March 16, 1993
There is only one man on her new task force she doesn't like. Most of them are competent agents who seemingly respect her position as a lead analyst, which she was not expecting with the slight leadership role. Her first leadership role.
Agent Craig Sterling is cocky and has a reputation for being the best. While she doesn't disagree about his skills, he may be the biggest misogynist she's ever met. She does know that the rest of the team would disagree with her assessment—they're all men, too. They seem to respect him. She hasn't shared her thoughts with anyone, not even Henry. She wants to figure this out on her own. And she never wants to be accused of hating men—not only would that be untrue, but even the hint of it could wreck the respect she's gaining.
So, she keeps her mouth shut. She encourages teamwork and the open exchange of ideas. She creates a positive work environment—today including a lunch she paid for out of pocket and March Madness on TV. It's not the most efficient way to spend their time, but she figures it doesn't hurt to boost morale for an hour-and-a-half extended lunch.
"It isn't really rape if you speak different languages. I mean, how is the man supposed to know what she is saying? Those could be tears of joy and screams of pleasure."
Her head snaps up from her salad at the joke and its following laughter. She could've sworn they were all talking about a bad call the ref made during the last game, but no—they're joking about rape.
Her mouth drops open slightly, and she's sure her face is bright red.
"Excuse me?" She says before she can stop herself. Seven men stare back at her with falling smiles—her heart pounds.
"It was a joke, Lizzie," Craig Sterling says, rolling his eyes and looking away.
"My name is Elizabeth. And it's not funny," She grits out. She can feel her body filling with a mix of adrenaline and fear.
"Oh, it's a little funny," Sterling says, pushing against her resolve even harder. He can see she's uncomfortable. He can see her hands are shaking. He stands a little taller, making himself as big as he can to control the situation.
"It isn't," she says, standing her ground, but she feels her hands clenching into fists, "Rape isn't a joke."
"Come on, McCord, don't go all fema-nazi on us," His eyes stare hard at her—a smirk playing on his lips.
Her eyes glance around the room once more, and she swallows. The realization that she is the only woman in this room is hitting her hard. She suddenly feels as if she's a sheep destroying the wolf pack's fun.
"What are you going to do? Go cry to the director about how you can't handle a joke?" He says in a baby voice as a way to insult and infantilize her.
Her stomach turns, and her eyes sting. She's not even sure what's causing it. Is it her anger, her embarrassment, her fear?
"The joke wasn't fucking funny, Sterling," Agent George Peters finally stands. He hadn't wanted to wait so long, but he wanted to see if Elizabeth could handle it. He sees so much potential in her. He doesn't want her to be intimidated. And unfortunately, he knows she'll need to grow a thicker skin than a man in her position would. But it's gone too far.
"It's a joke, George. Lighten up," Sterling says, waving a dismissive hand at the older man.
"It's a horrible, misogynistic, insensitive joke," Agent Peters continues, "All the times we've seen rape used as a method of war around here and you're joking about it?"
Elizabeth is a little shocked by the tone of George's voice. She'd never heard him sound so cold. She can only assume it is the tone he uses to take down targets and, now, her co-workers.
"Fuck, whatever, sorry, Lizzie," Craig says with an eye roll, and her heart sinks. He isn't sorry, not in the slightest.
"Agent McCord," George spits as he squares up to tower over Sterling.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, man? You're going to ruin a perfectly good lunch because she has PMS, and the little bitch has a stick up her ass?" Sterling challenges.
George steps forward, and Sterling backs away, mumbling under his breath as he angrily leaves the room.
"Anyone else have a problem?" George asks.
No one says a word, and Elizabeth takes the opportunity to escape to the bathroom. She feels like a fool. She's ruined a perfectly good day and all over a stupid joke. She takes some deep breaths to keep herself from crying.
She washes her hands, splashing some cool water on her face and taking a look in the mirror. She doesn't recognize the woman she sees- the woman she's become. She had been doing so well. It's been over two years since that morning. She wonders if it's always going to be like this: going about her life perfectly fine until something makes her remember.
George is waiting for her when she exits, "You see that Tom Hanks Geena Davis movie last year? There's no crying in baseball," he quips.
She smiles weakly and sighs, "Right,"
"Listen, you have more potential than I've seen in a long time, but unfortunately, unless you learn to handle guys like Sterling on your own, you're never going to make it to the big leagues."
"I'm sorry,"
"Don't apologize, just don't back down next time," he smiles at her, "You're not a victim if you don't act like one,"
She nods, not entirely sure if she agrees. She certainly doesn't feel like a victim, but her past does feel like a chain dragging behind her.
"So it's going to be weird now with all of them, right?" She seeks his advice.
"You are already the natural leader of the team. Even I'm falling in line behind you on this one. Sterling is challenging you. Give no apologies for giving orders. Asking them to quit making awful jokes was an order that was ignored. Don't let them walk over you, and you'll be fine."
"Right,"
"Now, get back in there. You are in charge. Don't let Sterling think you are letting him win. One day, all of them are going to answer you."
"That's quite a compliment," she says, her smile growing.
"It's the truth," he replies. He can feel it. Elizabeth McCord is going places others only dream of.
January 6, 2019
Henry glances at her every few minutes while she works—pen in hand, highlighter at the ready, google open. She's got the same look on her face as she does when she's stewing on policy—focused, determined.
He lets her work through dinner—making her a plate and putting it in the fridge. He sets the kitchen table for himself and the kids, choosing not to use the dining room to give her privacy.
Jason is the first to ask.
"Is mom okay?" He whispers to Henry across the table, and the older man nods.
"Yeah, just having a hard day. I think it's all caught up with her,"
Jason nods, "Do you know what's going on?"
"She's just busy at work, bud," Henry tries to lie as convincingly as possible.
"She's always busy at work; that usually doesn't mean an impromptu two-hour OTR meeting on a Sunday followed by sleeping the rest of the day," Stevie says.
"Stevie's right," Allison agrees, "Something is going on. It's not normal,"
"She's fine, guys," Henry lies, and he feels sick for it, "She's just been really stressed, and sometimes, things just kind of come to a head."
"Right, that's why she's kind of got the same look on her face she had after Iran," Jason says sarcastically.
"Kids, some things are not your business. Mom is tired and stressed, but she and I are taking care of it. Please trust me," Henry begs, "I would never let her go without the help she needs. I'm handling it. Just give her the space she needs, please."
The kids nod in unison, and the room falls into silence. He looks in his wife's direction once again. She's rubbing her neck and seemingly tense. He watches her chest rise and fall on a count of four. He knows he needs to get in there.
"Guys, can you clean up?" He asks his kids, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth.
Stevie glances at her mom and then back to her dad, "Of course, dad,"
"Thanks," He says, pushing his chair back and heading to the office.
She has fourteen names in front of her—narrowed down from three hundred. It was easy enough to start by removing the people she knew personally and professionally. Then there were the obvious women's names. That left her with fifty-seven names, which is when she had to start googling. It wasn't easy—bracing herself between every search at the possibility of seeing the man's face. She knew it was a long shot that she'd find him this way, but she had to keep going. Now, she's left with fourteen names—fourteen names with middle initials, none of whom seemingly have an internet presence. She found a few articles without photos for a few of them—a couple of private defense guys and a few of them named in their parent's obituaries.
"Babe," Henry says softly, moving toward her from the side doors of their office instead of behind her. The last thing he wants to do is startle her.
"Hmm," She responds, her eyes still glued to the screen.
"Are you hungry?" He asks, stepping closer, "I made you a plate,"
"I'm okay right now," she replies, finally looking up at him, "Did you eat?"
"Yeah, a little," he nods.
She studies her husband. He looks so tired and so guilty.
"None of this is your fault, Henry. You know that, right?" She tells him.
He can tell that she believes her words to be absolutely true. He can tell that she does not blame him for any of this. But he doesn't know how to reconcile her thoughts with his own. He feels like he failed her.
"How is any of this not my fault, Elizabeth?" He asks, his voice breaking slightly.
She can feel her heart cracking, "I'm no stranger to feeling guilty for things that aren't my fault,"
He smiles at her sadly and nods, "We're quite the pair, huh?"
"You didn't do this to me, Henry. I need you to understand that,"
"I'm so sorry," he says, sitting on the edge of his desk, "I wasn't home."
"You had to go to work," She whispers, "That's all. You had to go to work." She uses the same words he always tells her when she feels like she's missing something important at home. He reminds her that her job is important-many times life and death-and he tells her not to worry. His job was a matter of life and death back then. He was a Marine, and he had no choice but to be away.
"How's the list coming?" he asks, needing to change the subject. He doesn't want to bog her down by needing comfort.
"I've narrowed it down to fourteen. I don't know what to do next."