[116 Street, New York City, Wednesday December 4]
"Detective Green!" Van Buren crackled on the radio.
Green and Briscoe flashed their badges, prompting the fare collector to wave them through.
"Lieutenant, we're on the 6 Line platform," Green replied. "Looks like Wallace wants to skip the sightseeing and go underground."
"I'm sure he'll feel right at home with the rats," Briscoe remarked.
The noon-hour crowd began to fill the station. Transit riders peered down the tunnels, awaiting the trains.
A dozen uniformed officers arrived. "I want guys posted at all the exits," Briscoe instructed. "No 'Dirty Harry' heroics. Our suspect is armed and dangerous." Pairs of cops returned to the subway exits and fare booths.
The detectives had holstered their guns to keep a low profile. There was no sense in alarming the transit riders.
Suddenly, Green spotted the jeans and grey hooded sweatshirt of New York's most wanted suspect. He seemed to be pacing nervously on the platform. "Briscoe," he whispered. "You go around the other way." Briscoe nodded, then melted into the bustling crowd.
Johnson didn't seem to notice as Green inched closer to him. A few feet away, Briscoe slowly approached from the platform. Briscoe nodded again.
Green grabbed the suspect and shoved him against the wall.
"What the --?" the suspect yelped.
"Wallace Johnson, you are under arrest for ." Green began, as he removed the hood from his face.
"Great," Briscoe grumbled. "You got the wrong guy, Ed!"
"Sorry about that," Green offered. The unfortunate transit rider angrily glared at the detectives.
The screeches of the subway train soon echoed through the tunnels. It was the southbound train. They had to find Johnson before he boarded the train. If he managed to slip into the subway system, he could go anywhere.
The riders jostled into position as the train zoomed into the station, then slowed to a halt. Green and Briscoe scanned over the patrons' heads to try to spot their suspect.
At the far end of the platform, Wallace Johnson had pulled his hood over his head. He waited for the last of the passengers to exit the subway train, then he squeezed into the crowded car. He was stuck between a woman with a cello case, a pair of businessmen and a gaggle of giggly Catholic schoolgirls in their plaid kilts.
Green spotted the grey hooded sweatshirt. "He's getting on the train!" Green shoved aside passengers as he tried to get close to Johnson. Green was already running towards the far end of the platform. "Hurry up, Lennie!" he hollered.
Green boarded the train at the nearest door, followed by a guy in a purple mohawk and three orange-robed Hare Krishnas.
The train doors chimed a warning. They were about to close. A group of 25 students quickly squeezed into the car. In the distance, Green waved at his partner to board the train. The students crammed into the train, leaving little room for anyone else. Before Briscoe could reach the doors, they closed on him.
"Dammit!" Briscoe cursed, as he pounded against the subway windows in exasperation. The train slowly accelerated before disappearing into the tunnel. He clicked on his radio.
"Suspect is heading south on the 6 Line," he announced.
"You mean . Green's on that train without backup?" Van Buren inquired.
"Yeah," Briscoe sighed, as he tried to catch his breath. "I shoulda been on that train!"
"Green can hold his own, Lennie, don't you worry," Van Buren replied. "I'll send patrols to all the stations serviced by the 6 Line. I think we better have our forces regroup. Johnson may try to lose himself in the downtown core."
Van Buren switched channels on her radio. "Serena, are you there?"
Southerlyn was already on the road. "I'll be meeting Munch, Tutuola and Clark Kent at JFK," she replied.
"Green's on the 6 Line train, southbound," Van Buren revealed, "I was wondering if you could pull some strings at New York City Transit."
Southerlyn cradled the receiver against her ear as she made a left turn. "What sort of strings?"
"I want to shut down the 6 Line," Van Buren stated.
"Excuse me?" Southerlyn gasped. "You want NYC Transit to shut down an entire subway line? During the lunch hour?"
"You heard me," Van Buren answered. "Johnson has hundreds of potential hostages on that train. And Green's on his own."
"I'll call up Jack and see what we can do," Southerlyn said. "McCoy's going to settle for nothing less than a murder conviction for Lex Luthor. Johnson may be just the witness he needs. I'll be in touch, Anita."
Van Buren took a deep breath. Green was a capable detective. But, he did have a hot streak in him. Without the moderating influence of his grizzled veteran partner, he may be tempted to take risks that Lennie Briscoe never would.
A crowded lunch-hour subway train complicated this situation, she feared. Shutting down the subway line was the only way to contain this crisis.
On the southbound train, Green slowly moved towards the front of the car. He pulled the door lock down and slid open the door. He carefully crossed to the next subway car, then pulled open the door. A few curious passengers glanced at him, then proceeded to avoid eye contact with him - or anyone else.
They just want to get from point A to point B, Green concluded. Hopefully, everyone will mind their business when the take-down happens. He scanned the car's passengers. No grey hooded pullover. He quickly grabbed a pole as the train stopped at the next stop.
Green dashed outside to observe the exiting riders. No sign of Wallace Johnson. He hoped that the suspect was still aboard this train. The subway car raced into the darkness of the tunnel again. He exited this car, pulled down the door lock of the next car and slid the next door open.
This car was packed from door-to-door. No one noticed him as he wriggled his way to the middle of the car. He ducked his head behind the newspaper of some business type, who was studying the NHL standings.
"I hope the Rangers get their act together this season," Green quipped. "I lost a bundle last year!"
The businessman chuckled. "You're telling me! That's one office pool I'd rather forget."
He peered above the pages. At the front of the car, Wallace Johnson leaned against one of the doors. The train approached the next station, then screeched to a quick stop. Johnson soon exited.
Damn, Green mumbled. He moved through the crowd, but the doors began to close again. Johnson had just stepped out to let some passengers off, but returned to the car.
I have to make my move soon, Green thought. He quietly unsnapped his holster cover and palmed his gun underneath his blazer sleeve. He stepped past a pair of businessmen, then pulled out his police badge.
"Everyone on the floor!" Green barked as he yanked out his gun. Johnson was pressed against the doors. He has no opportunity to pull out his gun.
The passengers shrieked at the sight of the gun and ducked beside their chairs or on the floor.
"Wallace Johnson, you are under arrest!" Green yelled. "Put your hands in the air. Now!"
Johnson's eyes darted frantically from side-to-side. There was no escape. By the time the train reached the next station, he would be finished. Every station on this line must be swarmed by cops.
One of the Catholic schoolgirls - a petite brunette - sobbed uncontrollably. Green's attention was momentarily distracted.
Johnson took the opportunity to grab the girl by the arm and yanked her in front of him. He held the girl's throat firmly. She couldn't be older than 16, Green noted.
"Another move, detective, and I snap little Miss Prom Queen's neck!" Johnson growled. The train had arrived at its next stop.
When the doors opened, Green could hear Lennie Briscoe's voice. He had arrived with the cavalry: two dozen heavily armed task force officers.
"Ed! Where are you!" Briscoe yelled as he ran towards the front of the train.
"One word, and she's a goner!" Johnson snarled.
"Okay, okay," Green pleaded. "I'm putting my gun on the floor. Just don't hurt the girl." The girl sobbed as Johnson held his arm firmly around her neck.
"Ed!" Briscoe exclaimed. The voice was getting closer. They had enough manpower to subdue Johnson, Green frowned, but his recklessness ensnared him in a dangerous mess.
Before Briscoe could reach the conductor, the train's doors closed. The subway accelerated again, as the tracks squealed.
On the platform, Briscoe sighed in frustration. He clicked the radio again. "Van Buren! Green must still be on the southbound train! We gotta stop it before it reaches Grand Central Station!"
"I'm already on it," Van Buren replied. "NYC Transit says they'll stop it around 34th street."
"Roger that," Briscoe said. He turned towards the other cops. "The train's stopping around 34th. I want all available units in that vicinity. You stop anyone who even has a grey hooded pullover, understand. We're gonna get this bastard!"
On the 6 Line southbound train, Green slowly kicked his gun towards Johnson. Once they arrived at Grand Central Station, Johnson could vanish on any line. Lost forever among the mid-afternoon crowd.
"You're wanted for Chelsea Saunders' murder, Johnson," Green said. "We know Lex had a hand in it. Now you've killed a cop. You've got New York's Finest tearing apart Manhattan looking for you. You can either surrender and get out of this mess with your life, or some quick-draw rookie's gonna shoot first and ask questions later!"
The girl continued to whimper. Droplets of sweat streamed down Johnson's forehead. "No. No! You don't get it, do you? You can't stop them. Not you! Not anyone!"
"What the hell you talkin' about?" Green asked. "Stop who?"
"Cops can't protect me!" Johnson ranted. "They got friends in the NYPD. In the governor's office, Capitol Hill, the Pentagon. There's no stopping them!"
"You want police protection from the mob?" Green offered. "Tell us what you know! Don't you see - you're their fall guy! Turn yourself in, and we can help you!"
"Don't you get it? They're bigger than the mob!" Johnson revealed, as he gripped the girl's throat tightly. "Nothing can stop them!"
"Who?" Green demanded. "Who can't we stop? If it's not the mob, then who! Is it Luth -"
The train abruptly stopped at the next station. All the doors swooshed open. "Attention all passengers," the PA crackled. "All passengers please leave the train. There is an emergency situation in progress. All passengers, please leave the train."
Johnson shoved the girl into Green, then sprinted out of the train.
"Are you okay, miss?" Green asked. When she nodded, he pursued Johnson. As Johnson bounded up the stairs, Green grappled with him. Johnson punched Green's kidney, then kicked him down the stairs.
Green gripped his side. He winced in pain as he climbed the stairs, then jumped over the turn-stiles to the exit.
He looked at the corner. It was 34th and 8th. He could see the Empire State Building in the distance. Madison Square Garden stood before him. He crossed the street, then glanced around. He could see Johnson racing along 8th Avenue. Cars honked and screeched to a halt as he navigated the mid-afternoon traffic.
A yellow cab stopped at a corner to let a passenger off. Before the driver could close the door, Johnson pulled out his gun. "Out of the car!" he barked.
The driver quickly unbuckled his seat and jumped out of the car. Johnson slammed the door closed and drove into the Manhattan traffic.
Green tried to jog after the cab, squinting at the license plate as the cab sped away.
"Johnson's in a yellow cab!" he announced on his radio. "I've got a partial license plate, beginning with TX ..."
"We checked out JFK's flights to Florida," Van Buren replied. "Johnson couldn't get his airline to book him on the latest Florida flight out. So he can't be going to JFK."
Green sighed, as a platoon of heavily armed ETF officers arrived. "Great. Johnson's running out of time. And options. The quickest way out of the Big Apple - short of swimming the Hudson River - is ..."
"LaGuardia Airport," Van Buren replied. She clicked another switch on the system. "Attention all available units. Suspect is in a Yellow Cab ... license plate beginning with TX ... likely destination is LaGuardia Airport. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Use all means necessary to apprehend him. And I mean alive, people! A lot's riding on this guy."
Several NYPD vans and vehicles converged beside Madison Square Garden. Green kept his eyes locked on 8th Ave.
"Where to, Lieutenant?" inquired the ETF company commander.
"Someone gimme a piece," Green remarked. "I lost mine on the 6 Line."
The commander retrieved a pump-action shotgun. "Will this work for you?"
Green smiled. "Sweet. Lock 'n load, fellas! It's time to take care of business. We're going to LaGuardia."
As the armoured wagon zoomed down 8th Ave., he glanced outside the window. Police cruisers streamed from every corner. A pair of NYPD helicopters encircled the downtown core. With the NYPD poised to bring down the killer of one of their own, Green nodded confidently.
This thing's gonna be settled in LaGuardia ... one way or another.
[Office of District Attorney Arthur Branch, Manhattan]
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Arthur?" McCoy inquired. When Wallace Johnson escaped the NYPD dragnet in Tribeca, McCoy faced the possibility that the potential witness/accomplice to the Saunders' murder just might disappear through his fingers. He didn't want to admit it, but he would need Branch's political clout to marshal all available resources to apprehend the suspect.
A suspect who had just killed a New York cop.
"What I'm doing, Jack," Branch began, "is covering our collective butts. You chose to keep this an internal, New York City investigation. I signed off on it. We shut out all federal agencies - the JAG corps, the FBI, U.S. Marshals' office - until the last minute. If Johnson gets on that plane ... and god forbid, gets out of the country ... we're gonna be boot-deep in a crapload of dung! But, if I launch a public appeal, bring the feds onto our team, soothe the nerves of all those 9-to-5 workers wondering what the hell's going on in Manhattan ... we can cover our bases. If we catch our suspect, tomorrow's editorials will give us more praise than a Sunday preacher."
McCoy considered his boss' proposal. A press conference - designed to show a united front against a despicable cop-killer - would give the D.A.'s office a chance to deflect criticism about their handling of the Johnson situation, whatever the outcome of the take-down in LaGuardia.
"And if Johnson manages to escape, we're not the only ones on the hook," McCoy observed.
"Precisely," Branch stated. "The press can blame the army for letting an AWOL soldier loose for three years, the feds for inadequate intelligence on Johnson. We'll take some hits - depending on how the next few hours unfold - but they can't hang us alone if we don't catch Johnson."
"Then I wish you well, Arthur," McCoy replied, as he prepared to leave.
"Whoa, hold it there Jack," Branch interrupted. "When I said I was rounding up a posse for this press conference, that means you too! I took the liberty of calling the Big Three networks for an important announcement at One Police Plaza in an hour. I expect to see you there."
McCoy sighed, aware of the political machinations involved in prosecuting one of Wall Street's darlings. He knew why his boss wanted him before the media horde.
To take responsibility in front of the people of New York City.
Jack McCoy had used every legal lever at his disposal to arrest Lex, and charge him with capital murder. And - pending the jury's verdict - to condemn him to a lifetime in prison, or to the executioner.
It was Branch that had to run for re-election, not McCoy ... and Arthur Branch had no intention of risking defeat should the entire case collapse. If Jack McCoy was so eager to put a noose around a Luthor - any Luthor - then he better damn well expect to put his career on the line.
McCoy tugged at his shirt collar. He could feel the noose around his professional neck slowly tighten.
[The Talon, Smallville]
Chloe and Lana rushed to meet Jonathan Kent and Pete as they entered the Talon.
"How's Clark holding up?" Lana wondered.
"He's definitely uncomfortable with the whole situation," Jonathan replied. "Detectives Munch and Tutuola brought Clark to the farmhouse to pick up his things, then caught the morning flight to JFK."
"We just saw him off at Metropolis International," Pete added. "The D.A.'s calling Clark to take the stand." The pit in his stomach rumbled uneasily. Would Clark risk exposing his secret to protect Lex Luthor? Pete glanced nervously at Mr. Kent. They both knew the dangers involved.
Jonathan slumped into a chair. "It's just so frustrating! I don't like the idea of offering up my son to the New York media circus. The whole Luthor angle means every major paper and television station will be covering the trial." Lana placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Don't you worry, Mr. Kent," Chloe replied. "Clark's got nothing to hide. As long as he tells the truth, neither the D.A. nor the Big Apple's tabloids will implicate him in Lex's activities."
Jonathan sipped his coffee. "I wish I could be sure of that, Chloe."
Pete checked the TV monitor. "Whoa, check this out! There's a press conference about the Luthor trial!" Everyone hovered around the monitor. On the screen, they could see dozens of cameras and microphones gathered in front of One Police Plaza, NYPD headquarters. The Stars and Stripes fluttered on the flagpoles. An imposing man in a grey suit stepped before the podium.
"That's Arthur Branch," Chloe mentioned. "He's the District Attorney of Manhattan.
Flanking either side of Branch, representatives from city hall, the FBI, U.S. Marshals, US Army and JAG Corps stood at attention - their buttons and badges blazing in the early December sun. Executive D.A. Jack McCoy stood to Branch's right, while Captain Deakins (Major Case Squad) stood to his left in full uniform.
Branch adjusted the microphone, as cameramen focused their lenses.
"New York city councillors, members of federal and state law enforcement agencies, our armed forces, and ladies and gentlemen of the press ..." Branch began. "I come before you today with great sadness. In consultation with the Judge Advocate General's office and federal agencies, the NYPD executed an arrest warrant for a Sergeant (retired) Wallace Johnson of Fort Hood, Texas. Mr. Johnson is wanted for questioning in the death of Chelsea Saunders. During the execution of the warrant, one of New York's Finest - Mike Vanelli, a rookie on the force - was killed..."
The media exploded into a flurry of questions and camera bulb flashes.
"We will take questions in a moment, folks," Branch continued. "The state of New York extends our condolences to Officer Vanelli's family. At this very moment, New York's Finest are tightening a dragnet around the city, with the hopes of bringing this suspect to justice. At this time I would like to introduce you to my subordinate, Jack McCoy, who is prepared to take any questions about the Saunders investigation..."
Chloe, Pete, Lana and Mr. Kent watched the broadcast, as McCoy fielded several questions about the progress of the Luthor trial:
"Is the death penalty still on the table for Lex Luthor?" "Why is news of an alleged accomplice only now surfacing?" "How long did the D.A.'s office know about a possible connection to organized crime?"
McCoy responded to a question. "Lieutenant Van Buren is running the operation, supported by tactical officers from the surrounding boroughs. Off-duty cops are being called to assist. An attachment of the U.S. Marshals' office is already enroute. We will accept nothing less than the swift capture of this man. He cannot escape."
As the cameras panned towards the gathering throng of media, Jonathan Kent walked towards the monitor.
Chloe thought that he might have recognized one of the officials at the conference. "The cop in uniform, Mr. Kent?" she offered. "I think that's Captain Deakins. He's the one who uncovered the Metropolis connection to the Gambino crime family a few years ago."
"He wasn't the one I was looking at," Jonathan replied. Amidst the crowd stood his wife, Martha. She was carefully taking notes. Notes on behalf of her employer, Lionel Luthor. Jonathan was always uneasy about his wife working so closely with the man he despised.
Now, his son was entangled in one of Lex's misdeeds. All he could do was follow the proceedings on television. He could do nothing now to comfort his son, who was mere hours away from the merciless glare of the media. Would D.A. McCoy expose Clark's secret? Lex Luthor had the resources of his family's empire to challenge the press and the prosecutors. Jonathan Kent had neither wealth, nor influence.
Pete noticed Mr. Kent's face. His eyes were bloodshot, his eyelids baggy. He can't be sleeping well - if at all, he thought. From now on, he wouldn't be able to talk to his son until the end of the trial. Sequestered in a Manhattan hotel, Clark would be alone.
"Excuse me," Jonathan hurried towards the exit. He did not want to show Clark's friends how truly afraid he was. "Lana, thank you for the coffee."
As the press conference continued, Pete frowned. He didn't blame the cops or the D.A. for all the anxiety in town. They were only doing their jobs. The only guy responsible for turning the Kents' world upside down, he was convinced, was Lex Luthor.
A few minutes later, Jonathan returned to the Kent farm. He walked over to the pile of logs beside the barn and began to chop wood for the fireplace. He grunted as he swung the axe over his head.
Each blow became an expression of frustration. He swung that axe until he could chop no more. Tired and angry, he slumped on the chopping block and stared at the dirt ground.
He felt helpless.
[Cornwallis Hotel, Manhattan]
Munch and Tutuola escorted Clark to his hotel suite, accompanied by ADA Southerlyn.
"This'll be your crib for the time being, my man," the street-savvy Tutuola replied. Beside the television were stacks of DVDs, a Playstation 2 and a dozen games. "We got uniforms posted on this floor and a squad car outside. You'll be safe here."
"At least the D.A. didn't deprive you of entertainment," Munch noted as he picked up a DVD. "Mariah Carey's 'Glitter'? 'Kangaroo Jack'? On second thought, you're better off playing Solitaire."
Clark sighed. "Are you sure I can't talk to my mom?"
Southerlyn could tell that the young Kent was worried. "Detectives, could I have a moment with Clark?"
"Sure thing, Serena," Munch replied. "We'll grab a cola or something downstairs."
Southerlyn sat beside Clark on the corner of the bed. "My boss, Mr. McCoy, is afraid that any extended contact between you and your mother might be perceived negatively by the jury. He says he doesn't want to risk tainting your testimony."
"But I know Lex had nothing to do with it!" Clark declared. "It's a complete misunderstanding!"
"But you're aware that he was having trouble with that new corporate plaza on Wall Street?" Southerlyn replied.
Clark paced around the hotel room, peering through the curtains. In the distance, he could see Radio City Music Hall. A dusting of snowflakes clung to the window. After-work shoppers were scurrying across the streets. Red, yellow and gold decorations glittered along the storefronts. It was the holiday season.
I should be at home together with my family, he thought. Not here.
"Well, yeah," Clark said. "I know Lex was stressed about the project. He seemed distracted."
"The FBI retrieved most of your old email over the past two weeks," Southerlyn revealed, "Lex mentioned to you that he was having problems with one employee in particular."
Clark nodded reluctantly. "It sounded like a personality conflict to me. I didn't think much of it then."
He changed the topic, as he slumped again on the corner of the bed. "How is my mother doing?"
Southerlyn smiled. He was clearly worried about his mom. "I see Mrs. Kent at the courthouse every day. She's very busy working for the defense. She's doing fine ... she's living in a five-star executive suite on Park Avenue, she has her own driver. Luthor Corp. spared no expense, not surprisingly."
"And how's Lex doing?" Clark asked.
"Doing well, considering how long he's endured prison food," Southerlyn answered. "I'll let him know you're fine."
"Fine?" Clark grumbled. "I'm basically under house arrest, prepared to testify in a trial where my best friend is facing death row. I'm barely coping as it is! I'll be fine when this mess is behind me."
Southerlyn frowned at the outburst. The time for playing the 'surrogate sister' role was over. The prosecution doesn't need Clark's reluctance on the witness stand. She knew she had a job to do.
"I hope you're not having second thoughts, Mr. Kent," Southerlyn cautioned sternly. "Mr. McCoy will stop by later today to prep you for your testimony. He expects you to tell the truth about your communications with Lex. If you choose not to, my boss won't hesitate to charge you with contempt. That means jail! I don't know how much I can emphasize that to you."
"Great," Clark mumbled. "Christmas at Riker's. I doubt Santa makes a stop there."
Later, Southerlyn joined the detectives in the hotel lobby.
"How is young Master Kent doing?" Munch inquired.
"He is as confident in Lex's innocence as Lex himself," Southerlyn grumbled. "... and just as stubborn."
Tutuola's radio crackled. "All available units proceed to LaGuardia Airport," the dispatcher declared, "all units proceed north to LaGuardia. Be advised that suspect Johnson is armed and dangerous. Repeat, armed and dangerous."
"Send our regards to Capt. Cragen," Munch hollered as the detectives scrambled out of the lobby, "Duty calls. He'll have to wait a bit for our Smallville report."
I hope they catch Johnson, Southerlyn thought. We need his testimony to ensure a conviction against Lex.
"Detective Green!" Van Buren crackled on the radio.
Green and Briscoe flashed their badges, prompting the fare collector to wave them through.
"Lieutenant, we're on the 6 Line platform," Green replied. "Looks like Wallace wants to skip the sightseeing and go underground."
"I'm sure he'll feel right at home with the rats," Briscoe remarked.
The noon-hour crowd began to fill the station. Transit riders peered down the tunnels, awaiting the trains.
A dozen uniformed officers arrived. "I want guys posted at all the exits," Briscoe instructed. "No 'Dirty Harry' heroics. Our suspect is armed and dangerous." Pairs of cops returned to the subway exits and fare booths.
The detectives had holstered their guns to keep a low profile. There was no sense in alarming the transit riders.
Suddenly, Green spotted the jeans and grey hooded sweatshirt of New York's most wanted suspect. He seemed to be pacing nervously on the platform. "Briscoe," he whispered. "You go around the other way." Briscoe nodded, then melted into the bustling crowd.
Johnson didn't seem to notice as Green inched closer to him. A few feet away, Briscoe slowly approached from the platform. Briscoe nodded again.
Green grabbed the suspect and shoved him against the wall.
"What the --?" the suspect yelped.
"Wallace Johnson, you are under arrest for ." Green began, as he removed the hood from his face.
"Great," Briscoe grumbled. "You got the wrong guy, Ed!"
"Sorry about that," Green offered. The unfortunate transit rider angrily glared at the detectives.
The screeches of the subway train soon echoed through the tunnels. It was the southbound train. They had to find Johnson before he boarded the train. If he managed to slip into the subway system, he could go anywhere.
The riders jostled into position as the train zoomed into the station, then slowed to a halt. Green and Briscoe scanned over the patrons' heads to try to spot their suspect.
At the far end of the platform, Wallace Johnson had pulled his hood over his head. He waited for the last of the passengers to exit the subway train, then he squeezed into the crowded car. He was stuck between a woman with a cello case, a pair of businessmen and a gaggle of giggly Catholic schoolgirls in their plaid kilts.
Green spotted the grey hooded sweatshirt. "He's getting on the train!" Green shoved aside passengers as he tried to get close to Johnson. Green was already running towards the far end of the platform. "Hurry up, Lennie!" he hollered.
Green boarded the train at the nearest door, followed by a guy in a purple mohawk and three orange-robed Hare Krishnas.
The train doors chimed a warning. They were about to close. A group of 25 students quickly squeezed into the car. In the distance, Green waved at his partner to board the train. The students crammed into the train, leaving little room for anyone else. Before Briscoe could reach the doors, they closed on him.
"Dammit!" Briscoe cursed, as he pounded against the subway windows in exasperation. The train slowly accelerated before disappearing into the tunnel. He clicked on his radio.
"Suspect is heading south on the 6 Line," he announced.
"You mean . Green's on that train without backup?" Van Buren inquired.
"Yeah," Briscoe sighed, as he tried to catch his breath. "I shoulda been on that train!"
"Green can hold his own, Lennie, don't you worry," Van Buren replied. "I'll send patrols to all the stations serviced by the 6 Line. I think we better have our forces regroup. Johnson may try to lose himself in the downtown core."
Van Buren switched channels on her radio. "Serena, are you there?"
Southerlyn was already on the road. "I'll be meeting Munch, Tutuola and Clark Kent at JFK," she replied.
"Green's on the 6 Line train, southbound," Van Buren revealed, "I was wondering if you could pull some strings at New York City Transit."
Southerlyn cradled the receiver against her ear as she made a left turn. "What sort of strings?"
"I want to shut down the 6 Line," Van Buren stated.
"Excuse me?" Southerlyn gasped. "You want NYC Transit to shut down an entire subway line? During the lunch hour?"
"You heard me," Van Buren answered. "Johnson has hundreds of potential hostages on that train. And Green's on his own."
"I'll call up Jack and see what we can do," Southerlyn said. "McCoy's going to settle for nothing less than a murder conviction for Lex Luthor. Johnson may be just the witness he needs. I'll be in touch, Anita."
Van Buren took a deep breath. Green was a capable detective. But, he did have a hot streak in him. Without the moderating influence of his grizzled veteran partner, he may be tempted to take risks that Lennie Briscoe never would.
A crowded lunch-hour subway train complicated this situation, she feared. Shutting down the subway line was the only way to contain this crisis.
On the southbound train, Green slowly moved towards the front of the car. He pulled the door lock down and slid open the door. He carefully crossed to the next subway car, then pulled open the door. A few curious passengers glanced at him, then proceeded to avoid eye contact with him - or anyone else.
They just want to get from point A to point B, Green concluded. Hopefully, everyone will mind their business when the take-down happens. He scanned the car's passengers. No grey hooded pullover. He quickly grabbed a pole as the train stopped at the next stop.
Green dashed outside to observe the exiting riders. No sign of Wallace Johnson. He hoped that the suspect was still aboard this train. The subway car raced into the darkness of the tunnel again. He exited this car, pulled down the door lock of the next car and slid the next door open.
This car was packed from door-to-door. No one noticed him as he wriggled his way to the middle of the car. He ducked his head behind the newspaper of some business type, who was studying the NHL standings.
"I hope the Rangers get their act together this season," Green quipped. "I lost a bundle last year!"
The businessman chuckled. "You're telling me! That's one office pool I'd rather forget."
He peered above the pages. At the front of the car, Wallace Johnson leaned against one of the doors. The train approached the next station, then screeched to a quick stop. Johnson soon exited.
Damn, Green mumbled. He moved through the crowd, but the doors began to close again. Johnson had just stepped out to let some passengers off, but returned to the car.
I have to make my move soon, Green thought. He quietly unsnapped his holster cover and palmed his gun underneath his blazer sleeve. He stepped past a pair of businessmen, then pulled out his police badge.
"Everyone on the floor!" Green barked as he yanked out his gun. Johnson was pressed against the doors. He has no opportunity to pull out his gun.
The passengers shrieked at the sight of the gun and ducked beside their chairs or on the floor.
"Wallace Johnson, you are under arrest!" Green yelled. "Put your hands in the air. Now!"
Johnson's eyes darted frantically from side-to-side. There was no escape. By the time the train reached the next station, he would be finished. Every station on this line must be swarmed by cops.
One of the Catholic schoolgirls - a petite brunette - sobbed uncontrollably. Green's attention was momentarily distracted.
Johnson took the opportunity to grab the girl by the arm and yanked her in front of him. He held the girl's throat firmly. She couldn't be older than 16, Green noted.
"Another move, detective, and I snap little Miss Prom Queen's neck!" Johnson growled. The train had arrived at its next stop.
When the doors opened, Green could hear Lennie Briscoe's voice. He had arrived with the cavalry: two dozen heavily armed task force officers.
"Ed! Where are you!" Briscoe yelled as he ran towards the front of the train.
"One word, and she's a goner!" Johnson snarled.
"Okay, okay," Green pleaded. "I'm putting my gun on the floor. Just don't hurt the girl." The girl sobbed as Johnson held his arm firmly around her neck.
"Ed!" Briscoe exclaimed. The voice was getting closer. They had enough manpower to subdue Johnson, Green frowned, but his recklessness ensnared him in a dangerous mess.
Before Briscoe could reach the conductor, the train's doors closed. The subway accelerated again, as the tracks squealed.
On the platform, Briscoe sighed in frustration. He clicked the radio again. "Van Buren! Green must still be on the southbound train! We gotta stop it before it reaches Grand Central Station!"
"I'm already on it," Van Buren replied. "NYC Transit says they'll stop it around 34th street."
"Roger that," Briscoe said. He turned towards the other cops. "The train's stopping around 34th. I want all available units in that vicinity. You stop anyone who even has a grey hooded pullover, understand. We're gonna get this bastard!"
On the 6 Line southbound train, Green slowly kicked his gun towards Johnson. Once they arrived at Grand Central Station, Johnson could vanish on any line. Lost forever among the mid-afternoon crowd.
"You're wanted for Chelsea Saunders' murder, Johnson," Green said. "We know Lex had a hand in it. Now you've killed a cop. You've got New York's Finest tearing apart Manhattan looking for you. You can either surrender and get out of this mess with your life, or some quick-draw rookie's gonna shoot first and ask questions later!"
The girl continued to whimper. Droplets of sweat streamed down Johnson's forehead. "No. No! You don't get it, do you? You can't stop them. Not you! Not anyone!"
"What the hell you talkin' about?" Green asked. "Stop who?"
"Cops can't protect me!" Johnson ranted. "They got friends in the NYPD. In the governor's office, Capitol Hill, the Pentagon. There's no stopping them!"
"You want police protection from the mob?" Green offered. "Tell us what you know! Don't you see - you're their fall guy! Turn yourself in, and we can help you!"
"Don't you get it? They're bigger than the mob!" Johnson revealed, as he gripped the girl's throat tightly. "Nothing can stop them!"
"Who?" Green demanded. "Who can't we stop? If it's not the mob, then who! Is it Luth -"
The train abruptly stopped at the next station. All the doors swooshed open. "Attention all passengers," the PA crackled. "All passengers please leave the train. There is an emergency situation in progress. All passengers, please leave the train."
Johnson shoved the girl into Green, then sprinted out of the train.
"Are you okay, miss?" Green asked. When she nodded, he pursued Johnson. As Johnson bounded up the stairs, Green grappled with him. Johnson punched Green's kidney, then kicked him down the stairs.
Green gripped his side. He winced in pain as he climbed the stairs, then jumped over the turn-stiles to the exit.
He looked at the corner. It was 34th and 8th. He could see the Empire State Building in the distance. Madison Square Garden stood before him. He crossed the street, then glanced around. He could see Johnson racing along 8th Avenue. Cars honked and screeched to a halt as he navigated the mid-afternoon traffic.
A yellow cab stopped at a corner to let a passenger off. Before the driver could close the door, Johnson pulled out his gun. "Out of the car!" he barked.
The driver quickly unbuckled his seat and jumped out of the car. Johnson slammed the door closed and drove into the Manhattan traffic.
Green tried to jog after the cab, squinting at the license plate as the cab sped away.
"Johnson's in a yellow cab!" he announced on his radio. "I've got a partial license plate, beginning with TX ..."
"We checked out JFK's flights to Florida," Van Buren replied. "Johnson couldn't get his airline to book him on the latest Florida flight out. So he can't be going to JFK."
Green sighed, as a platoon of heavily armed ETF officers arrived. "Great. Johnson's running out of time. And options. The quickest way out of the Big Apple - short of swimming the Hudson River - is ..."
"LaGuardia Airport," Van Buren replied. She clicked another switch on the system. "Attention all available units. Suspect is in a Yellow Cab ... license plate beginning with TX ... likely destination is LaGuardia Airport. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Use all means necessary to apprehend him. And I mean alive, people! A lot's riding on this guy."
Several NYPD vans and vehicles converged beside Madison Square Garden. Green kept his eyes locked on 8th Ave.
"Where to, Lieutenant?" inquired the ETF company commander.
"Someone gimme a piece," Green remarked. "I lost mine on the 6 Line."
The commander retrieved a pump-action shotgun. "Will this work for you?"
Green smiled. "Sweet. Lock 'n load, fellas! It's time to take care of business. We're going to LaGuardia."
As the armoured wagon zoomed down 8th Ave., he glanced outside the window. Police cruisers streamed from every corner. A pair of NYPD helicopters encircled the downtown core. With the NYPD poised to bring down the killer of one of their own, Green nodded confidently.
This thing's gonna be settled in LaGuardia ... one way or another.
[Office of District Attorney Arthur Branch, Manhattan]
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Arthur?" McCoy inquired. When Wallace Johnson escaped the NYPD dragnet in Tribeca, McCoy faced the possibility that the potential witness/accomplice to the Saunders' murder just might disappear through his fingers. He didn't want to admit it, but he would need Branch's political clout to marshal all available resources to apprehend the suspect.
A suspect who had just killed a New York cop.
"What I'm doing, Jack," Branch began, "is covering our collective butts. You chose to keep this an internal, New York City investigation. I signed off on it. We shut out all federal agencies - the JAG corps, the FBI, U.S. Marshals' office - until the last minute. If Johnson gets on that plane ... and god forbid, gets out of the country ... we're gonna be boot-deep in a crapload of dung! But, if I launch a public appeal, bring the feds onto our team, soothe the nerves of all those 9-to-5 workers wondering what the hell's going on in Manhattan ... we can cover our bases. If we catch our suspect, tomorrow's editorials will give us more praise than a Sunday preacher."
McCoy considered his boss' proposal. A press conference - designed to show a united front against a despicable cop-killer - would give the D.A.'s office a chance to deflect criticism about their handling of the Johnson situation, whatever the outcome of the take-down in LaGuardia.
"And if Johnson manages to escape, we're not the only ones on the hook," McCoy observed.
"Precisely," Branch stated. "The press can blame the army for letting an AWOL soldier loose for three years, the feds for inadequate intelligence on Johnson. We'll take some hits - depending on how the next few hours unfold - but they can't hang us alone if we don't catch Johnson."
"Then I wish you well, Arthur," McCoy replied, as he prepared to leave.
"Whoa, hold it there Jack," Branch interrupted. "When I said I was rounding up a posse for this press conference, that means you too! I took the liberty of calling the Big Three networks for an important announcement at One Police Plaza in an hour. I expect to see you there."
McCoy sighed, aware of the political machinations involved in prosecuting one of Wall Street's darlings. He knew why his boss wanted him before the media horde.
To take responsibility in front of the people of New York City.
Jack McCoy had used every legal lever at his disposal to arrest Lex, and charge him with capital murder. And - pending the jury's verdict - to condemn him to a lifetime in prison, or to the executioner.
It was Branch that had to run for re-election, not McCoy ... and Arthur Branch had no intention of risking defeat should the entire case collapse. If Jack McCoy was so eager to put a noose around a Luthor - any Luthor - then he better damn well expect to put his career on the line.
McCoy tugged at his shirt collar. He could feel the noose around his professional neck slowly tighten.
[The Talon, Smallville]
Chloe and Lana rushed to meet Jonathan Kent and Pete as they entered the Talon.
"How's Clark holding up?" Lana wondered.
"He's definitely uncomfortable with the whole situation," Jonathan replied. "Detectives Munch and Tutuola brought Clark to the farmhouse to pick up his things, then caught the morning flight to JFK."
"We just saw him off at Metropolis International," Pete added. "The D.A.'s calling Clark to take the stand." The pit in his stomach rumbled uneasily. Would Clark risk exposing his secret to protect Lex Luthor? Pete glanced nervously at Mr. Kent. They both knew the dangers involved.
Jonathan slumped into a chair. "It's just so frustrating! I don't like the idea of offering up my son to the New York media circus. The whole Luthor angle means every major paper and television station will be covering the trial." Lana placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Don't you worry, Mr. Kent," Chloe replied. "Clark's got nothing to hide. As long as he tells the truth, neither the D.A. nor the Big Apple's tabloids will implicate him in Lex's activities."
Jonathan sipped his coffee. "I wish I could be sure of that, Chloe."
Pete checked the TV monitor. "Whoa, check this out! There's a press conference about the Luthor trial!" Everyone hovered around the monitor. On the screen, they could see dozens of cameras and microphones gathered in front of One Police Plaza, NYPD headquarters. The Stars and Stripes fluttered on the flagpoles. An imposing man in a grey suit stepped before the podium.
"That's Arthur Branch," Chloe mentioned. "He's the District Attorney of Manhattan.
Flanking either side of Branch, representatives from city hall, the FBI, U.S. Marshals, US Army and JAG Corps stood at attention - their buttons and badges blazing in the early December sun. Executive D.A. Jack McCoy stood to Branch's right, while Captain Deakins (Major Case Squad) stood to his left in full uniform.
Branch adjusted the microphone, as cameramen focused their lenses.
"New York city councillors, members of federal and state law enforcement agencies, our armed forces, and ladies and gentlemen of the press ..." Branch began. "I come before you today with great sadness. In consultation with the Judge Advocate General's office and federal agencies, the NYPD executed an arrest warrant for a Sergeant (retired) Wallace Johnson of Fort Hood, Texas. Mr. Johnson is wanted for questioning in the death of Chelsea Saunders. During the execution of the warrant, one of New York's Finest - Mike Vanelli, a rookie on the force - was killed..."
The media exploded into a flurry of questions and camera bulb flashes.
"We will take questions in a moment, folks," Branch continued. "The state of New York extends our condolences to Officer Vanelli's family. At this very moment, New York's Finest are tightening a dragnet around the city, with the hopes of bringing this suspect to justice. At this time I would like to introduce you to my subordinate, Jack McCoy, who is prepared to take any questions about the Saunders investigation..."
Chloe, Pete, Lana and Mr. Kent watched the broadcast, as McCoy fielded several questions about the progress of the Luthor trial:
"Is the death penalty still on the table for Lex Luthor?" "Why is news of an alleged accomplice only now surfacing?" "How long did the D.A.'s office know about a possible connection to organized crime?"
McCoy responded to a question. "Lieutenant Van Buren is running the operation, supported by tactical officers from the surrounding boroughs. Off-duty cops are being called to assist. An attachment of the U.S. Marshals' office is already enroute. We will accept nothing less than the swift capture of this man. He cannot escape."
As the cameras panned towards the gathering throng of media, Jonathan Kent walked towards the monitor.
Chloe thought that he might have recognized one of the officials at the conference. "The cop in uniform, Mr. Kent?" she offered. "I think that's Captain Deakins. He's the one who uncovered the Metropolis connection to the Gambino crime family a few years ago."
"He wasn't the one I was looking at," Jonathan replied. Amidst the crowd stood his wife, Martha. She was carefully taking notes. Notes on behalf of her employer, Lionel Luthor. Jonathan was always uneasy about his wife working so closely with the man he despised.
Now, his son was entangled in one of Lex's misdeeds. All he could do was follow the proceedings on television. He could do nothing now to comfort his son, who was mere hours away from the merciless glare of the media. Would D.A. McCoy expose Clark's secret? Lex Luthor had the resources of his family's empire to challenge the press and the prosecutors. Jonathan Kent had neither wealth, nor influence.
Pete noticed Mr. Kent's face. His eyes were bloodshot, his eyelids baggy. He can't be sleeping well - if at all, he thought. From now on, he wouldn't be able to talk to his son until the end of the trial. Sequestered in a Manhattan hotel, Clark would be alone.
"Excuse me," Jonathan hurried towards the exit. He did not want to show Clark's friends how truly afraid he was. "Lana, thank you for the coffee."
As the press conference continued, Pete frowned. He didn't blame the cops or the D.A. for all the anxiety in town. They were only doing their jobs. The only guy responsible for turning the Kents' world upside down, he was convinced, was Lex Luthor.
A few minutes later, Jonathan returned to the Kent farm. He walked over to the pile of logs beside the barn and began to chop wood for the fireplace. He grunted as he swung the axe over his head.
Each blow became an expression of frustration. He swung that axe until he could chop no more. Tired and angry, he slumped on the chopping block and stared at the dirt ground.
He felt helpless.
[Cornwallis Hotel, Manhattan]
Munch and Tutuola escorted Clark to his hotel suite, accompanied by ADA Southerlyn.
"This'll be your crib for the time being, my man," the street-savvy Tutuola replied. Beside the television were stacks of DVDs, a Playstation 2 and a dozen games. "We got uniforms posted on this floor and a squad car outside. You'll be safe here."
"At least the D.A. didn't deprive you of entertainment," Munch noted as he picked up a DVD. "Mariah Carey's 'Glitter'? 'Kangaroo Jack'? On second thought, you're better off playing Solitaire."
Clark sighed. "Are you sure I can't talk to my mom?"
Southerlyn could tell that the young Kent was worried. "Detectives, could I have a moment with Clark?"
"Sure thing, Serena," Munch replied. "We'll grab a cola or something downstairs."
Southerlyn sat beside Clark on the corner of the bed. "My boss, Mr. McCoy, is afraid that any extended contact between you and your mother might be perceived negatively by the jury. He says he doesn't want to risk tainting your testimony."
"But I know Lex had nothing to do with it!" Clark declared. "It's a complete misunderstanding!"
"But you're aware that he was having trouble with that new corporate plaza on Wall Street?" Southerlyn replied.
Clark paced around the hotel room, peering through the curtains. In the distance, he could see Radio City Music Hall. A dusting of snowflakes clung to the window. After-work shoppers were scurrying across the streets. Red, yellow and gold decorations glittered along the storefronts. It was the holiday season.
I should be at home together with my family, he thought. Not here.
"Well, yeah," Clark said. "I know Lex was stressed about the project. He seemed distracted."
"The FBI retrieved most of your old email over the past two weeks," Southerlyn revealed, "Lex mentioned to you that he was having problems with one employee in particular."
Clark nodded reluctantly. "It sounded like a personality conflict to me. I didn't think much of it then."
He changed the topic, as he slumped again on the corner of the bed. "How is my mother doing?"
Southerlyn smiled. He was clearly worried about his mom. "I see Mrs. Kent at the courthouse every day. She's very busy working for the defense. She's doing fine ... she's living in a five-star executive suite on Park Avenue, she has her own driver. Luthor Corp. spared no expense, not surprisingly."
"And how's Lex doing?" Clark asked.
"Doing well, considering how long he's endured prison food," Southerlyn answered. "I'll let him know you're fine."
"Fine?" Clark grumbled. "I'm basically under house arrest, prepared to testify in a trial where my best friend is facing death row. I'm barely coping as it is! I'll be fine when this mess is behind me."
Southerlyn frowned at the outburst. The time for playing the 'surrogate sister' role was over. The prosecution doesn't need Clark's reluctance on the witness stand. She knew she had a job to do.
"I hope you're not having second thoughts, Mr. Kent," Southerlyn cautioned sternly. "Mr. McCoy will stop by later today to prep you for your testimony. He expects you to tell the truth about your communications with Lex. If you choose not to, my boss won't hesitate to charge you with contempt. That means jail! I don't know how much I can emphasize that to you."
"Great," Clark mumbled. "Christmas at Riker's. I doubt Santa makes a stop there."
Later, Southerlyn joined the detectives in the hotel lobby.
"How is young Master Kent doing?" Munch inquired.
"He is as confident in Lex's innocence as Lex himself," Southerlyn grumbled. "... and just as stubborn."
Tutuola's radio crackled. "All available units proceed to LaGuardia Airport," the dispatcher declared, "all units proceed north to LaGuardia. Be advised that suspect Johnson is armed and dangerous. Repeat, armed and dangerous."
"Send our regards to Capt. Cragen," Munch hollered as the detectives scrambled out of the lobby, "Duty calls. He'll have to wait a bit for our Smallville report."
I hope they catch Johnson, Southerlyn thought. We need his testimony to ensure a conviction against Lex.