Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 1
Niki's hand closed around the Watcher's throat and she threw him across the room. He struck the concrete wall and his hands fell to his sides as he slid to the floor. The now empty syringe shattered on the floor. The old man crumpled into a heap but that didn't satisfy the Slayer.
She slowly looked from his body to her left hand. Slowly spreading her fingers she saw the tiny red dot from where the needle had punctured her skin. She closed her fist and stepped forward, her toes tingling. She sank to her knees when she got to him and rolled him to face her. He was groaning.
"It was that easy for you?" She felt her feet going numb, wondering what he had given her. When he didn't respond, she gripped his face, her thumbs under his jaw where she knew it would be most painful. "Did you ever... ever give a shit?"
The prospect of his answer terrified her. Her personal claim to fame was her emotional detachment. She had screwed Logan and had made him love her. But she felt nothing for him. She had killed Pierce without a second thought. As she looked down at the bleary eyed old man in her hands right now, her safety was his job — now... she swayed dizzily, frowning as a sudden nausea churned in her gut.
"Answer," she said tiredly. She shook his head and it flopped back down to his chest. She had given him quite a knock. He'd be out for a while. She didn't have a while. She'd get him to talk... one way or another.
She stood, unsteadily, as the door burst open and Shields charged in, his gun drawn. The three goons charged in after him, looking from the unsteady Slayer to the unconscious visitor. There was a long moment of uncertainty, when finally Aaron Shields pointed to Addison on the floor.
"Arrest him... Uh, take him to the infirmary – then arrest him." The young man stepped toward Niki and extended a hand, trying to steady her. "Maybe you should sit down."
Each breath was becoming more difficult and red spots were beginning to appear at the edges of her vision. She blinked, her eyelids heavy, trying to form words on lips which didn't want to respond. She wanted to raise her hand, take the back of the chair to steady herself, but her hands wouldn't do what she told them.
As soon as Shields touched her shoulder in concern, she toppled over backwards, landing flat on her back, the world spinning out of control.
--
Logan dropped the phone on the desk with a clatter, racing out of his office. His heart was pounding: Addison was at the prison. Addison was with Niki. His finger stabbed the elevator call button repeatedly, harder each time. It lit up, but the elevator doors didn't open. He stabbed the button several more times then slammed his fist into the closed doors.
"It looks like you're in a hurry," a friendly voice said from beside him. Logan didn't answer, not wanting to have to knock anyone out right now. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you've got an instantaneous mode of transportation at your disposal, don't you?"
Logan's head snapped around, his gaze fixing on the owner of the voice. He recognized the man in the black pants, the white silk shirt and the blue silk tie. "How would you know that?" Logan demanded harshly, in no mood for games.
"Maybe you didn't hear," he said with a broad but gentle smile. "I'm Michael."
"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Logan frowned, glancing back towards the elevator as the doors slid open.
"Let's go somewhere," Michael said pleasantly. His hand shot out in a flash and touched Logan's elbow. Instantly, the two of them were gone with the sound of great beating wings.
--
There are many opinions concerning the moment of death. Is there a light and a tunnel? Is there a beautiful city, welcoming arms of loved ones, comforting words? Or is there nothing, just a vast expanse of yawning blackness that eats away time and perception.
Niki's eyes were wide open when she felt her heart beat one final, uncertain beat. Her lips were blue from the minutes she had been unable to breath. Her muscles were paralyzed and even the voices were becoming unmatched to the faces. Were they faces? Or was it just a quiet void?
"Clear," the paramedic called out, the paddles surging seven hundred volts through the Slayer's chest. Then the Ambu bag went over her mouth and nose and forced air into her lungs. Fingers pressed her jugular artery to feel for a pulse.
"Nothing," he lifted the paddles again. "Clea–"
The paramedics froze, their gazes locked in one place as Logan and Michael appeared among them with the quiet sound of ruffled feathers. Logan looked down at Niki's motionless body for a moment before noticing the similar motionlessness of the paramedics.
"What's going on?" he asked quietly. There was no need to be loud. There was no noise whatsoever.
"You're here to save her, aren't you?" Michael asked, squatting down by Niki's lifeless body.
Logan dropped instantly to his knees and took Niki's shoulder. "How do I save her? What do I do?" He looked over to the frozen paramedic and his frozen paddles.
"Those won't do anything," Michael advised. "She's been poisoned."
Logan slowly turned his head around to the frozen guards and the frozen Addison they were putting in handcuffs. He tried to get his breathing under control. "I– I don't know what—" He looked to the man in the white silk shirt helplessly. "I don't do that kind of magic. I need something to kill!"
Michael cocked his head. "You can't kill a neurotoxin." His eyes were fixed on Niki, as if Logan were just along to watch.
Logan stood, backing quickly away from the scene on the floor. His mind was racing. He didn't know what to do with his hands. This was a nightmare. "She– she's a Slayer, won't she heal? She heals fast – won't she heal?"
"You can't heal death," Michael slowly leaned in closer to her ashen face. "I wonder what she sees."
"What the fuck are we doing here?" Logan demanded unable to look at the frozen scene of death anymore. One look at the Watcher made him set his jaw and bear it, though.
"You can't heal death," Michael repeated quietly. "But I can." He drew his hand gently down Niki's cheek and then stood, backing away to the far corner of the small room.
In an instant that made Logan nearly jump out of his skin, action resumed and the voices and bustle of the paramedics and officers was like an assault.
"Clear," the paramedic ordered, the mask jerking off of Niki's face. Seven hundred volts surged through her heart and this time it spasmed, contracting powerfully as her augmented metabolism stirred back to life.
"We've got a pulse," the other paramedic called out, his fingers on her neck. Niki drew in a deep breath, her eyes having never closed the entire time. She promptly sat up just as Addison was being shuffled out the door.
"Tell me," she croaked, her last thought surfacing again. "Tell me it was easy."
Addison, lifting his eyelids, struggled momentarily in the grip of the goons in uniform. They paused and he took in a breath to answer. "You've always made my job harder than it needed to be," he said, wrestling for consciousness and winning. "This is no different."
Logan backed away towards Michael and Niki's head turned towards him. "Hey," she managed. "What's this bullshit I hear about you not seeing me?"
The paramedics were helping her into a chair and some were cleaning up the equipment. The guards escorted Addison from the room, one of them remaining to clean up the broken syringe.
Logan didn't answer her, but instead turned to Michael. "Thank you," he said sincerely. He had never felt so powerless. Never so indebted.
"Nobody ever thanks me," Michael replied, the smile creeping into his eyes. "Not at a place like Wolfram and Hart."
"Why do you work there?" Logan asked with a frown, not sensing the scheming evil which seemed to permeate the law firm he worked for.
"I never said I worked there," the man shrugged. "I like to volunteer. Some jobs are more rewarding than others." He turned towards the door and Logan began to follow him, ignoring the confused glare coming from the Slayer. "Out in the world," Michael continued, "I do real work. I'm at the ICU – I'm also grief counselor."
"Kinda morbid, aren't ya?" Logan frowned, following the man in the white silk shirt into the hallway. "Do you do that trick–" he indicated where they had just come from "on people in the ICU?"
"I'm working at Wolfram and Hart as your liaison to the liaison — Tawnie. Apparently she's seen enough of you as she cares to. Anything you want to bring to her, you bring to me instead." Michael continued walking down the corridor until he got to a barred door.
"Then could you tell her something for me?" Logan said, still a little puzzled by the whole experience.
Michael nodded. "Shoot."
"Tell her I want more security on Niki — constant security." The lawyer glanced over his shoulder in the direction the guards had taken the Watcher. "And I want Addison denied bail."
"I'll pass it along," the man agreed.
"One more thing," Logan held up a hand, knowing there was no real way to stop Michael from leaving. The man in the white silk shirt raised an eyebrow. Logan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Who are you, exactly?"
Michael let the sad little smile resurface. "I'll be seeing you," he said with a small nod. To Logan's bewilderment, the man was gone again with the same sound of a rush of air.
Logan tried to read the last few minutes in front of him like they were written on some cosmic script. Some things were solved. Some things were not. Addison and the Council were against him. No — they were against Niki going to jail for life. They were against Wolfram and Hart.
Suddenly a thought crystallized that he had never really considered before. There was a solution here, something staring him in the face from the cosmic script. Logan's eyes narrowed at its utter simplicity. I just won't lose.
--
Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 2
Trial - Part 11, December 23rd, 1987
"Please state your name and field of expertise again for the record."
The man leaned forward slightly to speak into the microphone. "Doctor Darren Phillips, cultural analyst and professor of subcultural studies."
"Thank you for coming today, Dr. Phillips." Logan set the loose leaf pages down and crossed the distance from the defense bench to the witness stand.
"My pleasure," the man said again into the microphone. It made a little popping sound at the p of pleasure.
"Please, Dr. Phillips, could you tell the court your particular area of expertise?" Logan turned on his heel to face the jury as the expert witness responded. Niki was sitting at the bench behind Logan's back. He hadn't said four words to her since she had been given a clean bill of health from the prison infirmary. If he had looked, he would have found her staring blankly at the table top.
"Well," Phillips sat up a little straighter, "my particular field of expertise is the rise of the neo-gothic subculture in America and Western Europe—"
"Objection!" Eric Quinlan rose from his position beside his co-counsels with a frown. "Prosecution would like to know the relevance of any of this!"
Judge Ortega raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Kilpatrick, I hope you're not wasting the court's time." His tone was tired and edged with impatience.
Logan took a deep breath. "Defense would like to take this opportunity to present its opening argument."
Quinlan scoffed but bit his tongue and Judge Ortega shrugged deeply. "Better late than never. The court will hear the defense's opening argument."
Logan turned back, headed for his notes, having been given his opportune moment. Then his eyes caught the tired and defeated face of his client. He stood staring at her for several seconds during which both the judge and the prosecution grew more impatient. Logan slowly titled his head. He had eaten take-out at his desk last night. A little smile crept to the corner of his mouth.
Then I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was home, going home... Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me...
"Mr. Kilpatrick?" Ortega sounded even more tired and impatient, even though mere seconds had gone by.
"Yes, Your Honor," Logan turned sharply with a smile. "The court would like to hear why precisely Niki Valtaine did not kill Megan Brandon and did not shoot Brian Harrison. And I will tell the court precisely this."
Ortega scowled slightly in suspicion of the sudden change in attitude. "That's very generous of you, Mr. Kilpatrick," he said dryly, "Please proceed."
Logan bowed slightly, retaining the small smile. "It is the prosecution's contention that this entire ordeal began with the murder of Megan Brandon." He turned and swiped the evidence bag from the defense's bench. "With this stake," he held up the wood in the plastic bag for the jury to see, "my client is alleged to have stabbed Ms. Brandon in the chest." He brought the tip of the stake to his own chest for emphasis. Carefully he put the evidence bag back down and turned on the prosecution.
"Now, we would all like to do some fancy DNA tests and find whose blood is in fact on the end of that stake, but as the court well knows," he gazed firmly at Quinlan, "and as the jury has no doubt been made aware, DNA tests are not admissible in an American court of law."
There was a spark of triumph in Logan's eye as Quinlan's jaw tightened and his fist slowly closed on the page before him, crumpling its edge. Preemptive strike. Logan turned quickly back to the jury.
"In reality, there is no way to know whose blood is on the end of that piece of wood." He eyed each one of them at random, glancing from gaze to gaze. "All the prosecution can tell you with any certainty, is that it's human blood. Someone's blood. Potentially anyone's blood." Logan cocked his head with a look of practiced disappointment. "And according to the prosecution, that makes Niki Valtaine, an otherwise law abiding New Yorker, Ms. Brandon's murderer." His look of scorn for that idea was plain and, he hoped, effective.
"The truth is, no one saw who murdered Ms. Brandon. Just like no one saw who shot Mr. Harrison." Logan turned and his sweeping gaze passed over Brian Harrison who was sitting at the back of the court room in his wheelchair, his smoldering glare following the lawyer's every move. "Not even Mr. Harrison himself. He admits he didn't see her carrying a gun — he couldn't even confirm if she owned one, and he'd been stalking her for weeks!"
Logan strutted back towards the witness stand and the abandoned Dr. Phillips. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would like to call your attention now back to our expert witness so that you can see for yourselves a very different Niki Valtaine than the murderer painted by the prosecution."
Logan turned now to the judge. "Defense would like to recommence cross-examination."
Ortega shifted his weight and looked down at Dr. Phillips. "The witness is reminded that he is still under oath." Phillips nodded.
Logan nodded smartly, tugging on the hem of his black suit coat. "Dr. Phillips, since you were so rudely interrupted before, could you please repeat to the court your particular area of expertise?"
Phillips nodded again, eyeing the prosecution nervously. "I study the gothic subculture."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "And by gothic, I doubt you mean European architecture."
Phillips shook his head. "No, I study the trends, habits, motivations and influences of the neo-gothic American and Western European subculture."
"Tell us a little about the neo-gothic movement." Logan crossed his arms as if this was all terribly interesting. In reality this had been rehearsed in private beforehand.
"Well, the neo-gothic movement began in the United Kingdom as a splinter culture from the punk movement. 'Goths' as they are generally known, can be broken down into four major groups."
Logan nodded with interest. "Tell us about these."
Phillips nodded obligingly. "Well, the majority of Goths can be called 'weekenders'. They participate in gothic culture mainly for sociological reasons, but do not consider themselves defined by it." Phillips shrugged. "They use the gothic culture as an expression of their individuality."
Logan nodded. "I see. Go on."
The witness sighed. "The next largest portion of Goths is what has been termed 'ultragoths,' those who are defined by their style of clothing, their music, their social circles, their sexual preferences, et cetera."
"And after that?" Logan prompted.
"After that," Phillips continued, "there is a small portion of the gothic culture which is fixated on Satan and Satanism and another which is fixated on the vampiric element."
Logan nodded, turning now towards the defense bench. "Dr. Phillips, you have been shown the evidence collected from the defendant's wardrobe and music library, have you not?"
Phillips nodded and leaned into the microphone again. "Yes I have."
"As an expert in the field of subcultures and specifically the neo-gothic movement, how would you classify the defendant?" Logan glanced toward Quinlan who was trying not to show his jaw grinding his teeth together.
Phillips leaned into the microphone again. "In my expert opinion, Niki Valtaine could be said to fall into the category of a weekender Goth."
Logan nodded. "Thank you. And exactly what —before the prosecution explodes— does that mean exactly?" He flashed a smile towards the prosecution bench but didn't watch to see the reaction.
"Weekender Goths use the culture as most of us use any other culture: to express certain elements of our personality which cannot otherwise be expressed in this society."
Logan nodded, looking now at the jury, though addressing his words to Phillips. "And how, again, do they express those elements?"
Phillips shrugged. "Depending on their unique personality, they adopt certain, often exciting or convenient elements of the neo-gothic culture and ideology, affecting their dress, their lexicon, their social preferences, their entertainment preferences and even their sexual preferences."
Logan nodded with a contemplative frown. "Their sexual preferences..." he turned from the jury and strode towards the defense bench, retrieving a file, the contents of which he already knew. All for effect. Before he turned, he glanced up from the file to Niki. She had her elbow on the table and held her face in her hand. Tired and silent, but she knew where this was going.
Logan opened the file and moved back towards Dr. Phillips. "According to the deposition of the witness who found the alleged murder weapon, he..." Logan frowned, as if reading it for the first time, "he at first thought it and the other objects like it were sex objects." Logan glanced up at Phillips who was calmly nodding.
"Yes, while in-depth studies have revealed that the neo-gothic movement does not promote atypical sexual practices per se, there is significant evidence that it promotes freedom of sexual expression and it is thought by myself and other scholars that in the sexually suppressive culture which has been on the rise since the late seventies, the freedom offered by a subculture, like Goth, can result in a greater amount of what this society would term 'unusual' sexual activity."
Logan shrugged. "Such as...?"
Philips frowned a little in thought. "I've studied bondage, domination, discipline, sadomasochism, fetishes, ritual sex... Anything that the current society considers abnormal or even perverse has the opportunity for expression in a subculture of rebellion."
"Is it possible," Logan raised his voice, lifting the stake high again and marching toward the jury, "Dr. Philips, that the blood on the stake in fact belongs to the defendant and that she was in no way involved in the murder of Megan Brandon?"
"That's very possible, yes," Phillips nodded confidently.
Logan let his arm fall and he nodded in gratitude. "Thank you, Dr. Phillips. No further questions, Your Honor."
--
"What the fuck is this?" Tawnie Fischer glared down at the page in her hand.
The smug Brit across from her gave a little shrug. "Richard J. Addison, Honorary Consular Officer of the British Consulate in New York, cannot be prosecuted under American law. Diplomatic immunity, as outlined in the Vienna Convention, protects Mr. Addison from being charged with crimes while he is a guest in your country."
Fischer let the paper fall to the desk. "Honorary Consular Officer since when?"
The man cocked his head. "Since his most recent return from Britain, of course." He leaned across the desk his smile broad. "And we'll be wanting him back."
Fischer slowly shook her head, her teeth grinding. "You're with the Council, aren't you?"
The British man's smile broadened just a little. "Don't think you've won just yet," he cast a glance around her office, "this place will be swarming with our operatives before you can even blink an eye. You cannot stop us."
Fischer leaned down with a glare. "We'll find out, won't we?"
--
Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 3
Bernard Crowley extended a hand. The hand was taken stiffly and pumped once. Quentin Travers set down his travel bag and tugged his coat's collar up higher.
In the light of the airport's runway lamps, the two men's breaths were illuminated as clouds of fog only when not in shadow, creating a space of darkness between them.
Crowley lifted Travers' travel bag. "Short journey?"
"Sort notice," the other man replied, walking around the dark space towards the waiting car. The small jet behind him was already refueling. The plane emptied itself of the agents in black, cloaked in the anonymity nighttime afforded.
Crowley walked quickly after the confident stride of Travers. "I apologize for having to call you."
"It's not your fault that that imbecile Addison failed." Travers approached the side door to the black car and Crowley set the bag down to open the door for him. Travers, instead of getting in, turned and moved to the trunk of the car. "How's your charge?"
Crowley closed the door and picked up the bag again, following the man to the back of the idling car. "Promising," Crowley said with pride. In an instant, he realized the great Quentin Travers didn't really care to hear about young Robin.
"Is everything prepared as I specified?" the Brit asked calmly.
Crowley nodded, setting down the bag and reaching into his pocket for the keys to the trunk. He unlocked it and lifted the trunk. The small light lit up the contents and the breath of the two Watchers staring down at them.
Before them lay an assortment of automatic weapons and bomb components. Travers looked around at the other black cars in the lineup and the seemingly endless number of agents who got into them. There were the sounds of other trunks closing and Travers turned back to one of the many weapons stores now in his possession.
The light from the runway lights glinted in Travers' eye and he nodded in satisfaction. "Very good."
--
Trial - Part 28, January 7th, 1988
"Place your left hand on the bible and raise your right hand." The hand came down and the other went up. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
Jesse Trent nodded once. "I do."
A grotesque assortment of demons stood in two lines in Fischer's office, low snarls, growls and hisses escaped the clenched teeth, fangs and mandibles. Tawnie Fischer walked back and forth between the opposing rows, examining each for their deadliness and staring into each to find their ruthlessness.
"You have a questionable duty to perform. I know this is an unusual request. I have assembled each of you because I am confident you can perform this duty without fail." She stopped before a waxy looking demon with bulging eyes. "You will prevent the Slayer from being harmed. Under no circumstances is the Slayer to be killed. You may kill any other human required to prevent harm coming to her."
Jesse Trent sat down in the witness stand as the prosecution approached him. It wasn't Eric Quinlan, but Richard Forster, who had been assigned Trent's particular testimony, who now rested his arm casually on the railing between himself and the witness.
"Tell us when you first met Niki Valtaine."
Niki closed her eyes and held her head in her hand again as Jesse recounted their meeting at Trent's Café. She should have seen it. Should have foreseen it. She did foresee it, but didn't understand her own foresight. Each vision of betrayal might as well have corresponded to each of the men who had betrayed her these past few months. Only Logan was left. Would the visions stop? She hadn't been sleeping these last few nights, thinking about Jesse Trent. She had given what little of herself she ever gave to a man over to him. He was the only man besides Jimmy she had ever slept with without telling him who she was. What she was. There had been a trust there. A comforting feeling, knowing he didn't know he was fucking a Slayer. She had felt normal. His betrayal certainly was a slap in the face. Actually, more like a glass of ice water thrown in her face. Normality obviously wanted nothing to do with her and she was forbidden from feeling it, even for a short time.
"Tell us about what you found in Niki Valtaine's drawer that night."
Niki laughed inwardly with scorn. The night she'd screwed him and left him alone. Then, while she was gone, he screwed her. He'd been even less than Logan. A cheap substitute drug. At least Logan had fed her emotional need as well as her physical. He understood, if vaguely, what being Chosen involved. He sympathized with her, felt for her – let her need him. Jesse had just been a cock with a smile and a mullet. Now he was a cock on the witness stand telling how he had found the stake she had used to kill Megan Brandon.
"Tell us about the gun you found in the dumpster."
Niki closed her eyes and very slightly shook her head. She had thrown the gun into the dumpster so some street kid wouldn't get his hands on it. Jesse answered and she kept her eyes closed, hoping there would be no further visions of betrayal. Logan was all she had. Then she blinked and the prosecution was walking back towards his bench. Logan stood.
Tawnie clasped her hands behind her back and nodded towards the three shamans at the back of the room.
"You have all been selected because you are capable of taking human life quickly and efficiently. I expect nothing less than your best. You must recognize the Slayer, then the members of the Council who will be trying to kill her. You must wait until they give themselves away. Under no circumstances are you to distort your glamour in any way—"
The three shamans began moving down the rows of demons, each waving a stick over the ranks, chanting and muttering. One by one, the demons found themselves in human form, smartly dressed in expensive suits but concealing none of the ruthlessness in their eyes.
"This is your assignment. I will accept no failures."
Logan indicated the large mug shot of Raymond Fitch. The police file photo clearly showed the black snake tattoo running up the side of his face, its open mouth seeming to devour his eye.
"Do you recognize this individual, Mr. Trent?" Logan asked calmly.
Trent shrugged.
"Yes or no, please, Mr. Trent," Logan said patiently. "Have you or have you not seen this individual before?"
Trent shrugged again but answered. "Yeah, I guess. It looks like the guy from my café."
"Could you be a little more specific?" Logan asked, crossing his arms and looking unsatisfied.
Trent sighed. "I noticed Niki watching this guy with the snake tattoo while we were talking the night we met. She followed him out. Minutes later, I heard gunshots."
"According to your deposition, you heard a single gunshot." Logan looked to Trent who nodded grudgingly. "This man," Logan turned towards the jury and indicated the mug shot of Snakeface a.k.a. Ray Fitch, "was wanted for armed robbery and assault. He was last seen in October of 1985." Logan took a breath. "His fingerprints are on file."
Logan turned and lifted Exhibit B from where it sat on his bench. "This gun," Logan said as if irritated that he had to make these connections for everyone, "was registered to Mr. Fitch in 1981 and never reported stolen. It was confirmed to be the gun which fired the shot Mr. Trent heard in the alley outside his café — the bullet and casing were recovered there. One bullet was found missing from the clip when the gun was recovered." He held the gun up higher so everyone in the courtroom could see. "One set of fingerprints recovered from this weapon were confirmed to be Niki Valtaine's, the other was matched to this man—" Logan tapped the mug shot with the gun for emphasis.
Logan held on to the gun in its plastic bag but began to pace before the jury box. "This gun was identified as the one responsible for the shooting of agent Brian Harrison — isn't it possible," Logan whirled on Jesse Trent who was caught off guard by Logan's sudden closeness, "isn't it possible, Mr. Trent, that Mr. Fitch, the owner of this gun, a wanted felon, is in fact the shooter you heard that night?"
Trent shrugged. "It's possible, yeah."
"Isn't it possible that the gun was drawn and a shot was taken at Ms. Valtaine — a shot which missed and drew attention, leaving Mr. Fitch to run away and Niki to dispose of the gun—"
"Objection," Quinlan rose from his seat. "Conjecture, Your Honor."
Judge Ortega nodded and glowered disapprovingly at Logan. "Let's keep it to what we know, Mr. Kilpatrick."
Logan nodded obligingly. "Mr. Trent," he tried a different angle. "Yes or no, you saw Niki Valtaine showing an unusual interest in the man you identified as Ray Fitch the night you met her in your café?"
"Yes," came the simple reply.
"You saw her follow him once he had left the café?"
"Yes."
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Logan turned suddenly and dramatically towards the dull eyes. "The prosecution has provided us with a picture of Niki Valtaine — the shooter of Brian Harrison and the attempted shooter of someone in the alley near Trent's Café."
Logan walked briskly to his bench and slid a file from the table top. "I have in my hand a very interesting piece of information." He looked down at the file and found where he had highlighted. "On November seventeenth, 1985, the New York Police Department issued a statement offering a reward of six thousand dollars for the capture of Ray Fitch and lesser amounts of money for information leading police to his capture." He snapped the file closed and glanced up at the jury. "Is not more plausible that the night of Mr. Harrison's shooting, Niki Valtaine —unemployed, income dependant on benevolence cheques— followed Ray Fitch to the abandoned shop, seeking to claim his bounty or learn information she could pass on to the police, when Brian Harrison entered the premises and was fired upon. Not by Niki, but by Ray Fitch who feared this F.B.I. agent had come to arrest him. Six bullets entered Mr. Harrison, fired from Ray's gun... Later, Niki Valtaine tracked Ray to Trent's Café and followed him out into the alley where he shot and missed, discarding his gun and running." Logan set the file down on the railing of the jury box and threw up his hands. "Mr. Trent," he said turning on the man again. "Is this not plausible?"
Trent was silent.
Logan turned away. "No further questions."
--
CIFW - 15-15 Hazel Street, East Elmhurst, N.Y., January 7th, 1988
Niki closed her eyes in peace for the first time in days. It wasn't even lights out yet but she felt sleep coming like a familiar and welcome melody. She thought briefly of Toe Tag City and the electric mayhem they had created. Her fist closed as if she held the comforting wood — not of a stake but of a drumstick.
Niki looked around her and realized with a swelling heart that she was seated behind a well worn and both loved and hated drum set. Standing with their backs to her were the others. They faced the interior of the dark club. All was silent amid the darkness as it waited for their opening number. When Death Befalls You. It was the one she knew best. The one she loved.
Niki rolled her shoulders back and let the comforting black leather of her jacket embrace her. Warm and honest. The greatest hug she had ever known. In her dream she closed her eyes and inhaled the nostalgic smell of when times were good. When she opened her eyes again, the yellow haze had begun to creep around the edges of her world.
With a pained frown, Niki swiped her drumsticks before her, trying to ward off the encroaching vision. "No," she ordered, closing her eyes again. "I know — I don't want to be told." When she opened her eyes again, the drums were gone and her parents were standing in front of her amid a totality of yellow mist.
"You need to be told." Her father said sadly, holding his wife by the shoulder.
"No!" Niki shouted angrily, turning away from the only two people she had ever loved.
In a flash of light, the car sped into the intersection and was broadsided by a minivan. The car carrying Niki's screaming parents was thrown clear of the intersection and into the path of an oncoming dump truck. With screams and shattering glass, Niki turned away and back to her parents.
But where they had been standing only a moment ago, they now lay in open caskets, pale and dressed up. Wearing the smiles of death.
The yellow haze was completely gone. Niki looked left and right and found herself in the funeral home. Tears welled up in her eyes as she found herself kneeling at the railing before the bodies of her parents. This was a familiar memory. A piece of her would always be here. The day her life changed.
Suddenly the eyes of her parents' corpses opened and their heads turned to face her. Niki watched them through tear-filled eyes as their mouths opened and they drew breath to speak.
"He has betrayed us," they said in unison. Niki blinked and a hand came down on her shoulder. Her parents' eyes remained impassive: cold and dead. "Do not let him betray you."
Niki slowly turned her head to look up. The owner of the hand looked down at her with as cold a look as she had ever known. Addison was her legal guardian now. In the event something should happen to her parents. And something had. She was his now.
Niki's eyes snapped open in her cell. Words could not express... I understand, she said silently, the image of her parents still clear in her mind. I understand you now.
--
Actions and Consequences: Part II - Act 4
Tawnie crossed her arms, her lips tight. The stupid little man had no idea what he was doing. The game he thought it might be fun to play was light-years out of his league. He had no idea that the carpet he was standing on had been where dozens of New York's best assassin demons had been standing only hours ago. The pawn did not want to be a real player. He didn't know what it meant to play.
"We had an agreement," she said coldly. He swallowed. He didn't know, but he wanted to play anyway. "Niki Valtaine is guilty. We both know that."
"Technically, she didn't shoot Harrison," Logan held up an argumentative hand, then dropped his eyes at the severity of her gaze. She wore her burgundy skirt and top, white buttons and severe white lace. Her graying hair had been pulled back into a bun and she looked less like a school head mistress and more like a general.
She licked her lips and strode past him to her desk. "Do you think the law doesn't apply to Slayers? You think she should just be allowed to stake anyone she wants?"
"This isn't about justice," Logan countered, turning to face her. She stood behind her desk now with her hands resting on its surface. She looked tired of arguing. "This isn't about what I want or what I think. You want Niki alive and in jail or dead. The Council wants Niki out of jail or dead. I just want Niki alive." He sighed and sat down heavily at her desk. "But obviously it doesn't matter what I want."
"No, it doesn't," she agreed. She could see he was equally tired of fighting a battle of wills on a battlefield of titans. "You have a duty to get a verdict of guilty. If you don't—" she shrugged. "I can't promise the safety of you and yours."
"I couldn't act incompetent," Logan frowned at Fischer with annoyance. "Niki's not stupid. She'd figure out that I wasn't on her side. She'd get a new lawyer – it's her right to have fair representation."
"That's why it had to be you," Tawnie nodded. "And it doesn't matter. Cases can be won or lost on the closing statements." She reached to a sheet of paper on her desk. "And here is yours."
Logan reached out and took the page with a feeling of dread. Lying to everyone simultaneously was exhausting and he feared if he got too good at it he would forget which side he was on. It also brought a fear with it. Every glance, every word. Did she suspect him?
Logan read the closing statement with a deepening frown. "This is awful. You've broken every rule of a closing statement. Even I'd convict her after hearing this."
Tawnie nodded tiredly. "That's the idea. Sabotage your case at the last minute and she can't get a new lawyer. Verdict is guilty and everyone wins."
"Except Niki and the Counsel," Logan raised an eyebrow. "They won't let this happen."
"I'm looking after them," Fischer dismissed. "The Senior Partners have never had an opportunity like this offered to them on a silver platter before. We will not let it go to waste." She slowly sat down at the desk, across from Logan.
Logan scoffed. "I'm not reading this," he let the page fall to the desk. "It would kill my career and there would end up being an investigation into my competency. Quinlan would make sure of it."
"I don't give a shit what you read," Fischer snapped. "You can sing Hail to the Chief for all I care. As long as the verdict doesn't come back Not Guilty. Get it?"
Logan was silent for a moment. He had finally been backed into a corner. Sitting on the fence threatened to break him. He would have to choose a side.
Fischer, sensing his hesitation, stood and leaned in close. "I'm going to be watching the proceedings," she said malevolently. "If I see a verdict of Not Guilty — you and everyone you've ever known are going to wish you were never born."
--
Logan knew he probably shouldn't be driving after a threat like that. He hadn't slept in three days. He hoped Niki had. He longed for the blissful innocence she still possessed. It was her innocence which had gotten him into this in the first place. Her innocence and her guilt. If she hadn't been so innocent the day they had met, he wouldn't be here. If she hadn't been so guilty the night Megan Brandon was killed, she wouldn't be here.
Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his car, waiting for the light to turn green. Impulsively, he reached down and switched on the radio. Paul Simon was singing one of the lullabies Logan sang to Hanna.
"...A man walks down the street and says 'why am I short of attention? Got a short little span of attention. And whoa, my nights are so long. Where's my wife and family? What if I die here? Who'll be my role model, now that my role model is—'"
Logan stepped on the gas as the light turned from red to green. There was one thing that was eating away at him. He hadn't put something together. Something was missing.
"All along, along there were incidents and accidents. There were hints and allegations. If you'll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost—"
Keeping one eye on the road, Logan reached into the passenger's seat and opened his briefcase. It popped open, spilling its contents across the seat and onto the floor. Glancing occasionally up at the road, Logan searched with one hand among the papers and files until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the picture of the victim up towards the dashboard so he could watch the road more easily. Megan Brandon. Who the hell was Megan Brandon anyway?
"...he looks around, around. He sees angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity..."
He squinted at her picture for a moment until her face resolved itself in a different way. It was raining. She had recognized him by his coat. He had avoided her. Logan's eyes widened. "Holy hell!" His foot came down hard on the breaks. The tires screamed as the little blue rental car slid to a halt.
--
Eric Quinlan drummed his fingers impatiently on the table top. This was highly unorthodox. More than that it was annoying. Quinlan had been preparing the closing statement when the call had come in. Meet me, it's urgent. Tell no one.
So Eric was waiting in the courthouse cafeteria for the one man he didn't expect to see in anything but an official capacity. Especially the way this trial was going.
Logan Kilpatrick walked into the large cafeteria, his eyes roaming over everyone but Quinlan himself. As Logan walked past the baffled Quinlan's table, he let a post-it note fall to the table top. He then walked to back of the cafeteria and walked through a door.
Quinlan looked after him for a moment, then looked down at the post-it. Men's Room.
The prosecutor sighed with annoyance and stood, crumpling up the post-it and stuffing it into his pocket. He wandered towards the back of the cafeteria, the way Logan had gone and entered the men's room as Logan had.
Logan finished checking under the doors of the stalls to see that they were alone. When he was satisfied, he stood and crossed his arms. "Thanks for coming."
Quinlan crossed his arms in turn. "Care to tell me why I have?" Logan went to the sinks and began turning on the water taps, one by one until Quinlan had to walk closer to hear.
"You know I'm going to win," Logan said over the sound of running water. "You know your case has holes in it. With everything you know now, you would never have made this case to begin with."
"The jury will decide that," Quinlan said with a frown.
"What if it didn't have to come to that?" Logan asked, speaking lower and stepping closer to the prosecution.
Eric's confusion was complete now. "What are you talking about? Did someone offer you a deal? Because I didn't authorize—"
Logan leaned in close to Quinlan's ear and held his hand to conceal his mouth. He whispered his offer and the prosecutor's frown faltered. He pulled away from Logan with a look of astonishment. "Are you serious?"
Logan nodded gravely. "Could you make all this go away?"
Quinlan considered it, looking down as he thought about the implications for both of them. Finally he looked back up again. "Why would you do that?"
Now it was Logan's turn to search his own thoughts. He turned around and began turning off the faucets. The room was assaulted by silence. "This will shake things up," he said at last. "My firm needs to be shook up."
Eric shook his head. "Your life will be over."
Logan shrugged, hoping his old friend's words weren't truer than intended. "I was going to quit anyway." He examined Quinlan's features in the mirror and then turned to look him in the eye. "Do you swear to hold up your end?"
Eric sighed heavily. He thought about it, then shrugged. "Alright, fine. But when the shit hits the fan, I'm sure as hell not going to be standing in front of it."
--
Trial - Part 32, January 20th, 1988
People began filing into the courtroom earlier than usual. The first of them were the ones with authorization from Wolfram and Hart. They all sat in various places around the room, seeming to ignore each other, but looking surreptitiously towards the door when anyone else entered.
Next to enter was a man with one hand in his pocket. Just before he walked through the metal detector, he triggered the small thing in his hand. With an almost inaudible whine, its circuitry fried and so did the circuitry of the large door-like metal detector. He walked through confidently.
Following him was a British man in a brown jacket and grey flat cap. Inside his coat was a revolver, but the defunct metal detector was silent as he walked through it.
Following him were several men in an array of black suits, all of them armed with concealed weapons. They took their seats, most behind the defendant's bench, some near the positions where the court security officers normally stood. The tension between them and the various visitors from Wolfram and Hart was tangible. The demons could smell who the agents were and where they were and with what they had armed themselves. The agents were inconspicuously making eye contact and conveying to one another the locations and number of demons.
Travers reached into his brown jacket and felt for the comforting butt of his gun. He looked from his place at the very back of the courtroom to the man just behind the defendant's bench. The man nodded very slightly.
Out of sight of anyone, he pulled his own gun into the large sleeve of his trench coat, the end of the silencer just poking out between his fingers.
The room was full now, various innocent humans packing the seats, unaware of the dangers which surrounded them. The prosecution entered from the rear, taking their seats as the door at the side of the court room opened and Niki Valtaine was led out the short distance to her seat. Logan Kilpatrick joined her, looking less than confident about the number of people in the room and glancing occasionally towards the prosecution's bench. He swallowed. Niki had no idea...
"All rise," the clerk announced as the doors to the judge's chamber opened. "The Honorable Judge Ortega presiding."
Everyone got to their feet as the man in the black robes walked into the court room, sitting down and lifting his gavel. "You may be seated," he said, tapping once. He took in a breath, his eyes on the notes before him. "We're here today—" his eyes found the audience his court had attracted. He blinked. "We are here today to hear closing arguments, are we not?" He looked to the clerk who nodded. Ortega made a little shrug. "Very well. Prosecution, are you prepared?"
Niki's hand moved slowly over and found Logan's. She turned her head and met his eyes. He swallowed but she offered a little smile. It's okay, she mouthed. I trust you.
Eric Quinlan stood from the bench, seeming to consider for a moment, his eyes firmly ahead of him. "Actually, Your Honor, the prosecution moves for a mistrial."
An explosion voices filled the courtroom, heads turning this way and that in disbelief. Each voice was little more than a whisper, but together they were a storm. Niki slowly turned her head and locked eyes with Logan again. A frown creased her brow. He winked.
"Order," Ortega said with a frown, banging his gavel. "Order in my courtroom!" The voices diminished to a murmur and were finally silenced. The agent in the front row was turned almost completely around, trying to make eye contact with Travers but there were too many people in the way.
Ortega banged his gavel once more for emphasis. "What is the grounds for mistrial?" he demanded, in no mood for games.
Quinlan took in a breath. "It has come to the attention of the prosecution that the attorney for the defendant knew the victim, Your Honor."
Logan swallowed as the judge swung his angry gaze towards the defense bench. "Is this true, Mr. Kilpatrick? Did you know Ms. Brandon?"
Logan stood and nodded once. "Yes, Your Honor."
The buzz of whispers started up again and it took several more bangs of the gavel to silence them. Travers shifted in his seat with a frown. His seat in the aisle afforded him a clear view of Quinlan as he stood to make his motion. Something caught his attention and he looked to the right. Tawnie Fischer was sitting across the aisle from him looking like she was ready to tear someone to pieces. A little spark of triumph lit up in Travers' mind. Nothing made him personally happier than to see Fischer fail.
"Why didn't you resign the case?" Ortega asked angrily. There was a moment of silence while the hushed court waited for the answer. None came. "You refuse to answer the question?" Ortega asked with an astonished look.
Logan shook his head. "I am unable to answer the question, Your Honor."
Ortega frowned once again with confusion. "You know you risk contempt of court?" Logan said nothing.
"Your Honor," Quinlan said drawing the heat of the judge's gaze. "The prosecution feels the impartiality of the defendant's sole counsel qualifies as manifest injustice."
Ortega scowled. "Why are you defending the defendant?"
Eric Quinlan raised an eyebrow and tossed a glance towards the silent defense bench. He smiled on the inside. "In the interests of a fair trial, Your Honor."
The judge nearly scoffed. "Right," he said not without sarcasm. He sighed with irritation as he looked back to the defense bench and the silently defiant lawyer there. "For once you have nothing to say, Mr. Kilpatrick?"
Logan shook his head once, also smiling on the inside. "No, Your Honor. Except that I support the motion."
Ortega squinted. "You—" Blink. Sigh. "Very well," the judge took a deep breath and lifted his gavel. "I will see you both in my chambers to establish solid grounds for a mistrial and this court is adjourned."
Bang, went the gavel.
The voices of those watching the proceedings erupted into a tide of sound. Amid the moving bodies, actual fights were breaking out. Without warning, someone let out a scream and from somewhere else a body flew out of the crowd and landed near the other side of the room. The voices were now loud and shouting and no one was listening to the angry judge anymore.
Men in uniform burst in from the side doors and from the rear. They had their hands on their weapons as they tried to pinpoint the aggressors. Two officers stood at the rear doors, preventing anyone from leaving.
At the front of the courtroom, Quinlan and the prosecutors were backing away from the mob sitting behind them. There was a snarl and several more screams. The sound of gunshots through a silencer and every officer's weapon in the room was out. The shouts and voices intensified as everyone now tried to get the hell out.
Logan leaned down to whisper in Niki's ear, knowing she would never hear him otherwise. "The charges against you are being dropped. You're free to go." He met Niki's eyes as she tried to comprehend what was going on behind them. He was trying to think of a nice way of saying that now that she was free, everyone would be trying to kill her, but a demon suddenly launched itself from the front row of seats at the Slayer.
With a snarl and three pops, it caught an agent's bullets in the back and landed dead on the table between Logan and Niki. It's glamour restored, officers approached it with guns drawn. Niki and Logan stood and made their way between the thickening group of officers in uniform at the front of the courtroom as the judge was escorted into chambers under guard.
As the panicked courtroom tore itself apart, Quentin Travers slipped out the main entrance and disappeared. The loud bang of nine millimeter police pistol shots spurred his exit. At least Fischer had failed. The Slayer... That matter was far from resolved.
--
Monday, January 25th, 1988
Rachel took the mail from the floor by the front door with a frown. The sun shone in and the thin layer of snow over everything was sparkling. The frown came from an unrecognized letter sitting among the bills and junk mail. She knew it wasn't junk because junk was addressed either to Logan or to both of them. This was addressed just to her.
She brought it to the kitchen where she set the rest of the pile down by her coffee. She tapped the envelope's contents to one end, then ripped off the other end. The single sheet of paper slid out into her hands.
As she read the letter, her frown disappeared and all thoughts of a day of coffee and paying bills vanished. As she took in the contents, her face froze in a look of pure shock. Her gaze drifted up from the letter to the sunlight pouring in the window.
The letter slipped from her numb fingers and landed silently on the counter top.
...with regrets,
Tawnie Fischer