Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: This chapter rated M for attempted gang violence against women, offensive language and racism.
I know that historically Gotham City has been based on New York City, but to date all my big city experiences have been either in Chicago or Beijing (PRC). The Latin Kings are one of the largest street gangs in Chicago, deal extensively in drug trafficking and are most feared in the community for their brutality towards rival gangs and even against those who refuse gang affiliation. Correctional officers are frequently targeted in the prison system and on the street.
Disclaimer: I want to depict the reality of inner city life, and have tried both not to ignore social problems but not to glorify them either. I've done my best do bring issues to the forefront without going into social commentary. Hatred towards women in all its forms, domestic abuse, gangs, and racial relations are important issues in our society and need to be talked about if we're ever going to make headway on combating them. Any and all racial, religious, or sexual prejudices depicted by characters of Ernestina are THEIR OWN, and have no reflection on the author's personal beliefs.
Special thanks to AZ Woodbomb for some impromtu editing!
For Clarification: The flashback in this chapter is to an IA hearing for Jimmy Connolly and Paltron in light of the shooting of Miguel Ramirez in the MCU parking lot in March 2030. These events happened before Paltron realized that Jimmy and Angel were the same person. The summons to the hearing is also referenced in Gordon's flashback in Martyr. On another note, the fire at Sisters of Mercy was referenced by Maggie Kyle's flashback in Pandora's Box, and discussed by Sal Meroni and Jesus Guerrero at the end of Aurora.
Friday, August 30th
17:03 EST
The Narrows
The afternoon sun is bright and hot. The bag is heavy on my shoulder, strap chaffing against my skin. It is 237 blocks to Sisters of Mercy Sanctuary-a square mile, secluded haven in the center of Gotham City. One of the oldest religious structures standing, the largest Catholic Convent in the US…and former site of Sisters of Mercy Foster Care that burned down seven years ago, taking the lives of 43 children and 7 sisters. There were only four survivors, Gotham's 'Angels of Mercy'. One dead in gang wars. One incarcerated in Arkham for triple homicide. One brutalized so viciously she fled to the security of the Church…and one, one Angel of Mercy who went into Gotham City Public Services…
Rosalinda Juarez, Achilles Dumas, Maggie Kyle, and Jimmy Connolly. I sniff. Wipe my nose and tearing eyes. My Angel lived. Lived when so many other children died….used that mercy and grace to make something of his life, to answer that question why was I left behind why the fuck was I left behind…
I know the truth now. Life it futile. Vanity and striving after wind. Better to die, better to be dead, better the one who has never existed, who has never seen, felt, tasted the tears of oppression and evil than one who lives to bear them both. If only we had died together when the Legacy fell, better I never carried him to the hospital as a dying child, better instead to have held him in my arms, loved and safe, trusting, comforted, content...
I sniff. Wipe my eyes. Touch that strap between my breasts, fingers pressed over my heart, over the bag with those medications, Stalton's list, that worn Converse sneaker and that scrap of paper with his tiny scrawl. Try to ignore that grief gnawing inside me, that burning sob stuck in my throat, will my eyes not to tear, not to see the pages of that open Bible, the book of Job...
I am Sydney Carton. Elizabeth Bennett. Tired and worn yet my feet compel me. I am a mother, this is what I do: I bury my son
17:21 EST
Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge
Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge. Yeah, right. Finch was a DA, not an engineer. If Gotham wanted to honor him they'd name a building or a scholarship after him. But no. They renamed a bridge, a century old bridge spanning the river where his body was dumped. That's gratitude, Gotham City style.
Traffic's picked up. The flow especially heavy given more than half the bridges are still up, even now, 11 days after the Legacy bombing. I make it half-way across before it hits me. That shrinking feeling in my throat. Sudden fatigue.
Goddamn this 9/11 syndrome. I reach for my bag, pull out Amy Lawless' old inhaler and take three steady puffs. You should read the dosage, Bitch. My mind tells me. Don't overdo the steroids…
Yeah, they can have nasty effects. But I'm a woman with nothing to live for, on her way to die. I just need to postpone it long enough to take the Joker down with me…
…and until then I'll take all the steroids and fucking narcotics this failing body needs.
But I've learned my lesson from Monday. I have to conserve my strength. My right leg is still sore and weak, manageable but the walk to Sisters of Mercy hasn't yet begun. And as much as I hate to admit it, as much as my mind screams for independence, I know I'd never make it. At least not without tearing the goddamn thing half open again.
Gotham City Public Transit. Buses. Subways. Even commuter trains coming in from an hour away in all directions. I'm at the corner of 61st and King Avenue, which means there's a station under the next block.
Gotham City Public Transit. I remember when Thomas Wayne bought them out and restored them, made cheap, clean travel free of charge for Gotham's citizens. I was a child then, just a little girl, so excited, thought the trains were completely new. My parents took me on a ride, a tour of the entire city, every stop and every station, just to see what St. Wayne had done now…
But they didn't last long. Like everything in Wayne's legacy, they fell apart after his death. Nearly four years ago Dawes was attacked, one of thousands of women harassed, mugged, raped or killed in these extensive catacombs. She reported the first sighting of the Batman not 3 stations up from here.
A woman. Alone. And a public service worker. She should've known better. But times have changed since then. Batman struck fear into the heart of Gotham's criminals, and Harvey Dent and James Gordon picked up where he left off. No one's stupid enough to pull anything during broad daylight. Not with an elevated terrorist threat level and National Guard on every street corner like it's fucking Beirut or Tehran…
…but if they are, I'm ready for them.
17:36 EST
Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805
It's loud, smelly and cramped. The plastic and fabric are scuffed and faded, lacking energy and life. The windows are smeared and dirty, and every pass of every underground light reveals a myriad of fingerprints and crude words written in oils, grease, and dust. The car rocks wildly, jolting, old and in need of repair. This is Gotham, what Gotham does. Takes the new and naïve, the hopeful and full of life and gradually, slowly, bit by bit wears them down until they are old and rusted, worn beyond recognition or repair.
There's a shrill, shrieking lurch as we grind to a halt. The quiet car more than half-empties, all these people hiding behind papers, laptops, magazines and ipods trickle wearily away, anonymous and already forgotten. Closing their eyes and ears lest the hear or see, closing their hearts lest they feel grief or pain or guilt. We've forgotten. Forgotten what it means to be human. Forgotten neighbors, friends, family. Isolated figures in an insulated world. Not naïve but uncaring, unconcerned, blissfully unaware. The cramped car held perhaps thirty people…and not a one of them could identify another had there been a crime.
Now it's me. Me and another woman gabbing animatedly on the phone, surrounded by her flock of kids, every one of them in solitude with separate headphones. The oldest can't be more than seven or eight. The front of the car is full of businessmen, five balding, grey-heads and ten younger men. Yuppies with expensive Italian shoes and designer suits. Thin face. Beaked nose. Widow's peak hairline. Short, squat neck and wide, plain features. Red hair, freckles, milk white skin…
Shit. Fuck. There. There by the doors. Two men, late teens, early twenties. Baggy sweatshirts, hoods covering their faces. Dark, olive skin, and long, chained crucifixes. I'm not one for racial profiling, but when you're a cop in the city that boasts the worst gang crimes in the world, you learn quick that idealism and political correctness only go so far. The playing field's a whole hell of a lot different than the books, and when you've got racially segregated gangs-when you've got bloodthirsty Puerto Rican pandillas-being of a certain age, gender, and ethnicity makes you suspect. Combine that knowledge with mannerisms... and these punks scream Latin Kings from a mile away.
The car heaves to another stop, screaming in the pains of labor. More exit. No one gets on. Only eight of us now, besides them. Nothing more than a handful…
"What ya listening to, kid?" The voice is thin and leering. Puerto Rican by accent. I sit up in my chair, adrenaline pounding. They've risen, begun to saunter down the aisles with a swagger like the own the place. If something were to happen…now is the time. One lone woman with her four young kids, a seemingly sleeping passenger in the back of the car and two old, sagging businessmen hardly represent a threat to the gang that's chased even Meroni's men off the street corners.
"You didn't answer my question, punk." Perp One snarls, ripping the ear buds off the head of the oldest child. It gets caught in the beads of her cornrows, and she yelps in pain.
"What you be doing?" Her mother cries in anger, voice carrying. The two businessmen try to look away, ignore the problem…
Jackasses.
"My man here asked a question." Perp Two says. He's shorter, less cocky. Along for the ride. Number one's the alpha, I decide. The puppeteer. "And didn't get no answer."
"That's rude, puta. Real rude. You best be doin' a better job raising these kids."
"Watch your mouth in front of my kids!" She snarls, white teeth gleaming. "Or I'll bitch-slap your ass into next week, hear?"
"Yeah? Yeah? And who's gonna watch your kids when you're in the hospital, bitch? Their daddies?" Number One growls.
"Ain't you know, estupido, black kids ain't got no daddies?" Two jibes. "They too busy off fucking each other-"
"You shut your mouth or I be shutting it for you!" She cries sternly. I'll give her credit-she's got more balls than those two businessmen, puffed up, head raised, looking down her nose even though they tower over her. But she's all talk. All talk and no action. She can't afford the hospital, can't afford a lawsuit, can't afford CPS to label her a danger or a threat to those kids…
…and she shouldn't have to.
My temper is rising. I can't stand aside. Can't watch her get roughed or raped. To intervene-? Or wait, wait and see just how ugly this is going to get…and how bad to punish them. I decide to stick it out. To wait and see…
Things get ugly. They never actually slap her but they rough her up good, back her into the corner of the seat until she starts to whimper about her kids…
"That's enough." A mild, bespectacled man with a bright, bright red face finally stammers. "You two boys leave her and her kids alone." The second steps forward, next to him, solidifying his stance. Two old men. Flabby and in their fifties at best. Even if they were willing to intervene physically, they'd never have a chance.
But these jerks only jeer. "Alright, 'mano. We're outnumbered here." Perp One says. "Think we'd better listen, huh? Listen to the saltines and their nigger bitch-"
"You watch your mouth!" The woman screams. "And get your punk asses away from my kids!"
"Don't talk to her like that!" The old man wheezes.
"Yeah?" One mocks. "Yeah, I might just do that. And I'm such a nice guy, I'll even give you some parenting tips for free." He reaches out, reaches out and snatches the ipods away from all four of the kids. "You best be doing a better job, bitch, else they gonna grow up like us!" He gloats, staring them down. They're huddling behind their mother, scared shitless. She's got her arms out, shielding them, dark eyes murderous. I am shaking in rage.
"And you two!" Number Two grins. "Wanna make a donation to the Latin Kings? Charitable cause? C'mon, hombres, your wallets."
It's not worth fighting over. Neither perp's said anything about being armed, but no one wants to find out. No one wants a gun or a knife stuck in their face, or any other bodily orifices, for that matter. Credit cards can be cancelled. Licenses reported lost or stolen. It's not worth standing up and fighting for a couple hundred bucks cash. They fork them begrudgingly over, along with a fairly nice Rolex. In the heat of the moment, in the excitement and thrill, I am invisible in my silence. No one notices the seemingly sleeping passenger in the back of the car. Anonymous. Hidden. Forgotten. If I were anyone else, they'd get away with it.
…too bad for them I'm a plainclothes cop. Pretty shitty suerte, assholes. I whisper.
"We'd ask you for your jewelry, bitch." One sneers, "but we know you ain't got any."
"'sides, it'd be stolen anyways." Two smirks. "Ain't worth the hassle of pawning it off and getting caught." He mutters something in Spanish about 'la policia', and you don't have to understand the language to catch the tone or meaning. One hoots in laughter.
The next stop can't come soon enough. That woman, those two men, bracing themselves as though for the worst. The shriek of the brakes, the jarring of the train, then all is still. The doors open with a long drawn pneumonic sigh of relief. The woman shepherds her kids out, dark eyes flashing in anger. She is farewelled by more insults, whistles, and a slap on the ass. She rounds on the businessmen the moment they've cleared the threshold.
"'Leave her and her kids alone!'" She screams, hefting the youngest onto her hip and pulling the others close with her wiry arms. "Thanks for nothing, motherfuckers. You ain't never wait that long if I weren't black! Never let nobody talk to no white girl like that-!"
The doors slam shut. The train lurches forward. There is a momentary second of silence and serenity where her words echo eerily in the ar. Plunging back into the darkness, I can't but wonder that she's right.
17:50 EST
Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805
"Madre de Dios, would you look at that!" One catcalls, bemused. "Girl, you gotta be shitting me!" They exchange glances, laughing and shaking their heads as they saunter up the aisle towards me. "You gotta be fucking kidding me. You really gonna make it that easy, puta?" He asks, leaning over me, hot breath in my face. His clothes are saturated in the reek of marijuana smoke.
"You don't scare me." I tell him, blood gone icy. "Piss off." But I don't want them to leave. Walk away. I want them to stay, stay and fight. Stay and die. See if they're only jerks who steal from the helpless, or predators who devour them.
…but I have a gut feeling about these two. Woman's intuition, creep factor, a soldier and a veteran's instinct. Call it what you will, I've never been wrong before.
"Looks like we got a hero, 'mano." Two laughs. "Must've found the Batman! She says she ain't scared."
"Oh, you think you're brave, do you? Think you're real smart?" One asks. "You gonna pull the emergency brake? Hit the blue button? C'mon puta, what've you got? A can of mace? A nice little taser to fend off bad guys? Huh?"
"Something like that." I say cryptically. It's a 9 mm, bastard. And five extra magazines tucked in Connolly's bag. But I'm not going to use it. Not on you. For you I've got two fists. Your face. Two knees. Your groin. Two feet. Your larynx, and then you're fucking dead.
"What about this, yeah?" He grins, pulling a Glock field knife from his sagging pants pocket. "You ever seen one of these before? They sell these at 1-800-I'm a nosy, do-gooder bitch with a big mouth? Yeah?"
He lowers the blade, the tip tracing my throat. The cool, hard steel sends a sinister shudder through my flesh. Not yet, I tell that seething monster, not yet…
"Tell you what I'm going to do," One says with a leer. "I'm going to let you live. And I'm such a nice guy I'll even give you a little action for free, baby. How bout that? Take off your clothes." He snarls. "Now."
I look him in the eyes. He's Lusty. Brutish. Laughs at the idea of violence and rape. Too stupid, too absorbed to know the tables have turned and he's a dead man, a walking corpse…
"And what if I say no." I return evenly.
"Ho, man!" His companion whistles. "This one's got more cojones than you, 'mano."
Five point Corona tattoo. You don't have to be on Gang Task Force to know they're Latin Kings. And the teardrops on their faces mean they're serious. One here's killed before. Twice. And he's raped at least three times that number…
It's a shame the next stop is so close. I'll have to kill him quicker than I'd like.
"Who you think you are, bitch? You think you're super-cunt, don't you. Yeah. Then let's ask her a question. Let's ask super-cunt a question." He leans over me, twirling that knife expertly, letting the sheen of the blade show. It's sharp, long and deadly. Hello, beautiful, I say to her reflective surface, a pair of icy blue eyes staring back at me. She's as hungry as I am for blood. I tell her not to worry. She'll soon have her fill. "You ever been fucked by a knife, bitch?" He asks lowly. "Ever been fucked with one of these before?"
You ever been fucked by a knife? No, Horny. I haven't. Have you? And I laugh. I laugh in his fucking face because I'm glad he asked. Because 13 years ago my cell mates at Memorial tried the exact same thing…
…and lost.
"Hey, man." His companion says, alarmed. "Man, that ain't right-"
"You shut the fuck up, you hear? You shut the fuck up! And you!" He turns back to me, "you take your pants off now, puta, or I'll just fuck you through them."
That monster in me is crouched, ready to spring, smells the blood of her prey and can't keep the hunger at bay. Lusts, longs, yearns to be sated…it's time.
"Go ahead." I dare the bastard from my seat. "Try."
He does.
17:54 EST
Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805
I grab his wrist, break his arm in three places before his mind can even register the pain. Blood shoots across the cabin, stains windows and seats, hot and salty it blinds his friend. But I'm not done. Not nearly done. I twist. Stand. He's falling, falling forward with all his weight and there's a sickening pop as the shoulder dislocates. One lets out a cry, and the knife falls from his twitching fingers.
There's a shout. Scrambling. Cry of Madre de Dios-!
He's sprawled on the floor, arm spurting blood, shaking with the pain of shock. The knife is cool and hard against my palm as I stand over him. His friend is running, running to the front of the compartment, trying to force the door-
"What's your name?" I ask. "Como te llamas?" You don't spend 13 years on the police force without learning the rudiments of Gotham's most popular non-English language.
But the bastard just spits in my face. It's stringy and warm, disgusting and phlegmatic. I wipe it calmly down my shirt…and press that knife into the bare bone sticking through his arm. He feels it.
"What's your name!" I demand as he screams like the coward he is. "Como te llamas!"
"Ricardo!" He finally pants.. "me llama…me llama Ricardo…"
"Alright, then, Ricardo. I've got a question for you: do you know what the penalty is for spitting at a police officer? Let alone sexually assaulting one?"
"Policia?" Ricardo gasps, blinking rapidly, his dark eyes darting around the empty car. . "You're…policia?"
"Yeah, 'mano." I say. "I'm policia. And don't even try looking for your friend. He's gone. Se va. Desaparecido. So much for amistad, Ricardo. So much for la hermandad de la pandilla. It's just you and me now." I tell the sweat-soaked hispanic. "Just you, me, and this knife."
"But you're…you're policia…"He gasps. "You had a gun…you had a gun all that time-?"
Yeah. I had a gun. But it you're not worth wasting bullets over, bastard. "Yeah. I had a gun."
"But, but why-por que-"
"My turn to ask the questions," I remind him, prying that deadly blade out of his ulna, and wiping it clean against his pants.. "Besides, Ricky, you know how hard it is to fuck someone with a gun?"
I didn't think his eyes could go any wider. But they do.
"No." He pleads. "No-"
"I'll be honest with you." I say, without so much as a quiver in my voice. "I'm going to kill you. With this knife. And there's nothing you can do about that, Ricky. Nothing at all. There's only one thing left for me to decide, and that's do I let you die with your pathetic excuse for manhood or not." I hiss. "You're Latin Kings. You're a drug peddler. Killer. Rapist scum. Give me one reason, one good reason I shouldn't let you die like the girl you are-"
"I have friends, powerful friends, they find you," Good. At least I don't have to go out looking for them. Gotham City has many gutters, and one lone, rogue cop can't comb them all. Not a dying one. She wouldn't have the time.
"Please, please, tengo dinero, my wallet-"
"I don't want your money, Ricky. And neither does Gotham. You've killed. You've raped. Those were her sons and daughters…and now Gotham wants your blood."
He's whimpering now. Whimpering like that woman he cornered in front of her kids. How does it feel, Ricky. How does it feel when the tables have turned? "One more question, Ricky. One more and we're done." I interrupt his inane pleadings. "You ever fuck a woman with a knife? With this knife?"
He shakes his head, shakes his head, beads of sweat rolling down his olive skin. "No, no I never-"
"Swear, Ricky boy. Swear to God. And you'd best be telling the truth. Because both He and this knife will know if you're lying.."
He's scared shitless. His English so garbled I can't tell what he's saying. But I don't have to. He's a coward. A pathetic coward who's killed with a gun but never a knife, who talks big and beats up women for thrills. He's scum. Garbage. A human cockroach, not even worthy of the honor of the gang signs tattooed into his neck and forearms.
…and I believe him.
17:59 EST
Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805
Femoral arteries. He's nearly unconscious by the time the blade pierces through his second hamstring. He'll be dead before I finish wiping the prints off the hilt. I look up. Stand. No sight of his friend but both doors remain sealed. And there's bloodstains. Bloodstains from hurried handprints on the seats and rails. He came this way-
And there he is. Huddled on the floor between the last row and the wall. He doesn't plead. Doesn't scream. Just crosses himself, drops his blade between his feet, and waits. Good boy.
'What's your name?" I ask him.
"Hernán." He whispers, not able to look into my eyes. He's young. Much younger than I thought he was. Maybe it's just the fear. Maybe it's that he's small, small like my Angel. He looks too young to be a Killer-
But those tattoos don't lie. He's killed. Never raped but he's killed. Was he frightened, as frightened then as he is now? Forced to kill lest he be killed himself? Was it peer pressure, drugs, vengeance, an argument over a girl that led him to take a life? The protection of his family? He's young. So young. Not more than nineteen or twenty...
"You are Jim Connolly?" Dr. Harleen Quinzel asks. We're sitting in front of IA. My eighth time. His first. I am cold. Uncaring. They've been after my badge since Loeb re-instated me, and I am no longer weak enough to be fooled by their childish, lying morality. These are the people that Harvey Dent once worked with. The people who inspect and review GCPD officers…and let scum like Wuertz and Flass walk with their badges. Beaurocracy is corruption, and nowhere in Gotham is safe from it's grasp.
"Yeah-yes." The young man across from me amends. "I'm Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly." Under the table, his legs are bouncing. His skinny, boyish fingers toy with a bronze star laid on the stand.
"He's nervous." I say to Lawless.
"You're not?" He asks. It's not a rhetorical question. Every fatass beaurocrat in this room wants my badge, and they'll use any excuse to get it. Even discrediting a young officer, tossing him to psyche to ruin both of our careers…
I don't know Connolly. But he's Lawless' partner. A damn good Kid, Lawless once told me. And he's an officer. Comrade. Brother at arms. Damned if I'll let him go down because of me.
"Aren't you a little old to go by Jimmy?" Quintzel inquires kindly. The question game. Her favorite. I scowl darkly.
"I um, I don't know." The boy responds nervously. "Why?"
She throws him a sappy, sugary smile, meant to inspire confidence. It makes me want to hurl. "Well, given the choice to professionalize your name when you received your badge, you declined. I was just wondering if it was significant."
"It's his name, you twat." Lawless seethes. "Sorry, Paltron." He needn't bother apologizing. Three years in the military desensitized me to everything. I can curse and swear as well as any sailor, and I've heard worse. Said worse. I snort. "Don't bother."
"I don't know." Connolly answers in a very, very small voice. "It's just…my name."
Quinzel nods. Pursues her lips into an "O." Lowers her eyes and turns away, jotting notes on a black clipboard. Connolly looks alarmed. Lawless prepped him, prepped him for the stand, built up his defense…but Barbie here isn't asking about Miguel Ramirez. She's asking him about himself. Putting him on the spot. Performing a psyche evaluation while he's on the stand…and only when she's fed him to the sharks of second guessing and doubt will the committee begin their interrogation.
"Dr. Quinzel," Gordon interrupts wearily. "I as Commissioner fail to see the relevance of your line of questioning. We are here to discuss the events of March 2nd, and to allow the Board a review of both Detective Connolly and Paltron's actions. Can you explain yourself, or may the hearing proceed?"
"I believe the relevance will become self-explanatory, Commissioner." She counters expertly. "If I may proceed?" The grey, anonymous faces of the Board of Behavior and Corrections nod their approval.
"Jimmy, I want to ask you a few questions about your personal life. Where are your parents? I don't see them in the audience today."
Lawless mumbles something. I can't quite catch all of it, but it ends in Bitch. I smile. You picked the wrong fucking detective to mess with, I tell her silently. You're gonna be in parking tickets up to your ass when this hearing is over.
"My parents aren't here." Connolly says softly, dark eyes flickering to Lawless. "They're dead."
"Oh," Quinzel says with fake sympathy. "I'm so sorry to hear that." As if she didn't fucking know from his personnel file. "When did they pass away?"
"Thirteen years ago."
"Oh, my. You were so young. That must've been difficult. And where you taken in by relatives after their passing?"
"No." Connolly whispers.
"Then where did you go?" She prompts.
"Foster care."
"A foster home? Or a facility?"
"I was placed at Sisters of Mercy."
"Sisters of Mercy Convent?" She specifies. " And you were how old when you left?"
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen…that would have been seven years ago, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Then you were there the night of the fire?"
Connolly's voice is barely audible. "Yes."
And just as suddenly as she began, she stops. Changes directions. "Tell us about your parents. How did they die."
He blinks. "It…I was told it was a house fire."
"So tragic." She simpers. "And now tell me about your father. Was he a good man? Did he treat you and your mother well? He didn't ever beat you or her, did he?" Beside me, Lawless tenses.
Silence. "Jimmy?" She asks with that same insincerity. "Will you answer the question?"
And those eyes, those dark, expressive eyes go empty. Glaze. Jimmy Connolly is young. Naïve. And a terrible liar. "I don't remember." Shit. Fuck. Lawless and Nabokov. Chinatown…'he doesn't need to see this'…
"You don't remember? No?" She prompts. "Hmm…" That artificial sigh is like nails on a chalkboard. My heart is racing, adrenaline icing in my veins. I will not be complicit in this. Can't wait to take the stand. Can't wait to show this bullshitting bitch a taste of her own medicine-
"What about your girlfriend?" Quinzel asks. "Is she here today?"
"I don't have one."
"Sorry," She apologizes far too quickly. "I didn't catch that."
"I don't have a girlfriend."
"No?" Her pencilled eyebrows disappear into her hair. "What a surprise. You seem like such a nice boy. Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why don't you have a girlfriend?"
"I just don't, okay?"
"Jimmy, I understand the police force is an equal opportunity employer." Quinzel counters expertly. "Unlike the military, they will directly inquire and hire openly homosexual-"
"I'm NOT gay."
"No one was implying that you were!" Quinzel chides, batting her eye lashes. "But you're awfully defensive, Jimmy. Would you consider yourself a homophobe?"
"No." He says forcefully.
"But you are, in fact, a devout Catholic, aren't you?" She asks after rustling through her notes.
"I read the Bible." Connolly admits slowly. "But I don't like what you're implying. Just because I believe in God doesn't make me a homophobe. And I don't think God hates anyone."
"No one's implying that, Jimmy." Lying bitch.
"Then why are you asking me?" Good boy, Lawless whispers.
"You don't like it when people ask you questions, do you, Jimmy." Quinzel states, dropping the warm facade. She's got a strong mind. A shrewd, calculating mess of gears and wheels that turns in her head. She's not always right, but she's insistent, Persuasive. Strong. This bitch chews up Arkham Inmates and eats their minds for dinner. Connolly is young. Naïve. Awkward and uncomfortable, nervous and worried. He doesn't stand a chance. "But it's my job to ask questions. To ask you questions. Just like it's your job to serve and protect-or was."
"Dr. Quinzel, Detective Connolly is an employee of the Gotham City branch of the Fraternal order of Police." Jim Gordon reminds her tiredly. "He is here for an investigation of his conduct on March 2nd, but has not been suspended of his duties in any way."
"My apologies, Commissioner." She simpers. "You said you 'just don't' have a girlfriend, Jimmy. But what does that mean?"
"It means I just don't."
"And why is that? Explain yourself."
Same reason you don't have husband, I snarl. Because you're too fucking busy labeling criminals insane and cops criminals to have time for a personal life, bitch. But Connolly is silent. Looks anywhere but her, eyes drawn again to Lawless. "It's a lot of responsibility." He finally mumbles.
"Indeed. And have you ever had a girlfriend."
"I've been on a few dates." Connolly finally admits. "But I wouldn't call any of them my girlfriend."
"Let me clarify, Jimmy. Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a woman?"
Connolly's face goes from sickening white to scarlet in seconds. I blink in surprise. Lawless' partner, a fucking virgin-?
"I'll take that as a resounding no." I whisper to Lawless. Anywhere else there'd be laughter. Guffaws. Someone would slap his back, offer to buy him a round, set him up…but not here. Here it's just another objective, unbiased, unemotive line of questioning of endless facts that make a whole. And that dead-pan silence, that unwavering, unblinking solemnity in the face of absolute innocence sends chills down my spine.
"And yet phone records in the weeks before and after the incident indicate repeated calling between you and Detective Anna Ramirez. Are you saying to the court that these were not indicative of a sexual relationship?"
"Her mom was sick." The boy interjects hotly. "I brought her kids to the station so she could take them to school-"
"Were you aware, then, of problems with Detective Ramirez' marriage? Domestic Abuse? There were children involved, by federal law you are required to report suspicious circumstances to the proper authorities."
"I knew they were having trouble." He bleats. "But I didn't know he was hurting her-"
"You didn't know? And what would you have done if you did?"
"What?"
"You, Jimmy Connolly, on March 2nd, instigated a physical altercation with Miguel Ramirez in a GCPD parking lot that was recorded via security video-"
"He was hurting her." Lawless' partner objects hotly.
"Yes, I see." Quinzel purrs. "But what-hypothetically-would you have done were Anna Ramirez to have confided this to you elsewhere?"
"I would've reported him."
"No, Jimmy." She chides, shaking her head, mother-like. "I don't think you would have. You see, on March 2nd, you never even drew your gun."
She plays the tape. Tiny, black and white figures a man and a woman blows to the face the woman is falling, falling back against the squad car arms upraised something dark a uniform a uniformed officer sprints across the parking lot intervenes steps between defends grabs hands wrists thrown off thrown to the ground springs up again punched in the stomach, groin, falls-
Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Pause. "Not once." Quinzel emphasizes. "Not once. And Miguel disarmed you and pulled your personal issue firearm on Anna Ramirez. That's why you're here today. That's why Internal Affairs is investigating this event. But I'm here to help you. I'm not interested in protocol, Jimmy. I'm a doctor of psychology. I'm interested in why you did what you did. And I'm telling you, you're lying, Jimmy."
She replays the tape. The room is silent.
"You didn't think, Jimmy. Not once. You didn't act, you reacted. You could have stopped him, stopped him from hurting her just like Detective Paltron but you didn't." Don't you dare don't you dare bring me into this, bitch. This is Connolly's case. Connolly's choice. Two good people can come to different conclusions with the same logic. He choose to shield Anna. I choose to blow the motherfucker to hell. One crisis. Two solutions. Equally valid.
"See, if Anna Ramirez had told you she was being beaten, I think you would have killed him. You would have gotten violent. Without thinking. It would have been instinct, Jimmy. Protecting a friend. A woman. A mother. And who could blame you," She says softly. "No one would blame you."
"I'm not a killer." The boy says hotly. "And I'm not a product-!"
"Oh, so you're familiar with the term, are you? Interesting." Quinzel sneers as she paces. " And you're so defensive, too. Why? Why, Jimmy Connolly, do you care so much, so passionately, that you not be known as a product?"
"Because everyone has the right to choose." He whispers. "Because it's our choices, not our circumstances that define us for who we are."
Good Kid, Lawless called him. Damn good Kid. It's no fucking wonder Wayne Enterprises made him the poster child for Stop the Violence.
"No?" Quinzel asks, feigning surprise. "You were raised by women, Jimmy. Raised by your mother, who died when you were young. Your mother who-as you claim-you can't remember if she was beaten or not. Then you were raised by women in a convent who took her place and died. Just. Like. Her. They left you. Left you behind, all alone. A lot of children would have felt abandoned. Betrayed. They would have gotten angry. Hated women for the rest of their lives. Raped them. Abused them. But you didn't, Jimmy. You're unique.
"You felt like you failed, Jimmy. Thought instead of there being something wrong with the world there must be something wrong with you. Every moment of every day you were alone you felt it was your fault. That you deserved it. That if you had been stranger or braver you could have saved them. You thought you should have protected them…but you were only a child, there was nothing you could do.
"And then the only other woman you knew, your foster-sister, Maggie Ky-"
"Shut up." Connolly springs to his feet, wet face contorted. "You SHUT UP-!"
Maggie Kyle. Raped five years ago November. I was never in SVU but that doesn't mean I never saw the pictures. I've gone pale. Shaking. Didn't realize my fingernails were raking splinters out of the counter in front of me. I want to kill her. Kill Quinzel. Irrational, impulsive, reflexive.
…and now I know why.
Harleen Quinzel, you're a rapist. You force people to face the worst against their will. You enjoy power. Power and control. Even now the bitch's piggish eyes are gloating and her breasts are rising and falling in a lusty pant. She enjoys this. Enjoys overpowering the powerful. Knows she'd never win a physical fight so she forces people to play on her terms. You're going down, Cunt. If things go down when I take the stand, I'll beat the shit out of you. Just for kicks. If I'm going to be fired-if Connolly and I are going to be fired-then I'll at least make sure we deserve it. And she's labeled me unstable so many times, there's not a thing they'll do to punish me. Aggression remediation. Counseling. Community Service. But I'd never see the inside of a cell, not even Arkham…
"You're avoiding the question, Jimmy! You're denying what you know to be true, deep down inside. Your mother was beaten. Abused. Your sister, too!"
"You shut up about my sister-!"
"All the women in your life were hurt, hurt so bad that you've avoided sexual contact because you were raised with that, raised with fear and guilt of not being able to help them, raised in a convent with such a twisted view of manhood you can't imagine sexual intimacy without guilt and self-incrimination-!"
"You don't even know Maggie Kyle! She's just a story to you-!"
"And when Anna Ramirez was attacked it was like being there again!" Leland cuts across him. " It was like being there but this time you were old enough, you were strong enough to stop it. You didn't think, you didn't rationalize, you simply responded, responded as anyone would given your circumstances-"
"That's not true." But it sounds like truth. Sounds like an infallible explanation, unadulterable reason. I hate psychology, but even my snide spirit is momentarily quelled. Is that all we are? All any one of us is? A bio-statistical product of our genes and environment-?
"You're wrong." He says in a quaking voice. "You think you know what it's like. You think you know me, but you don't. Yeah, you've seen pictures. You've read case files. Maybe counseled people under similar circumstances. But have you ever been there, Dr. Quinzel? You ever hold your sister's hand for three and a half weeks in ICU, praying for her to wake up and half hoping to God she never does? Do you know what it's like to see the sister you love wake up, finally wake up and be so terrified of men that you can't even touch her to comfort her, can't even go into her room to hold her hand just cause you're a guy? No. No, you don't. You're not a Man, so you can't possibly know what it means to fail." He chokes.
"You don't know my mom or my sister. They're just stories to you. Facts. Figures. Not people. Has suffering affected me? Yes. Has it changed me? Yes. Does it influence my decisions? Every day." His voice breaks. "Every single day. But by those same standards if it didn't I'd be a sociopath to ignore it, and denying it would make me a liar.
"You can't make me both a product and a victim, Dr. Quinzel. It's contradictory. So decide which one it is and let's get this tribunal over cause I'm sick of this psychoanalysis, and I'm damned sure sick of you. "
"Detective Connolly!" The tribunal cuts in, affronted.
"I'm on the stand today about Miguel and Anna Ramirez. I'm not up for review about my mother or Maggie Kyle!" Connolly challenges with an angry sob.
"He's right." Jim Gordon finally attests. "Detective Connolly is only here for review of his actions on March 2nd, not his life story. Dr. Quinzel, the tribunal asks again that you stick with the matter at hand."
"Yes, Commissioner." She flushes. "I merely wished to demonstrate that Detective Connolly, as the victim of domestic abu-"
"Wrong again." Connolly corrects. "I believe the term our department uses is survivor. Not victim. Not product. Survivor. As department-appointed psychologist, you might want to stay current on counseling terminology and procedures."
"Detective Connolly, you will show respect for the Tribunal and it's appointed members!" The Tribunal shouts. Lawless fails to stifle a grin. Gordon heaves a sigh.
"Perhaps the Tribunal should hire culturally competent psychologists and request them to stick to relevant topics." Connolly suggests shakily. "It was my dad who hit my mom, and an unidentified attacker who, who raped my sister. Not me. And I think talking about them here is irrelevant and highly offensive." His voice is much calmer than his body language suggests. He is ghastly, ghastly pale and his clenched fingers are shaking around that badge in grief and rage. Lawless bows his head.
"Well!" Quinzel says hawkishly, loss of prestige and control discomfiting her. "As you're not a trained and court-appointed psychologist, I don't think you're quite qualified to decide what topics are irrelevant or not, are you, Jimmy?"
"You're correct, Dr. Quinzel," Gordon reminds her mildly. "Those decisions are made by the Head of the Review Board-the Police Commissioner- who believes this line or questioning and thought process have reached their full potential."
"Indeed." She sniffs. "Then perhaps as you have decided you no longer need my assistance you'd like to continue questioning the boy yourself, Commissioner." There is another long, audible sigh from Gordon's microphone as she takes an exaggeratedly pristine swallow of water. "By all means, Commissioner," Quinzel smiles with that same sugary insincerity. "Do continue."
"Detective Connolly, do you believe your upbringing affected your actions in any way on March 2nd?" Gordon asks wearily.
"Yes." Connolly whispers, still toying with that badge. "But I think anyone's past always affects and influences their decisions. But that doesn't mean they can't make choices."
"Then perhaps you could elaborate on your thought process." That blonde bimbo butts in again. Arrogant bitch. She can't keep out of this, can't resist the last word…
But Connolly is a paladin. So small. Weak. Broken. But he stands up to her, and in that brokenness reveals a depth of faith and character that exposes every one of her faults and flaws, destroys her arguments with unwavering strength. And in that moment I hate him. Hate him for what he is: young. Innocent. Untainted, with no disillusions. The world is a harsh place, and though he knows it bitterly he has risen above. So young. So innocent. So….whole.
"I saw Miguel. I saw Miguel hit Anna, and I had to protect her. Had to stop him. And I did-" His dark eyes bore into hers " 'what anyone-regardless of their circumstances-would do.' I stopped him. I chose to stop him. I got between them. I didn't want to hurt anyone. Didn't want to kill him. I could've shot him but I didn't. I…I just wanted him to stop hurting her. I didn't want her to get h-hurt...
"So I got between them." Connolly pleads to Gordon with tears streaming down his pale face. "So he couldn't hurt Anna anymore. He could only hurt me. But he was just...he was, was stronger than I was, and I c-couldn't help her..."
…but mostly I hate him for what he is not. What he could almost be, almost is…but isn't. Jimmy Connolly, you are not my Angel. And every time I am disappointed it's though I must love him less and less…
"That's what I was thinking." His quavering voice interrupts my thoughts. "How I acted, Dr. Quinzel. How I acted. And for your information, I haven't had sex yet because I think premarital sex is wrong. So are we done now, or do you have any more insults for me, my family or my religion?"
"Detective Connolly, you will refrain from attacking the doctor!" The IA board snaps.
"Yeah. Fine. Okay." The young man says bitterly, laying down the bronze star he hasn't ceased to fidget with the entire hearing. Begrudgingly, my heart goes out to him. "I took an oath. To Serve and Protect. And that's what I did. I protected her. Protected Anna. Fire me if you want to, but you don't treat women like that." Jimmy Connolly whispers, as twin tears drip burning down his face from his red-rimmed eyes. "Regardless of, of your past or, or, whatever…You just don't treat women like that."
Hernán has never raped. Never taken advantage of a woman…But he stood back. Stood back and jeered his companion on. He is young, yes, but his youth does not excuse him. "You have a mother, Hernán?" I finally ask.
"Si."
"What's her name?"
"Rosaria. You going to kill my mamá , too?"
"No." I say gently, flicking the safety off. "I'm going to promise that Rosaria will find you. She'll say prayers over you. Cry. Give you a decent burial. Remember you as the little boy you once were." Why these comforting words. Why find peace in promising him a better burial than he deserves?
Gentle pressure. Sudden jolt. Three round burst to the skull. It's merciful, quick, and over. He never felt a thing.
I ball my shirtsleeve around my palm. Kneel. Close those dark eyes. And as the subway glides to a pristine stop, I slide the cell phone from his pocket and dial 911. I step out onto the platform, the operator's voice audible only for a second.
The doors close. The tram rambles on. I climb the stairs to the sunlight above, dark clothes hiding the bloodstains and fury. Traffic thunders by. I board a city bus.
...There are sirens in the distance.
AN: For those of you wondering, yes, I finally saw The Brave One. Thanks to all of you who have recommended the film! But no, I don't think Paltron should look anything like Jodi Foster, wonderful actress though she is.