It had been many weeks since she made this same trip to Rikers, and as the metal doors swung closed behind them, she felt a shudder. On her last visit, she had stared across the table at the man who had terrorized and brutalized her in her home. But her hand remained steady as she signed her name and took the visitor's tag. They walked down a long hall and through another set of doors, into a small visitation room where the accused awaited them, along with his defense attorney. Claire was not surprised to see a familiar head of auburn-brown, and flashing dark eyes beneath a formidable countenance. Cases such as this were precisely the kind that Danielle Melenick loved; controversial, and headline grabbing.
The defendant stood near the window, which was too high to see out, with arms crossed. He was rather tall and angular in feature, with a mercenary brow and muscular forearms. He dwarfed his council, who was a powerhouse of energy despite her tiny size. "Jack," she said with a slight edge to her voice, for everyone knew the friendly rivalry between them, "I was surprised to get your call. I hope this is worth an hour of my time in midday traffic."
Resting his business case on the small metal table, McCoy glanced across at the defendant. "I'm here to remove the death penalty from the table in exchange for a plea," he said quietly. It was not what she expected. Whenever McCoy had such a strong circumstantial case, he loved letting it go to the jury. He would tear apart her witnesses on the stand, and paint such a strong picture of the horrific crime that on occasion, one of the jurors would leave the box in tears. She had known him a long time, and learned on their first trial together never to underestimate him. But there was nothing of manipulation in his gaze as he stared across at her, only tired resignation that indicated he was no more pleased about it than she was.
"You surprise me, Jack," she said after a moment, taking a seat behind the table. It was a motion the others copied, all except the defendant, who remained silent in the far corner. Claire could not help watching him, studying the profile that was turned from her in all coldness. There was a sense of profound quiet to his stance that she found disconcerting. "I thought Adam Schiff would want blood, considering Vin Dissel is one of his most supportive constituents."
"The family of the victim would prefer the details of the case not be made public, but if your client doesn't accept the deal, make no mistake: I will bring out every sordid little detail and let the jury decide what to do with him. It's the quickest route to the needle. The general public has very little patience for pedophiles."
His eyes, as he turned them on the defendant, were cold. Claire, seated at his side, could sense nothing of the man she spent so much time with, nothing of the sense of humor that invaded long hours pouring over documents and eating cold take-out. There was something in him that she couldn't explain, some deep-rooted hatred that flowed from his form into hers effortlessly. It was more than revulsion at the case they were forced to try, at the thought of the burly figure harming a helpless child.
Danielle leaned her arm against the back of her chair and turned to look at her client. "Ben?"
He came nearer the table, frustration expressed in the motions of his large, weathered hands. He was a carpenter and the strong fingers were deformed over years of abuse. "I didn't do it, and I'll tell you what you can do with your deal."
Jack's eyes narrowed and he pushed away from the table. "Always good to see you, Danielle," he said.
The attorney smiled slightly and removed a familiar blue notice from her bag. "Don't sign the death certificate yet, Jack."
She handed it to Claire, who lifted her eyebrows in disbelief at the contents. "Extreme Emotional Disorder?" she demanded. "How do you justify that?" Her brown eyes lifted from the typewritten page and shifted to the figure still standing silent in the background. Ben Grantlund met her unwavering gaze without hesitation. There was something cold about him. She could not determine what it was that unsettled her, but it lingered in his countenance and the hardness of his gaze.
"My client was aware of the horrific home environment Samantha Brewer was subject to," Danielle intervened, "and in a moment of panic, removed her from the premises. He never intended to harm her. He was trying to protect her."
Jack could not keep his disbelief out of his voice, straining the gravely tone slightly as he exclaimed, "Oh, really? Then maybe he would care to explain why he wrapped plastic around her neck, and held her underwater until she drowned!"
"You don't know what they intended to do to her!" shouted the defendant, and he was halfway across the table before anyone had time to respond. Jack never flinched, looking into the man's eyes only a short distance away from his. The door flew open and the guard came in to restrain Grantlund, dragging him back as he shouted, "I was only trying to help her!"
Danielle looked as shaken as the others felt, turning with one hand on her lip to regard them with something akin to self-satisfaction. "You cannot tell me he doesn't have an emotional defense in court," she said. "I'll see you at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, in Judge Tremlin's office." She picked her case up off the table and left them. Jack rose to his feet, feeling his heart slowly return to its normal pulse, and closed his hand around the chain link. When she could speak, Claire inquired, "Do you think he's mentally incompetent, Jack?"
"How much of a difference would it make if he were?" His hand still on the wall, Jack turned to her with resignation. "He abducted, terrorized, and murdered a child, Claire. He has a temper, but that's not a mental disorder, and the rest could be an act. It's easy to cry wolf after the fact. We know he took Samantha from her home a week after he finished a job they had commissioned from his company. We know her body was found eight blocks from his apartment in a dumpster, and the plastic wrapped around it was covered in his fingerprints. We have an eyewitness that puts him with a little girl at the subway station. He has admitted the kidnapping charge. Murder is not that big a leap in a juror's mind."
Claire's heels made a clicking sound on the cement floor. In them, she was able to look McCoy almost in the eye. He was excessively tall, a fact that diminished other people in the courtroom and gave him the advantage. Eyes instinctively followed him, even when he was seated. "Do you think she has a chance of convincing them otherwise?" Claire asked, as they signed out.
Jack finished scribbling his name, barely legible, on the sign out sheet, and removed the visitor's clip from his lapel. "Danielle is a good attorney," he relented, "and Tremlin enjoys chaos in his courtroom. The question is whether or not the jury will buy it. If they do, she's just removed the needle from her client's arm, although he still could get life. What he said about Samantha's parents has me concerned. Have Briscoe and Logan find out all they can about the Vin Dissels."
"He's one of Adam's biggest supporters. Adam isn't going to like us digging through his trash."
Pushing open the outer door into the parking lot, Jack retorted, "I really don't care."
Claire had been so focused on the case that only now she realized how glad she was to be out of Rikers, to breathe deeply of the salty air blowing across the prison yard. This would give her something to sink her teeth into, something to avoid the melancholy thoughts that came to her in odd hours, in moments of silence; the memories that she was attempting to forget, all but one: Jack holding her in his arms.