As part of his new status as an…undercover agent…Anita Van Buren had presented Jack McCoy with a very special cell phone; one of those rare so-called Burner Cell Phones. It was a thin little thing, could be easily hidden in the inside pocket of his green jacket.
"This is for emergency use only," she had told him. "Keep it hidden on your person. Also…if it rings, it's me, Lennie, or Rey."
In his apartment, just as he was done shaving, the thing, sitting by the bathroom sink, rang.
"Yeah…" he picked it up.
"Take one thousand out of your bank account," Van Buren spoke. "Go to Central Park. You will meet a Hector Morales. Make sure you are seen, handing the envelope of cash to him, make sure any watchers see, and hear, you giving Morales the kill order. Tell him the other half will be payable upon Tappan's death."
"Uh…who is Hector Morales?"
"You'll know when you see him…" Van Buren hung up.
It was early anyway. There would be plenty of time for McCoy to do this thing, to secure his cover…
The thought of it chilled him. The reason for the money was to establish a paper trail, just in case anyone from the Court of Last Resort decided to check McCoy's financial statements.
They'll need to see that I actually spent money on hiring a hit man…
So, after dressing, Jack McCoy went to his bank, and withdrew one thousand dollars. Then, he went to Central Park.
Van Buren said I would know him when I saw him…
The man was tall, slender, with wild, wiry, long black hair. He was wearing the kind of shades where you couldn't see the eyes, and that Fu Manchu beard and mustache combo…
Rey Curtis?
The man sauntered up, and it was true, that old saying, that clothes made the man. Leather jacket and patched denims, jacket open to show a thin tee…
The man looked like a thug.
"You're this…McCoy dude who called me about…a job… last night?"
"Ahh…yes" feeling awkward, McCoy thrust the envelope of cash at him.
Curtis...no…Morales, opened the envelope, riffled through the contents.
"There's only one thousand here," he complained.
"You'll get the other half when the job is done," McCoy gritted his teeth. Even though both participants were faking it, it still felt all sorts of wrong; and that one thousand dollars really was his money.
"Okay, boss," Curtis pocketed the cash, gleeful dark eyes peering at him over the shades. "I'll get back to you when the job is done."
The next day
Willard Tappan, busy picking up the trash in Central Park…
Suddenly, things took a very curious turn…
Men in suits surrounded him.
The FBI?
These FBI agents hustled Tappan into this unmarked black van, the kind of van no one would even look twice at; and, in the van, there was this woman.
Tappan had met her before, the Lieutenant of the 27th.
She's ordering FBI Agents around…
There was more…
A mannequin, a very lifelike mannequin, lay on the floor.
You're fucking kidding me…
The mannequin looked exactly like him; with one signal difference.
It looked like it had been shot through the head…
One of the 27th's MEs was there too, an attractive woman with red hair.
Tappan took everything in.
"Okay…" he finally said. "I'm game. What the hell is going on?"
Van Buren leveled her index finger at him.
"Bang," she said. "You're dead."
"Jack…" Adam Schiff didn't bother to keep the edge out of his voice.
"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"
He had called McCoy into his office to get whatever was bothering him out into the open.
The Executive Assistant DA had been acting oddly these last few days.
If I didn't know better, I would say he was spooked…
But Jack McCoy didn't spook. That was one reason why Schiff had appointed him EADA in the wake of Ben Stone's abrupt departure.
That, and the fact that Jack's probably the best DA I've ever had the honor of working with…
McCoy gave an awkward shrug in response to Schiff's question, handed a folder, full of files, over.
"We have enough evidence to Indict Abrams, but not enough to go to trial."
"So, take a little more time to get more evidence."
"That's what Claire said."
"You don't agree?"
"Abrams has plenty of resources," McCoy grumbled. "He could flee."
Schiff snorted.
"Claire's right," he said. "Wait, get more evidence to hang Abrams with. And stop dodging my question!"
"Your question?"
"Yes!" Schiff snapped. "My question! What the hell is wrong with you? Last week, it was you getting caught by Briscoe and Curtis, and brought to me in handcuffs."
"It's not that," McCoy hastened to reassure him. "Think I'm coming down with the flu…"
"The…flu…"
There was a knock on Schiff's office door; and Claire Kincaid walked in, looking poleaxed.
"Willard Tappan's dead," she announced without preamble. "He was shot through the head while working at the park. No witnesses."
Schiff was looking at McCoy as she spoke, so there was no missing the other man's reaction.
McCoy flinched; face going pale at the announcement.
"Jack?" alarmed, Schiff stood.
"It's nothing Adam," McCoy ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I'm really not feeling well at all right now. Think I need to take the day…"
Adam Schiff stared at him steadily.
What the hell is wrong with him?
"All right," he finally sighed. "We'll talk tomorrow."
McCoy nodded, stood, and fled the room.
Kincaid stared at the door as it closed behind McCoy. She looked confused.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked. "He's been…weird…ever since Paul Kopell died."
"He won't tell me either," Schiff muttered.
It's started. I couldn't chicken out now if I wanted to. It's too late for that.
There was a white envelope on his desk, to McCoy's complete lack of surprise. The note gave an address in the Warehouse District, with instructions to be there at nine PM.
The rest of the day proceeded slowly. At last, the appointed time came…
Jack McCoy had elected to take a cab this time, leaving his bike at home.
From the outside, the warehouse looked ancient…decrepit.
It looked just as ugly on the inside too. McCoy was loathe to let the warehouse door slide shut. The darkness would be total.
No choice…
McCoy stepped forward a few feet, let the door, screaming in rusty complaint, slide shut behind him.
"Very good, Mr. McCoy."
The distorted voice seemed to come from everywhere.
"Now, walk forward until you come to the wall at the back."
"May I have a little light please?" McCoy asked. "Don't want to trip on anything in the way."
"There are no obstacles in your path, Mr. McCoy. Please, move forward now."
Sighing, McCoy walked slowly forward, and the only sounds he heard were his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor, and the sound of his own breathing.
Moving cautiously, hand held out, his finger now brushed against what seemed to be a wall.
"What do I do now?" he muttered softly.
As if in answer, the wall slid away under his fingers, letting light out, revealing a brightly lit elevator.
McCoy stepped inside, looked at the two buttons.
Upstairs
Downstairs
"Yeah…right," McCoy muttered as he pushed the Downstairs button. The door slid shut, the elevator started to move.
Down the rabbit-hole I go…
The door slip open, and Jack McCoy stepped out. One man was there to greet him.
"Judge Feldman?" McCoy stood there, eyes gone wide.
"Yes," Judge Gary Feldman held out his hand, took McCoy's hand in a firm grip.
"Welcome to the club."
Feldman led McCoy down a long hall, into another room with a concrete floor. The room was lighted now, but McCoy recognized the room now, with the ten seats, all but two occupied now.
He knew the other eight; judges and lawyers. Adam Schiff wasn't there; and a weight McCoy wasn't even aware of lifted from his shoulders.
Adam's not part of this…
The possibility had frightened Jack McCoy
The others were all people he knew-but with the Exception of Diana Hawthorne-not people he'd had…close relationships with.
"Colleagues and associates," Feldman was clearly the leader. "I bid you welcome John James McCoy into our select organization. It's time for the Ceremony of Admission."
"Ceremony?"
Diana Hawthorne walked up, carrying a large metal bowl.
It looked to be full of blood…
McCoy lifted questioning eyes to Feldman, who rolled his eyes.
"It's just pig's blood, Jack. Now, wash your hands in it. You have committed murder today. By washing your hands in the blood, you accept your guilt in Willard Tappan's murder, and seal yourself to us."
Feeling ill, McCoy did as instructed, plunging his hands into the red stuff in the bowl Diana Hawthorne was holding. Then, hands dripping with gore, he was instructed to walk over to the bowl of water.
"You are sealed to us now," Feldman said as he poured the water over McCoy's hands. "By killing Willard Tappan, you have enacted True Justice, and that wipes the guilt of murder out. You are clean now."
How very…Catholic…
Then, if front of all the others, Feldman brought out an open Judge's Robe, laid it across Jack McCoy's shoulders.
"John James McCoy," Feldman intoned. "I now name you a member of The Court of Last Resort. May God have mercy on our souls."
Jack McCoy stood there, accepting all the handshakes, and the odd kiss or two; Diana Hawthorne wasn't the only female present.
And, all the while, a thought was running through his head.
If they learn the truth, I'm dead…