I do one night in solitary before the shuffle of paperwork starts and I get stuck in General Population at county. The weirdest thing; my last name got logged in as “Flynn”. They had no idea I was that Finn, a cop. Their mistake. Oops.

My plan to be all over the media has succeeded; my face is on television what seems like every fifteen seconds. It’s my bad luck there’s television at county. Nobody in an orange jumpsuit has any problem remembering either my name or my face.

After I get my ass sufficiently kicked they decide maybe I should be put in solitary for my own protection.

It’s a piss poor trade off. There are other kinds of monsters to fight off in solitary. And they all hit below the belt.
 

 The shirt’s stiff; I can barely tug the neck down and the feel of it against my skin makes me shudder.

One of the shitty facts about being arrested is that you leave in what you came in.

There’s not much smell left after almost 4 days. At least there’s that.
                                        

She looks tiny at the end of the hallway. The fluorescent lights make brutal shadows beneath her eyes and I see the light glint across them as she turns to look at me. It’s a long look, slow and appraising and I see her blink, startled~~ I doubt she’s ever been this far into a jail before and she’s stunned at the realities of it; the sounds, the smells, the dismalness. I can see her pulling back in and away from the heaviness surrounding her, mentally and physically, can see her absorbing and casting off the gloom and grit and sordidness of the place.

She gleams at the end of that hall. It’s like a piece of gold tossed down in ashes. I’m afraid to look because someone may decide I’m not worthy of the treasure. Someone… she may decide she doesn’t want to sign off on the responsibility of my liberation.

She watches me intently the whole journey there and of course they leave me in chains all the way out so I’m reduced to this pathetic little shuffle/limp with my hands at my waist poking out stiff. I stumble about halfway up the hall where the thin carpet has rolled up, my feet not real clear on what my head is trying to tell them after so many days without real sleep or decent food. I go down hard because all I’ve got to break the fall is my face.

The jailer jerks me up by the elbow and I try to blink the sting out before my brain decides it might have been pain and let him shove me forward. I look up, humiliated and see she has kindly turned her face to the paperwork.

She doesn’t look at me as I limp/am shoved to the counter and I’m grateful.

I could lay my head down and weep, I am so grateful.

The lap top is, of course, missing from my duffel. I can barely muster up the energy it takes to tell the clerk; I haven’t spoke in two days and my voice comes out feathery and cracked.

He silently shoves a sheet of paper across to me and I fill out a form describing missing property then slide it back. I rummage through the bag again and realize the manila envelope with Jinny’s letters to Sylvie is missing also.

I’m too tired to figure out if I should ask for it back or never admit to having seen them.

She’s silent as we wait for the clerk to process me out. I can feel her eyes picking over me from the side, taking stock of bruises and scrapes. She knows better than to try and touch me now and she doesn’t ask.

The only time she seems to start is when I inquire about the Glock.

Glock? He’s not showing any weapons on my booking sheet. I silently dig out my Department ID and my concealed handgun permit and show them.

I don’t have the energy to attempt an explanation or argument about the Glock not being turned in by Officer Van Zandt with the rest of my things and after a brief pause he slides the missing property request form back across.
 

I’m glad to discover it’s dark outside.

I stop for a moment on the steps, trying to adjust my head to the vastness of empty space around me and realize I’m standing there with my hands at waist level, wrists together, fingers splayed, as if I’m still chained.

I shove them into my pockets and wonder where my jacket disappeared to, shaking slightly.

“Cold?” Weaver asks voice gentle and I shrug.

“Car’s close,” she says and I follow her, silent.

I want to tell her I love the way she drives but I don’t have the words yet.

She’s fast, smooth and efficient; I can see her lean into the turns slightly, unthinking, the car an extension of her body. She never fails to signal a lane change or turn and she has no fear of tight spaces; she zips the car in and around and between, silent, all controlled focus, intent and concentration.

I bet this is what she’s like in the ER.

I lay my head back against the seat and stare out the window and feel as if I’ve been swallowed whole, alive but not kicking.

It’s an amber San Francisco I look out at; the clouds are low and dense and the city lights are reflected back and it gleams like a molten topaz snow globe. I put a finger up and press it to the window over the line of the freeway stripes and marvel; that SF road department crews and Kerry Weaver are so in sync because the lines stay merged as one.

It never even occurs to me to ask where she’s taking me.

What I want is sleep but my head won’t go there yet, not convinced it’s a safe habit to indulge.

I let her show me upstairs and try to not seem wide eyed and terrified at the idea of Legaspi suddenly popping up to shrinky dink me; I can’t take it right now. I’ll implode.

She’s mostly been silent, which is a relief because jail is a constant onslaught and invasion of sounds, even in solitary, but once we’re in her home the silence of it begins to terrify me.

When she leaves the room I sit on the edge of the bed and bounce, but the sound of the box springs squeaking evokes some cloudy memory I don’t want to deal with so I slide off and sit on the floor, staring straight ahead at the baseboards of the wall between the end of the dresser and the closet door.

I’ve suffered a melt down.

I’ve melted and run and bits of me have wept down the sides of some unfathomable emotional slope and are hanging there, beaded and damp, waiting.

I can’t shower.

I can’t handle the concept of being wet, naked and inside a slippery environment. I’m in some sort of weird free fall already. I can’t tolerate any further compromise of safety.

So I take the sleeping things she’s left me and put them on after a perfunctory rub down of wash rag to the pertinent areas. I sniff the shirt and am pleased there’s a faint scent of Weaver there, probably just from her hands, but it’s comforting so I shove my nose under the collar and try to gather enough of me up to string some coherent thoughts together.

I experiment with actually laying in the bed and find I am vibrating, every muscle tense and rigid, waiting, because my body refuses to believe my brain that we can relax now, we’re safe, we can sleep.

An hour or so later I give it up; the door makes a faint creaking noise when I open it but the room down the hall stays silent, the door shut, the band beneath it black against the carpet.

I stick to the inner edge of the wall down the stairs, the place least likely to creak or moan.

It comes to me about halfway down that I am utterly defenseless; my Glock’s missing in action. I feel naked and helpless and distraught and then I wonder what I think I’ll have to defend myself against here.

The idea leaves me blank and shaken and I put my back against the wall and ride waves of panic with my toes gripping the stair board like a surfer riding out a curl of white foam. It dawns on me suddenly that I am on the exact stair where I broke Legaspi’s arm and then I’m terrified because I can’t remember anymore; the why and how and when of it have evaporated. I push my hands against the sound I know I’m going to make soon; that low wailing keening howl and I know that if I make it right now I won’t be able to stop for a long time.

It’s like choking down something solid; thick, viscous, palatable. I put a fist against my lips and get it stopped and I’m panting in relief when I realize the shadow at the foot of the stairs has taken shape and a step up towards me and there’s a terrible moment of fear and nameless dread mixed with resignation.

She clears her throat, uneasily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sca~~”

It’s automatic; my heart lurches with an audible dizzying boom of adrenaline and my muscle units take their cue from that. Three half seconds after the command from my brain to my body goes out I know who it is and know it’s unnecessary but it’s too late; I’ve kicked a leg out from under her and have her by the throat, bent slightly backwards over the pine topped stair well. I feel dizzy and horrified as the leg I kicked pops away easily and then bounces on the tiles at the bottom of the stairs and I turn to look at it, bewildered, then grasp it was the crutch I’ve just sent flying.

“Cooper.” Her voice is very calm. “Let me go.”

I can feel her pulse beating up underneath one thumb; it’s fast and hard and terrified. There’s light slanting in from the street and from a gas light in the back yard and it limns her profile in amber and streaks the red hair with gold and silver.

“Let go,” she repeats, voice stern and disapproving and unwavering. “I scared you. I apologize. But you know it’s me now, so let go.”

It’s another two seconds before I can make my hand unclench and in the breathless interim before, she blinks once, very slowly, as if worried even that small movement might be misconstrued as something threatening.

It’s ironic that when she lifts a hand I’m the one who flinches.

I suck my breath in shrilly and cringe back, slamming against the wall with both shoulders and even in the dim light I can see the expression of shock and stunned surprise on her face. She’s more undone and perplexed by me reeling back from her than she was by my gripping her around the throat in panic. She blinks at me, wordless and then reaches slowly over my right side and flicks a light switch on, so the landing five steps below is lit and us with it.

“I was reaching for the switch,” she tells me softly, pulling the hand back slowly as if not to startle me again.

I nod. Rather wildly. If I put my hands down that noise is going to start. I can hear it in my head already; then I realize I hear it because it’s chewing itself up the back of my throat. I slide down and push my face into my knees and will it back and beg my brain to find the little guy that flips the switches and herd him down this particular hallway, pronto.

One of her knees pops as she lowers herself down on the stairs, gripping the railing with one hand and balancing on her fingertips with the other, her stronger leg easing her down gently and the weak one stretched out over the steps in front of us.

She’s silent until I get the noise stopped; I look out from behind my hands and see she’s just sitting there, looking at a place on the wall somewhere behind me, composed. There’s no shushing, no placating, no telling me everything is fine, no insistence to stop or be quiet. I remember the night at McCafferty’s, when she’d paused at the couch and told me to cry it out; no false promise of cure; no attempt to soothe inanely. Just “cry it out”.

When I get it under control and can lower my hands a fraction her eyes flit sideways and meet mine. Instead of an absurd, “Are you okay?” she instead asks quietly, “Any better?”

I nod and swipe at my eyes just in case they’ve teared up. They’re dry, but sometimes I can’t tell the difference without that tangible proof.

“What did they do to you?”

Her voice is very low and controlled and mild.

I blink and shrug. My voice cracks when I answer, “Solitary.”

One red brow lowers slightly in a mystified line, before she smiles with a sad little shake of the head.

“That’s not the ‘they’ I was referring to, but it’s a start.”
 

“These really should be x-rayed,” she observes, voice distracted and mild.

We’re in the kitchen and after some gentle persuasion which has left me feeling more wounded than if she’d hauled off and decked me and demanded it, I’ve lifted the tee shirt and let her prod and probe my bruised ribs.

She pauses and looks up at me questioningly and I shake my head.

“Okay.” She pulls back and lets her eyes dart over the other areas of visible skin, searching. There’s something very detached and comforting about it; almost as if I’m being scanned by a noncommittal, very complicated bit of smoothly-run machinery. I manage to not flinch when she lifts a hand, frowning and prods carefully behind my left ear.

“This contusion… “She drifts off but the question is evident so I marshal inner resources and produce actual sounds.

“Kicked.”

She nods. Her lips make an angry line as her head jerks sharply up and down in a nod. I feel dizzy and battered until I realize she’s not angry with me and then I feel confused.

“Who?”

It’s a terse one syllable question, the voice hard and strained.

I shrug and shake my head, bewildered. I didn’t know her. She didn’t know me. Maybe I bore some minute resemblance to some female cop she bears a grudge against. Maybe the herd instinct took over and she was afraid someone might think she was holding back. Maybe the opportunity to kick some cop’s ass that she doesn’t have to worry about meeting up on the streets here was just too much to resist.

None of it makes any difference, anyway.

It’s gradually dawned on me that Legaspi isn’t in the house; it isn’t so much that we’ve made noise which should have drawn her downwards but more a certain watchfulness and alertness on the part of Weaver.

I try to fathom out why this quiet guardedness doesn’t perturb and annoy me and realize with shock it’s because it is not directed at me, not about me, but for me.

That leaves me reeling; astounded and mute.

I have no idea what to do with a Dr. CIA who has for whatever reasons gone into Protect Cooper Mode.
 

“They’re constantly pregnant.” Weaver muses, gesturing with a cracker at the television, where she’s paused on the Weather Channel. “Have you noticed?”

If it’s possible she may be a more avid channel surfer than I am; she doesn’t pause it over fifteen seconds on anything. The sound is muted and the steady flick and blink of light from the screen is hypnotizing.

We’re sitting on the floor in front of the sofa facing the television. She’s sliced cheese and laid it out on a plate with crackers, olives and apple wedges, insisting I eat. I’m too shaken by what took place on the stairs to argue with her; my thumb print stands out on her throat in deep purple-blue. I’m not sure why my drinking milk and eating Colby cheese and olives makes her feel better, but if so, I can do it.

“You know what’s worrying me more than those ribs I’d like x-rayed?”

It’s asked in a conversational tone, casually, in the same voice she’s used to comment on the various commercials and programs she’s briefly paused on. I now know more than I could ever have dreamed possible about Kerry Weaver’s television/commercial likes and dislikes. Gatorade advertisements good; Sprint’s spots featuring ex-jocks, country and western musicians and the Always Annoying Alf; bad. Mountain Dew’s excellent; the singing chip dude for Pringles, bad.

I glance at her and then look back at the television when I see she’s watching me intently from an uncomfortably close distance.

“You haven’t asked a single question.”

I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them and stare at the pregnant blonde forecaster who silently gestures at a low pressure system in the Midwest before the pregnant black forecaster takes over describing the dry line dipping down from Colorado into Texas.

“Cooper.”

I sigh and lean forward, putting my face against my legs and rock myself a couple of times.

I should be asking questions; I know that. I should be wondering why she picked me up, why she brought me here to her home, who had to fork out the dough for the bail money and how much so I can pay them back. I should be asking if Jinny is alright, if Sylvie has gone into Rehab, how pissed off McCafferty is at me, what sort of fall out she has taken from her chain of command for backing me, if anyone from the Department has shown up on CNN or Headline News with a statement in regards to my suspension and my attack on Massey caught on tape.

I should be asking all kinds of questions and making plans to contact S’Phear and preparing to gather up the shreds and piece together what I can as atonement for all the many ways I have fucked up. I should be wondering what I’m going to do and where and how… but doing that means dealing with the repercussions and having to face whatever the answers are.

“Yeah,” I say to my knees when she says my name again. I grind my teeth trying to figure out what to ask, what question is the least loaded.

“I don’t mean for you to sit there and come up with something,” she says suddenly, realizing what is occupying my attention. “I’m saying it worries me that you haven’t.”

“Yeah. Okay. The blood work~~ You get the results?”

There’s silence and I turn my head on my knees to peer at her, curiously.

There’s a strange mix of anxiety, resignation and impatience in the look she gives me.

“Of course.”

I nod and put my face back into my knees and I think maybe what I feel is relief. At least that one charge can be repudiated and maybe lifted. I don’t have much hope of the young cop coming through for me; the odds are against it. I’ve racked a senior officer’s balls on live television now; the lines are drawn. It’s turned into more than just him standing up to his FTO and that would be hard enough.

I feel momentarily panicked that I can’t think of his name and then decide it doesn’t matter since I’m not likely to ever see or hear from him again.

I freeze when I feel the hand on my head pulling hair very gently away from my face. The hand is hesitant, cautious and I think that’s the only reason I can bear it; it’s as difficult for her to reach out as it is for me to sit still and accept. I beat back waves of panic and just let her do it and have almost been lulled into calmness when she speaks and makes me jump although her voice is low and calm.

“Of all the questions you must have right now, why that one? And don’t just shrug, Cooper. And don’t look at me like that either. It’s not a test. There’s no wrong answer. I’m not setting you up, I’m just curious to see if you know why you asked me that one question in particular.”

I shrug before I can stop myself.

She sits back, leaning against the sofa’s front, eyeing me, forehead puckered mildly. I can’t tell if she’s suppressing a smile or concealing a frown as she shakes her head briefly.

When she speaks her voice is measured and even. “You asked me that because you knew the answer already. There’s no risk attached to that question. “

She gives me less than twenty seconds to digest that before saying, “Now, I want you to ask me something you don’t already know the answer to. Ask me something chancy.”

Why the hell are you doing this? is the first thing which pops into my head but I dismiss it and try to reach past the insidious mental blankness and panic and hang onto a question long enough to ask it.

“How much was the bail?”

“Better,” she smiles. “Twenty thousand.”

That puts my head up. “Twenty thousand? Shit…” I feel sick. I might have a couple of grand in savings but that’s it.

I turn my face back into my knees and groan. “Fuck. Who do I owe? Who paid it?”

“Ask a different question. That one’s not really important right now.”

I snort and scrub at my face with both hands. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to ask since I’m obviously sucking at it.”

There’s a noise and I risk a sideways peek at her and am astounded she’s grinning.

“I knew you were in there somewhere.” To my amazement she leans and ruffles my hair a little, still half-laughing. She doesn’t look anything like Dr. CIA at the moment.

“Now ask me something else.”

I stare at the Weather Channel and take a deep breath.

“How’s Jinny?”

I can’t look at her as I wait for the answer.

“Jinny’s good. I’m guessing you’ll see that for yourself in~~” she glances at her watch, “~~just a few hours. Keep going.”

There’s nothing else to ask. I owe someone a lot of money but Jinny’s good. That about covers it.

I say something like this aloud and then jump startled when she slams a hand palm down on the sofa seat behind us. I’m amazed to see she’s furious. The green eyes are on laser high beam and I’m reminded of the EMT at the crash scene saying something about Weaver being capable of performing surgery with a look. The look I’m getting at the moment threatens to separate my head from my shoulders; visual decapitation.

“No, Cooper. That’s not it. That’s not all. Think for a moment. What have you left out here?”

I stare at her bewildered. And shake my head and shrug, mystified.

“Think,” she repeats, glaring at me and I look at her helplessly and shrug again.

“You. You left off you.”

She spits the words out as if it should have been obvious and whatever expression is on my face must clue her in that I have no earthly idea what she’s talking about.

“You were just incarcerated for almost four days. You’ve had the absolute crap beat out of you. You were charged with driving under the influence but your blood didn’t show so much as a Rolaids in at least forty eight hours but the newspapers read there was alcohol and drugs in the vehicle. A young man by the name of Jordan Mennie showed up at the hospital maybe two hours after your blood work and asked to speak to me about the results, wanted to know if~~”

“Mennie,” I interrupt her and I can’t keep the grin from slowly spreading across my face. “That’s it. He showed up at the hospital?”

“Yes. He wanted the blood work results.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say, delighted. “And did he look shocked when you told him?”

“No. He looked sick. Don’t change the subject. The discrepancy there between the police report and your blood work tells me~”

“Was he in uniform?”

“What?”

“Mennie. Was he in uniform?”

She frowns, shaking her head and then grips her nose at the bridge. “No. He identified himself as a police officer though. Said he was there at the accident.” She waits to see if I have any more questions but I’m done for the moment.

Off duty. He went on his own time. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

“Your blood work tells me you weren’t under the influence of anything and I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough to drive around San Francisco with a bottle of vodka and a bag of whatever kind of drug it was~”

“I think he said it was meth.”

“Who said? He who?”

“The other cop. Van Zandt. The one that dropped it in there with the alcohol.”

She looks like she’d love to whack me upside the head.

“You’re telling me that a police officer deliberately placed some kind of drugs in your vehicle after the accident.” It’s said flatly, not a question and I nod.

“Yep. He knew who I was when he looked at my name. Massey probably put his last kid through college, fuck~~ Massey probably bought that bottle of vodka for him.”

“And you spent four days in jail and never mentioned this or brought it up or called anyone…” she drifts off and lifts her hands in question and I shake my head, bewildered.

“Who would I call? My Department suspended me before the accident or the deal with Massey.”

“What?”

“They suspended me. I called in and they were pissed because I was supposed to go back to Texas days earlier~~ My Lieutenant ordered me back after I told him I’d found the tape in the shoe. He told me to put the tape back, write the whole thing up for McCafferty and let her handle it. I wasn’t even supposed to listen to it. I was told to put it back and leave and I didn’t and I called in and…” I tear at the already ragged skin around my thumb nail and sigh, hard. “And I got stupid. I lost my temper. Said some shit. Basically, I’m fired.” I finish.

She’s silent for so long it makes me nervous and I finally look at her and groan.

“I can’t take that look. Say something.”

She glares at me and pops the hand on the sofa again before responding. “I can’t. I’m too angry with you. I can’t believe how furious I am with you right now.”

I watch her shove a hand through her hair, leaving it standing in short feathery spikes as she gazes at me in silence.

“What?” I ask cautiously and grip my bare toes in my fingers. For the life of me I can’t think of anything in all that to have made her so angry.

“You spent four days in jail getting the shit kicked out of you on false charges and you didn’t try to tell anyone.”

Her voice is measured and flat and seething with rage. I’m completely confused and shrug and shake my head and ask it again, “Who would I call?”

“Me. You could have called me.”

She shoves herself up rather nimbly considering the crutch and I watch in amazement as she stomps across the room and jams a finger at the television. The red headed and pregnant forecaster disappears in a horizontal flash.

“You could have called me, Cooper. I could have got an attorney and got you out at least a day, maybe two sooner if I’d had that information. If you’d called then I could have had somewhere to start, known what was happening. As it was they told me they didn’t even have a Cooper Finn under arrest the first two days.”

I snort. “Yeah. I heard.”

She waits for an explanation and I shrug for the hundredth time and she throws a hand up in exasperation.

“Don’t do that. Don’t just shrug as if nothing happened and everything is fine when it did and it isn’t. Tell me; why didn’t you at least put us down on your visitor’s list? Not me, not Kate~~ not even Jinny was on it. You’re in law enforcement. You know how this works. Only the people on the list get in and there was no one on your list. Why were none of us on there?”

I start to shrug and then think better of it when her head flies up furiously.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I guess I just~~”

“What?”

Fuck. I put a hand up and grip it with the other to stop the trembling in it and then duck my face into the shirt’s collar up to the nose.

“Say it.”

She’s standing right over me, her face a deadly shade of white, the green eyes brilliant.

“Say it.”

“I was afraid.” My voice comes out low and subdued and more than a little sullen.

She leans over me, nodding her head. “Yes. Of what?”

I clear my throat and blink back what feels suspiciously like tears and then realize in horror that it’s too late anyway, I’m fucked; they’re already sliding off into the shirt.

“That nobody would come.”

To my amazement she’s smiling as if I’ve completed some difficult assignment. I glare at her as I swipe at my face. She leans towards the lamp table and plucks out a couple of tissues and hands them to me, grinning happily.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Oh, fuck you.” It comes out rather pathetically sad and forlorn and she throws her head back and laughs.

“That was the scariest thing you’ll ever do. You admitted weakness.”

“Yeah? Well, are you happy?”

She puts her head to one side, considering.

“I believe I am.” She pauses, brows puckering slightly. “Although I’d be happier if you’d let me x-ray those ribs and maybe a CAT scan to check that contusion behind your ear for interior bleeding. Since you’re asking.”

“Fuck you,” I manage to get out again, but I’m really crying now, more than slightly hysterical at the gigantic hole she’s just bored through the wall I keep between Me and Everyone Else. I pull the shirt up and duck my head all the way inside it, hiding, then nearly leap out of my own skin when there’s a soft thump beside me as she drops onto the carpet.

“I’ll just be right here. You know, if you need me.” I feel an arm go loosely around my shoulders, mostly resting on the sofa. I’m stunned to find it doesn’t feel invasive and I’m not angry which translates that I’m not afraid.

I give up after two or three very snotty, chest-imploding gulps and scoot slightly nearer and when the arm comes around and settles me against her shoulder I let myself lean into her, wearily and let her rock me gently from side to side.

“There you go,” she murmurs soothingly. “That’s not so bad is it? Cry it out.”

“I hate to cry.”

It comes out in more of a pathetic, despondent wail than the stern, impassioned declaration I had intended and I feel her shake with silent laughter before she pats my shoulder tranquilly.

“Yeah? Well, resistance is futile. Give it up.”

Weaver imitating Seven of Nine convulses me, striking me as funny on more levels than my tired brain can fathom at the moment. The laughter turns into even more extravagant sobs and Weaver serenely rocks me.

It occurs to me when I am one slow half blink away from sleep.

I feel safe.

And it’s amazing.



End of 44