Sitting at the local Diner, with Jack McCoy; plates of eggs and toast on the table, mugs of hot coffee in hand…
The Counselor looked a little nervous, sitting with Lieutenant Anita Van Buren in the small booth.
But the place was noisy, people talking, giving their orders, or chatting with friends; and the TV on the counter was going full blast too.
Minimal chance of being overheard…
Before coming to the 27th, Van Buren had made her mark in Narcotics; so-even though she herself had no personal experience in undercover work, she had managed several detectives who did specialize in Undercover.
Now, here she was, attempting to introduce an attorney to the intricacies of Undercover.
Jack McCoy had the basic understanding that most Prosecutors did; that Undercover Cops went in and got the evidence in ways most other cops didn't.
He's got some unlearning to do. And some learning as well…
"May I call you Jack?" she asked.
"I was hoping you would," McCoy gave one of his rare smiles.
"Thank you," Anita smiled too. "Since this…Court…is killing people, it occurs to me that new members may have to…prove their loyalty."
"Yeah…" McCoy frowned. "I would imagine so."
"So…do you still want to see if you can get in?"
McCoy snorted inelegantly.
"There's no one else," he reminded her.
"True," Van Buren nodded. "So, what do you do if they demand you…prove your loyalty?"
"It all depends on what they demand."
"Wrong answer," Van Buren laid a hand atop his. "Whatever they demand, you do. No matter what they demand."
McCoy frowned slightly, pondering her words.
"What if they want me to ki-"
"If they want you to kill someone, I'll find a way for you to fake it, if I have to. If they demand you kill someone, you say, yes, sir! You do whatever it takes to earn their trust, no matter what it takes."
"Uh…"
"Look, Jack," she patted his hand gently. "If you can't hack it, I'll understand…"
"But who else will you find?" McCoy sighed. "It's got to be me…doesn't it?"
Now, Van Buren sighed. What McCoy had said was the truth. There was no one else.
It has to be a lawyer, or a judge, and Jack McCoy is the only one I trust; the only one I know isn't part of the conspiracy, part of this "Court of Last Resort"…
"We'll wait until we know what kind of tests they'll have for you. Then we'll figure out what we need to do. There's still the fact that you haven't made contact with them, and they haven't tried to contact you either."
McCoy smiled, bowed his head.
"I'm afraid to try," he admitted.
"So, what's keeping you, Jack? This mission, such as it is, starts with you."
"Jack? Have you heard a single word I've been saying?"
Claire Kincaid sounded exasperated.
They were in Jack McCoy's office, early evening; and McCoy roused himself.
What did I miss?
"Where were you, Jack?"
McCoy shrugged, tried to plaster a smile on his face.
"I'm fine," he lied.
I'm not worrying about The Court of Last Resort. Nope. Not me…
He sighed.
"I just had a fuzzy moment, Claire."
"Um…o…kay…" Claire looked at him. "You coming down with anything?"
That was what I asked Paul, on the day he died…
"We've been working on this all day," Claire said. "Why don't you go home, Jack? I think we're beating a dead horse anyway."
"So maybe a good night's sleep will clear things up?"
"Maybe it'll clear your head a little." Claire spoke acerbically. "You've been…odd…all day."
Odd…
McCoy sighed.
She's right. My head isn't in the game today…
"Yeah…okay…" he hated packing things in early.
"Go…Jack," Claire urged. "You'll feel fresher in the morning."
"Okay," McCoy stood, grabbed his jacket and his Bike helmet. "See you tomorrow."
He didn't ride home. Instead, he took his bike down to the cemetery; to Paul Kopell's grave.
The funeral had been the day before, so the grave was fresh, and the scent of freshly-turned soil was still strong.
McCoy stood there, before Paul's grave.
This is stupid…I'm not a cop.
When he was a kid, he had wanted to be a cop. But his father had other ideas, and McCoy Senior had prevailed, as he had in so many other ways.
For better or worse…
McCoy sighed as he looked down at the new headstone; praying to a god he wasn't sure existed.
I don't know what I'm doing…
That was when he became aware someone was standing behind him.
He began to turn, but strong arms wrapped around him, immobilizing him, a hand holding a wet cloth over his nose and mouth.
A narcotic!
The drug, whatever it was, quickly over-powered McCoy's senses, sending him down into deep darkness…
A floor, cold under his body, the feel of cement against his cheek. A touch of nausea fluttered in his gut, a slight pounding in his head.
Eyes fluttering open, he saw nothing. The darkness was total.
There was a whispering quality to the darkness; an alarming sense of being watched.
I am not alone…
Slowly, he pulled himself together, onto hands and knees.
Light switched on overhead. McCoy threw his hands up, shielding his eyes from the blindingly brilliant light.
Just ahead, he could make ten spaces; all but one occupied by a robed figure.
Five judges, and five attorneys. That was what Paul said…
McCoy pulled himself to his feet, tried to squint past all the glare, to see if there was anything recognizable in those robed figures.
"John James McCoy," a heavily distorted voiced seemed to issue from everywhere and nowhere. "Executive Assistant DA for the District of Manhattan."
McCoy cleared his throat.
"You seem to have me at a disadvantage," he spoke dryly.
"And so it shall remain for now," the distorted voice answered.
"Why did you…kidnap me?"
"We wanted to ask you a few questions. You have been heard to express…dis-satisfaction…with the Justice System as it is right now…"
McCoy stared up at the robed figures, each of the nine heavily backlit by blinding light.
Is it going to be that easy?
"Well…" McCoy kept his voice steady. "I've had several cases where I should have won; cases where the Defendants were clearly guilty, and I'm not happy about those."
"Mickey Scott…how did you feel upon hearing of his murder?"
"I approved," McCoy didn't even have to lie all that much.
Mickey Scott should have gone to Death Row. He should have died with a needle in his arm…
"Good…" the distorted voice spoke again. "We shall decide. We will speak again. For now, you must be patient."
He sensed someone behind him.
"That drugged cloth again?"
"Yes. Do not fight it."
He didn't.
"Hey buddy…" a booted foot nudged him in the ribs. "Cemetery's not the place for drunken revels!"
McCoy opened his eyes, feeling bleary. He looked up at the uniformed cop bending over him.
"If you can get up and walk away, I'll let you go," the man said.
Thankfully, McCoy wasn't drunk; although his headache was rapidly approaching hangover strength…
He got to his feet just fine. But riding his bike home…
That didn't seem to be the brightest of ideas right now. So he called a tow truck, and paid extra to get himself and his bike home…
Well, my fellow associates, what do you think?
Think he's an arrogant ass!
That's just Jack being Jack…
Yes. But as to my previous question?
We should have brought him in from the first.
Yes, but can we trust him?
He hates losing, always had this competitive edge to him.
But, how…loyal is he?
There are ways to test his loyalty. Bring him in, but on a strictly provisional basis. He'll have to earn our trust…