Chapter 9: Jordan

Jordan gasped. "Are you sure it's him?"

Bug nodded. "Both Nigel and I identified him, and the prints just confirmed it." Bug nervously looked around the room some more, avoiding their eyes before finally looking back at Jordan. "Jordan, I'm sorry, but… well, there's a lot of evidence to go through and we've got several bodies. We're going to need your help." He paused. "Look, I'll tell Garret that you'll be a bit longer…" He nodded in her direction before quickly closing the door and going back the way he had come.

Jordan waited until she heard Bug exit the hallway, slamming through the doors into Trace, before looking back at Woody, whose own eyes were staring at the floor.

"I think you've had a harder time than I have. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No…"

"Are you sure? This sounds like something you shouldn't –"

"You didn't let me finish. No. I don't want to talk about it. But I should, and I'm going to." His voice was flat and he was staring straight ahead, at the foot of her desk. "I should probably start at the beginning…"

Jordan waited, not sure what or if she should say anything. Woody took a deep shuddering breath…

"After I left your place that night, I came here and talked with Nigel and Garret. They stitched me up, and I had some time to think. I knew that I wasn't doing you any favors covering everything up the way I had been. I realized it would be best for you if I stayed away from you, forced you to confront your own problem head on. But I also knew that I wouldn't be able to do that… not without leaving myself, anyway. Renee had asked me a couple times if I wanted to do this undercover job." He shrugged. "It seemed like a good time to take it, so I did.

"I went undercover as a bouncer for a mob boss. Cut my hair, dressed a little differently." One corner of his mouth lifted wistfully. "The cut across my forehead you gave me probably helped. Made me look more dangerous. Anyway, I worked there for about three weeks, got in a few fights – broke my nose," he said, ran a finger down the now crooked bridge of his nose. Worked my way up in the organization, and ended up as the right hand man for a guy named Michael Andriano, who as it turned out, was Torretti's right hand man. I was in a pretty good position to get information and relay it back to Walcott and Captain Fischer. I dug it, played double agent. And everything was going smoothly, at least until two weeks ago."

"That was when Cal showed up?" she guessed.

He nodded. "I knew that Andriano had tapped an addict to make some runs for them, and that the guy had been doing it for a few weeks, but I didn't meet him until one night at a bar in New York. I had a hell of a time keeping my cool when I recognized him. I wanted to drag him outside and rip him a new one, but I couldn't say anything. I know he recognized me, and I know I said at least one prayer that night hoping to God that Cal was smart enough not to give me away. A few days later, I managed to get him alone. I told him that I was undercover, and that things would be coming to a head soon, and if he followed my lead, I'd get him out. He just said, "Sure, whatever.""

Woody ran a hand through his hair, then stood and began to awkwardly pace in small circles. "There was supposed to be a big drop, a big sale that Torretti himself was going to oversee. I'd gotten enough evidence –fingerprints, documents, computer files – that we'd be able to make the bust. We had enough evidence to arrest even Torretti himself on charges of racketeering, possession, conspiracy, even murder – the whole nine yards. It wasn't supposed to go down until next week, but Torretti moved it up for some reason. I barely had enough time to sneak out and warn Boston PD. Everything moved so fast – we got there, then Andriano was checking the goods and then all the sudden Torretti said he thought someone was a mole. That he'd heard from some little 'boidies' that someone was singing to the cops."

"And that's when the fighting started?"

Woody shook his head. "Not quite. Torretti went from man to man, getting in their faces, accusing them of being the mole. I managed to throw him off the scent when he questioned me; I had an alibi for one of the things he accused me of… but then he got to Cal."

"He thought Cal was the mole?"

Woody shook his head again. "I don't think so. I don't think he thought Cal had the nerve. But it didn't take him too many questions to figure out that Cal knew who the mole was. Torretti started threatening him, and when that didn't get anywhere, he started bribing him. Offered him money, drugs. And that's when he gave me up."

Jordan sat there gaping, staring at Woody, who had stopped pacing and was fiddling with his sling again. "Your own brother gave up to the mob?"

He pounded his fist against his good leg. "Yup. The minute Cal was offered more drugs, he sold me out. I couldn't believe it. I froze. I froze, and in that instant," he held two fingers close together between their gaze, "that tiny instant where I wondered how the little brother that I had helped raise could betray me, Andriano and Torretti pulled their guns. By then I had pulled mine too, but that fraction of a second cost me. One bullet hit my vest, breaking a couple ribs and the other went through my shoulder before I could dive behind some crates."

"Jesus, Woody…"

He resumed his pacing. "The vice team outside had been listening to a wire I was wearing, so they'd already figured out that things were going to hell in a hand basket. After those first shots, there was just gunfire everywhere. It's all kind of a blur, but before I knew it, the good guys had won and both clips of my gun were empty."

Jordan finally stood, coming over to where he now stood on the other side of her office, facing away from her. Hesitatingly, she reached up to put one hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Woody," she said softly.

"Thanks," he replied softly. His good hand reached up, covering hers where it rested on his shoulder. After a moment, he turned back towards her, not letting go of her hand. "I just… I just don't understand, Jo. How could he do something like that? I mean, I'm sure he was mad at me for being so mad at him, but…"

"Stop it Woody. It wasn't anything you did. Your brother made his choice. And he had a lot of chances to get out, but he kept making the same choice." For once, finally, Jordan felt strong in such an emotionally charged situation. For once, she felt like she could help, like she could do something. She squeezed the hand that still held hers. "You showed him the path, Wood. You helped him; you took care of him after your parents died, helped him to NA, AA, GA, all the other whatever-A's. You set a good example and became a good cop, a good man. What he did after was his choice. It was nothing you did."

He nodded lightly, but bit one corner of his lip. Finally, he asked the question he had wanted to ask her since that one moment where his brother had betrayed him. "Was it… was it because he was addicted?"

Jordan started. She took her hand back and stuffed both hands in the back pocket of her jeans. Looking into his eyes, she could see that he was desperate for answers. That he was at a complete loss. The fragmented blue was brightened by the tears she knew he was holding back.

She took a breath, looking down. Her gaze settled on the fingers of his right hand, which lay cradled against his chest by the sling. His fingertips, rougher from lifting weights and whatever else he had been doing for the past three months, alternated between tapping against his chest and clenching into a fist. Finally, "It could be."

"That's it? It could be? So it could be something else. That he was a screwed up kid because I –" His voice rose with every word.

"Woody."

He stopped at her voice, abruptly collapsing onto the couch and burying his head in his hands. "Please, Jordan. Just give me the answer. Why did my little brother have to die?"

Jordan sat on the couch and ran her hand along his back, hoping to soothe him. He didn't shy from her touch, but leaned into it, and she felt herself relaxing. "I can't say for certain Woody. Cal is – was the only person who can answer that, so we'll never know. But I do know this. To realize that you are addicted is one of the hardest things. And even when you do, it's hard to ignore the drive behind it. You know it's wrong, but you keep wanting to do whatever it is you're addicted to. And from what I've learned, it's harder to stop the longer you've been addicted."

"So, if he'd gotten better help sooner…?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying. You gave him so much help, just like you did for me. It was his choice what he did with it."

"But I gave him the wrong kind of help. Just like I did for you. I just made things worse for you; I enabled you. It wasn't until I left that you started to get better. I coddled Calvin just like I did you. So what happened to him is my fault."

"Damn it Woody! Will you stop trying to take the blame for your brother's mistakes!"

He looked up suddenly at her outburst. "Jordan, I –"

"Look, Hoyt, this is the last time I'm going to tell you. What happened today was Not. Your. Fault. Yes, you tried to help your brother. And maybe it wasn't the kind of help that he needed. But Woody, you tried the tough love approach too, remember? Six months ago. You did everything in your power to help him. What happened to him was a result of the choices he made, today and for the past twenty years. And from what got when I met him, I could see that he wasn't stupid; he knew the risks, and he made the same damn choices anyway.

Woody stared at her a moment longer, not saying anything, just allowing a meaningful silence to settle over them both. After what seemed like forever, Jordan saw the despair begin to leave his eyes. His shoulders dropped, and he fell back against the couch. "I know. I was just… I don't know… hoping that… that…"

"That it was someone else's fault? Even if that someone was you."

He was still for a while, but then nodded.

Neither one said anything for awhile. Abruptly the silence was broken by the sound of someone tapping on her glass window. Looking up, she saw Lily in the doorway. Lily was mouthing something, which Jordan was able to interpret as, "They need you now." Jordan nodded, but held up one finger, signaling that she would be just a minute longer. Looking back at Woody, she asked him, "What are you going to do now?"

He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the hand of his good arm. "I'm not really sure. I have to take care of Cal; I want to take him home and bury him next to mom and dad. But first, I have to stop by the station and turn in my report. And I'm going to have to find a new apartment and get all my stuff out of storage… Jeez, remind me never to go undercover again."

Jordan watched his hand fall heavily back to his side. His eyes remained closed. It was easy to see that the adrenaline that had built up over the last few hours was wearing off fast. She had no doubt that what he needed to do most right now was sleep. She stood and reached to the far corner of the couch, pulling out the throw blanket that had been pushed into the corners of the couch. "Well Woods, my 'professional' opinion, is that you look like you're dead on your feet. No pun intended. So, why don't you just take a nap on the couch here, while I go help them process all the evidence? As soon as I can, I'll come back and help you take care of all that stuff, okay?" While she spoke, she put one hand on his shoulder, guiding him carefully into a more comfortable position. And he let her.

As she draped the blanket over his torso and shoulders, he eyes cracked open, revealing a hint of his bright blue eyes. "You'll come back?"

"Hey… no worries, okay? I promise," she agreed when he started to frown. "And you'll still be here when I come back, right?"

"No, I won't walk away again," he replied sleepily, eyes drifting shut, this time in sleep rather than weariness.

Jordan opened the door, but hovered in the doorway a bit longer, waiting until she heard his breathing even out. "And I'll never give you reason to," she promised.

Quietly, she closed the door, and went to help the others.