[Cornwallis Hotel, Manhattan, Friday December 13, 3:30 p.m.]
Clark packed his clothes into the luggage. With Lex's innocent verdict on two of the three charges, the State of New York no longer needed to sequester their so-called 'star' witness. The entire experience had left a bitter taste in his mouth and he was glad that he would be catching the supper-hour flight from JFK to Metropolis International.
"I wish you could go home with me, Mom," Clark muttered.
Martha had a stack of legal files tied to a trolley. Lex's trial might be over, but the Luthors – for the moment – were pressing forth on the malicious prosecution suit.
"I wish I could, hon," Martha frowned, "but Lionel wants me to stay a few more days to get his new legal team up to speed on the events at the Supreme Court. But I promise I'll be back in Smallville well before the holidays."
A horn honked outside. "It's my ride," Martha fretted. "I've got to get to Luthor Corp. Wall Street in the next 20 minutes!" She quickly hugged her son and smiled politely at ADA Southerlyn, who held open the suite door.
"We'll make sure Clark gets home safely, Mrs. Kent," Southerlyn replied.
Clark scanned the room one last time. "And to think that this was my home for two weeks. I'll be glad to be back in Kansas, that's for sure! Have I forgotten anything?"
Southerlyn checked her watch. "Your ride should be here any moment now." Someone knocked loudly on the door.
"Ms. Southerlyn," the uniformed officer announced. "Detectives Tutuola and Munch here to see you."
"What's all this about?" Clark wondered.
"The D.A.'s office doesn't want to further antagonize your relationship with Lex Luthor," Southerlyn answered, "so the state will be providing you with an escort, of sorts, to Metropolis. At state expense."
"Hey, I'm a man of my word," Det. Munch quipped. "I promised Mr. Kent we'd see to it that Clark gets home safely and that's what we're gonna do."
"It's too bad you gotta leave now," Tutuola offered. "I mean, the Knicks are playin' the Metropolis Barracudas on Monday."
"If it's all the same to you," Clark said, "I think I've seen my fill of New York: murder, a media frenzy, my friend one verdict away from death row ..."
"And the meteor-fueled goings-on in Smallville aren't as crazy?" Munch remarked. "Man, some of the stuff I've been reading in the Ledger makes my head spin!"
"So Lex Luthor walks, hmm?" Tutuola frowned at Serena. "I definitely didn't see that coming."
"That's because he was innocent all along," Clark protested.
Munch rolled his eyes in frustration. "Y'know, you are so loyal to Lex Luthor, I gotta wonder if he's done anything to deserve your steadfast faith in him."
Clark stared out at the Manhattan skyline. The holiday season was at hand, with shoppers dashing from store to store. He really didn't see much of New York, other than what he could spot from his suite window. He was a virtual prisoner because of his relationship with Lex. Even now, he had to defend a friendship that few people understood.
It wasn't that complicated to him.
"Lex Luthor is my friend," Clark insisted. "He just wants someone to believe in him. And I still do, whatever you say."
Munch sighed. "Suit yourself, Kent. But I got a feeling he's going to burn you big time – maybe not today, or tomorrow – but down the line. I only hope you'll be ready for that moment."
"Later, Serena," Tutuola nodded as they left. "We're off to see the Wizard. That's if the Tin Man over here remembered where he parked the car."
Minutes later, as the detectives drove through Manhattan, Munch clicked on the radio. Some loud-mouthed radio jock was barking about the injustice of the Luthor verdict.
"They should've fried Lex's behind!" the radio jock exclaimed. "Put him on a gurney and juice him into the afterlife! With his team of high-priced lawyers, the Gazette's hacks in his pocket and Bloomberg kissing his bald head, it's no wonder the Saunders family got screwed over. It's a travesty, New York. A scam!"
Clark seemed uncomfortable. "Could you change the station? I just about had enough of this mudslinging."
"The truth hurts, don't it," Munch remarked, as he turned left at the Empire State building. "If Lex were anyone but a Luthor, he'd be doing the Sing Sing shuffle for 25-to-life right now. But money talks, and with Wallace Johnson mysteriously Patriot-missled into next Thursday compliments of the US Navy, we'll never know who was really behind the Saunders killing."
Clark pouted. Was he the only person who believed that Lex had nothing to do with the murder? "I don't feel like getting into another debate about this, so you listen to whatever you want."
"John, just lay off of him already," Tutuola stated. "It's been an ordeal for him and his family too."
The traffic had slowed to a crawl. Munch stopped the car, took off his glasses in frustration and glared at his partner. "No, I won't lay off, Fin! Clark Kent knows Lex better than anyone. If you're somehow holding out on some information, Clark ..."
"I'm not," Clark snapped. "I was under oath. If I knew something, don't you think I'd have said so on the stand?"
"Geez, Munch," Tutuola remarked. "What's with the third-degree on Kent? You seem even more uppity that your usual cranky self. What gives?"
Munch nodded towards the intersection.
In the distance, they heard a pair of sirens. Motorcycle cops had halted the traffic. Then the swirl of band drums boomed in the crisp December air. A dozen bagpipers wailed out a lament, as scores – then hundreds – of police officers in their finest uniforms marched in step to the roll of drums. It was the funeral procession of fallen rookie cop Mike Vanelli, who was brutally slain by Wallace Johnson.
Clark began to understand Munch's tense attitude. An officer had died in the line of duty. The thin blue line had faltered, as one of its brothers had given his life for New York. In this city -- more than anywhere else – the sacrifice of the men and women in blue would not be taken for granted. He watched as the mournful procession made its way through the downtown core.
"I'm sorry about Constable Vanelli," Clark offered. The detectives didn't respond, and no one said a word for the rest of the trip.
There was no point.
Clark and the detectives drove to JFK, leaving Southerlyn and the D.A.'s office to cope with the fallout of Lex's newfound freedom. He had been accused of murder and conspiracy. He faced the knowledge that a guilty verdict could have led to life in prison or a lethal injection.
A jury of his peers had judged him innocent. He felt personally wronged by D.A. McCoy. The scales had tipped in his favour, as the Luthors were poised to cripple the City of New York with a multi-million dollar lawsuit. Goldstein's letter of intent spelled it out: the NYPD, the D.A.'s office and City Hall were lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery.
Arthur Branch had many influential friends, both in the Big Apple and elsewhere. But he was not as well-connected as the Luthors. They could count the governor, the mayor and senators as political allies.
Allies who could make it difficult for Branch to get re-elected.
Would Branch be willing take the heat for this fiasco, or leave McCoy out to hang in a mess that was partly of Jack's own making?
There would be consequences.
[Office of Lt. Anita Van Buren, 27th Precinct]
When Southerlyn arrived at the homicide unit, she spotted Capt. Cragen in full dress uniform. Today, rookie NYPD constable Mike Vanelli would be buried with full honours. Thousands of cops from across North America were already forming in procession outside St. Patrick's Cathedral. He mumbled something to Anita.
"I have the dossier on the Switzer slaying," Southerlyn began. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting ..."
Cragen was about to leave when he abruptly stopped in front of the counselor.
"Why is it 'two steps forward, three steps back' whenever the lawyers get involved?" he demanded. "For every Connors slime-ball we nab, people like the Luthors waltz beyond the reach of the justice system! And that Johnson fella's now shark food in the tropics! So much for your irrefutable link to the Luthors ..."
"We had a good case, Captain," Southerlyn argued. "And Lex didn't get off scot-free! We got him on obstruction of justice."
"... pending appeal," Cragen remarked. "Luthor's people will drag it out in court forever. This is not a good day, any way you paint it!" He paused, sighed and took off his hat. "Look, I didn't mean to be abrupt with you. I've got to pay my last respects to a good cop today. Just tell me the D.A.'s gonna make sure that Vanelli didn't die for nothing."
"He didn't," Southerlyn replied. "We're doing everything we can."
"I wish I could believe you, Serena," Cragen stated solemnly, as he left the office. "I really do."
When he left, Southerlyn took a seat across from Van Buren.
"Where's Lennie and Ed?" Southerlyn asked.
"Well, they're pretty peeved at the Luthor verdict, lemme tell ya," Van Buren groaned. "They're at St. Pat's for the funeral."
Southerlyn noticed that Van Buren seemed sad and assumed it was grief over the slain officer.
"I'm sorry," she offered.
"You're sorry," Van Buren remarked sarcastically. "D.A. McCoy's sorry. Arthur Branch is sorry. Heck, Mayor Bloomberg and Gov. Pataki are sorry, too. The whole damn world's sorry! That doesn't mean they have any idea what the beat cop on the street has to face day in, day out. That boy Vanelli died, and for what? So that Lex Luthor can go free to live the high life in Metropolis? What does Mrs. Saunders get? Where's her justice? Where's ... mine ..."
The lieutenant, who was usually tough under pressure, sniffed – trying to muffle a sob.
"Anita, what's really wrong?" Southerlyn inquired. "Don't tell me the chief is thinking –"
"Well, give the lady showcase #1," Van Buren replied. "The moment I heard the evidence was leaning towards Lex Luthor, I knew – I knew – that this was going to be a political hot potato. That's why I made sure we did everything by the book. Dot all the i's and cross all the t's. The motive seemed a little wonky but I let myself believe that the D.A.'s office would find something of merit in that FedEx package. So, when it was time to pull the trigger and arrest Lex, I believed we had a good case. Not great, but good enough to get a conviction."
"It's not your fault," Southerlyn placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "The buck stops at the D.A.'s office. We couldn't convince a grand jury that Lex had the intent to kill Chelsea Saunders."
"Maybe," Van Buren replied. "But it was Lex Luthor who we arrested. Lex Luthor, son of Lionel Luthor – one of the most powerful industrialists in America! Luthor Corp. makes 'The Donald' look like a mom-and-pop operation. Some say he's got the ear of the President. The President, can you believe it! The buzz around One Police Plaza is that the chief needs to put someone's head in the wringer to appease city hall. Elliot Stabler over at the SVU is on thin ice, but word is, the union will likely go to bat for him if he gets the pink slip. Me on the other hand ...the black woman who they'll say probably made grade just to fill some departmental quota?"
Southerlyn frowned. She wanted to believe that Anita was just anxious about the fallout of Luthor's innocent verdict. And with the funeral of Constable Vanelli, every New York cop's nerves were wound up to the breaking point. The chief wouldn't make an example of Lt. Van Buren – would he?
"Were you planning to go to the funeral, too?" Southerlyn tried to steer the conversation to another topic.
"Briscoe and Green are paying respects in my place," Van Buren answered. "Anyhow, I just got word of a homicide in Hell's Kitchen. I'm swamped. You know, I made grade on merit, not some affirmative action pity assignment ... I want to be able to send my kid to college, and I'm not going to just lay down and take it. You tell your boss that! He's the one who couldn't get the murder rap to stick, he can line up to the guillotine without me."
Van Buren sat at her desk, scribbling on a report. She was on the verge of tears, but she kept her emotions in check. She was a cop, and there was work to do.
If anyone's career is on the line, Southerlyn thought, it's probably Jack's.
[O'Grady's Bar and Tavern, Manhattan, 10:30 p.m.]
"Lex Luthor, innocent of murder," Briscoe shook his head in disgust. "You really screwed us over big-time, McCoy!" He tapped his finger on the table to emphasize his point. "Heads are gonna roll and you know who they're gonna pick for fall guys? Probably the cops who first collared that bald Richie Rich: me and Ed!"
McCoy had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. Lex innocent of murder. It was not the verdict he had expected. With the emerging news that Wallace Johnson was indeed the dead pilot found in that unbelievable naval mishap in the Caribbean, Jack had lost almost all hope that he could resurrect this case.
"We had a good case, Lennie," McCoy sipped his cola. "We had the bloody overalls, the murder weapon, the FedEx package of questionable shipping ..."
"But you needed a murderer to link A to B to C, that's where it all fouled up," Green grumbled, as he sipped his beer.
"What's that, your third beer, Ed?" Briscoe wondered. "Maybe you should lay off the sauce. It ain't good for the liver, lemme tell ya."
Green pushed aside the bottle. "You're probably right. Heck, once the chief cans our butts, the only thing I'll be able to afford is tuna and crackers. At least you'll have your pension to tide you over."
Briscoe snickered as he munched on some peanuts. "Yeah, I'll hit the jackpot, for sure. I doubt my pension will cover light and hydro in this town. I'd have to move across the Hudson to make ends meet. Jersey. You know your number's up when ..."
"You aren't going to get fired, guys," McCoy insisted, as he glanced at the tempting liquor bottles stacked behind the bar.
"And how do you figure that?" Green demanded.
"He means we're not high enough on the totem pole to make a point of it," Briscoe noted.
"Bingo," Jack replied. "You're on the frontlines. You arrest the bad guys. That's your job. The decision to go after Lex and Lionel came from above the rank-and-file."
"No way," Green realized. "Not Van Buren?"
McCoy didn't answer, because he was afraid that he was right. The NYPD would be expected to do some bloodletting. Unfortunately, one way to satisfy that would be to fire a ranking officer in the homicide squad.
"That's a load of crap!" Briscoe protested. "She would never had OK'd the arrest if you guys in the D.A.s office didn't get all anxious about nailing Lex on the Saunders murder!"
"Lennie, you know how this works," McCoy stated. "We played roulette with the Luthors' reputation, his press people will claim. If it's any comfort, my neck is in the noose, too. I doubt Arthur Branch will bail me out this time. I was the one who prosecuted the heir to the Luthor empire. I lost."
"With all due respect, Jack," Briscoe remarked, "yours is the only head who should be on a platter. Not ours, and definitely not Anita's!"
McCoy rubbed his eyes in fatigue. The bartender was pouring a customer a drink. It was scotch. "I deserved that," McCoy replied. "I'll see what I can do about Van Buren."
Green tossed a few darts at the dartboard. "So if Lex was found guilty, would you have gone the distance?"
"The death penalty?" McCoy pondered for a moment. "He allowed a set of circumstances to exist, which precipitated the silencing by murder of a whistle-blowing employee who had no ulterior motive except to reveal the truth. I would have pushed for capital punishment and exhausted all of his appeals. Chelsea died for Luthor secrets. He'd get no mercy from me."
"Damn," Green replied. "You lawyers really have no soul."
"Anything to drink, gents?" inquired one of the waitresses.
"Lennie will have another cola, coffee for Ed," McCoy replied, "... and I'll have a scotch on the rocks."
Briscoe immediately gripped McCoy's hand. "Jack, you don't want to get on the wagon now. Trust me, I've been there. Miss, my friend here will have a ginger ale instead."
McCoy relented. "Though I could use a drink, you're right." He looked longingly at the patrons drinking their spirits, ryes and cocktails.
"You're probably right."
They heard a commotion at the entrance. A shock of silver-peppered hair. That haughty laugh.
It was Richard Goldstein, Lex's defense attorney. Apparently, the Luthor legal team had been bar-hopping downtown to celebrate their court victory.
"Well, if it isn't Detectives Laurel and Hardy!" a red-faced Goldstein hollered. "Jack! I figured I'd find you here. A Mick in a tavern! Come, let's bury the hatchet. Let me buy you a drink ..."
"His ginger ale is just fine," Briscoe stood up between them. "Look, why don't you find another watering hole to drench your thousand-dollar suit in."
"Oh, my apologies, Lennie," Goldstein elbowed the detective in jest. "Jack's had past troubles with the sauce. And if I'm not mistaken, you've had some ... expertise ... in fine spirits, eh?"
Green immediately pushed aside his chair and stood up. "Alright, you've done your gloating. I suggest you leave. Now. Before I do somethin' about makin' you leave!"
Goldstein laughed. "Oh yes, Ed Green, the hotheaded junior partner. You're the guy who let Wally Johnson slip through your fingers! When I'm through with you, you can look forward to an exciting career in mall security. If you're lucky. You can't just march around and arrest anyone you like on a whim."
"Enough, Richard," McCoy snapped. "I lost. You won. Does that satisfy your ego?"
Goldstein pulled up a chair beside Jack. "No, actually it doesn't. I want to see you squirm before the state bar disciplinary board, as you try to defend your politically-motivated character assassination of Lex Luthor. You soiled my client's reputation in this state, if not the across the country. You see, Jack, I've got the goods on all the main players. Briscoe, Green, Van Buren ... I haven't forgotten Stabler's assault, or your SVU friends, either ..."
McCoy was enraged. His throat was as dry as a desert. He really wanted a drink now.
"No witty repartee, McCoy?" Goldstein whispered. "No smart rebuttal? That's because you understand what comes next, don't you? I have dirt on you, too, Jack. Your affairs with assistants in your employ. And that lovely ADA who worked for you. What was her name? Claire Kincaid ... that's it."
Jack's heart sunk to his ankles. Claire Kincaid. Smart as a whip, with a passion for life that matched it. Claire was his ADA almost a decade ago. An effective prosecutor and partner. More than a partner, Jack thought. They were lovers, but it was more than that. He loved her. She died senselessly, hit by some drunk driver.
Goldstein now threatened to drag her name through the mud, disturbing her solemn peace.
Briscoe angrily pushed the table away from him and stood up. "Now, you've crossed the line! I was there when Claire died! You've been warned. Get out, now, before we settle this outside like real men."
"Stand down, Lennie," McCoy ordered weakly. "Richard just proved what we've known all along. He hasn't got an ounce of class. And no shame."
Goldstein snickered, along with his legal associates. He leaned towards McCoy again. "You're finished, McCoy." They left, singing loudly into the Manhattan night.
Briscoe could sense that McCoy was falling into that state of despair. The same despair he had the night that Claire –
"Jack, look, it's been a long day," he offered. "Why don't I swing by your place and drop you off? We've all been workin' hard on this case. You could use some rest."
McCoy wasn't in the mood for comforting words, or lectures about 'layin' off the sauce'. The sauce was the only thing on his mind now.
McCoy waved over the waitress. "I'll be having that scotch on the rocks."
Briscoe relented. "Ed, I'll call you a cab. I'll keep McCoy company."
For several awkward minutes, Jack and Lennie sat at that table. Not a word was said as Jack drank his scotch, guilty that he had given in to this vice, his personal demon.
"I miss her, too, Jack," Briscoe finally broke the silence. McCoy simply nodded. He didn't have to say a word, because they both understood.
Claire was indeed special.
Clark packed his clothes into the luggage. With Lex's innocent verdict on two of the three charges, the State of New York no longer needed to sequester their so-called 'star' witness. The entire experience had left a bitter taste in his mouth and he was glad that he would be catching the supper-hour flight from JFK to Metropolis International.
"I wish you could go home with me, Mom," Clark muttered.
Martha had a stack of legal files tied to a trolley. Lex's trial might be over, but the Luthors – for the moment – were pressing forth on the malicious prosecution suit.
"I wish I could, hon," Martha frowned, "but Lionel wants me to stay a few more days to get his new legal team up to speed on the events at the Supreme Court. But I promise I'll be back in Smallville well before the holidays."
A horn honked outside. "It's my ride," Martha fretted. "I've got to get to Luthor Corp. Wall Street in the next 20 minutes!" She quickly hugged her son and smiled politely at ADA Southerlyn, who held open the suite door.
"We'll make sure Clark gets home safely, Mrs. Kent," Southerlyn replied.
Clark scanned the room one last time. "And to think that this was my home for two weeks. I'll be glad to be back in Kansas, that's for sure! Have I forgotten anything?"
Southerlyn checked her watch. "Your ride should be here any moment now." Someone knocked loudly on the door.
"Ms. Southerlyn," the uniformed officer announced. "Detectives Tutuola and Munch here to see you."
"What's all this about?" Clark wondered.
"The D.A.'s office doesn't want to further antagonize your relationship with Lex Luthor," Southerlyn answered, "so the state will be providing you with an escort, of sorts, to Metropolis. At state expense."
"Hey, I'm a man of my word," Det. Munch quipped. "I promised Mr. Kent we'd see to it that Clark gets home safely and that's what we're gonna do."
"It's too bad you gotta leave now," Tutuola offered. "I mean, the Knicks are playin' the Metropolis Barracudas on Monday."
"If it's all the same to you," Clark said, "I think I've seen my fill of New York: murder, a media frenzy, my friend one verdict away from death row ..."
"And the meteor-fueled goings-on in Smallville aren't as crazy?" Munch remarked. "Man, some of the stuff I've been reading in the Ledger makes my head spin!"
"So Lex Luthor walks, hmm?" Tutuola frowned at Serena. "I definitely didn't see that coming."
"That's because he was innocent all along," Clark protested.
Munch rolled his eyes in frustration. "Y'know, you are so loyal to Lex Luthor, I gotta wonder if he's done anything to deserve your steadfast faith in him."
Clark stared out at the Manhattan skyline. The holiday season was at hand, with shoppers dashing from store to store. He really didn't see much of New York, other than what he could spot from his suite window. He was a virtual prisoner because of his relationship with Lex. Even now, he had to defend a friendship that few people understood.
It wasn't that complicated to him.
"Lex Luthor is my friend," Clark insisted. "He just wants someone to believe in him. And I still do, whatever you say."
Munch sighed. "Suit yourself, Kent. But I got a feeling he's going to burn you big time – maybe not today, or tomorrow – but down the line. I only hope you'll be ready for that moment."
"Later, Serena," Tutuola nodded as they left. "We're off to see the Wizard. That's if the Tin Man over here remembered where he parked the car."
Minutes later, as the detectives drove through Manhattan, Munch clicked on the radio. Some loud-mouthed radio jock was barking about the injustice of the Luthor verdict.
"They should've fried Lex's behind!" the radio jock exclaimed. "Put him on a gurney and juice him into the afterlife! With his team of high-priced lawyers, the Gazette's hacks in his pocket and Bloomberg kissing his bald head, it's no wonder the Saunders family got screwed over. It's a travesty, New York. A scam!"
Clark seemed uncomfortable. "Could you change the station? I just about had enough of this mudslinging."
"The truth hurts, don't it," Munch remarked, as he turned left at the Empire State building. "If Lex were anyone but a Luthor, he'd be doing the Sing Sing shuffle for 25-to-life right now. But money talks, and with Wallace Johnson mysteriously Patriot-missled into next Thursday compliments of the US Navy, we'll never know who was really behind the Saunders killing."
Clark pouted. Was he the only person who believed that Lex had nothing to do with the murder? "I don't feel like getting into another debate about this, so you listen to whatever you want."
"John, just lay off of him already," Tutuola stated. "It's been an ordeal for him and his family too."
The traffic had slowed to a crawl. Munch stopped the car, took off his glasses in frustration and glared at his partner. "No, I won't lay off, Fin! Clark Kent knows Lex better than anyone. If you're somehow holding out on some information, Clark ..."
"I'm not," Clark snapped. "I was under oath. If I knew something, don't you think I'd have said so on the stand?"
"Geez, Munch," Tutuola remarked. "What's with the third-degree on Kent? You seem even more uppity that your usual cranky self. What gives?"
Munch nodded towards the intersection.
In the distance, they heard a pair of sirens. Motorcycle cops had halted the traffic. Then the swirl of band drums boomed in the crisp December air. A dozen bagpipers wailed out a lament, as scores – then hundreds – of police officers in their finest uniforms marched in step to the roll of drums. It was the funeral procession of fallen rookie cop Mike Vanelli, who was brutally slain by Wallace Johnson.
Clark began to understand Munch's tense attitude. An officer had died in the line of duty. The thin blue line had faltered, as one of its brothers had given his life for New York. In this city -- more than anywhere else – the sacrifice of the men and women in blue would not be taken for granted. He watched as the mournful procession made its way through the downtown core.
"I'm sorry about Constable Vanelli," Clark offered. The detectives didn't respond, and no one said a word for the rest of the trip.
There was no point.
Clark and the detectives drove to JFK, leaving Southerlyn and the D.A.'s office to cope with the fallout of Lex's newfound freedom. He had been accused of murder and conspiracy. He faced the knowledge that a guilty verdict could have led to life in prison or a lethal injection.
A jury of his peers had judged him innocent. He felt personally wronged by D.A. McCoy. The scales had tipped in his favour, as the Luthors were poised to cripple the City of New York with a multi-million dollar lawsuit. Goldstein's letter of intent spelled it out: the NYPD, the D.A.'s office and City Hall were lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery.
Arthur Branch had many influential friends, both in the Big Apple and elsewhere. But he was not as well-connected as the Luthors. They could count the governor, the mayor and senators as political allies.
Allies who could make it difficult for Branch to get re-elected.
Would Branch be willing take the heat for this fiasco, or leave McCoy out to hang in a mess that was partly of Jack's own making?
There would be consequences.
[Office of Lt. Anita Van Buren, 27th Precinct]
When Southerlyn arrived at the homicide unit, she spotted Capt. Cragen in full dress uniform. Today, rookie NYPD constable Mike Vanelli would be buried with full honours. Thousands of cops from across North America were already forming in procession outside St. Patrick's Cathedral. He mumbled something to Anita.
"I have the dossier on the Switzer slaying," Southerlyn began. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting ..."
Cragen was about to leave when he abruptly stopped in front of the counselor.
"Why is it 'two steps forward, three steps back' whenever the lawyers get involved?" he demanded. "For every Connors slime-ball we nab, people like the Luthors waltz beyond the reach of the justice system! And that Johnson fella's now shark food in the tropics! So much for your irrefutable link to the Luthors ..."
"We had a good case, Captain," Southerlyn argued. "And Lex didn't get off scot-free! We got him on obstruction of justice."
"... pending appeal," Cragen remarked. "Luthor's people will drag it out in court forever. This is not a good day, any way you paint it!" He paused, sighed and took off his hat. "Look, I didn't mean to be abrupt with you. I've got to pay my last respects to a good cop today. Just tell me the D.A.'s gonna make sure that Vanelli didn't die for nothing."
"He didn't," Southerlyn replied. "We're doing everything we can."
"I wish I could believe you, Serena," Cragen stated solemnly, as he left the office. "I really do."
When he left, Southerlyn took a seat across from Van Buren.
"Where's Lennie and Ed?" Southerlyn asked.
"Well, they're pretty peeved at the Luthor verdict, lemme tell ya," Van Buren groaned. "They're at St. Pat's for the funeral."
Southerlyn noticed that Van Buren seemed sad and assumed it was grief over the slain officer.
"I'm sorry," she offered.
"You're sorry," Van Buren remarked sarcastically. "D.A. McCoy's sorry. Arthur Branch is sorry. Heck, Mayor Bloomberg and Gov. Pataki are sorry, too. The whole damn world's sorry! That doesn't mean they have any idea what the beat cop on the street has to face day in, day out. That boy Vanelli died, and for what? So that Lex Luthor can go free to live the high life in Metropolis? What does Mrs. Saunders get? Where's her justice? Where's ... mine ..."
The lieutenant, who was usually tough under pressure, sniffed – trying to muffle a sob.
"Anita, what's really wrong?" Southerlyn inquired. "Don't tell me the chief is thinking –"
"Well, give the lady showcase #1," Van Buren replied. "The moment I heard the evidence was leaning towards Lex Luthor, I knew – I knew – that this was going to be a political hot potato. That's why I made sure we did everything by the book. Dot all the i's and cross all the t's. The motive seemed a little wonky but I let myself believe that the D.A.'s office would find something of merit in that FedEx package. So, when it was time to pull the trigger and arrest Lex, I believed we had a good case. Not great, but good enough to get a conviction."
"It's not your fault," Southerlyn placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "The buck stops at the D.A.'s office. We couldn't convince a grand jury that Lex had the intent to kill Chelsea Saunders."
"Maybe," Van Buren replied. "But it was Lex Luthor who we arrested. Lex Luthor, son of Lionel Luthor – one of the most powerful industrialists in America! Luthor Corp. makes 'The Donald' look like a mom-and-pop operation. Some say he's got the ear of the President. The President, can you believe it! The buzz around One Police Plaza is that the chief needs to put someone's head in the wringer to appease city hall. Elliot Stabler over at the SVU is on thin ice, but word is, the union will likely go to bat for him if he gets the pink slip. Me on the other hand ...the black woman who they'll say probably made grade just to fill some departmental quota?"
Southerlyn frowned. She wanted to believe that Anita was just anxious about the fallout of Luthor's innocent verdict. And with the funeral of Constable Vanelli, every New York cop's nerves were wound up to the breaking point. The chief wouldn't make an example of Lt. Van Buren – would he?
"Were you planning to go to the funeral, too?" Southerlyn tried to steer the conversation to another topic.
"Briscoe and Green are paying respects in my place," Van Buren answered. "Anyhow, I just got word of a homicide in Hell's Kitchen. I'm swamped. You know, I made grade on merit, not some affirmative action pity assignment ... I want to be able to send my kid to college, and I'm not going to just lay down and take it. You tell your boss that! He's the one who couldn't get the murder rap to stick, he can line up to the guillotine without me."
Van Buren sat at her desk, scribbling on a report. She was on the verge of tears, but she kept her emotions in check. She was a cop, and there was work to do.
If anyone's career is on the line, Southerlyn thought, it's probably Jack's.
[O'Grady's Bar and Tavern, Manhattan, 10:30 p.m.]
"Lex Luthor, innocent of murder," Briscoe shook his head in disgust. "You really screwed us over big-time, McCoy!" He tapped his finger on the table to emphasize his point. "Heads are gonna roll and you know who they're gonna pick for fall guys? Probably the cops who first collared that bald Richie Rich: me and Ed!"
McCoy had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. Lex innocent of murder. It was not the verdict he had expected. With the emerging news that Wallace Johnson was indeed the dead pilot found in that unbelievable naval mishap in the Caribbean, Jack had lost almost all hope that he could resurrect this case.
"We had a good case, Lennie," McCoy sipped his cola. "We had the bloody overalls, the murder weapon, the FedEx package of questionable shipping ..."
"But you needed a murderer to link A to B to C, that's where it all fouled up," Green grumbled, as he sipped his beer.
"What's that, your third beer, Ed?" Briscoe wondered. "Maybe you should lay off the sauce. It ain't good for the liver, lemme tell ya."
Green pushed aside the bottle. "You're probably right. Heck, once the chief cans our butts, the only thing I'll be able to afford is tuna and crackers. At least you'll have your pension to tide you over."
Briscoe snickered as he munched on some peanuts. "Yeah, I'll hit the jackpot, for sure. I doubt my pension will cover light and hydro in this town. I'd have to move across the Hudson to make ends meet. Jersey. You know your number's up when ..."
"You aren't going to get fired, guys," McCoy insisted, as he glanced at the tempting liquor bottles stacked behind the bar.
"And how do you figure that?" Green demanded.
"He means we're not high enough on the totem pole to make a point of it," Briscoe noted.
"Bingo," Jack replied. "You're on the frontlines. You arrest the bad guys. That's your job. The decision to go after Lex and Lionel came from above the rank-and-file."
"No way," Green realized. "Not Van Buren?"
McCoy didn't answer, because he was afraid that he was right. The NYPD would be expected to do some bloodletting. Unfortunately, one way to satisfy that would be to fire a ranking officer in the homicide squad.
"That's a load of crap!" Briscoe protested. "She would never had OK'd the arrest if you guys in the D.A.s office didn't get all anxious about nailing Lex on the Saunders murder!"
"Lennie, you know how this works," McCoy stated. "We played roulette with the Luthors' reputation, his press people will claim. If it's any comfort, my neck is in the noose, too. I doubt Arthur Branch will bail me out this time. I was the one who prosecuted the heir to the Luthor empire. I lost."
"With all due respect, Jack," Briscoe remarked, "yours is the only head who should be on a platter. Not ours, and definitely not Anita's!"
McCoy rubbed his eyes in fatigue. The bartender was pouring a customer a drink. It was scotch. "I deserved that," McCoy replied. "I'll see what I can do about Van Buren."
Green tossed a few darts at the dartboard. "So if Lex was found guilty, would you have gone the distance?"
"The death penalty?" McCoy pondered for a moment. "He allowed a set of circumstances to exist, which precipitated the silencing by murder of a whistle-blowing employee who had no ulterior motive except to reveal the truth. I would have pushed for capital punishment and exhausted all of his appeals. Chelsea died for Luthor secrets. He'd get no mercy from me."
"Damn," Green replied. "You lawyers really have no soul."
"Anything to drink, gents?" inquired one of the waitresses.
"Lennie will have another cola, coffee for Ed," McCoy replied, "... and I'll have a scotch on the rocks."
Briscoe immediately gripped McCoy's hand. "Jack, you don't want to get on the wagon now. Trust me, I've been there. Miss, my friend here will have a ginger ale instead."
McCoy relented. "Though I could use a drink, you're right." He looked longingly at the patrons drinking their spirits, ryes and cocktails.
"You're probably right."
They heard a commotion at the entrance. A shock of silver-peppered hair. That haughty laugh.
It was Richard Goldstein, Lex's defense attorney. Apparently, the Luthor legal team had been bar-hopping downtown to celebrate their court victory.
"Well, if it isn't Detectives Laurel and Hardy!" a red-faced Goldstein hollered. "Jack! I figured I'd find you here. A Mick in a tavern! Come, let's bury the hatchet. Let me buy you a drink ..."
"His ginger ale is just fine," Briscoe stood up between them. "Look, why don't you find another watering hole to drench your thousand-dollar suit in."
"Oh, my apologies, Lennie," Goldstein elbowed the detective in jest. "Jack's had past troubles with the sauce. And if I'm not mistaken, you've had some ... expertise ... in fine spirits, eh?"
Green immediately pushed aside his chair and stood up. "Alright, you've done your gloating. I suggest you leave. Now. Before I do somethin' about makin' you leave!"
Goldstein laughed. "Oh yes, Ed Green, the hotheaded junior partner. You're the guy who let Wally Johnson slip through your fingers! When I'm through with you, you can look forward to an exciting career in mall security. If you're lucky. You can't just march around and arrest anyone you like on a whim."
"Enough, Richard," McCoy snapped. "I lost. You won. Does that satisfy your ego?"
Goldstein pulled up a chair beside Jack. "No, actually it doesn't. I want to see you squirm before the state bar disciplinary board, as you try to defend your politically-motivated character assassination of Lex Luthor. You soiled my client's reputation in this state, if not the across the country. You see, Jack, I've got the goods on all the main players. Briscoe, Green, Van Buren ... I haven't forgotten Stabler's assault, or your SVU friends, either ..."
McCoy was enraged. His throat was as dry as a desert. He really wanted a drink now.
"No witty repartee, McCoy?" Goldstein whispered. "No smart rebuttal? That's because you understand what comes next, don't you? I have dirt on you, too, Jack. Your affairs with assistants in your employ. And that lovely ADA who worked for you. What was her name? Claire Kincaid ... that's it."
Jack's heart sunk to his ankles. Claire Kincaid. Smart as a whip, with a passion for life that matched it. Claire was his ADA almost a decade ago. An effective prosecutor and partner. More than a partner, Jack thought. They were lovers, but it was more than that. He loved her. She died senselessly, hit by some drunk driver.
Goldstein now threatened to drag her name through the mud, disturbing her solemn peace.
Briscoe angrily pushed the table away from him and stood up. "Now, you've crossed the line! I was there when Claire died! You've been warned. Get out, now, before we settle this outside like real men."
"Stand down, Lennie," McCoy ordered weakly. "Richard just proved what we've known all along. He hasn't got an ounce of class. And no shame."
Goldstein snickered, along with his legal associates. He leaned towards McCoy again. "You're finished, McCoy." They left, singing loudly into the Manhattan night.
Briscoe could sense that McCoy was falling into that state of despair. The same despair he had the night that Claire –
"Jack, look, it's been a long day," he offered. "Why don't I swing by your place and drop you off? We've all been workin' hard on this case. You could use some rest."
McCoy wasn't in the mood for comforting words, or lectures about 'layin' off the sauce'. The sauce was the only thing on his mind now.
McCoy waved over the waitress. "I'll be having that scotch on the rocks."
Briscoe relented. "Ed, I'll call you a cab. I'll keep McCoy company."
For several awkward minutes, Jack and Lennie sat at that table. Not a word was said as Jack drank his scotch, guilty that he had given in to this vice, his personal demon.
"I miss her, too, Jack," Briscoe finally broke the silence. McCoy simply nodded. He didn't have to say a word, because they both understood.
Claire was indeed special.