Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films owns them.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Epilogue.
Copyright January, 2004, Cassatt
It had been a particularly grueling trial. The media attention of a high profile case was always more stressful than seemed absolutely necessary. The gallery that was packed in behind the prosecution table and spread across the aisle had felt, at times, like a throng of need, and want. Usually, the crowd held only a few people Jack considered important enough to be aware of--the family and friends of the victim.
The family members had sat directly behind him during this one, too. They had filled the entire first row and spilled into the second. It had not only been Anthony, on the aisle with a series of friends occupying the chair next to him, and Louise and Fred Abbott, and Tom Ryerson's great aunt Bella with Joe Happel, but the parents of their John Doe, too, whose name was really Joshua Cameron. And, unexpectedly, Crymson's parents had travelled up from Alabama for the duration. Though they had sat behind Anthony, and not with him, and had had few words for either Jack or Serena, they had clutched Crymson's lover tightly after the verdict had been read. Had bowed their heads in silent, lengthy prayer after the death sentence had been imposed.
Beyond them had been patrons of the Tide; some of whom Jack had recognized; some of whom were now his friends, longtime friends of Ed. Other members of the community had joined them. Sergeant Froendlich had been a solid presence, often finding his way to the second row, rarely speaking to anyone. There had been one of the mayor's assistants, always sitting in the back row, occasionally next to Nora, who had stopped by when she could. And in that back row, in almost the furthest corner, had sat Yvette Green each and every day. Peter had joined her whenever he had been able to get away from work. At times, Ed had slipped in; both his partner and his lieutenant had sanctioned it, off the record.
After the sentence had been announced, and Jack had turned around, it was Ed's eyes he had caught first. Hard, determined, and nearly black with satisfaction, softening after a moment. It was Yvette's eyes he had caught next. Determined, strong, and, something he had not in the least bit expected, proud. She had nodded, once, then had turned to her son to give him a hug. The people around Jack had demanded, and had earned the right to his attention. Nora had arrived at his side. The media vultures had descended. When Jack had next looked to the back of the room, Ed and his mother were gone.
Jack was packing up all of the case files for storage, clearing off his desk for the next day. Trying to clear his mind of the past weeks. He was ready to leave, to get out of this place, to find some solace. To let go. There was a knock on his door. He looked up to see Froendlich walk in, a heavy parka over his arm, a hat in one hand and the other outstretched. Jack took two strides and shook it.
"I don't mean to bother you," Froendlich said, "I know you're probably wanting to get home after today. I really just wanted to thank you. It was a tough one, and you did a great job."
Jack was about to answer with a quip, but found he didn't have the energy to lighten up anything. "It was tough," he conceded, "and you're welcome. We can both thank the jury, too. So, have you managed to work out anything with the people back home? Are you going to prosecute him for his parents?"
The other man sighed deeply. "I don't think so. Even with the additional evidence... they prefer to let him rot in your prison, rather than pay to prosecute him." He paused. "And as much as I'd like to exact justice specifically for Dick and Miriam, I think that, all in all, they can rest a bit more peacefully now. The case is closed."
"And can you live with that?"
"I can. I never thought I'd say that, but I can. Think I'll take some fresh flowers to their graves, when I get back. You know. Do something sort of symbolic."
There was a very slight catch in his voice that Jack had distinctly heard. He didn't let on. "That sounds like a good idea," he answered gently. On impulse, he pulled out his wallet and gave the man two twenties. "Add some from our office, too."
Froendlich took the money and stuffed it into his pocket, his eyes falling to the floor. They finally raised. He cleared his throat. "Thanks." He held out his hand again, and Jack shook it. "I'm taking the red eye, so I'd better get back to the hotel and pack up. Thank you, again, Mr. McCoy. For everything."
Jack walked him to the door. "If we ever meet again, I hope it's under better circumstances."
"You and me, both."
Jack said good-bye with the social niceties of wishing him a safe flight, until the door was once again closed and the other man was heading for the elevator. He went back to his desk, dropped the last packet of files into the box and the lid over it. He thought about Woodbridge's parents, who had known in the last minutes of their lives that it was their own flesh and blood killing them. There was no amount of exacted justice that could ever take care of something so heinous. Nothing could. Their son was going to be executed. Tragedy multiplied.
He picked up the file box and carried it to the end of the table, setting it down next to the other one. He could feel the lethargy seeping in with the completion of this final task. He recognized his own exhaustion, and something else, underneath it. The price he had paid to prosecute Richard Woodbridge. He went to get his coat. To get out of there. To find some solace.
Jack took advantage of the two days of warmer weather New York had just experienced which had cleared the streets of any residual icy patches. As he drove his motorcycle through the traffic, in the very early darkness of winter, with holiday lights adorning the occasional building, he could feel some of the stress slough off his shoulders. Could feel a small amount of the weight he had been carrying lift off in the wind. If only he could lessen the clench around his gut, and soul, as easily.
He parked his bike in its usual spot, in the alley behind the Tide, surprised that it was available since he hadn't been there for so many weeks. Too many. He pulled off his helmet, and ran a hand through his hair, pocketed his keys and took a deep breath. He entered by the back door, unzipping his coat as he walked through the short hallway, then through the game room, crowded with pool players and slightly raucous observers. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to be noticed, or acknowledged. The bar was his goal. A long drink of Scotch would be his reward.
He almost made it, but was stopped by some of the same people he had seen in the courtroom, hours before. He accepted the back slapping, the shoulder squeezes, and kept moving until he had reached the far corner of the U-shaped bar. He saw Robert pointing to the empty stool at the end, with a smile and a thumbs up sign meant for him. He pulled off his coat, and sat, placing his helmet on the bar next to the wall, turning so he could see the room, and the front door.
The Tide was crowded, the mood upbeat and almost celebratory. There were Christmas lights draped along the top of the walls, and around nearly every permanent fixture in the place. The microphones on the platform next to the dance floor. The doors. The bar. The large, framed portrait of Crymson, which now hung over it. He looked at the portrait, and felt something grab his heart, and squeeze tightly. Robert came over and asked for his order, took his hand and shook it, then simply held it for a long moment before letting go. He was told his drink was on the house. He nearly argued, but nodded instead.
He had thought that being here was the right thing to do, that it was what he needed. He had thought it would make it easier. He suspected he might have been wrong. His drink was placed in front of him and he downed half of the glass in one swallow. The burn was as welcome as it had been craved. He studied the amber liquid, with the lights from the wall above his head reflecting on its surface, and through the glass. Perhaps the alcohol would be his salvation, his solace. He suspected he might be wrong about that, too.
A hand descended on his shoulder, and stayed. He recognized the scent, knew the wearer, and probably would have known by sheer instinct who was now sitting down next to him. He knew every inch of him, even with his eyes closed. He turned.
Ed smiled broadly. "You're one ahead of me," he said. Then he looked at Jack, really looked at him until Jack was ready to study his Scotch again. "And you're doing it, aren't you?"
"Doing what?" Jack picked up his glass and drank.
Ed leaned in very close, until they were only inches apart. He let his hand drop down to Jack's thigh, and held it firmly. "Brooding," he answered calmly. "Falling down. Letting it get to you."
Jack sighed. The man knew him, too, and knew him almost too well. He had told Ed how difficult it sometimes was, to do his job and keep perspective at the same time. How tired he was getting of the struggle to do precisely that. This trial had dragged him into the darkness that was Richard Woodbridge. It had ended with Jack demanding that the man's life be taken.
"Jack," Ed said, bringing his other hand to cup Jack's cheek. The touch was cool against his heated skin, and distracting. Ed didn't finish the sentence.
"What?"
Ed huffed in frustration. "Okay. You're thinking, and feeling, that what you've done is good, but it was hell getting to the end of it."
Jack shrugged a little, and nodded. "It was hell," he said, pushing the words out, rather than swallowing them like he wanted to.
"You've seen the inside of a man who murdered people without remorse. Who sat there in court for how many days, acting like he never should have been dragged there in the first place. Who said nothing. Gave no apologies. Took no responsibility for anything, even with his victims' families sitting right there." Brown eyes flashed with anger, and pain, and something else, too. Love. For him.
"Yes, that's our man, in a nutshell," Jack said sarcastically. The hard press of glass in his hand told him he was gripping his drink; he relaxed his fingers. Ed's were now warm on his cheek. Less distracting.
"He's scum," Ed said with a bit of force.
"He's scum," Jack replied.
Ed studied him for another very long minute. His thumb stroked the edge of Jack's mouth, his other hand was still clutching his thigh. "Oh, hell," Ed muttered, then kissed him, with a fierce passion, taking control of the kiss, deepening it with a suddenness that made Jack's senses swim. He grabbed the front of Ed's sweater, a handful of cashmere to hold on to, to anchor him somewhere near reality.
Ed pulled back. "Life is not only made up of the scum," he said intensely, with nearly the same fierceness. "This is life, Jack, this is your life." He waved a hand over his shoulder. "These people needed justice, and you know it, and you know why you do what you do. You need to be reminded of the rest of it, the good stuff, you come to me." He heaved a breath. "You come to me," he said, more gently. "I'll remind you."
Jack released the wool from his grasp, and touched Ed's lips. This was what he had really needed. This was what he had wanted. This was what he had. Ed kissed the tips of his fingers. "Okay," Jack said, once more having to force words out, this time past the lump in his throat. "I promise. I'll come to you."
"Okay, then." With one last, long look, Ed turned his head toward the bar. He waved to Robert, who immediately came over and took Ed's drink order, offering a refill for Jack's at the same time. Jack thought about it, then declined.
Robert said, "You just say the word, Mr. McCoy, and I'll take care of you."
"Jack, call me Jack. Like you used to." He smiled at Robert, the first smile he'd felt in what seemed like days.
Robert saluted good naturedly and left.
Ed said, with a small grin, "Guess what I saw when I came in? Never mind, you won't be able to. I saw Anthony and the new bartender, David, having a little moment together, you know, a private moment?"
"They're going out?" Jack was surprised, but as Ed nodded, he felt the tightness in his chest lessen, and a small spot of pure happiness settle in its place. "That's nice," he said. "Good news."
"Yeah," Ed answered sincerely, "it is, isn't it." He drank his beer.
Jack draped an arm across Ed's shoulder, and rubbed the back of his neck, because he could, and he wanted to feel the warmth of it under his hand. He needed to feel it. Want and need. Love and desire. Ed turned his head and looked him in the eye. "Thank you," Jack said.
Ed didn't ask him for what, he merely smiled. He held up a finger, then reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, eventually bringing out an envelope which looked suspiciously like something from a travel agent. "Surprise, or maybe I should say Merry Christmas?" He handed it to Jack.
"Ed?" He lifted the flap and pulled out airline tickets, reading them in the low lights of the bar area. His heart began to pound. New York to London, round trip.
"I think it's about time we went to see Mark, don't you?" Ed asked, his eyes sparkling.
He looked at the dates. "But--"
Ed shook his head vehemently. "No, Jack, no 'buts.' It's all arranged. I've already spoken to DA Lewin, I know damned well you've got more vacation time available than you could use in two months. Your next trial doesn't start until February, and she's promised me that if you need it, she'll arrange a postponement. We are going. Monday. Mark's expecting us." Ed's eyebrows were raised as he waited.
Jack looked at the tickets, then back to Ed. Words were failing him. "Okay," he said, letting himself smile, fully, deeply and sincerely. "Thank you. Again." Ed's eyebrows dropped to their normal position and he smiled, too. "But, Ed, you already gave me my Christmas present."
"Yeah, well, you already gave me mine, too, and sure the holiday is over, but--"
Jack interrupted him with a soft, lingering kiss. "I'm all for extending the season, too," he said quietly, two inches from his face. He sat back. "And maybe that's another reason I was falling down, as you put it. Having to celebrate Christmas in the middle of this trial."
"I know," Ed said, putting his hand on Jack's thigh again, simply to hold it.
Jack covered it with his own. He finished off the remainder of his drink. Christmas hadn't been precisely in the middle, more like between summation and verdict, but he had found it difficult to feel lighthearted and festive, filled with love for his fellow humans in the spirit of the season. Even if Ed's family had been warm and welcoming. Even if Joanna had flown in on the twenty-sixth, just to spend the afternoon with him and Ed. In any other circumstances, Jack would have considered it a wonderful holiday.
He saw Ed turn to him out of the corner of his eye. He followed suit. Ed said, a smile back on his face, "We're goin' to London."
Jack chuckled. "Yeah, we are."
Before they could talk about the details, Anthony came up to them, behind the bar. "I'm glad you stopped by," he said. There was no smile, but his countenance was relaxed; the lines around his eyes, that Jack had seen every day in court, were gone. There was color in his cheeks. "You've been taken care of, I see. Robert doing well, by you?" They both nodded. Anthony took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Remember what you said to me, Ed, in my office? About whether or not the trial would help? I think that you can put me down for somewhere in the middle." He shrugged one shoulder slightly. "It does, and it doesn't. And I have a feeling that that's how it's going to be. For a long time. Maybe forever."
Jack saw the glisten as unshed tears appeared. He didn't have an answer for the man, not that night. He listened to Ed talk, letting the gentle words of comfort wash over him, too. When Anthony told them the other reason he was glad they were there, Jack could only nod in response. Anthony had waited to light the candles under Crymson's portrait, so it could be done in their presence. Ed clutched Jack's hand, still resting on his thigh, as the flames were lit. No words were spoken by any of them, but Jack heard some, far off in a distant corner of his mind. Words he had memorized as a child, in a large, stone church on the west side of Chicago.
Ed sat on the back of the bike, as they wove their way home through the streets of the city. His arms, as always, wrapped around Jack, his thighs pressed against his hips. This was a treat, to be doing this in the dead of winter, even if there was a cold wind biting his kneecaps. Somehow, he had expected more protection from denim.
He had understood, completely, what Jack was going through earlier in the evening. He had understood it for the past week, if not for longer. Jack really had been through hell. Justice served was not always justice obtained, in Ed's experience. He had felt satisfied with the sentence, without question. If he could have stood up in the courtroom and given a loud cheer, that might not have even been enough of a demonstration to express his satisfaction. He had no qualms about the death penalty, only about the seeming inequities of its imposition. In this case.... He sighed to himself. It wasn't simply that putting Woodbridge to death would not bring back the people who had died at his hands. There were so many more layers of need around this one.
Ed had been particularly unsatisfied that there were still unanswered questions--that they had been unable to force Woodbridge to tell them what they wanted to know. The Manila Police had found the evidence that the bastard had not only bought his drug of choice in October, the week before Ryerson's murder, but in what they had all come to call the mysterious month of August, the year before. So he had been planning the murders a full year, plus, earlier. Anthony might have lost Crymson much sooner. Each of the survivors was still struggling to cope with it. A bonus year, that they hadn't realized they even held in their possession, at the time. And none of them knew why now, and why not then. Why couldn't they have been given yet another bonus year, or two, or ten?
As for Joshua Cameron's family, Ed knew they felt no satisfaction, or peace, from the outcome. The homeless man who had committed no crime, other than to trust a rich man who had likely promised him a hot meal, and a soft, private bed, was the innocent one. Ed, Lennie, and their brethren had been unable to learn the where, and the how, of Woodbridge's abduction of Joshua. Ed had seen the emotional toll, permanently etched into the faces of the man's parents and siblings. Their pain was not simply due to the manner of his death. Guilt weighed heavily. Their Joshua hadn't been living on the streets because he was an addict, or out-of-control crazy, as they had thought. He had had an illness which had rendered him unemployable, and difficult to communicate with. Though Ed was frustrated they couldn't give the family the whole story, he suspected that it wouldn't have helped them in the least.
Ed followed Jack into his apartment, closing the door behind them. He removed his jacket and hung it up, next to Jack doing the same. He put his gloves and hat on the shelf, took Jack's from him, then dropped them on top of his own. Jack closed the closet door. Ed couldn't miss the lines of fatigue around his mouth, the deep weariness emanating from him. Ed pulled him into an embrace; a long hug that soon had Jack's head falling onto Ed's shoulder.
He would take this man to bed, and he would love him, and give him the release, and comfort that he knew Jack needed. He would do whatever he had to, to help him recharge his batteries. Renew his soul. Rejuvenate his passion for the job. He would help him forget about the trial, if only for a few hours. In his arms, under the covers. He moved Jack away from him, just far enough to meet his eyes. He smiled, and Jack smiled softly, too. He took Jack's hand and led him toward the bedroom, with a clarity of purpose that left no room for doubt. He loved him. He would do whatever he could.
End
There are two sequels to Choices Made - linked on the home index page.