He supposed he'd better find out.
"Administration," answered a voice.
"This is Jack McCoy. I need to get a secretary to-"
"Mr. McCoy! Oh," the voice sounded unsteady all of a sudden. "Oh, sir, we just heard - sir, we're so sorry-"
Jack sighed wearily. "Yes, thank you. I need to get a secretary to make some phone calls. Are we - am I still assigned to Christine?"
"No, sir, Christine left a month ago. Phyllis is doing most of your work. I'll put her on. I'm so sorry, Mr. McCoy."
"Thank you." He waited for a minute, then heard another woman's voice on the line, sounding teary.
"Mr. McCoy?" she wavered.
"Yes, I need to get some phone calls made. Where are you?"
"Uh - I'll come to you, sir. I'll be right there," the woman's voice cut off abruptly.
ooo000ooo
OK, he thought an hour later. That was it, then. Her friends were getting messages, the funeral home still hadn't called back about the eulogy, a memo had been sent out around Hogan Place, the Kirksen case had been pushed back. He'd called Van Buren at the 27th, figuring some of the cops might want to come to her funeral too. Claire got along well with cops.
Now what?
He idly tapped the edge of Claire's mug, which she'd left on his desk. Her mother must have bought it for her - it had some sort of floral pattern that he couldn't see Claire picking out for herself at all.
He looked at his current caseload. Thought of Claire's desk, with her current caseload there as well. May as well start tackling who to give those cases to.
The news had been filtering through Hogan Place so some of what he had to do probably wouldn't be a problem; people had already heard and begun to plan accordingly. He supposed Adam had called somebody, and then people had told each other. He'd heard some hushed voices, a few tears, Claire's name being mentioned, as he moved around the office. A few people had come up and briefly said their condolences, but he'd put them off before they got too maudlin.
He felt a wave of weariness. Put his forehead on his hand for a moment, briefly indulging in rest before making himself push on. There was too much to do to just sit there.
"Jack?" He looked up. One of the PDs, Joyce Glacken, was standing at the door, looking shocked and shaken. "I... I was supposed to go over the Gonzalez case with Claire today. I just heard. Jack, I'm so sorry."
"Gonzalez?"
"AKA Enrique Gomez."
"Oh. I'm sorry, I haven't assigned her cases to-"
"Good God, Jack, I realize that. Don't worry about it, Gonzalez can certainly rot in limbo until we figure things out."
"I think Claire was going to offer Life Without Parole and drop the rape charge."
Joyce blinked, startled, then automatically said, "No problem. Sure."
"You'll take it?"
"Are you kidding? My piece of crap client could potentially be facing the needle. I'll let him know you made a generous offer and he should take Life and send you a Thank You card."
"All right," he looked back at his stack of files.
"Jack?" Joyce asked hesitantly.
"Yes?"
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No," he said shortly, unwilling to look up and see the sympathy in her eyes. It was beginning to get on his nerves, the sorrowful look on people's faces. "By the way, the funeral's tomorrow, Ginghampton Funeral Home, 2pm." Joyce nodded and left. Jack gazed at the door closing behind her. Was it really just yesterday - no, two days ago - that he and Claire were talking about this plea bargain in the car on the way to Attica? He'd suggested threatening Murder One and the death penalty for the viciousness of Gomez's killing.
Isn't his attorney Joyce Glacken?
Mhm.
She always pleads out. She'll probably tell him to take Life and run.
Great, so justice is served because of a death threat and a bad public defender.
Would you rather have him out to do it again?
ooo000ooo
'Firenze, Prato, Pisa', said the brochure in his desk drawer as he searched for staples. Michelangelo's David graced the cover, 'The Works of the Masters' scripted under it. Left over from when they'd been planning their trip to Tuscany. That brochure must have been sitting in the drawer for months now. He really had to go through and clean his desk one of these days.
Claire hadn't wanted to overcrowd their itinerary, and since she was the one doing most of the planning, he'd just left it to her. Which was good, because when he'd missed the first three days of their vacation together, it hadn't been a nightmare of unrefundable tickets and missed events. Claire had just gone ahead and done some sightseeing to places he wasn't that interested in while she waited for him.
She'd looked so relaxed and happy when he showed up. Dressed in casual clothing, not the suits she wore at Hogan Place. Not even the utilitarian jeans and jacket she wore off the job. A sun dress, of all things, that left her shoulders bare.
She wouldn't have been wearing that in Ireland this summer. They had been planning - well, she had been planning - more of a 'hiking through the moors and old cemeteries' type of trip. Going to small-town pubs. Kissing the Blarney Stone.
Not what Diana Hawthorne had wanted at all, when they went to Ireland together. Diana had wanted old cathedrals and museums and Irish culture in the big cities. Which was fine by him. He was pleased with her, pleased with himself, having just won the Dillard case and having just made EADA, and he'd gone along with whatever she wanted. He'd picked Ireland as a destination, and she'd picked what they would do once they got there.
When Claire had cross-examined Diana during her trial, she had prodded Diana into admitting that she hadn't followed orders from Jack during the Dillard case, that everything she did, she did of her own initiative. Because that's what she thought he wanted, although he'd never told her so. "Your boss and your lover, that's a pretty strong influence," Claire had said. "You wanted his admiration... you wanted his affection... and what better way than to make him a gift of that promotion? And like all good gifts, it was a surprise." And Diana, shocked at Claire's unexpectedly insightful reading of motivations Diana herself had never really understood, had pretty much crumbled.
Claire had been absolutely incredible during that trial. Diana looked so much more sophisticated, carried herself with so much more maturity and arrogant, elegant grace. She'd projected amused condescension towards Claire, seeing in Claire only a naïve youngster who'd taken the place Diana no longer wanted, at Jack's side and in Jack's bed.
And Claire, wide-eyed, idealistic Claire, had come out of nowhere and knocked Diana flat on her ass, on the stand.
Later, when Claire had accepted Diana's plea bargain, he'd told her, "You didn't have to take the deal, Claire. You would have won the case."
"I know... but I thought that's what you wanted," she'd said very seriously. He'd felt a stab of alarm at that before she cracked up, laughing at his uncomfortable expression. Claire joked so seldom that it was all the sweeter when she did.
ooo000ooo
Martinez. Claire had been working on getting a pair of bloodstained pants made admissible. Other than that, the case was ready to go, he shouldn't need any help with it. He placed it on the stack of "I don't need help with this."
Meginelli. No, that was in the preliminary stages. He'd need somebody to do research. On the other stack - "Must reassign".
Fox. That case was stalled as hell.
And he didn't give a shit about it.
He stared out across the room. He didn't give a flying fuck. Joey Fox, a habitual Peeping Tom, had decided to do more than peep one night, had raped a woman, would probably get away with it because the case was going nowhere fast, and he couldn't care less.
OK, he should probably go home and get some sleep. He started to put the files on the "I don't need help with these" pile away.
"Jack?"
He closed his eyes. Liz Olivet. No, not this again. "Yes."
"I heard."
He nodded tiredly, wondering how to get Liz out of his office as quickly as possible.
Liz looked at him for a moment, then cleared her throat. "All right, I'm not here to try to get you to share," she said, her voice clinical and detached. He shot her a grateful look. Thank god, no fumbling attempt at sympathy like yesterday. "I'm just going to give you some professional advice and then I'll get out of your way. It looks like you're fairly busy." He nodded, putting away another file. She stepped closer to his desk. "First off, you've probably guessed that this hasn't really hit you yet. Work if you want to, go on with your normal routine if it helps, but be aware that at some point this will come home. Don't try to hide it from yourself."
He nodded unemotionally, not bothering to look up from the files he was putting away.
"Grief is a normal process, but most people don't have much experience dealing with it. This may affect you in unexpected ways. Be aware of that. You may have difficulty sleeping or concentrating on your work, you may feel upset for a very long time. It might be a good idea to take some time off work, or seek counseling. There are also grief support groups if you feel like availing yourself of them. I'll bring a list of resources for you. When and if you do choose to talk to somebody, you know I'll be glad to listen."
He nodded again. There was a brief pause. "Is that all?" he asked. She nodded. "Thank you."
"Jack. I'm sorry," she said softly. He acknowledged her sympathy with a quick nod and she quietly left.
ooo000ooo
All right, he was done in his office. He'd come back tomorrow and continue to work through. Oh - he better go pick up the book he'd given Claire for the Martinez case, the one about medical ethics. She was going to look up some stuff on doctor-patient privilege, but he supposed he'd better do that now. It was probably with her things.
He found himself looking through Claire's bookshelf.
Feminist Jurisprudence.
Evidence.
For Whose Protection? Reproductive Hazards and Exclusionary Policies in the United States and Britain.
Toward a Feminist Theory of the State.
"I don't think this is the time or the place for a full-blown debate about your latent feminism," he'd told her during their first case together. They were prosecuting Dr. Nancy Haas, who used women's fear of mutilation to sell them a "non-surgical" quack remedy for breast cancer that killed them.
"Number one, it's not latent," she'd shot back. "Number two, since when did privacy become a feminist issue?"
He smiled to himself, thinking of that case. Their relationship had started out rather more conflictively than he had expected. He didn't know why he'd expected harmony, given that he was a fairly conflictive person and she was, after all, a lawyer, used to an adversarial system. But part of him had probably subconsciously identified her with her boss, Ben Stone, who was one of the gentlest, most gentlemanly people at Hogan Place. Part of Stone's undoing, actually. He guessed he had somehow figured that working for Stone she must have been the same as him. Which was ridiculous.
Besides, even the Sainted Stone had his bad side. Look at how he went through assistants before Paul Robinette. In any case, he'd first met Claire when she had come to his office to discuss Dr. Haas. Her first words had set the tone for their relationship:
"Your reputation precedes you," he'd said.
"As does yours," she'd replied. And she threw his affairs with his assistants in his face. He'd been momentarily taken aback, feeling a trio of emotions burble up. Amusement that Adam was right and she did, after all have an awareness of his sexual history. Irritation that even educated lawyers chose to focus on who's-sleeping-with-whom trivialities of the office. And some slight dismay, hoping that this wouldn't negatively impact on their working relationship.
The best defense is a good offence, he'd quickly told himself, and bluntly refused to defend his choice of romantic partners. And smiled inwardly that he seemed to have taken a bit of the wind out of her sails, especially when he reassured her that he didn't anticipate a problem working with her.
He smiled slightly, thinking of those first few months. How at first he'd seen her as just another lawyer - better and more dedicated than most, but nothing more than a colleague. He hadn't been lying to Adam when he'd assured Adam he had no ulterior motives in wanting her in his office. She really was too young. Too delicate-looking. Too idealistic, not his type at all.
Except that after a month or so he'd started to grudgingly realize that she was exactly his type. Of course. Female, attractive, driven by work, passionate about the law, and highly intelligent. What had he expected?
He'd groaned to himself the first time he woke up from a rather vivid dream starring his young assistant - nothing too graphic, but certainly what she'd been doing in his dream, and where they had been headed, had been decidedly inappropriate. The surprise of it had cleared away his sleepiness as effectively as being woken up by a loud noise.
Don't go there, he'd told himself sternly. Not only will Adam kill you, she'll kill you too. She's made it quite clear that she is not interested in becoming, as Adam said, another notch on your bedpost.
Except that he'd caught flashes of interest in her eyes. And he was a fairly good judge of women when it came to that. There were times when she held his gaze a little too long. Smiled a little wider than people normally do for an acquaintance. So many little hints here and there.
Arguing with himself for the first little while, he'd tested out the waters. Paying a compliment here, making a comment there, seeing how she reacted. Leaning a little closer than he normally would, seeing if she drew away. She didn't.
All right. He'd gathered the evidence and concluded that she was interested. Now what?
His internal debate had been rather brief, as he recalled. Ethics and what-will-people-think had never carried much weight with him. She seemed interested, he definitely was, they were both adults, and Adam had put up with far worse from him. So it only remained to break the ice.
Which he had, and she'd turned him down. Letting him know that no, he hadn't been wrong, yes, she was interested, but in the end, No. She didn't want to pursue anything.
Oh well. He'd been surprised at how disappointed he felt, but what the hell. No harm in asking a question as long as you listen to the answer, his English teacher always said. They'd gone back to business as usual.
And then.
Jack closed his eyes, remembering that night.
"You know what you brought up the last time we ate out?" she asked.
"The Hagen case?" he said, distracted, wondering if his unusually overdone veal was tough enough to justify calling the waiter over and demanding a new one.
"No, not the Hagen case."
He'd searched his memory. They had been at an Italian restaurant, had discussed the Hagen case, and - and Claire was looking down at her plate with an uncharacteristically shy expression on her face.
She cleared her throat. "You brought up that you were getting the feeling that there was..." he suddenly got it, felt a smile start on his face, and caught Claire's sudden rise in colour, "that there was more going on than just a professional relationship."
"Yes I did," he said slowly. There was a pause. "And you said that you thought so too, but you didn't want to pursue it."
"That's what I said, yes," she'd met his eyes, and now they were both smiling.
"And is that how you still feel?"
"Not... exactly."
He had felt his body almost immediately responding to her, to her bright eyes and warm smile. Whoa! He'd firmly commanded himself to not embarrass himself like a teenage boy seeing a bra for the first time.
"Claire. What, exactly, are you saying?" he'd teased gently.
"I'm not sure... exactly," she'd replied. And they'd shared a moment of exciting uncertainty, both grinning like kids at Christmastime, his heart beating just a little faster than normal, feeling that wonderful start-of-something-good feeling.
They were going to take it slow, he remembered. That had been the plan. Maybe go to dinner together again and not just because of work this time. Maybe a couple of movies. See where events led them.
That had been the plan. A good plan, as far as that went. A wise plan.
A completely unworkable plan. They'd gone to one dinner together, she'd invited him over for coffee, and the next morning they'd scrambled to get him back to his place in time to pick up a new suit, since they were due in court.
Jack sighed and finished putting his files away. All done here. Nothing more to do. He picked up a sticky note that had fallen out of a file - Claire's writing.
Prnts? Check w. B&C
That was probably from the Fox file. And he'd already talked to Briscoe about it. He crumpled up the sticky, went to toss it in the trash can. Stopped and smoothed it out, tracing the words, staring at the little yellow square piece of paper. That was probably one of the last things Claire wrote.
He crumpled it up. Don't be stupidly sentimental, he told himself sternly, almost angry at himself. Don't hang on to a fucking sticky note just because she wrote it. That's ridiculous. He tossed in the trash.
ooo000ooo
'Enjoy Friskys' Adult XXX Video's', a neon sign blinked at him ungrammatically as he stopped his bike at a red light. It felt odd to be out on his bike so early - most days he didn't leave the office until much later. Another day of work cut short. And tomorrow he was going to miss even more work, since the funeral was in the afternoon. Wait - was tomorrow a Saturday?
That was another thing, he realized as he waited for the light. Normally when he was out on his bike this early in the day, Claire was behind him, holding on to his waist.
She'd been so excited the first time he took her on his bike. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed. Complaining that the helmet made her look like a deep-sea diver, a little trepidatious about climbing on, but loving it once they were off.
Her helmet. He'd have to figure out what to do with it. The light turned and he started up again, narrowly missed being sideswiped. Damn cabs - they had no respect for motorcycles. The best way to ride a motorcycle is to assume every car on the road is out to get you, his instructor had told him, and that attitude hadn't failed Jack yet.
'Gow's Take Out & Delivery', blinked another sign at him at the next stoplight. 'Two can dine for 11.99'. What a rip-off. Their 'two can dine' deal barely fed Claire. They did have the best Hot and Sour Soup in the city, though, as well as the only one that didn't look like a cesspool.
Claire? Won ton soup, two spring rolls, sweet and sour chicken balls, mixed veggie rice and shredded beef?
You know what I like, Jack.
If only you were this predictable in other areas.
What would be the fun in that?
Suddenly his pager went off. He took a look at it, seeing an unfamiliar number. Quickly realized it was the Ginghampton Funeral Home. He decided on impulse to go there instead of going home - he might as well get this over with.
ooo000ooo
Two hours later, he was leaving the funeral home. It had been a rather tedious process, approving this and that for the funeral... what a lot of fuss over something that was only going to last about half an hour at most.
The funeral director, a Mrs. Hysell, had asked him about Claire, showed him what the people she'd been able to reach had told her about Claire as well. Blah blah blah. None of what he saw on the page bore the slightest resemblance to the woman he'd known for the last two years. Even what he'd talked to Hysell about ended up having little to do with Claire once he saw it written down.
"How did she get along with the people she worked with?"
"Fine."
"How did she get along with you?"
"Fine."
Hysell had paused delicately. "It's a little unusual for a boss to arrange for his assistant's funeral. Usually we have family doing this," she'd said, opening that door. He'd nodded wearily.
"I suppose so. I'm guessing you talked to her mother though. You know I wasn't just her boss."
Hysell had nodded compassionately. "Tomorrow, would you like to sit with the family?"
"No, that's all right. I don't need to."
"Tell me a little bit about Claire."
"What about her?"
"I need to get a feel for what she was like."
"What do you have so far?" he'd asked her. She'd showed him her notes, neatly summarized so far.
graduated near top of class at Harvard
could have chosen high paying job
physically active - ran, played racquetball
extremely hard-working
very ambitious
very ethical
very principled
genuinely good person
idealistic
talked about burning out
challenged herself
fought for justice
bright
compassionate
kind
"That pretty much covers it."
"Is there anything you'd like to add?"
He'd thought for a moment. "She... she wasn't afraid of conflict."
"With you?"
"With anybody. She... she once yelled at our boss. He was the District Attorney for Manhattan, and she was just a lowly ADA, and she... defied him, without a second thought." He'd smiled at the memory.
My mistake was in following your lead, Mr. Schiff. I cut a deal the way you like them: quick, cheap, and out the door.
"She quit a couple of times too, for ethical reasons." He'd watched as Hysell added these tidbits to her notes on Claire.
"What happened yesterday?"
What happened yesterday. Where to begin?
"We went to see an execution."
"Yes, I heard. First execution in the State since we reinstated the death penalty." She'd looked at him. "Why did you go?"
"We were the prosecutors who convicted him."
"Did Claire agree with his sentence?"
"No. In fact, she disagreed very strongly. She pushed as hard as she could to stop it." And if only he'd listened to her, she'd be alive.
"So why did she go?"
"She felt it was her duty. She felt that whether she agreed with it or not, since she was part of it, she should be there till the end."
"Is that why you went?"
"I went because she asked me to."
"Why did she ask you to?"
"Because I believe in the death penalty."
I believe in the death penalty.
You saw a man die today, you were instrumental in the process.
"And then?"
"And then what? What did she do after that?" Hysell nodded. "I don't know. I don't know what she did for the rest of the day. She took the day off."
Sometimes you have to take a beat, Jack.
If only he had. With her, instead of by himself at some stupid bar.
"I told her to take the day off. I was hoping that it would help, that she would make peace with it... I guess I'll never know now whether she did..." he'd trailed off, shook his head and told Hysell, "She went to see her stepfather at some point during the day. If you haven't talked to him already, ask him about it. He may know more than me." She'd nodded, making a note to herself. "Is there anything else?" Hysell had looked at him for a long moment before silently shaking her head.
He wearily climbed onto his bike. He felt exhausted, worn out, and vaguely sad, but not much more. This hadn't 'come home' yet, Liz Olivet had said. She was probably right.
Well, maybe not. He'd had all night to accept this - the initial denial and fear and hope slowly melting into a grim certainty that Claire wasn't going to survive, before he ever saw her body breathe its last. And he'd had all day to be reminded of the fact that Claire was gone. It didn't 'come home' much more than planning her funeral and reassigning her cases.
He would have thought there would be more difficulty accepting her loss, more of a sense of unreality. But it didn't feel unreal. It felt very real, as a matter of fact. As real as his father's death, as real as Mickey Scott's. She was gone, unmistakable fact. Her absence was as tangible as her presence had ever been. Pervasive, a glaring hole in every part of his life. This was as real as anything could possibly be.
ooo000ooo
He entered her apartment, his last stop before going home to sleep. He was tired as hell, but it was probably a good thing he'd made himself work and then go to the funeral home - that way he'd sleep through the night, instead of sleeping the day away and then being up all night.
OK. He was supposed to pick up a dress for her to wear in her coffin. He didn't really see the point in it since it was going to be a closed casket funeral and she was going to be cremated right after the ceremony anyway, but Linda wanted her to be burned wearing something nice.
He looked around. The apartment seemed somewhat neater and cleaner than usual. Not that Claire was a messy person - in fact, she was a lot more orderly than he was - but her apartment usually looked somewhat uncared-for. With the faintly dusty, musty feel of a place that is used primarily to store things, as opposed to a place that is lived in. Claire's office at Hogan Place retained a lot more of her identity than her home.
He looked down at the small table next to Claire's front door. It usually held a clutter of files and papers and unprocessed mail. Today, just "Understanding Schizophrenia", a library book, from the look of it, and the answering machine, with the light steadily blinking. He sat down on the little stool next to the table, pressed the button. And as he listened to his own messages interspersed with others, his voice getting more and more drunk, he felt the distance he'd been feeling since her chest rose and fell for the last time start to slowly crumble.
He hadn't been so distant and unemotional yesterday, to judge from his voice. He'd been so angry with her. So god damn angry, and frustrated... and hurt that she hadn't called him, that he'd waited around for her all day and she didn't even call him back...
The last thing he felt about her was anger and a wish to get her the hell out of his life. Yes, he'd been drunk, yes, it had been a long day. But God in Heaven, how could he have felt that way about her on the last day she was alive - how could their last conversation have been an argument, how could he not have known that he would never see her again -
Oh God.
He was never going to see her again. He was never going to hear her voice again. She would never sit across from him at a restaurant, never lean over his shoulder and point out a flaw in a legal argument, never sit on the couch in his office with him -
Jack literally felt unable to breathe. He had been feeling somewhat relieved that all he felt was vague sadness and fatigue, wondering at that, part of him well aware that Liz was right and this just hadn't hit him yet. And now it had. And it was like being shot - the pain was unimaginable. He stared at the machine as it started to shimmer, felt a sob tearing from him, doubling over and pressing his forehead to the table.
Claire, God, no.
Never again. All those memories he had of her, that was all he'd ever have. There wouldn't be any more. That story was done, cut off in the middle, never to be finished.
ooo000ooo
Hours later, he finally entered his apartment again.
He'd eventually gotten a grip again at her place. There wasn't any point in sitting in a dead woman's apartment crying over her loss. He was supposed to pick up a dress for her and he did so, making himself move through the grief, mechanically picking something that she probably would have hated but her mother would probably love. What Claire wanted didn't matter any more anyway. Funerals are for the living, his grandmother used to say. The dead are beyond caring.
So what now? Sleep, probably. He got ready for bed and lay down, only then realizing that the bed was freezing and very, very large. Too large for one person.
He'd never felt so alone in his life.
Strange. Claire hadn't lived with him. They had separate apartments and didn't spend every night together - they were both fairly private and independent people, both needed their own space. He'd gone to sleep by himself more often than next to her.
And that had been fine with him. He didn't need more - he had his work, he had some friends, and he had Claire everywhere in his life, there to reach out to on a moment's notice whenever he wanted. Sharing hours of unconsciousness every night wasn't necessary.
But now... all he felt was loneliness, an intense awareness that there was nobody there, that he had nobody in his life to reach out to right now. That one of the many roles that Claire had filled, his comfort in time of need, was empty, in a time of need greater than any he'd ever felt while she was alive.
There was nobody to turn to. Nobody who would understand what he was feeling, or help him bear this loss. The night suddenly seemed impossibly long.
And even after he got through the night, what about the morning? Who would he turn to then?
Grief support groups. A bunch of strangers, devotees of the self-help mania that had permeated society in recent decades. What could they do?
Liz Olivet or some other counselor, who would dutifully take him through the Seven Stages of Grief. What were they again? He'd studied them in college - something about denial, anger, bargaining... psycho-babble.
Band-aids. Ineffective ones. Not much of a replacement for a living, breathing human being. And useless in the face of this achingly empty bed.
He got out of bed, wandered into his living room. On impulse, he picked up the phone and dialed.
"Joanna McCoy," a voice answered after the second ring.
"Hello Joey," he said, smiling at the sound of her voice.
"Hey Dad! Hi, what's up?"
"Just calling to say hello. How are you?"
"Pretty good, pretty good. Good thing you caught me between exams."
"Oh, I'm sorry-" he'd forgotten it was exam season at Joanna's school.
"No, Dad, it's fine - I just finished my Business Organization exam and I'm not studying Taxation until tomorrow - my brain just feels like mush. How are you?"
"Fine. How are your exams going?"
"Not too bad, actually. This year's so much easier than last year! God, last year felt like boot camp."
"It's always better when you can take the courses you want instead of the compulsories."
"Yeah, no kidding. I thought I was gonna die of boredom in Torts and Crim last year. This year it's business, business all the way. I feel like a kid in a candy store." Jack smiled. He could never understand his daughter's fascination with corporate and business law, but he supposed it was her way of carving out her own identity, separate from her parents who had both gone into criminal. He realized she was still speaking.
"...although it was pretty funny, I forgot to tell you last time we talked, one of your cases came up in my Contracts class a couple months ago."
"Contracts?"
"The Dr. Haas case. Breach of contract and all that. You know she's still in litigation over her fish oil cure."
"That's interesting. Class action suit?"
"You bet. Oh to be a little older. I'd love to be on the team running that suit. Can you imagine? Same person gets tried criminally by Jack McCoy, civilly by Joanna McCoy."
"As long as she's not defended by Sharon McCoy, that's fine," Jack joked.
"Excuse me, Sharon Estes-McCoy. And she wouldn't go up against you."
"No, she wouldn't. She hates to lose."
"Right, Dad. She'd kick your sorry ass," they shared a laugh. "Hey, I heard some of the Crim students talking about that death penalty case of yours the other day. Something happened with that?"
"What?"
"Michael Scott? First person scheduled to be executed in New York? That's supposed to happen sometime this spring, isn't it?"
"Yes. It did. Yesterday actually."
"Oh yeah? Shows how far I've been buried in a pile of books, I didn't even hear about it. Any press on it? Reporters hounding you and all that?"
"No, it's been pretty mild. A few stories in the paper and TV, but not a big deal."
"Good thing. Yeah, they were talking about it, going back and forth, you know, pro and anti-DP. I don't get the problem with it. Like a piece of scum like him should be given three squares a day at taxpayer's expense. Stick him in the ground and forget him, that's more than he deserves, right?"
"Right."
"Oh, shit, Dad, I just realized, I'm supposed to meet Nelson at the-"
"Oh, sorry-"
"No, it's OK. It was nice talking to you. You should call more often. Don't be such a stranger, you know?"
"I will. I love you, Joey."
"Love you too, Dad. G'night."
And he was alone again.
He suddenly spotted a half-empty bottle of scotch, from last night. Picked it up, gazing at it speculatively. Now there might be a way to make the night a little shorter, make the loneliness cut less deeply. He went to the kitchen and got himself a glass.