Two Roads

Part Four
The Liar Dog

The phone next to Claire's arm buzzed and jarred her from remembering. She stared down at the plastic flashing light; her secretary was obviously wanting to pass through a call. For a moment her office felt alien; in her head she was still, fleetingly, ten years younger and infatuated with Jack McCoy, she was in her head a diligent attorney who, as Jack once put it, always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.
Not suspects, she thought. Not the ones the cops brought in and said were guilty.
Jack was not always right. As it turned out, Jack was quite often as wrong as the next person. Claire pressed down on the flashing light and spoke aloud to the speaker. "What is it, Rachel?"
Her secretary's voice, disembodied, came back, "It's Anderson again. Can I tell him next time you've quit the profession?"
Claire laughed. Attorney Brian Anderson had become a running joke lately, phoning once a day, like clockwork, at three-thirty, to discuss his client. "No, you can't," she said. "But please, tell him I'm not in. I've got something I'm working on."
"I can tell."
Damn windows, thought Claire, and said, "Listening at keyholes is a very bad habit, Rachel."
"Sorry," she apologized. "I just came over to get something signed and you were staring off into space --"
"Fine, fine," said Claire. "I understand. I'm not in, all right?"
"To anyone?"
"Well," she admitted, "when Caleb comes back, buzz me."
"Gotcha."
Claire clicked off the line, barely recognizing that she had mimicked something Ben Stone once said to her. What she was aware of was of having used old knowledge to reestablish the secretary-boss relationship. She liked Rachel, but didn't appreciate being spied on, or having that spying commented back to her as if they were old buddies. There was a familiarity in the office that wasn't always safe to have. But a lot of what Claire did came directly from what she had observed and remembered from Ben...and from Jack.
It might have been nice to just stop her daydreaming there, but Claire was a realist. She hadn't always been pragmatic; like most young ADAs she had the full intent of revolutionizing the offices with wit, verve, pizzazz, and honest hard work. All the offices really wanted was the hard work part, and soon Claire realized that despite her best intentions, the machine had no interest in being changed. So she had taken what she could get: friendship as offered through Ben Stone, something very different as offered by Jack McCoy.
No, it would have been easy to stop remembering right after that second dragon soup visit, because with the combination of adrenaline and alleged adventure -- not to mention the lingering effects of unpronounceable tea -- that had been the best, for both of them. Afterwards, they tried, but it was never quite as all-around good again, though it had been very nice in parts other times. After their night in the two-dollar room of Tony Huang, and after seeing how the attack on her had rattled Jack, Claire felt somehow different around the offices, more assured of herself, and willing to believe that it might be possible that Jack didn't have everything mapped out either, that this was something which had taken him by as much surprise as it did her. Though it never was easy with Jack McCoy, it had certainly been interesting and definitely...intense. All details Caleb never would have to be told -- but sitting in her Executive Office Claire could not resist reliving everything, good and bad, just one more time. After this, she would pack the memories away and not dwell on them again, after this the only person she would dream about would be Caleb, and that was how it was supposed to be. But for now, until he returned from arraignment duty, she could remember.

After the night in Tony's apartment -- he had not come up until nearly eleven the next morning, probably suspecting his visitors were not leaving right away, and when he absolutely had to return found them still sleeping tightly alongside one another in the twin bed -- she and Jack fell found a groove to operate within, neither afraid to approach each other nor afraid to share sleeping arrangements. They still quarreled, but mostly over legal issues now; though Claire knew she would never have full simpatico with Jack, whatever they had right now seemed to be clicking.
But she did not spend the night with him very often. Claire liked her own space, her own apartment, and wasn't ready to start moving in elsewhere. She usually left around one in the morning and took a cab back to her place, or, if Jack was visiting her apartment he had learned when it was prudent to depart.
Last night he had headed out around three, which meant Claire was still sleepy the next day as she went grocery shopping. She was meandering through the aisles the next day, doing what she did best: multitasking, which on this particular day meant thinking long and hard about the various uses for ice cubes while sorting through the cereal aisle in the local D'Agostino's while picturing that in just one more day the Page trial would conclude and they would win and she could move onto Egan with Jack. Three things at once was average for Claire; unfortunately it left little room for dealing socially with anyone else around her, so she nearly ran someone down with her cart while weaving to the end of the cereal aisle. "Hey, sorry," she said, pulling back. "Did I hurt -- hey." She paused and stared at the man she had nearly hit. "I didn't know you shopped here."
Detective-on-leave Mike Logan turned from where he had been comparing the nutritional information on the Count Chocula, a blank, uncomprehending look on his face. Claire didn't know him very well, only here and there -- not until many years later would she consider him a friend -- but she knew what he looked like and how he acted well enough to realize how terrible he appeared right now. Logan looked as if he had been dragged through the streets, still carrying some of the scars from his ordeal in the basement, jaundiced slightly with an odd pinkish rim to his eyes, more than a day's stubble on his mouth and cheeks, and a hunched over, wasted aura to him. She glanced at the cereal he was holding and had to check herself to not flinch when she saw the multitude of small red scratches on one hand. She had spoken with both Ben and Lennie briefly when he first came out; she knew what animals had caused those. He looked like someone who hadn't gotten out of his house or off his couch for weeks, and Claire was certain that wasn't far from the truth. Even as he feigned interest in his cereal choice she could tell he wasn't really reading the words, just acting as if he was. "Oh," he said, after a too-long pause. "Claire Kincaid."
"I didn't know you shopped here," she repeated.
"I..." he paused. "I forgot where the one I usually go to is." He glanced around the store as if wondering how he got here. "This one was the first one I came to."
"I thought you lived down in the Village."
"Yeah."
"This is Yorkville, Mike." Which meant he was approximately seventy blocks out of his way, and on the wrong side of town. She decided to try another tactic. "Back on the job yet?"
He shook his head mutely. "Maybe eventually. I dunno." He slid the box back on the shelf and seemed to see her for the first time. "I gotta leave."
"Can I give you a ride back home?" she asked him, almost afraid to let him loose, he looked so pathetic. It was a lie, but she added, "I have to go back downtown after I finish here."
Mike shook his head. "Thanks anyway. I got some more walking to do." He started to shuffle away and she bolted around her cart, resting a hand on his forearm. Mike stopped and stared at where she was touching him.
"Detective...Mike...look, I heard you when you were in the hospital, I heard you yelling at Alexa."
A spark came into his eyes and he pulled away. That was at least a sign of life. "Claire, don't. I don't want to talk about any of it."
"She's not to blame, Detective."
He clenched his fists. "What is this, a freaking conspiracy? Leave it alone, Kincaid, just don't --" he failed to find the words. "Just don't." His voice cracked on the last word, and he whipped around the side of the aisle and was gone.

"Well, you got your conviction," Adam told Ben in his gruff, authoritative voice as they pulled the office doors shut behind them.
Claire grinned and dodged as Ben pitched his briefcase forward, nearly striking her in the leg. "Hey, watch that thing," she pointed as the three of them got into the elevator. "Don't get him overexcited, Adam, he'll start on a briefcase rampage."
"You know, Adam," said Ben, as if hearing what the DA had said for the first time. "We did. We did get the conviction on her. A lot of the time I've got mixed feelings when we put someone away, and this time --" he waved his hand.
"Go on, say it," Claire teased. "Say it. 'Let 'er rot.'"
Ben slid a glance at her. "As if I would say such a thing."
She hit him in the leg with her briefcase. The elation, or restrained version of it that Ben presented, was hers too. The case had been agonizing, the retelling of just how everyone had been duped had first made them look stupid, then come around in their favor when the jury began to sympathize with the cruelties of the case. Then they hit them with facts: Amelia Page had been the last person seen with both victims, her prints were found on the clothing of the victims, the M.O. was exactly the same in both. That she had tried to cover up the crime with her twin sister was almost secondary, but certainly explained her devious intent, and completely demolished the defense claim of self-defense. One rarely can call self defense twice, particularly when the victims are stabbed in the back. All that was left was for the judge to sentence her, and the State, which initially had wanted to try for the death penalty, was pressured into dropping it to Murder two. The victims had been innocent and from good families, but the Pages, who could wield many swords, were from better-connected families. Claire knew how that stuck in Ben's throat, but she gulped it down the same way he had. It didn't matter, really; Amelia Page would never see the light of day again after the sentencing hearing.
"A drink, then, to celebrate?" Ben offered.
Adam shook his head. "I'm happy but I'm out of here. Long train ride home. You two celebrate for me."
They ended up back at JRs and sat in quiet contemplation for awhile. "And what do you do from here, Mr. Successful Prosecutor?" she asked after a while.
"I think I'll sleep this weekend," he said. "Just sit back and read my books, that's all I'll need."
"That's your only priority, right now?" Claire finished her drink and waved for a second.
"I think so. Returning some phone calls, the ones I've let pile up, but I think I can wait until Monday for those."
"Ever thought about finishing what you started?"
He gave her a quizzical look. "You lost me, Claire."
She took a long swallow and stared at the liquor bottles lining the back wall, thinking of Mike Logan wandering the halls of the supermarket, of going on long seventy-block hikes to nowhere. She thought of how it never, ever could come out that Ben had been involved with Amelia's sister before and during the trial. It would kill Mike Logan at this stage but that wasn't Claire's main concern: having the Page case overturned and Ben censured was. What had to come next was not to let this sleeping dog lie, but to poke it just one step further. "You haven't forgotten Alexa Radin already, have you?"
He looked away from her. "That's an absurd question."
"Well, yes. I was just wondering." She slid off her stool and shouldered her overcoat. "I think I'm going to head back uptown now, Ben. See you on Monday."
Ben leaned to her, his forehead wrinkled suddenly, the light in his eyes dulled, and he touched her forearm as she started to leave. Claire felt very close to him then; an odd kind of confidentiality had begun to seep into their tentative friendship. "Alexa's gone, Claire. Nobody knows where she is. She went off with that band and never even said anything, just gone like that. I don't see any reason in bringing her up."
Claire nodded. "Right, as usual, Ben. Only I wasn't suggesting you call her. Only that you clear her name." And she slipped away, through the doors, into the Friday night, to meet Jack for dinner.

As it turned out, Westchester County was not the worst place in the world to have to try a case. Yes, they had lost the right to play on their home field, so to speak, and they had lost the motion to suppress Egan's confession, but in the end those were the only points LeClare truly scored from the Manhattan DA's office. Westchester County was more of a hike to get to, but the drive was pleasant and in the cool mornings Claire would zip across town in her car to pick up Jack two hours earlier than they had to arrive in court, and they would stop for breakfast along the way, at last in relative anonymity, away from Court Street and anyone who might try and comment. They were just a couple having breakfast, and Claire liked the attention Jack gave her in public places, unfettered by anyone watching. She felt comfortable to take his hand or peck him on the cheek, to share her food or whatever might cross their paths. And when he would squeeze her hand back or stand very close behind her at the cash register, or wrap his arm around her back she felt much more connected with him, and what they were doing felt less like a series of one-night stands.
Then there were the surroundings: Westchester County was wealthy and showed it, in the tree-lined suburban streets and fine, broad, manicured lawns, and the freshly restored Supreme Courthouse. She and Jack were given their own office to share, and a temporary paralegal assigned to type memos and motions for them brought coffee and bagels with several kinds of cream cheese. Jack said he wanted to tell her she didn't need to bother, but Claire was so impressed that she told him to let it alone. There was no point in anyone wondering why Manhattan DAs never seemed to need to eat in the mornings. "I could get used to this," she told Jack on one of the first days of the trial. "Makes my cubicle downtown look pretty shabby."
"But you'd miss the excitement, the glamour --" said Jack.
"And the motorcycles."
He had smiled broadly.
So the trial against Egan progressed in a neat, orderly fashion. No particular surprises. On the last day of the prosecution, Detective Frank Pembleton came up to testify, for which Claire felt a small sense of relief -- there would be no Tim Bayliss interference. She had not spoken to him since that first and only meeting, though he had phoned twice before vanishing completely. It was for the best, thought Claire, there was no point in trying to work both ends of the spectrum. She was involved with Jack now; now that it had been going on for several weeks it definitely was an involvement, and that was that. She had friends who could juggle more than one boyfriend at a time -- lover, boyfriend, whatever -- and thought she had not always admired it exactly, Claire had always wondered how it was done. How did one shift gears so abruptly? And how could anyone ever trust someone who would for long periods sleep with multiple partners? It was possible to experience conflict, she was sympathetic up to a point, but right now Jack was as much of a handful as she could stand.
She was not certain exactly how Jack felt on this subject. One night while they sat on his sofa with the television muted, she posed the theoretical question. "Have you ever dated more than one person at a time, Jack?"
He turned from her and his face contracted. "Christ. Is this the 'I think we need to keep our options open' speech? It's a little out of the blue."
She rolled her eyes slightly at him. "Give me a little credit, Jack. No. I'm just asking. In generalities. Have you been involved with more than one woman at a time? I mean...seriously, not just someone you dated, then you dated someone the next night."
He had thought a long time, longer than Claire had been comfortable with. This should have been an instinctual answer, in her mind. "The structure..." Jack began after a while, "that you seem so comfortable with...Claire, I've never done that. I never believed in the girl next door who you had a crush on and asked out to the...oh, I don't know, the little spring formal...or when I grew up some the whole notion of dating...it just felt so antiquated. As if there was some sort of rule book you could follow to meet the person who was right for you. As if there was a person who could be right for anybody. I'm not perfect. I've told you as much. If I find someone sexually attractive, then I'll see what can be done about it. And mostly the forecast has been good. So when you talk about dating, or this formal setup..." he shook his head. "That's a language I've never spoken. And I don't care to learn it."
"Well, based on your track record I can see why you'd want to stick with what works," she told him, folding her arms.
"Low blow, Kincaid."
"Well, even animals learn once you bat them on the nose a couple of times, McCoy."
"Are we going to fight now?"
"I hadn't intended on it."
"Good." He put the volume back up on the television.
Claire wrested the remote from his hand and clicked it off.
"Oh, we are going to argue. All right." He turned to her.
She pulled her legs from his lap. "So get what you can grab is your basic philosophy, then?"
"It isn't personal, Claire. If it makes you feel any better, I've no plans to be involved with anyone with you."
"That's your romantic side coming out, isn't it." She frowned. "What if I did?"
"What if you did what?"
"What if I told you I felt like seeing someone else, what if I told you that right now?"
Jack sighed and stood up, heading into the kitchen. "Want some more coffee?"
She jumped up after him. "No."
He pulled another mug from the shelf and set it on the sink, then turned to her. "What."
"You didn't answer the question, counselor."
"Assumes facts not in evidence," he growled.
"Just say it," she urged. "Just say it would bother you."
He turned back to the coffee maker and picked up the pot, pouring another cup of coffee.
Claire smiled cynically and shook her head. "You can't do it. You can't say it. Because if you do you'll be just like everyone else who buys into that...what did you call it -- structure. It's okay for you but not for me. It's okay outside of us, but not right now while there is an 'us,' isn't that true."
Jack turned, bristling. "No, Claire, it wouldn't bother me in the least."
"I can see that," she said dryly, and headed back out to the living room. That had been her first insight to a part of Jack he could not explain -- that it wasn't so much that he believed in a double standard, but that he was so against the notion of being conventional that when he found himself acting that way he wasn't certain what to do about it. She took her seat back on the sofa and waited for him to come out of the kitchen again, but minutes and minutes passed and he did not. The program ended and she yawned; it was eleven and absolutely time to go to sleep, which tonight she knew would be best conducted alone, back at her apartment. Without a word she stood and got her coat from the closet, shrugged it on and flipped her hair out from the collar, then gathered up her briefcase. "I'll come by at seven tomorrow," she called to him, "unless you feel like skipping breakfast."
No answer. Claire shrugged. If he wanted to be childish, she didn't have to play along. She opened his apartment door and only then did he appear in the doorway to his kitchen. "Ah," she said, "you still exist."
He strode across the room and stopped just before running into her. "Do you want to see other people, Claire?"
"I hadn't planned on it," she said, taken off-guard. She hadn't meant to cause such a wrinkle; it had merely been something she wondered aloud. But Jack took many things personally, even though he worked hard not to show it.
"Are you seeing anyone else?"
She shook her head. "That's a perfectly ridiculous question, Jack. As if I would have the time even if I wanted to."
"Well, then," he said, lightening, "in theory I am completely and totally against it."
Claire smiled shrewdly to herself.

LeClare turned to Detective Pembleton. "It would seem, Detective, that racial animosity plays a larger part in your investigations than you think."
Jack rose to object, but LeClare cut him off, turning to the judge. "Withdrawn. I have no further questions."
Still standing, Jack said, "The prosecution rests, Your Honor."
"The defense rests, too," said LeClare.
Claire raised her eyebrows. Cocky was one thing, but no defense? With these charges?
"Then we'll recess until tomorrow," said the Judge. "Summations begin in the morning." He rapped the gavel, and the room began to clear out. Jack and Claire headed into the courthouse hallway. "Well, that comes as a surprise."
"Speeds things up considerably for us," Jack told her. "I've got to go make a phone call. Wait here and I'll be right back; we'll get out of here early if we're lucky." He strode off down the hall and she found a water fountain, taking a drink of the brassy water.
"Ms. Kincaid," came a precise, clipped tone behind her that she recognized immediately.
She straightened. "Detective Pembleton," she said, nodding deferentially. "Good job on the witness stand."
"It might have been better," he told her.
Claire couldn't see how. He had been mercilessly cross-examined as to his interrogation techniques by LeClare, and held his ground admirably. She had been impressed by his continued poise; nothing seemed to rattle this detective's cage. There was quite obviously a heated fire burning behind his coal-dark eyes, but not a single flame was allowed to escape on the stand. She could tell how this case incensed him, how the Baltimore-tie in was a sore spot, only one of three open cases from five years ago. It was, really, more than a sore spot: it was a personal affront. And how could it not be? Between Baltimore and New York the man sitting in the defense chair was responsible for twenty-six deaths, and all deaths of Pembleton's race. Claire knew a white detective would not be so insulted had the dead been white, but she could sense that there was no other way for Pembleton to grasp what had gone on. It had to be personal for him. The mysteries of black-white hatred were just as foreign to Claire as the dancers in Tony's bar in Chinatown had been: something she could see, and touch, and even be involved in, but never fully understand.
"Well, from my seat," she said, "you did quite well."
Pembleton shrugged. "In actual fact, that's not what I came here to speak about."
He got right to the point, Claire realized. Jack would have appreciated it. "And that is?"
He withdrew a folded envelope from his pocket and held it up with a slightly exasperated look on his face. "I intensely dislike being made the messenger boy," he said, "but my partner insisted I deliver it to you personally." He lowered the envelope and offered it to her.
Claire pinched it from him. "What's inside?"
"That is something you will have to determine for yourself," he said. "I don't read other peoples' mail." He touched his fedora. "I should be going. I have a train."
"Wait," she called after him. "Why didn't Tim -- why didn't Detective Bayliss deliver it himself?"
"Because," Frank spread his arms, "he was not requested to testify."
Claire paused. "I realize that. But I thought he was point."
"Indeed," said Pembleton. "I believe he had planned on testifying, but then received a call telling him I would be preferable. That was why I had to use my notes; I was not originally prepared to be in court today."
"Who called, Detective Pembleton?"
He started down a step and Claire leaned on the pillar of the railing. "Your DA insisted. Jack McCoy said I had to be the one. He was quite clear: he did not want Detective Bayliss." He paused, waiting to see if she had more to ask, then trotted down the steps. "I really have to get my train. Goodbye, Ms. Kincaid."
Naturally, Jack had an explanation for the insistence, and she asked him about it as soon as he returned from his phone call: Frank was black. The victims were black. The man who interrogated Egan must be the one to answer questions about the spurious manner of the interrogation. Jack rolled off nearly ten reasons why Frank was preferable over Tim. It was overkill, someone who had thought out all the reasons ahead of time and now read them like memorized poetry. Finally, Claire called uncle. "Okay, okay," she said, raising her hands. "You made your point. I won't second-guess you again."
At least, she thought, not aloud.

The main impediment to working in Westchester had never been the commute there or the unfamiliarity of working in a different environment. Most bumps had been smoothed out for them already; their paralegal was top notch, and the case was going well. The problem was then, after a long day at court, often having to drive all the way back down to Center Street in South Manhattan, through leftover traffic, to report in to Schiff. Adam would have his assistant leave voicemails on Jack's or Claire's machine, telling them he needed an update. And Claire knew from experience that didn't mean a faxed memo, or long phone conversation: Schiff was of a generation where face-to-face meetings were the only ones that counted. Jack would grumble all the way down the East Side Highway, irritated and put out at having to check in like an errant child. Wisely, Claire did not comment. This was not a fight she cared to join. She hated the checkup visits because they ate into her evening; when she would normally be sitting back to watch some mindless television, or even catching up on some reading, Schiff would tell them that if he could work late, so could they. Claire wanted a vacation, but there was no time, not so close to the holidays, and she had used up much of her leave as it was. So she was stuck, and said nothing.
The thing about a lie, Claire's mother often was known for saying, "is that is like a dog circling after its own tail. Eventually, it catches it. And then realizes how much it hurts." Claire for many years as a child thought of their own dachshund, who pursued its own, tangible, tail frequently, as a Liar Dog. Later she learned the meaning of simile and metaphor, but until then -- lies were small dachshunds out to bite their own tail off. Her mother had had no patience for lying, even small white ones, and could spot them from a far distance away, before they became dangerous. Claire thought she had inherited that perception.
But then, perhaps not.
Jack, like Ben, enjoyed having a drink on big trial days, after the hoopla had died away, and Claire took to going with him, sometimes drinking, sometimes not. They did not go back to Tony's bar, though Claire thought of it every time they walked in a regular pub, with the expected faces and the expected language. She always felt a bit disappointed. Jack never commented on it. But really it did not matter where they were on days the prosecution rested, or days when the trial ended, or days when a conviction came through; the point was to celebrate it. And the way Jack celebrated was with a Scotch or two. And on the day the prosecution -- and the defense rested -- had gone to get his calls elated, upbeat. Claire knew his schedule. They would get back into the city early, head out to a celebratory drinks-dinner combination, and then...well, then was always up for grabs. But when Jack returned from his call his face was tightly annoyed. "No early day for us," he told her.
"Adam wants to see us?"
He rolled his eyes and they left the building. "Christ," he muttered as they headed to her car. "A complete waste of an evening. A total waste of time."
Claire didn't see the problem. "Ben and I always met with Schiff after the case was over. It's a good way to sort through summation strategies."
"Please, Claire," he said. "Do you think I give a crap what Ben Stone does?"
"Maybe," she said thinly, "that's why Schiff likes him."
"Just drive," he ordered.
"We can still go for dinner," Claire prompted after a long pause, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. "It'll be early."
"He had no idea we'd finish with Pembleton today, Claire, and certainly no idea LeClare would rest. So this little chat of ours wasn't supposed to be out of the ordinary. Old man's got nothing better to do than make us drag ourselves all over town, and for what? So he can pat us on the head." Jack was staring out the side window at the passing scenery, quickly darkening as the sun set, and Claire realized he wasn't listening to her at all. For some reason she thought of Bayliss' letter, which she had not yet opened.
In Adam's office, though, Jack seemed to quiet down, thinking about the case. Sometimes Claire felt he argued just for the sake of it, just to sound off, and this time she suspected had been like that. They really needed to see Adam after such a major turn in the case, no matter how baffling. "I can't believe he didn't put on a case," she told Adam once they got in and were settled. She leaned up against the wall of his office, shaking her head.
"I guess he didn't think you made yours," said Adam, and took a bite of a sandwich he had with him.
Heading over to the sofa where Jack sat leisurely, one leg crossed high on the other, she said, "A witness IDed Egan, he had access to the arsenic, we found his prints on the train." She lowered herself down. "It should be enough."
Jack sighed. "The cops who beat up Rodney King were acquitted," he cocked his head thoughtfully, and for a moment Claire thought how severely dashing he looked in just his dress white shirtsleeves and dark trousers, thoughtful, contemplative. "They had film of Marion Barry smoking crack, and he was re-elected Mayor. Juries have rendered verdicts to advance political agendas for two hundred years."
"We certainly have come a long way," noted Schiff, staring into his coffee mug as if the answer was inside. "Reasonable doubt equals racial division. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to lead them to the right political statement," Jack told him.
They were trapped for another half hour, and though he had started out willing to hash the details of the upcoming summation, Claire could sense Jack's growing impatience with the mundane questions and topics Adam drew out. Claire wondered if Schiff wasn't just eating up time because he saw how much it annoyed Jack to have the night wasted; it was hard to say. Finally, after a long while, Schiff waved him off and buried his nose in a law book. "All right. Have a nice night."
They both rose and headed to the door, but then came Adam's voice. "Ms. Kincaid. Please remain."
Jack slid his glance at her and she shrugged slightly.
"I'll meet you downstairs," he told her in a low voice.
"You go ahead," she imitated his tone. "Solly's in a half hour."
He nodded once and darted out. Claire closed the door behind him and headed back to her seat. "You wanted to speak with me?"
Adam finished reading whatever he had been looking up and closed the tome, folding his hands on his desk, and looked at Claire. She wanted to squirm under his scrutiny but forced herself to give as good as she got, watching him closely. After a long pause, he spoke. "I have received," he said, "a request to have you transferred permanently to Jack McCoy's department and floor."
It was not where she had expected him to begin. "A request? From who?"
"Mr. McCoy would like your office changed, as well as your assignment."
Jack had never said a word. "I didn't know."
"How do you feel about such a change, Ms. Kincaid?"
She felt...how did she feel...outraged, actually. Annoyed and intruded on and...yes, outraged. She spent most of any working and non-working day with Jack, and he had never even consulted her. In addition to not being consulted, she had no interest in giving up the diversity she had enjoyed working for both of them. Perhaps Jack had been told by Adam that the situation she had enjoyed could not continue, perhaps...but she knew she was making excuses. They did not explain why Jack not mentioned it. "I would, if possible, like to continue the shared assignment, Adam."
He nodded. "He never told you, did he."
"Excuse me?"
Adam rose from his chair and checked out the books in one of the glass-framed hutches. "McCoy never asked you if you were all right with the transfer, did he."
"Well, no," she began. "It must have slipped his mind --"
"Please, Ms. Kincaid," said Adam. "Just be straight with me."
She sighed. "No, I hadn't known."
"Ah," he sighed, and headed back to his seat again, a slow sort of pacing, and Claire could sense how awkward this was for him. "Ms. Kincaid, what goes on in this office is my business, whether it happens during work hours or in your free time. I believe some weeks ago we had the discussion that you were not involved with Jack McCoy."
Claire felt her cheeks warm. "I wasn't."
"But now --"
She nodded slowly and stared at her hands. "I am."
"Right." He made a clicking noise with his mouth and leaned back in his chair. "I can't fault you for your work, Ms. Kincaid, so the argument that attaching yourself to someone else in the office because it will negatively affect your job is moot here. All I can do is offer a little advice. Would you like some?"
Claire didn't see how she could refuse. "I suppose."
Adam took a deep breath. "I'm not out there with all of you, not in the trenches, not trying cases any more. But despite that, I know what goes on in this building. If the janitor takes a fountain pen, I know it. Eventually I do hear -- and see -- everything. I have known about you and McCoy for some time now, as I have known about Ben Stone and that Radin woman."
Her mouth opened. "Why didn't you say anything to him?"
"With Ben I had two choices: confront him and risk him having to face up to the godawful mistake he'd made, which would have resulted in a mistrial and a scandal, or I could pretend it didn't exist. I don't like doing that. Sweeping messes under the carpet always comes back to haunt a person. But Ben Stone will be the next DA around here, and he is the most prudent person I know. In most every other way than this one incident, I have never had reason to doubt him. Until just recently there was absolutely nothing to hear. A man is permitted to go a little crazy in this profession, and for me the dictum is fine, until it starts to affect performance. With Ben, it has never affected his performance, and that is simply that. I trust Ben."
Claire thought to herself just how close the case had come to affecting Ben's performance, and found it sharply ironic that Jack had had some point in keeping Ben stable, even if Claire had been the conduit.
"I do not, however," said Schiff, "entirely trust Jack McCoy. He has his own agenda; he'd much rather be some sort of satellite DA's office that didn't have to conform to the regulations of home base. He is an excellent litigator but often...it is like pulling teeth to get him to admit when he's wrong."
Claire had to agree with that.
"I have been here longer than he has, and I have been present for the time he married his assistant. That seemed a happy ending, until his new assistant became his new mistress. He divorced the first one, the second one left the offices, and we paired him with an ADA named Chuck for a long while. Things were quiet. Then Chuck left and another ADA stepped in, a woman, and soon the two of them were involved. It's...somewhat chronic, my dear."
"I know all of that," she said, slightly testy. He was treating her the way he treated Jack: like a child. "What I can't understand is why you insist on making such a big deal out of it, Adam."
"Because it's bad for the office," said Adam. "I want to set a good example here. We're public servants and this kind of hanky panky is above us. Once I'm willing to forgive --"
"And four times is too many," she sighed. "I know."
He didn't like her tone. "Now, look here missy --"
"What is it you have against Jack, Adam? Other than this habit of his. Because it feels so much more personal than that. If you don't trust him, why didn't you let him resign? Why did you invite him back? Why did you give him this case?"
Adam laughed once, then pinched the space between his eyes and stood, circling the desk, taking the seat next to Claire, something he had never done. "Selective conversations." He shook his head. "He'll tell you that, and then not ask if you want to be transferred. You learn something new every day."
Claire felt a sharp cold point in her back. "I don't understand, Adam." He was silent a moment, and she asked, tentatively, "Didn't he quit?"
"Oh, he quit," said Adam. "Up and told me to my face -- that meeting I asked you to leave, just after Ben headed out -- he was quitting, effective immediately. I told him I'd help him pack. That's how infuriated he made me. Then he left and that looked like that, after all this time, that was how it was going to end here. But next day I realized we'd have to have at least a month's leeway time, for him to wrap up whatever he was working on and hand it over to somebody else. You ever heard of a lawyer with eight active cases just dropping everything? Well, that would've been a mess we couldn't deal with. Have to call in outside help to survive that one. So I wanted him sent up as soon as he got in next day but he never showed, so I had my secretary call down. He said he was packing and if I wanted to see him I'd damn well better come down."
"He said..." Claire trailed off. "You were waiting when he got in that morning."
"Ms. Kincaid. Claire. I have no doubt in my mind that that is how he remembers it."
"Could you tell me what happened next?" Claire felt a settling in her, as if all of her organs were moving south.
"I told him we needed a month. He told me if he receive better treatment around here and Egan we'd get nothing. He furthermore told me he wasn't about to play this 'I'll quit' game anymore; I had to be more fair about handing out the big fish or he would just pick up and leave. And you know what, Ms. Kincaid? I think he would."
"He...blackmailed you?"
Adam's face shrunk. "For shame, Ms. Kincaid. Not only do I not allow myself to be blackmailed, but I wouldn't call it that in the first place. McCoy called my bluff. He was right about the cases; Egan should have been his from the start. As usual, I didn't like his methods but he does get the results he wants."
She didn't care what Schiff thought about Jack's methods; he hadn't seen Jack act excited over lunch that next day, having bagged Egan, telling her a very different version of how he had gotten it. No wonder Adam had been more subdued lately, at least until today, when Jack had crossed the new line. The new line... thought Claire. I told him he had to find some other way of drawing the line in the sand...amazing...he listened to me. But she felt hurt. She was hurt. And she wondered just how much of whatever else Jack told her could be believed. "I see."
"So, Ms. Kincaid, far be it from me to tell you what you should do with your personal time. But I do not recommend this action of yours as a wise move up the ladder."
She wasn't dismissed, but Claire needed to get away from this, she needed to stand back and contemplate. She had to think. "Will you excuse me, Adam?"
"Of course," he told her, and looked genuinely sorry he had shaken her up that way. "Have a good night."
She pulled the door shut behind her.

Jack was brilliant the next day at summations. To illustrate just how wrong the jury would be if they set Egan free he tossed law books into a trash can and admonished the jurists that if they didn't vote to convict on this "near-perfect" case, then the law meant nothing more than so much garbage. Even through her simmering anger, even Claire could see this. She was still upset, but to ignore Jack when he was in his element would have taken something far more insulting than what Schiff had told her.
The night before she had left Schiff's office, thinking, and simply went home. She knew she had told Jack to meet her at Solly's, but she was so furious at that point that she did not care a bit if he waited uselessly. She had not answered her phone that evening, and this morning their ride up to Westchester had included no breakfasts and much early morning radio to fill the silence. She was still mad, though less so than the night before, and was not going to deign to explain to Jack why. She supposed on some levels it was not a real breach of trust -- he had told her what had happened, mostly, and just embellished parts. Though even that was not the whole truth: Jack had not just embellished, he had played on her emotions by lying. And that did not sit well. Had he asked what was wrong she would have told him to wait until after the trial that day, but Jack had not asked. He read his summation the whole ride up, memorizing it, choreographing it in his head. He blocked her out because he had to; while preparing for a summation Jack could not be bothered with personal issues. He had to perform for upwards of an hour that morning. Later, however, Claire knew they would have to talk again.
But she was really rather tired of talking. Wasn't it supposed to flow more easily than this?
Claire continued watching him as he strode towards the jury, then away, and their eyes were riveted. It was television come to life, Jack was conjuring up magical thoughts and images right before them and they could not avert their gaze. Claire had sat with him at trial before, watching this performance, and it never ceased to affect her. He would move his lean, changeable body around like a well-timed dancer, reaching and pulling the jury psychically from their seats, walking them through the tragedies gone by. Once Claire thought she could smell the acrid fumes of the gaseous arsenic mix, and she could picture Detectives Briscoe and Curtis walking through the rows and rows of bodies. Jack was very, very good. And by the time he finished, sitting down with authority next to her, she almost did not remember what had made her angry with him in the first place. Did it really matter how he got the case? Or what he told her later? Claire glanced over at him while the judge charged the jury, her eyes alight, staring at that marvelously regal profile, and after a moment he seemed to come down from his high of performance and felt her eyes on him. Slowly he turned, hesitant almost, and then a flicker of amazement came across his features when he saw how she was looking at him. He stared at her a good, lengthy minute, and slowly Claire nodded. But to what she was acquiescing, she could not say.

She found out.
"Come on," he told her, kicking the door closed with his foot. "Do that again."
"Do what again, Jack," she asked gently, a little fearfully.
"Give me that look you did in the courtroom. After the summation."
"I don't know if I can," she said.
He pressed his mouth against hers and she felt the warm tingle spread all through her body again. Yes, that was it, now she thought she could remember what had made her gaze at him that way, and forget everything Schiff had told her, it had been that controlled power he wielded, and that slight smile he had on his lips as he had sat down from the summation, knowing he had been as good as everyone thought he was. As soon as the court recessed and sent the jury to deliberations he had snatched up her hand and led her downstairs. "Where are we going?" she had asked.
"Just drive," he told her again, not unlike the voice he had used the night before, and she thought they were going to have to go someplace secluded to have the kind of fight she suspected they would now have. But she didn't feel like fighting him. She felt something different.
And so apparently had Jack. He led her to the main strip of the town and they drove about fifteen miles before he craned his neck and said, "Turn here."
She pulled in the parking lot, turning into a space, and Jack flipped the ignition off. Before them was a generically tall brick building with a tattered canopy on the outside and a hand-written 'Vacancy' sign in the window. "This," he said, "is a two dollar an hour hotel."
There was something more than intriguing about going from the tall columns, thick oak tables and marble floors of the courthouse to this sort of dump, and the fact that Jack had led her along through his sheer charisma and ability to dominate whatever situation he chose made her want him very badly. This was what she had been giving assent to in the courtroom, even though she had not known at the time. "Come on," he had told her.
The desk clerk gave them a hard stare; surely they looked too well-dressed to be at this place, but then he shrugged and handed Jack the keys to room 786. For the length of the transaction and all the way up the elevator all she had said to Jack was "two dollars an hour?"
To which he had replied, "Inflation. Now it's ten."
Now, in the room, with his hands on her shoulders, she thought of his summation again and attempted to gaze at him the way he wanted he to.
"That'll do," he said, and kissed her again. She felt the webbing of him encircle her, those unbreakable nylon threads encircling her mind and body and knew if he hadn't brought the two of them here they would have ended up doing this somewhere far less well shielded from the rest of the world. His lips traveled down her throat and his fingers played with her V-necked blouse, and then Claire had an idea. She pushed him away.
"My turn," she said, and pointed at the bed. "Sit."
He did, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on the dresser, and loosened his tie. Claire continued what he had started, slipping her beige jacket down and letting it tumble to the floor, then reached for the buttons on her shirt, undoing them without actually opening up her shirt. Jack took it all in, staring openly, and rested his hands on his knees, obviously enjoying every moment. She could tell he wanted her to hurry up, so she knelt in front of him as he sat on the bed and had a strange sense of deja vu. Jack looked down at her, vulnerable, eager, and then it came to her: this was how she found him that night he quit. Adam's conversation came back to her, and the summation faded. She sat back on her ankles.
"What's wrong," he asked, restrained.
"Nothing."
"Something is," he said. "The temperature of the room just dropped twenty degrees. Come on, Claire, don't leave me now."
"Why didn't you ask me about switching to your floor permanently?" It wasn't the real question, but it was a start.
He ran his hands through his hair. "Is this what Adam kept you after for?"
She nodded.
"Can we talk about this later?" he was impatient again, he wanted her and he didn't want to wait to work through the details. Claire heard it in his tone. When she didn't move, he blew a breath of air out from puffed cheeks. "I was going to tell you after I got the okay from Adam. All right? Is that everything? I just wanted to be sure it could be done without a major hassle." When she did not reply right away, he reached down and pulled her to him by her wrists, bringing her up on the bed with him, and spread her out against the sheets. "Will that do for now?"
It did take too much energy to fight with Jack for long. When he had his goal in sight, nothing would deter him. "Sure," she said, and that ended the discussion. Jack had her out of her clothes faster than she could remember having put them on, and they decorated the room as each one got tossed aside. The longer he manhandled her the more aroused she got and soon Claire was concentrating only on Jack, unbuttoning every single stupid button on his dress shirt, helping him with the cufflinks, and after what felt like several years they were finally unclothed, skin on skin, reaching and grabbing. It was not unlike the first night, Claire thought, when he had been desperate about giving up his job. But this was more athletic, more of an endurance test, and she felt him using the bed the same way she and Ben had used the tennis courts the other day, to get out pent-up emotional aggression. Once again, not until it was too late did she realize he was angry with her as well, for standing her up the next night, and though he obviously felt very strongly for her, was using this as to tell her what he could not put into words. That woke Claire up considerably, and she decided if she was angry there was no reason she couldn't fight back at him, too. She dug her nails into his back, kissing him hard, pushing him up against the backboard of the bed and grinding herself against him. Jack seemed bewildered at how out of nowhere she came to furious life and let her maul him back for awhile as she straddled him, holding him down with strength she hadn't realized she had.
After twenty minutes they were both exhausted and sweaty; the heaters in the room were blasting that dry, overpowering radiator heat and for a moment they separated, sitting on opposite ends of the bed, watching each other warily like tigers in a cage. Claire glared at him from under her eyelashes but felt oddly satisfied, as if she had gotten some of her own back. She wanted to summon the energy to go at it once again, to prove to him she could outdo him and after a moment, she crawled over the bed to Jack on all fours and craned into his face. "Ready?" she asked languidly and kissed the side of his face.
Jack pounced, that was the only word for it, he leapt forward and turned Claire completely around, so she was hanging over the side of the bed, slipping downwards and pulling the coverlet with her. Jack bent fully across her and as they kissed they toppled to the floor, hitting the nightable as they went, not feeling a thing. Jack's beeper fell to within inches of her ear but Claire hardly noticed, intent on his mouth and the rivulets of sweat trickling down from his hair. He gripped her so tightly that for a moment she almost could not breathe, and then he entered her again with no other preliminary, and came almost instantly. Exhausted, he tried to push himself from her and instead succeeded in only rolling slightly to the side. "You win," he said. "I give."
She couldn't resist, as worn as she was, and rested her fingers on his neck. "Say uncle."
"Uncle Claire."
"That'll do."
He wrapped his arms around her and she lay across his chest, breathing deeply of him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her head, and unconsciousness found them that way, on the floor, stained brown coverlet draped over them like an afterthought.

When she woke again the room was shaded in late afternoon sun and there was an odd humming under her leg. Sitting up painfully, aching already, she wiped her eyes and stared at Jack, still out cold, restful, arms still in the shape of where he had been holding her. Reaching under her calf she peeled the buzzing thing away -- it was Jack's beeper. Perhaps they should start calling them hummers, she mused and stared at the message on the top. It was from the office -- their Westchester office, the paralegal's extension.
Without rousing Jack she stood and lurched to the phone, dialing in.
A moment later she was shaking Jack and speaking his name. "You have to get up," she told him. "We have to go. Now."
Jack's eyes opened blearily and he tried to sit up. "Oh, shit," he said. "Get the license on that truck that ran me over."
She was already standing, tossing him his clothing. Jack's tie hit him in the face and he sat up quickly, holding his head in place. "Come on, Jack, we have to go now."
"I'm paid until two, you know."
"It's three," she told him, "and the jury's in."
His eyes widened. "You're joking."
"I am not."
"It's too goddamn soon."
"Can't be helped."
"We can't go like this," he said, and painfully got to his feet. "I can't go like this. You'll look great, I'm sure."
"I get the shower first," she cried, leaping to the bathroom.
He joined her in a moment, sharing the hot water and soap but both of them knew they couldn't do what they wanted in there; for once sharing a shower was merely a time-saving effort. Finished before he was Claire stared at her face in the mirror and tried to put makeup over the places Jack had made raw, her lips in particular, but she knew from the damp hair and slightly wrinkled clothing they would not stand up to much scrutiny. She came out of the bathroom as Jack was fitting on his cufflinks. "Where's my other goddamn cufflink?" he was grumbling, and reached under the bed, locating it and clipping it on properly. "Ready?"
"If you want to call it that." She reached over and tightened his tie, regarding him. "Well, I guess we both have it. No denying it, it's there."
"What's there?"
She turned him to the mirror behind the door and stood next to him. "We've got that just-fucked look all over."
"Christ."

If the jury noticed, no one commented. Egan came in guilty on all twenty counts.

Part Five