Chapter 15
Saturday was busy for McCoy. All the chores and errands he had put off all week were waiting for him: dry cleaning to pick up, a package to mail to his sister, a stack of unopened letters on his desk to sort, and a week's worth of newspapers piled on the sofa waiting to be recycled. He also straightened the living room and cleaned the kitchen of his small apartment, just in case he and Morgan ended up spending any part of the evening at his place.
And he checked the clock often, eagerly anticipating the afternoon and evening.
He arrived at Morgan's building precisely at 3:50, although he had been dressed and ready to leave much earlier. Knowing how touchy women could be about such things, he didn't want to start the evening off on the wrong foot by arriving too much ahead of schedule.
After phoning from the lobby, he headed up to the fifth floor, then continued to the sixth in the private elevator that only serviced Morgan's apartment.
The doors opened and he found her waiting, shoes dangling from her fingertips, but otherwise dressed.
He smiled as he emerged from the elevator. "You look nice. Blue is my favorite color." He noticed with appreciation how the silky fabric of her dress clung in all the right places as Morgan walked to the kitchen bar stools and sat down to put on her shoes.
"Thanks. You look nice, too. I don't remember seeing you wear that suit before."
"I usually save it for special occasions. I considered wearing a tux but thought that may be a bit much for our plans."
Morgan rolled her eyes in amusement. "Uh, yeah. You're talking to someone who would live in jeans and t-shirts if I could get away with it, remember?" She stood up. "I'm ready to leave if you are."
"I'm ready," he agreed, turning around to push the elevator call button.
On the way down to the lobby McCoy leaned back against the elevator wall facing Morgan. "Did you get caught up at the office this morning?"
"I never get caught up, but I did take care of some things that were bugging me. I'm glad I did; I feel a lot less stressed than if I hadn't. I would've spent the morning with the Comptons, but Drew wanted to take Grace to see some of the sights alone. You know how mushy married couples can be," she added.
"There's nothing wrong with being mushy. It's those thoughtful little things that have probably kept them happily married for so long," McCoy observed. He openly looked her up and down again. "Did I tell you that blue is my favorite color?"
Morgan started to give him a warning look, then noting the teasing sparkle in his eyes, slowly shook her head and smiled. "I believe you did mention it."
When they were safely in his car and on their way across town, she turned within the constraints of the seatbelt to face him.
"What was the deal with you and Grace ditching us last night? We waited an hour and a half before we finally decided to eat without you."
He shrugged. "We were having such a great time, we decided to continue it at a restaurant. Besides, you and Drew had your own thing going on. We didn't think you'd notice."
He could feel Morgan's eyes on him, studying him. When she spoke her voice sounded both amused and puzzled. "What we had 'going on' was a drink."
"I believe Grace called it a celebration."
"She also called it an affair; it was neither. And Grace knew about it before they left Chicago."
"So if it wasn't a celebration and it wasn't an affair, exactly what was it?"
"Kind of nosy, aren't you?" she asked pointedly.
With a nod he answered, "I'm a D.A. 'Nosy' is in my job description. And I happen to be very good at it."
Morgan's smile faded slightly and she was quiet a moment before answering. "Yesterday was the seventeenth anniversary of the resolution of a difficult case Drew and I were involved in. Even though we were on opposite sides of the courtroom, the outcome was a relief for us both. When I still lived in Chicago we would meet for a drink every year on that date. Since I moved here we missed the last few years. This year, things worked out so that we could get together again."
McCoy glanced at her. "Now I'm jealous. You don't commemorate an anniversary of any sort with me."
"I'll tell you what," she suggested, "in a few months, when the anniversary of Peter's acquittal rolls around, I'll buy you a drink. Then you won't have to be jealous anymore."
"It's a deal," he agreed with a satisfied smile.
"My turn to be nosy," Morgan decided. "Why didn't you come in and find us when you brought Grace back to the hotel last night, instead of dropping her off at the door?"
"Dropping her off was her idea. She said that way she could blame standing you up on me."
"Well, she didn't. She really didn't offer any explanation. All she said was that the two of you had started talking and lost track of time. What did you find to talk about for nearly three hours, anyway?"
"Oh, this and that," McCoy replied vaguely. "We talked about working in the D.A.'s office, and about our favorite places in Chicago. And about you..." He glanced over at her. "...Peaches."
Morgan's head snapped around. "Whoa! Let's get one thing straight right now, Mister McCoy! That is a nickname I picked up in Chicago and purposely left behind when I moved here. You are not allowed to use it or to tell anyone else about it. Understand?"
McCoy chuckled at her anticipated reaction. "On one condition: You tell me how you got it."
"If I tell you, do I have your word that you won't ever call me by that name or mention it to anyone else?"
He nodded. "You have my word."
"I'm going to hold you to that," she vowed, then explained, "When I first moved to Chicago and started working in the police station, I had a pretty good Southern drawl. It earned me quite a bit of teasing and one of the guys started calling me 'Georgia Peach'. I explained in no uncertain terms that Texas is not Georgia, but the more I protested the more fun it became for him. Somewhere along the way the 'Georgia' got dropped and people started calling me 'Peaches'. When I became a lawyer and started trying criminal cases, one of the detectives referred to me by that name in front of Drew and he picked up on it. I guess it sort of stuck. Anyway, it certainly isn't a nickname I would've chosen for myself and I was glad to be rid of it when I left Chicago."
"Well I like it. I think it suits you."
"Jack..." she said warningly, "you promised."
He laughed again. "I'll keep my end of the bargain." He looked over at her. "But it does suit you."
***"I'd still like to know which one of you paid for dinner. That was supposed to be my contribution to the evening," Compton stated, surveying the members of their group as they stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.
"You and Grace are guests," Morgan insisted. "You aren't allowed to pay when you're visiting us."
Fairchild added, "Tell you what: Next time we're on your home turf, the honor will be all yours."
Compton nodded. "You can each consider yourselves invited, anytime you like. Thank you, from both of us. The play and dinner were wonderful. And the company was superb."
After good-byes were said, the Fairchilds left the other two couples alone. McCoy handed the valet ticket to the parking attendant and they waited for his car to be retrieved.
"My feet are killing me," Grace complained. "I shouldn't have worn heels."
Compton gave Morgan a sideways look and asked casually, "Did you ever tell Jack about the time you tripped in court?"
Morgan turned to face him, crossing her arms. "Now why do you want to go and start trouble? We've had a perfectly enjoyable evening. Is it really necessary to bring up someone's most embarrassing moments?"
McCoy regarded Compton gleefully. "She tripped in court?"
With a groan, Morgan turned her back on the two.
"It was the first case she tried on her own, too," Compton explained. "She got up to question a witness and tripped over her own feet. She recovered pretty well, but it was priceless."
While Compton shared a laugh with his wife and McCoy, Morgan added, "In my whole life, no one has ever called me 'graceful'. I learned a valuable lesson that day: Always wear flats. I've never worn heels since. I no longer even own a pair."
McCoy smiled down at her. "You shouldn't feel too bad. I once prosecuted a defendant whose attorney gave his entire opening statement with his fly open. The jury held it together for a while, but it finally got to be too much for them. After a very persuasive argument from said attorney, the judge actually declared a mistrial and we started over with a new jury a few days later."
Morgan laughed. "Now I don't feel so bad. That story has to top the most embarrassing moments list."
As the attendant drove up with his car, McCoy sighed to himself. The only word that came to his mind to describe Morgan that evening was "sparkling". She had been happy and relaxed, and with each smile he had found himself looking forward to the next. He also felt unusually pleased with himself when he was the cause of her smile.
Driving to the Compton's hotel, the conversation turned to current cases the attorneys were handling. Morgan briefly explained the details of the Grayson case, and McCoy outlined the Armstrong trial for them.
When it was Compton's turn he said, "I'm about to start a trial against a DUI defendant. He plowed through a stoplight at 3:00 in the morning and rammed the car of an elderly couple. They were on their way to the hospital because the old man was having chest pains. He died while the paramedics were working on him. The defense is trying to argue that the cause of death was a heart attack and the defendant isn't culpable. My position is that the accident caused the heart attack to be fatal."
"How far from the hospital did it occur?" McCoy asked.
"Six or seven miles. According to the M.E. the unnatural event of the accident accelerated the heart attack, and the delay getting to the hospital made a difference. If he had gotten to the hospital sooner, and hadn't suffered the shock of the accident, he would've made it."
"Sounds like a solid case," McCoy nodded.
"How old is the defendant?" Morgan asked.
"I don't know. Late thirty's, early forty's maybe. Why?"
"Does he have kids?"
"Yes, I think he has two or three."
"Did it ever occur to you to compare the possible benefit to society of locking this man up for most of the rest of his life, to the harm it will do his children to live without a father?" she asked.
Compton huffed out a breath. "So we're not supposed to hold people responsible for the crimes they commit simply because they have children?"
"I didn't say that," Morgan argued. "But would it kill you to take into consideration the effect that sending this guy to prison for years is going to have on those he leaves behind? Couldn't a more reasonable sentence, along with rehabilitation and restitution, be considered as an alternative?"
"An innocent victim is dead and his widow was left behind. What about them?" McCoy interjected. "Don't they deserve justice? And what restitution would you suggest to equal the life that he took?"
"Can the M.E. really give a one hundred percent guarantee that the old man would've lived had it not been for the accident?"
"No one can give a one hundred percent guarantee in this world," Compton admitted. "He could've later died from choking on hospital food! The point is, the M.E. thinks the delay made a difference in the heart attack, and that's all I need to prosecute and win the case."
"And we all know that winning is the single most important thing in life!" Morgan snapped.
Silence filled the car for several minutes. Morgan finally turned to look over her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spoil the evening by arguing. I know you have to call them as you see them."
Compton reached forward and patted her shoulder. "That's okay. This certainly isn't the first argument we've ever had over opposing viewpoints and I doubt it will be our last. In fact, sometimes I miss our arguments."
"You know how he loves a good fight," his wife added.
Compton slipped his arm around her shoulders. "I know better than to fight with Grace, so now I'm left with only my associate, who is too easily swayed to my point of view. Things aren't the same since you left."
"Well I'm glad to know that I was useful for something," Morgan retorted more amiably.
When they reached the hotel, Morgan and McCoy got out only long enough to say good-bye, then continued on toward her apartment. They drove in silence for a good part of the way.
McCoy was irritated. The evening wasn't ending the way he had hoped. But more than that, he had really wanted to speak his mind during the argument between Compton and Morgan. Given the company, though, he had held his tongue. And after all, he reasoned, Morgan had finally apologized.
He was still irritated.
Beside him, he heard a sigh. Turning from looking out of the window, Morgan noted, "You've been unusually quiet. Did you enjoy the evening?"
He took a moment before answering slowly, "Yes, I did. But I am a little upset about the discussion you had with Drew."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Morgan's head drop back until it hit the headrest with a muffled thump. "Oh, no! I'm sorry, Jack; I wasn't thinking. I should've steered the conversation toward a less painful subject."
"I can handle the subject," he assured her. Biting his lip, he wondered if he should let it drop or forge ahead. His irritation won out, although he did choose his words carefully. "It was your comments that I'm having some difficulty with. I don't see how you can arbitrarily defend someone whose irresponsible and reckless behavior caused the death of an innocent person. Or were you only playing devil's advocate?"
"I never say anything just for the sake of argument," Morgan answered with a hint of annoyance. "I meant every word."
Despite his feelings to the contrary, McCoy kept his voice calm and neutral. "Well maybe your view would be different if you had experienced the death of a loved one at the hands of someone who had chosen to get behind the wheel after having too much to drink."
"And what makes you think I haven't had that experience, with multiple loved ones, as a matter of fact?" she snapped.
He glanced at her quickly but couldn't read her expression in the dim light. As he turned his attention back to the street, he frowned in confusion and thought back to when he had first told her about Claire. She hadn't mentioned anything then. They had been discussing her family…
That couldn't be it, he thought. Surely she would've told him.
McCoy looked over to find Morgan staring out of the window again. At her continued silence, he sighed. Consider the source, he told himself.
"Calea, are you referring to your family?" he asked quietly. "Was a drunk driver responsible for the accident that took their lives?"
She didn't turn to look at him as she spoke. "Not every situation is a study in black and white. Sometimes people, prosecutors in particular, forget that there are at least two sides to every story. There are a lot of factors to consider when passing judgement and condemning someone."
"There's nothing wrong with my view of drunk drivers," McCoy insisted. "Whatever their excuse may be, they don't deserve any more consideration than anyone else who willfully harms another. They should have to pay for their crimes like every other criminal. And given your experience, you of all people should understand."
"Understand what? A need to see all drunk drivers condemned and punished simply because a single one was responsible for my personal loss? That isn't justice, that's revenge!"
He shook his head. "It isn't revenge to require someone to be held accountable for their actions! People equate drinking and driving with a social problem. Judges hand down harsher sentences for traffic tickets than they do for D.U.I.'s. Those responsible need to be forced to see the criminality of getting behind the wheel while under the influence of alcohol!"
"Holding someone accountable doesn't always require punishing them to the full extent of the law! I'm not saying they shouldn't be punished at all, but each case needs to be examined individually to do what's best for everyone concerned. Despite my personal experience, I'm capable of looking at things from both sides of the courtroom!"
"Oh, I see!" he replied angrily. "Becoming a defense attorney gave you some sort of special ability to overlook the pain and suffering experienced by those left in the wake of an intoxicated killer!"
"Being a defense attorney has little to do with it! I can see both sides of the issue because the drunk driver who killed my family was my father, Jack! And as a result of the personal injury suit filed by the other parties involved against my father's estate, I lost the house I had lived in all my life, and property that had been in my family for generations! In the majority of D.U.I. cases, the people who are directly involved in the accident aren't the only victims!"
McCoy was completely taken aback. Her revelation wasn't something he had expected and for a few moments he was at a loss as to how to respond. He finally said the only thing he could think of to say.
"I'm sorry."
In the silence that continued for the remainder of the drive, he thought about what she had said. In the months that followed Claire's death he had been incensed at the driver responsible. And he had turned to alcohol as a solace for his overwhelming, oftentimes conflicting feelings. He had usually had sense enough not to drive after doing so, but there had been occasions when he was sure his decision to drive himself home had been questionable. It had taken some major introspection to realize that he could quite easily have found himself in the same situation as others who also thought they were sober enough to drive. Others, like Claire's killer - or Morgan's father.
When they reached their destination, McCoy pulled into the visitor parking area and turned off the car. Instead of opening the door immediately, he sat trying to figure out what to say.
Saving him the trouble, Morgan turned to him. There was sadness in her voice as she said, "You don't have to come in with me. It's been a long day and I'm sure you would like to go home. Thank you for going with me tonight, and for driving. I enjoyed the evening."
As she started to open the door, McCoy caught her by the arm. She looked at him questioningly.
"Calea, will you go for a walk with me?"
As she studied him, he could see the hesitation in her eyes. "It's kind of late, Jack."
"It isn't that late. Come on; just a short walk."
With a reluctant nod she finally relented. They left the car and began to walk down the sidewalk, past her building.
"You know, you could've mentioned something about your family the first time I came to your apartment, when I told you that I had lost someone to a drunk driver," he suggested gently.
"I didn't know you very well then and, as you know, I'm not very good at sharing personal things. And of all the subjects in my life that I would rather avoid, my father is at the very top of the list," she confessed.
"I suppose I can understand that," he admitted dryly. After pausing for a few seconds he asked, "Will you tell me how it happened?"
Morgan shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat and began to chew the inside of her lip. "I'd rather not. It's a very unpleasant memory and I'm not comfortable talking about it. Given your experience, I'm also not sure you need to hear it any more than I need to share it."
He stopped on the sidewalk and waited until she had done the same. Looking into her eyes, he could see the fear.
"I think it may do us both some good."
She gave him a puzzled look. "What makes you say that?"
McCoy reached out and brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. "Maybe this is another of those situations where facing your past will turn out to be for the best. And maybe sharing it will help me with mine, too. I thought I had made my peace with what happened a long time ago, but then something like the discussion tonight comes up, and I'm not so sure. If you share your experience with me, maybe we can find a way to help each other."
She dropped her focus to the ground, avoiding his intense eyes. After a moment she turned and continued walking. He fell into step beside her, unsure whether she would comply or not.
When she did finally begin, her voice was flat and emotionless. "My father wanted to go fishing so we drove to the coast for the day. He had a lot to drink, as he did every weekend. At around 6:00 we could see thunderstorms beginning to form out over the Gulf, so my dad decided we should head home. It was a two hour drive in good weather, more when it rained. The rain in Texas comes down so hard, sometimes you can't see the road in front of you. My mom tried to talk him into letting her drive, but he wouldn't. He never did. It was just one of those things; wives never drove when their husbands were in the car. We had driven about an hour when the first storm caught up with us."
When she paused for a breath, McCoy swallowed hard. "You were in the car when it happened?"
Without looking at him, she nodded. "There were no laws at the time and my parents didn't require it, but I almost always wore my seatbelt when my dad was driving. Even when I was only six or seven I figured they had to be there for a reason, and his driving when he had been drinking was scary. You know how the older cars had a hump in the middle of the floorboard of the back seat?" At his nod she told him, "That was my spot. I would buckle my seatbelt, then loosen it as far as I could and lean on the front seat. From there I would watch the road for my dad. If he drove too far onto the shoulder or crossed the middle line, I would tell him. I also talked, non-stop, to keep him awake. I would talk about my cats and dogs, or the trees, or the grass on the side of the road; anything to help keep him alert." She took an uneven breath. "That morning we had gotten up early to be at the bay by sunrise, so my mom and my brother fell asleep on the way home. But I could never sleep when my father was driving, no matter how tired I was."
Their walk had brought them to an intersection. Another couple was also approaching the crosswalk, so Morgan remained silent as they waited to cross the street.
When McCoy took his hand from his pocket to push the button for the pedestrian crossing light, he realized that it had been clenched into a fist, as was his other. He could feel the tightness in his stomach and tension in the back of his neck. Part of him wanted to tell her to stop, that he couldn't listen to any more. Images and memories flooded his mind, things he didn't want to remember. Many times he had thought about Claire's last moments. The coroner's report stated that she had died on impact. Had she seen it coming? Or had she been blissfully unaware? He had always hoped the latter, and feared the former. He had often wondered if Briscoe could answer that question, but had never even entertained the idea of asking him. Some things were better left unknown. But as difficult as it was to listen to Morgan's story, he knew that it had to be even more difficult for her to share it - and that he needed to hear it. If he wanted to know more about her, about what made her the person that she was, this undoubtedly was a huge part.
After the light changed and they had crossed the street, McCoy led the way in a different direction than the other couple had taken. As they walked, he waited quietly for Morgan to begin again.
"Most of the highways in Texas at that time were single lanes, with a narrow shoulder and a deep ditch on either side. My father had instilled a healthy fear of those ditches in us. Many times he had told us that if you ever hit one going very fast, the car would flip over. The speed limit was 70 then, and the night it happened he was going pretty close to that despite the conditions. He had already veered off onto the shoulder a couple of times, so I was watching the road closely. When he started to go off again, I told him. When he didn't respond, I grabbed his shoulder and shook it. We were partially off of the pavement by the time he realized it. He overreacted and jerked the steering wheel. The car started to fishtail, then skid. We crossed the line into the on-coming traffic. There was no way the other car could stop. It struck our car on the driver's side and knocked us back into our lane, sort of crossways. The driver of a truck that had been behind us slammed on his brakes, but with the rain he couldn't stop in time either. The truck hit mostly on the front passenger's side."
When Morgan didn't continue for several seconds, McCoy looked up from the sidewalk. Her eyes were focused straight ahead and he could see that she was trembling. He was sure it wasn't from the cold. His first thought was to reach for her and wrap her in his arms, to offer comfort. But since he wasn't at all sure how she would respond, instead he reached for her arm and pulled her hand from her pocket. When she looked at him, he smiled slightly, then tucked both her hand and his into the roomy pocket of his jacket. He could feel her hand shaking even with his wrapped around it.
They walked in silence for a few more seconds before she continued in a shaky voice.
"The man and his wife in the first car that hit us died. Their three children were in the back seat. They were all injured but survived. My brother was sitting beside me, behind the driver's seat. He and my dad were killed instantly. If I hadn't been wearing a seatbelt I would've been killed too. Since it was loose I ended up close to the back door on the passenger's side. The truck that hit us crunched it in, so I was trapped in a pretty tight space. I couldn't move and my whole body hurt. Everything became very quiet afterwards and I remember calling out to my mom. I could hear her breathing, but her breath was sort of rattling. After a few minutes there were people shouting from outside and someone tried to pry open the door I was near. I kept focusing on my mom's breathing, trying to be as quiet as possible so I could hear it. Then after a while, it just stopped. I didn't really care if they got me out of the car or not after that."
Inside his coat pocket, McCoy squeezed her hand. He wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't seem to find his voice behind the tightness in his throat. In his mind he could see the little girl from a picture he had once found inside Morgan's desk, huddled inside a wrecked car, life as she knew it shattered.
"I was in the hospital for two weeks." Morgan's voice became more unsteady. "I missed the funerals. I tried to get my grandparents to postpone them until I was well enough to go but they wouldn't even consider it. It made me angry that they couldn't see how important it was to me. I felt like I never really had the chance to say good-bye."
Morgan grew quiet and McCoy knew she was fighting back tears. Trying to think of a way to offer comfort, he said gently, "I'm sure your parents and brother understood and didn't hold it against you. They must be proud, watching you all these years, seeing how you turned out."
She shook her head sadly. "I'm not one of those people who believes that people have an immortal soul. I never felt that my family was suddenly hovering somewhere above, watching over me. They were just gone, leaving holes in my life where they used to be."
He glanced sideways with a frown, unsure of how to answer, but decided that it wasn't the time for a theological debate. The bright glow from a coffee shop a few yards up the sidewalk beckoned to him. He continued to head toward it, finally coming to a stop outside of the door.
"Why don't we go inside and have something warm to drink?" he suggested.
She started to pull her hand from his. "This isn't something I can sit down in a room with other people and discuss, Jack! It's too difficult!"
"Okay," he agreed quickly, refusing to release her hand. "It was only a suggestion. I thought you might be getting cold."
"I'm fine. It isn't that cold out tonight."
"You're shivering," he pointed out.
When Morgan looked away and tried to tug her hand from his again, McCoy held it firmly and resumed walking, passing the coffee shop and pulling her gently along with him.
"It's all right," he offered reassuringly. "We'll keep walking." When she followed willingly, he added, "I guess I understand now why there's a cabinet full of liquor in your kitchen that you never touch."
She nodded slowly. "What happened with my father made me so angry, I never even had a desire to try it. Maybe I was worried that once I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. Some people say alcoholism is caused by a genetic defect and can be inherited. I don't know if that's true, but I never wanted to risk it."
"I've heard that as well. I'm not sure if I believe it either, but I suppose there could be some truth to it. You mentioned a personal injury suit. Who filed against your parent's estate?"
"The brother and sister-in-law of the man who was killed. They became guardians to the children and filed the suit on their behalf a few weeks after the accident. My grandparents hired Emerson Kilgore, an old family law attorney. He thought the case would be simply a matter of character witnesses. Besides my grandparents and me, he brought in many of the people my dad had worked with over the years. They told the jury what a great guy he had been. I remember feeling so jealous of those people. They were all so sincere in their praise. That they knew a side of my dad he had kept hidden from his immediate family seemed very unfair to me. The difference was he couldn't drink on the job. They knew a sober, kind-hearted, generous man. But he worked thirty miles from home at an oil refinery, and by the time he had made the drive back every day, he had usually finished four or five beers and at least a couple of shots of whiskey. And he didn't stop once he was home. That was the person we knew: the unpredictable, brooding man who only wanted to be alone with his alcohol."
McCoy could feel the tension in Morgan's arm and adjusted his slightly, pulling her a little closer toward him.
"If so many people testified on behalf of your father, why did you lose so much?"
The anger that had crept into her voice subsided, to be replaced by remorse. "Once Mr. Kilgore had paraded everyone else through, he put on the person whom he considered to be his ace in the hole. He coached me on what to say and actually suggested that I should cry on the stand. I guess he thought that the sight of a frightened child would garner enough sympathy to minimize the other parties' suit. But I couldn't do what he wanted. When he asked me what kind of father my dad had been, I said some things I shouldn't have. Mr. Kilgore tried to cover it over by alluding to the fact that I was still traumatized by the accident, but the attorney for the other side saw how angry I was at my father and he used it to his advantage. He asked questions that got him even more than he could've possibly hoped for. The last question he asked me was whether I thought my dad was responsible for the deaths of my mother, my brother, and the other couple. In the middle of Mr. Kilgore's objection, I answered 'yes', although I knew I was supposed to wait. Even though the judge had the question and my response stricken, I guess the jury agreed with me. The plaintiff's attorney made it clear that I was going to be well cared for by my grandparents, so they awarded almost all of the estate to the other couple's children."
"It wasn't your fault," McCoy observed. "You were only twelve years old."
"Maybe, but I knew how disappointed my grandparents were in me. After all, it was their son I had maligned in front of a good portion of the population, in a fairly small community. I wasn't all that close to them before the accident, and things were very strained afterwards. They took good care of me materially but I always wondered if they resented it. I never really felt like I belonged in their home. I had skipped a couple of grades in the small country school I had started out in, and that combined with summer school got me a high school diploma when I was only fifteen. I moved in with some friends of our family afterwards so I could attend college in Houston. It was almost a relief to leave my grandparent's house. Four years later, I moved across the country to attend law school."
McCoy shook his head in confusion. "Given everything that happened, I can understand perfectly why you were angry with your father. What I can't understand is how you can now argue in defense of someone like him, someone who caused the death of, and ruined, others' lives. It seems to me that becoming a prosecuting attorney in order to put people like that away would've been a more logical career choice for you."
"It took a long time for the anger to even begin to subside. Then, after my grandparents died, I was going through some of their belongings. In a box of things they had taken from my parent's house, I found a journal that my mother had written. She didn't write consistently once she had kids, but there were a lot of entries for the first few years she and my dad were married. In reading them, I learned that my dad had started drinking before he was even a teenager. He used to help his father with the crops as a boy, and when they came in from working, they had a shot of whiskey. It was just a normal, daily occurrence. He was an alcoholic long before he was old enough to make an informed choice. Learning that and other things about him made me start to see things in a different light. Sometimes a person's path is chosen for them by someone else, just as you once told me you felt your father had chosen yours. Back when my dad started drinking, no one really knew the dangers, not even his parents. I don't feel that excused all of his culpability, but it certainly was a mitigating factor. And as for my choice of professions, I became a defense attorney in order to help people who find themselves on the wrong side of the law, for whatever reason. I knew how it felt to be misrepresented and somewhat taken advantage of. I wanted to give other people in similar situations the kind of representation that everyone is entitled to, whatever their mistakes may be. It became important to me to help prevent someone else from becoming a victim of the system."
He came to a stop on the sidewalk and turned to face Morgan. Giving her a little smile he suggested, "You mean you didn't become a lawyer because of Perry Mason, like you told me when I first asked you about that?"
The sadness in her eyes remained as she regarded him, but he gradually saw a hint of a smile appear on her face. "He may not have been the sole reason, but he definitely had a place in my decision."
McCoy felt a sudden wave of closeness. He reached out and brushed her hair from her forehead again, resisting an impulse to draw her to him. Glancing at their surroundings, he saw that his strategic turns while they were walking had brought them close to where they had started, so that they weren't far from her building. "Are you ready to go back now?"
With a nod, she turned with him. Within his pocket he was sure that he felt her hand actually clutching his during the walk back. He quickened the pace slightly, eager to return to her place so that they could be alone.
When they reached their destination he opened the door to the lobby and walked in with her. But when he began to lead the way to the elevator, she stopped and pulled her hand from his pocket. Turning to face her, he gave her a puzzled look.
"Now it really is late," she noted softly. "You should be on your way home."
He gave her a smile. "I have some time before my curfew expires. I'll walk you up."
Morgan studied him intently, searching his eyes. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she definitely seemed suddenly uncomfortable.
"That's okay. I'll go up by myself. Thanks again for going with me tonight and for listening. I hope I didn't ruin your evening by dragging up a lot of unpleasant memories."
"You didn't," he assured her. "I'm glad you told me about it all. I know it wasn't easy. I want you to know that anytime you need an ear, or a shoulder, I'm available."
She nodded slowly. "I'll try to remember that." Taking a step back she said, "I'll see you Monday, Jack. Enjoy the rest of your weekend."
"Good-night, Calea. When you see them tomorrow, please tell the Comptons again how much I enjoyed the evening."
Morgan smiled and nodded once more before turning toward the elevator.
***On the drive home, McCoy's head was filled with a disarray of thoughts. He didn't understand how Morgan could go from seeming perfectly relaxed and at ease with him, to nervous and uncomfortable in the blink of an eye. And he didn't know why she had been reluctant to allow him to accompany her up to her apartment; it wouldn't have been the first time he had done so. In spite of the tragic story she had shared and the feelings it had provoked, he was glad she had confided in him. But just when he had felt that she finally trusted and felt comfortable with him, she had backed away once more. He wondered if he would ever really win her trust.
When he arrived home he undressed and fell into bed. But despite the late hour he found that sleep eluded him. In his mind, he went over every detail of what Morgan had told him. He could only imagine what he would've done if he had been called upon to tell the world what he thought of his own father when he had been twelve. It certainly wouldn't have been easy to say anything good. And it would've been hard to live with himself if he had been forced to tell the truth. His thoughts also turned to Claire. He had spent a good deal of time in the beginning thinking about how he could've prevented the accident, how if he had waited for her, she would've been driving on a different street that night. It had been difficult enough to lose her. He wondered how he would've felt if he had been the one in the accident with her instead of Briscoe, to stand helplessly by while her life faded away...
It was a long time before the peacefulness of sleep overtook him that night.