Happy MLK Day to everyone who celebrates, and those who have the day off from work today, enjoy!
We're taking a breather from the New Year's events, but they'll be picked back up again...and soon.
The time frame for this chapter is a day or two after New Year's.
And off we go...
####
She should be concentrating on the pile of paperwork and the perfectly inflected voice – Eastern Spain, perhaps – that could create their biggest story in years.
But as Bianca shut down the file, abruptly silencing that voice in the process, and looked at her expectantly, Brooke only had one question: "How many laws did you break to get this?"
She could think of one, maybe two, if she really wanted to go there, right off the top of her head.
"It's…workable," her protégé replied simply.
"Inside source?" She had come to dread - and alternately respect, in a way – that lip purse.
"You could say that. And we both know I can't divulge my sources."
The reporter in her wanted to respect that answer Maybe even applaud it. But…
She must have lost the ability to make her face a blank slate, and it must have shown, because Bianca offered an even-toned but no less cutting observation.
A truth. "This could be the thing that puts this magazine back in people's minds. Back on the front of the newsstands. Would you rather turn over the cover story to Worley so we can all be treated to another enlightening commentary on the best bargain Christmas costumes for your pets?"
The unspoken What's happened to you? hung in the air.
It wasn't a question Brooke could easily answer. She remembered chasing down the lead, teaming up with Edmund and considering it a day wasted if she didn't receive – or become the target of – at least one death threat. Somewhere along the way, though, the captivating angles of sun rays had become more important. Passive appreciation was the order of the day. But she wasn't a poet. She was a reporter…no, a journalist. And a damn good one. Tempo had'been lagging for too long, likely stuck in the mire of her own inaction. She would've never guessed that hiring Bianca Montgomery would have gone such a long way toward changing that. But it had. And she needed to be the one who gave that final push. In the newsroom.
In other areas.
An image of Adam – the younger version with the silver hair and the devilish smile – flashed through her mind.
Brooke English was nobody's compass.
"Is this about Adam?"
The girl's instincts, even now, still amazed - and startled - Brooke.
"What?" she asked. The fewer the words, the less the self-incrimination.
"Are we having this little discussion on morality and ethics now because I've been called to testify at that…that hearing later today? Are you afraid I'm going to get up there and bury him and his latest attempts to fashion a new mini-me?"
"No," she said immediately and honestly. Truthfully, Brooke herself was debating whether or not to attend the custody trial. It had been a source of tension not just earlier in the day, but for much longer. "What you choose to say at the hearing is your choice. I know Krystal sees you as both a character witness and as…Marissa's advocate."
Bianca lowered her head, lest those unreadable eyes slip and give away a word or two.
"Rest assured, Brooke, all I will do is tell the truth. That is my choice."
"I know…I know how hard it must be to be reminded of that day. Of him. But the truth is, you never really forget, do you? Especially his eyes."
It was the one thing Reverend Eliot couldn't change. Could never change.
"I hate him," she said simply. Unflinchingly.
"I know." And she did, too well. The one truth nobody could snatch away. "You don't forget, but you can maybe forgive. Not for him."
"For me," Bianca supplied with just the slightest hint of acid. "Been there, done that, many times. All it gets you is an invitation for the next time. Signed, sealed, and delivered. That, I know."
Brooke was doing it again. She was breaking the rules. Losing objectivity. Trying to be that compass she hated so much. Taking not her employee's hand, but the hand of the strong, lost girl she had known for so long. "All I could ever think was how those were the last pair of eyes she'd seen. Hooded, blurred from the alcohol, and….blank. I hated those eyes. They were the demon lights in the dark, the monsters under her bed. They were the sum of every bad thing. And even when they came with a collar and a kind smile, they were still the same. But there was another set of eyes. Equally kind, more innocent. More full of love than I could imagine. My one vow, since I first looked into them, was that I would always make those eyes shine. I would always make her proud."
Bianca looked up, and those unreadable eyes brimmed with tears….that book was laid bare. "I -"
Brooke never knew how a knock at the door could sound so loud, even when it was a quiet rap…so ear-splitting
Bianca turned away, in more ways than one.
Brooke sighed. "Come in."
And when her new hire walked in, she inwardly sighed again. She'd hoped to have more time to prepare Bianca, who was eyeing the arrival with unguarded weariness. She then turned her appraisal to Brooke.
Brooke cleared her throat while simultaneously rising from the desk. She held out her hand and assumed her best fake-enthusiastic tone. "I'm glad that you could make it in today. And it's perfect timing."
Or anything but.
She turned back to Bianca, that damn smile still plastered on her face. This time, she was bestowed with the eyebrow-raise. "Bianca, I would like you to meet Yasmin. She'll be joining our photography team. In fact, her first assignment will be with you."
The girl stepped forward, apparently unaware – or at least unmindful – of the lasers currently being aimed in her direction. Brooke had to admire her willingness to step into another minefield already.
"Im so glad to finally meet you. Re –"
"Really, Brooke?" Bianca ignored the hand being extended and instead pushed her way forward, past the flustered girl. Toward Brooke. "Aren't the newbies a better fit for light features? I know that's where I started. And hey, I hear there's a poodle beauty contest just down the road that could use a few good snaps."
"Bianca, that's enough," Brooke warned. Hoping it sounded more steely employer than scolding mother. She wouldn't apologize for hiring someone who had seen, and photographed, more in a few years than most professionals could claim in a lifetime.
"No, Brooke, I actually don't think it's nearly enough. You don't think I see what this is? I don't need a babysitter."
"You need help, we all do. You can't do it alone anymore. And a fresh set of eyes -"
"Eyes again, huh? Did that whole spiel even mean anything, or was it just a way to soften me up for this?"
"It meant everything," Brooke said fiercely, all decorum gone.
"I will come back –"
"No!' they both snapped to the forgotten visitor. She held up her hands, seemingly unflapped. Brooke gave her another point.
"I'll be leaving," Bianca said. "I'm due in court, after all." Without turning, she added. "Pleased to meet you as well, Yancy. I hope you have a wonderful first day."
Before she wheeled out the door, Brooke offered her own parting. "The cover's a go, by the way."
She smiled at Bianca's prolonged pause, which significantly transformed her dramatic, forceful exit into a quiet roll.
Shaking her head, Brooke returned her attention to her photographer, who thankfully had not run screaming into the streets just yet. Given this town, however, she wasn't sure how much longer the girl could hold out.
"I am sorry for that. She can be a little…difficult, but ultimately she's –"
"The sweet sister that Reggie always raved about?"
Brooke knew a rhetorical question when she heard one. "You'll make a good team."
"I'm not worried," Yasmin said. With a smirk, she added, "And no, I won't be handing in my resignation by day's end."
This brought about the first genuine smile of the day. "Good to know." And likely the last. "Unfortunately, I have to leave as well. If we could –"
"Tomorrow?" Yasmin offered, returning the smile.
"Tomorrow."
With that, they said their goodbyes, leaving Brooke standing over the desk, deciding whether she should, in fact, leave. The destination wasn't exactly ideal.
Shuffling the papers and locking them up provided a few moments' distraction. Relief. The lone message on her answering machine, however, had a decidedly different effect.
"Brooke." She would know that voice anywhere. No one in the world could say her name (with the delicately balanced mixture of disdain, anger, condescension, and, sometimes, even a trace of begrudged affection) quite like Erica Kane. "We need to have a chat. It is long overdue. I will be at your office shortly." The silent Clear your schedule infused every word.
Brooke grabbed her purse. Suddenly, a trip to the courthouse seemed like a great idea.
####
She took the glasses off and rubbed her temples. The words, the questions: .they were too familiar, and they were beginning to blur – to clump together - under her intense gaze. The one thing Cara could never afford, especially in these cases, was cold, scientific indifference.
When her patient wheeled into the room for his test, cold indifference was the one thing she needed.
"Hello, Mr. Chandler," she offered, never moving from her spot beside the examination table. Aiming for that indifference, but not quite achieving it.
The guard helped him onto the examination table, if help was indeed a proper description for the manhandling taking place. After her patient had been secured on the table with an unceremonious thud, the guard assumed his official stance in the corner, a slight smirk teasing his lips.
"That will be all, officer," she said, resettling her glasses and re-examining the now-clear clipboard.
"I have been instructed to -"
"I have been instructed – no, I have taken an oath – to honor my patient's right to privacy. Rest assured that I will summon you if needed." She raised her head just long enough to steadily look into a pair of eyes simmering with anger. "That will be all, officer."
Following a moment's stare-off that only one of them was going to win, the guard accepted his loss and stalked out the door. He expressed his displeasure in the grand tradition of scolded little boys: with an overly enthusiastic door-shut.
Cara turned back to find her patient sporting a barely-contained grin that immediately disappeared. "Thanks," he said.
"My job," she responded before quickly reassessing the clipboard. It wasn't for his benefit. Landon had given off a consistent, decidedly unpleasant vibe from the moment she'd met him her second day on the job. And she still had lingering suspicions about the degree of his involvement in JR Chandler's 'accident.' Suspicions she'd let go, for reasons she could not entirely say were altruistic.
"Happy holidays, by the way," he said. "I hope…"
The words trailed away, never found form, which was just as well. Neither one of them could pretend that they were typical doctor and patient making small talk.
Besides, she'd seen the 'celebrations' that took place here. All the same: dark, empty cells. Punctuated by the occasional butchered Christmas carols wrapped in between peals of humorless laughter.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. She already knew the answer.
"As well as I can be," he said. "I don't think…"
He couldn't seem to find the words, any words. But she understood.
"That's why you're here. So we don't have to think or guess. So we can know, and take it from there."
They dispensed with the normal formalities in awkward silence. She prepared the needle, willfully ignored the sudden tenseness in his jaw. She touched his cold skin, fought off the flinch, and told herself she was just examining a med school specimen. And she listened to a strong, steady heartbeat, not thinking…not marveling at the fact that it sounded just like everyone else's.
That it existed at all.
"When…" He cleared his throat, found the words. "When will we know if I'm out of remission?"
"A few weeks." She cleaned the equipment until her hands could find no more occupations. Only then did she fully look at him. Only then did she feel compelled to offer something. Anything. "We hope for the best, but it's okay to be scared."
"I think we both have the same idea of what 'the best' would be." And he went against doctor's advice, carefully admonishing every tiny tremble, carefully schooling every errant blink. Determined to demonstrate just how 'not scared' he could be.
"I know what I hope for. What I always hope for, Mr. Chandler. I wouldn't wish this -" her fingers flicked softly, viciously, against the clipboard – "on my worst enemy." And her gaze settled back on him. "I know…I know the price."
"I'm sorry," he said, fully absent of the stutters and pauses. Fully…honest. "Tad mentioned once that you had leukemia when you were a kid. I wasn't thinking. I know too, believe me. I'm sorry."
She nodded, and that should have been the end of it. The words came anyway, unheeded. "For a while, I was acutely aware of every minute. Every second. Every breath. One…bad night, I counted each one. I counted, and I attached a prayer and a promise to every breath. Not that I would be good. Not that I would do these amazing things. I just vowed that I would never forget again. I would never take it for granted. I think, in some ways, it was also a good night. The next morning, when the fever broke, I stopped counting. But I tried to never forget. I wasn't always successful, but I tried."
"When all the trying ends in failure, sometimes you just stop. And you stop getting back up. I wish…I wish we could all be that strong."
"I'm going to…" It was a trail-off that sounded more like the cut-off it was. He noticed.
"The custody trial." He shifted on the table. Away. "It's okay. We still have access to the occasional paper."
"Tad and Dixie have become good friends, so I want to support them. Tad is testifying for Krystal."
She needed, needed to stop providing commentary, because these people weren't just names in the newspaper. And try as he might, he could not hide his visible reactions to each. Cara steeled herself for the rants, the remnants of alcohol-soaked rage.
He surprised her with two low, but clear sentences. "He's been a tug-of-war rope his whole life. He deserves…deserved the world: a different world."
She could offer no platitudes. She couldn't offer anything as a buffer against the truth.
"Can you? When it's over, when they've decided, could you let me know?"
"I can't promise you that," she said honestly.
He nodded this time.
And she had the perfect opening for a quick exit. She closed her hand around the knob but paused when she saw the guard stationed outside. His hands were clenched.
Putting her coat down, she approached JR and placed her hand on his arm. The skin was warm this time. "I will help you back in the chair, and I'll escort you back to the cell."
He ended their visit with the same words. "Thank you." But different.
"Dr. Castillo?" He met her eyes again, and this time there was no hiding place.
"I'm scared."
####
"I realize how difficult recalling these events must be for you…"
"I am and will be fine."
"You were present on the night Adam Chandler's son opened fire at Mr. Chandler's mansion?"
"Yes, I was."
"Did you attend the gathering alone?"
"No, I did not."
"Who was with you at the time?"
"Marissa Tasker"
The jolt, the visible flash at the name was perhaps only visible to her. She shared the reaction.
"Ms. Tasker was the adoptive mother of Adam Chandler the Third, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Where is Ms. Tasker today?"
"She was shot at the mansion. She…died almost instantly."
Krystal herself wanted to grab her lawyer by the neck and make him stop. She could understand the urge she now saw etched on the young woman's face. But he had…he had insisted it was necessary.
"You were shot as well, were you not, Ms. Montgomery?"
"Obviously."
"Please accept -"
"Please do not say it, sir. To answer your question more fully: yes, I was shot. And let the record show that I am indeed in a wheelchair."
"What was your relationship to the deceased, Ms. Montgomery?"
"We were living together. We were…we were in love."
Krystal once again recalled one of her last conversations with her daughter, where she echoed exactly the same words. The thought brought some small amount of comfort.
"So it is it fair to say that you were well-acquainted with Ms. Tasker, her son, and her mother?"
"Most fair. Excuse me, but I feel that I could better convey myself if I am allowed to speak freely, without prompting, if I may beg the court's indulgence."
The judge sighed. "This is your witness, Counselor. Your witness, your decision."
Devlin turned to Krystal, evidently valuing her opinion for once. She looked between Bianca and her lawyer and nodded.
"Proceed, Ms. Montgomery."
"I presume you would like my opinion on what Marissa would have wanted in this situation. I can tell you unequivocally that she would have wanted what's best for Adam Chandler the - no, AJ. Nothing more, nothing less. You would also presumably like my assessment of your client's mothering skills. I can provide that insight a little more fully. I've known Krystal for about a decade now, and right from the very beginning, she was all about her kids. I was good friends with Krystal's other daughter, Babe Chandler, and I vividly remember admiring - envying, even - how devoted Krystal was to her daughter, no matter what. God, I always thought, if only my mother could be that devoted, that understanding. That involved. Krystal and her daughter were even kind enough to allow me to be the godmother to Babe's young daughter. I was in a bad place, you see, because I'd lost my own daughter, but the Carey clan was there every step of the way to help me through my grief."
"Your honor, I –"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Your Honor. I'm imagining Mr. Devlin would like to retake control of the proceedings. We didn't really have a chance to go over my testimony in detail; I'm assuming I wasn't supposed to mention the exact circumstances of how well I know Ms. Carey's devotion to motherhood. But I would still like to speak freely, with the court's permission."
"Please go on, Ms. Montgomery."
"Your Honor, I'd just like the court to know that Krystal's devotion ran so deep that she was even willing to brave the perils of a DNA laboratory. Let's see, what was first? There was the time she acquainted herself intimately with a lab technician so that her daughter wouldn't have to play a spirited round of 'Who's the daddy' with AJ."
"Your honor, this is –"
"I'm sorry. You can go ahead and strike that part from the record. Hearsay, I know. You do hear quite a lot in this town. But this next part…well, I got to hear that from the horse's mouth, so to speak. I got to hear from both Mama and Babydoll herself how Ms. Carey here – and let the record show I am pointing at one Krystal Carey – how Ms. Carey had uncovered the fact that my child was actually alive and living with Babe and JR Chandler under the name of Bess Chandler. Armed with this information, she took her latest liberties with the good ole' DNA lab and switched a label. It's funny, really. No high-tech computer hacking. Just swapping one piece of tape for another. She switched that label, and presto, my little girl became Ms. Carey's granddaughter. But there's more. There's always more, isn't there? When word of Krystal's little indiscretion saw the light of day nine short months later, she came to my hospital room after I'd just woken up from a coma courtesy of JR Chandler. Yes, I do have quite the history with this family. After giving me the usual 'Congratulations on waking up from your coma' bouquet, she then asked me to help her daughter out just one more time, for the sake of her newfound grandson, of course. She asked me to not mention the existence of said grandson to his father…and let the record show that the grandson in question was indeed AJ Chandler. And I did, I did one thing I have regretted ever since. I went along with inflicting the pain that not even the worst scum of the earth should know on someone else. But Krystal wasn't quite done bargaining yet, I would find out. Krystal decided that she, and she alone, would brave prison for her poor, innocent daughter. Of course, that didn't last long, because when Ms. Carey later decided that she'd tired of the prison food, she – hearsay alert, but I'm sure Mr. Chandler over there would be more than happy to confirm – blackmailed Adam Chandler into marrying her right out from behind the bars and right out from under her sentence for stealing my daughter. The nature of the blackmail, you'll have to ask Ms. Carey, though. I do lose track in this town."
Each word, each truth had brought new numbness, until she couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't –
Finally, she found her voice. "Bianca, I'm sorry. I thought–"
"You thought what, Krystal? You said your two little words, so you thought maybe I should get over it? Forget?"
"No, I -"
"Someone told me something recently, Krystal. It was that old adage. You forgive, but you don't forget. Ever. I never forgot. And l would really, really like to ask you something."
"Your honor, the witness cannot -"
"I'm your witness; you subpoenaed me. So I suggest you let me finish my testimony."
"Agreed, Mr. Devlin." The judge banged his gavel, and it reverberated painfully through the now-dead silence of the courtroom. "Sit down."
Krystal placed a numb hand on her lawyer's shoulder. Her instincts – her survivor's instinct - were screaming she shouldn't. Something deeper was whispering that she had to…she must. "It's okay, I want to hear what she has to say. Everything."
"Marissa was a good person, maybe a little misguided sometimes, but considering her influences, not surprising. And we also know that she owed none of that goodness to you, being how you sold her on the black market for a quick buck and all."
That cut sliced through the numbness, drew invisible blood.
"What I want to know is if you ever lie awake at night wondering why it is that two of your children are dead? Does that question ever nag at you? And do you ever wonder why anyone should ever trust you with that little boy? Personally, I wouldn't trust you to raise my potted plant."
Erica Kane's daughter knew how to strategically place the cuts, to achieve maximum damage. The deepest cut was Krystal's certainty that she deserved every last one.
"And you - don't you dare sit over there with your high-fives and your cat that swallowed the canary smirks."
Krystal tore her eyes from the table, from Devlin, from anywhere but that withering glare long enough to watch Adam's grin die from his face.
"If it pleases the court, I would like to offer an opinion on Mr. Chandler as well. I've known him even longer than I've known Ms. Carey. In fact, he used to be my stepfather."
"Your Honor, this is not our witness, and we do not agree -"
"I would like to hear what Ms. Montgomery has to say, Mr. Shire. It has proven most enlightening so far. Please, sit down."
Krystal couldn't take pleasure, even as she played spectator to the next lashing.
"I don't really recall a day when Mr. Chandler hasn't sported a five-figured suit and a smile to match. I won't bore the court by poring over his criminal record. I'm sure Mr. Devlin will serve you well in that regard. What I can maybe offer is some perspective on Mr. Chandler's unique parenting style. Adam's son and I grew up together. We went to high school together. He even stood up for me a couple of times, before he developed the urge to shoot me, that is. We'd commiserate a lot. Mostly, about our larger-than-life parents. He'd tell me how he felt about being the constant ping-pong ball in a never-ending bout of table tennis between his parents. His dad, especially, really fought hard for what he felt was his. I'm sure Dixie Martin can give you more insight on that. With JR, his confessions usually came between his latest dosage of X or his newest bottle of wine. He entered this juvenile delinquent phase that he never quite left. Funny thing was, every time he'd get close to owning up to the things he did, to taking responsibility and maybe getting some help, all of his problems would just magically vanish. Until one night, of course. I guess Mr. Chandler ran out of bail-out money about the same time that JR murdered his sister, Mr. Chandler's daughter."
Adam's sharp intake of breath broke the silence.
"If I wouldn't trust Krystal with a potted plant, I wouldn't trust Mr. Chandler with the care of the dirt in that pot. Your Honor, I speak honestly and without hesitation. If these are your choices - if these are AJ's only options - then God help you. And God help that little boy."
This time, Krystal faced those accusing eyes. And this time, she knew the unanimous verdict. She had, after all, served as the lead juror in her own condemnation.