A/N- Here's round two! This is about the time Sharon shot someone, if it's not your thing, feel free to skip (: It's not in depth or anything.
"Hey, Jack!"
Jack Raydor turned to face his ALA, Chris. He and Sharon still lived in student housing, even though they had been married almost a year before, in the summer after she graduated academy. They had moved to the school-owned apartments on the edge of campus, as it was cheaper than any other place in town.
"Hey, Chris," he replied. He shifted his books to his other arm and waited for the other man to catch up. "How's it going?"
"Oh, fine. I've only got two more finals, and they're going to be pretty easy."
"That's good. The same for me." Jack made a motion to keep moving, but Chris pulled him back. "What?" Jack frowned slightly.
"Everything okay with you and Sharon?" he asked. "I'm sorry to pry, but I just gotta keep up with my residents. . ."
"Yeah, no, I understand," Jack said. He frowned deeply. "We're good. Why?"
"Annie said something to me just a little while ago. Said she saw Sharon come in and she seemed pretty upset."
Jack shook his head. "I just got here. She left for work before I got up this morning. She got a couple of long shifts. She was fine then."
"Okay. Let me know if you need anything."
"Sure. Thanks for the heads up." Jack waved and walked the last few feet to his apartment. The door was unlocked, so he let himself in quietly and set his books and bag down on the coffee table. "Sharon?"
There was no response, but he could hear the shower running. He kicked his shoes off and walked back to the bathroom. Again, the door was unlocked. He pushed it open. "Shar? You in there?"
"Go away, Jack."
There wasn't much force in her words, so he let himself in, and nearly tripped over Sharon's uniform. It was in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor. He stepped over it and pushed the shower curtain back enough for him to see her. He kept his eyes firmly on her face until he realized she was still wearing her underwear and a tanktop. There was a pinkish stain spattered across her chest.
"Sharon? What happened?" He reached forward and pushed the wet strands of her hair away from her face.
"Nothing," she said sharply.
He leaned against the shower silently, knowing she'd tell him. The water sprayed him, but he stayed, watching her. After another minute, he reached down and turned the water off. She stood still, water dripping, then sobbed loudly.
"Oh, Shar," he sighed. He reached forward and picked her up, holding her close and carrying her to the bedroom. He snatched a towel on the way out and fumbled it onto the bed before setting Sharon down on it. He laid down next to her and swept her hair back again. "What happened?"
She squirmed closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around her as best he could. She mumbled something into his chest.
"What?"
"I shot somebody."
Jack jerked back slightly to see her face. She looked like a tearful basset hound. "Tell me what happened."
She ducked her face back into his chest. "We pulled this guy over for a traffic stop and he came out with a gun. He kept coming towards us, and I told him to stop, but he didn't stop, and I told him to drop the gun, and he didn't and then he raised it up and shot at us and I think it was a warning shot because it was way off, and then he aimed again and-" she cut herself off and clung to Jack tightly.
He jumped slightly at the sudden pressure and returned it.
"I shot him," she whispered. "Oh my God, I shot him."
"Did you kill him?" Jack asked softly.
She twitched and shook her head. "No. I mean, I don't think so. I don't know. I just. . . there was this bang, and he fell down and Arthur was calling for back-up and an ambulance. And I don't know. It's all blurry. I think- I know- FID came and they took my gun, and I guess I told them what happened and they put me on administrative leave for the next. . . Oh my God, I don't know. I don't even know when I can go back to work, Jack!" She started crying, so he just lay there and held her.
"Shar, you don't have to go back if you don't want to."
She looked up at him. "No, we need the money."
Jack tipped her chin up with a finger. "We don't need it that badly, love. We can find something else."
"Nothing like this. It pays well and it's secure. That's what we need. You still have two more years of school and we need my job to pay for that. I don't want to take out loans, and your internship doesn't pay enough." She took a deep breath. "Besides, I'll get over this. I'm pretty sure I'll be cleared, and then I can get back to work, and everything will be normal again."
He watched her calm herself with fiats and pragmatism, knowing that once she'd set her mind to something, she'd accomplish it somehow. "Okay. But if you change your mind, we'll figure something out. Okay?"
"Okay," she mumbled.
They lay in silence for an indefinite amount of time before the phone rang. Sharon jumped and rolled off the bed in a single, fluid motion, lunging for the receiver.
"Hello?" she said breathlessly.
Jack came to stand next to her, and she tilted the phone so he could hear, too.
"Is this Sharon Raydor?"
"Yes," she said slowly.
"Hey, this is Andy Flynn, from Vice? We met, uh, earlier?"
"Oh, yeah," she said. "I already talked to someone from your department, I think."
"Yeah, yeah, you did," the man sounded vaguely impatient. "But look, I heard it on the grapevine that FID is gonna get you cleared by tomorrow morning. They've got some sorta deadline, and the guy you shot wasn't hurt bad or anything, and they've got something else on their hands, so they're trying to get you through their hands as fast as they can."
"Oh."
"Yeah, just wanted to let you know. I was in there a little while ago and heard them talking. You didn't hear it from me, but you've got a lot of cops rooting for you, and we thought you ought to know."
"Thank you."
"Yeah, sure." The man rang off, and Sharon looked at Jack.
"That's good," he said."
"It is. But it's completely illegal for him to tell me that."
Jack laughed. "Shar, illegal or not, I would buy him a drink for bending the rules like that. It's like a white lie. It's not a bad thing."
She snorted. "Jackson Raydor. You are a law student."
He grinned at her. "And your point is? Come on, let's go finish that shower."
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Monday, January 20, 2014
A/N- Murphycat- Thanks! I'm glad the characters seem right to you. (: As for Taylor, I don't think he was necessarily nicer then, I think he just had less experience, both on the job and with Provenza. Also, I'm not entirely clear about how much med. school Tao had. Some sources say one year, but I just recall him saying something non-specific. Idk
"Mike, can you clear some room on the table?" Kathy held a glass pan in a set of hot mitts.
Mike Tao looked up. "Yeah, sure. Sorry about that." He waved a hand over the mess of papers over their kitchen table. He was partway through his fellowship year as a traumatologist. The more time that passed, the more paperwork he seemed to generate. He reached across the table and gathered the multi-colored papers into stacks. There was mint green, lavender, blue, yellow, pink, and white.
"You've got a veritable rainbow there," Kathy said gently as she set plates and silverware down. Her long, black hair swung across her face as she leaned forward to slice lasagna. She had layered spinach, sausage, alfredo, ricotta, and noodles.
"It seems like everything I do equates to paperwork. One stitch is four pages. An x-ray? A solid half-hour of forms." He sighed tiredly. "I'm sorry. Work and home are separate." He set the stacks on the spare chairs and pushed his pens neatly to the side.
"It's fine," Kathy said. "I know it's hard to keep up." She took a bite of her lasagna.
"That's no reason for me to take it out here." He leaned over to Kathy and kissed her. She squeaked in surprise. He pulled back after a moment, and she reached up and swiped her thumb across his lip.
"You had some alfredo there," she said, grinning. He smiled back, and the conversation took a lighter turn. They talked about Kathy's day, her job at Eastside Elementary, teaching kindergarden. How there was a new kid, all the way from Wyoming.
It wasn't until hours later, when they were getting ready for bed, that Kathy came back to the original subject. "Mike, did you ever think about changing professions?" She began to pull her hair back in a French braid.
He spat out his toothpaste. "What?"
"Ever since you've been on the fellowship, you've had so much paperwork. Even in residency, you were telling me about how it seemed like doctors spent as much time covering their-" she paused. "Covering themselves as stabbing their friends in the back."
"Yeah." He picked the mouthwash up from the counter and took a mouthful. He swished it around, then bent over the sink and spat it out. "What were you thinking?"
"Emmy's father came in to pick her up. He's just joined the LAPD."
"The police?"
"Mmhmm." Kathy turned and walked out. "He was talking about how much he loved it. Said he had already met a bunch of great guys," she called from the bedroom.
Mike looked at himself in the mirror tiredly. Hell, he looked tired. He fingered his mustache slowly. Maybe it was time to give up the scalpel. He'd been working towards a medical career for years, but he'd never really, truly, enjoyed it. At first, it was to please his parents. Then he found pre-med classes to be legitimately interesting. It kept getting better after that, until he had enough responsibility to see his own patients and do his own paperwork. So far, he'd been lucky enough to make more friends than enemies. It seemed like the smarter you were, the more friends you had.
It was only a matter of time, though, before someone's knife made it past his armor and stabbed him in the back.
He turned towards the door. "Hey, Kathy?"
"Yeah?"
"Did Emmy's dad say if the LAPD was hiring?"
He heard a laugh. "I'm not Wikipedia, I can't keep giving out information for free."
He smiled to himself. "Well, what forms of payment do you accept? Visa, Mastercard?" he asked jokingly.
"Come here, and I'll show you."
"Mike, can you clear some room on the table?" Kathy held a glass pan in a set of hot mitts.
Mike Tao looked up. "Yeah, sure. Sorry about that." He waved a hand over the mess of papers over their kitchen table. He was partway through his fellowship year as a traumatologist. The more time that passed, the more paperwork he seemed to generate. He reached across the table and gathered the multi-colored papers into stacks. There was mint green, lavender, blue, yellow, pink, and white.
"You've got a veritable rainbow there," Kathy said gently as she set plates and silverware down. Her long, black hair swung across her face as she leaned forward to slice lasagna. She had layered spinach, sausage, alfredo, ricotta, and noodles.
"It seems like everything I do equates to paperwork. One stitch is four pages. An x-ray? A solid half-hour of forms." He sighed tiredly. "I'm sorry. Work and home are separate." He set the stacks on the spare chairs and pushed his pens neatly to the side.
"It's fine," Kathy said. "I know it's hard to keep up." She took a bite of her lasagna.
"That's no reason for me to take it out here." He leaned over to Kathy and kissed her. She squeaked in surprise. He pulled back after a moment, and she reached up and swiped her thumb across his lip.
"You had some alfredo there," she said, grinning. He smiled back, and the conversation took a lighter turn. They talked about Kathy's day, her job at Eastside Elementary, teaching kindergarden. How there was a new kid, all the way from Wyoming.
It wasn't until hours later, when they were getting ready for bed, that Kathy came back to the original subject. "Mike, did you ever think about changing professions?" She began to pull her hair back in a French braid.
He spat out his toothpaste. "What?"
"Ever since you've been on the fellowship, you've had so much paperwork. Even in residency, you were telling me about how it seemed like doctors spent as much time covering their-" she paused. "Covering themselves as stabbing their friends in the back."
"Yeah." He picked the mouthwash up from the counter and took a mouthful. He swished it around, then bent over the sink and spat it out. "What were you thinking?"
"Emmy's father came in to pick her up. He's just joined the LAPD."
"The police?"
"Mmhmm." Kathy turned and walked out. "He was talking about how much he loved it. Said he had already met a bunch of great guys," she called from the bedroom.
Mike looked at himself in the mirror tiredly. Hell, he looked tired. He fingered his mustache slowly. Maybe it was time to give up the scalpel. He'd been working towards a medical career for years, but he'd never really, truly, enjoyed it. At first, it was to please his parents. Then he found pre-med classes to be legitimately interesting. It kept getting better after that, until he had enough responsibility to see his own patients and do his own paperwork. So far, he'd been lucky enough to make more friends than enemies. It seemed like the smarter you were, the more friends you had.
It was only a matter of time, though, before someone's knife made it past his armor and stabbed him in the back.
He turned towards the door. "Hey, Kathy?"
"Yeah?"
"Did Emmy's dad say if the LAPD was hiring?"
He heard a laugh. "I'm not Wikipedia, I can't keep giving out information for free."
He smiled to himself. "Well, what forms of payment do you accept? Visa, Mastercard?" he asked jokingly.
"Come here, and I'll show you."
"Name?"
"Louis Provenza."
"Age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Do you have your papers from the physical eval?"
"Yeah." Lou pulled the slightly crumpled two-page packet out of his back pocket. "Here."
The recruiting officer took them with a raised eyebrow and unfolded them, smoothing them as best he could. "Psych eval?"
"They wouldn't give 'em to me, kid. Think they were worried I'd screw with them."
The officer's face reddened, but he was clearly several years younger.
"Some respect, please."
Lou snorted. "Kid, this is respect. I can show you dis-"
"Why do you want to join the LAPD?" the boy interrupted.
"I tried the LAFD for a while, but I've decided I'm not to keen on fire." Once burned, twice cautious.
"You have to expect to fire and be fired upon-"
"Not guns, kid. Flames." Lou sat up and leaned forward. "I'm not doing fire anymore."
"But why the LAPD?"
He sighed and was quiet for a rare moment. "I like the idea of bossing people around."
The kid frowned. "Look-"
"I'm assuming my rank with transfer from the LAFD?"
"Yeah, but-"
"No, kid, you look." Lou tapped the desk with one knuckle. "I've been on the streets longer than you. I've seen more than you, rescued people from burning-" his voice cracked and he stopped. "There's some kind of. . . I don't know. It's nice to save people, to know you're doing something good in a scummy world. I can't live without it."
"You're an adrenaline junkie," the kid stated flatly.
Lou snorted, leaning back. "And you're an idiot if that's what you're getting out of this discussion." He stood. "Thanks for your time, Officer. I've used enough of it, and you're clearly looking for someone else." He saluted sarcastically and left the office. Christ, Lou, you really blew it.
Russell Taylor set Louis Provenza's docket down on his desk. He felt like he shouldn't like the man, but something in the former firefighter seemed genuine, once one cut through the caustic exterior. Provenza had more experience than all the others who had walked through the door that day. He seemed quicker and more prepared. He'd passed the physical with flying colors, as well as the psych eval, though the latter suggested there was a possibility for trouble-making.
He'd take the risk. Taylor wrote up his recommendation in the appropriate space on the recruitment packet, signed the bottom with a flourish, and set it in his outbox. Provenza would be getting a call within the next few days, notice of a sign-on bonus and a new job as a Sergeant in Robbery-Homicide.
"Louis Provenza."
"Age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Do you have your papers from the physical eval?"
"Yeah." Lou pulled the slightly crumpled two-page packet out of his back pocket. "Here."
The recruiting officer took them with a raised eyebrow and unfolded them, smoothing them as best he could. "Psych eval?"
"They wouldn't give 'em to me, kid. Think they were worried I'd screw with them."
The officer's face reddened, but he was clearly several years younger.
"Some respect, please."
Lou snorted. "Kid, this is respect. I can show you dis-"
"Why do you want to join the LAPD?" the boy interrupted.
"I tried the LAFD for a while, but I've decided I'm not to keen on fire." Once burned, twice cautious.
"You have to expect to fire and be fired upon-"
"Not guns, kid. Flames." Lou sat up and leaned forward. "I'm not doing fire anymore."
"But why the LAPD?"
He sighed and was quiet for a rare moment. "I like the idea of bossing people around."
The kid frowned. "Look-"
"I'm assuming my rank with transfer from the LAFD?"
"Yeah, but-"
"No, kid, you look." Lou tapped the desk with one knuckle. "I've been on the streets longer than you. I've seen more than you, rescued people from burning-" his voice cracked and he stopped. "There's some kind of. . . I don't know. It's nice to save people, to know you're doing something good in a scummy world. I can't live without it."
"You're an adrenaline junkie," the kid stated flatly.
Lou snorted, leaning back. "And you're an idiot if that's what you're getting out of this discussion." He stood. "Thanks for your time, Officer. I've used enough of it, and you're clearly looking for someone else." He saluted sarcastically and left the office. Christ, Lou, you really blew it.
Russell Taylor set Louis Provenza's docket down on his desk. He felt like he shouldn't like the man, but something in the former firefighter seemed genuine, once one cut through the caustic exterior. Provenza had more experience than all the others who had walked through the door that day. He seemed quicker and more prepared. He'd passed the physical with flying colors, as well as the psych eval, though the latter suggested there was a possibility for trouble-making.
He'd take the risk. Taylor wrote up his recommendation in the appropriate space on the recruitment packet, signed the bottom with a flourish, and set it in his outbox. Provenza would be getting a call within the next few days, notice of a sign-on bonus and a new job as a Sergeant in Robbery-Homicide.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
"Amy?"
"Yes, Mom?"
"Can you help me set the table?"
"Sure." Amy rose from her seat on the sofa and slipped into the kitchen to help her mother. Lydia Sykes and Amy's younger sister, Jordan, were busy cooking Christmas dinner. Almost everything was done, Lydia was just putting things on serving dishes, and Jordan was fixing salad. Amy hadn't done much of the cooking.
Christmas was usually Amy's favorite holiday, but this year, she had a lot on her mind. She had just finished her military service, a tour in Kabul, and was feeling somewhat lost without a distinct objective to accomplish. Her family had picked her up from the airport, brought her home, and coddled her for the past two weeks. She liked being able to sleep in on Saturdays, liked playing with her nieces and nephews, liked the security of her own home, but there was still something missing.
"How many settings?" she asked.
"Sixteen," her mother replied. "Five at the children's table and twelve at the regular table. Everyone's coming over."
Sweet Jesus, Amy thought. Her sister's kids, her brothers' three, their spouses, a great-aunt, and an assortment of aunts and uncles. "Sure."
"What's on your mind, baby?" Lydia was still stirring something over the stove, and Amy couldn't see her face. Jordan picked up a tray of crackers and cheese and ducked back out to the living room.
"Just a few things," Amy replied vaguely. "Gold or rose china?"
"Let's use the gold."
Amy took the appropriate dishes out of a cabinet and began setting the table. The sounds of Michael Bublé drifted in faintly from the other room.
"I can always tell when you're thinking about something, Bunny." The use of her old pet name startled Amy. She hadn't heard the term in ages. "Tell me what it is."
Amy considered her options for a moment. She could tell her mother she wasn't thinking of anything important, or she could just tell the truth. The truth is always the best option, and she'd figure it out anyway. She opened her mouth and let the frank words spill out. "I need something to do, Mom. I mean, it's great that you've been so good about letting me stay here and do nothing, but I can't stay here forever. I just can't figure out what I want to do. Everything seems so. . ." She trailed off, at a rare loos for words. "So mundane! I felt like I was doing important work, and everything here just seems so mundane."
Lydia turned and raised her eyebrows. "That's not the Amy Sykes I know."
Amy sighed as she slid napkins under the forks. "I don't even know where to start, honestly."
Lydia began moving steamed carrots from the pan to a serving dish. As she finished, Amy took the dish and set it on the table. They continued in that fashion until everything was on the dining table.
"I'll go get everyone." Amy moved towards the living room, but her mother pulled her back.
"Amy, I think I know just the job for you," Lydia said, eyes sparkling.
"What?" Amy looked at her curiously.
"Go call everyone in for dinner, and then ask Mickey what he wants to be when he grows up."
Mickey was Amy's youngest nephew, only four years old. He was due to start kindergarten the following year, and was looking forward to it, from what she'd heard. He and his parents had arrived late, so Amy hadn't seen the boy yet. She nodded, then walked out to the living room.
"Dinner's ready, guys!" she called over the general noise. The hubbub subsided somewhat, and everyone swirled into the dining room to take their places. Amy hung back, and side-stepped to the kids' table. "Hey, Mickey-"
"AUNT AMY!" He hugged her legs tightly, and she smiled and ruffled his hair.
"Hey, bud." She knelt down. "Gramma had a question she wanted me to ask you."
"Yeah?"
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I wanna be a please offer."
She paused. "Police officer?"
"Yeah!"
She pushed him gently towards his chair. "Thanks, Mick. Go eat your dinner, I think Sammy's waiting for you." She stood and found the last open chair at the table, next to her mother. Her father blessed the meal, and they dug in.
Lydia passed a bowl of salad down the table and turned to Amy. "So? What do you think?"
"A police officer?"
"It's not mundane. It sounds like you. And God knows, the L.A.P.D. is always hiring people."
Amy looked down at her plate and took a sip of water. Lydia was right, policing was a lot like her last job. Maybe too much. She wasn't sure she wanted to be right back in that kind of field so soon. But at the same time, it was what she'd been looking for. "Maybe."
"Maybe not?" Lydia asked. She had read into Amy's pause.
"I don't know yet." She thought back to the letters from colleges that had greeted her from the mailbox when she'd first arrived home. "Maybe I'll try school again and see where that takes me."
"School?" Lydia sounded slightly surprised.
"Most jobs require some kind of college degree. And it's not like I don't have money saved up."
Lydia hummed noncommittally. "School might be nice for you. You could make some friends, have some fun."
"Yeah, maybe." College would be a good start. There would be any number of opportunities stemming from a college diploma. I could be anything I want, and it'll be exciting, without being too much at once. "I think I might look over some of those letters tomorrow."
"Alright."
"Yes, Mom?"
"Can you help me set the table?"
"Sure." Amy rose from her seat on the sofa and slipped into the kitchen to help her mother. Lydia Sykes and Amy's younger sister, Jordan, were busy cooking Christmas dinner. Almost everything was done, Lydia was just putting things on serving dishes, and Jordan was fixing salad. Amy hadn't done much of the cooking.
Christmas was usually Amy's favorite holiday, but this year, she had a lot on her mind. She had just finished her military service, a tour in Kabul, and was feeling somewhat lost without a distinct objective to accomplish. Her family had picked her up from the airport, brought her home, and coddled her for the past two weeks. She liked being able to sleep in on Saturdays, liked playing with her nieces and nephews, liked the security of her own home, but there was still something missing.
"How many settings?" she asked.
"Sixteen," her mother replied. "Five at the children's table and twelve at the regular table. Everyone's coming over."
Sweet Jesus, Amy thought. Her sister's kids, her brothers' three, their spouses, a great-aunt, and an assortment of aunts and uncles. "Sure."
"What's on your mind, baby?" Lydia was still stirring something over the stove, and Amy couldn't see her face. Jordan picked up a tray of crackers and cheese and ducked back out to the living room.
"Just a few things," Amy replied vaguely. "Gold or rose china?"
"Let's use the gold."
Amy took the appropriate dishes out of a cabinet and began setting the table. The sounds of Michael Bublé drifted in faintly from the other room.
"I can always tell when you're thinking about something, Bunny." The use of her old pet name startled Amy. She hadn't heard the term in ages. "Tell me what it is."
Amy considered her options for a moment. She could tell her mother she wasn't thinking of anything important, or she could just tell the truth. The truth is always the best option, and she'd figure it out anyway. She opened her mouth and let the frank words spill out. "I need something to do, Mom. I mean, it's great that you've been so good about letting me stay here and do nothing, but I can't stay here forever. I just can't figure out what I want to do. Everything seems so. . ." She trailed off, at a rare loos for words. "So mundane! I felt like I was doing important work, and everything here just seems so mundane."
Lydia turned and raised her eyebrows. "That's not the Amy Sykes I know."
Amy sighed as she slid napkins under the forks. "I don't even know where to start, honestly."
Lydia began moving steamed carrots from the pan to a serving dish. As she finished, Amy took the dish and set it on the table. They continued in that fashion until everything was on the dining table.
"I'll go get everyone." Amy moved towards the living room, but her mother pulled her back.
"Amy, I think I know just the job for you," Lydia said, eyes sparkling.
"What?" Amy looked at her curiously.
"Go call everyone in for dinner, and then ask Mickey what he wants to be when he grows up."
Mickey was Amy's youngest nephew, only four years old. He was due to start kindergarten the following year, and was looking forward to it, from what she'd heard. He and his parents had arrived late, so Amy hadn't seen the boy yet. She nodded, then walked out to the living room.
"Dinner's ready, guys!" she called over the general noise. The hubbub subsided somewhat, and everyone swirled into the dining room to take their places. Amy hung back, and side-stepped to the kids' table. "Hey, Mickey-"
"AUNT AMY!" He hugged her legs tightly, and she smiled and ruffled his hair.
"Hey, bud." She knelt down. "Gramma had a question she wanted me to ask you."
"Yeah?"
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I wanna be a please offer."
She paused. "Police officer?"
"Yeah!"
She pushed him gently towards his chair. "Thanks, Mick. Go eat your dinner, I think Sammy's waiting for you." She stood and found the last open chair at the table, next to her mother. Her father blessed the meal, and they dug in.
Lydia passed a bowl of salad down the table and turned to Amy. "So? What do you think?"
"A police officer?"
"It's not mundane. It sounds like you. And God knows, the L.A.P.D. is always hiring people."
Amy looked down at her plate and took a sip of water. Lydia was right, policing was a lot like her last job. Maybe too much. She wasn't sure she wanted to be right back in that kind of field so soon. But at the same time, it was what she'd been looking for. "Maybe."
"Maybe not?" Lydia asked. She had read into Amy's pause.
"I don't know yet." She thought back to the letters from colleges that had greeted her from the mailbox when she'd first arrived home. "Maybe I'll try school again and see where that takes me."
"School?" Lydia sounded slightly surprised.
"Most jobs require some kind of college degree. And it's not like I don't have money saved up."
Lydia hummed noncommittally. "School might be nice for you. You could make some friends, have some fun."
"Yeah, maybe." College would be a good start. There would be any number of opportunities stemming from a college diploma. I could be anything I want, and it'll be exciting, without being too much at once. "I think I might look over some of those letters tomorrow."
"Alright."
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
"Julio! Ven adentro! Es hora de dormir!"
Julio Sanchez sat in his dusty backyard, near Osa's little grave, thinking. He had been sitting there for most of the evening. His parents had repeatedly called him to come in for bed, but he ignored them, choosing to stay out and plan his revenge.
For a brief while, he had contemplated finding a gun and hunting down the two guys in the car. He had memorized the plate number, and guns weren't hard to find. Then his little brother Oscar had come outside to help hold vigil for Osa. Shooting two gangsters wouldn't present a good example for Oscar, Julio decided.
He had thought about various other ways to get back: slash their tires, egg their houses. Every idea was discarded, though, generally because it would be traceable back to Julio. Gangsters didn't tolerate pain-in-the-ass thirteen-year-olds, so Julio knew his revenge had to be untraceable.
"Julio!"
"Un momento, Mama!"
"Julio!" This time, it was his father's deep voice calling him.
Julio cast one last look towards the flowers over Osa's grave, then scrambled to his feet and ran inside. "Lo siento, Papa."
His father merely shrugged slightly and squeezed his son's shoulder with one large hand. He knew his son had had some kind of deep connection with that cat, and had taken the loss hard. "It's alright. Listen to your mama now, though. Go to bed. It'll be better in the morning."
Julio nodded. "'Night, Papa. 'Night Mama."
"Buenas noches."
He ducked down the hall to the shared bathroom, brushed his teeth, went to the room he shared with Oscar, and changed into his pajamas. Oscar was already asleep, so Julio was quiet as he padded to his bed near the window. He knelt to pray, kept it simple, asked God to keep Osa safe in heaven, then, as an afterthought, asked God to help him catch Osa's killers. It might not have been the best thing to ask for, but it was what he wanted, wanted so deeply it made his heart ache.
He lay in his bed, unable to fall asleep. The moonlight crept slowly across the room through the window as the night wore on. Julio watched the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. No new ideas had sprung to mind, when suddenly, he heard sirens.
He sat up in bed, as the sirens screamed, coming closer. After a few moments, three cop cars shrieked down the street, their lights flashing through the room in a whirl of magenta and indigo. A moment later, they vanished around the corner.
Julio sat back on his bed. The L.A.P.D. was out in force tonight to catch some scumbag. "Thank you," he whispered. "Gracias a Dios. I will be a cop, Osa. I will find them."
Julio Sanchez sat in his dusty backyard, near Osa's little grave, thinking. He had been sitting there for most of the evening. His parents had repeatedly called him to come in for bed, but he ignored them, choosing to stay out and plan his revenge.
For a brief while, he had contemplated finding a gun and hunting down the two guys in the car. He had memorized the plate number, and guns weren't hard to find. Then his little brother Oscar had come outside to help hold vigil for Osa. Shooting two gangsters wouldn't present a good example for Oscar, Julio decided.
He had thought about various other ways to get back: slash their tires, egg their houses. Every idea was discarded, though, generally because it would be traceable back to Julio. Gangsters didn't tolerate pain-in-the-ass thirteen-year-olds, so Julio knew his revenge had to be untraceable.
"Julio!"
"Un momento, Mama!"
"Julio!" This time, it was his father's deep voice calling him.
Julio cast one last look towards the flowers over Osa's grave, then scrambled to his feet and ran inside. "Lo siento, Papa."
His father merely shrugged slightly and squeezed his son's shoulder with one large hand. He knew his son had had some kind of deep connection with that cat, and had taken the loss hard. "It's alright. Listen to your mama now, though. Go to bed. It'll be better in the morning."
Julio nodded. "'Night, Papa. 'Night Mama."
"Buenas noches."
He ducked down the hall to the shared bathroom, brushed his teeth, went to the room he shared with Oscar, and changed into his pajamas. Oscar was already asleep, so Julio was quiet as he padded to his bed near the window. He knelt to pray, kept it simple, asked God to keep Osa safe in heaven, then, as an afterthought, asked God to help him catch Osa's killers. It might not have been the best thing to ask for, but it was what he wanted, wanted so deeply it made his heart ache.
He lay in his bed, unable to fall asleep. The moonlight crept slowly across the room through the window as the night wore on. Julio watched the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. No new ideas had sprung to mind, when suddenly, he heard sirens.
He sat up in bed, as the sirens screamed, coming closer. After a few moments, three cop cars shrieked down the street, their lights flashing through the room in a whirl of magenta and indigo. A moment later, they vanished around the corner.
Julio sat back on his bed. The L.A.P.D. was out in force tonight to catch some scumbag. "Thank you," he whispered. "Gracias a Dios. I will be a cop, Osa. I will find them."
"Look at her."
"She's a beaut," Andy agreed. He and Tim, his older brother were kneeling behind the hedge in front of their house. Their cousin, Matthew, had driven over for Sunday dinner on his new Honda CB77 motorcycle. It stood near the curb, chrome and navy trim sparkling in the sunlight.
"She'd be the only girlfriend I'd ever need."
Andy snorted. He was only twelve, but even he knew you couldn't marry a bike. Tim was sixteen, had just started high school, and seemed to have something to say about every girl that walked past.
"You can't have kids with a motorcycle, dummy."
Tim rolled his eyes. "It was a joke, Andy." He stared at the bike a moment longer, then turned to Andy, eyes shining with glee. "What if we took her for a joyride?"
Andy fell back on his heels. "Really? Would Matt let us?"
"The whole point of a joyride is for it to be secret." Tim glanced back to the bike. "Matt brought Stephanie, didn't he?"
"Yeah, I saw her go in." Stephanie was Matt's girlfriend, blonde and most certainly not of Italian heritage. It had irritated Matt's dad until he realized that Steph was a phenomenal baker. The complaints had stopped rather quickly after that. "Why?"
"We're gonna need helmets. You get the helmets and I'll get the keys."
Andy paused, halfway to the front door. "Are you sure this is okay?"
"Yeah, bro. It'll be fine."
Andy darted inside and spotted the helmets on the floor near the over-large basket of shoes his mother kept by the door. Both helmets were obviously new, maybe just a little too large for a twelve-year old. One was a gleaming navy that seemed as deep as the ocean, the other was a vibrant bubblegum pink. He snatched them both and was almost back out the door, when-
"Andy, is that you?" He recognized his mother's voice from across the house. She was in the kitchen, cooking dinner.
"I'm just going back outside with Tim. We're playing dead man." He didn't particularly like lying to his parents, but he liked it better than the consequences for some of the things he and his brothers got up to. They'd locked Susan out on the roof once. One winter, it had snowed, and they'd busted someone's windshield with an ice-ball. On accident, of course.
"Alright." She sounded skeptical, and Andy winced. "Tell Tim that dinner's in thirty minutes. I expect both of you in here on time, okay? Steph, Matt, Uncle Luke, and Aunt Mary are all going to be here."
"Yep." He shut the door and ran back to Tim. "Mom said that we have to be in for dinner in half an hour. I think she really means it."
Tim waved him off. "Sure. Toss me the blue one."
Andy stared at the navy helmet wistfully for a moment, then passed it to Tim. "Did you get the keys?" he asked as he strapped on his own helmet.
"Yeah. Now let's get going." Tim helped Andy onto the bike. "Hold on to me." He fumbled for the ignition.
"Do you know how to drive this?"
"Sure. I've seen tons of movies. And it can't be that different from driving a car."
It took a few minutes of whispered swearing, praying, and general fiddling around before the Honda finally started. Tim eased it down the street, keeping the noise to a minimum, then turned the corner shakily.
"Let 'er rip!" Andy shrieked.
Tim grinned, revved the machine, and they sped down the road, maintaining an almost straight course.
"She's a beaut," Andy agreed. He and Tim, his older brother were kneeling behind the hedge in front of their house. Their cousin, Matthew, had driven over for Sunday dinner on his new Honda CB77 motorcycle. It stood near the curb, chrome and navy trim sparkling in the sunlight.
"She'd be the only girlfriend I'd ever need."
Andy snorted. He was only twelve, but even he knew you couldn't marry a bike. Tim was sixteen, had just started high school, and seemed to have something to say about every girl that walked past.
"You can't have kids with a motorcycle, dummy."
Tim rolled his eyes. "It was a joke, Andy." He stared at the bike a moment longer, then turned to Andy, eyes shining with glee. "What if we took her for a joyride?"
Andy fell back on his heels. "Really? Would Matt let us?"
"The whole point of a joyride is for it to be secret." Tim glanced back to the bike. "Matt brought Stephanie, didn't he?"
"Yeah, I saw her go in." Stephanie was Matt's girlfriend, blonde and most certainly not of Italian heritage. It had irritated Matt's dad until he realized that Steph was a phenomenal baker. The complaints had stopped rather quickly after that. "Why?"
"We're gonna need helmets. You get the helmets and I'll get the keys."
Andy paused, halfway to the front door. "Are you sure this is okay?"
"Yeah, bro. It'll be fine."
Andy darted inside and spotted the helmets on the floor near the over-large basket of shoes his mother kept by the door. Both helmets were obviously new, maybe just a little too large for a twelve-year old. One was a gleaming navy that seemed as deep as the ocean, the other was a vibrant bubblegum pink. He snatched them both and was almost back out the door, when-
"Andy, is that you?" He recognized his mother's voice from across the house. She was in the kitchen, cooking dinner.
"I'm just going back outside with Tim. We're playing dead man." He didn't particularly like lying to his parents, but he liked it better than the consequences for some of the things he and his brothers got up to. They'd locked Susan out on the roof once. One winter, it had snowed, and they'd busted someone's windshield with an ice-ball. On accident, of course.
"Alright." She sounded skeptical, and Andy winced. "Tell Tim that dinner's in thirty minutes. I expect both of you in here on time, okay? Steph, Matt, Uncle Luke, and Aunt Mary are all going to be here."
"Yep." He shut the door and ran back to Tim. "Mom said that we have to be in for dinner in half an hour. I think she really means it."
Tim waved him off. "Sure. Toss me the blue one."
Andy stared at the navy helmet wistfully for a moment, then passed it to Tim. "Did you get the keys?" he asked as he strapped on his own helmet.
"Yeah. Now let's get going." Tim helped Andy onto the bike. "Hold on to me." He fumbled for the ignition.
"Do you know how to drive this?"
"Sure. I've seen tons of movies. And it can't be that different from driving a car."
It took a few minutes of whispered swearing, praying, and general fiddling around before the Honda finally started. Tim eased it down the street, keeping the noise to a minimum, then turned the corner shakily.
"Let 'er rip!" Andy shrieked.
Tim grinned, revved the machine, and they sped down the road, maintaining an almost straight course.
"Buzz, please don't do this."
"But-"
Mrs. Watson stepped forward and hugged her son tightly. They were standing near the kitchen table, spread with letters of acceptance from several colleges and a lone application for the Los Angeles Police Academy. "Buzz, you're the only one I have left, and-" she choked and was quiet, refusing to let him go.
He held her tightly. Her wispy blonde hair tickled his nose. "You've got Casey."
"I know, Buzzy. I love her dearly, but it's not quite the same."
He was surprised by her frankness, but knew what she meant. He was the last tie to his father, his brother. "Mom, I want to prevent. . . things. . . from happening to people like us."
"I know, believe me, I know. There are other ways to do this, though, safer ways."
He sighed. He knew his mother would be opposed to his joining the L.A.P.D., but he had thought he'd be able to talk her around. It clearly wasn't going to happen. They had been talking, shouting, and even crying for the past hour. Casey and Ed, Buzz's stepfather, had quietly slipped out of the house, mumbling something about needing milk. They had been gone for almost fifty minutes, now, Buzz noted. He broke away from his mother and turned to look at the letters of acceptance.
There was one from USC, his first choice after the Academy. USC had accepted him for film school. He had spoken, at length, to the L.A.P.D. recruiter, and had been told that they accepted civilians for positions inside the force. They would take a guy with a film degree, the recruiter said. A cameraman could film crime scenes for departments like Robbery-Homicide, Vice and Narco, or Priority Homicide.
"Buzz?" his mother asked. She laid one hand tentatively on his shoulder and looked at the papers he held.
"I guess I'd better mail my acceptance to USC," he said finally. "They need to be post-marked by Friday, and USC has the best scholarships and teachers."
"Thank you, baby."
"Yeah." He'd get there eventually. Maybe it wasn't the most direct route, but he'd get there.
"But-"
Mrs. Watson stepped forward and hugged her son tightly. They were standing near the kitchen table, spread with letters of acceptance from several colleges and a lone application for the Los Angeles Police Academy. "Buzz, you're the only one I have left, and-" she choked and was quiet, refusing to let him go.
He held her tightly. Her wispy blonde hair tickled his nose. "You've got Casey."
"I know, Buzzy. I love her dearly, but it's not quite the same."
He was surprised by her frankness, but knew what she meant. He was the last tie to his father, his brother. "Mom, I want to prevent. . . things. . . from happening to people like us."
"I know, believe me, I know. There are other ways to do this, though, safer ways."
He sighed. He knew his mother would be opposed to his joining the L.A.P.D., but he had thought he'd be able to talk her around. It clearly wasn't going to happen. They had been talking, shouting, and even crying for the past hour. Casey and Ed, Buzz's stepfather, had quietly slipped out of the house, mumbling something about needing milk. They had been gone for almost fifty minutes, now, Buzz noted. He broke away from his mother and turned to look at the letters of acceptance.
There was one from USC, his first choice after the Academy. USC had accepted him for film school. He had spoken, at length, to the L.A.P.D. recruiter, and had been told that they accepted civilians for positions inside the force. They would take a guy with a film degree, the recruiter said. A cameraman could film crime scenes for departments like Robbery-Homicide, Vice and Narco, or Priority Homicide.
"Buzz?" his mother asked. She laid one hand tentatively on his shoulder and looked at the papers he held.
"I guess I'd better mail my acceptance to USC," he said finally. "They need to be post-marked by Friday, and USC has the best scholarships and teachers."
"Thank you, baby."
"Yeah." He'd get there eventually. Maybe it wasn't the most direct route, but he'd get there.
Monday, December 23, 2013
"Jack?"
"Yeah?" Jack Raydor looked up from the textbook he was reading. It lay on the coffee table of his tiny student housing apartment, with an array of notes and papers. Finals started in two days, and he wanted to make sure he was ready. There would be no second chances.
"Look at this." Sharon, his long-standing girlfriend, and (hopefully) soon-to-be fiancée, slid a newspaper across the table to him.
"What am I supposed to be looking at?"
She ran her slim fingers down the classifieds, reading upside-down. "The L.A.P.D is looking for new recruits. $46,583 per year. That'd pay for a lot of school."
He stared at the large ad. The Los Angeles Police Department is now recruiting. Applicants must have a high-school degree or equivalent. Starting salary is $46,583, DOE. Apply in person at Parker Center front desk. "Shar, what about your classes?"
She shrugged. "I'd rather have a job and take classes at night or over the summer and come out with less debt than graduate on time. Your costs are $40,000, including tuition and everything, and that job could cover that."
He looked down again, frowning. "What about your classes?"
She looked away. "I can go part-time, nine credit hours, one-twenty per hour. So that's-" She paused to calculate the answer in her head. "One thousand and eighty. We could manage that, I think, with your job to pay for groceries and gas."
Jack watched her. She fidgeted, twisting her auburn hair around one finger. Even a part-time law student had a lot of work to do. "Are you sure you can manage a full-time job with-"
She shook her head once, cutting him off. "I think so. Even if I can't do it, that job would get you through school."
"Shar, it's not just about me."
"You've got a better shot at being a lawyer. You've got better grades, and just. . . I can't wrap my head around cases like you can."
They were silent for several minutes. A bus passed outside, and the neighbors' bass rumbled through the wall.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." It came out as a breathy half-sigh. They both knew the likely outcome of such a deal. She wouldn't get her diploma for some time, maybe never.
"Okay. I'll drive downtown with you tomorrow."
"Thank you."
"Thank you, Shar."
"Yeah?" Jack Raydor looked up from the textbook he was reading. It lay on the coffee table of his tiny student housing apartment, with an array of notes and papers. Finals started in two days, and he wanted to make sure he was ready. There would be no second chances.
"Look at this." Sharon, his long-standing girlfriend, and (hopefully) soon-to-be fiancée, slid a newspaper across the table to him.
"What am I supposed to be looking at?"
She ran her slim fingers down the classifieds, reading upside-down. "The L.A.P.D is looking for new recruits. $46,583 per year. That'd pay for a lot of school."
He stared at the large ad. The Los Angeles Police Department is now recruiting. Applicants must have a high-school degree or equivalent. Starting salary is $46,583, DOE. Apply in person at Parker Center front desk. "Shar, what about your classes?"
She shrugged. "I'd rather have a job and take classes at night or over the summer and come out with less debt than graduate on time. Your costs are $40,000, including tuition and everything, and that job could cover that."
He looked down again, frowning. "What about your classes?"
She looked away. "I can go part-time, nine credit hours, one-twenty per hour. So that's-" She paused to calculate the answer in her head. "One thousand and eighty. We could manage that, I think, with your job to pay for groceries and gas."
Jack watched her. She fidgeted, twisting her auburn hair around one finger. Even a part-time law student had a lot of work to do. "Are you sure you can manage a full-time job with-"
She shook her head once, cutting him off. "I think so. Even if I can't do it, that job would get you through school."
"Shar, it's not just about me."
"You've got a better shot at being a lawyer. You've got better grades, and just. . . I can't wrap my head around cases like you can."
They were silent for several minutes. A bus passed outside, and the neighbors' bass rumbled through the wall.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." It came out as a breathy half-sigh. They both knew the likely outcome of such a deal. She wouldn't get her diploma for some time, maybe never.
"Okay. I'll drive downtown with you tomorrow."
"Thank you."
"Thank you, Shar."
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
a/n- I'm sorry. I was watching Saving Grace and this one song came on and the idea hit me.
Sharon stood before the full-length mirror in her bathroom, slowly doing the buttons on her navy dress uniform. The uniform was stiff, hardly worn, but its bars, buttons, and her brassy name-tag gleamed. She pinned the two silver captain's bars to her collar and straightened her tie.
Her belt was in the living room, resting on the back of the sofa with her uniform's plastic dry-cleaning bag. She walked out to get it, footsteps echoing in the silent condo. She stood, with one hand on the belt, when the silence suddenly became suffocating. She ran to the French doors to the balcony and threw them open. The noise of traffic far below filtered over her. She leaned over the railing, gasping, for a moment.
She stood stiffly, then. Her make-up was already done, her tears shed, and she didn't want to cry again. Maybe it was old-fashioned, but her team needed her to lead them, and she would never permit herself to show weakness before them. It sounded like something Rusty would say.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she stepped back inside, slamming the doors shut and grabbing the belt to thread it through her pants, then buckling it tightly. Her black shoes were by the door. She had shined them earlier, so she fetched them and pulled them on, doing the laces up without thinking.
In a flash of insight, she realized she didn't remember half of what she'd done in the past twenty-four hours. The day had passed in a fog, with only a few moments sticking out. Provenza offering her a cup of coffee back at the station. Pope, dismissing her and the team for the day, and saying they could all have the next forty-eight hours off, that Taylor would take their cases. Flynn's offer to pick her up and drive her to the funeral.
Flynn. He'd be here soon, she realized. She looked at her reflection in the window, smoothing her hair back, pressing the folds of her shirt, and donning her cap. The twin badges on her breast and the cap flashed white in the sun. She tilted her head slightly, to better see her face. It was vain, to spend so long before a mirror, but she wanted anything as a distraction. Her make-up was the darkest it had been in a while, thick eyeliner, dark mascara, but it suited her purposes. It concealed the redness of her eyes.
Someone knocked at the door, and she jumped. It was probably Flynn, on time, for once. She walked over and pulled the door open, revealing her lieutenant. He looked dapper, his uniform as neat as hers. His hair was neatly combed, and he had his hat tucked under one arm.
Flynn was slightly surprised to see Sharon looking so well to put together. But then, he thought, he'd never seen her any other way. She looked tired though, and more like the woman he remembered from FID: dark eyes, sharp angles, and a somber expression.
"Sharon," he said politely.
"Andy."
"Are you ready to go to-?" He broke off.
"Yes," she sighed. "Yes, I suppose so." She glanced around the condo, to make sure the electronics were off, and saw the chessboard sitting in its place on the bookshelf. She darted over to it, grabbed the white queen, and slipped it into her pocket. When she rejoined Flynn, he was looking down, pretending not to see anything. "Let's go."
When they were in his car, he looked at her as he turned the ignition. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
She nodded. "We all are, but there's not a thing we could have done. Not a damn thing," she murmured.
"I know. It doesn't help, though, does it?"
"No. I just keep going over it, again and again, looking for something we missed, some place we dropped the ball. Maybe-" she looked up, startled, as Flynn placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Don't haunt yourself with 'maybe.' Maybe we could have done this, or that, but we didn't. We did what we thought was best. No one saw it coming the way it did. He wouldn't want you spending the rest of your life wondering what you did wrong. He'd want you to keep it from happening again, to someone else."
Sharon smiled faintly. "Yes."
Flynn leaned over, across the emergency brake, and kissed her cheek chastely. "Then let's get going, Captain. And don't you worry, we'll find the bastard who did it and make him pay."
"He'll pay dearly," she replied softly. "Quite dearly."
Sharon stood before the full-length mirror in her bathroom, slowly doing the buttons on her navy dress uniform. The uniform was stiff, hardly worn, but its bars, buttons, and her brassy name-tag gleamed. She pinned the two silver captain's bars to her collar and straightened her tie.
Her belt was in the living room, resting on the back of the sofa with her uniform's plastic dry-cleaning bag. She walked out to get it, footsteps echoing in the silent condo. She stood, with one hand on the belt, when the silence suddenly became suffocating. She ran to the French doors to the balcony and threw them open. The noise of traffic far below filtered over her. She leaned over the railing, gasping, for a moment.
She stood stiffly, then. Her make-up was already done, her tears shed, and she didn't want to cry again. Maybe it was old-fashioned, but her team needed her to lead them, and she would never permit herself to show weakness before them. It sounded like something Rusty would say.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she stepped back inside, slamming the doors shut and grabbing the belt to thread it through her pants, then buckling it tightly. Her black shoes were by the door. She had shined them earlier, so she fetched them and pulled them on, doing the laces up without thinking.
In a flash of insight, she realized she didn't remember half of what she'd done in the past twenty-four hours. The day had passed in a fog, with only a few moments sticking out. Provenza offering her a cup of coffee back at the station. Pope, dismissing her and the team for the day, and saying they could all have the next forty-eight hours off, that Taylor would take their cases. Flynn's offer to pick her up and drive her to the funeral.
Flynn. He'd be here soon, she realized. She looked at her reflection in the window, smoothing her hair back, pressing the folds of her shirt, and donning her cap. The twin badges on her breast and the cap flashed white in the sun. She tilted her head slightly, to better see her face. It was vain, to spend so long before a mirror, but she wanted anything as a distraction. Her make-up was the darkest it had been in a while, thick eyeliner, dark mascara, but it suited her purposes. It concealed the redness of her eyes.
Someone knocked at the door, and she jumped. It was probably Flynn, on time, for once. She walked over and pulled the door open, revealing her lieutenant. He looked dapper, his uniform as neat as hers. His hair was neatly combed, and he had his hat tucked under one arm.
Flynn was slightly surprised to see Sharon looking so well to put together. But then, he thought, he'd never seen her any other way. She looked tired though, and more like the woman he remembered from FID: dark eyes, sharp angles, and a somber expression.
"Sharon," he said politely.
"Andy."
"Are you ready to go to-?" He broke off.
"Yes," she sighed. "Yes, I suppose so." She glanced around the condo, to make sure the electronics were off, and saw the chessboard sitting in its place on the bookshelf. She darted over to it, grabbed the white queen, and slipped it into her pocket. When she rejoined Flynn, he was looking down, pretending not to see anything. "Let's go."
When they were in his car, he looked at her as he turned the ignition. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
She nodded. "We all are, but there's not a thing we could have done. Not a damn thing," she murmured.
"I know. It doesn't help, though, does it?"
"No. I just keep going over it, again and again, looking for something we missed, some place we dropped the ball. Maybe-" she looked up, startled, as Flynn placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Don't haunt yourself with 'maybe.' Maybe we could have done this, or that, but we didn't. We did what we thought was best. No one saw it coming the way it did. He wouldn't want you spending the rest of your life wondering what you did wrong. He'd want you to keep it from happening again, to someone else."
Sharon smiled faintly. "Yes."
Flynn leaned over, across the emergency brake, and kissed her cheek chastely. "Then let's get going, Captain. And don't you worry, we'll find the bastard who did it and make him pay."
"He'll pay dearly," she replied softly. "Quite dearly."
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
......
Rusty had arrived home to Sharon's condo after chess club practice (The club continued to practice over winter break.) and a meeting with Dr. Joe, escorted to the doorstep by his goon platoon, as he called them. He called his cops that once, while talking to Sharon, and she had expressly told him not to call them that. Aloud, anyways. He still called them that in his head.
They left after Sharon opened the door, and he walked into the apartment to find himself nearly knocked over by the smell of lemon.
"I didn't realize you decided to start a lemon grove in here," he said, dropping his backpack near the door.
They left after Sharon opened the door, and he walked into the apartment to find himself nearly knocked over by the smell of lemon.
"I didn't realize you decided to start a lemon grove in here," he said, dropping his backpack near the door.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
LB 7
A/N- This takes place a while later, as you can probably guess (you can go by the date). I have a list of various plot points I want to hit, so I'm playing around with them. Let me know if you have any ideas!
Stand tall for the people of America. Stand tall for the man next door.
-Beast, Niko Vega
-Beast, Niko Vega
The bed bounced slightly as the covers rustled, and a cool draft fluttered under the sheets. Sharon shivered slightly and rolled over, pulling the blankets tighter. She was on the edge of wakefulness, everything seemed to happen slowly, like a dream. There was a soft creak and then a gentle thump and muffled swear.
"Jack?" she mumbled sleepily.
"It's fine, Shar. Go back to sleep." He said softly. He ducked back out of the closet, tucking a crisp striped shirt into his black pants.
"What are you doing?" The words were slurred with sleep. She rolled to her side to watch Jack.
"I have a trial this morning, remember? Thursday, June 22th."
She closed her eyes. "That wasn't until later...."
"Tony called and said he needed me in a little early. Something came up. He wasn't very specific."
"Oh," she mumbled into the pillow. "Okay. You should take a Tylenol."
"What?" he said, pulling on his jacket.
She half-opened her eyes and looked at him. "You must have a headache after last night."
"I didn't have that much to drink, Sharon. I'm not hungover." His tone was suddenly defensive and somewhat sharper.
She moaned tiredly, not wanting to argue. "That's not what I meant. You came home so late that you're going to be tired. You don't want a headache in court."
Jack's expression softened. "Oh. Thank you, Shar." He sat down next to the bed. "Next time I'm out late, don't bother staying up. I don't want you exhausting yourself." He sat down next to her and set his hand on her shoulder. "Has our little girl done anything this morning?"
"No," she mumbled. She guided his hand down to her stomach and held it there. They sat that way for a minute, before she felt a soft kick. She smiled at Jack. "That's the second one...."
He grinned back, leaned down to hug her tightly, then pressed a kiss to her cheek before getting up. He pulled the covers back up. "Get some more sleep. You still have some time before you have to get up for work."
"Okay." She watched him go and was asleep again before he even left the house.
*~*~*~*~*
Two scant hours later, she was awoken by her alarm. She shut it off, and swung her feet to the ground, stretching out before getting up and walking to the bathroom. She soaked a washcloth in cold water, soaped it, washed her face, combed her hair back into a ponytail. Her make-up was in a cat-patterned box on the the counter. She opened it, pulled out an eyeliner marker, mascara, concealer. A few minutes later, she went back to the bedroom, shed her pajamas and tossed them over the bed. She got redressed in her uniform, leaving her shirt unbuttoned when she went to get Ricky up.
She opened his door and looked in. He wasn't there, and his covers were thrown back. "Ricky?" she called. "Ricky?"
"Mama!" his clear voice rang out from down the hall.
"Ricky!" she hurried down the hall and emerged into the kitchen. Ricky was standing on a bar stool, reaching for bowls from the cabinet. She stepped to his side and grasped his waist. Reassured by her presence, he grabbed the bowls.
"Okay."
She lifted him to the ground, grunting slightly at his weight
"What were you doing?" she gasped.
"I was making breakfast," he said. "You were still sleeping so I made breakfast. " He broke away from her and stepped over to the bar counter and picked up two boxes of cereal. One was peanut butter puffs, featuring an image of pandas. The second was Sharon's cereal, an organic raisin bran that Jack picked up. He regularly shopped at the whole foods co-op.
"Thank you, sweetheart." She sat back and watched Ricky gather the jug of milk and two spoons. "Do you need any help?"
"No, I got it." He clambered up on the bar stool next to her and carefully poured out cereal and milk. "See?" He picked up his spoon and happily dove into his breakfast.
Sharon ate at a more stately pace. "When did you get up?"
"After Daddy left. I watched TV and then I made breakfast."
"What did you watch?" She caught herself sliding into her investigative mode, trying to pinpoint when Ricky had gotten up.
"The yoga lady was on, and she was boring. But then Mister Rogers was on...." he continued.
Mister Rogers came on at six, she knew. So Jack had left quite early. She filed the scrap of information away, trying to disregard it. A niggling voice kept asking her what the hell was Jack doing that early?
She finished her cereal and waited for Ricky to finish his second bowl.
"Go get dressed, okay?" She picked up the dishes and carried them to the sink. She finished as Ricky came back, dressed in khaki shorts and a faded tee. He took the dishes from her and set them in the drainer. She smiled. "Thank you, baby." She walked towards the living room, buttoning her shirt.
"Mama!" Ricky ran after her.
"What?"
"Can I say hi?"
She stopped and waited for Ricky to catch up. A while after she and Jack had told Ricky that the baby was a girl, he had decided to periodically say hello to his sister. It had been an occasional event that gradually morphed into a bi-weekly event.
"Of course." She turned towards Ricky and he set his palms against her now very obvious baby bump, before leaning in.
"Hi. Hi, Sissy. Bye." He was about to pull away when Sharon felt the baby move again. Ricky leapt back and fell on the floor. "Mama!"
"It's okay, Ricky." She knelt down to pick him up. "That's your little sister moving around."
"Ohh." His face still showed shock, but he was grinning brightly.
She helped him up and together they left the house.
*~*~*~*
Sharon dropped Ricky off at his summer school. He was enrolled in a Catholic pre-school, in preparation for kindergarten at St. Joseph's School the following fall. She continued on to Parker Center, parking in her usual spot, before grabbing her bag and heading inside. She squeezed into the elevator, the others granting her a space at the front.
"Third."
"Fifth, please."
"Eighth."
She tapped all the requested buttons, then took a moment to look over the notification board. Deputy Chief meeting on Monday. Retirement party for Assistant Chief Luke Altergott. Police Commissioner's Ball in two weeks.
The elevator dinged on her floor, and she swept out with a crowd of others.
"Commander Bancroft?"
"Sergeant Raydor, come in." Bancroft gestured to a seat and rose to sit on the front of his desk. "Have you made your decision?"
"Sir, I-"
Bancroft sighed. "I had been hoping you would say yes, but I can see that's not what you want to tell me. The Chief wants an answer by the end of the week."
"Sir, I have an answer-"
"He doesn't care if you say yes or no, but I won't take 'no' for an answer. At least not without a damned good reason."
Sharon looked at him curiously. "If you don't mind me asking, why do you want me for this job so badly?"
Bancroft looked tired. He sat down in the chair next to Sharon and leaned back, eyes closed. "No one in FID is interested in taking over the squad. To be perfectly honest, they know what it entails- damage control, armor against verbal arrows, a cool head- and they don't want it. And I don't see any other high caliber officers that can do it."
"Surely there's someone." She didn't want it. The prospect of losing all her friends and their respect wasn't appetizing, despite promotion.
"Russell Taylor. He's too high-strung. Takes everything personally. He's a weasel. Louie Provenza. Certainly experienced enough, and he doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks of him, but he's always in trouble with Flynn. And Flynn is far too hotheaded. Hotchkiss would be good, but she's planning on retirement. There's a few others, but you get the idea. We thought you'd be good. You're calm, nothing on your file, top marks in the academy. Even if you don't think it now, you're going to want a more administrative job soon. Kids are demanding and it's easier to have fewer hours and not fear for your life every day."
She looked down at her hands. "Is there any way I can delay choosing about it?"
Bancroft didn't open his eyes. "I can propose an interim head, then you'd give me your answer before you go on leave. Learn all the rules when you're out, then come back and take over. The Chief and the commissioners won't like it, but they can deal."
Sharon made her way to the desk pair she shared with Meri. He was flipping through the photos in his wallet. His wife, Jill, and their three kids: Eric, Adam, and Joyce. Jill was petite with a wild blonde mane, but their kids looked more like Meri. They were all gangly, with freckles, flaming hair, and Jill's deep brown eyes.
"What's up?" She sat heavily on the edge of her desk.
"Hmm?" He glanced up. "Oh, it's Jilly's birthday in a couple weeks and I haven't figured out what to get her."
Sharon laughed. "That's it? You're way ahead of the game, Mer. Most guys don't remember until a couple days before. Do you have any ideas?"
He shrugged. "I was thinking of sending her a bouquet at work- lilacs and things like that. If I can get a babysitter I'd take her out somewhere."
"What day is it?"
"It'd be a Thursday. Why?"
"I could take your three. Ricky's been dying to have friends over."
"Oh, Shar, no. I can't impose like that." He looked up. "Especially not-"
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not made from porcelain. It's only one night, and your kids are well-behaved. Besides, you and Jill need some time off." She smiled. "I can emphasize somewhat."
Meri looked her over, debating himself. "Alright. It's a deal then. But if you ever need anything, just let me know."
"Deal." She watched him slid his wallet back into his pocket. "What are we doing today?"
"We get to sit the rest of our shift next to the elementary school on Lamar. Check that no one's speeding through there."
"Oh, boy," she giggled. "Sounds exciting."
He snorted. "Yep."
*~*~*~*~*
"Twenty-five. . . . Twenty-six. . . . Twenty-two. . . . Twenty-five. This is awful. Twenty-four. How much longer?"
"Fifteen-minutes."
The radio crackled suddenly. "All units, we have a fatal 10-50 at Larkspur and Fifteenth has been reported. Robbery-Homicide is rolling out, but we need officers at the scene. Please respond."
Sharon slapped the radar gun down on the dash. "Let's go!"
Meri made a disgruntled choking noise. "But-"
"All we have to do is keep people out of the crime scene." She snatched the radio up. "It'll be fine, Mer. No armed perps running wild, just normal, curious people." She grinned. "This is unit 21, we'll cover the 10-50. ETA five minutes."
"Copy that, 21."
Meri rolled his eyes, but turned the ignition and flipped the flashers on, nonetheless. "I'm going first. You stay back."
Sharon wanted to argue, but she could see where he was coming from. "I suppose." They rocketed through the light traffic, arriving at the foot of a tall hotel. "This is the place?"
Meri shrugged, and picked up the radio. "This is 21; are we supposed to be responding to a. . ." he looked up at the building. "Timothy Hotel?"
"Affirmative."
"Where are we going?"
Sharon pointed out the car. "Just follow the people." There was a crowd forming at the side of the hotel, in the middle of a barely visible quadrangle. She got out of the car and walked around to Meri's side. "Come on, slowpoke." She thumped the roof of the car with one hand and began walking away.
She does exactly what she pleases exactly when she pleases, and not a moment later, Meri thought with a snort. He threw the car door open, and set off after his partner, slamming the door behind him. He caught up to her after a moment. He walked by her side until they had almost reached the edge of the crowd and then cut ahead of her.
"Hey-"
"No. I must go first."
She crossed her arms over her belly and narrowed her eyes. "Fine."
Meri waded into the crowd and began shouldering his way through. It was a mess, people were shouting and shoving each other. They shoved him back until he pulled his badge out and began flashing it at eye-level. He felt someone push past him as he tried to squeeze between a tight-knit group of girls and looked up. It was Sharon, much to his unsurprise. She moved effortlessly through the crowd, people parting for a pregnant woman when they wouldn't for him. "Lady in blue, coming through," he mumbled and fell in behind her.
They reached clear ground a few moments later. The onlookers had left a wide circle around the mangled remains of a man. A tall, young man in a green hotel uniform stood nearby, wringing his hands nervously. He spotted Meri and Sharon and practically ran over to them.
"Are you the police I called?"
"Yes." Meri lifted his badge again. "Lieutenant Meriwether Arthur and Sergeant Sharon Raydor. What happened?"
"I don't know. I was running the concession stand at the pool and all of a sudden I heard someone screaming and I came over here and there was this. . . this. . . this guy and I didn't know what to do so I called 911 and then there were all these people and-"
"Son," Meri said gently. "Just sit down for a minute and take a deep breath."
The kid nearly collapsed onto the grass.
Sharon looked at Meri. "How soon will RHD be here?"
"Not more than a few minutes, I don't think."
She nodded. "I'll talk to the kid, and you keep everyone back?"
"Sure." He stepped away.
Sharon lowered herself to the ground next to the young man- boy, really- and set one hand on his knee. "Hey, look at me, okay?"
He looked up, and she could see he was terrified.
"Everything is going to be fine. Can you tell me your name?"
"Luke Gray. I work here part time, mostly the desk and concessions."
"Okay, Luke." She chose her next question carefully, trying to steer him onto solid ground. "Do you go to school here?"
"I'm going to college in the fall. Not here, but I live here, yeah."
"That's good. College is really fun. What are you majoring in?"
"Petroleum engineering."
She gently questioned him, getting a background and general information. She had just started steering him back to the matter at hand when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into the face of a tall, dark-haired detective. The sun was behind him, so she couldn't see his face.
"Hey, Sarge. I can take it from here."
"Robbery-Homicide?"
"Yep, Lieutenant Flynn." He offered his hand and pulled her to her feet.
"Hello again, Lieutenant." She smiled, remembering Jack's friend, the man she had met in IA several weeks before.
He smiled back. "Say hi to Jack for me?"
"Sure."
He stepped back to let her pass. "Congratulations, too."
"Thank you." She waved slightly and rejoined Meri at the periphery of the taped-off section of lawn. "What do we do now?"
"Well. . . we'll probably have to fill out incident reports for RHD, but that won't happen now, so we can just leave."
*~*~*~*~*
"Are you going to the Police Ball?" Sharon asked as they reentered Parker Center.
"Yeah, probably. Jill and I usually go. Are you?"
Sharon shrugged. "If Jack's free." She hoped he would be. They had gone in the past and she had enjoyed it. They hadn't gone the previous year, because they had been busy moving from Jack's apartment to the house they were living in presently. They'd lived in the apartment for a few years, then after saving a respectable amount, they had bought the small house on Rowena Avenue. It wasn't anything flashy, but it was tasteful, and had an elegant air to it. One story, with large windows and plenty of natural lighting. When Sharon's parents had visited, her mother had said it looked like something out of a Lands' End catalogue.
"Well, I hope you can come. It'd be nice to know there will be someone there that I can have a sober conversation with. Half the people who go just treat it as an occasion to get blitzed." He snorted. Meri was an observant Methodist, and had chosen to abstain from all alcohol.
"I'll speak with him tonight then, see if I can't talk him around."
"Please do." He sat down at his desk and riffled through the papers in their inbox. "Junk, junk, junk, letter for me, junk, letter for you...." He froze while passing it over to her, then angled the envelope so he could see the return address. "From Commander Bancroft, Force Investigations Division." He let the last word hand between them. "What's up? Everything okay?"
Sharon grabbed for the letter and pulled it away. "It's probably just about the trial for that guy I tackled a while back. I heard he made a deal, so he probably got his trial date moved up." She picked up her letter opener and sliced the top edge of the envelope. She drew out a paper on letterhead. There was a yellow sticky note on it, which she quickly palmed before flipping the letter around to show Meri. "See?" She turned it back to read it. "The trial's been moved to- oh!" She huffed angrily. "This coming Monday!"
Meri took the letter and scanned it for himself. "Have fun with that. It also says you have 'mandatory trial preparation' with 'DDA Andrea Hobbs.' The name sounds vaguely familiar. I think she's the new woman they hired."
Sharon rolled her eyes. "I'm probably her first appointment. They want to try her out on a beat cop before they sic her on Robbery-Homicide detectives." She took the letter back and read it for herself. "They want me to meet her today. Don't waste time, do they?" she grumbled.
"Time is money," Meri said cheerily as she packed her things up. "Have fun. Play nice."
She grinned and punched his shoulder as she passed him. "Since when have I not?" She walked out to the hall and decided to take the stairs to the first floor to walk down the street to the DA's office. As soon as the stairwell door clanged shut behind her, she dropped the smile. She pulled the now slightly crumpled note out of her pocket.
Sergeant Raydor- Enclosed with your trial notifications is a job description for Captain of FID. I realized I never gave you one. -Comdr. A. Bancroft
Sharon pulled out a second packet of paper and flipped through it as she walked out of the station. It was several pages long, but Bancroft had circled some sections with pink highlighter. Hours, vacation time, pay, duties, dress code. She paused at pay, and her jaw dropped. It was nearly twice what she was currently making.
That's because no one wants the job.
Meri took the letter and scanned it for himself. "Have fun with that. It also says you have 'mandatory trial preparation' with 'DDA Andrea Hobbs.' The name sounds vaguely familiar. I think she's the new woman they hired."
Sharon rolled her eyes. "I'm probably her first appointment. They want to try her out on a beat cop before they sic her on Robbery-Homicide detectives." She took the letter back and read it for herself. "They want me to meet her today. Don't waste time, do they?" she grumbled.
"Time is money," Meri said cheerily as she packed her things up. "Have fun. Play nice."
She grinned and punched his shoulder as she passed him. "Since when have I not?" She walked out to the hall and decided to take the stairs to the first floor to walk down the street to the DA's office. As soon as the stairwell door clanged shut behind her, she dropped the smile. She pulled the now slightly crumpled note out of her pocket.
Sergeant Raydor- Enclosed with your trial notifications is a job description for Captain of FID. I realized I never gave you one. -Comdr. A. Bancroft
Sharon pulled out a second packet of paper and flipped through it as she walked out of the station. It was several pages long, but Bancroft had circled some sections with pink highlighter. Hours, vacation time, pay, duties, dress code. She paused at pay, and her jaw dropped. It was nearly twice what she was currently making.
That's because no one wants the job.
She stuffed the papers back into her purse and yanked the door to the DA's office open. It was an older building, with black and white tiled floors and dark wood mixed with marbled glass. There was a small directory posted on the wall. Most of the names were a permanent part of the sign; a strip of paper at the bottom was the lone exception.
Andrea Hobbs, DDA- 325
There were no numbered offices nearby, and it took Sharon several minutes to find the right hall. It wasn't part of the main building, instead she had to find the annex and search the warren of halls for Hobbs' office. She eventually found it sandwiched between the fire exit and the men's bathroom.
"DDA Hobbs?" She knocked on the door.
A shadow moved behind the frosted glass, there was a scuffling noise, and then the door opened. "Hello!" The woman was tall, with light blonde hair pulled back in a short ponytail. She was dressed in slacks and a sleeveless blouse, and had clearly been moving into her office. "I'm sorry, I haven't unpacked my appointment book yet, so who are you?" She stepped back to allow Sharon into the small room.
"Sharon Raydor, LAPD. I'm here about the Rogers' case?"
"Oh, alright. Just take a seat. . ." the woman waved her arm across the office. "Let me just get the file," she added before disappearing behind another stack of boxes.
Sharon looked around. The office was little more than a glorified closet with a large window. A wooden desk dominated the room. There was a matching bookcase along one wall, and three mismatched chairs crammed into the remaining space. Every surface was piled with cardboard boxes and loose papers.
She picked the chair nearest her and hefted the top box onto the other chair. It wasn't heavy, nor were the other two boxes, so she stacked them all on the other chair, before taking a seat.
Andrea Hobbs reappeared a moment later, flipping through the file. She pulled her chair around from behind the desk and sat next to Sharon. "I'm truly sorry about the mess. I just moved in yesterday and. . . Well, at least I don't have to share an office." She grinned, and Sharon smiled back. "Oh! I never introduced myself. I suppose you know, but I'm Andrea Hobbs, and I was just hired by the DA's office. Not to make you nervous, but this is my first case." She smiled again and held out her hand.
Sharon shook it. "Sharon Raydor."
"Sharon. Okay. Just call me Andrea. I've read the file, but I'd like to hear you tell your version of events, if you don't mind."
"Of course." Sharon sat back, trying to recall what had happened. "My partner, Meri Arthur, and I were about to go off-duty, I think, and then the call came over the radio that there was a vehicular pursuit and that the suspect might be armed. I told Meri we should go, because we were only a block or two away. When we got there, Meri told me to wait in the car, and I did, but then the guy started coming my way, and-" Sharon stopped and bit her lip, trying not to laugh. "I opened the car door and he ran into it, and then I tackled him. And that was about it."
Andrea raised one eyebrow elegantly and shot Sharon an amused look. "They included photos from the incident in the file. It looks like you and our perp duked it out."
"I think I broke his nose," Sharon said looking down. It hadn't been a big deal. No one seemed to understand that. "Will that cause a problem?"
Andrea laughed. "No! The defense might bring it up, but I have your photos, too. I think that'll take care of any potential problems." She flipped the file around and pushed it towards Sharon. "You had one hell of a shiner."
Sharon took the file and looked at it grimacing. There was a pair of glossy photos of her face included in the typed papers. The first one was a profile, and the dirt and blood on her shoulder and cheek and shown up brightly. The second one was taken from the front and looked even worse, capturing her black eye. She passed the file back.
"It really wasn't that bad. He just gave me the black eye. The nosebleed was a coincidence."
"So modest. Don't tell the jury- they like drama. I think some of them feel like they're in some sort of crime show when they get jury duty for stuff like this."
Sharon grinned. "What is the case about anyways?"
Andrea looked down at the file. "We had a warrant out for our friend Sean Rogers after an aggravated assault and robbery at a convenience store, but he did a runner when patrol went to pick him up. We can get him for resisting arrest and assault of a police officer as well. It's pretty open and shut, but he's decided to plead not guilty for some half-assed reason, so we have to go to court." She flipped through the papers again, and they fell into a companionable silence. "Do you want to try some practice questions?"
"Sure."
Andrea pulled a yellow legal pad out of one of her precarious stacks, then picked a stray pen up from the floor. "There are four other witnesses besides you. The clerk from the store, a customer, and the two officers who went to pick Sean Rogers up from his apartment. I'm just going to start with some background information, then move on to your work and what you were doing that day, and then your interactions with Mr. Rogers."
Sharon noticed as Andrea slipped into more formal, lawyerly speech.
"Name and occupation."
"Sharon Raydor, Sergeant, Los Angeles Police Department. I've been there since '83."
Andrea looked up. "I'll probably ask you to elaborate a little, just so the jury gets a feel for you. Tell me a little about yourself."
"Hmm. . . I'm married, I have a little boy, my husband and I are expecting a girl in the fall. . ."
Andrea waved at Sharon to continue.
"I went to the University of Wyoming for my pre-law degree and Berkeley for my law degree. Long story short, I decided that policing was more exciting than being a lawyer, so I joined the force after I got out of school. Is that enough?"
"Yes, that's perfect." Andrea looked at her notes. "Juries tend to look for education, family, and trustworthiness. The more connections you have to them, the more they like you, generally. You typically work on the streets as part of the patrol, yes? What do you do?"
"My partner and I drive around and make police presence known. I, um. . . I do speed traps, pull people over, answer 911 calls, whatever jobs need to be done."
"How did you get involved with Sean Rogers?"
"Meri- Meriwether Arthur, my partner- and I were going back to Parker Center, and the call came over the radio that there was a car chase happening a block away, or so. We joined the pursuit, and the suspect was cornered. Meri got out to help the other officers, and I stayed back in the car."
"Why was that?"
Sharon rolled her eyes. "Meri doesn't think I should get involved with perps at close quarters because I'm pregnant."
Andrea smiled slightly. "And what happened next?"
"I got involved."
Andrea Hobbs, DDA- 325
There were no numbered offices nearby, and it took Sharon several minutes to find the right hall. It wasn't part of the main building, instead she had to find the annex and search the warren of halls for Hobbs' office. She eventually found it sandwiched between the fire exit and the men's bathroom.
"DDA Hobbs?" She knocked on the door.
A shadow moved behind the frosted glass, there was a scuffling noise, and then the door opened. "Hello!" The woman was tall, with light blonde hair pulled back in a short ponytail. She was dressed in slacks and a sleeveless blouse, and had clearly been moving into her office. "I'm sorry, I haven't unpacked my appointment book yet, so who are you?" She stepped back to allow Sharon into the small room.
"Sharon Raydor, LAPD. I'm here about the Rogers' case?"
"Oh, alright. Just take a seat. . ." the woman waved her arm across the office. "Let me just get the file," she added before disappearing behind another stack of boxes.
Sharon looked around. The office was little more than a glorified closet with a large window. A wooden desk dominated the room. There was a matching bookcase along one wall, and three mismatched chairs crammed into the remaining space. Every surface was piled with cardboard boxes and loose papers.
She picked the chair nearest her and hefted the top box onto the other chair. It wasn't heavy, nor were the other two boxes, so she stacked them all on the other chair, before taking a seat.
Andrea Hobbs reappeared a moment later, flipping through the file. She pulled her chair around from behind the desk and sat next to Sharon. "I'm truly sorry about the mess. I just moved in yesterday and. . . Well, at least I don't have to share an office." She grinned, and Sharon smiled back. "Oh! I never introduced myself. I suppose you know, but I'm Andrea Hobbs, and I was just hired by the DA's office. Not to make you nervous, but this is my first case." She smiled again and held out her hand.
Sharon shook it. "Sharon Raydor."
"Sharon. Okay. Just call me Andrea. I've read the file, but I'd like to hear you tell your version of events, if you don't mind."
"Of course." Sharon sat back, trying to recall what had happened. "My partner, Meri Arthur, and I were about to go off-duty, I think, and then the call came over the radio that there was a vehicular pursuit and that the suspect might be armed. I told Meri we should go, because we were only a block or two away. When we got there, Meri told me to wait in the car, and I did, but then the guy started coming my way, and-" Sharon stopped and bit her lip, trying not to laugh. "I opened the car door and he ran into it, and then I tackled him. And that was about it."
Andrea raised one eyebrow elegantly and shot Sharon an amused look. "They included photos from the incident in the file. It looks like you and our perp duked it out."
"I think I broke his nose," Sharon said looking down. It hadn't been a big deal. No one seemed to understand that. "Will that cause a problem?"
Andrea laughed. "No! The defense might bring it up, but I have your photos, too. I think that'll take care of any potential problems." She flipped the file around and pushed it towards Sharon. "You had one hell of a shiner."
Sharon took the file and looked at it grimacing. There was a pair of glossy photos of her face included in the typed papers. The first one was a profile, and the dirt and blood on her shoulder and cheek and shown up brightly. The second one was taken from the front and looked even worse, capturing her black eye. She passed the file back.
"It really wasn't that bad. He just gave me the black eye. The nosebleed was a coincidence."
"So modest. Don't tell the jury- they like drama. I think some of them feel like they're in some sort of crime show when they get jury duty for stuff like this."
Sharon grinned. "What is the case about anyways?"
Andrea looked down at the file. "We had a warrant out for our friend Sean Rogers after an aggravated assault and robbery at a convenience store, but he did a runner when patrol went to pick him up. We can get him for resisting arrest and assault of a police officer as well. It's pretty open and shut, but he's decided to plead not guilty for some half-assed reason, so we have to go to court." She flipped through the papers again, and they fell into a companionable silence. "Do you want to try some practice questions?"
"Sure."
Andrea pulled a yellow legal pad out of one of her precarious stacks, then picked a stray pen up from the floor. "There are four other witnesses besides you. The clerk from the store, a customer, and the two officers who went to pick Sean Rogers up from his apartment. I'm just going to start with some background information, then move on to your work and what you were doing that day, and then your interactions with Mr. Rogers."
Sharon noticed as Andrea slipped into more formal, lawyerly speech.
"Name and occupation."
"Sharon Raydor, Sergeant, Los Angeles Police Department. I've been there since '83."
Andrea looked up. "I'll probably ask you to elaborate a little, just so the jury gets a feel for you. Tell me a little about yourself."
"Hmm. . . I'm married, I have a little boy, my husband and I are expecting a girl in the fall. . ."
Andrea waved at Sharon to continue.
"I went to the University of Wyoming for my pre-law degree and Berkeley for my law degree. Long story short, I decided that policing was more exciting than being a lawyer, so I joined the force after I got out of school. Is that enough?"
"Yes, that's perfect." Andrea looked at her notes. "Juries tend to look for education, family, and trustworthiness. The more connections you have to them, the more they like you, generally. You typically work on the streets as part of the patrol, yes? What do you do?"
"My partner and I drive around and make police presence known. I, um. . . I do speed traps, pull people over, answer 911 calls, whatever jobs need to be done."
"How did you get involved with Sean Rogers?"
"Meri- Meriwether Arthur, my partner- and I were going back to Parker Center, and the call came over the radio that there was a car chase happening a block away, or so. We joined the pursuit, and the suspect was cornered. Meri got out to help the other officers, and I stayed back in the car."
"Why was that?"
Sharon rolled her eyes. "Meri doesn't think I should get involved with perps at close quarters because I'm pregnant."
Andrea smiled slightly. "And what happened next?"
"I got involved."
A/N- I'm sorry it took me so long to do this. Uni is an. . . . interesting experience, to say the least. Latin and Chemistry midterms are rather time-consuming. . . . Thank you so very, very much for sticking with me (; I hope you enjoyed this last one; let me know! Also, what did you think of Andrea? I feel like I don't know her very well. . . . Sī valet, valēo!
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