A/N: Here's the first chapter of my last Scandal fanfic. I wanted to get it out before 2023 ended. Now, back to bed to nurse a horrible cold. Happy New Year!
Chapter 1. My Life
Friday
Who the hell wants to celebrate getting old? Birthday parties are for children, not a grown man.
Superintendent Fitzgerald Grant scowls as he pores over the latest monthly report on overtime pay for his department. Police Commissioner John Freeley is demanding that all superintendents scrutinize and approve or reject requests for overtime. The Boston Globe is running an investigative report on overtime pay fraud in the Boston Police Department, and Freeley wants to get a handle on the allegations before the next mayoral election.
While officers are eligible to earn overtime pay of one-and-a-half- times their regular hourly pay rate for overtime assignments, the Globe is alleging that officers routinely depart overtime shifts two or more hours early but submit false and fraudulent overtime slips claiming to have worked the entirety of each shift. The alleged overtime pay scheme has cost the citizens of Boston millions of dollars.
Fitz sighs, his department is over budget again on overtime. He tosses the ink pen on the desk when he hears the familiar knock on the office door.
"Come in, Cyrus," Fitz calls out, leaning back in the chair.
"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt. Before I left for the weekend I wanted to remind you of your interview on Monday morning with that historian. Mrs. Handley put it on your calendar a few months ago," Cyrus says, motioning his head in the direction of the laptop that is angled on the pristine desk.
With eyebrows bunched, Fitz leans forward in his chair and scrolls through the online calendar. Cyrus rolls his eyes. The superintendent is a supremely conscientious man. He is aware of every appointment on his schedule through the end of the year and probably into the next year as well.
"I don't have time for this shit, Cy," Fitz finally says, still staring angrily at the computer screen.
"You'll make time for it, sir. This is not a request — this is an order. You don't have a choice in the matter."
With eyebrows bunched tight, Fitz looks up from the screen and glares at Cyrus, who is slowly losing his patience with the superintendent.
"Your boss, and your boss' boss, that would be the mayor of this fine city, have arranged for this meeting. I know you hate doing interviews, but sir, if you want to have any chance at becoming the next police commissioner, you have to start doing the things you don't like to do."
"Police commissioner isn't an elected position, Cy. You know that. I don't have to pander," Fitz says in a dismissive tone.
"But the mayor does … sir," Cyrus says, shifting his body from side to side, waiting patiently for the man to make his next move.
Frustration written over his face, Fitz reaches for the tin of Altoid mints, leans back in the chair, and puts one leg over the other. He flicks open the lid with his thumb and pops one of the powerful mints into his mouth.
"If Mayor Keegan wants to have any hope of getting re-elected, he's going to need the Black — African-American — hell, I don't know what to call them these days," Cyrus says, waving his hand in the air. "He's going to need their votes. They have a vested interest in who Boston's next police commissioner is going to be. With all due respect, sir, you are not at the top of their list. We both know why."
Fitz glares at Cyrus with icy, blue eyes. Cyrus is being a smart-ass again. Today of all days he is not in the mood for BPD's communications director smart aleck quips. Trying to control his anger, he reaches for the ink pen on the blotter and slowly and continuously presses the plunger. Frank DiMaggio taught him years ago that only weak men show their anger.
"Watch it, Cyrus. You're being very loose with your innuendos." Cyrus ignores the warning lights of the oncoming train and charges straight ahead, continuing to be a smart-ass.
"Keegan made a commitment to the good Reverend Norcross. Have you even heard of Reverend Norcross? He's only the pastor of the largest Black church in all of Boston."
"I know who he is," Fitz says tightly, his thumb pressing down hard on the ink pen's plunger.
"Good — because I wasn't sure … him being Black and Baptist. Anyway, Mayor Keegan owes Norcross a big, big favor. The reverend supported him in the last election. He's hoping for that same support this time around."
"Fuck. What the hell does this historian want? Why does he want to interview me?" Fitz growls.
"She. The historian is a she, sir." Fitz rolls his eyes and throws the ink pen on the desk.
"Why is she coming here? What does she want?"
"Sir, we discussed this months ago. But if I must reiterate, she's researching the Boston Police Department's relationship with the minority communities," Cyrus says, punctuating communities with air quotes.
"Has she ever worked in law enforcement? Or is she just another egghead who thinks she knows more about policing than the people who actually deal with the shit in the streets every day?"
"Sir, you need to calm down. All I know is she's some academic type — somewhat renowned in academic literary circles. She's written a couple books on policing in this great country. Nothing I've ever read, of course.
"She's connected to Reverend Norcross. I don't know the connection and frankly I don't care to know. The mayor wants her to have full access. That means you and the other superintendents will have to meet with her – regularly – as long as she is here."
"And how long is that?"
"I hear about nine months."
"Pfft," Fitz scoffs. "Why does she need to be here for so long?"
"Nothing to worry about, sir. I'll make sure she doesn't consume too much of your time."
"You better. Thirty minutes on Monday and not a fuckin' minute longer. I don't care what the mayor says or who she's friends with," Fitz says, leaning forward and carefully placing the tin of mints back in the left-hand corner of the desk blotter.
"Of course. We all know how much you covet your schedule. I'll have her out of your hair and send her packing, pronto, back to that god-forsaken place called New York City long before nine months."
Anxious to get to his date with his new boyfriend, Cyrus strides gleefully toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turns back with a smile on his face that has nothing to do with Fitz.
"By the way, sir, I hope you have an enjoyable birthday this weekend. It'll put you in a better mood for Monday."
Sunday
The Grants look like the picture-perfect family as they enter St. Gregory's, their parish church. They are lifelong members. Christenings, weddings, and Funeral Mass have all been held at the church for family and friends. Fitz and his older brother Matthew were both altar boys at St. Gregory's.
After receiving the Communion and Blessing, the Grants walk up the aisle to their pew. Matthew Grant, waves to him excitedly, giving him the thumbs up signal. Fitz' heart sinks to his stomach when he sees his brother. Matty has lost more weight since he saw him a few months ago at the last party. Now he looks gaunt. Tears burn the back of his eyes, thinking there isn't a damn thing to celebrate.
With his wife Mellie sitting to his right, his daughter Karen sitting to his left, and his son Jerry sitting next to his mother, Fitz watches Dan O'Brien shuffle slump-shouldered toward the altar to receive the Communion and Blessing. The man looks like he has aged ten years although just two years have passed since his wife left with the children and moved to Florida to live with her parents. But the whispers persist. Having an affair with your son's teacher is unforgivable.
"Why does he still come here every Sunday? Has he no shame?" Mellie leans over and whispers in her husband's ear.
"If the Lord has forgiven him, why can't you?" Fitz says, staring straight ahead as Dan slowly drags his bent body back up the aisle to his seat.
"Are you ready for your birthday party?" Mellie continues in a hushed tone. Fitz replies in a matching tone.
"I told you I didn't want a party."
"Stop being selfish. The party isn't about you."
He looks at his wife with surprise in his eyes.
"Isn't this my life?"
"Your brother wanted to do this for you. This may be the last time he can. Get onboard, Fitz," Mellie says, her voice now tight with annoyance.
XXX
Fitz slowly drives down his brother's street, scanning both sides looking for a parking spot. The street is similar to his and others in the South End. Matty and his wife Colleen moved to the little red Cape Cod-style home shortly after they were married. They loved the old neighborhood and never wanted to live anywhere else. Several of the houses are beginning to show their age. Some families have been able to maintain their property better than others.
Karen and Jerry look at each other when their father pulls into a parking spot three doors down the street from their uncle's house. Last night they agreed to stage a revolt, protest going to their uncle's house. As usual, Karen is the designated mouthpiece and her younger brother is her backup.
"Why do we always have to come here? We should do something fun for your birthday, Dad. Do something that makes you happy. Let's go to DiMaggio's. You like their tiramisu," Karen says from the backseat of the SUV.
"Your Uncle Matty has gone to a lot of trouble planning this party for your father," their mother says as she looks straight ahead out of the windshield.
"I hate coming here. We hate coming here," Karen says, elbowing her brother in his ribs to back her up.
Mellie turns around in her seat and is met with her daughter's defiant stare. She has her father's eyes which annoys Mellie more.
"Since when?" Mellie says in a tone of surprise.
"Since we got old enough to know those things that Uncle Matty and the others say are racist and mean," Jerry blurts out. He flashes his sister a smile that says I'm doing my part. Mellie gasps and looks over at Fitz, her eyes silently saying, you handle this. Fitz takes his wife's cue.
"Your uncle is very ill. We have to be patient with him," Fitz says, turning off the car.
Karen doesn't relent. "Stop making excuses for him, Dad. He was like that before he got sick. He says bad things about Blacks, Jews, Hispanics, and gays. He hates everybody who isn't like him. They all do, and you and Mom go along with it. You don't say anything."
"Yeah," Jerry chimes in again.
"We must be respectful when we're in someone else's home," Mellie says calmly.
Fitz unbuckles his seatbelt, turns around in his seat, and looks back at his children. He knows his daughter is the mastermind of the plot. Since she was a little girl, Karen has been obstinate and outspoken. But he is not in the mood to debate with two teenagers today; he doesn't even want the damn party.
"Those people in that house are our family and friends. They are good and decent people."
"When has prejudice ever respected decency?" Jerry says, and his father looks at him with surprise in his eyes. Jerry never speaks up about anything. He wonders if Karen gave him that line to say.
"Listen, just because your mother and I don't correct your uncle it doesn't mean we have the same beliefs. We always make allowances for family and friends. Now get out of the car - both of you."
XXX
Matthew Grant is a shell of the six-foot tall, 245-pound police detective who rightly earned his street name, The Hammer. Detective Grant was either hated or beloved, depending on whom you asked. After decades of service and years of complaints for abusing certain citizens, two years ago he was fired from the police department for brutalizing a twenty-two-year-old Black male. The Black clergy, the NAACP, and a slew of community groups protested the beating and called for the detective to be fired.
After weeks of heated negotiations with Mayor Keegan and Police Commissioner Freeley and members of the Black community, the Patrolman's Union was able to save the detective's pension but could not save his job. It was time for Detective Grant to go. His reign of terror needed to end. The family of the beaten teenager filed a lawsuit against the city and received a two-million-dollar settlement.
Six months after being fired from the police department, Matty was diagnosed with lung cancer. He never smoked a cigarette a day in his life.
Matty swings open the door, one hand curled around the doorknob for support, the other hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Samuel Adams beer. His broad grin does nothing to mask his physical appearance.
"It's the man of the hour. Happy Birthday, Fitzy," Matty roars weakly. The cancer has stolen his booming voice among other things.
"This wasn't necessary," Fitz says, hugging his frail brother, but the ever-present oxygen bag that's strapped on his shoulder gets in the way. Fitz looks at the bag and Matty strokes it lovingly.
"Don't let this thing fool you, she's just my new girlfriend. Mellie, you're looking gorgeous as usual," pecking his sister-in-law on the cheek.
"Always the charmer, Matty," she says, returning the peck to her brother-in-law's sunken cheek.
"Go right on in, Mels. The ladies are in the kitchen preparing the food." Matty says, turning his attention to his sour-faced niece and nephew. He spread his arms wide. "My lovely niece and nephew, come give your uncle a hug."
Fitz shoots his children a warning look and Karen and Jerry respond to their uncle with a lackluster greeting.
"Hi, Uncle Matty," they both say in unison.
"The rest of the kids are upstairs in Patrick's room. Go right on up," Matty says, stepping aside as Karen and Jerry run past him and up the stairs.
"Matty, how are you feeling today? I mean really feeling," Fitz asks with concern in his eyes.
"I know I look like shit, but I'm actually feeling pretty good," he lies easily. "The doctors say the treatments are working. Stop in the kitchen and say hello to the ladies then come out back - all the guys are out there."
Fitz nods as he watches his brother trundle up the short hallway like someone who has just completed the Boston Marathon.
XXX
Fitz feels like he has walked into his own kitchen: small and outdated. The wood cabinets are original to the house. The walls have been painted various colors over the years; now they are yellow. The appliances and countertops should have been replaced years ago. Everything seems to be clinging to the past.
Fitz glances around at the women who are still dressed in their church clothes. Their loud voices and laughter mean they have been drinking, some more than others. Most of them are married to police officers: Patti Shaughnessy is married to Mike, Maeve Taylor is married to Bobby Taylor, then there's Mellie and his sister-in-law Colleen. Liz MacNamara is there, too, standing at the counter next to the stove topping off her highball with more gin. He cannot remember if Mellie said whether Liz has divorced husband number three or is planning to divorce the man. The poor sap's money must be running out.
"Happy Birthday," the ladies shout in unison when Fitz enters the kitchen. Liz whips around glassy-eyed and smiles at Fitz.
"Hello, ladies. Colleen, thank you for doing all of this. It wasn't necessary," Fitz says, bending to kiss his sister-in-law on the cheek.
"Don't mention it. Besides, your brother wouldn't have it any other way," Colleen says.
"Do I get one of those?" Liz says as she staggers over and plants a sloppy wet kiss on Fitz' cheek. Colleen looks over at a seemingly unbothered Mellie, thinking if Liz ever behaved that way with her Matty, before he was sick that is, she would slap the woman's face hard.
"So, Fitzgerald, are you ready to sit in the police commissioner's chair? The Grants served this city honorably. I don't care what anybody says. It's yours. You deserve it," she sputters.
"It's a long process, Liz," Fitz says, pulling a handkerchief from the inside jacket pocket and dabbing his cheek. He hates when women drink too much.
"Well, Mayor Keegan better not try to sneak that Black in that seat. We won't have it. Right ladies?" Liz says, taking another sip of the gin and tonic.
The wheezing and hacking cough flowing from the backyard interrupts Liz' diatribe. Fitz looks over at his sister-in-law and sees the dark circles under her eyes that makeup can no longer conceal. Colleen nods her head, signaling him to go check on his brother.
"I'm going out back with the guys. Enjoy yourselves, ladies," he says, pecking Mellie on the cheek before heading to the backyard.
"Fitzgerald has come a long way," Liz says. "You all remember how mean he got when Big Jerry didn't let him get on that plane to California? That's all he talked about our entire senior year — how he was going to college in California — UCLA I think."
"USC," Mellie says softly, staring down at her lap.
"He used to go on and on about how he was going to grow his hair long when he got out there, protest injustices, and change the world. He said he was going to become a civil rights attorney. Can you imagine — a Grant becoming a civil rights attorney? Ha.
"Talking about crushing a dream," Liz says, shaking her head as the memory resurfaces in real time. "Big Jerry demanded Fitzgerald do — for whatever reason — what Matty couldn't do. One of his sons had to one day sit in the police commissioner's seat."
"That's enough, Liz," Colleen snaps at her inebriated guest. "Why are you dredging up ancient history?"
"Oops," Liz says, pressing an index finger to her pink lips. "I forgot, that's another thing we don't talk about at these little soirees," swaying from side to side.
"Back then, all the girls in the neighborhood were head-over-heels for Fitzgerald, including me. Big Jerry would never let the likes of me date one of his precious sons. But Mellie here — well, Big Jerry thought quiet, shy Melody Cunningham was the perfect girl for Fitzgerald.
"Everybody was shocked when Big Jerry announced that Fitzgerald and Melody here were going to be betrothed. Weren't we all shocked?" Liz slurs as she looks around at the somber faces. "No one even knew they were dating."
"I said that's enough!" Colleen demands, but Liz waves a limp hand in Colleen's direction and the gin and tonic continue retelling the story no one has talked about in years. Wobbling on her heels, Liz leans in close to Mellie and holds up two fingers.
"I just got one more thing to say, Mels. You better give Fitzgerald a really, really, really good birthday present tonight. You know what I mean?" winking one of her bloodshot eyes.
"Liz, you've never had a filter," Mellie trills, turning her head away from the woman's hot breath.
"If Big Jerry would've given him to me, I'd be jumping his bones every night," Liz slurs.
"Is that why your three husbands left? Too much bones jumping?" Patti finally chimes in from her seat at the wooden table. The other women laugh out loud.
"I cant't help if those jerks couldn't handle all of this woman." Liz says, throwing her hands in the air as she does a little shimmy dance around the kitchen. "You ladies don't know how to handle a man. You gotta treat 'em right in the bedroom — not just the kitchen."
XXX
The backyard patio is decorated for his birthday: a huge white banner sprinkled with colorful confetti that reads Happy Birthday, Fitz hangs from the cyclone fence. A metal folding table covered with a white paper tablecloth holds bottles of liquor, red plastic cups, and a bouquet of balloons. Green streamers left over from the St. Patrick's Day party are draped around the backs of chairs. Fitz sighs, plasters on a big smile, then steps into the celebration that's well underway.
"Look who survived another year," Thomas Dougherty, better known as Tommy Doc, yells when he sees Fitz walk onto the patio. A sworn bachelor, Tommy Doc is a big, burly captain at the South End precinct. He and Fitz have been friends since the first day of elementary school.
"I see you also survived Liz' birthday wishes," Tommy Docsays, laughing boisterously at the remnants of pink lipstick on Fitz' cheek. Fitz pulls the handkerchief from his pants pocket and wipes his cheek again.
"You gave up watching a hockey game to come to this shindig? I'm honored. How are you? It's been a while," Fitz says, giving his old friend a proper man hug.
"I wouldn't be anywhere else. Besides, I gotta suck up to our next commissioner — don't I? Sorry, Mike. No offense, bro."
"None taken," Michael Shaughnessy says. Equal in stature to Tommy Doc and in rank to Fitz, Michael Shaughnessy is one of the two other superintendents who is in contention for the police commissioner's job. Everyone, including Mike, knows he doesn't have a chance of getting the job.
"Thanks for coming, Mike," Fitz says, shaking his competitor's hand.
"Anytime, Fitz," Mike says with a genuine smile.
"Let's get together sometime for a Celtics game," Tommy says to Fitz.
"You know where to find me," Fitz says.
"Enough of the love fest," Matty interrupts. He has never liked Tommy Dougherty. He always thought the roughneck had too much influence over Fitz when they were kids.
"Still jealous, huh, Matty?" Tommy says, and the two men glare at each other. Tommy was never intimidated by Matty Grant's bullish behavior, even when the man was healthy.
"Happy Birthday, Superintendent Grant," a young man who Fitz does not recognize says with a bright smile and an eager-to-please tone. "My name is Brendan McDevitt, sir. I just graduated from the Academy - two weeks ago."
"And this is how you choose to spend your day off? Who forced you to show up here with us old guys?" Fitz says, accepting the rookie's handshake.
"It's a pleasure to be here, sir. I'm looking forward to working for you when you're commissioner."
"We gotta teach the young ones what real policing is all about — not that crap they teach at the Academy," Matty says, draping an arm around Brendan's neck and chugging the last of his Samuel Adams beer.
XXX
All of Liz' talk earlier about kitchens and bedrooms has Mellie more anxious tonight than usual. With eyes shut tight, she bites down hard on her bottom lip, not quite breaking the soft flesh, praying to her God for it to be over. But he's been drinking tonight, so he can go on forever.
She pounds her fist on his back, trying to get him to stop, but he thrusts deeper and faster until his body stiffens. A tear falls from the corner of her eye when she feels him dripping inside her.
"You're supposed to stop. You know you're supposed to stop," she screams angrily as he rolls off her.
"I'm tired of stopping," he growls bitterly as his wife runs to the bathroom to shower him out of her.
Fitz stares up at the ceiling thinking having sex with his wife, even just a few times a year, should not be this hard. He closes his eyes and reflects on how they got to this place in their marriage.
XXX
Swinging the brown paper bag filled with all the confectionery goodies from her childhood, Olivia Pope moves unhurriedly across the concrete parking lot of the convenience store toward her MINI Cooper. She climbs into the hybrid vehicle and tosses the bag of candy and her messenger bag purse onto the passenger seat. Now she is ready for the four-hour drive from New York City to Boston, Massachusetts.
As the soundtrack of her life blasts through the speakers, Olivia sings off key, at the top of her lungs, to Mary J. Blige's My Life. As she navigates the tiny car up Interstate 80, the incoming call interrupts her private party.
"Good afternoon, Abigail. You're interrupting my party," she says in a sing-song voice.
"Why are you leaving so late? It'll be dark by the time you get there."
Olivia sighs softly and rolls her eyes. She loves her best friend like a sister, but sometimes Abby can be such a mother hen.
"Reverend Norcross wanted me to attend church service this morning. You know how I feel about that."
"So, you're lying to the pastor who helped you get all those interviews? Nice, Liv."
"You'll have to come up for a visit. I'll be there for nine whole months."
"You certainly picked the worst time of the year to go to Boston. In a few months it'll be colder up there than in New York."
"It doesn't matter. I'll be working most of the time. The Boston Police Department is the oldest municipal police department in the country. That's a lot of history — not all good."
"Boston has the reputation as one of the most racist cities in the nation. The whole fight against busing in the 1970s will never be forgotten. Mobs of white parents threw rocks at Black kids who were bussed to white schools. How awful is that? Abby says.
"This nation has a lot to atone for," Olivia says in a solemn tone.
"Do you have your candy bag?"
"It's called a grab bag," Olivia says, sticking her hand inside the paper bag and feeling around for her favorite treat.
"Candy bag - grab bag – it's all the same. What time do you arrive in Bean Town?"
"Around nine o' clock," Olivia says, quickly glancing at the clock on the dashboard as she uses her teeth to untwist the wrapper from the bite-sized Tootsie Roll.
"What time is your first interview in the morning?"
"Nine-thirty."
"Text me when you get settled - but not too late. David is coming over tonight."
"Sounds like you two are getting pretty serious," Olivia says in a playful tone.
"How would you know what a serious relationship looks like?"
"My value as a woman isn't defined by my marital status or romantic relationship status," Olivia says, poking out her tongue.
"How long did you practice that line?"
"Good-bye, Ms. Whelan."
Olivia quickly disconnects the call and My Life resumes blaring through the speakers.