McCoy pushed past the reporters.
He'd been hopeful that morning, before he and Regan had arrived at the courthouse. Once it had become clear that Mike Cutter was laying the groundwork for Regan's case with his questions to Keri Dyson, hope had strengthened to confidence.
The minute Dyson had started offering explanations for the holes in her story, McCoy had known they were going to win. The rest was a formality, a foregone conclusion, as Regan gently and sympathetically walked Dyson all the way up to a confession. He'd seen exactly the same approach a dozen, a hundred times, standing on the other side of the glass while Lennie Briscoe or Rey Curtis or Ed Green or Mike Logan, or, sometimes, Antia Van Buren sat with a suspect and told them how it was all completely understandable, how anyone would have done the same thing or at least wanted to. It would have pissed me off too, or those girls walking around with everything on display, what's a red-blooded man to do, or you know, when my kids start acting up I want to — or any one of a thousand other variations.
McCoy himself would have gone hard at that point, if he'd been cross-examining a witness whose story was coming apart around them right there in the witness box. He would have homed in on the contradictions, made the accusations right in the witness's face, called them a liar in exactly so many words.
People get angry when they're under attack, and angry people make mistakes.
That doesn't just apply to witnesses. McCoy had turned to Regan as Judge Wright left the courtroom, to thank her, to tell her how well she'd done, and caught sight of Lisbeth in the observers' section out of the corner of his eye. Fury came boiling back without warning, at Cutter for forcing Lisbeth to revisit a childhood no-one should have to remember, at Regan for her end-run around his explicit instructions, at both of them for knowing, damn them, and he'd never be able to look at either of them without knowing that they knew, without seeing the pity they'd try to hide.
The thought of Tracey Kibre was a lifeline and he used it to send Regan away before he could say anything he couldn't take back, and that neither of them would be able to forget.
Anger makes you make mistakes.
And then he had to get to Lisbeth and try to make whatever amends he could for failing to protect her. Yet again. The reporters, of course, wanted his comments, and thank God for Connie Rubirosa drawing their attention away from him long enough for McCoy to get past them and down the aisle.
He could see Lisbeth already pushing through the doors of the courtroom and he lengthened his stride, closing the distance.
"Lisbeth."
"Jack. I'm sorry, I know you didn't want me to —"
His little sister apologizing to him was just about the last thing McCoy could bear to hear right at that moment. He drew her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm the one who's sorry. You should never have had to play any part in this."
"I wanted to be here —"
Over Lisbeth's shoulder McCoy saw a reporter approaching and he let her go, steering her through the doors with his arm around her shoulders. "Let's get out of here. I know a shortcut."
He steered her to the side entrance that was usually used to allow undercover cops and witnesses in federal protection to come and go without being seen. McCoy was well known to the guards, and they let him and Lisbeth through without question.
One enterprising journalist had guessed that was the way he'd take. "Mr. McCoy, Mr. McCoy – " the young woman called, "Where are you going?"
"Back to work," McCoy said shortly. He pulled Lisbeth past the reporter and into a cab, giving the driver Lisbeth's address. "After I get you home."
"Back to work?" Lisbeth said. "Just like nothing happened?"
"Nothing did happen," McCoy said sharply. "That's just been proved in court."
He could feel her pull away from him, shrinking into herself, and cursed silently. "Lisbeth, I'm sorry. It's just been —"
"You know, I don't like to argue with Bill. He raises his voice and I feel myself curling up inside. And he's a good man, Jack, he's never – he would never – raise his hand to me. But I'm always waiting. It's like the poison got deep down inside of me and it'll always be there."
McCoy closed his eyes. "Jesus, Beth, I'm —"
"We're both sorry. For Chrissakes, Jack, we're both sorry and we never talk about it and maybe, maybe we should."
He turned his head and looked out the window at the city street crawling past. "I don't talk about it. I'm sorry Regan forced you to."
"Regan? I thought her name was Connie."
He looked back at her. "Connie?"
"The tall girl from the DA's office. With the legs. She came to my house with that boy, the skinny one."
"Mike Cutter."
"That's him."
"But not Regan?" Lisbeth shook her head. "And what did she do, Beth, to make you talk about it?"
"She told me about her sister," Lisbeth said quietly. "You remember … you remember Mom painting her face so thick? Taking half an hour to do it?"
McCoy nodded. "To hide the bruises."
"She told me about her sister doing the same thing."
"Connie? Is she — did she tell you her name, her sister's name? Where she is?"
Lisbeth smiled. "She said he's in jail now, so you can get off that white horse, Jack."
"Good." He leaned back in the seat. "Good for her." He raked his fingers through his hair. "Mike Cutter should never have put you through that, all the same."
"I was glad to." Lisbeth's mouth quirked up at the corner. "Not the right word, maybe. But to help you, I would have done worse." She paused. "Why didn't you tell me? What you were thinking, what was really going on?"
"Jesus, Beth, how could I tell you I'd started taking my plays from the S.O.B's playbook?"
"And after? When you knew you hadn't?"
He shook his head. "It's not something I talk about. It's not something we talk about, is it?"
"Maybe we should." She paused. "You're angry with me, aren't you?"
"No. I could never be angry with my little sister."
"You could never lie to your little sister, not successfully, anyway."
"I just —" McCoy looked out the window again. "It's not something I ever wanted anyone to know. It's our personal business, Beth, not something to be bandied around over the water-cooler at One Hogan Place."
"Jack, people always knew. The neighbors knew. The cops in Dad's precinct knew. Do you think your teachers didn't know, all those black eyes and split lips? Everyone knew. They just pretended not to, so they didn't have to do anything. It's never been a family secret."
"Just a family shame."
She reached out and took his hand. "His shame. Not ours. Not yours."
"You say that, but have you ever told Bill?"
"Not yet," Lisbeth said, and smiled at him. "But the night, as they say, is young."
They were turning into Berkeley Place. "Do you want me to come in with you? Would it — help?"
"Thank you," Lisbeth said. She squeezed his hand. "But this is a conversation I think I have to have on my own. And you have things to do yourself, Jack. People to talk to."
She was right. He had to see Arthur, get his badge back. Had to find something to say to Mike Cutter, too, because if the young man avoided getting pink-slipped over his antics in court today, he was going places in the DA's Office and they'd have to find a way to work together.
Had to face Regan, knowing what she knew and what she'd done with it.
People always knew, Lisbeth had said. All those black eyes and split lips …
Jesus Christ, Regan had known what she was looking at when she'd looked through his photo album back in January. She'd dropped the subject and he'd thought he was reprieved, but Regan was a cop first and a lawyer second and no police officer in this century could have looked at McCoy's family photos and not known what was going on behind closed doors.
She'd let it drop out of respect for his privacy and never raised it again … until she had to.
Back in Chicago, as Lisbeth had said, people had pretended not to know, to avoid having to act. To avoid having to say out loud that Officer McCoy was breaking one of the laws he was sworn to uphold, an allegation that could have had serious personal consequences at that time, in that place. They'd taken an easy out.
But taking an easy out had never been Regan Markham's style.
Once upon a time, he'd sat in a conference room and listened to a young cop explain why he'd committed a murder. Why he'd felt he had to shoot dead the abusive husband of the woman in uniform who rode beside him in a blue-and-white, day after day. She's my partner, he'd said. That's the bottom line. She's my partner. Steve Felton, that had been his name. Steve Felton had killed a man to protect his partner and he'd taken the rap to protect her and he'd gone to jail and left his own family without a husband, a father, a wage-earner.
Because she was his partner, and that was the bottom line.
"You're right," McCoy said, as the cab drew to a stop. "I do have people to talk to. But, Beth — call if you need to."
"I will," she said, giving him a quick hug and then opening the taxi's door. "I will if you will, Jack."
It took longer than McCoy would have liked to get back across the bridge and into Manhattan. Finally he was near enough to One Hogan Place to shove a handful of notes at the driver and walk the rest of the way.
He had to sign in, like any visitor, and it was almost enough to set his temper off again. Almost — the guard gave him a grin and a good to see you back, Mr McCoy, and McCoy deliberately let himself be mollified.
Quite possibly, the sign-in desk had been given instructions to call upstairs when McCoy arrived. Certainly, Colleen Petraky was waiting when the elevator doors opened. She barely gave him the chance to step out of the elevator before she stood on tiptoe to throw her arms around him. "Oh, Mr McCoy!"
"Now, now, Colleen." He returned her embrace, having to stoop to do so. She was a tiny woman, as bird-boned and fragile as she was granite-willed and implacable. "Careful of my reputation."
Over her shoulder he saw Arthur Branch standing in the doorway of his office, disentangled himself from Colleen. "Colleen, I need to thank some people. Can you book a restaurant, one with tablecloths, for Friday night? I'll get you the names of —"
She was already nodding. "I've already made a reservation for ten at La Chenille for Friday at 6.30. I can change it if —"
"You are a marvel," McCoy said, "and I'd be lost without you."
"No need to thank me," Colleen said.
McCoy studied her. "You've already bought yourself a bunch of flowers on my credit card, haven't you?" he said, and laughed when she nodded. "I hope they were top-of-the-line."
"It'd be irresponsible for me to let people think you're a cheapskate," Colleen pointed out.
Arthur was showing signs of impatience. McCoy slipped past Colleen with one final pat to her shoulder. Arthur stepped back and McCoy walked in to his office.
Arthur closed the door behind him. "Well, Jack," he said. "All's well that ends well, isn't that how it goes?"
There were a number of things McCoy could have said to that, starting with you son-of-a-bitch and running through to you can take your job and shove it, and Arthur must have seen some of them in his expression, because he swallowed hard.
"Look, Jack, you came in here demanding to plead guilty. The only reason you had the opportunity to exonerate yourself in open court is because I wouldn't let you."
McCoy stared at him. "Are you expecting me to thank you?"
"You know I couldn't do you any favors."
McCoy thought back to that terrible morning when he'd thought that his life as he knew it was over, when he'd thought that the man he thought he was no longer existed. He'd been barely able to choke the words out, telling Arthur what had happened, barely able to think through the fog and pain of what he now knew had been the after-effect of being drugged. "You don't want me to thank you," he said. "You just want me not to sue you."
"Now, Jack —"
McCoy cut him off. "Duty of care, Arthur, that's it, isn't it? It's about to be all over the news that I was arguably legally incompetent when I ordered Regan to institute those charges —"
"You looked fine to me, Jack," Arthur said. "And no-one's suggested Ms Markham was less than her usual self."
McCoy snorted. "Regan would indict a ham sandwich if I told her to."
"If you're saying that Ms Markham's professional judgment is adversely affected by you, Jack, you might want to rethink that, before I take too close a look into why." He shrugged. "No, I don't think you have a case."
"But you're worried I might think it'd be fun to find out."
Arthur turned and scooped something from his desk: two leather billfolds. He held them out, and McCoy took them. Glancing down, he realized he held his badge, and Regan's.
"In or out, Jack," Arthur said. "Make a choice."
.oOo.
A/N: the title of this chapter is from Patty Griffin's song "Forgiveness" :
"I heard them ringing the bells
In heaven and hell
They got a secret
They're getting ready to tell
It's falling from the sky
Calling from the graves
Open your eyes, boy, I think we are saved."
The case McCoy refers to is "Shield", episode 17 of season 9.
