Note: Characters and situations in this chapter are based on the L&O Fifth Season Episode, "Scoundrels…
Jack McCoy stalked out of the Courthouse, early evening, in a snarly mood.
The Tappan/Curren Case…
John Curren was going to do at least twenty years for his role in the murder of Arthur Kapinski. But the main instigator, Willard Tappan, who had all but admitted that he sent Curren out to do the job, he was going to dance away from the mess, free and clear; or as free and clear as he could be, given his own particular set of circumstances.
Tappan had bilked hundreds of clients out of their life savings, had gotten a term in the Club Fed. Now, he was in a half-way house, doing Community Service.
The money he had stolen; all those millions…
That was…gone; nobody knew where it was. Even Tappan claimed to have no idea where it had gone. McCoy didn't believe him at all. But there was no way to prove it.
The Judge presiding over the trial-Judge Gary Feldman-had had no choice but to exonerate Tappan of any wrongdoing in Arthur's Kapinski's death; which left John Curren to take the full brunt for it.
Jack McCoy had wanted to wipe the smirk off Tappan's face.
Permanently.
Claire Kincaid knew better than to try to talk to McCoy when he was in this kind of mood. She had said something about meeting a friend for Dinner, and made a hasty retreat.
McCoy was blessedly alone when he stomped into his office, the door slamming shut behind him. He slumped into his seat, opened the lower left hand drawer, reached for the bottle of scotch, and the tumbler.
He needed a drink…
Then, he noticed the plain white envelope on his desk, his name printed on it. He put the bottle of scotch back in the drawer, and stared at the envelope.
McCoy picked it up, handled it carefully. No watermark, or other identifying characteristics; just a plain white envelope…
Sighing, he opened the thing. There was an unsigned note, typed, inside.
Go to Paul's grave tonight, 9 PM…
Grumbling a little, McCoy crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash. Then, he closed the drawer with the scotch inside, checking his watch.
7:45 PM
Traffic was generally bad around this time of evening.
I should leave now if I want to get there in time…
In a way, he didn't want to. If he did this, he wouldn't be able to step back.
This could be the day where he fully committed himself to an action that might well see him get killed before all was done.
But, he couldn't turn away. The Court of Last Resort…
These were judges and lawyers; people who should have known better, people who had sworn to uphold the Law...
9 PM
He'd made it in time. There had even been enough time to grab a quick coffee.
Hopefully, that will be enough to counteract any drugs if they go the drugged cloth route again…
Standing in front of Paul's grave, ears straining to hear anything…
He heard the footsteps behind him.
"Don't move," a distorted voice instructed.
"Yeah…" McCoy shivered. He hated not being in control.
"On your knees…" the voice instructed.
"What?"
"On your knees," the voice demanded. "Now."
McCoy remembered what Van Buren had said. Slowly, he knelt. He felt the barrel of a gun, at the back of his head.
His breath froze in his lungs. Then, he heard the safety click off.
He closed his eyes.
Never thought it would end like this…
After an interminable thirty seconds, which felt a lot longer, there was a sigh, and even that was distorted. Then, McCoy heard the gun's safety clicking back on again.
"You can be patient after all," the distorted voice said, and even through the distortion, McCoy heard the approval.
"Go back to your office, Mr. McCoy," the voice continued. "I will leave you now. But from now on, you are being watched, Mr. McCoy. Remain on your knees and count to one hundred. When you have reached one hundred, you will stand, and proceed back to your office. You will find orders have been left for you. Do not fail to carry them out."
It never once occurred to McCoy to cheat. He counted all the way to one hundred, then stood, carefully scanning the area. No one was there.
He made his way back to his office, stood there, staring at his desk. Another plain white envelope lay there, pristine and undisturbed.
Willard Tappan, the note read. Kill him, or have him killed. He must be dead in three days.
McCoy stared down at the note in his hand.
Lieutenant Van Buren was right. They want me to dirty my hands. They want me to be as guilty as they…
Profoundly shaken, he walked outside into the evening. He knew where he had to go now.
There was a stand nearby. Even at this time of night, it was still doing good business, what with their hot dogs, sausage, and pretzels. McCoy wasn't really hungry as he swept his gaze around.
The nearby bench was occupied by a black woman, and most of the other people there were giving her a wide berth.
Had to be the wild gray dreadlocks that gave most people pause.
That, and the hostile gaze of doom she's sending out to everyone…
For form's sake, McCoy ordered a hot dog and soda. Then, he walked up to the bench.
"Mind if I share your bench?" he asked. The black woman shrugged.
"Why should I care?" she muttered.
McCoy sat next to her, sipped his soda.
"I'm in," he kept his voice to a low murmur. "They gave me my…assignment."
"What is it?" Anita Van Buren kept her voice low too.
"Willard Tappan…they gave me a choice. Kill him myself, or have someone do it for me."
"Which would be more believable, considering it's you?"
McCoy shrugged helplessly.
"I've never even handled a gun, Anita."
"Ahh…yes…" Van Buren nodded. "So a hired assassin it is. We'll find a way to make it work."
"How?" McCoy demanded. "They'll probably be watching…everything. I know they're watching me."
"I've got contacts," Van Buren assured him. "We can…disappear Mr. Tappan for an indefinite period of time, and he will be appropriately grateful once he understands why. Hell, Jack…we have access to people who are so good at creating fake corpses, they could even fool Mr. Tappan's ex-wife. There will be a dead Willard Tappan in three days' time."
McCoy nodded.
This is it, he realized. This is where I go down the rabbit-hole…
The irony was rich. Jack McCoy would be saving Willard Tappan's life by doing this.
Heavens to Betsy…
What a terrible idea…