"Lieu!" Detective Rey Curtis poked his head inside Lieutenant Anita Van Buren's office door.
"Schiff called. McCoy's gone missing."
Jack McCoy, missing…
We always hope for the best and prepare for the worst…
The worst had just happened.
"Get Lennie," Van Buren picked up her phone as Curtis went to get Briscoe; dialed a series of numbers she kept stored in her head for this kind of emergency.
"FBI, Surveillance and Trace. Jason Burkhardt speaking."
"It's me."
"Anita! What's up?"
"Jace…Our inside boy has gone missing. I need you to put a trace out on his Burner Phone."
"You sure he's missing?" she could hear the frown in Burkhardt's voice.
"Adam Schiff called. He's not one to panic without undue cause. Jack McCoy is missing, and probably in eminent danger."
"Okay," Burkhardt spoke crisply. "Give me the number, and I'll start the Trace. I'll call you as soon as it's set up."
"What happened with the Counselor?" Lennie Briscoe stood just inside her office, Rey Curtis just behind.
"He might be in trouble," Van Buren explained as the two men entered, Curtis quietly shutting the door as he walked in.
"FBI's going to trace his Burner Cell Phone," Van Buren continued. "But that might take a few minutes."
"I called him," Curtis said. "Both on his regular Cell phone, and the Burner Phone. Both went straight to Voice Mail."
"And that's not good," Briscoe added.
Not good, indeed…
Jack McCoy could be dead…
It was only five minutes. But it was the longest five minutes Van Buren had ever experienced. She all but pounced on her office phone when it rang.
"It's me, Anita," Jason Burkhardt was speaking. "We've located Mr. McCoy's Burner Phone. It seems to be moving."
"Where?" Van Buren demanded.
Swallowed up by rumbling darkness...dreams, and nightmares swirling around.
His Father, when the Black mood was upon him…
Hiding with his Mother, her hand gently caressing the back of his head as they hid in the basement, hiding from Jack Senior's rage…
The beating Jack received when his Father caught him kissing a black girl…
Slowly, Jack McCoy opened his eyes, awakening to near total darkness. His head was pounding, his stomach roiling; and the rumbling was still there, all around him.
I'm in a car's trunk…
The positioning was awkward. He was sort of curled up, his wrists cuffed together in front; knees, shoulders, and neck screaming agony…
Not dead yet…
The car was moving to an unknown destination; and Jack McCoy was afraid of what was to follow when the car stopped…
Not that he really needed to ask what would happen.
He knew…
Damn it, he knew…
Heart hammering in his chest, he tried to take stock of himself, what weapons he had with which to protect himself, and the sad tally was…
Only my wits, such as they are…
The car came to a stop, and McCoy went still, ears straining to hear any sound. He heard a car door open, then slam. Footsteps coming around to the back of the car, to the trunk…
McCoy heard the sound of hands working the latch to the trunk, closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness as the trunk opened, letting the light in.
McCoy's eyes were open to slits, and it looked like they were in some sort of…parking lot?
Street lights overhead bathed the man who stood over the open trunk, and Jack McCoy recognized him.
Damn…
Detective Stan Profaci…
No wonder Anita couldn't find the killer. He was hiding in plain sight the whole time; right under our noses…
Profaci sighed and bent down, hand reaching under his jacket.
It was awkward, but McCoy kicked out, foot connecting squarely with Profaci's jaw, knocking him down…
McCoy hauled himself up and out of that trunk, as quickly as he could.
Profaci, cursing, reared up, grabbing for McCoy. Cuffed as his wrist were, there wasn't much he could do. McCoy grabbed Profaci by the shirt collar, and head-butted him. He felt Profaci's nose…crumple…under the impact.
Profaci collapsed, nose spurting blood, and McCoy ran.
He didn't get far.
Two bullets; one through his right shoulder, the other through the back, exiting through his chest, the impact of those bullets hurling him, face down upon the cold floor…
McCoy had never been shot before, never felt that crippling, burning agony.
The wall was nearby.
McCoy tried to pull himself up.
Profaci, enraged face bloodied, got there first.
Stars exploded in McCoy's skull, as he felt hands slam him, head first, into the wall.
"Ya fuckin bitch!"
McCoy vaguely heard the man's bull roar of rage. He tried to curl up, tried to protect himself. But the kicks to his chest, connecting with his ribcage…
All the air went out of his lungs.
He couldn't breathe…
"Police! Freeze!"
That sort of sounded like Lennie Briscoe. But Jack McCoy couldn't be sure over the roaring surf in his head.
He lay there, curled up, trying…desperately trying to breathe.
Through a red haze, he saw Profaci on his knees, hands cuffed behind his back, helpless fury in his eyes, Detective Rey Curtis standing behind.
Lennie?
"Easy Counselor…" Lennie Briscoe was…here; looming right over him. McCoy felt Briscoe's suit jacket as the other man draped it over him.
"I can't breathe…" he whispered. His vision was dimming.
Am I dying?
"We've got a man down!"
He could hear Briscoe's voice over the thrumming haze.
"Get a bus!"
Then, Jack McCoy heard nothing…
Lieutenant Anita Van Buren felt ill. Physically ill. As if she might vomit.
We never even guessed it could be one of our own…
Standing in the hall, looking through Interrogation One's one-way window, staring at the two occupants.
Detective Stan Profaci and his attorney, Danielle Melnick. He had demanded a lawyer immediately upon being arrested.
Off to her left, Van Buren could see Detective Rey Curtis on the phone, and Lennie Briscoe, clothes still stained, with McCoy's blood, entering the Interrogation Room; Van Buren had never seen such anger in Briscoe before.
"Congratulations, Stan!" Briscoe's voice was ice cold. "You've just won an all-expenses-paid trip to Death Row!"
"He's…dead?" Danielle Melnick was the one who gasped, face going gray at the news; and Van Buren recalled she and McCoy had been friends…
Briscoe didn't answer, just kept grim, coldly furious eyes on Profaci.
Profaci, for his part, went pasty white at the news.
He gripped Danielle Melnick's hand, whispered urgently. She was shaking, but she whispered back, the two in huddled conference. It lasted less than a minute. Then, Profaci turned back to Briscoe.
"I can give you the ones who hired me," he said. "Judges and lawyers all."
Lennie glanced at Anita through the one-way, and it was almost as if he could see her nod.
He nodded too.
"I'm thinking the DA's Office will see things more reasonably if you do that, Stan."
He leaned over, and Van Buren was suddenly afraid he would attack Profaci.
"But you'll need to give me all of their names," Briscoe put the tape recorder on the table. "Every…fucking…one…of…them."
"He will," Danielle Melnick nodded.
"Good. Start talking."
So, Profaci did…
"Lieutenant…"
Van Buren turned at the sound. Rey Curtis had walked up.
"The docs at Bellevue say its touch and go, but they think McCoy's going to make it."
The relief was so strong, Van Buren had to find a nearby chair.
Jack McCoy's going to live…
Curtis looked at the one-way, at Profaci spilling his guts…
"Think McCoy would mind Lennie lying like that?"
"Making Profaci believe he was facing Death Row for killing him?"
Van Buren snorted.
"Jack McCoy would be delighted."
She sighed.
"What's wrong, Lieu?"
"I still have to call Adam Schiff, tell him I almost got his Executive Assistant DA killed trying to bring down a bunch of lawless vigilantes that happen to be Judges and lawyers…"
Van Buren sighed again.
That's going to be fun…
Bellevue
Adam Schiff swept into Bellevue, in a towering rage
Jack McCoy…
Critically wounded, shot by one of the 27th's very own detectives…
A Detective who had apparently gone rogue.
Right now, he wanted to strangle Lieutenant Anita Van Buren.
She had called him, told him to go to the ICU. So, to the ICU was where he went. He found Van Buren there, with two of the 27th's detectives. Briscoe and Curtis were there to guard Jack McCoy, who was still unconscious.
Anita Van Buren was walking up to Schiff.
"What the hell is going on?" he demanded.
"We've just…wrapped up a…undercover mission," Van Buren spoke calmly. "We were investigating…vigilantism…running rampant among the Judges and lawyers in the District of Manhattan. Jack McCoy volunteered to go in and gather information on them."
"The murders…"
"Yes…Adam. The murders. They were being committed by an agency that called itself, the Court of Last Resort."
"Judges…and…lawyers?"
Schiff felt pure horror at the idea.
That a Judge or lawyer could so pollute the Law, and Justice…
Even more horrifying was the fact that he had missed all the signs; that he had failed-so completely-at connecting the dots.
I should have noticed. I should have seen…
Jack did…He must have…
"He should have told me," Schiff grumbled. "Why didn't he?"
"He wanted to," Van Buren laid a gentle hand on Schiff's arm. "I told him not to."
"For God's sake, why?"
As soon as the word were out, he realized why; and pure fury blazed up within him.
"You suspected…me?"
"It's not personal, Adam. Believe me, it's not. But I had no idea who was involved in this. The only thing I knew for sure was that Jack McCoy wasn't involved. He was the only one I knew I could trust, because he was the one who brought it to my attention."
"Paul Kopell?"
"Yes," she nodded sadly. "Paul Kopell was involved, but apparently had a change of heart. They killed him, but he had left a tape for Jack; and Jack brought Paul's tape to me. So, don't be angry at Jack. He did what he thought was right."
"And almost paid for it with his life."
"And, if it had been you," Van Buren softly chided. "What would you have done in Jack's place?"
Adam Schiff bowed his head, nodded slightly.
"Guilty as charged," he murmured.
A few minutes later, he was allowed to look in on Jack McCoy. The man had been shot twice; once through the shoulder, and once through the back. Both bullets had gone right through him…
McCoy had been lucky, especially concerning the bullet through the back.
One inch up, and he would have died instantly, the doctor had said. Once inch down, he would have bled out in less than five minutes; and one inch to the left or right, and he would have died choking on his own blood…
It was the broken ribs that had almost killed Jack McCoy. He'd been kicked in the ribs by Profaci, and one of those broken ribs had punctured a lung.
Emergency surgery had fixed the problem, and McCoy was expected to make a full recovery.
For now, though, he was deep in drugged slumber, cannulas in his nose, wrapped up in heated blankets to keep him warm.
"The doctors say he's going to make a complete recovery," Van Buren.
"Good," Schiff nodded. "Tell me one thing though. Did you get the bastards?"
"Judge Feldman, and his friends?" Van Buren raised a wry eyebrow. "Yeah, Counselor. We got each and every last one of them; and they're all rolling over on each other."
"Good!" Schiff snorted. "I think I'll prosecute them myself."
"I was wondering if Jack might want to have the pleasure, when he's feeling up to it."
"I know," Schiff nodded. "But, he can't this time. He's a Material Witness. He'll have to be satisfied with testifying at the trial. As will you."
Van Buren nodded.
"Go get them, tiger!" she applauded.
Schiff nodded, looked at his sleeping friend once more.
Jack McCoy had given him cause for pride more than once. Fearless in the courtroom, and brilliant in his understanding of the Law.
But Adam Schiff could never recall being this proud of Jack McCoy.
He found a cancer within our ranks, in the very Halls of Justice itself. He acted to excise it; for the salvation of all who come to the courts seeking justice.
"I'm still going to give you the scolding of your life when you're well enough to listen," he murmured as he took a seat by his friend.