Judicial Notice
Judge William Wright's Chambers
Supreme Court
100 Centre St
11.45am Thursday May 10h 2007
Judge Wright pulled off his robes, getting briefly tangled and finally jerking himself free just as Regan thought perhaps she should step forward and offer assistance.
He flung them in a bundle onto his desk, glaring at Jack McCoy.
"I will not have an appeal ploy run in my courtroom!" he said.
"That isn't my intention, your honor," McCoy said from where he stood slightly behind Regan, as befitted a defendant. About the only part of being a defendant he's got right, Regan thought sourly.
"It certainly looks that way to me!" Wright snapped.
"I didn't know they handed out psychic powers with the robes these days," McCoy retorted.
"Keep talking, Mr. McCoy, you can see the inside of a jail cell sooner than you might have expected," Wright warned.
"Your honor," Regan said desperately, "Emotions are clearly running a little high, if I might have a moment to talk to my client – "
"Do you have a reasonable expectation of having any more luck talking sense to your client in 'a moment' than you have had in the past week?" Wright demanded.
Regan hesitated. "Not what I would describe as reasonable, your honor," she said, and tried to manufacture a smile. "But where there's life, there's hope."
"No," Wright said shortly. "Now listen to me, Mr. McCoy, Ms Markham, Mr. Cutter – this trial is turning into a farce. Both defense and prosecution want to rush into my courtroom, and when you get here I have a prosecutor whose case is falling apart as he presents it and who hasn't taken even the most rudimentary steps to assure himself of the veracity of his evidence, and a defendant who has tied his counsel's hands behind her back."
Cutter raised his eyebrows, shooting Regan a knowing glance. She glared at him, lip curling in disdain. Not the time for innuendo, Mr. Cutter, her stony stare said as clear as she could make it, and Cutter had the grace to look abashed.
"I am entitled to instruct my attorney as I see fit," McCoy said.
"You're also entitled to competent representation. At the moment, you're on track to securing a conviction for yourself in a case that, quite frankly, shouldn't have gotten past the grand jury, and which is based on evidence that I am beginning to suspect would not have survived a motion in limine drafted by a public defender on her first traffic court trial." Wright took a deep breath.
"Your honor – " McCoy started.
"I'm not finished!" Wright roared. "I am going to salvage a trial out of this circus. Mr. Cutter, prepare your case. Mr. McCoy, get the hell out of the way of your lawyer. She's doing the best she can –"
"Why don't I save us all some time and change my plea to guilty right now?" McCoy suggested with a grimace that Regan thought he probably intended as a wry smile.
"Why don't you shut up," Regan said between gritted teeth.
"Excellent advice from your counsel," Wright said. "You should take it. And as to your offer to change your plea, I am not satisfied that a factual basis exists to support the charges to which you'd be pleading. You should have jumped off the cliff earlier, Mr. McCoy."
"My attorney talked me out of it," McCoy said.
"You should listen to her more often," Wright said. "When we come back after lunch, Mr. McCoy, Ms Markham is going to start acting like a defense lawyer. I will not have my courtroom turned into some kind of pro-forma performance. If Ms Markham passes on the cross of one more witness I will declare a mistrial."
"You have no grounds," Cutter and McCoy said in unison, and then shot startled glances at each other.
"Feel free to appeal," Wright said. "Either of you. Both of you. And we can do all this again – as many times as it takes, Mr. McCoy, for you to get a proper defense." He stared at McCoy. "Now get out of here, all of you. When we resume after lunch I expect this trial to be a trial."
Without waiting to see McCoy's reaction, Regan turned on her heel and left Wright's chambers. She stumbled out into the corridor, clutching her briefcase, struggling for breath, darkness hazing the edges of her vision.
"It'll be alright, Regan," McCoy said behind her, and she turned. He seemed to be a long way away down a dark corridor, his voice barely audible over the buzzing in her ears, over the sound of gunfire and screaming. "You'll just walk through it, there's no way he can rule on whether or not you're – "
Regan held up her hand to stop him, tried to speak and failed. She turned away. Help me, Ellie, help me, it hurts …
"Regan!" McCoy said, stepping around her to get in front of her again, hand on her shoulder, face close to hers. "It'll be fine. You just ask a few standard questions and Wright will be satisfied."
Regan's stomach heaved. Wright wants this trial to be a trial? With a client who won't help himself and a defense attorney who doesn't know enough of what she's doing to help him?
Can't save Jack.
Can't ever save anyone.
Regan pushed past McCoy hard enough to stagger him and headed down the long dim corridor, trying to ignore the screaming.
"Regan," McCoy called as she strode away. She didn't stop.
Oh god, Ellie, help me, help me, it hurts, oh god it hurts …
"Regan!" McCoy was following her, sounding angry. "We're not done!"
Regan kept walking, almost breaking into a run. Her gut twisted and she coughed, swallowed bile, clamped her hand over her mouth and shouldered past a couple of lawyers deep in conversation and pushed open the door to the restroom.
"Regan!"
The door closed on McCoy, cutting him off.
Help me, oh god, help me, El, help me, it hurts, oh god, it hurts!
Regan stumbled to the sink, dropping her briefcase. Her head was splitting, her face and hands were cold as ice. Her chest ached and she couldn't get her breath, tasting blood in her mouth, and hearing nothing but screaming and screaming help me help me help ….
Clutching the edge of the basin, Regan was barely able to feel the cool porcelain under her fingers as she fought to keep her knees from buckling.
Help me help me it hurts it hurts help me …
She retched violently, the spasms continuing even after her stomach was empty. Gasping for breath, she half-choked, coughed, spat bile into the sink and retched again. Help me, Ellie, it hurts …
Can't help you, she thought groggily, the room spinning around her. Can't help you. Can't help anyone.
"Regan?" McCoy said.
Regan turned her head to tell him he wasn't supposed to be in the women's restroom, to tell him to get the hell out, to leave her alone. Her eyes were watering, blurring her vision and sparing her from having to see his cold disapproval again.
Moving made her dizziness worse and she leaned over the basin again, dry-heaving.
"Need – a minute – " she managed to gasp.
And then McCoy's hand was warm and firm on her forehead, bracing her head, his other arm around her waist, holding her up as her knees threatened to fold.
The buzzing in her ears receded. The screaming faded. Regan found she could breathe. She leaned there, braced between the cold sink and McCoy's warm strength, taking careful little breaths.
"Something you ate?" McCoy asked her after a few moments, his voice gentler than she'd heard it in days, close by her ear.
"Must be," Regan mumbled. "Jack – I've gotta sit down – "
"Here you go." He helped her to the wall and when her knees gave, lowered her to the floor, crouching beside her. "Put your head between your knees."
Regan did as he advised, closing her eyes. The tile floor was cold and hard beneath her, the wall equally chill at her back, McCoy's hand on her shoulder warm. That was all she was capable of comprehending for a moment.
"Excuse me!" said an outraged female voice. "This is the women's restroom!"
"My colleague is unwell," McCoy said tersely. Regan heard cloth rustle. "Make yourself useful – go get a soda from the machine."
Regan opened her eyes enough to see him handing coins to a woman about his own age, whose expression was a mixture of outrage, concern, and bemusement.
"And don't take all day about it,' McCoy advised.
"Jack, I don't think I can drink a soda," Regan said weakly as the other woman departed on her errand, looking as if she wasn't quite sure why she was going.
"That's okay," McCoy said calmly. "It's for me,"
Regan was surprised to find herself giving a snort of laughter.
When the woman returned with the drink, McCoy dismissed her. Expecting the hear the pop of a ring-pull, Regan was surprised to suddenly feel the icy can on the back of her neck.
"Hold still," McCoy said. "Ice is better, but this'll help."
"I thought ice on the neck was for bloody noses," Regan mumbled.
"Old wives' tale," McCoy said. "Bloody nose needs ice on the nose. I thought a tough street cop like you would know that."
"Tough street cops give bloody noses, not get them," Regan said. She realized that she was indeed beginning to feel better. The swimming feeling in her head was fading, and she was able to focus on more than her immediate surroundings.
Focus on things like the afternoon ahead of her, instructed by her client to do the absolute minimum that would satisfy the judge, the closest thing to playing dead that she could manage.
No.
She couldn't do it.
She thought about getting up off the floor and walking out of the restroom, out of the courthouse. She knew from experience that she could fit everything she really needed into one suitcase. In a couple of hours she could be at the Port Authority, on a bus going somewhere – anywhere . She could vanish, just like last time, walk away from her failure, from what she'd done and what she hadn't, from what she'd become.
Except last time it was already over.
And last time it had been her partner who'd let her know there was no place for her where she was, not anymore, her partner – the one person she had no choice but to believe.
And this isn't over. Regan wanted to go, to run, she had the chance to do it before, this time, before she had one more failure to live with. But, You gonna walk away when your partner needs you, girl? an old man's voice asked her, creaky with age.
Gotta see it through. Like last time, gotta see it through.
But this time – there'd be no disappearing act, no way to slide out of her life and the lives of everybody who knew who and what she was. Whether I have a job or not.
This time, they wouldn't be burying the ones she couldn't help.
She knew, the knowledge as cold and solid as the cold can against her neck, that if she lost this case she'd be making the drive to wherever they put McCoy, week after week, signing the visitor's log and passing through the gates, sitting on the other side of the glass and trying to make small talk, trying to bring the world outside in to him, like all the other sisters and girlfriends and mothers and wives and friends.
Because her partner would need her.
Just like he needs me now.
And you don't leave your partner alone out there in the dark.
"You're doing fine in there," McCoy said reassuringly. "You can handle this afternoon."
"I'm not doing fine," Regan snapped, raising her head and dislodging the can from the back of her neck. McCoy caught it and put it against the line of her jaw, against the big vein in her neck. His hand wrapped around the can and his fingers brushed her skin, warm contrast to the cool metal. Regan covered his hand with her own and pulled it away. "I'm doing what you told me to do, and it isn't fine."
"I know you aren't happy with my instruction," McCoy said, his voice a little colder, "But that's how it is in private practice. The client gives the instructions. Whatever happens, it's on me, not you."
"You never get the ideal circumstances in a courtroom," Regan said. "Your job is to work with what you have. Sound familiar? You think I can walk away after this and tell myself, oh, well, wasn't my fault, didn't have much to work with? You ever tell yourself that, Jack?"
"This is different," McCoy said, gaze sliding away from hers.
"And you won't tell me why," Regan said bitterly.
"I've told you everything that's relevant," McCoy said. He stood up, looking down at her. "Now all you have to do is go back in there and follow your client's instruction."
Regan looked up at him, and then held out her hand. McCoy grasped it reflexively and she hauled herself to her feet, keeping hold of his hand so they were standing face-to-face and he couldn't turn away.
"I can't," she to him, feeling certainty as cold and reassuring as the can of soft-drink had been. "I can't, Jack – I can't stomach it."
She released him and turned to the basin, running the cold tap and splashing water over her face. Straightening up, she blinked water from her eyes and looked at him in the mirror.
"I'm going to win the case, with your co-operation or without it," she said steadily. "I'm going to go in there and win the case and you're going to sit there and behave."
"Or what?" McCoy said.
Regan grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped her face. "Or I'll have you removed from the courtroom pending a 730 exam."
"You can't – "
"You don't think Judge Wright would back me?" Regan asked, tossing the towels in the trash.
"A 730 requires a psychiatric hold, it'll be on the record – you want to win the case, you're willing to do it at the cost of any credibility I'll ever have?" McCoy said, taking an angry step toward her. "That's blackmail!"
Regan turned to face him, propping herself against the sink. "Yes it is," she said calmly.
"You cannot possibly justify – " McCoy started, voice rising.
"I'm not much interested in what I can justify at this point," Regan said. "Ask me what I can possibly get away with, that's a more productive question."
"You are so far over the line," McCoy said, taking another step forward, crowding her, glaring down at her angrily. "If you go 730, the next courtroom you see will be the Ethics Committee."
"I'm well aware of it," Regan said. She lifted her chin and poked him hard in the chest. "Didn't you tell me that winning is everything in the courtroom, that justice is the by-product of winning? I'm going to win this case, whatever the consequences to me or to you." Putting her hand flat on his chest, she pushed him back from her, turning toward the door. "Someone once told me that it was important to keep thinking like a lawyer. So I am. Get used it."
"Regan!" McCoy snapped angrily. "I'll call your bluff! You'll be finished – at the DA's Office, at the Bar."
"I know," Regan said. "But Jack – I'm not bluffing. Never make a threat you're not prepared to carry through, you told me, remember?" Hand on the door, she paused. "I'm not like you, Jack. I didn't start out as a lawyer. But you've done your best to make me into one." She gave him one final level glance. "Congratulations on your success."
.oOo.
