Precedent
The alarm drilled through McCoy's head like a jackhammer. He struggled to open his eyes, fumbling on the bedside table until he managed to knock the alarm onto the floor where it went on howling, only slightly muffled by being face-down on the carpet.
Oh god. His head hurt. Hurt is not a strong enough word. The dull throbbing in his temples was not quite migraine quality, but it came close. How much did I have to drink last night?
McCoy forced himself to open his eyes and sat up. The movement made him aware of how nauseous he was and he bolted for the bathroom, reaching the basin just in time. The spasms of retching seemed to increase the pain in his head exponentially and when he could catch his breath he leaned against the bathroom counter, eyes closed and pulse racing, willing the pounding in his skull to subside.
God, how much did I have to drink last night, he thought.
He couldn't remember.
Sweat broke out on his face. He couldn't remember.
Not, maybe four, maybe five if you count the half-glass of wine that was left in the bottle at the end of the meal can't remember, but –
The night was a blank.
Drinking at the Lord Roberts with Keri. Two drinks there. Then –
Blank.
His stomach turned and he leaned over the basin again, coughing up a little sour bile. Never in his life had Jack McCoy been drunk enough to lose an entire evening into a black hole of alcoholic amnesia. And it's not like there haven't been times I wished I could. Even that one night he'd have given anything to forget, that night when, barely able to stand, he'd staggered into his apartment to hear the ringing phone, to hear Adam Schiff's voice cracking out of the answering machine, even that night he could recall with agonizing clarity. But last night –
Nothing.
He splashed water on his face, swallowed a palmful and retched it up again. Jesus.
Nothing.
By the time he made it in to the office his stomach had settled a little but the night before was still a void. He sank into his desk chair and pulled the nearest file toward him, staring sightlessly at the words as they blurred in front of him. People v Chan … precedent of … motion in limine -
"Well, you look like crap," Regan said from the doorway. McCoy looked up to see her studying him with what he thought of as her 'cop face': impersonal, incurious. Impervious. "Rough night?"
"I'm not in the fucking mood, Regan," he snarled irritably. Her eyes widened a little at the edge to his voice, but she only shrugged a little.
"I've rescheduled O'Connell and his lawyer for two," she said, exactly as if McCoy's answer had been reasonable. For some reason that annoyed McCoy further, and he grunted an acknowledgement, turning back to his file. "Okay, then," Regan said, voice light and even. "I'll be prepping for today's arraignments."
"Then go," McCoy said shortly, frowning at his papers.
After a moment he heard his door close and looked up again, thinking that Regan had closed it as she left.
Keri Dyson stood just inside his office, door closed behind him. She held a large buff envelope defensively in front of her chest.
"ADA Dyson," McCoy said. Two drinks with her last night, and then … what? "What can I do for you?"
She took a step forward and the light from the window fell full across her face. One eye was black and swollen, her lip split, her cheek bruised.
"Jesus," McCoy said involuntarily, springing to his feet. "What the – Keri, did someone – ?"
Her lip trembled, her eyes filled with tears.
"Sit down," McCoy urged, taking a few quick steps toward her. "Sit – "
"Don't touch me!" she cried desperately, backing away. "Don't come any closer!"
The fear in her voice froze him where he stood.
Two drinks with her last night. And then …
What?
The shape of the answer to that question loomed up out of the dark. His stomach twisted and he felt sweat spring out cold on his face. Don't touch me!
Don't you come near me!
Not Keri's voice, but one he knew much better. One he'd heard every day of his life until the day he packed his bags and walked out the door, bound for law school, bound for New York City, bound for somewhere – anywhere – else. No, John, don't!
Different voice, but the same fear.
"Tell me," McCoy said. His voice sounded strange to him, far away. Please, John, don't! "Tell me."
"Tell you?" Keri asked. "Don't you – are you trying to pretend you don't know?"
McCoy shook his head. "I don't – don't remember. What happened. We had a couple of drinks. After …" He shook his head again. "I don't remember."
"You got loaded at the Lord Roberts," Keri said, voice dripping with acidic contempt. "I walked you home. I didn't want the tabloids to get a picture of you passed out in a gutter somewhere. I walked you home. And when I got you there – I wanted to leave. And you – didn't want me to."
No, John, please, stop!
"Did I – " He couldn't get the words out. "Is that – your face. Are you saying – ?"
"If you want to pretend you can't remember, fine," Keri said angrily. "But if you think that will let you get away with it, you can think again." She fumbled with the envelope she carried, got it open and yanked out a folder. She edged closer to him, slapped the folder down on his desk and backed away. "It's all there. Take a look."
Numbly, McCoy picked the folder up and looked at the pages inside. Mercy General ER … Keri Dyson … A clinical list of injuries, a doctor's signature.
"I never thought you'd be the kind of man who'd – " Keri's voice faltered. "I never thought – "
"Neither did I," McCoy said, but it was a lie. No, John, don't – stop! Please! Nature or nurture, either way, he'd always known what his family inheritance was, always told himself that he wouldn't, he couldn't, turn into his father.
Always wondered if he could erase that heritage by determination alone.
And now I know.
Now I know I can't.
"Are you pressing charges?" he asked Keri. His voice was cool and professional, and he heard it as if it belonged to someone else.
"That would finish you," she said. "And maybe you deserve to be finished. But – but maybe there's a way out." She shrugged. "You were drunk. You acted – out of character, I don't know you well enough to tell. But should you lose everything because of it?"
"Mercy beyond the law is above your pay scale," McCoy said. As if we're talking about somebody else. "You're an officer of the court. You know your responsibilities."
"The law also provides for restitution," Keri said. "For making things right. And you could – you could make restitution, Mr. McCoy. You could make things right." Her gaze hardened a little. "I've been stuck down in Identity Theft for a year. I'll never make it up the ladder unless I get some real prosecutions on my record. I hear there's an opening in Narcotics."
"You want a transfer to Narcotics?" McCoy asked.
"You can make it happen," Keri said. "And if you did … I wouldn't feel the need to walk down to Complaints and tell them about how I was assaulted last night."
McCoy looked at her for a moment. "You want me to get you transferred – promoted. And in exchange, you won't press charges against me."
"That's about it exactly," Keri said, nodding.
All those cases I prosecuted, all those crooked lawyers and corrupt cops, using their power in the system to create a little wriggle room for themselves … And me, so smug, so superior, so certain it would never be me.
"I need to make a phone call," McCoy said slowly.
"I'll wait," Keri said.
"I think you should," McCoy told her. He picked up the receiver and weighed it his hand. Final things should have more fanfare.
But they never did. The slam of a screen door, the recorded message on a pager service, the tone on the line as you wait to dial … Final moments came quietly.
He dialed an extension, waited for the voice.
.oOo.
