Welcome to my neurosis.

Never underestimate the effect of a nattily-dressed man.

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 07:09:24 GMT

AKA, 13 icons of Michael Cutter in a vest.

If you would like any of these, please
1. Comment!
2. Credit fearciuil, and
3. Do not hotlink.


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13

Anybody want a go at deciphering this?

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 04:41:35 GMT

I've got the first bit--the stuff that's in pen--but then, it gets ... squirrelly.

"Oratio ad D. N. J. C. Crucifixum

“En ego, o bone et dulcissime Jesu, ante conspectum tuum genibus me provolvo….”

If you're curious, this is what a previous owner inscribed in the flyleaf of the copy of the Liber Usualis that ended up in my possession (after a jaunt through the hands of an amazon.com marketplace seller. I've owned it for ... um ... well, amazon says since March of 2001. It was printed in 1934.)

[6] icons of Michael Cutter

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 03:57:41 GMT

I haven't iconed Cutter in a while ... I suppose I was distracted by *ahem* a pair of Norwegian fishermen. But searching through my pics this evening for polkadotsnplaid yielded a pair of screencaps I had intended to icon, so here are the results. Usual rules; if you want 'em, please

1. Comment
2. Credit
3. Do not hotlink

Thank you!


1	2	3	4	5	6

Links to the Borgia Cantus arc in Pibgorn

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 04:44:28 GMT

For those readers who have just recently become fans of Pibgorn, the following links are to the entirety of the Borgia Cantus arc, which ran from 2003-08-11 through 2004-01-16 and on which the current arc seems to be based.

Week 01: [Monday]    [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 02: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 03: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]    [Saturday]
Week 04: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]    [Saturday]
Week 05: [Monday]    [Tuesday]    [Wednesday]     [Thursday]    [Friday]    [Saturday]

Week 06: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 07: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 08: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]    [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 09: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 10: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]

Week 11: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 12: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 13: [Monday]    [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 14: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 15: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]

Week 16: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 17: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 18: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 19: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 20: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]

Week 21: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 22: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]    [Friday]     [Saturday]
Week 23: [Monday]     [Tuesday]     [Wednesday]     [Thursday]     [Friday]    finis

Random Post of Christmas Randomness, Vol. 12 and last

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 07:23:18 GMT

Tomorrow begins Epiphany, so happy Last Day of Christmas!

So there are more than twelve. Sue me. O_o

Open letter

Fri, 02 Jan 2009 01:39:44 GMT

Dear local news outlets,

Okay, I realize that a large portion of your reader/viewership is rabidly awaiting developments in the story of the recently-fired football coach. It seems to me, however, that this is a bit more important. You might at least mention it.

Frustratedly yours,
fear-ciuil

3 icons from 19x04, "Falling"

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 04:55:19 GMT

If you want them, comment, credit and no hotlinking, please.

ETA: They're cooler now, aren't they? I'm much happier with them.

Iconzez!!!!

Sat, 29 Nov 2008 05:21:46 GMT

Mostly from 9 Chickweed Lane, with one Jack McCoy. Usual rules: if you want 'em, comment, credit and no hotlinking, plz! Kthxbai.










EDIT: I cleaned up the Chickweed icons, removing the remnants of speech/thought bubbles (and the edge of the frame, in one), and added a couple more Evil Grin icons.

Oh, and one last thing: Law & Order belongs to Dick Wolf et al., and 9 Chickweed Lane belongs to Brooke McEldowney. I make no money here.

Advice and an extra

Fri, 28 Nov 2008 02:24:38 GMT

First, seeking advice: I'm starting to look into new appliances. Anyone have any thoughts? Any brand/model you love/hate/would avoid like the plague because it self-destructed the minute the warranty was up? Any stores you love/hate/would avoid like the plague because they're ridiculously expensive/have sucky return policies/offer crappy warranties/selection sucks?

And by "appliances," I mean washer/dryer, refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher. (I think that's it.)

Second, I've been iconing 9 Chickweed Lane and managed to get these four in sequence:

Like mother, like daughter, no? (::giggle::)

(Oh, and if you want 'em, snag 'em--just comment, credit and no hotlinking, please.)

Thank you.

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 03:47:29 GMT

All ye veterans and active service people, thank you. Without you, and the sacrifices you've made and are currently making, my country would be the worse.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— Lt.-Col. John McCrae, 1915

—————————————

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

"Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate--we can not consecrate--we can not hallow--this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add of detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for uss to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

— Abraham Lincoln, 1863

When they respond to fans....

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 19:21:38 GMT

... and in this case, by "they," I mean, "Brooke McEldowney." First, read the comments here (it'll take you a while--it's quite an active board; look for any of the comments regarding the placement of Luciano's foot in relation to Inky's posture. You may have to go back to here.) Then, read his resonse here.

Thank you for clearing that up, sir. I'd doff my hat to you....

... but I seem to have lost it.

ETA: If you're at all interested in the artistry of comics, you need to be reading Mr. McEldowney's work: both Pibgorn and 9 Chickweed Lane. The man is a master.

ETA2: Mr. McEldowney himself showed up in today's comments for Pibgorn!!! Sa-weet!
(And, among other things, announced that he's establishing a blog for 9 Chickweed Lane at http://chickweedcafe.blogspot.com)

YAY!!!!!!!

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 23:37:17 GMT

I suspect most of you on the f-list who are interested are also on apocrypha, but....

Law & Order Season 6 is due out Dec. 2nd! About time!!!

Linus looking "bendy"

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 06:25:51 GMT

I don't know if perpet_fic is going to wander over here, but in light of tonight's ... er, threading, I thought I'd post it.

(Many thanks to clearbell for finding this pic; it's taken from here.)

Icons

Sun, 03 Aug 2008 07:19:24 GMT

I'm playing at being ... frugal ... and sticking to the free account on LJ, which means I only have 15 icon spaces. I've made boatloads, though. So here's an icon post, in the hopes that someone can make use of them. (Feel free to snag anything that catches your fancy ... just please credit me.)

The Michael A. Cutter icons:

The John J. McCoy icons:

The McCoy/Cutter icons:

The McCoy/Cutter/Rubirosa icons:

The Sig Hansen icons:

(So I think men's hands are sexy. So sue me.)

Happy half-birthday, Clearbell!

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 00:42:03 GMT

What? I'm only ... uh, five days early. ("Half-birthday" is what my students call it.) ; )

Anyway ... standard disclaimer applies. Not mine.

“Oh my God, Daddy! It’s him! It’s Guy Carbonneau!”

“Leave the man alone, honey. I’m sure he wants to eat in peace.”

Carbo half-turned, quickly spotting the father-daughter pair at the counter of the deli. The father was tall, several inches taller than Carbo was himself, with receding brown hair and eyes that screamed BLUE! even from across the room; the daughter looked to be in her late teens, brown-haired like her father, and she was rattling off stats without taking breath: “And in 1986, he won the Stanley Cup with the Canadiens, and he’s won the Frank J. Selke trophy twice—that’s for top defensive lineman in the league—and this year, he was made Captain of the Canadiens, and….”

Turning back to his lunch, he made eye contact with Brian Skrudland, who simply looked amused.

—————————————

Ben Stone was a master at studying people, able to do so without seeming to. He and his daughter took a table away from the dark-haired and -eyed hockey player, yet facing him; she was still chattering nonstop. He listened with the same bemused patience he’d employed since she first learned to talk and unobtrusively watched the subject of the monologue, trying to understand her fascination.

Maybe if I were female?

“Daddy, would you get his autograph for me?” she asked suddenly, and he brought his attention back to her.

“His autograph?” he repeated, and she nodded anxiously.

“Please?”

He sat back and set down his sandwich, regarding his daughter with a wearied resignation. “What do you want him to autograph? Your magazine?”

She touched the April 13^th issue of The Hockey News that she’d happened to spot—and then begged shamelessly for. “Do you think he’d mind?”

Stone sighed. “I daresay he’s used to it by now.” He pulled the magazine towards him and stood, instinctively straightening his tie.

—————————————

“Excuse me … Mr. Carbonneau?”

“Told you,” Skrudland muttered, and Carbo half-smiled. Tuning, he found himself facing the father he’d noticed earlier. He was holding a familiar issue of The Hockey News and looking apologetic.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you, but … would you sign this for my daughter?”

“Of course,” Carbo replied graciously, in his Quebec accent. “Do you have a pen?”

The father quickly located one in the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it over.

“And who should I make it to?”

“Lisa,” the father replied. Carbo nodded, still smiling, and bent over the magazine for a moment.

“Are you attending tonight’s game?” he asked, handing back the magazine.

“She is,” the father responded, a hint of discomfort in his tone. “I will if I can—if my job allows it.”

“What do you do?”

There was the barest of hesitations. “I’m a prosecutor.”

“Well, I hope you can make it.”

“Thank you, sir.” The father accepted the pen and the magazine and returned to his table, where his daughter eagerly took the magazine, looked at it, and excitedly hugged her father.

The father met Carbo’s eyes and smiled.

—————————————

A/N: Okay, that was considerably harder to write than I was expecting--not the least because it took me a solid week to get to a writable concept. Plus, it feels weird to fanfic real people, be it your real-world obsession (Carbo) or mine (Sig Hansen).

Anyway, happy birthday, and enjoy!

FIC: Explosive, Part 43/43

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 11:20:01 GMT

Link to [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] [Part 17] [Part 18] [Part 19] [Part 20] [Part 21] [Part 22] [Part 23] [Part 24] [Part 25] [Part 26] [Part 27] [Part 28] [Part 29] [Part 30] [Part 31] [Part 32] [Part 33] [Part 34] [Part 35] [Part 36] [Part 37] [Part 38] [Part 39] [Part 40] [Part 41] [Part 42]

It was amazing, Cutter mused, what comfort there could be in the touch of another human being. He was grateful for all that McCoy had done for him, and he knew he couldn’t have managed the past four days without that help, but it wasn’t the same.

After dinner, he and Rubirosa had packed the few things he’d accumulated—his new wallet, shaving kit, toothbrush, two changes of clothes—and changed the sheets on the guest bed, throwing the used linens in the laundry basket. Then, with words of thanks, they left McCoy’s apartment. The older man had stopped him with a handshake that had turned into a one-armed hug, assuring him that he was always welcome.

Cutter flushed slightly and smiled, unsure if he was pleased or embarrassed.

They’d hailed a cab and gone straight to Rubirosa’s apartment, she with her suitcase and he with the large shopping bag containing his belongings. From there, they’d each unpacked—straight into the laundry in both cases—and cuddled on the couch for a while before retiring.

Rubirosa, exhausted from more than two days with next to no sleep, had dropped off immediately. Cutter, only slightly less tired, still lay awake, listening to the soft susurration of her breathing, a slight smile on his face. After a time, he shifted forward slowly and breathed in her scent before gently kissing her bare shoulder where it emerged from the cotton tank top she wore; shifting closer, he spooned into her and settled, his arm and injured hand draped gently around her waist.

Contented, finally feeling that perhaps his world would survive after all, he closed his eyes.

He smiled gently as he drifted to sleep.

—————————————

finis

FIC: Explosive, Part 42/43

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 10:59:11 GMT

Rubirosa returned to her room to pack as soon as the funeral was over—she would be leaving the vineyard before dawn the next day in order to make her 7:05 AM flight out of Barcelona. Aron had agreed to drive her to the airport, and her father would accompany them. Tío Benicio did appear to see her off, though he was still a little gruff and stiff in his manner; she hadn’t yet been forgiven.

She didn’t care. It did bother her that she hadn’t been able to tell anyone in New York that she was coming home.

The hustle of an airport was the same everywhere, and she disappeared into it quickly after bidding her brother and father farewell, and promising to bring Mike over for dinner sometime.

The first leg of her journey was short; it was just over an hour in the air from Barcelona to Madrid, and she had an almost five-hour layover.

It’s better than listening to Tío Benny try to convince me of my responsibility to the family for three hours, she thought. The flight to Newark didn’t depart until 1:05, so she managed a little breakfast, and some shopping—Mike is going to need some clothes anyway—and even a light lunch before boarding time.

She ended up wearing the coat she’d bought for Mike on the plane, which was freezing by the time they were an hour into the almost nine-hour flight. She alternated reading and dozing, waking fully when the captain announced their final approach.

Once out of the plane, she tried again to call McCoy—and again, got his answering machine. She told the machine that she’d arrived safely, and would drop by his place in an hour or so.

—————————————

“You want something to eat?”

“Not really hungry.”

McCoy sighed. He supposed this Cutter was an improvement over the one who had appeared the day before and tried to take heads off just for breathing, but not by much. “You need to eat something.”

Cutter shrugged listlessly. “I’m fine with whatever.”

McCoy looked to Cynthia, who was watching from the kitchen door. She shrugged.

He started at the sound of a knock at the door. Frowning, he crossed the living room and peered through the peephole; with a sly glance at Cutter, he opened the door.

“You made it,” he commented, and the newcomer replied,

“I wasn’t sure you were getting my messages.”

Cutter’s head whipped around, staring intently at the open door.

“I got them this morning,” McCoy said. “Sorry about that. You want to come in?”

Rubirosa stepped inside, wearing a new coat and pulling a wheeled suitcase. She offered Cutter an uncertain smile.

He stared at her.

“How’ve you been?” she asked awkwardly.

He stared at her.

“He’s been pretty damned unpredictable, that’s how he’s been,” McCoy growled when it became clear that Cutter wouldn’t answer. “You want something to eat? We were going to order takeout, and I can’t get him to make a decision.”

“That sounds great,” she responded gratefully. “Anything but Spanish….”

His eyes twinkled at that, but he didn’t press her. Instead, he moved back toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Chinese?”

“That … sounds great.”

He and Cynthia disappeared toward the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind themselves and leaving Cutter and Rubirosa alone. Only then, and stiffly, did he stand, his expression still one of startled expectation.

“Mike, I—”

He didn’t let her finish, instead closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms around her. Even through the thick black wool coat she wore, she could feel him trembling faintly.

“Mike?”

“I missed you,” he said softly, like a small child, his voice muffled by the coat. She was suddenly uncomfortably certain that he was crying.

“Shh,” she soothed, reaching up to stroke his hair. “I’m home now.”

His trembling increased and he clung to her. A moment later, a sob escaped; if he hadn’t been crying before, he definitely was now.

It was several minutes before he regained control. Stepping back, he swiped at his eyes with his cuffs and said, “Sorry.” He sniffed. “I’ve been fine since—since it happened … I don’t know why I’m falling apart now.”

“Then it’s high time you did,” she asserted, and he managed a watery sort of smile.

“Why don’t I take your coat?” he offered in a would-be normal voice, and she started guiltily.

“Actually, it’s your coat,” she replied, embarrassed, slipping it off and offering it to him. “I had some time this morning in Madrid, and it was cold on the plane … uh, here.”

He hesitated, then took it. “It’ll look better on you,” he said, and she shook her head.

“Just try it on.”

He did. It fit perfectly. A mischievous look on his face (that was only slightly spoiled by the fact that his eyes were bloodshot), he turned a few times, finally pirouetting in place as though modeling for her. “Well?”

“Yes,” she responded. “Very handsome.”

They came together more naturally this time, their lips meeting briefly as they embraced.

“Mike,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

He stepped back, bewildered. Whatever reply he was considering was interrupted, however, by McCoy’s return; he apparently thought they’d had sufficient time to exchange greetings. His gaze missed nothing as he joined them.

“Chinese in twenty,” he said.

“Great,” Cutter replied. “I’m starved.”

McCoy stopped in his tracks and stared at the younger man for several seconds before shaking his head and continuing on his way.

—————————————

Link to [Part 43]

FIC: Explosive, Part 41/43

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 08:12:41 GMT

“I hear you made deals with everybody,” Van Buren commented, looking at her visitor over her reading glasses as she worked her way through a stack of paperwork. McCoy nodded.

“Eight and a third to twenty-five for Johnson and Hatch; fifteen to twenty-five for Martins.”

“Then it’s over.”

“Not by a long shot.”

She looked at him quizzically, and he elaborated,

“I just sent a Deputy Chief of the NYPD to jail. Every case he ever worked—every case worked by those he mentored!—is now suspect and subject to possible appeal.” He tapped the edge of her desk. “Yes, I got justice for Mike and for those two kids. But….”

“Maybe it’s like you said,” she replied, and it was his turn to look quizzical. She continued, “The sheer number of people on the job … statistics says that a few of ’em are gonna be duds.”

He half-smiled. She smiled back and asked,

“So, why are you hanging around here? And on a Saturday?”

“I’m trying to get away from Mike,” he replied honestly. “Cynthia’s asleep—she worked a twenty-four-hour shift at the hospital yesterday—and Mike’s just been acting like a pissy little teenage girl today. I don’t know what his problem is.”

She snorted.

“What?”

She took off her glasses and deliberately laid them on top of the pile before answering him. “You’ve never had crisis response training, have you?”

He shook his head. “Never needed it.”

“Well, the Department cycles everybody through about once every three years. The last time I had it, they had this woman there who had been one of the first responders at Columbine, and now she travels around the country doing these presentations … anyway, one of the things she said that I’d never heard before was that the third day after Columbine, everybody came in and were just pissy. That was the anger phase.”

“So, you’re saying that he’s acting completely normal?” A twinkle appeared in his eye. “Can he come live with you?”

She chuckled. “It’s only for a few more days … until he gets his credit cards replaced, right?”

He nodded, smiling. “Or Connie comes home. Whichever comes first.”

—————————————

Link to [Part 42]

FIC: Explosive, Part 40/43

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 07:50:45 GMT

“It’s Saturday, Richard.” McCoy dropped into a chair across the table from Martins and his attorney, Richard Billings, in an interview room on Rikers Island. Billings sighed.

“And yet, you’re here.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“Your office said you haven’t assigned a prosecutor to this case.”

“I’m going to do that on Monday.”

They stared at each other for a long beat, Martins looking mutinous.

“What do you want?” McCoy asked finally, and Billings responded,

“We’ll take the same deal you gave Johnson and Hatch.”

McCoy shook his head. “That deal’s no longer available.”

“Than what is available?”

McCoy cocked an eyebrow at Martins. “I thought your client wanted his day in court.”

Billings gave Martins a weary look. “He still may, depending on what’s on the table.”

McCoy considered. “I can give you a top and a bottom,” he said after a moment. “Say … fifteen to fifty, all sentences to run concurrently.”

Billings make a disbelieving sound. “My client is fifty-three years old.”

“Which makes him eligible for parole when he’s sixty-eight. So what?”

Billings glanced again at Martins. “Cut that top in half, and you’ve got a deal.”

McCoy considered. The average lifespan for an American male was 76 years—even with a maximum sentence of twenty-five years, Martins would most likely die in prison. He nodded. “Fine.”

Martins seemed to be waiting for something. When it didn’t come, he burst out, “You’re not going to ask me not to testify in any appeals?”

McCoy shook his head. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do, regardless.” He stood. “Your credibility is zero, sir. Any damage you can still do is less than the damage you have already done. I’ll send you the papers.” This last was directed at Billings, who nodded. Standing, he made his way to the door.

—————————————

Link to [Part 41]

FIC: Explosive, Part 39/43

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 06:52:00 GMT

“Docket numbers 763, 764 and 765,” the bailiff announced, “People v. Bob Johnson, Todd Hatch, and Bruce Martins. Charges are Criminal Facilitation in the Second Degree, Conspiracy in the Second Degree, Unlawful Manufacture of Methamphetamines in the Third Degree, Criminal Sale of a Controlled Substance in the First Degree, Criminal Possession of Marihuana in the Third Degree, Computer Tampering in the First Degree, Tampering with Public Records in the Second Degree, and Murder in the Second Degree.”

“Quite the list,” Judge Torledsky commented. Before he could proceed, the thirtyish brunette representing the DA’s office interjected,

“Your Honor, defendants Johnson and Hatch have reached agreements with the People; each will plead guilty to Man One and Criminal Possession Three in exchange for protective custody and a sentence of eight-and-a-third to twenty-five years.”

“Not bad,” the judge commented. “And what do the People get in exchange for their largesse?”

The brunette pushed her glasses firmly up her nose and smiled faintly, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Nothing relevant to this proceeding, Your Honor.”

Torledsky snorted. “Of course not. Defendants Johnson and Hatch, how do you plead on the revised charges of Manslaughter in the First Degree and Criminal Possession of a Controlled Substance in the Third Degree?”

Hatch glanced at his lawyer, who nudged him slightly. “Guilty,” he said, and he was echoed by Johnson.

“Defendants Johnson and Hatch are remanded to the custody of the Department of Corrections,” Torledsky announced with a tap of his gavel. “That leaves Mr. Martins.”

“Deputy Chief Martins, actually,” the remaining lawyer corrected. Torledsky’s eyebrows contracted.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My client,” the lawyer explained. “He’s a Deputy Chief in the NYPD.”

“Who stands accused of murder—and a whole list of other things,” the brunette said, staring at them with mingled disgust and surprise. “He’s been placed on an unpaid suspension pending the outcome of the trial.”

“Suspended, yes,” the defense attorney acknowledged, “but not dismissed.”

“Fine,” Torledsky barked. “Deputy Chief. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Martins responded coolly.

“The People on bail, Miss Dunlevy?”

The brunette continued to look doubtfully at Martins as she replied, “Remand, Your Honor. The defendant used his position of authority within the police department to not only encourage officers under his command to break the law, he sheltered them when they did. The net result of his behavior was an apartment fire that killed three people, two of them preschoolers, and gutted an apartment building. Over a hundred people are homeless because of the defendant’s actions.”

The defense attorney rolled his eyes. “My client didn’t set that fire.”

“No, all he did was train someone to destroy evidence of inaction. He may as well have set it, and those two kids’ deaths are on his hands.”

“Whether or not my client trained the officer in question, the fact is that Deputy Chief Martins didn’t do anything. Actus reus, Your Honor—I don’t see it here.”

“Neither do I, Miss Dunlevy.”

“Your Honor, the statute states that ‘A person is guilty of murder in the second degree when, under circumstances evincing a depraved indifference to human life, he recklessly engages in conduct which creates a grave risk of death to another person, and thereby causes the death of another person.’ That is, in fact, what happened when he repeatedly prevented Officer Johnson’s supervisors from taking appropriate disciplinary action against the officer.”

“I’m sorry,” the defense attorney interrupted. “Are the People alleging that Officer Johnson was a deadly weapon?”

“The depraved indifference statute says nothing about a deadly weapon,” Dunlevy retorted with a veiled glare at Martins and his attorney. “It says ‘a grave risk of death.’ The People’s position is that allowing a person who is both incompetent, as evidenced by numerous performance reviews, and arrogant, as evidenced by numerous civilian complaints, to continue as an officer of the law and blocking all attempts to correct these behaviors does, in fact, create a grave risk of death—as evidenced by the fact that three people actually died.”

“This is typical Jack McCoy grandstanding, Your Honor,” the defense attorney said, and Dunlevy suppressed a smile. “My client didn’t do anything.”

“I think that’s the People’s point,” Torledsky replied wearily. “One million dollars bail.”

“My client can’t pay that!” the defense attorney said indignantly.

“I can remand him if you’d prefer,” Torledsky pointed out.

“… We’ll take the bail,” the defense attorney said.

“Fine,” Torledsky said. “Done.”

—————————————

Link to [Part 40]

FIC: Explosive, Part 38/43

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 11:50:11 GMT

It was nearly midnight before McCoy gave up on the idea that Martins would crack—and well after before he made it home. Cutter had left the light on for him; Cynthia was still at the hospital—understaffing made the overtime necessary. He made it to the front door of the building before his excitement over building his case waned enough for him to recognize that he was exhausted; he made it to the couch in the living room before he collapsed.

His last thought before falling into a deep sleep was to wonder how he’d managed all those years of constant sleep deprivation.

He woke slowly and with the recognition that he’d slept on something far too short for him; his back and neck were sore. It took him several seconds to realize that the soft, feathery object tickling his cheek was the throw that usually lived on the back of the wingback.

“Good morning.”

He started, almost falling off the couch and wincing as his neck protested at being turned at that particular angle. Cutter was dressed and seated in the overstuffed chair at his head.

“You said something about going over to my apartment and seeing what was salvageable,” Cutter reminded him. He sat up slowly, feeling his muscles stretch painfully from the position they’d been wedged into overnight.

“I’m sorry, Mike,” he said honestly. “Hal Policicchio didn’t think there was anything left.”

Something set in Cutter’s expression. “You talked to him? When?”

“Yesterday afternoon … we were trying to put the pieces of the case together.” McCoy rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I should have called, but at the time, I thought it would be better to tell you in person … and then I forgot. I’m sorry.”

A muscle worked in Cutter’s cheek. “You forgot.”

McCoy nodded, his apology written across his face.

“Easy for you to forget,” Cutter spat. “You’re not the one who’s homeless.” Standing abruptly, he made his way deeper into the apartment, leaving McCoy to puzzle over what had just happened.

—————————————

Link to [Part 39]

FIC: Explosive, Part 37/43

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 07:55:41 GMT

“Has he started pointing fingers yet?”

Van Buren gave McCoy an amused look as he stepped into the observation room beside her. “You running this case?”

He gave her a blank look that quickly transformed to sheepishness. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“So, has he started—”

“Not yet.” She indicated the window and the suspect beyond in with a nod of her head. “What makes you think he’ll break first?”

“Because that’s what Martins trained him to do,” he replied, his eyes snickering. “Point fingers. In fact, Martins taught him that it’s a very effective strategy.”

“He also taught him to believe in the blue wall,” Van Buren pointed out.

“That’s something I’ve never understood,” he muttered. “Why anyone would protect someone who gives your entire profession a bad name….”

She gave him another amused look. “You’re right. You don’t get it.”

“Well, at least I’m aware of that fact.” He smiled at her, and they fell silent for a moment, listening to Lupo and Salazar verbally abuse Johnson and Johnson’s PBA representative try to stop them. Bernard was sitting quietly, occasionally interjecting a comment; he was the ‘good cop’ for this round.

“How’s Mike?” Van Buren asked then. McCoy shrugged slightly.

“I haven’t talked to him since this morning. He was going to try to get his driver’s license replaced, so he didn’t have to fight the crowds tomorrow morning.”

“There are always crowds at the DMV.”

He conceded the point and chewed his lip for a moment. “I should tell him that we picked up our suspects.”

At that point, Johnson said, “I only did what the Deputy Chief told me to do.”

McCoy’s eyes lit up and he grinned at Van Buren. “The Nuremburg defense.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “He’s only one of the three.”

“‘Give me a lever long enough, and I can move the world,’” he quoted. “He just handed us a lever. Let’s see how long it is.”

—————————————

The news that Johnson had buckled seemed to come as a blow to Hatch, whose resolve crumbled barely an hour later. He not only implicated Martins, but three other cops who had allegedly been in on the Deputy Chief’s schemes.

At that point, Van Buren had quietly reminded McCoy of John Flynn, who had accused Lennie Briscoe of corruption to save his own sorry skin. McCoy nodded: message received.

Martins himself stated that he was a decorated officer and he wanted his day in court and refused to say anything more, even when he was told that Hatch, too, had given him up.

“That’s fine,” McCoy muttered. “I look forward to kicking his ass.”

Van Buren chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”

—————————————

Link to [Part 38]

FIC: Explosive, Part 36/43

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 06:06:55 GMT

Rubirosa felt drained, but strangely awake as she lay quietly on her bed; her grandmother had passed early that morning, the family and hospice nurse in attendance. The body had been promptly removed to the funeral home, where the family was taking the customary vigil in turns; Tío Benicio and Tía Terésa were there now, and she and Aron would be relieving them in … just over two hours.

She sighed and shifted onto her side. Her family was pressuring her to stay for at least a week after the funeral, but she felt pulled back to New York—back to Mike. She worried about him; she hadn’t managed to get a hold of him since that morning. Aron understood, as did her father. They had always understood. Her aunt and uncle, on the other hand….

Her uncle had been the one to bring up the subject, with the deceptively benign question of when she was planning to return to New York.

“The day after tomorrow,” she’d responded, surprised.

“You won’t stay for the mourning period?” Her uncle’s expression had set, just slightly, and that should have warned her. But she hadn’t been looking straight at him, and so, she hadn’t seen it.

“I can’t. I’ve already used up all of my vacation days. If I stay much longer, my pay’s going to be docked.”

“You’ve lost family. Your boss doesn’t understand this?”

Truthfully, Jack probably would. But that wasn’t the only consideration. She knew her uncle well enough, though, not to bring up—

“It’s that man, isn’t it?” Benicio had demanded. “Your … Miguel?”

“Mike,” she corrected automatically.

“Are you going to marry him?”

Goaded, she’d met his eyes unflinchingly. “I would if he asked me.” And she spared a glance at her brother.

“Don’t look at me,” Aron had muttered in English—the conversation to this point had been in Spanish. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Will he ask you if you get pregnant?” Benicio demanded, and her father had barked,

“Stop it, Benny.”

“You indulge her too much,” Benicio retorted, not looking away from her. “You always have.”

Her father sighed. “I raised her to know her own mind.”

Later, after the meal and as Benicio and Terésa prepared for their stint of the vigil, her father had come to her room and knocked at the door. “Connie?”

“Yes, Papa.”

He eased open the door and came to sit at the foot of her bed, as he had when she was a child. “Forgive Benny,” he had said, managing to confine his pleading to his eyes. “It’s the way he was raised.”

“You were raised in the same house,” she’d pointed out.

“Yes, but he’s the oldest son. It makes a difference.” He reached out and rubbed one foot as she sat, cross-legged, on the bed. “You know it does.”

She shook her head slightly, not ready to give up yet. “He complained when I got here that I never come see the family anymore … now, I remember why I don’t.”

Her father chuckled. “True. I think, if he ever saw you at work, he’d understand, but you know he’ll never come to you.”

She smiled involuntarily. “You make him sound like an eighty-year-old man, set in his ways.”

He grinned back. “Well, in some ways, he is. You know, when we were growing up, it was always presupposed that Benny would take over the vineyard … he was never given a choice, the way Carlos and I were, and it never occurred to him not to do it. He … does what he does for the family.” He sobered. “I think, sometimes, he resents it, and he resents that I didn’t raise you and Aron to be martyrs, either.”

“I thought you were a medical doctor, not a shrink,” she teased, her mood lightening.

“One has to be both, chica.”

She rearranged herself to give him a hug. “Gracias, Papa,” she whispered, and kissed his cheek before sitting back on her heels.

“De nada, chica. You understand a little more about Benny now?”

“I think so. But I’m still leaving on Sunday.”

He smiled at her. “Of course you are.” He cupped her cheek in one hand. “You take care of Mike.”

And as she lay in bed, in the dark, remembering, the tension broke within her and she began to sob into her pillow, stopping only as exhaustion settled over her.

—————————————

Link to [Part 37]

FIC: Explosive, Part 35/43

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 08:22:10 GMT

“Johnson. Stand up.” Sipowicz, leading Van Buren and Bernard, almost charged through the door at the One-Five.

“What?” The man at the desk—bespeckled, slightly overweight, and with receding brown hair—started. “Why?”

“Because you’re under arrest, you incompetent piece of crap,” Sipowicz snarled. “Lieutenant Van Buren and Detective Bernard, here, are taking you to the Two-Seven for questioning.” He jabbed a finger in Johnson’s direction. “You better call your PBA.”

“Under arrest for what?” Johnson protested, and Sipowicz and Bernard hauled him to his feet.

“The DA is charging, among other things, Murder 2,” Van Buren replied.

“Murder 2?” Johnson exclaimed petulantly. “How does he get Murder 2?”

“I believe it’s called ‘depraved indifference,’” Bernard replied, a small smile playing across his face. “You, my white brother, have the right to remain silent.”

“Shut up,” Johnson said as Sipowicz hauled his hands behind his back and cuffed him.

—————————————

“Todd Hatch,” Lupo called. A moment later, Hatch stuck his head out of his cubicle.

“Yeah?”

“You need to come with us,” Lupo replied.

“I’ve got work to do,” Hatch said dismissively, and ducked back into his cubicle.

“No,” Salazar corrected. “You don’t.”

Hatch reappeared. “What are you talking about?”

“We’re talking about the fact that you’ve spent the last couple of days destroying evidence,” Lupo replied. “For which, you’re under arrest.”

Hatch stood, stunned and silent, as Lupo cuffed him.

—————————————

McCoy followed Cole and his detectives into the top offices at One Police Plaza, nodding a greeting to a puzzled Mike Logan at the door and half-hoping that Martins would be in a meeting … or even in CompStat.

No such luck. He was seated at his desk, going over paperwork.

“Excuse me, Deputy Chief Martins?” Cole said, slightly hesitant. Martins looked up.

“Yes?” he barked impatiently.

“I need to ask you to come with us, sir.”

“What for?”

Cole hesitated again. “Because you’re under arrest.”

Martins blinked and his eyebrows met furiously. “On whose authority?”

“Mine,” McCoy responded, not removing his hands from his pockets. Martins mouthed at him for a moment before sputtering,

“What for?”

McCoy stepped forward, and the IA detectives were suddenly aware of the strength of personality that had made him such a successful prosecutor. “Yours was the authority that sheltered an incompetent officer, bouncing him from precinct to precinct until his incompetence resulted in someone’s death,” he stated, his voice suddenly ringing with authority. This was the soldier for justice, battle-scarred and -weary though he may have been, using his most potent weapons: his mind, his words, his talent for persuasion; this was the adversary presenting his closing argument to the jury. “Yours was the mantle that protected this man from the consequences of his infractions—and yes, we know about the cocaine!—until he began to believe that there were none. Yours was the arrogance that nurtured this cancer within your own department … and yours, ultimately, is the responsibility.” McCoy had moved toward Martins until only the desk separated them. “You will be arraigned on the following charges: criminal facilitation 2, conspiracy 2, unlawful manufacture of methamphetamine 3—”

Martins made an inarticulate noise. McCoy ignored him.

“—Criminal sale of a controlled substance 1, criminal possession of marijuana 3, and murder 2.”

“Murder 2?” Martins demanded. “Where do you get murder 2?”

“I haven’t decided whether we’ll be charging depraved indifference or felony murder,” McCoy replied. “I’m presently inclined towards the former, but that could change. And I would point out that there are a couple of A-I felonies in that list. Stand up, sir.”

“What if I refuse?” Martins challenged.

“Then I have these gentlemen haul you out of here. That will simply alert everyone in the building that you have been arrested.”

Martins sat back and regarded McCoy with something like hatred. “I don’t know why the mayor appointed a cop-hating political wannabe to be district attorney,” he spat viciously. McCoy ignored him, simply repeating,

“Stand up.”

Martins paused as if to tell McCoy that he was in no position to give orders, and certainly not to a Deputy Chief of the NYPD, before he slowly stood.

“If you’ll come with us, sir,” Cole said uncomfortably, raising a hand. Martins moved around the desk, visibly decided not to shove McCoy with his shoulder, and put himself in custody, a black expression on his face. Cole took a breath. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began, and Martins snapped,

“Shut it, sergeant.”

“It’s duly noted that the defendant has declined the reading of his Miranda rights,” McCoy said, poker-faced.

Martins’s face turned purple.

—————————————

Link to [Part 36]

FIC: Explosive, Part 34/43

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 07:06:29 GMT

“It was definitely, uh, deleted by someone in TARU,” Beck explained, setting his laptop on the edge of McCoy’s desk and looking around, half-puzzled and half-nervous, at his audience. “Nobody else had both access and, uh, the skills to pull it off.”

“Any idea who it was?” McCoy asked tiredly.

“Um….” Beck fumbled for the words for a moment.

“Spit it out, Beck,” Van Buren ribbed gently.

“I think it was Todd Hatch,” Beck said honestly.

McCoy’s eyes came up and fastened on Beck. “Why?”

“Because he’s the one who wanted me to help him purge the servers this afternoon,” Beck responded. “I mean, I know that isn’t proof, but … the timing is just … weird.”

McCoy nodded and glanced behind Beck at a man with a craggy face. “That name sounds familiar?”

The craggy-faced man nodded, brow furrowed. “He’s connected to the Deputy Chief.”

“Connected how?”

“Martins was his rabbi, too, and there’s some evidence that he may have been in on the drug business.”

McCoy’s eyebrows shot up. “‘Business’? You’ve been calling it drug infractions. Were they dealing?”

The large black man—Bernard? Yes, that was his name—snorted. “Johnson wasn’t,” he said. “He isn’t smart enough. Hatch … may have been.”

“What, did you commit this file to memory?” the craggy-faced man demanded, seemingly annoyed. Bernard just looked back at him, a didn’t-you? expression on his face.

At that point, Beck started and dug in his pocket for his vibrating phone. He checked the message that had just come in. “I think … if we trace it, the—the server tampering will trace back to Hatch.” He hesitated. “Mostly.”

“Mostly? What d’ya mean, mostly?” This from the sergeant at the One-Five—Sipowicz.

“He … uh, it looks like he’s hacked into my computer to make it look like I did it.”

“You’re here, Mr. Beck,” McCoy pointed out, almost smiling. “I’d say you have a solid alibi.”

“You’ve got somebody watching him?” One of the two detectives flanking the craggy-faced man had finally spoken up, and Beck nodded.

“He seemed … too eager for me to help him,” he explained. “I texted a—a friend to watch what he was doing.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I see,” McCoy said then, and paused. “Well, I’d say we’ve got enough. Pick ’em up.”

“Pick who up?” Van Buren asked.

“All three of them.” McCoy waved his hand at them. “You can divide yourselves up however you want.”

“You’re not going to give the Deputy Chief the chance to surrender himself?” the craggy-faced man asked blankly.

“No, Sergeant Cole, I’m not,” McCoy responded formally. “One person connected to the Deputy Chief has already demonstrated a propensity for destroying evidence. He doesn’t get the chance to enlist somebody else.”

Sergeant Cole shrugged. “All right, then.” And he led the two detectives flanking him from the office.

“Mr. Beck,” McCoy said as the other cops prepared to follow the IA detectives.

“Uh … yeah?”

“Did your ‘friend’ do anything that will in any way jeopardize this investigation?” McCoy was watching the tech closely.

Beck shook his head emphatically.

McCoy smiled tightly. “Good.”

—————————————

Link to [Part 35]