Jack found Sally and Ruthie glued to his side after Diana rested her case, and court was adjourned. His patience was tested, but he knew they cared, and he knew being alone right now was not the greatest idea ever to spring from his fertile brain. He knew a conviction would be nothing more than a broken hallelujah, justice but still, he would be deprived and alone. He drew a deep breath as he led his "harem" to his favorite bar, and he insisted on ordering a glass of numbness, the hell with them. They didn't argue, ordering drinks for themselves.
They settled in a booth. "What did you think of her closing statement," Sally said, deciding to attack the elephant in the room with a dart gun.
He shrugged. "About what I expected. I thought Ben put on a strong case, but I haven't reviewed the transcripts and exhibits."
"And I strongly urge you not to do so," Ruthie said, swirling her wine.
Jack's eyebrows shot up. "And why's that?"
Ruthie's hand reached across the table for his. "Because Rodgers showed the jury exactly what happened to Claire. You don't need to see that."
He freed his hand and drank. "I've seen. I insisted." He put his glass down. "I had to fight Rodgers like hell, but in the end, she capitulated."
"That really helped, didn't it?" Sally asked, sarcastically.
He focused on her. "I needed to know, to really know, she was dead, Sally. I went through most of it in a daze, the pictures confirmed, in gory detail, that she was gone and wasn't going to come back."
"I think I understand that," Ruthie said, "though I thought I was going to hurl when I saw them."
His smile was sad. "I know. You're defense attorneys, what do you think of Diana's chances?"
Ruthie shrugged. "Poor to hopeless. Those witnesses from Bedford were devastating. But it helped her that Baumgarten wouldn't testify, and I know Ben put enough pressure on him to squeeze the life out of him."
Jack shrugged. "He'll never get the death penalty on a conspiracy charge against him, I'm sure his attorney told him that, and I don't think he'd turn on the woman he thinks loves him. Little does he know Diana loves Diana and no one else."
"I keep fighting the urge to see her, ask her what in God's name she was thinking," Sally said, staring into space. "Maybe our common bond as your former lovers would get her to open up, now that trial is over."
Jack snorted. "She'd probably try to beat the hell out of you, Sally."
"Hey, I didn't spend five years in judo classes for nothing," Sally replied.
Then a tall, dark haired woman stood next to the table, and Ruthie involuntarily jumped before recognizing Jamie Ross. "I thought I'd find you here," she said. "May I join you?"
Jack slid over on the booth bench and Jamie sat down. "How are you doing, Jack?"
He shrugged. "I just want it over."
"I don't think it will take long," she said. "How are you, girls?"
The other attorneys nodded. "We're on a mission from God," Ruthie said, "saving Jack from overdosing on J&B."
He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "Helpless cause, my dear."
"You don't know me, then," Ruthie said.
"No," he said, quietly, "but Claire did. She thought you were great." He looked at her, remembering an evening when Claire stumbled in after a night out with Ruthie. He so rarely saw Claire drunk that he found it funny. She gave him her one-eyed stare, and then approached him as he lay sprawled on the couch.
"Amused, Jesuit boy?" She grinned, and he knew he was in for it, and there was nothing to be done but submit gracefully and athletically. She was naked and pulling down his sweatpants before he knew what was happening. He told her later he felt like Silver, and she asked if that made her the Lone Ranger.
"Claire had her moments," Ruthie said. She looked at Jamie. "Sorry, we don't mean to exclude you from the conversation."
Jamie shrugged. "I just wish I'd had the opportunity to know her."
"No you don't," Jack said, firmly, "because then you'd know how much it hurts to have lost her."
Jamie put her hand on Jack's. "I have a very good idea of what it must feel like," she said. "I see what it's done to you guys."
Sally shrugged. "It will soon get better, life has a way of easing this kind of pain."
Jack looked at her. "And that from someone who didn't particularly like Claire."
"Hey," Sally said, "I didn't know her well enough to dislike her. What little I saw of her I did like, especially the time she told me to tell you to fuck off."
Jack shrugged. "I don't think I want to know which time that was."
"Heard it frequently, did you, Jack?" Ruthie teased.
He smiled. "Once a week, at least. She was the only assistant I had who truly stood up to me. She knew how to pound my head with her principles." He looked from Sally, assistant past, to Jamie, assistant present. "But don't get any ideas from that," he said to Jamie.
"Wouldn't think of it," she answered, smiling.
"You remember the Carmel case?" Ruthie asked, finishing her wine and signaling for another round. "She and I had a quick lunch just before she figured out the kid was lying. She felt she'd been a sucker, that something was off with the kid, but she wasn't sure what. Then she interviewed him, and you know the rest."
"She had good instincts," Jack said. "And a great heart."
"That she did," Ruthie replied, "though I never could drag her ass to a Mets game."
Jack laughed. "Her idea of sport varied greatly from televised team sports."
Sally snickered. "Why Jack McCoy, are you hinting at sex?"
He blushed. "Well, it's true." He spun one of the ashtrays on the table. "Why," he asked suddenly, "is it so easy to talk to you guys about her?"
"Because we cared about her, too?" Ruthie said. "It's OK to talk to us. We understand, as much as anyone can."
He nodded. "Sometimes I think it's getting better, and I owe part of that to you." He looked at Jamie. "You haven't tried to be her, you've been yourself, and you've been kind when I didn't deserve kindness."
Jamie touched his wrist. "You do deserve kindness. And if I can do anything to help you, just let me know."
He nodded, but he was thinking he wanted to do some serious drinking, and to do that, he'd have to ditch this posse of guardian angels. He waited a little while, then excused himself, slipping out into the night. He caught a cab to his apartment.
He turned on the lights as soon as he entered. Looking around, he sighed. It was getting ridiculous. He changed into sweatpants and a tee shirt, then cleaned the apartment. Two hours later, he looked around, satisfied that it would pass a Kincaid inspection. Then he refilled the scotch he'd been working on as he worked, put a new CD in the player, and sat on the couch. He ran his palm over the fabric, and realized he really would have to get rid of it if he hoped to move forward. Remembering Claire writhing under him every time he sat on it was not healthy, though he assumed those memories would fade with time. He was stuck with the office couch, though, he could hardly tell Adam it needed to be replaced because he'd had sex countless times with Claire on it.
He thought about Jamie, about her compassion, her earnestness, and her sharp brain. She was proving a good fit for him, so maybe the old man knew what he was doing when he hired her. She was easy to talk to, though their conversations lacked the intimacy and banter of his conversations with Claire. No one, he reminded himself, was going to compare with Claire and he needed to stop doing it.
He remembered a conversation they'd had, on a weekend away, at their favorite place on the coast of Maine. It was shortly after the Sandig case, and Claire was reeling from her part in getting a man sentenced to death. She talked of death, wondering what it was like to know your life would end at a precise moment, something she had also said about Mickey Scott. Did she, he wondered, realize her life was ending at that precise second when those headlights illuminated her face and that truck smashed into that fragile body? He hoped not.
Stop blaming yourself.
He'd play. "OK, who should I blame then, Diana and Baumgarten?"
Yeah, it's a start. Even if you'd been there, there was nothing you could do.
"I suppose not." He sipped. "The jury is going to convict her."
Ben put on a great case, but what's with this Saint Claire crap? You know perfectly well I was anything but.
He smiled. "I admit you had an Irish temper, but you managed to control it most of the time."
You have a great assistant in Jamie. Relax and get to know her, stop comparing her to me.
"You've got me there. I'll try, OK?"
Try, my ass. Just do it. Loosen up and let her work with you, not against you.
"Can I help it if I miss you?"
That will fade, I promise. It's the way we're wired, otherwise life would come to a grinding halt. We're born, we live, we die. And those we leave behind must move on.
He sighed. "I'll try, Claire. I really miss talking to you."
So what are we doing now, Jesuit boy?
"I'm pretty sure these conversations are imaginary."
She didn't respond, and he half-wondered if he'd pissed her off. The light wavered in front of him, and he blinked. When he opened his eyes, she stood there, in her jeans, tee shirt, and black leather jacket, her hair curly and slightly windblown. He almost dropped his glass. "I'm hallucinating."
That's something you'll have to decide for yourself, but I wouldn't recommend asking Liz Olivet about it. That teasing smile he so loved was there. He put his glass down and made to reach for her, but she stepped back. You can't, she said. Now, you get your stubborn ass in gear and move on. I'm perfectly fine, and you can talk to me anytime you want. I may not answer you, but I assure you I'm here, listening. Be a good boy and go to bed, and let's see what kind of dreams you have. She faded away.
He rubbed his eyes. Jesus, he thought, if I'm hallucinating, I'm really in trouble. He looked at his nearly empty glass, then put it down and got up, turning off lights and going into his bedroom. He got in bed and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He soon succumbed to the booze and drifted off to sleep.
He did dream. He dreamed of making love to her, of holding her in his arms afterward, talking, just talking. It felt so good, to love her and to hold her, and then he woke with a jerk. He'd had a wet dream, something that hadn't happened since adolescence. He got up and walked into the bathroom, yanking off his soiled underwear and cleaning himself. Then he returned to his bedroom, getting clean shorts, and crawled back into bed.
It was just a dream, wish fulfillment, he thought, turning on his side and hugging the pillow. He didn't regret it, or feel embarrassed, but it had seemed so real it was kind of scary. He really did have to get a grip, move on somehow. He would go out Saturday morning and buy a new couch, that was for damn sure.
--xx--
He was in Ben's office, sprawled on the couch, talking to Ben, who sat behind his desk, when the phone rang. Ben merely said "Thank you" and hung up. He looked at Jack. "Verdict."
Jack was on his feet in a second. Ben was more restrained, checking his tie knot and adjusting his suit coat. Jamie met them in the corridor, having received the same call. Together, they went to the courthouse. Jack sat in the front row of the gallery behind the prosecution table. Diana came in, dressed in a conservative black suit and took her seat at the defense table without looking toward the prosecution.
It was a familiar procedure. The jury filed in, and the judge asked if they'd reached a verdict. The paper was brought to her by the bailiff, she looked at it, refolded it, and had it returned to the foreman.
"On the sole count of the indictment, conspiracy to murder a law enforcement agent, we find the defendant, Diana Hawthorne, guilty."
Diana nearly sank into her chair as her knees buckled. She gripped the table's edge and kept to her feet.
"Then according to the laws of the State of New York, the sentencing phase will begin next week. Ms. Hawthorne will remain in custody. I will see all parties on Monday morning." Judge Pongracic banged her gavel and it was over.
Ben turned to Jack, his eyes full of compassion. "For Claire," he whispered.
Jack nodded, feeling that sense of a broken hallelujah, and he walked out of the courtroom, the courthouse. He hailed a cab, made it stop by a flower shop, and bought a single red rose. He then directed the driver to the cemetery and instructed him to wait.
He walked to Claire's grave and knelt, placing the rose against her headstone. "I know you know," he whispered, "but still, you're getting justice. I hope it helps."
He seemed to feel her arms around his neck, her head resting on his, a finger catching the tear that slipped down his cheek. Then he got up and had the taxi take him back to Hogan Place. There was work to do.
--xx—
Diana was in shock. She'd never expected to be convicted on the slender evidence the prosecution presented. How could she expect something like that? She'd made her case – had proven Claire was not perfect, had not implicated herself this time around – but still she had lost.
It was Jack's doing, she knew. It was all his fault. If only Judge Pongracic had not allowed him to make his impact statement! Jack was a public figure – he appeared on television often, always flanking Adam Schiff, and the jury had recognized him. They had believed what he had said because they knew who he was. It was not fair!
And now she was convicted. At least Baumgarten had not turned on her – even though she knew Ben had squeezed him hard. That was a small comfort, at least. He had not betrayed her…
But everyone else had. Her former colleagues – Ruthie, Sally, Danielle, Shelley – had all turned on her, rushing to Jack's side. And Sally hadn't even liked Claire! But obviously Jack had persuaded her to rejoin his "harem"… just to convict Diana.
How could the jury not see how biased they were against her? How could they not see that Ben had tried to set her up, that Jack hated her, that all the witnesses they called were twisted into believing that she was the criminal, not Claire? It was Claire who was the one who deserved to be punished… she should be rewarded for doing what she did! Why didn't anyone realize that?
She shook the bars of her cell angrily, furious at being sent to Sing-Sing to await transfer to death row. She used to send people to Sing-Sing – she was not sent there herself! How could this have happened? Why did this have to happen to her?
With a sigh of desperation, she sank down onto her bunk and began to cry bitterly – not for what she had done, but for the consequences of her actions.