A/N: Ongoing thanks to RebeccaInley for sterling work as a beta and Lynn46 for kicking around ideas.
Fair Hearing
Judge William Wright's Chambers
8.30 am Tuesday May 8th 2007
"Is this your idea, Ms Markham?" Judge Wright asked.
"It's my motion, your honor," Regan temporized. She blinked gritty eyes and wished she'd had another two or three hours of sleep. On the upside, for the three days until I forget it all, I'll know more about speedy trial motions than the rest of the New York Bar Association put together.
Jack McCoy was an excellent and merciless tutor, and he was determined that Regan win this argument. He'd turned Abbie's dining room into his school-room, carting over boxes of books from his own apartment and grilling Regan on the intricacies of case law and legislation. He'd tried to rope Abbie in to play the part of the ADA opposing the motion , but she had flatly refused, telling him he was mad to press for trial before his lawyers had worked out a strategy and mad to think that keeping his attorney up until four in the morning was a good way to win anything.
Didn't stop him. McCoy had taken the parts of both the ADA and the judge and quizzed Regan until she was ready to cry from frustration and sheer weariness. Seeing her eyes fill with tears, McCoy had inquired acidly if she thought crying at the judge was a winning strategy?
At which point Regan had done what she probably should have done hours before: told him to go fuck himself, and gone to bed.
Now her mind felt thick and gluey, her thought struggling to move in a head crammed full of fact and precedent.
At least my client isn't here to stick another spanner in the works.
Judge Wright chuckled at Regan's careful choice of words. "Smart clients who know the law are a pain in the ass, aren't they?"
"Far be it for me to disagree with your honor," Regan said smoothly. "However, leaving aside any judicial opinions on the nature and location of pains that clients can cause their lawyers, I am here to argue on behalf of my client that he has the right, under the constitution, further defined by Barker v Wingo, to a speedy trial, which in this case would be a trial in the first possible gap in your calendar, your honor."
"The People have no objection," Connie Rubirosa said. Regan turned to stare at her in mingled astonishment and horror. First of all, since when did the D.A.'s Office want to be rushed into court? The longer we – they – have to build a case the better it is for the prosecution. Secondly –
Secondly, I was counting on the D.A.'s Office resistance to save me from being rushed into court with nothing more than a handful of speculation just because my client seems to have the criminal defendant's version of a deathwish.
"There are implications beyond this single trial at play here, your honor," Rubirosa went on. "The reputation of the D.A.'s Office – "
"The political future of the man sitting in the D.A.'s office," Judge Wright said shrewdly. "Your boss happy to get this off the front pages as quickly as possible, eh?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you might mean," Rubirosa said calmly.
Regan leaned closer to Rubirosa. "Connie, are you sure about this?" she asked, keeping her voice low so the judge wouldn't hear her.
"Are you?" Rubirosa returned.
"I'm sure," Wright said, and chuckled at the two attorney's look of surprise. "For future reference in my courtroom, ladies – I can hear a pin drop on a carpeted floor, metaphorically at least. Well, let's see. We have a speedy trial motion from the defense, uncontested by the prosecution – must be a first." He turned a few pages of his diary. "Fortunately for you, Ms Markham – although perhaps I should say unfortunately, given the look on your face – your colleague Tracey Kibre just persuaded one of Manhattan's less upstanding citizens to take a plea. How does Thursday sound?"
Regan swallowed hard. "Better than any defense attorney could hope for, your honor."
The gaze he gave her was shrewd. "Ms Markham, if it weren't for the rules governing ex parte communication, I might be tempted to give you some advice."
Regan managed to smile. "They do say it's the thought that counts, your honor."
"Given, however, that we do work within the boundaries set down by the Supreme Court, I will dispense some pearls of judicial wisdom to both the defense and prosecution. Pay attention, ladies. I know that this case is not run-of-the-mill for either of you. However, this is my courtroom, and I will not permit the identity of the defendant, the media interest, or anything else, hijack the criminal justice system. I have had the dubious pleasure of watching Jack McCoy tap-dance his way across very thin ice in my courtroom more than once – settle down, Ms Markham, I don't hold any grudges – and I have ever confidence that as a defendant he'll be just as prone to push the envelope. I won't have this trial turned into Jack McCoy's personal circus, or a media circus, or Mr. Arthur Branch's re-election platform. Am I completely clear?"
Regan nodded, and Rubirosa said: "Crystal, your honor."
As the two attorneys left Wright's chambers for the busy morning bustle of the courtroom corridors, Rubirosa touched Regan's arm. "You okay?" she asked. "You look a little – "
"I'm going to be sick!" Regan blurted, realizing it. She clapped her hand over her mouth and Rubirosa grabbed her elbow and steered her quickly across the corridor to the door marked 'Women'.
Regan made it to the basin before throwing up the toast and coffee she'd choked down before leaving Abbie's that morning.
Rubirosa waited a tactful moment before asking: "Are you alright?"
Regan nodded, not trusting her voice. She ran the tap and splashed water over her face. As she blinked her vision clear she saw Rubirosa holding out a handful of paper towels.
"Thanks." Regan wiped her face dry.
"Stomach flu?" Rubirosa asked.
"No," Regan said. "I'm just – " She stopped, remembering that this was not Connie Rubirosa, distant-but-friendly colleague, but ADA Rubirosa, second chair on the other side of the aisle. "I'm fine."
"You've got a tough gig," Rubirosa said, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
"Yours is tougher," Regan said. "At least I'm on the right side of this."
Rubirosa hesitated. "You sound very certain," she said, and Regan wondered if it was her imagination or if there was a question in the ADA's voice.
"I am, Connie," Regan said. She wadded up the paper towels and threw them in the trash.
"You're – close – to Jack," Rubirosa said. "It's natural you'd think that."
"Are you asking for a preview of my case?" Regan asked.
"From the look on your face when I folded my hand in there, you don't have a case."
"From the look on your face in arraignment yesterday, you're not so sure you have one either," Regan said, and knew she'd hit home when Rubirosa stiffened.
"Then your job ought to be easy," Rubirosa said. "If you're sure we don't have a case, put us to proof and get your 'not guilty' verdict."
"It's not good enough," Regan said. "This is already tabloid fodder. You might not make your case, but it will still follow Jack around for the rest of his career – his life. Will Joe Citizen think that 'not proven' is the same as 'innocent'?"
Rubirosa studied the toes of her shoes. "We're going to bring the case to trial, Regan," she said.
"You and Michael Cutter," Regan said. She remembered Serena's briefing on Michael 'Cut-throat' Cutter: hard-working, impressive conviction record, ruthlessly willing to exploit weakness in witnesses or opponents to get a win in court. He likes to win, Serena had said, and when Danielle Melnick had laughed and said that everybody liked to win, Serena had shaken her head. There's things I won't do, that you won't do. Even things that Jack won't do, although I've never worked out what. Word around the water-cooler in Narcotics is that there's nothing Cutter won't do.
Regan came back to the present as Rubirosa nodded, looking troubled. "He's never worked with Jack," she said. "Not even as much as me, and I only tried that one case with him last year."
Regan nodded, remembering that Rubirosa had been one of the ADA's who'd been churned-and-burned by McCoy in the months immediately after Alex Borgia's death.
"Branch – " Rubirosa said, then stopped. She took a quick step the side and looked under the doors of the stalls, making sure they were alone. "Branch promised him Jack's job if he wins the case," she said on a rush. "And all he knows about Jack is – all he knows is that he's a defendant. And Mike throws defendants in jail. By hook or by crook."
Regan absorbed the warning, nodding slowly. "Why did you fold so fast on speedy trial?" she asked.
"Mike is happy to get Dyson on the stand before her bruises fade," Rubirosa said.
"Does he trust you?" Regan asked.
Rubirosa laughed a little unhappily. "He won't if he gets wind of this conversation."
"Then play it straight," Regan said. "You don't know me. And that's easy, because Connie, you don't, not really, not to have a cup of coffee even. Work the case. Let Mike Cutter know you're coloring inside the lines."
"Protect myself," Rubirosa said a little bitterly.
"Make sure that when you put your point of view to him he doesn't dismiss it out of hand," Regan said quietly. "I was hoping for a fair hearing from the D.A's Office on this. Not special consideration, but not a jihad either."
Rubirosa shook her head. "You won't get it from Mike."
"He might not give me a fair hearing," Regan said. "So make sure he gives you one."
Rubirosa nodded, her expression telling Regan that it wasn't likely. Before she could say anything else, however, the door swung open and a pair of ADA's from Fraud hurried in, forestalling any further conversation.
Regan picked up her briefcase from the floor. When she straightened, Connie Rubirosa was gone.
.oOo.
A/N: Those of you familiar with the law will know that I have misused the concept of 'speedy trial' for the purposes of this story, as I did in Ghosts. In New York, statute defines the right to a speedy trial as requiring the prosecution to be ready for trial within six months on all felonies except murder, but just as I have spared the readers endless descriptions of people brushing their teeth and catching the subway to work, accidentally stepping on gum and picking up their dry-cleaning, I have spared myself six months of trial preparation. It's fanfic, guys! Whaddya want?
