Steve and Mark : Part 5
Mickey Flynn tapped his foot nervously on the ground and swallowed hard. Somehow he always looked a little seedy, nothing too overt, just slightly greasy, slightly grubby, slightly nervous; on the wrong side of the line to be considered respectable. He didn't quite fit in, but you would be hard pressed to say what it was about him specifically that gave it away. There was definitely something, something that let you know it wasn't just poor hygiene that left his hair greasy, or the fact that he didn't do his laundry with any frequency that left his clothes with an air of grime. It was as if his slightly dubious character was somehow projected onto his appearance.
If you met him in the street you would probably avoid him, in fact if you met him anywhere you would probably avoid him, unless your own questionable character matched his, but it was these qualities that made him perfect as an informant. If respectability avoided him, then duplicity seemed attracted to him in equal measure. He was somehow safe to confide in, could be trusted to keep your secret, however illicit, because he was like you, he would understand you. Those who did confide in him rarely understood the irony of that observation, even after their arrest. He was indeed just like them and as such could never be trusted.
Steve narrowed his gaze, his tone taking on a hard edge as he repeated the question. "So what are they saying about me on the street?"
The first time he had asked with a curious tone responding to a slip Mickey had made. Now Mickey's reluctance made him really want to know. He watched as Mickey's already nervous reaction, the constant agitated motion of his tapping foot, grew in intensity.
"Well," Mickey swallowed again. "They're uh. ." he looked up at Steve, catching his intense gaze for only a fraction of a second before looking down again, seemingly fascinated by a point on the table. "They're saying as how you beat on your old man." His nervousness showed in broken speech, and eyes that not only could not meet his, but were in constant motion, "put. . . put him in the hospital."
Steve felt like he'd been stung, the paranoia that had settled just below the surface, the feeling that everybody knew your problem and was talking about you, was not paranoia, it was real. Not only was he being judged by his colleagues, those he respected, but maybe worse, he was being judged by those he despised. If those who knew him would be prepared to believe in his innocence, then those who didn't would willingly accept his guilt, and amongst the criminal fraternity his reputation would be rapidly and possibly irrevocably destroyed. Even if he did prove his innocence he might never get that back. For a man whose reputation and integrity were everything to him, that was a bitter pill to swallow.
He was not given chance to dwell on this latest realisation as Mickey continued. The next sentence tagged on so quickly following the first, it was almost like a plea. "but I didn't believe it Steve, not a word of it." He looked up again, begging to be believed. "I know you didn't do it, I mean you wouldn't"
"Thanks for your vote of confidence Mickey." Steve held up his hand in a placating gesture to stem the verbal flow. "but I don't need your support, I need your help. I need you to help me find the man who did this. It's the only way I can prove I didn't." Steve's eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a harder edge, proving his innocence was one thing, but there was also a more important reason for tracking down the assailant. "And he should pay for what he did to my father."
Steve watched Mickey's expression change. The kid couldn't hide anything, Steve's request taking him completely off guard, despite his attestation to Steve's innocence only moments earlier. Steve might as well have asked him to find the man in the moon, or any other fictional character, he clearly had never considered the existence of an assailant as a possibility, and that meant that whatever he said, he too believed in Steve's guilt. "You want me to help you find the man who broke into your house and assaulted your father?" he asked. He might as well have added 'aren't I looking at him?'
It was in that moment, in that look, that Steve's determination crystallised, that the seeds of obsession were sewn. Steve knew in that moment, that somehow, some way, he would track down the person who had done this and bring them to justice. He would prove to everyone that he was innocent and he would avenge the pain and distress that his father had been caused, no matter what it took, no matter how long, he would do it.
He met Mickey's disbelieving gaze, "Yes," he said with a quiet intensity. He took out his wallet and withdrew five twenty-dollar bills. He pushed them across the table. "Find me something, and there's more where that came from."
Mickey's eyes widened as he quickly grabbed the cash and with a longing gaze pocketed it. "Sure Steve, I'll. . .I'll get on it right away." The prospect of a big pay off, quickly dismissed any ideas he had that he was on a wild goose chase. If Steve were prepared to pay this much for information, then there must be information to be found and if that were the case than he would find it.
Steve watched the effect the money had on Mickey's demeanour and knew that he had at least bought one more ally. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll be in touch," he stated.
Mickey looked up pulling himself back from the distraction of planning how to spend his newfound wealth. "Yeah Steve, sure Steve, soon as I know anything."
Steve looked up at the neon sign, he wasn't sure what had brought him back here. There was something nagging on his consciousness, something about that night that began here, but he didn't know what it was, and that made his journey here somewhat redundant. Still, he was here now; maybe whatever it was would come to him when he went inside. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The smell of beer and stale tobacco immediately assailed his senses and, as the associations were made in his mind, a wave of nausea passed over him. The smell of beer was so strongly associated with his father's attack that the revulsion was instantaneous, and he had to grab the wall to steady himself, swallowing hard to keep down the meagre bites of food he'd managed to force down during the day.
Taking another deep breath, he pushed away from the wall and walked round the blind entry panel to emerge into the main body of the bar. His presence was instantly noticed and silence spread in a ripple effect across the room. All eyes turned to stare at him and he felt the rush of blood to his cheeks as his body reacted to their scrutiny. The room was full of off duty cops and it was clear that every one of them knew his predicament. Part of Steve wanted to turn and run, to flee the accusation and in some cases malevolence that he could see in their eyes. 'One bad cop tarnishes us all,' the long forgotten words of one of his instructors at the academy, echoed in his head, as clear as if the man was in the room. 'You can expect support from your colleagues if you do your job, they'll back you right down the line, one hundred per cent, but if you let them down. If you ever break the law, the law you are sworn to uphold, then don't expect anything but their contempt.' Steve could see the living embodiment of those words now, but his pride would not allow him to take the easy way out, would not allow him to just turn tail and run. So he ignored them, turning his own attention to the bar, he focused on that and forced his feet to move, to carry him forward into the room.
The buzz of conversation began slowly; following his progress across the room, growing in volume until it was back to the level it had been at when he entered. Steve took a seat.
"What'll you have?" the barman asked.
The part of Steve's mind that had wanted him to run away, now tried to persuade him to order the largest whiskey he could, to tell the barman to keep them coming. The prospect of drinking himself into a dull oblivion, where there was no guilt, no fear, no shame, no emotion, no pain, was so tempting that he almost gave into it. A few drinks would make everything go away, at least for a while, but the same determination that had allowed him to keep walking into the hostile room allowed him to quell the desire, he knew in the long run that that was the path to self destruction, and he wasn't prepared to take that first step. "Just a coke," he replied.
The barman nodded and pulled out a glass, scooping ice into it as he went. "No offence but are you sure this is a place you want to be if you're not even drinking?" The barman asked conversationally, it had been impossible to miss how the room had reacted to Steve's entrance.
"I. . er. . I came here for a reason," Steve stated, still not sure what that reason was.
The barman nodded handing him his drink and was ready to turn away.
"You were on duty Saturday right?" Steve asked.
"I'm on every night," the barman answered, resignedly, "two lots of alimony don't allow for nights off."
"Do you remember me, I was at the party?"
"Sure, you were enjoying yourself, your whole group was a happy bunch, I tend to notice that, not too much happiness in here most nights." The barman gestured around, most of the tables were filled with world-weary occupants, here to drown their sorrows and ease the pain of another day. Not one smiling face could be seen, and the conversation was a quiet hum, rather than the exuberance normally associated with social drinking.
"I don't suppose you remember how much I had to drink?"
The barman studied him for a moment, clearly searching his memory. "Not much considering how long you were in here. I'd say five maybe six beers, your whole group were real lightweights, not like some of the soaks we get." Steve nodded, that tallied with his own memories, he'd spent most of his time talking and joking around, the drinking was incidental, and he only remembered it coming his turn to buy a round once.
"Did you notice anyone or anything out of place?"
The barman shook his head, "Nope, room full of cops as usual, means we don't get much trouble."
Steve nodded, it was the answer he'd expected, why he even thought there was anything to find here he didn't know. He was really grasping at straws on a case with no leads. Nonetheless he took out his card along with the money to pay for his drink, and passed them both over. "Well if you think of anything could you let me know?"
The barman nodded, accepting the generous tip. "Sure."
Steve stood and left without even touching his drink.
Where did he go from here? He'd exhausted any leads that he could think of, and, without access to the police computers, there was no way he could follow the procedures he normally would, checking on similar incidents in the area or criminals already in the system who were known for violent burglary. He looked at his watch, it was getting late, he really should be heading back to Jesse's.
He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the danger until grasping hands made contact with his upper arms. There was someone on each side, and he couldn't react quickly enough to stop them, as he was thrown viscously back against the wall, the pain of the impact registered only seconds before more fists contacted with his abdomen, and the greater pain drew his attention. He would have doubled over but the hands gripping his arms, now pushed him into the wall, held him firmly, his efforts to pull free proving futile. He vaguely registered the words that were spat at him as blow after blow met its mark. "Let's see how you fare when the other guy is young enough and fit enough to fight back," but it was clear they had no intention of letting him fight. Two of the blows impacted with Steve's face, his head making painful contact with the wall behind, and he lost interest in the proceedings. His head swirled and he could no longer separate existing pains from new ones as the blows kept landing.
He did not hear the protest that stopped the blows to the head. Did not see, or even register, when the man whose fists he felt was finally dragged off him by his colleagues.
"Come on Tom he's had enough, we've taught him a lesson, he won't be hitting anyone for a while."
Officer Tom Quayle, tried hard to rein in his emotions, but the adrenaline that was making blood roar through his system made that difficult. For a police officer, he liked violence far too much. Always first into the fray, always using just a little more force than necessary. He was an adrenaline junkie of the worst kind, enjoying the thrill of danger, but, more than that, he liked the power, the control that physical violence gave you. He drew in several deep breaths as the red haze retreated from his vision, watching with satisfaction as Steve, no longer supported, slid slowly down the wall to the floor. He took a step back and nodded his assent. "You're right," he said, pulling out a handkerchief to clean off his knuckles, "Come on let's get out of here."
Jesse opened up the door to his apartment, expecting to find Steve already there. It was past midnight and even if Steve had decided to occupy his time by going to Bob's, he would have closed up and been back by now. The empty silence that greeted him was disconcerting. He turned the lights on and surveyed the room; there were two bags that had been dumped just inside the door. Nothing else in the room had been touched, so Steve's return here had been brief, but where had he gone after that? The concern that he was already controlling with some difficulty rose another notch. He hadn't been able to reach Steve on his cell all day; calls were always diverted straight to voicemail.
He let out a heavy sigh and tossed his keys onto the counter before heading to the fridge to get himself a drink. It had been a tough day all round. Calming Mark down after filling him on Steve's arrest and the subsequent restraining order had been difficult. Despite his injuries, Mark was all set to march down to police headquarters and tell them what idiots they were being. Even the reminder that he could cause complications to his injuries did nothing to reduce his determination to go. It was only when Jesse had used his ace, had asked Mark, "And how do you think Steve will feel if you collapse whilst you're down there trying to clear him?" That and only that had made Mark pause, and Jesse had followed through his advantage. "Steve's fine, he's probably sitting in my apartment now lamenting the fact that I don't have pay-per-view." He drew a deep breath "We will sort this out," the statement was firm, "if it takes a few days while we wait for you to recover then that's not a problem, but you making yourself worse by getting out of that bed before you should is," Jesse's voice softened. "It's a serious wound Mark and you know it, just give it a little time and everything will work out, you'll see."
Mark rested his head back on the pillows, allowing tense muscles to relax. "When did you get to be so wise?" he asked softly.
"Oh, trust me I learnt from a master," Jesse grinned at his mentor and was gratified to see at least the corners of his mouth rise in acknowledgement of the compliment. It wasn't quite a smile, but under the circumstances meant more than one.
From that point Jesse had managed to persuade Mark to let him give him a sedative, sleep was the best thing for his recuperation and continued worry probably the worst, so he had agreed to it, knowing that the sooner he was recovered the sooner he could help Steve. That just left Jesse to worry about his friend, the continued lack of contact nagging at him through the rest of his shift. The only reassurance that Steve was actually okay had come at around 4 pm when he had called the nurses station on his father's floor for an update on his condition, but Jesse had been busy in the ER at the time and hadn't managed to speak with him. So the worry had continued to nag at him, just below the surface.
Jesse dropped onto the couch and turned on the TV, idly flicking between the channels. There was no point in even trying to sleep until he knew where Steve was, so he finally settled on a repeat of a baseball game, dropping the remote onto the seat beside him.
The shrill ringing of the phone shook him from a semi- conscious stupor; he fumbled for it, turning to catch the time as he did so, 1 am. His heart did a quick flip, calls at this hour only ever meant trouble and with Steve's absence foremost in his thoughts the fear that knotted his intestines after the flip intensified. "Hello?"
"Jess?"
"Steve," Jesse relaxed slightly as he recognised the voice, "am I glad to hear from you, where are you? I thought. . ."
"Jess," the interruption was sharp but the tone used was shaky, the speech hesitant. "I need. . . . Look I'm sorry to ask. I tried. . . . Can you come pick me up?"
"Sure Steve no problem, just tell me where you are."
It took Jesse thirty minutes to get to the intersection that Steve gave him, all the way there he was running over in his mind what he was going to say and do. From the way Steve had sounded, he seemed to be in a similar state to the one he had been at Bob's the day before, and Jesse cursed himself more than once for not insisting that he stay with him; he could have swapped shifts at the hospital if he'd really tried. He should have been there for him, and maybe things wouldn't have reached the point where Steve was wondering the streets in the early hours of the morning. Jesse wasn't even sure how Steve had ended up where he was, it wasn't near anything.
He slowed his car at the junction and, when there was no one immediately obvious, he double-checked the signs to ensure that he was in the right place. He spotted the phone first, the familiar curved outline of the top of the booth, and then he saw the figure huddled below it. He pulled his car across, doing a U-turn on the empty street
and pulling up only a few feet away.
He was so certain that the strain he had heard in Steve's voice was caused by stress that he was completely unprepared for Steve's appearance.
Steve managed to push himself to standing with the help of the metal support that was holding up the payphone, but his legs trembled with the effort, and pain gnawed from the protesting muscles of his chest and abdomen. He couldn't draw himself to his full height, the pain was too great, so he remained slightly stooped as he looked up, and, gritting his teeth, took a step forwards.
"Oh my God!" the exclamation fell unconsciously from Jesse's lips as he took in the torn bloodied shirt, the protective arm clutched across Steve's middle as though he were holding himself together, the bruising that he could see forming even under the dim light of the street lamps. "Steve!" He rushed forward, hooking Steve's arm over his shoulder as he supported him. "What happened?" He asked, helping Steve lean against the body of the car whilst he got the passenger door open
Steve ignored the question, "Sorry I had to call you out this late Jess, I couldn't get a cab so I was going to walk, try to clear my head, but I. . ." He broke off, gritting his teeth again as Jesse helped lower him onto the passenger seat. He took several deep breaths to steady his breathing, as he worked at getting the pain back to a controllable level.
Jesse watched, his anger and frustration building. Why hadn't Steve called him straight away? Why not call 911? Who would be foolhardy enough to try to walk in this condition? Who had done this to him? Why? There were so many questions that Jesse could barely control the flow, but now wasn't the time to get the answers, he had other priorities. "I'll get my bag," he stated heading for the trunk.
Steve nodded his head very slightly; his eyes were still closed as he focused on his breathing. He felt Jesse's return, felt the end of the stethoscope, the blood pressure cuff, the gentle probing fingers, that still caused stabs of agony when they touched a tender spot.
"Steve, open your eyes for me. Come on, stay with me buddy" Jesse said, his tone soft yet commanding.
Obligingly Steve forced his eyes to open, although it seemed like a lot of effort. The adrenaline that had kept him going this far was rapidly dissipating. He had fought hard to stay alert, knowing that his own safety required it, but now he could relinquish his care to Jesse, knowing that he would look after him, and with that realization he lost the need to fight and his body was shutting down, heading for the unconsciousness state that had beckoned for a while.
Jesse allowed Steve to keep his eyes closed for the first part of the examination, but he couldn't let his friend drift into unconsciousness, there were at least two worrying knots on the back of Steve's skull, not to mention the clear bruising and swelling on his face. Steve's eyes were glazed as he opened them and he seemed to be struggling to focus, he pulled out a torch to check pupil reaction and was gratified that it was normal, but the rest of Steve's condition gave him little comfort. He wasn't going to take any chances; there were too many possible complications to even risk driving him in himself. He pulled out his cell.
Steve was still alert enough to notice as Jesse called for the ambulance. "Hey, can't we just go back to your apartment?" Steve asked. "It's only a few bruises, I just need a little rest."
Jesse was already frustrated with his friend, but, in deference to his condition, held his anger in check. He would save the lecture until he was feeling better. "No Steve, I need to get you checked out properly, so just humour me OK?"
Steve didn't reply.
"Come on Steve I need you to stay awake for me," the tone was urgent this time.
Steve's eye's drifted open again and he blinked Jesse into focus.
Jesse knew that he needed a distraction that would keep Steve awake until the ambulance arrived. "Why don't you tell me what happened?" he asked.
Jesse closed the door to Steve's room and rubbed his eyes wearily. It had been a long night, he'd managed to grab a couple of hours sleep in the on-call room but it wasn't nearly enough. He looked up and his heart sank as he saw a familiar white haired figure heading towards him, a determined set to his still too pale features. "Mark you still shouldn't be out of bed," he admonished, knowing that his words would do no good; the hospital grapevine had obviously been working overtime as usual.
"Where is he Jess?"
Jesse answered a different question. "He's fine Mark, bruising to his chest and abdomen, one cracked rib and some mild contusions, it doesn't even look like he has a concussion we only kept him in for observation, and so that he could get some rest."
Mark nodded in acknowledgement of the update, grateful for the information and relieved by its content, but that wasn't what he'd asked. "Where is he?"
Jesse looked back at the door he had just come through, and that was enough for Mark to begin to move forward, Jesse stepped into his path to block him. "But you can't go in, the restraining order. . . you could get him rearrested."
Mark stared into Jesse's eyes for a moment as his brain processed the statement. The empathy that he had felt for his son's predicament over the last few days suddenly formed into reality. He had been hurt and Steve had been unable to see him, had been denied the reassurance that only close proximity, visual confirmation, physical contact could provide. A third party report, even from a trusted friend, just wasn't enough, and Steve had had to endure this for longer than the few minutes Mark had, and even that seemed too much. This had gone on long enough. "The restraining order is against him not me," Mark stated. "They can hardly arrest him if I go looking for him."
Jesse hesitated only for a moment before stepping out of the way.
Mark stifled a sharp intake of breath as he took in Steve's battered appearance, bruising mottled his torso where it could be seen, in stark contrast to the white sheets. His cheek and lip were swollen and tiny butterfly bandages held together the split skin on his cheek and forehead. He did not stir as they entered. Mark walked over to the bed and placed his hand over Steve's, drawing strength from the warmth as he continued to watch his son sleep.
"I've just given him a sedative," Jesse stated quietly, moving around to the opposite side of the bed, "I doubt he'll wake up any time soon."
Mark nodded, at the moment it didn't matter, just being here was enough; they could talk later. "You said he'd be fine," he stated, but there was no hint of accusation in his tone, just an acknowledgement that it wasn't true. "Who did this to him?" He asked, tearing his gaze from his son for a moment to make eye contact with Jesse, before looking down again.
Jesse hesitated, remembering Steve's faltering description from the night before. Part of him didn't want to tell him, knew that it would cause further pain, but he knew that he didn't have the right to deny Mark the truth. "Some police officers, Steve recognised one of them."
"Why?" This time Mark's gaze met and held his.
Jesse looked down at Steve and than back again; he swallowed, "because they believe he hit you?" The way Steve had described it the night before it had sounded like Steve felt they were justified in their actions. "If I were guilty Jess, then I'd deserve this and more, maybe I deserve it anyway." Jesse hadn't managed to get to the bottom of the latter half of the comment, but for the first time it was clear to him the strength of the guilt that Steve was feeling for what had happened, and it made some of his other reactions over the last couple of days more understandable, but what he had to feel guilty about Jesse wasn't sure.
Tears formed in Mark's eyes as he looked down at Steve, but he did not let them fall, he felt the prickling burn and repressed the desire to give in to it, Steve did not deserve this, did not deserve any of it, the injustice burned within him and distress, turned quickly to anger. He reiterated his earlier thought. "This has gone on long enough." He looked up again at Jesse "Look after him, I'm going to sort this out."
Mark allowed only a moment of weakness as he stepped from the cab; grim determination was keeping him going, as he fought against the residual effects of his injuries. He leant against the wall and took several deep breaths. When this was over he could rest. He would go back to the hospital and do everything that Jesse said, but for now, for this moment he needed to be strong.
He took one last breath and squared his shoulders, striding purposefully into the building. "I'm looking for an assistant prosecutor by the name of Jeffries." He addressed the young male receptionist.
"Is he expecting you?" the young man asked.
"I'm a witness for one of his cases and I believe he needs to talk to me." Mark replied, there was nothing untrue in his statement, but that was not the case for the meaning that would be assumed.
The young man nodded, "Name?" he asked, picking up the phone.
"Dr. Mark Sloan."
It was twenty minutes before Mark was ushered to a small office on the third floor. He regarded the young man who stood to greet him with cold disdain, this was the enemy, and only by treating him as such could Mark possibly achieve what he had come here to accomplish. He had spent his twenty minutes fruitfully, allowing the anger at the injustice of Steve's treatment a full reign on his emotions and through it he gained strength, shaping and forming it into a weapon, using the emotion to give him the energy to counter his current weaknesses. He sat down stiffly; drawn to his full height in the chair he could be an imposing figure, the strength of his personality filled the small room.
Mark could rarely be described as intimidating, his normal jovial features were usually set to put others at ease, but, if he really wanted to, he could take out a crowded room with one look, as many a board member had found out to their cost, and when he began to speak, well, the opposition usually crumbled. George Jeffries was already halfway there as he met Mark's stare.
"Dr. Sloan," he said, dropping back into his chair after the half stand he had managed in greeting. He cleared his throat nervously. "How can I help you?"
"Very simple I want you to drop the charges against my son."
"Ah," Jeffries said slowly, pleased to be on familiar ground. "I understand. It's quite common in this sort of case for the victim to not want charges to be pressed, but you have to understand that it is at our discretion. We must protect those who are unwilling or unable to protect themselves."
The obsequious smile along with his inadvertent repeat of the phrasing that Mark had objected to the day before, made Mark's blood boil, but he said nothing, he just continued to stare.
Jeffries swallowed, "I'm sure that you love your son, but that doesn't mean he can be allowed to get away with. . ."
That was enough for Mark. "My son is getting away with nothing because he is innocent," he stated, firmly.
"Well of course, you would say that but. ,"
"I say it because it's true," Mark interrupted again. "When your officer spoke to me yesterday I couldn't remember anything, but that's the funny thing about amnesia, you can remember nothing one minute, and everything the next, and today I remember everything, I remember Steve coming in, I remember getting up and meeting him in the kitchen, I remember hearing a noise and going to investigate and I remember a masked intruder who struck me and shot at my son." He leaned forward in his chair. "Of course, you could be foolish enough not to believe me, but if this goes to trial I can assure you that I'll be a witness for the defence. Not only am I a well respected member of the community I'm also Chief of Internal Medicine at Community General Hospital and a member of the board. I think you'll have a difficult time convincing a jury that I am both a helpless victim and a liar. I have a hundred witnesses that I can bring forward to attest both to my character and to that of my son, and many of them can also bear witness to the excellent relationship that we share, and what do you have to counter our account of what happened? Any witnesses? No, just circumstantial evidence. You haven't a hope of successfully prosecuting this case." Mark's eyes narrowed as he went in for the kill. "And when this case is thrown out, I will file a suit for malicious prosecution against you and the county so fast you won't have time to leave the building." He paused to allow his words to sink in. "So what do you think Mr. Jeffries, do you think you have a chance of convincing anyone that I need your protection?"
Jeffries swallowed again.
Mark was satisfied by the response, he knew he had won. "So let's start again, I want you to drop the charges against my son."
Mark awoke blearily, vaguely aware, even before his eyes focused, that he was back in the hospital. He did not remember the journey back; his strength had deserted him shortly after he got into the cab. The effort of maintaining a strong front had taken a lot out of his weakened system, and he had just managed to get out his destination before he lost consciousness.
He turned to scan the room and realized that he was being watched. "Steve," he said, barely able to control the emotion in his voice, as he caught sight of his son sitting in the chair by his bed, relief, joy, love, all battled for his attention, and a warmth of positive emotion spread through his system as he smiled properly for the first time in days.
"Hi, dad," Steve returned the smile, but with less conviction. His own negative emotions had too strong a hold for even this close contact to completely calm him. The 48 hours of separation had allowed the guilt and self-recrimination to build to a point where, when he looked at his father's injuries, he could see only his own failure to protect, his own inadequacy. The projection of blame by others, however unwarranted, had fuelled his emotion. If Mark had been able to reassure him at the time that he wasn't to blame, if others hadn't accused him, then maybe it wouldn't have become so deeply ingrained, so buried, that though it was not immediately obvious on the surface, it ran, like a dark undercurrent, through everything he thought, everything he felt. For now though, it was hidden beneath the relief of finally being able to see for himself that his father was okay.
"How long have you been here?" Mark asked, scrutinizing his son carefully.
"Jesse released me about two hours ago, about the same time the restraining order was lifted." He shifted in his seat, grimacing slightly at the pain the movement caused. "I don't know what you said to that prosecutor, but apparently he called in a favour with a judge to expedite proceedings."
Mark smiled again. "Let's just say I pointed out the weaknesses in his case."
"Yeah, well I'm grateful anyway." He paused, lost for a moment in thought. "I'm really glad you remember what happened." The statement was heartfelt. There was something about being the only one who had witnessed something, when nobody else believed you, that was incredibly lonely, disconcerting. There was great comfort in knowing that he wasn't alone any more.
Mark nodded, but something in his expression gave him away.
Steve stared for a moment. "You don't remember do you?"
Mark paused, knowing that he had been caught out but still debating whether to continue the lie anyway. "No," he finally admitted, "I'm sorry, I still don't remember any of it."
"Then why did you. . . .?" he started to ask, but he didn't need to. He knew why his father had dragged himself from his hospital bed to confront the prosecutor. He knew the motivation for lying about what he remembered, for ultimately being prepared to perjure himself. It came down to simple but powerful words indicating simple but powerful emotions, love, faith, trust. His father loved him enough to do this for him, trusted completely in his version of events as being the truth, and had absolute faith in him. Part of Steve wanted to be angry at the risks his father had taken, but these emotions melted away as he contemplated his father's faith, his love. He looked into his eyes, acknowledging that there was no need for the question. "Thank you." He said quietly.
Porter had been sure that his boss would be angry at the latest turn of events and was thus shocked when the man smiled.
"Good," he said thoughtfully, "Now we can move on to phase two, start making preparations."
Porter couldn't help but express his surprise, why wasn't the man annoyed, phase one of his plan had gone wrong. "But I thought you wanted. . .?" he began, but a raised hand stopped his question mid-way through. Even through the Plexiglas in the prison visiting room, Porter could feel his superior's emotion, and responded instantly to even non verbal commands.
The prisoner sighed, as if about to explain something to a very stupid child. "Do you know what it takes to destroy a man?" The question was clearly rhetorical. "First you take away everything he holds dear, his family, his friends, his career, his reputation, but you must do it slowly, patiently. To really work it must seem like he's doing it to himself, and then," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a quiet intensity that sent chills down Porters spine, "when he's at his lowest ebb, then and only then can you strike the final blow." He stared Porter directly in the eye, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Patience, my friend, patience is required, and I have all the time in the world for this. Now, as I said, make preparations to move to phase two."
TO BE CONTINUED. . .