Jack straddled his motorcycle and adjusted his helmet, then turned the key. As the engine roared, he thought he felt light hands on his waist, and his head involuntarily turned. Emptiness. He eased out of his parking space and shot through the garage into Manhattan traffic. No matter how much penance he did, he'd never feel those hands on his waist again, and the anger that surged through him made him careless. He wove through traffic like a man possessed, which he was.
He reached his apartment building and parked. He acknowledged the doorman with a jerk of his head, and ignored the couple waiting for the elevator. He got on it and rode to his floor, silent as the apartment would be, his helmet dangling from his hand. Once inside, he tossed the helmet aside, into the general clutter, and made for the scotch.
He sank on the couch, glass in hand and bottle nearby, and regarded the clutter. Claire would not approve. He looked at the framed picture of her on his end table, taken at a lighthouse on the Maine coast a couple of months before she died. Her smile seemed to hold some secret, and Jack, in retrospect, wondered if she knew then that she'd gotten pregnant that weekend.
They'd walked along the beach, landscaped with rocks and boulders, cold sea spray hitting their faces. They watched the fishing boats heading for port as the sun went down, and Jack had wondered aloud what it would be like to live a life at sea. Claire took his hand.
"I spent a lot of summers sailing," she said, "Mac had a passion for it when I was growing up. It has its attractions, but it's also a hard life. And I would imagine theirs," she nodded toward the trawlers, "Is hard beyond belief."
He smiled down at her. "Harder than ours?"
She smiled. Oh God, that smile always touched him in ways he'd once thought impossible. "It's all relative, I suppose," she said, and squeezed his hand. He stopped, turned, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her and then pressing her face against his shoulder. And they'd returned to their room at the bed and breakfast, where they made a baby without knowing it.
He snapped back. His glass was empty and he refilled it. It was the only thing that numbed his pain, but sometimes it failed. Why, he asked himself for the thousandth time, didn't I insist you stay home? He sipped. As the scotch slid down his throat, a familiar self-loathing filled him. The hell with her. Oh Jesus Christ, he thought, fighting tears, why, why did I say that? Why did those have to be my last words on the subject of Claire Kincaid? Once Adam had called, sent a car for him, once he'd arrived at the hospital, he was silent. Absolutely silent. He let Anita Van Buren hold his hand, knowing on some level she shared his pain and his inarticulateness, and when the surgeon came out, Jack heard the words and knew the world had changed. He had changed.
Legally guiltless, morally bankrupt and convicted, he refilled his glass yet again. Claire, he whispered, overwhelmed by the emptiness of the apartment. The same kind of emptiness he felt at the office. His thoughts turned to Adam and Jamie. He knew Adam was trying to help, to force him to move on, but Jamie Ross? He shuddered. Still too much of a defense attorney, and clueless as to why he demanded justice for those three people cut down in the street on a Sunday morning, as Claire had been cut down on a rainy night. Briscoe understood, he thought, and damn well he should, since Claire died because Briscoe was too drunk to get himself home.
Don't, he thought he heard Claire whisper, don't blame Lennie. He carries enough blame, enough guilt, for both of you. Jack drank, it silenced the voices. He knew Lennie suffered, that he would never get the image of Claire trapped in that smashed car out of his memory. The blame properly belonged to Jack, who left, tired of waiting.
A memory, uninvited, showed up. Claire walking into the apartment, shopping bags in hand, a teasing smile on her face. Yet rather than show him her purchases, she tossed the Nordstrom's bags aside and sat in his lap, kissing him as if it had been weeks, rather than a few hours, since she'd seen him. He sometimes wondered where he found the energy to keep up with her appetites. He'd been tired that Sunday afternoon, but within seconds, they were ripping clothes off and making love on the couch. This couch. He needed to get rid of it, it held too many place memories, emotions. Making love to Claire had been his personal stairway to heaven, and now that was gone.
He poured the last of the scotch into his glass. It was getting dark, but he didn't bother with a lamp. He preferred the darkness now, he didn't see Claire everywhere. He almost heard her tease him – you're going to trip and break your stubborn neck, Jack – and he swallowed. He didn't care if he broke his neck, not if it meant he would join Claire. You don't have a death wish, Olivet told him in the weeks following Claire's death, you have an I don't care if I live complex, and that's even more dangerous. The hell with Olivet, he thought, bitterly, she didn't love Claire, she didn't understand his pain. He finished the scotch in his glass and tipped over on the couch, on his back, hoping to sleep for a little while, to escape the memories and the voices and above all the accusations that came from his heart.
Jamie was in arraignments, ready to argue for remand, and was surprised to see opposing counsel. It was Sally Bell. They knew each other well, as the major players in defense did, and after a quick session before the judge, they met at the bar gate.
"Odd to see you on that side," Sally said.
"It's where I belong right now." Jamie drew a deep breath. "You have time for lunch, or coffee?"
Sally looked at her watch. "Yeah, sure."
They went to the restaurant that catered to the courthouse crew and found a small table in the back. They ordered coffee. Sally perceptively watched Jamie, waiting. It would come.
When the coffee arrived, Jamie said, "Tell me about Jack."
Sally smiled, a hint of bitterness in it. "Where to begin," she said, and raised her cup to her lips. "I gather you're caught in the Claire Kincaid fallout?"
Jamie nodded. "And I'm clueless. It seems everyone thinks the woman was a saint, and Jack, my God, Jack's so full of anger he scares me."
"He loved her, what do you expect?" Sally seated the cup in the saucer. "Claire Kincaid was not a saint, Jamie. She was a sweet girl, young and idealistic, but she knew how to get what she wanted. And she wanted Jack. She got him. I remember the first time I saw them, we were opposing counsel, and I knew exactly what was going on. They tried to hide it, believe me, but I'd been Jack's lover. I knew what I was seeing."
"I'm having trouble imagining anyone falling in love with Jack."
Sally smiled. "Right now, sure. I've known him for years, this isn't Jack, this an open wound. He's lost, Jamie. I never thought that would happen, he was always so damned sure of himself. But he loved that girl, something else I never expected. Sleeping with assistants was a game with him." She shrugged. "If I had my crystal ball, I'd predict he'll never look at an assistant again in that way."
Jamie struggled with her conscience, but in the end, curiosity won. "Did you know she was pregnant when she died?"
Sally raised her eyebrows. "I'd heard rumors. One of Liz Rodgers' assistants has a big mouth. So it was true? That must have upended Jack."
"From what I hear he was fine with it."
Sally pushed her cup and saucer away, a trace of bitterness on her face. "Then Claire changed him more than I thought. Or else it was a case of her Claire getting what she wanted, again."
"Are you saying she was manipulative?"
"No." Sally fidgeted with a spoon. "But she has this air of vulnerability – real enough – and its effect was to make people want to protect her, give her what she wanted, and she was smart enough to catch on. She had a thing for older men, so I'm not surprised she decided she wanted Jack, nor would I be surprised if he resisted more than one point one seconds. He was a horny bastard if ever there was one."
Jamie frowned. "It had to have been more than sex, Sally. You should see him now. He stays locked in his office, or else he's savaging defendants…" she sighed. "He's hurting, OK, I can see that, but he's almost mean about it."
"I told you he loved her. And I'm sure he's turned her into some kind of saint now, some kind of perfect woman and no one else will ever compare with her. And knowing Jack, with his Jesuit education, he feels a lot of guilt. Good luck with him, kiddo. If you can't take it anymore, you can always come work for me."
Jamie smiled. "Thanks, I appreciate that." She looked at her watch. "I better get back."
"Stay in touch, Jamie." Sally's smile was fond.
"I will."
She hurried back to the office and busied herself at her desk. Within minutes, Jack was bellowing for her, and she went into his office, mouth dry and palms damp. What fresh hell is this, she wondered.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.
"Arraignments, then I had coffee with Sally Bell."
He frowned at the mention of Sally. "Yeah? And what did you talk about?"
Jamie took a deep breath. "You. Claire Kincaid. The Dressler mess."
Jack stepped behind his desk, as if it would keep him from going for her. "Stay out of my life, Jamie. Claire is none of your goddamn business, and has nothing to do with Dressler. You'd do well to remember that, to quit thinking like a defense attorney and remember we prosecute criminals in this office." He was yelling, and Jamie winced. "Get out of here and get back to work."
She'd no sooner closed Jack's door when Adam stood in the hallway, beckoning. She followed him into his office.
"Take a seat, Miss Ross," he said, gently, easing into his desk chair. "I couldn't help but overhear that exchange between you and Jack."
Jamie fought tears, it wouldn't do to show hurt and weakness to her new boss. "He's so, I don't know, out of control on the subject, Mr. Schiff. The death penalty for a drunk driver?"
"He has his reasons, and I support him. We lost something special, Miss Ross."
Jamie sighed. "So what was she, saint or sinner? What made her so special, that it would send Jack into this kind of fury?"
"She wasn't a saint but she was a good person. Kind, smart, I'm sure you've heard it all before. What they had was more than a passionate affair, it was a commitment, and that's a foreign word to Jack McCoy. I'm worried about him, he's not recovering, which is one reason I hired you. I hoped you could reach him, pull him back into the world."
"I can't do that if he won't talk to me."
Adam sighed. "He's not ready to talk. When he is, you'll know it. Just remember, he lost his world and with it, his compass. You have to lead him without him realizing it back to the land of the living. Think you can do that?"
"I can try. Where do I start?"
"Talk to people who knew her, knew them. I saw them every day, and every day I had to turn a blind eye to that rule about subordinates and supervisors and consenting adults." He sighed again. "They were always touching, one way or another, whether it was sitting together on a couch, or standing too close, or…" he waved his hand. "You get the idea. At first I thought it was Jack being Jack, and I called him in to read him the riot act." He leaned back and stared at the windows, lost in memory. Jack McCoy, called into his office as if it was the woodshed, closing the door.
"Didn't I warn you about bedding Ms. Kincaid when I assigned her to you?" Adam snarled.
Jack's eyes narrowed. "You did. And I tried to honor that, as did she, but Adam, this is different. This isn't Sally Bell or Diana Hawthorne."
"Then what is it?"
"I love her."
That simple statement silenced the old man for a moment. "You what?' he asked, when he recovered.
"I love her. If you want to fire us for it, go ahead."
"How long has this been going on?"
"The sex, or the emotion behind it?"
"Take your pick." Adam stared up at the younger man.
"I've loved her almost from the beginning. I've been sleeping with her for two months."
Adam shook his head. "And you're willing to get fired over it?"
Jack nodded. "I can't imagine life without her, Adam," he said, softly, the un-Jack standing like a boy in the principal's office. "So fire me if you must, but I will not give her up."
"And she feels the same way."
Jack nodded.
"All right, just please, be discreet."
He looked at Jamie Ross as the memory faded, wishing he could explain so many things to her. He'd saddled her, unfairly perhaps, with a burden she wasn't yet equipped to handle, but he felt she'd grow into it. "My advice," he softly said, glancing at his private entrance lest Jack suddenly burst in, "is to talk to as many people as you can about her, about Jack, about them. You want an interesting perspective? Go see Diana Hawthorne up in Bedford. She'll fill your ears."
Jamie nodded and left his office, wondering what pile of crap she'd stepped into and if she'd survive the experience. She returned to her cubicle, and then, impulsively, reached for a directory. She made a call, and when she hung up, she had an appointment to see Diana Hawthorne the next morning.