TITLE: FUTURE DAYS
E-MAIL: adrienne_miranda@yahoo.com
FANDOM: Law and Order SVU
PAIRING: Alex Cabot / Olivia Benson
DATE: October 28, 2003 - November 13, 2003
FEEDBACK: Yes, please. We’d love to know whether you like this or not!!!
ARCHIVE: Ok, just let us know where.
RATING: Nothing beyond TV-level-graphic-ness. If same-sex relationships bother you though, you might want to read something else.
LEGAL STUFF: Copyrighted 2003 by Adrienne Lee and Miranda Rafferty. Non-original characters and real people, if applicable, are used without permission under “Fair Use” doctrine. Authors reserve all rights attached to all original aspects of this work. This is a work of fiction.
SUMMARY FOR STORY: Another day in the counselor's new life.
SPOILER: Post “Loss”. There might also be other bits and pieces from various episodes.
NEXT STORY: WHAT CHANCE
“Mid-America Immigration and Refugees Services, this is Kurt Brown. How may I help you?”
“This is Jaime O’Brien from the Cook County Public Defender’s Office.”
“Oh, yes, Ms O’Brien. Thanks so much for returning my call. Do you have a few minutes? I want to explain our program to you.”
"Okay... Sure.”
“As you can tell from our name, we provide services to immigrants and refugees. Some of our clients are unaccompanied minor illegal immigrants who we believe qualify for asylum. But because of their circumstances, we’re working against many deadlines.”
“Uh-huh?” She encouraged him to continue.
“I was told you might be interested in volunteering.”
“By whom?” She asked, taken aback. **Do I now have a reputation of being a bleeding heart liberal?** She has been trying hard not to get noticed. She thought they had made sure she wouldn't get noticed.
“It won’t take up too much of your time,” Kurt Brown ignored her question, and pressed on. “Right now, we really need someone to help review a case coming up on appeal. You’ll have an assistant who’s a 2L. She'll also be your translator. It’s very low profile. You won’t have to argue before the judges or the Board of Appeals. In fact, all the papers will be filed under the agency’s name and mine. So you can remain anonymous if you wished.”
As if interpreting her silence for hesitation, he pressured, “We've already cleared you to work on this case. I’m going out to the field this afternoon. If you would meet me at St. Teresa’s Academy, I could introduce you to the kid who needs your help.”
“St Teresa’s?” That was the US Marshal's safe house.
“Yes, the Carmelite group home on the Near West side. You know where it is, right?”
“Yes, it’s practically in my neighborhood.” She quickly added, “Anyway, I can find out.”
“Good. Just help us out with this case,” he allowed no room for negotiation. “Afterwards, if you want to continue, we’ll be more than happy to have you. If not, it’s ok. No questions asked, I promise.”
“When should I be there?” She was intrigued. Ever since the last few times she and Olivia volunteered for one of her mother’s foundations, she had been wondering about being a Big Sister or something. They both were going to look into the possibilities; it would be another thing they could share. Those plans died with her abrupt departure... Maybe this was the something she could do… Maybe this would provide the needed distraction from her nine to five routine.
“5:30 ok?”
“Ok.” Her mind drifted to last Thanksgiving, to the splattered colors and smears on their faces that were supposed to be war paints. **Olivia getting tied up by two fierce six year olds.** She smiled, recalling the warm laughter and excited giggles. What a wonderful time they had had with the children. **What a wonderful mother she would make...**
“Oh, Ms. O’Brien,” he brought her back from her reverie. “I trust you know the sensitivity of these cases,” he paused. “Besides a few student and attorney volunteers, only the BCIS and my office know where these children are located.” He paused again slightly, “And the US marshals who drop the kids off.”
Allowing time for her to absorb the information, he amended, “And we’d like to keep it that way.”
"Yes, I understand." She answered firmly, betraying nothing. Part of her feared part of her hoped that this was all just a coincidence. “Yes, most definitely.”
“Good. Thanks again for agreeing to help us out, Ms. O’Brien.”
“No problem. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
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"Ms. O'Brien. I'm Kurt Brown." A tall, distinguished man with graying hair met her at the foyer.
She felt somewhat apprehensive being here at St. Teresa’s. They had briefed her about this place and the name of her contact, just in case she needed anything.
"Nice to meet you." She shook the extended hand.
"Come. Let me give you the twenty-five cent tour." He gestured for her to follow.
"Hello, Padre. Father Francisco, this is Ms. O'Brien. She'll be helping us with Miguel."
"Hello, Mr. Brown, Ms. O'Brien." The young priest clasped her hand in his, "Ms. O'Brien, I’m very happy you’re here. Miguel really needs an angel like you in his life right now."
"Padre," She laughed lightly, "I don't know that I'm an angel, but I'll certainly do my best to help."
"God sends his angels in many ways, and in many forms." He smiled kindly, and motioned for them to walk on.
Brown gave Jaime the abbreviated version of Miguel's life as he showed her around. Earlier that day, she had gone over the asylum provisions of the immigration code. She suspected the harsh life these kids must have had. Still, she wasn't prepared for what Brown told her.
"The kids are always the hardest," the detectives back home often said. Looking at the young, curious faces about her, she wondered how many of them would have fallen through the cracks. How many would have turned to crime out of circumstance or for survival.
She wondered why she ended up here. Why she couldn't just be a transactional attorney like her classmates... Some hostile M&A deal could probably get her adrenaline going just the same. But she knew why: Her mother. Her mother who showed her from early on that she should care, that it shouldn't be about money or who knew who. **Though these things are handy when it comes to fundraising.** She smiled wistfully, **Wish I could talk to her...**
“Here we are.” They arrived at a meeting room that reminded her of the children's room at the precinct. Brown handed her a small red weld, “Here is the I-589 we filed for Miguel, and the judge’s decision from the merits hearing. I’ve gone over them and jotted down some ideas. Maybe you can get a head start while I go ask them to bring Miguel in. Sara Villalobos, your 2L, should be here any minute now."
"Ok." She got herself situated at the low table in the center of the room, and immediately delved into the paperwork.
"I've got to take care of another case, but I'll stop by when you're done."
"All right," she looked up and smiled briefly before returning to the file.
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Miguel was nine when his uncle's band of guerillas murdered his family. They killed everyone except Miguel and his mother, his uncle's sister. They kept him alive because he was the oldest son, and they tortured him for years trying to brain wash him. When the civil war was finally over, he and his mother managed to escape before his uncle could silence them. Mother and son ran for six months. The two somehow got through Mexico, and all the way into the United States. His mother filed for asylum. But before their case went before the review, she kicked him out. Last they checked, she had abandoned her application and was no longer in the US. He was sixteen when Dallas vice picked him up for solicitation and turned him over to the INS.
Jaime had learned from Sara that his original attorney quit after they got the judge's decision. That attorney was just too burnt out and disillusioned.
"Hello, Miguel." Through her assistant, Jaime O'Brien introduced herself as the attorney who would be taking over his case. "I'm so sorry about the immigration court's decision. We're going to take your case to the Board of Immigration Appeals. Hopefully, we'll stop the removal proceedings, and get you status before you turn 18." **Before he gets sent to federal prison.**
Sucking in a shallow breath, "It's okay." He said, his eyes filled with sorrow and defeat. "I don't deserve to be here. I hope they kill me in jail."
She looked at him sadly, wishing she could do more than just give hollow promises. "Don't say that, Miguel."
"It's better than going back home, and..." The boy broke off, and looked away before he gave in to his emotions.
Alex wanted to reach across the table to hold his hand, but that would be improper - she was his attorney, not his mother.
He muttered something. “Be killed by his own uncle...” Sara finished for him.
How differently they had grown up. The only running away she had to do when she was nine was from her mother's corgies. That was only because she had stolen a slab of steak from their cook, and was harassing the dogs with it. When she was a teenager, her biggest worries revolved around clothes, boys, and an occasional crush on an older girl.
Suddenly, the burden that she had felt to succeed, to bring glory to the family name, seemed horribly shallow. How she could ever think such frivolousness worth her time and trouble…
The day these kids turn 18, they have to leave their safe house. They would end up in federal prison. They would suffer indignities, abuse, or even death. And they would wait for deportation to circumstances that would make them prefer any suffering they might experience here.
**Can I really do this?** She asked herself. She would gain their trust, and build up their hopes. Chances are, she would fail them miserably in the end.
**I would only betray them…** Just like she thought she had betrayed that little girl she sent back to the abusive grandfather... She had almost quit that day after the jury's verdict. But for Olivia's comforting words, she would have.
**Olivia... How does she do this everyday?** Normally, by the time Alex talk to the kids, to prep them for court, the detectives or Huang had already done the dirty work. She didn't have to try to pry into their wounds, or to help them out of the darkness.
In Miguel’s case, she had to make him relive the horrors yet again. **But can you really blame his last attorney for leaving?**
Jaime wanted to leave, too. She wanted to turn and run back to the safety of the mediocrity of her new life. Go to work, do her job, go home and go to bed.
**How does she do this and keep her sanity?** She shut out the memory of Olivia leaning against her on the couch, sobbing quietly over the victims they couldn’t help. She had always felt privileged that the strong detective had chosen her to share her vulnerability.
**I hope you’re at least talking to Elliot… ** She ignored the sudden pain that shot through her shoulder. **I’m so sorry I can’t be there for you…**
Jaime reached over and gave the boy's hand a comforting squeeze, and said, "No, Miguel, you have to be strong." She made herself look at the stoic youth, "We'll win your appeal. We'll get the government to grant you asylum. We have to." Using the last of her bravado to bolster the boy and give him some sort of hope to cling to. It wasn't much. Under the circumstances, it was the best she could do.
“Everything seems to be in order. Thank you for going over the file with me, Miguel.” She pulled herself together and smiled at him, "I'll go home tonight and draft your appeal. We'll get it filed by the end of the week. I'm not going to give up on you. Okay, Miguel?" For the moment, she focused on the boy, and forgot her own plight.
"If you like, Ms. O'Brien." He said dully, far older than his years, "I'm tired." Managing to look at her without crying, "Thank you for trying to help me. It means a lot," he said dejectedly. He was far more realistic than she was. He knew the likelihood of winning his appeal was poor. At least he knew that.
"Good night, Ms. O'Brien."
"Buenos noches, Miguel. See you later, Sara."
Jaime felt the familiar surge of adrenaline when she took on the new battle. She was already working on the boy's appellate brief when there was a knock on the door.
"How are you doing?" Kurt Brown asked as he entered with a large box on a rolling cart.
"I think I can do this."
"Good. Listen. It's not in my notes, but I think we can approach it from the membership in a particular social group angle. Amnesty International has made many head ways in those cases.”
It took her a minute to connect the social group reference. "Oh. I'll keep it in mind.”
“But Miguel doesn't want to use this... He doesn't want the label, and he thinks it's enough that he'd already broken his mother's heart. But I think we need to keep all our options open."
“Maybe I can try to talk to him about it." She offered. "You fall in love with whomever you fall in love with. Then you hold onto and treasure what you have" was her own mother's response when she told her about the teenage crushes.
"Maybe he'll listen to you. Anyway. Here, Sara printed out all the pertinent case law. Hopefully, you'll find something useful. I also threw in a copy of our attorneys training manual. It's much less painful than those law school outlines." He winked.
"Great! I appreciate it."
"You should have everything you need in here." He patted the top of the document box. "Can I give you a lift home?"
"Nah. I'm going to take advantage of the warm weather and get some exercise. Thank you though."
"Ok. Good luck, and I'll see you in a couple of days. Call me if you need anything." He said, and began to walk out of the room. Before he left, he looked back at her, "Thanks for your help, Ms. O'Brien." A smile appeared briefly on his tired face. Then he was gone.
**************************************************************************************************************
On her walk home, she thought about the nights they sat around one of their apartments… With soft music in the background, sharing hot tea, enjoying each other’s quiet company. Some nights, they talked about the cases that troubled them, going over strategies, bouncing ideas off of each other… Sometimes, anger would translate into tears, and tears into passion… Oh God, how she missed those strong arms that made her smile and gave her hope.
She thought about her conversation with the US Marshal, preparing for her relocation. The marshal assigned to her case was an older man. He reminded her of Captain Cragen. Marshal Shuman was a no nonsense guy with a gruff exterior and a heart of gold. Anyone could tell he had done too many of these placements, and seen too many victims get hurt. He had also helped too many criminals escape to a new life courtesy of the federal government.
“Chicago?” Alex was surprised when he first told her. She thought they would put her in a place so secluded there wouldn’t be civilization miles away.
“Oh, sorry.” He caught himself. “Bottom line, we’re hiding you in plain sight.”
“So you don’t have to baby-sit me.”
“So you can have a real life.” He explained bluntly. “Besides, Velez’s dogs wouldn’t dream of sniffing anywhere near the city.”
He must have sensed her uncertainty. “You’ll learn who’s really in charge fast enough, not that I’m implying anything.” He shook his head, in disgust or amusement, Alex couldn’t tell. “Trust me. They’d get fixed so fast, they wouldn’t know what hit them. And we’d hear about it only afterwards. That’s if the US government got lucky.”
“You don’t expect to catch Velez, do you?” Alex had to ask.
"Maybe you're too young to remember, kiddo," he said not unkindly. "It had taken us years to extradite Carlos Ledher from Columbia. Then they cut him a deal just because somebody decided there was a bigger fish to fry," he tightened his lips. “They didn't even really need his testimony to convict Noriega." He laughed bitterly, and looked at her with sad eyes, "There's always going to be a bigger fish to fry. Maybe not today, or not even tomorrow… But no matter how hard you work, how dead to rights you have them, or what scum they are, they get a deal. You, of all people, should know that."
She was silent. What else was there for her to say? This man wasn't her father or her friend, he was just doing his job. And he was right.
"Look. You made your choice. So, why don’t you just be happy with what we're giving you." Shuman tried to put a positive spin on the situation.
Alex could see the US marshal wasn't used to making polite and supportive chatter. She knew most of the people in the program he had dealt with were scum: drug dealers, murderers, rapists, even serial killers… Not some head strong, idealistic ADA who decided to play hero and get herself shot up.
He attempted another half-hearted smile, "Hopefully, after 18 months, you'll never hear from any of us again." He added after a slight pause, "Then you can find yourself a nice, safe bankruptcy or PI attorney boyfriend. You can get married, and have lots of babies. And you can forget Alexandra Cabot ever existed."
She looked back at him impassively.
“I know it’s not the life you could have had. But you’ll have a car, and a place to live. You’ll make a comfortable living. If you decided to stick around, you’ll have a government pension. If not, in a couple of years, you can go into private practice.”
“You know it’s not about that.” She said quietly.
Shuman shifted in his seat. “It’s not too late to change your mind. We can still put in a call. I’m sure they’ll fall all over themselves for someone with her qualifications and experience.”
Alex didn’t protest this time, so he pressed on, “Isn’t Det. Benson due for a promotion anyway? We can help that along, too. I hear Chicago cops get better bennies than New York cops.” He looked at the paper clip he had twisted out of shape, and put it down, “God knows I’ve placed so many mobster mistresses, this would be…” he trailed off. “… a pleasure.” She needed to know he was on her side.
She just stared at the discarded piece of wire.
“You know, if you’re into legal recognition… For 30 bucks you can even get yourselves registered in Cook County…” He offered.
Fierce determination must have shown through despite her drug-induced haze. Or maybe it was the pain in her faded blue eyes.
He sighed, "Are you always this difficult?”
She tilted her head a little, and narrowed her eyes at him.
“Never mind.” He laughed gently. “Look, we'll try to make it happen for you, but I can't promise you when. You'll just have to be patient.”
How many times had Alex told a victim what he or she wanted to hear? To get them to cooperate, just so she could get the testimony the law required? All of those sad and wounded faces came flooding back to her. It wasn't easy being on the receiving end.
“I know it isn't much to hold on to, but I'll do my best. Okay?" Shuman asked. “You have my word.” He said, sincerely.
Finally, he gave her the anchor she needed. Relieved, Alex nodded her head, and sank back into her chair.
“Ok, I’m going to get started on the paper work.” At that, he got up and walked back to his desk across the room, leaving her to her thoughts.
Alexandra Cabot began the long process of absorbing the details of her new pre-fabricated life.
**Wonder what my psych evaluation told them...** She winced, remembering the probing personal questions she had to truthfully answer.
Up until then, she had no idea just how exposed or violated her witnesses felt. At least for Alex, it was technically an impersonal drive-by, and she survived the shooting. **The scars I have will fade.** She kept telling herself. And they did give her some semblance of a life, albeit one buried in complete mediocrity.
Oxford, Ohio. She hadn't even heard of the town until they took her on the whirlwind tour. Small town Midwest, not quite booming metropolis nor back-water farming community. Her parents were Michael and Maureen O'Brien, retired and deceased mail carrier and postal clerk, respectively.
Jaime O’Brien had no siblings. She attended a public high school, got good grades, belonged to the usual clubs. She went through a state supported college in four years, then spent a year teaching English in Japan. Afterwards, for two years, she volunteered with a now defunct youth group while trying to figure out what to do with her life. Then three years at a comfortably second-tier law school. Two years clerking for a retired and also deceased federal judge. Four years as a solo practitioner defending drunken, disorderly or otherwise delinquent teenagers with forgettable white middle-class backgrounds.
They had given her law school grades respectable enough to get a federal clerkship without raising any eyebrows. But she would never be the State’s Attorney nor be able to sit on any bench. **Nor get myself killed… At least not in the same way…**
Oh so very neatly they accounted for every year of her life. Then a short telephone call from the mayor's secretary got her a job at the state's attorney’s office. They even pushed through her motion to waive into the Illinois bar. They made sure she would swear in with the July exam takers.
Alex knew her existence was on a need-to-know basis. It was just like the existence of any other person in the Witness Security Program. **What lengths could or would the feds go to hide someone? Or bury them?** She had always wondered. The federal government’s reach was far beyond her imagination. And after the first few days in the program, she had learned not to ask too many questions.
In less than 2 weeks, they were ready for Alex’s relocation.
She insisted on starting her new job right away. Shuman didn’t argue with her. He just gave her enough pain-killers to keep a petty dealer in business. The first night she was alone in her apartment, she flushed all of it down the toilet.
Jaime O’Brien went to work with her arm in a sling. A moving mishap was going to be her excuse if anybody asked. But no one did.
Now that she was becoming more comfortable with her new identity and life, she had to admit it wasn't so bad.
They gave her a gently used Ford Focus. She even got to pick the color. They chose a quaint, one and a half bedroom condo for her. It was more spacious than her apartment on the Upper West Side. Her new neighborhood was bohemian but gentrifying, where immigrants, artists, and young professionals co-existed. It reminded her a little of Astoria, but mostly of Williamsburg. And her place was within walking distance to the US Marshal’s safe house.
**They think of everything, don’t they?**
They didn’t allow her anything too ostentatious for a lowly public servant. And there's nothing quite so low as an Assistant Public Defender, unless you counted the junior Assistant PD’s she occasionally supervised. It was the least glamorous legal job. A stepping-stone for the law school graduates who couldn’t make it to big firms, or the ones who wanted to be the next Johnnie Cochran. For the few idealistic lawyers left in the world, it was their proper destiny. They could help the downtrodden, and defend the accused against an impersonal legal system that had forgotten how to help the poor. They might even save a few souls along the way.
She was somewhat surprised that they had let her keep her chosen profession. The fed's career counselor must have decided she wasn't cut out to be anything else. At least it was something familiar she could hold onto; and she did begin her training on the defense side. It was almost reassuring. Judging from the lessening anxiety attacks, they might have actually figured out the color of her parachute.
***************************************************************************************************************
"Jaime, your uncle called,” Gabriella, the receptionist, stopped her as she got off the elevator.
"My Uncle?" She asked. **Huh?** The man who always treated her like a princess, who had let her sit on his bench and pretend it was a throne, and his gavel a magic wand. He was so proud when she told him she wanted to be a judge just like him. **It couldn't be...** Her uncle who had championed her and mentored her every step of the way.
"We've been having voice mail problems all morning." Gabriella continued, oblivious to Jaime's surprise. "And I'm getting everyone's calls." She complained, and held out a small stack of pink slips to Jaime.
Jaime took the papers from her.
"Anyway, he wanted to tell you he got into LA okay. I left some telephone numbers on your computer, with your other messages. Your uncle said you can call either numbers, but to wait until you got home tonight.”
"Okay, thanks." Jaime started back to her desk.
"Cook County Public Defender's Office. Hold please."
"Oh, Jaime, he said something about asking his colleague to drop something off for you." Gabriella added, then returned to the phone. "Thanks for holding. How may I help you? Oh, hi honey. Sorry, I couldn't tell it was you."
Jaime mouthed, "Thank you," and continued on.
"The caller ID's are still not showing up," she heard as she rounded the corner. Somewhere along the slow, extra long walk to her cube, everything clicked.
Casually, Jaime picked up the post it note on her terminal, and absorbed the scrawled numbers. She held the paper for a moment and then slipped it into her pocket.
The assistant public defender smiled a genuine smile for the first time in weeks.
************************************************************************************************************
After work, Jaime stopped by the supermarket to get ingredients for a salad. She took her time picking out the vegetables. Then, she remembered she had run out of tea, so she inventoried the tea aisle and stocked up.
When she got home, Oliver greeted her at the door. She picked him up, and showered him with affection until he squirmed to get down.
In the kitchen, she fussed over the cat's food and water. She then fixed her salad, and tried to savor every bite, even though she wasn’t hungry.
Afterwards, over a glass of bordeaux, she indulged in the memory of their private dinners together… the ritual feeding… the teasing… How sometimes Olivia would miss her mouth on purpose, just so she could kiss the food away…
She washed and put away the dishes. Then played with Oliver some more, and made sure he was content.
At last, Jaime went into her office, and picked up the document box from Kurt Brown. She took out the binder on top, and removed the folded Westlaw printouts. Behind the paperwork were two pre-paid cellular phones, one gray, one black. She brought them out, and set them side-by-side on her desk.
For the longest time, she stared at them. Slowly, she picked up the gray one and dialed.
As she waited for the call to connect, she thought about the woman who instilled in her a sense of duty, and taught her right from wrong. The person from whom she inherited her tireless steadfastness. The woman who told her to follow her heart…
Whose weary voice finally answered, “Hello.”
Jaime closed her eyes at the uncharacteristic tone, **I'm so sorry to have put you through all of this. There was no other way. Can you ever forgive me?**
And she began uncertainly, "Hi… It's me…"