Hello! I apologize because this is a short chapter, but I had a very specific place I wanted to end it at, so it ended up being shorter than usual. If you're looking for something to read after this, I posted an EO birthday one-shot called Until You earlier this week. Just a short, happy (I promise!) little fic for those of you who are interested *end shameless self-promotion*
A/N: this chapter is 1000% less emotionally devastating than the last. I guarantee it. No sex/violence/anything else to warn for other than Jimmy Mac being devious. As always, I'm not a medical or legal professional and all mistakes are my own. Title from you can call me al by paul simon.
Thank you once again to everyone who's reading, whether you've been with me since the beginning or you've just started recently, and thankyouthankyou to everyone who takes the time to let me know their thoughts here or on twitter. I'm interested to see your reactions to this one- did you see the end coming? Guesses as to what's going to happen next? And what do you think Elliot's been up to all this time? Is he staying out of trouble (unlike liv)?
Once again, passages in italics are from Jimmy Mac's POV. I'm going to miss him when he's gone...
[hey liv. Haven't heard from you in a while. things ok? we still on for coffee after your appt on Tues? -E]
[swamped at work and had to cancel w/ Dr., so I can't, but maybe next week?]
The part about you being busy is true. Amanda's becoming even more secretive, calling out sick when, according to Nick and Fin, she's not actually sick at all. They know this because they've been hunting her down on company time without bothering to inform you first- something you might expect from Nick, but Fin usually has more sense than that. Of course, you also expected Fin to attempt an apology after your run-in at the bar the other night. He hasn't, nor has anyone else brought it up. You wonder what the conversation was like after you left. Did they make plans to meet again, maybe at somebody's apartment this time?
You wish you could talk to Elliot about it, just like you wish you could tell him about everything else that's going on with the unit, about how you feel like you're rapidly losing whatever control you might have once had where your squad is concerned. He's always been the one you've gone to in situations like this, seeing as how it's tricky to discuss work shit with Brian for obvious reasons. You trust Brian to keep the confidential things you tell him to himself, but you know it's an uncomfortable position for him to be in, and you don't want a repeat of the whole debacle with him and Nick.
Besides, you haven't said much of anything to each other over the last few days. He comes home late, alcohol on his breath, and reaching over to his side of the bed to search out his hand is the closest thing to communication that you have.
You wonder if there will come a night where you'll reach out and he'll just turn away.
So now that you're not talking to Brian, you're not ready to face Elliot, and you don't trust anyone at work, the only people you have left are the ones who get paid to listen to you. Too bad, because you're feeling a little burned out on the whole therapy thing right now. It's not getting you anywhere, as evidenced by your last session with Dr. Lindstrom when he asked about your 'resentment toward Amanda. I'm wondering if there's a part of you that blames her for bringing Lewis into your life, or that's angry because you don't understand why he chose to fixate on you and not her.' The fact that he would even ask that question, when the 'why' is so glaringly obvious...he might as well have looked you right in the eyes in that unblinking way of his and confessed that he hasn't listened to a single word you've said in the last nine months.
Fuck it, you don't need people to talk to anyway. You have a cat now.
Good journalists are patient. They take their time and observe carefully, waiting for a story to emerge.
Great journalists, however, get out there and *make* stories happen.
And for a chosen few at the pinnacle of their profession, the stories they find and the stories they create converge in a way that not even Edward R. Murrow himself could have ever imagined.
Such was my experience on one particularly fortuitous afternoon. I had just finished making some calls, gathering the information I needed to begin the next phase of this assignment, when Amaro and Rollins came charging into the squad room with Amaro calling his sergeant's name.
In rather dramatic fashion, they revealed a low-quality cellphone video of Sean (this teenager with unexplained injuries who has been the subject of so much debate) burning his own genitalia with a Bic lighter. Having been less than successful when it came to 9th grade academics, Sean had decided to pursue a career in 'Xtreme' stunts in the hope of garnering YouTube fame and fortune. When the consequences of this Xtreme Xperiment landed him in the hospital, he panicked and asked a friend to hold onto his phone, which he would claim had been stolen at school.
Now, I'm no detective, but I could've cracked this case a long time ago. I've been in this business long enough to know that there's nothing people *won't* do to see their name in print, including 'putting rocks up your ass' (a direct quote from Det. Amaro). When Rollins originally suggested that these might be self-inflicted injuries, I struggled to keep my agreement to myself, as journalistic ethics require me to maintain neutrality at all times. (And more importantly, because I needed to convince Benson that I'm on her side if I was ever going to make this story happen).
Perhaps not shockingly, Benson's first response was to suggest that this video was somehow not legitimate. Maybe the genitals in question didn't belong to Sean? No, a full-body shot confirmed that he was the rightful owner. Maybe he made this video under duress, possibly at the urging of his cousin? No, there was no one else around when it was filmed, and Sean himself admitted that the idea was his and his alone.
"There's no crime here, just a messed up kid who needs some serious counseling," was how Rollins summed it up.
Benson was still unconvinced, wondering aloud if this wasn't another lie Sean had come up with to protect a mystery perpetrator. At this point Amaro became visibly frustrated, asking Benson why she was so determined to 'make this into some kind of conspiracy' after they had already 'wasted so much time, if we had just followed up on the missing phone from the beginning- but you insisted we keep questioning him and his cousin again and again.' As if this wasn't already enough to anger her, Amaro also threw out the idea that she 'kinda owes Amanda an apology, cause it looks like she was right even though you kept shooting her down.'
For her part, Rollins quickly assured her sergeant that no apology was needed ('I'm just glad we got this solved, that's all that matters.'). Amaro disagreed, but the icy stares he received from both women were enough to silence him.
Benson instructed the two detectives to finish up their paperwork and then left to continue fuming behind closed doors. With everyone now temporarily occupied, I retreated to the conference room to finalize my plans.
Some readers may find what I was about to do unnecessarily cruel. I wish to assure those readers that I bear no ill will toward Sergeant Benson, nor was I attempting to add to her obvious emotional anguish. On the contrary, I respect her as a competent fellow human, and that is why I cannot let any misguided feelings of sympathy prevent me from doing whatever needs to be done in order for me to get my story.
She had her chance. As a matter of fact, she's had dozens of chances to make good on her promise to me and sit down for an interview. But every time I get cancelled on ('sorry, but this is confidential, why don't you spend some time with Fin?'), dragged off to some irrelevant errand ('I want you to meet this orphaned child I found'), or lied to ('Brian and I have a wonderful relationship').
And so today, Jimmy Mac is taking back control of this situation.
After my enlightening conversations with Benson's neighbors, I decided to do more research into this alleged suicide attempt. I got several eyewitness accounts, but I needed more of the backstory, so I started putting in calls to the staff at Mercy Hospital.
Throughout the years, I've cultivated a very fine working relationship with some of the women at Mercy. Women who know the importance of the work I do *and* the importance of me having access to all the information necessary to tell these stories. Because of this, I was able to gain some insight into Benson's recent hospital stay and its aftermath.
(As an aside- watch for my special report in next Sunday's Ledger, in which I expose egregious HIPAA violations at Mercy Hospital. Are your medical records being kept confidential? Not if you're a patient at Mercy!).
My findings were intriguing. She had been brought in by ambulance with a suspected head/neck injury from a fall, but she was extremely agitated and was given a sedative as soon as possible after her arrival. No head injuries were found- just a twisted ankle and a sprained wrist and shoulder along with assorted cuts and bruises. More interestingly, however, was what they discovered when they went to x-ray her shoulder. She had serious burns on both arms, some of which had become infected. They were likely from matches or a lighter and appeared to be recent injuries.
Cassidy, who was at the hospital with her, said he'd been away for a week and knew nothing about them. He noticed she looked sick when he got home that evening but assumed it was because she'd been drinking. They had an argument and she ran out of the apartment, and by the time he caught up to her it was already too late to keep her from falling down a flight of stairs. When asked if he thought she was suicidal, he said he didn't know, but that she had talked about wanting to die on multiple occasions. He said that she had a fear of fire but presumed the burns were self-inflicted, which led the doctors to believe that her fall was probably purposeful.
When she was coherent enough to talk to one of the hospital psychiatrists, she vehemently denied any suicide attempts. She admitted that she was drinking that night, and that she decided to go outside and get some fresh air after a disagreement with Cassidy. She got dizzy and lost her footing at the top of the stairs, but it was an accident, and she also claimed she rarely drank to excess (Cassidy disagreed on that one). When the psychiatrist asked about the burns, she said she didn't remember what caused them. She admitted that they were self-inflicted and then refused to say anything further.
The psychiatrist let her go home in the early morning with the stipulation that she was not to be left alone or have any access to alcohol or firearms. She returned for a follow-up appointment the next day and hasn't had any repeat ER visits since that time. But that's not the most interesting part.
When Benson's insurance company received the invoice from the hospital, they refused to pay on the grounds that they don't cover suicide attempts, leaving her with a bill of over 10,000 dollars. She had filed multiple appeals but had been turned down every time.
I discussed this situation with several of my colleagues and had an overeager intern spend hours researching insurance law. As I suspected, what the company was doing was completely illegal. I was outraged. If there's one thing that I'm known for, it's my selfless dedication to the common man and my tireless quest for justice on their behalf. My moral compass is strong and unwavering!
Determined to right this wrong, I contacted the insurance company to let them know that Jimmy Mac is not going to look the other way while they defraud an innocent woman. I waited until everyone else had left for the day and then went to apprise Benson of the situation.
You pick up yet another budget form and sign your name again- what a joke, putting you in charge of anything budget related when you're almost broke in real life. Clearly money management is not your forte.
Come to think of it, neither is personnel management. Amanda's over her 'illness' and back at work, seemingly no worse for the wear, but you know that Nick and Fin are still conducting their own surveillance missions even after you told them in no uncertain terms to knock it off. Good to know that they respect your authority.
You're all alone in the office (or so you thought), shuffling paper to avoid going home when Jimmy knocks on your doorframe. "Jesus, what the hell are you doing here? You scared me...I thought you already left for the day."
"No, no, I had some other business to attend to but I came back because we have something very important to discuss."
"Can it wait until tomorrow? I was just about to leave, Brian and I have dinner plans-" He passes you a scrap of paper with a dollar amount written on it, and you quirk your eyebrow at him. "What is this, a ransom note?"
He shakes his head, frowning and then pausing for a long dramatic sigh. "No. It's the amount you owe to Mercy."
I knew that from that minute forward, I had her complete undivided attention. It was as if the Lord himself had delivered her directly into my hands.
Don't get me wrong, she tried to deny it at first. But you didn't have to be a detective to notice how her face went white and her hands started trembling like a junkie in their first night at detox. She couldn't even manage a full coherent sentence, but yet she expected me to believe that I must be mistaking her for some other suicidal Olivia Benson who also just happened to be employed by the NYPD? If I fell for excuses like that, I wouldn't sleep with two Pulitzers next to my pillow (which I do).
Once she ran out of words and lapsed into a stunned silence, I calmly gave her the run-down of what I had managed to uncover. "Who told you...how did you...," she stuttered, and I admit that at this point I almost ran out of patience. If she hasn't figured out by now that when Jimmy Mac wants something, he gets it...then when will she?
Regardless, I managed to stay cool and collected until I had finished what I had to say. She looked straight at me like that was supposed to be intimidating (when I could tell she was very nearly in tears) and told me that she had NOT tried to kill herself. Do I believe her? To be honest, I'm not sure what I believe. But I knew I had to remain objective, so I played along and nodded sympathetically and made frowny faces (my youthful appearance is all natural, no Botox for me!). "People these days only want to believe the worst," I reassured her. "But I can tell, just from what I've gotten to know about you- that you would never do something like that. You're so much stronger than they think you are."
Her eyes lit up at that last statement and I tucked that observation away in my mind for future reference. I told her that I've seen it before, that people want to create problems that don't exist because they don't trust you when you say there's nothing wrong...but *I* believe her. Which is why I hoped she would believe me when I said that we could keep this entire incident between the two of us. No one else needed to know.
I could tell that a part of her was still cautious, but nonetheless she looked so relieved that I started to fear she might faint. She thanked me profusely, telling me that 'nobody ever believes me', and that she just hopes she can get things resolved with her insurance company before word leaks out to anyone around the department.
"Oh, I took care of that," I said nonchalantly.
America in 2014 is a cruel place. Everyone's attempting to scale the ladder of capitalism, to shove and elbow their way through the masses in a frantic climb toward that brass ring of success. We no longer view our fellow man as an equal, the way our founding fathers intended, but as an obstacle to be conquered on our quest for the three F's- fame, fortune, and...well, this is a family publication. I'll let you figure the third one out on your own.
It's with this backdrop of unbridled selfishness and deceit that I informed Sergeant Benson of what I had done for her. Perhaps that explains her initial reaction: "I don't understand."
I told her that I had contacted the insurance company and after a very fruitful conversation with some of the upper management, they had agreed to pay the balance still owed to the hospital.
She wasn't convinced. "But why?"
"I've made a living out of fighting for the little guy," I reminded her. "They know me- we move in the same circles- and they know that when Jimmy Mac sets out to accomplish something, he gets results."
"So you blackmailed them," she surmised.
"Does it matter?" I finally get a chuckle out of her with that remark. "I assure you that you won't be hearing from them again."
"I still don't get why you'd do this," she insists, and I wonder how jaded she must be to not comprehend why anyone would do something solely to benefit another human being. Maybe she will be harder to crack than I thought?
Or maybe not. I give her one of my winning smiles and explain that I've seen how hard she works, even if her ungrateful and ill-behaved squad members don't. I saw how she was let down during the trial by the very system she's devoted her entire life to, and I couldn't bear the thought of her being victimized once again by a greedy insurance company just because no one believed her when she told the truth about her *accidental* fall.
She tells me she doesn't know what to say. "I mean...thank you. It's just so...I didn't expect it. I guess I really owe you one now, huh?"
"Oh, don't worry about that," I scoff, as if it was the last thing on my mind. "But I suppose, if you insist- would you do me the favor of going to dinner with me tomorrow night? Anywhere you want. We'll have some drinks, we'll chat...only what you want to talk about, of course. You call the shots."
One corner of her mouth turns up a little as she agrees.
Success.