He arrived on time at Liz's office, located in an upscale residential neighborhood. A tasteful brass placard was the only indication that this was more than her residence. He rang the bell, and was immediately buzzed in. Liz stood in the wide entrance hall, on a Persian rug over gleaming hardwood. She wore casual business wear – khakis and a blue blazer over a white oxford, a scarf at her neck. Jack looked precisely as he had when he left Adam's office, like hell on two tired feet.
"Jack," Liz said, and her smile was fond. "Come on in. I have coffee." He followed her into a small, sunny room to the left, furnished with a few comfortable chairs and a leather couch. Bookcases and fine art covered the walls. The floor was carpeted in a charcoal gray, with flecks of red and green, matching the chairs. "Please, sit down. Coffee?"
Play the game, Jack, he thought. She'll scrutinize every move, word, nuance. A sardonic smile flitted across his lips while her back was turned, pouring coffee into fine china. I should fucked her when she wanted me, now she's got me by the balls and she's going to love it.
"Cream or sugar?" She gave him the coffee.
"No. Thanks. I'm a purist, I prefer it black."
Liz smiled, then paused to add both to her cup. "Sit, Jack. I won't bite."
Won't you, he thought, but he sat in the red chair, facing Liz, who sat in a leather recliner, with a deeply burnished side table next to it. A pad and pen waited. Liz sipped her coffee, then put the cup and saucer on the table and picked up the pad.
"It's just a conversation, Jack. You've needed to talk for a long time."
"What good does it do? It won't bring her back, and it only makes me feel worse."
"Maybe in the beginning, but as you begin exploring your emotions, you will feel better." She clicked the top of the ballpoint pen. "How much are you drinking?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. A lot, I guess, by some people's standards."
"There are other ways to numb the pain."
"I haven't found any. I wake up in the morning, still, and reach for her, and…." He sipped the coffee, it was very good. "I hear something she'd find funny and go back to the office, and Jamie Ross sits in her chair." He could not hide his bitterness.
"What do you think of Jamie?"
He shrugged again. "What's there to think? I don't know her, I just know her reputation. An excellent defense attorney, which I don't think proves helpful in this job. She stares at me when she thinks I'm not looking."
"I'm sure she's curious. Claire's death wasn't a secret, nor was your relationship."
"Why do people act like it's some alien event that I fell in love?" He looked for a place to put his coffee, he'd sipped enough that it shouldn't hurt her feelings. "I think everybody fell in love with Claire, in some form."
"She was a special person, yes. Do you think the relationship would have lasted? You are significantly older."
"Is that what all the curiosity is about?" He leaned down and put the coffee on the floor. "Yes, it would have lasted. We were going to have a child, we were committed to each other. Why is that such a shock?"
Liz's smile was practiced patience. "You don't exactly have a reputation for lasting commitment, Jack."
"Yeah, I know. If it wears a skirt and works for me, I'm going to bend her over my desk before the week is out." He snarled. "It wasn't like that with Claire, never was. Sure, I was attracted to her from the first time I saw her, when she worked for Ben Stone, but believe me, bending Claire Kincaid over a desk for a quickie did not, would not, could not happen."
"I know," Liz quietly said, as she made a notation. "I know she loved you. I know how good she was for you. And you for her. Do you accept that she's gone, Jack?"
"What kind of bullshit question is that? Of course I accept it, I was there when they buried her." He looked away. "I should have been there before she died."
Liz made another note. "So you feel guilty."
"Yes."
"And what's the common denominator? Why weren't you there before she died, and why aren't you truly here now?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"OK. Tell me about the baby. Were you looking forward to fatherhood at your age?"
He slumped in the chair, extending his long legs. "Yes. I wanted a child with her. She was so happy about it, and I couldn't help but be happy with her."
"So you planned the baby?"
Jack rolled his eyes. "No, not that it's any of your business." He leaned forward, arms on his knees, his dark eyes darker as he focused on Liz Olivet. "None of this is your business, Liz. I'm here because Adam ordered it. That doesn't mean I have to answer personal questions."
"Fair enough." Her body language was open, relaxed, and an understanding smile crossed her face. "Describe your life now."
Jack massaged his knees, struggling for the right words. "Upended."
She nodded. "Interesting adjective. Not destroyed, wrecked, ruined, but upended. Upside down, in other words. What are you doing to right it?"
He frowned. "It can't be fixed and you know that."
"But chasing down and pressing for the execution of drunk drivers somehow rights the scales."
"Yes."
"Do you ever drink and drive, Jack?"
He hesitated, then simply lied. "No. I won't drive after one drink."
Liz pretended to believe him, but she could smell the alcohol from her seat. Whether he'd been drinking already or it was last night's booze coming through his pores, she didn't press the issue. Her goal was to plant ideas, hoping they would take root, and he would regain his old sense of self. He's never had anything of meaning stolen from him before, she thought, and that's what he has to face. She took a slightly different tack. "If Claire was still alive, would you still be going full court press on Dressler?"
He thought for a second. "Yes. Three people died, Liz, and he isn't remotely remorseful."
"Was John Baumgarten?"
Jack stared at her. He remembered the man, standing by his attorney for sentencing, a fat, bearded man in a shirt one size too small and a skinny tie draped around his neck. Before he allocated, he turned and looked at Jack in the gallery, flanked by Lennie and Anita. Baumgarten's eyes were cold as he looked at Jack, then the cops, and then he turned back to face the judge. "I drank too much, watching the Knicks get whipped, lost a bundle. So I was pissed, and speeding. I never saw her, Judge. I surely didn't mean to kill her. I wish I could take it back, I'm very sorry." Twelve months at Mt. McGregor, the judge said, and Jack nearly lunged off the bench, restrained by Lennie's iron grip.
"Not at all," Jack finally said. "He was relieved at a light sentence, that's all. He said the appropriate words but they were empty. And I see that same lack of remorse in Dressler."
"So Dressler pays for his own sins, and John Baumgarten's, too?"
"If you want to look at it that way."
"How do you look at it?"
"That I'm doing my job, prosecuting a killer. Jamie argues he was too drunk to form intent, which is bullshit. He knew he was drunk when he got behind the wheel. All the intent I need."
"Be honest, would Claire agree with Jamie?"
Claire adamantly opposed the death penalty, the last day of her life had been marred by that issue. Anita told him, much later, how she agonized over what she'd seen, taken part in, and he forced himself to shut that out. "It's not Claire's case," he answered. "Are we done here?" He looked at his watch.
"Jack, it won't get better until you talk about it, get your feelings out. Your pain is nothing to be ashamed of."
"Who said anything about shame? I just think my pain is a private matter, and I'll work through it privately."
"It's not a private matter when you're taking it out on a defendant who had nothing to do with your loss."
He stood, he'd had enough of this. "Two families were shattered by that man, I know how that feels. Justice demands its due. I'm going to see to it they get justice."
"The justice you feel you were denied." She stood, too.
"It was Claire who was denied justice," he said, softly, sliding his hands in his pockets. "Denied a life, motherhood, all the things we take for granted as the natural course of events. And that punk doesn't feel the slightest fear, he thinks all of this will go away and he'll be free to continue to wreak havoc."
She realized he'd segued into Dressler but was talking about Baumgarten. She'd been at the allocution, too, everyone who ever worked with, knew, Claire Kincaid packed that courtroom. Something nagged at Liz that day, some vague perception that the man didn't seem concerned in the least, that he could do a year standing on his head, that it was all part of some plan. Liz chalked it up to grief, to seeing things that weren't there, but Baumgarten left the courtroom unbent, erect and confident. Jack left it discreetly supported by Lennie and Rey, then disappeared for a week.
She walked him to the door. "I'm here for you, Jack, when you're ready to talk, really talk about the pain, loss, and confusion. We can sort it out."
"Thank you, but I'll handle it. I'll get my head back in the game. You can tell Adam that."
"He cares."
"I know." Jack opened the door. "See you later, Liz." He walked out. A light drizzle fell, and Jack glanced at the sky. His mother once told him rain was God's tears, shed for the sins in the world. God. He didn't sneer, but he let the bitterness fill him. Where was God that night as it rained, crying over some other sin on the opposite side of the world?
He took a taxi home, no point in returning to the office. He locked himself into his empty apartment, tossed his keys on a table, and yanked his tie off. He hated the emptiness, perhaps that was why he allowed the clutter to accumulate, it gave the illusion of filling space. He undressed, then pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt. He glanced at the unmade bed, the pile of clothes he should get to the laundry, the stack of unopened underwear – it seemed easier to buy shorts in bulk rather than do laundry these days.
He poured a drink, then sat on the couch. He picked up the photograph of Claire and saluted it with his glass before sipping.
Oh, cut the shit, Jack. He dropped the picture in his lap and looked around, no way had he just heard Claire. All he saw were the shadows cast by a rainy afternoon. He looked at the picture, put it back on the table, propped his left ankle on his right knee, and sipped again.
If you're here, bring it on. He wasn't sure if he spoke aloud.
You'd keel over if I did.
Hah, he snorted. A ghost in my head is not going to scare me. C'mon, prove you're real.
For a half second he thought he saw the light waver in front of him, but he was tired and well on his way to getting loaded. Nothing to say? He sipped again.
Jack, I didn't want to leave you, and I hate seeing you like this. You could be a pompous ass sometimes, but in the end, you always did the right thing. Don't lose that because you lost me.
Been talking to Liz Olivet, have you?
He heard music, Simon and Garfunkel, I am a rock…I have no need of friendship, friendship causes pain…and he reached for the bottle, refilling his glass. Claire loved music. He gulped, sipping wasn't a high enough dosage for days like this. He wished he could talk to her, one more time, there was so much to say, but she died without ever hearing his words of regret, of love, of mortal pain. He was allowed a few minutes with her body, still warm, and he took her hand, bent and kissed her forehead, thinking, even in that terrible minute, of God. Be good to her, he warned, it's her first day. And then he let the tears fall, holding her dead hand, and feeling like he would never make it.
But I did make it, he thought, staring at his glass. I somehow got through it, the funeral, the well-meaning friends, and I'll get through the aftermath. I have to, for her if for no other reason. Nailing Dressler would somehow even the scales, and he could live with that.