Author Notes: I'm filling in some of that four-month period of incarceration that I skipped. Here goes...

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Judge Harrison had promptly ordered a recess after the bailiffs finally succeeded in dragging Walker's brother out. We hadn't even had a chance to reconvene since he'd exploded in a slew of threats and obscenities. I didn't like the reason we had a recess, but I was grateful for one nonetheless. I rushed off to the bathroom to collect myself, praying no one would follow me.

I collapsed against the cold porcelain, turned on the faucet, and splashed my face with water. It was red and hot from crying and the cold water helped. It made me more presentable, anyway, but the water couldn't wash away all of my inner turmoil. It had all just been too much. I hadn't exactly been doing great the past five months, but I'd managed to keep myself together at least when I was around others.

But it had been too much. Too long, actually.

Too long since I'd seen him. I had thought I was prepared when he walked in the courtroom for the second time. But he'd gone downhill more, it seemed, in the shorter period of time I hadn't seen him, than in the months I'd done so faithfully.

There were the chains, which were ridiculously unnecessary and everyone on the defense side knew it. Then there was the jumpsuit, which made him look guilty, or dangerous, or something. I could tell it impacted what the jurors thought, and not in a good way.

I turned off the faucet and stood up, letting beads of water drip from my face and hands as I stared the tile. I waited until they formed intricate little rivers between the tile lines before I grabbed a few paper towels, still trying to recover. I had lost it when he said my name. Maybe because it was the first thing he had said the entire day, and the first thing I had heard him say in a month.

I backed against a stall door, glancing quickly at my watch. I couldn't help but think of that month without him, back to my last visit…

It had been the last time I got to see him before the trial. I hadn't known that stepping in to Five Points Correctional Facility that day. My expression had been numb as I went through the inadequate process of abandoning my weapon at the counter and being searched. The guards were just as emotionless. And I remember the corruption at Five Points – it was potent; so strong that a civilian could have smelled it.

The trial was a nearly a month off, and I'd had every intention of going every Saturday – the only visitation day – just as I had been doing for the past three-and-something months. I was going to show up, just like every past weekend, on time, and stay until I was literally escorted out.

That had been my plan, anyway.

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May 22nd, 2005 - Romulus, New York

One month, five days before trial

I entered the room, the door clicking shut and locking behind me. It looked just as it had looked the week before, and the week before that, and before that: off-white walls, exposed piping, rusted air grates in the ceiling. It was empty-looking, probably because no walls divided it – it was just a big square. There were dozens of bench-like tables scattered across the floor, some held in place with rusty bolts. In a few scarce places was a patch of fresh paint and plaster, probably concealing some kind of fist-induced holes in the wall. I hadn't expected Five Points to have changed, but the blankness and the hopelessness I felt when I stepped in was something I couldn't quite shake, and never got used to.

I found my way slowly over to the table in the corner – our table. I would always sit facing the front, so I could see when they brought him out, but then we'd trade places, because I knew he hated sitting with his back toward people. So I felt vulnerable in that position too, but not so much when I knew he could see over my shoulder.

The room was always busy. Sometimes even crowded. It always seemed like there was ample opportunity for riots and fights, but I had never seen one go down. Bosco had told me the prisoners put on a pretty good show for their families, and their kids, and that's probably why it usually remained civil. Today was no different; almost all of the benches were occupied. Some of the visitors were arguing in hushed voices, others whispering, to the person adjacent to them. Others were just crying silently. A few COs lingered near the entrances, and others behind the distant Plexiglas where they searched the prisoners before bringing them out. Most of the uniforms that I could see looked disinterested and off-guard. It never bothered me as much as it probably should have.

I was staring intently at a family not far away – a woman, her kids, and the inmate, who I presumed was her husband – when I heard feet scuffing lethargically in my direction. It was a familiar cadence of two sneakers, one after another, with hardly any effort put into lifting them off the ground. I quickly broke my gaze on the family, got up and changed seats.

And just as I'd lifted my eyes to meet his, he'd slid into the seat in front of me and I had to lower them. He was in orange, as usual, but his hands were free. I never was stable enough to visit him when he was at Malone, but Sully had said it was pretty rough seeing him cuffed, so I was thankful the visits at Five Points weren't as strict. There was no glass between us and no phone we had to speak through. I was as close to freedom as we were going to get at the time.

"Hey," was all I said, softly, having hoped he'd have spoken first. I never knew exactly what to say, and having been coming for months didn't change this. I was only grateful we had some kind of silent understanding, and we didn't need to awkwardly break the silence. But it was winding down to trial time, and I'd be lying if I said things weren't increasingly tense.

In the beginning, the visits were the most painful, probably because I spent our hour apologizing and he tried to reassure me it wasn't my fault, and other shit about how I couldn't have avoided 'it' that I didn't buy. Some days we argued. I couldn't really remember what started it, but it was always about what happened, or what would happen to him. Eventually we realized that if we kept our visits hostile, he'd never leave not-angry, and I'd never leave not-in tears. So we stopped talking about what happened in February. It was hard, but we did it. Finally, each Saturday we'd talk about everything else but. It was hard, trying to tell him everything I wanted to say in one hour a week, when I used to have twelve or more hours a day to do so.

He asked about the kids a lot, and I took them a long a few times. It was hard for both of them to see him that way, but they wouldn't admit it. Finally I told them some lie about there being a limited visitor list and that they couldn't come for awhile anymore. Emily never bought it, but she didn't protest, either.

He'd asked about work, and at first, not wanting to break him down with more depressing news, I'd just nod and say it was fine. He'd look at me, knowing I was lying, and I finally told him how much I hated it. How I hated being a Detective. That it just wasn't me. That Jelly and I got along but our styles collided. That I worked more hours and did more paper work than when I was on the beat and it wasn't even worth the OT.

We were pretty good at avoiding the topic of the trial, too, for awhile. But now it was only four weeks out and we needed to talk about it. We needed to face it.

"Hey," he responded, just as quietly. His voice was raspy. I imagined he probably hadn't used it for awhile. We were both quiet for a long time. He stared at his hands before continuing. "Good to be out…here."

"Yeah?"

He nodded quickly, looking up. "Was…a…uh…riot. Not really a riot," he shook his head and tilted his hand in a kind-of-sort-of fashion. "Anyway. They had us on lockdown until this morning."

I nodded slowly, watching his eyes drift from mine and then switch wildly from the people a few yards a way, to the ceiling and back to me. It was a ritual. We talked, but we always knew there was a deeper issue at hand. We just dodged it.

"Met with Virginia on Thursday," he said, after I didn't comment on the lockdown bit. "She's…uh…"

"What?" I pried, disturbed by how frantically his eyes were scanning the room, my face, his hands…whatever was in front of him. He cracked his knuckles several times, almost in repressed panic. I hadn't heard much about the young DA, other that she was, well, green.

"She's a freak," he finished flatly. I would have laughed, but I saw how serious he was. "She wants me to plead…to plead…"

"Plead what?"

"Nevermind," he shook his head and looked away. "I don't wanna talk about it anyway."

"Bosco, tell me," I curled my leg underneath me so I was higher and could lean across the table a little.

"No." he said, sharply, turning to give me a long, steely glare. I back up, throwing my hands up and then folding my arms.

"Fine. But Sully and Ty know her," I reminded, trying to reassure. "I'm sure she knows what she's doing."

He just scoffed and shook his head. "How's um…what's his name…"

I peered at him while he struggled remember.

He jabbed his pointer into his temple. "Damnit, I don't remember. That Lieutenant…"

"Miller?" I asked suddenly, laughing. His question was weird. Miller had never been a part of the equation. Bosco especially never show an interest in knowing how he was.

"Yeah," he replied. "I guess. He was with you when…"

There went our silent oath not to bring up February.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Why?"

He didn't answer me, but I heard him mumble. "Helluva lot of good he did."

"Bosco, I don't think anyone could've really prevented…" I squinted, my tone almost defensive. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to talk about that day, or what happened, or where John was when it all when down and whether or not he could or couldn't have helped.

"I could have! I could have prevented it!" he shouted. I flinched, then glanced around to see if we'd gained the attention of a CO. One of them raised their eyebrow in warning, but didn't intervene.

Bosco ran a hand over his mouth and eyes, and finally his neck, like he didn't know what to do with himself. He looked down at the table, tapping his fingers.

"I'd always thought you'd been with Jelly at the time," he said, his voice much softer.

I shook my head slowly. "I would've been. But the case had sorta followed John to the 5-5. At least that's why I heard he was there. There was some shit with him and Cruz or something, but," I passed a hand through the air, realizing I was probably just confusing him. "Anyway. Miller was manning the case, and Jelly was busy with Finney's shooting."

"John?" Bosco questioned, looking up. I wondered if he'd even heard anything else I'd said. I nodded and shrugged.

He laughed half-heartedly, blinking away a flash in his blue eyes. A flash I couldn't quite place, but it almost looked like jealousy.

"Yeah," he mumbled, more to himself than to me. "Where is he now?"

"Oh, uh," I shook my head and squinted. "He went to the 7-9. …Why?" I studied his face for some kind of reason.

"Just wondering…" he said slowly, but his jaw clenched and eyes went all steely blue and dilated. I noted his quickness in changing the subject, but a sharp pain shot through my temple and interrupted my suspicions.

"How are the kids?"

I shrugged, suddenly preoccupied with a splitting headache. "Fine. I guess. I don't see Charlie much."

He nodded. For a long time we were silent. Whenever he glanced off at someone else, or down at his hands, I'd study his face. He didn't wear the bandage anymore, since it had healed for the most part. But the scar was just as visible – thick, spider-like lines of burnished, traumatized skin. I wondered if it would ever really fade much.

"I can't," he started suddenly, catching me off guard when he glanced up and our eyes met. I looked away as quickly as possible, but it was too late. He'd caught my gaze and had now reached a finger to his cheekbone, tracing the lines of tortured flesh. I sucked in a breath, feeling guilty all over again. "Have any visitors until the trial," he finally finished, seemingly having to use all of his energy to get the words out.

I frowned in confusion, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I mean…" he sighed in frustration. "They tell me I can't have visitors until after the trial starts, and then, only with whoever has already testified. Something about witness tampering, I guess."

I didn't move. I hardly breathed. It made sense, but for an entire month? I was supposed to wait a month, and then however long after that it took them to put me on the stand, before I could even –talk- to him again?

"Bosco, this is –not- fair," I whispered, feeling tears sting the back of my eyes, and my throat tighten. I pointed down at the table, referencing Five Points as a whole, and stating each word slowly and angrily. "You have been in here for almost four months. When they arrested Cruz, they only gave her one month until trial!"

He just shrugged, smiling, but in a sad way. "Courts are backed up, I guess."

"That's bull."

He shrugged again, his voice. "I'm a flight risk, they say."

"What?" My tears have now found their way from burning the back of my sockets to creeping under my lids and trickling down.

"Hey," he said, his voice still quiet and uncharacteristically weak. He put on his best 'things could be worse' façade. "Least they didn't send me to Rikers, right?"

I just stared back through glassy eyes.

I watched the clock behind him as our last hour ticked away. Out of routine, the visitors slowly rose and said their goodbyes. The motionless guards sprung into action, taking and escorting the inmates in the opposite direction.

We stood up and slid out of the bench – like we always did. And we stood across from each, about a foot apart, because we weren't allowed to touch. We stood, hands at our sides, just staring, fighting like hell the magnetism between us that threatened to pull us together if we weren't strong enough. We always managed to win, to stay planted firmly apart, and finally, with a nod and a false smile, we'd turned and walk away. We triumphed over that magnetism because we didn't want to lose visiting privileges. But now we didn't have that to lose anymore. In a way, we didn't really have –anything- to lose anymore.

The pull was stronger now, intense like a hunger. And in a way it was, because we'd been deprived for so long. In all the past visits, at least when we became accustomed to the rule (not accepting of it, but accustomed), our eyes were fixed and never strayed. I remember them being resigned to the fact. But today was different. With nothing to lose and nearly four months of separation, we gave in.

Our eyes broke their steady gaze and instead frantically searched the room, watching everyone shuffle and be shuffled out, gauging the time we had left. The amount of seconds we had to make a move before we were spotted; the only seconds we had left before the only way we could see each other was thirty-one days away and across the length of some cold, unfriendly courtroom.

So in one swift motion he pulled me against his chest and I gratefully accepted him as a crutch. It was reminiscent of the embrace we'd shared at the hospital in February. But this time he was weaker. When I put my arms around his neck I felt the sharp protrusion of shoulder blades instead of muscles. And there was no uniform to rest my head against and hear my earrings clicking against his badge. It was just a thin layer of orange material and it smelled of a strong combination of cigarettes and sweat.

We stayed like for only a few seconds, but I think it felt like longer, and I was glad. When we finally pulled away he mumbled something about saying hi to the kids, but I didn't quite make out his exact words. I pretended to, though, and in between brushing away tears I nodded. We backed away from each other obediently until it was absolutely necessary for me to turn and avoid running into the door. It clicked shut heavily and when I turned around to peer in through the glass, he was already gone.

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June 27, 2005 - Present day.

"Faith?"

Sully's gruff voice snapped me out of grief induced memory and I nearly lost my balance, stumbling against the stall door until I could stand again.

"You okay?" he asked, poking his head further inside. "We're reconvening in like…" he glanced at his watch. "One minute. An' they're gonna be callin' you up there."

Thanks for reminding me.

I took a deep breath before saying "Okay," but it didn't come out half as strong and resolute as I'd planned, or expected. He pushed the rest of the way in.

"You don't look so good."

I shake my head, effectively shaking away his concern. "I'm fine…I was just thinkin'."

"About?" he asked, but it was hardly a question. More like a low mumble. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Too much," I said, suddenly speaking fast. I tossed the paper towels I realized I was still clutching ever so tightly, into a nearby trash can. One missed but I didn't pick it up. "I think too much." I blinked away what I thought would be my last tears for time being, and changed the subject. At least, a little bit.

"Where'd you get her?"

"Excuse me?"

"Virginia Dell," I said, shaking my head. "I mean, I know you and Davis know her, but I don't remember where you said you knew her from."

Sully frowned. "To be honest, Faith, I don't really know her. Ty went to school with her," he seemed like he was going to stop there, but he must have seen the uncertainty on my face. "She's his age. She's not as green as she looks. This isn't her first case. Remember that O'Connor case in Queens? Had the guy nailed for a double homicide. No family, no alibi, no good feats. You know what the jury said?"

"We're hung?" I guessed, rather dejected and unenthusiastically, as I proceeded to wash my hands…again. I recalled the case, but I couldn't quite remember the outcome.

"Not guilty," he said sharply. I looked up.

"By what, insanity?"

"No, just 'not guilty'."

"How…" I began, but he cut me off.

"Beats the hell outta me, too, but when Ty told me it was her that got Jon O'Connor strolling around Queens a free man, we had to get her. His wife and kid are six feet under. Double jeopardy. He'll never go down for it. Ever."

I turned off the water and shook my hands into the sink, and then, not bothering to dry them on towels, smeared the remaining water on my blues. The hell, right?

"So, what, now we're hiring defense attorneys that free killers? I don't want Bosco walkin' around with O.J. stigma."

Sully looked like he always did when he was making at point. Agitated, but excited about making you realize he did, in fact, have a point. "Look, Faith, I'm not sayin' I like what she did. But it's her job. And we need someone like her right now. We need all the help we can get with this. Bosco needs it."

I was quiet for a moment. "His plea…you think that's his best chance?" I finally asked.

"I don't know," Sully shrugged, in his usual gentle growl. "It could go either way. The way it's lookin' right now, if he get's a 'Guilty' he's lookin' at life. Or death. If he changed his plea, he could cut a deal. Probably get twenty years. Parole. Maybe fifteen if he's lucky. But he'd have confessed to a felony, Faith, he'd never get back on the force."

I laughed bitterly at the logic. "Well, what good will it do him to be able to go back to work if he's serving a life sentence?"

Sully stared, using the door jam to support himself. He sighed heavily. "I think it depends…"

"On what?" I asked, my voice now just a squeak.

"Whether he'd rather do the time, or get out and not be…not be a cop. I think we both know the answer. Besides, I don't know what he told you in Five Points, but Virginia didn't tell him to plead not guilty."

"What?!"

"She's smart from what I hear. But no matter how smart they are, no D.A. is gonna risk not takin' a deal in a case like this. There's no way."

I chewed on my bottom lip, closing my eyes and willing myself to disappear. I wasn't sure where I wanted to disappear to; I just knew I wanted to be gone - gone from that bathroom, from June, from everything and preferably back in the past. To some mundane, routine shift where me and Bosco's biggest problems were traffic citations and where to spend our 10-63.

I opened my eyes to a clicking. Sully was impatiently tapping his watch. "Come on," he motioned, pushing the door open. "Thirty seconds. An' I gotta get back to Davis. His stomach isn't takin' this well. I'm the only thing talking it out of emptying itself onto the court floor. And if we have one more recess in such a short time I'm gonna confess myself to get this over with."

I laughed, for the first time since…well…I can't remember. But I laughed, just for a second, and Sully smiled half-heartedly, leading the way out.

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We'd almost gotten to the door when I felt my feet growing heavier and heavier. I almost felt myself being pulled away from the entrance. I welcomed the young voice that interrupted us. Anything to delay the inevitable.

"Mom?"

"Em?" I turned around to my daughter, who was striding up toward to Sul and I. "Where's your brother?"

She folded her arms. "Been staring out the window down there ever since he ran out," she said quietly, shrugging. "So, do you need me."

Charlie. I'd nearly forgotten about him running out. In all the chaos, I'd forgotten how traumatizing the whole thing had probably been for my kids.

"Mom?"

"Oh," I shook away the intrusive thoughts that kept impeding my words. "No, baby, not…now. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you come here, Em."

"No, we want to—I mean, I don't know about Charlie, but I wanna help. I wanna testify. If you still need me."

I nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder. My daughter was probably one of the most important 'witnesses' we had. I was grateful she didn't have a change of heart, even though I secretly felt bad about all the details I was keeping from her. "We do, definitely. I just don't know the order, 'cause, uh, they changed it. It could be tomorrow, or next week."

She nodded, processing what I said. "Ok," she shrugged. "That's ok."

"You'll wait with Charlie, then? It shouldn't be too much longer…"

Again she nodded, slowly backing up and then retracing her steps. I sighed. What am I dragging her into?

Sully had his hand on the handle of the heavy wooden doors in front of us. I suddenly resumed that weighted sensation. I couldn't move.

"Is he in there, Sul?"

"Who?" he scrunched up his nose. "Michael Walker? That son of a bitch won't be back in here today."

"Not Walker, Sully! Bosco!"

"Oh," he grunted, looking down and shaking his head. "He wasn't when I first came in. Before I went to get you. Seems like a ritual to do it after everyone else is in their, doesn't it?"

I nodded, getting teary-eyed all over again. "Yeah…why do they do that?"

"Shockvalue?"

I sniffed. "It works."

From the corner of my eye I saw him nod indolently.

"Uh, I can't," I said, squinting my eyes at the sudden barrage of images that began flashing before me. "I can't go in there, again, Sully."

First I saw blood, lots of it. It was brighter than in real life, but it was definitely blood. It was on the carpet, the tile, on Bosco's clothes, in the shower. Then it was on me, my hands, my jeans. I went from sitting on that hospital bed at Mercy, to falling…endlessly falling into blackness until I hit cold water. Freezing water. In a second, the water was gone and I holding a gun. There was more blood, just as pinkish crimson as before, and it had dyed a pool of water before me. Donald Mann's loud cackling reverberated around me, but I couldn't see him. I could just hear him, his cackles, and his promises to Cruz just before he died. Before I killed him. I felt cold again, more cold water. And I struggled, trying to breathe. My lungs were at their max, though, the coldness expelling every last breath I had. The next scene brought me air, thankfully, but only more pain. And more blood. It was still on my hands and my jeans. I was kneeling in it, in front of Bosco, on the bathroom floor, searching for a wound of some sort. I thought he was bleeding out. My own screams interrupted me. I kept screaming, frantically flailing, feeling myself being dragged across cold cement. I saw a knife, and I kicked it down. It danced across the concrete making earsplitting sounds and glinting even in the total darkness. I couldn't see Bosco any more, but I finally heard him tell me it wasn't his blood. Mann's laughter succeeded through all of the scenes, still echoing evilly in the background. I was still screaming. The knife stopped clacking and came to sudden stop. I heard a click.

And finally, the freezing metal of a 9 milimeter pressed against my temple silenced me.

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