Marrow

Marrow. Part Five.
By BrightEyes
Fandom: Oz/Law and Order: SVU/X-Men. Spoilers through season four of Oz.
Summary: Two new inmates at the Oswald State Penitentiary cause scandal and angst inside and outside the walls.
Warnings: Slash (m/m), Angst, Underage Character, Descriptions of Abuse, Issues of Consent: non-con and rape, Violence, Adult Language and Situations.
Thanks: to Willow for the beta.
Disclaimer: The characters don’t belong to me. Oz belongs to Tom Fontana, X-Men to Marvel, SVU to Dick Wolf. I’m not making money. Don’t sue me, please. This is fantasy adult fiction: rape and sex with minors is NOT OKAY in the real world, got it?
Feedback: Please. To brighteyedjill@yahoo.com.


Oz: Em City

When Schillinger returned from the post office, Landry was asleep in his bunk. It
had been four months since he’d last seen his prag sleep, and the sight itself gave him a
small rush. So innocent. Unspoiled. Well… except for all that bruising. Landry
opened his eyes when Schillinger turned on the water to wash his hands.

“Mr. Schillinger?” he said groggily.

“Hey, Benjie.” Kid’s a glutton for punishment, Schillinger thought.
Can’t believe he’s back with me. I thought for sure Mr. Manus would have stuck him
in protective custody, or at least with in a different pod…

“I missed you, sir,” said Landry, struggling to pull himself into a sitting position.

Schillinger turned around and looked at the Cajun incredulously. “What is wrong
with you, kid?”

“Well sir, my ribs are still healing, and Dr. Nathan says I’ll have to wear this wrist
brace for a while--.”

“I mean why are you…? Jesus, never mind,” said Schillinger with a little laugh.
Kid must have brain damage. Or a death wish. “I heard you were talking to
McManus.”

“Yes sir,” said Landry earnestly. “He was the only visitor I was allowed to have.
So he talked to me a couple of times.”

“So what did you tell him, Benny Boy?” Schillinger said, fixing his prag with a
warning glare. I had better like this answer.

Landry leaned forward and said seriously, “Sir, I had to tell him the truth.”
Schillinger’s eyes narrowed, but Landry forged on. “I didn’t want to be a rat, sir, but I
didn’t want it to happen to someone else, see. Beecher and Keller have to be stopped.”

Schillinger’s blue eyes widened in real surprise. Let me get this straight… This
prag comes up with a plan to fuck up Beecher and Keller with no prompting from
me? This kid really can turn shit into gold. “So that’s what happened?”

“Yes, sir. O’Reilly told me you were in the gym, so I went, and Keller and
Beecher jumped me,” said Landry with a straight face and solemn eyes that proclaimed
his seriousness.

Schillinger smiled despite himself. Well well well. This could be very good.
Maybe I’ll keep him after all. “Okay Ben. I guess as long as you stay on your best
behavior from now on, I’ll make sure you don’t have any more run-ins with Beecher and
Keller.”

Landry smiled back. “Thank you, sir.”
************

Xavier Institute

The phone had already rung several times, and Jean was almost ready to hang up
and try again later when a voice came on the line.

“Hello?” The connection was bad, or perhaps it was just hard to hear because of
all the noise in the background of wherever the cell phone’s owner was. Jean could hear
pounding dance music, as if at a club, and a cacophony of voices. Club music at nine
in the morning?

“Hello. I need to speak to Tae Finnessey please,” said Jean, gripping the phone
harder as if that would improve the connection.

“Who the fuck is this?” snapped the voice on the other end.

“My name is Jean Grey. I’m with—.”

“Who?” shouted the person, Jean thought probably a woman.

“Jean Grey,” said Jean, louder. “Tim McManus gave me this number.”

“Tim gave you--? Oh wait, are you that mutant chick?”

Jean paused for a moment, unsure on several levels. “I guess so,” she said finally.
“My name is Jean Grey.”

“Right. Fine. I’m Tae. But I’m kind of busy right now. Call back in an hour.”
With that Tae, if it was indeed her, hung up.

Jean was left with a dial tone blaring in her ear. She gently set the receiver down.
That’s not quite what I expected, she thought. Mutant chick? That had better
not be McManus’ term for me. Her thoughts were interrupted by the jingle of the
phone she’d just set down.

Automatically she grabbed it and heard the same blend of techno music and
nonsensical shouting she’d just hung up on. Tae’s voice cut through the buzz. “Mutant
chick? On second thought, you should come meet me when I get off work. 2:00. The
Candlewood Inn. Queens. Okay?”

“Oh—Alright,” said Jean in surprise. “Where exactly?”

“Candlewood Inn. Fucking MapQuest it.” The dial tone sounded again.

Jean set down the phone again, already making her plans for the day. Well, at
least this interview won’t be boring.
**************

Oz: Counseling Office

*Knock knock*

Beecher turned from his computer monitor to see an uncertain-looking Ben
Landry standing in the doorway.

“Is she not here? I mean, Sister Pete?” asked Landry quickly.

“No. Had some meeting. Come on in, though,” said Beecher

“No, that’s alright,” said Landry, backing up a step. “I’ll just come back-.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, kid,” said Beecher.

Landry crossed his arms over his chest, but didn’t retreat any farther. “I know.
Sorry.”

Beecher flashed a disarming smile. “So, I’ve been looking at your case.” What
there is of it.

“What?” said Landry, narrowing his eyes.

“Your case. You know? That thing that happens in court?” he quipped. Landry
was looking more suspicious. Wait a second… Did that detective not tell him? Oh
damn.

“What do you know about my case?”

“A NYPD detective asked me to look at it,” said Beecher.

Landry looked at him with disbelief. “Why?”

“She heard I’d helped other inmates. I used to be a lawyer. I told her I’d look at it
and see if I could help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Yes you do. You just don’t know how to ask for it.”

Landry looked as if he’d been slapped. He took two steps backward, then turned
and practically ran out the door.

Suddenly, Beecher’s memory flashed back to a document he’d read earlier that
morning; an interview transcript from when two Mississippi detectives had come to New
York to question Landry.


“So why didn’t you turn yourself in?”
“Henri didn’t want to.”
“Uh huh. You wanted to, I suppose.”
“Maybe. I felt bad.”
“Well boy, that’s mighty hard to believe considering that you then ran all the way
to New York. And you ran when New York’s finest came to take you in.”
“Well, who wouldn’t?”
“Someone with nothing to hide, for starters. Why’d you run?”
“I don’t like cops.”
“I don’t like your attitude, boy.”
“Listen. I was never big for my age, and I learned something real early; they’ll
always beat you if they can catch you, so don’t let them catch you.”

\
You want me to catch you, don’t you? But you can’t stop running. Shit.
Beecher fairly flew out of his chair and into the hallway, looking both ways for a
clue as to where his quarry might have fled. The emergency exit sign at the end of the
hallway caught his eye. Ah, the stairway. What fun. Beecher hurried down the
hall and paused before gently pushing open the door.

In the sunlight filtering in from the stairwell’s tiny windows, Beecher could see
Landry sitting against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. “Fuck off,” Landry said,
voice muffled with tears.

Beecher sat next to him, leaning against the wall. “I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck for?” sniffled Landry.

“For upsetting you, I guess.”

Landry wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Fuck. You should stay away
from me. Stop trying to fucking save me.”

“I can’t.” Beecher slowly reached out and rested his hand on Landry’s shoulder.
Even this little comfort proved too much; the kid started sobbing, gut-wrenching, choking
cries that sent shudders through his body.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” the kid repeated over and over.

Beecher made soothing noises and rubbed his hand in little circles over Landry’s
back, but he didn’t get any closer. “It’ll be okay, kid.”

“No, no it won’t,” Landry said, putting his head in his hands. “I’m so fucked up.”

“Everyone in here’s fucked up, kid.”

Landry gave a little hysterical chuckle. “You’re trying to help me because you
think I’m a victim. Poor little Ben.” He turned his tear-stained face to Beecher and smiled
manically. “I am not a good person, okay?”

And suddenly following this guy into the stairwell seems like a less-than-
brilliant plan, Beecher thought.

“I kill people, okay,” Landry continued. “Three dead bodies is what got me here.
And not with a gun while I was coked up or drunk behind the wheel of the car, we’re
talking up close and personal, flesh to flesh, with malice a-fucking-forethought.”

Landry leaned closer to Beecher as he spoke, but Toby refused to give way,
refused to show any of the fear that was rising in his throat. He won’t hurt me. He
doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s just playing tough. “You’re not the baddest con in
here, Benjamin.”

“Yeah, but I’m not some innocent victim,” said Landry, putting a hand on
Beecher’s leg and leaning in closer.

Don’t fuck with me, kid. I wrote the book on prag-turned-crazy man. “I
didn’t think you were,” Beecher said casually. Landry stopped for a moment. Beecher
continued. “No one in here is innocent.”

“Then why do you keep trying to help me!” Landry leaned back against the wall,
covering his eyes with his hands.

“Because I can. Because you need help. Not because you deserve it. Is that
philosophical enough for you?”

Landry laughed. It was an ugly sound, like breaking glass. “I’m fucking you
over.”

Beecher squinted, confused. “Excuse me?”

Landry rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. “I fucking told McManus that
it was you and Keller who attacked me in the gym.”

Beecher stared at him silently for a moment, then said, “He couldn’t believe that.”

“I think he did,” said Landry, opening his teary eyes again to look sideways at
Beecher. “I’m sorry.”

The black eye. He must have told McManus about that scene in the copy room.
Beecher felt his fist clench and unclench spasmodically at his side. “Well, no harm
no foul. There’s obviously no evidence, so it’s just talk,” he said evenly.

“It doesn’t bother you that I sold you out?” asked Landry with a sniff.

Beecher considered. There’s one thing you can do to prove that you’re truly
sorry. I remember. “Tell McManus the truth.”

Landry shook his head vehemently. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Won’t do it.”

“Same thing.” Landry turned his back to the older man.

Beecher grabbed Landry’s shoulder and turned him back around. “This could fuck
up my parole.”

“I’m sorry.”

Chris. “And Keller’s already a lifer. They could put him in solitary.” I
couldn’t see him.

“I’m so fucking sorry. I can’t take it back now. I told you I was a bad person.”
Landry made a half-hearted attempt to pull away from Beecher, but Toby just tightened
his grip, fingers digging into the kid’s shoulder.

“You’re not as bad as you try to be.”

“No?” Landry asked mildly. He looked away, then turned back to meet Beecher’s
eyes. In a sudden, fluid movement he’d pushed Beecher down onto his back, and landed
straddling the bigger man’s waist. He leaned low over Beecher, face-to-face, grinding his
ass into the other man’s pelvis. “Stop trying to help me.” Lightning-quick, he dove in and
kissed Beecher, grinding his lips hard into Toby’s and forcing his tongue into his mouth.
Then he sat up abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, and darted out the door.

Toby sat up, wiping his kiss-swollen lips with the back of his hand. Fucking
hell, he thought, staring after Landry. Maybe that prag-turned-crazy-man book
has a sequel.
*************

Candlewood Inn, Queens

Scott had insisted on accompanying Jean on her impromptu trip to the city. “I
know you can take care of yourself. I just thought I could keep you company on the
drive,” he’d said. Truth be told, Jean wasn’t that upset that he’d decided to tag along.
If she’s as hostile as McManus hinted, I won’t be sorry to have some back-up.

Jean had thought, perhaps, that the Candlewood Inn would be a family diner. Or
maybe a specialty shop. The address was in a crumbling commercial district, and the
storefront whose sign read “Candlewood Inn” was unassuming. Its windows were painted
black, and a sign nailed to the door said: “Open 24 hrs. No minors.” Even standing
outside, Jean could hear the bass thump of music issuing from inside. She exchanged a
look with Scott. Oh this is going to be interesting. She took a deep breath and
pulled the door open.

She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. Scott, of course, with his
special “sunglasses,” experienced no such handicap. The music was earsplitting. Jean
stepped out of the doorway and glanced around. A bar, mostly empty of customers, took
up one long wall. The opposite wall sported a small stage with three evenly spaced poles
running from floor to ceiling. A woman was onstage, moving to the music. Oh. Ohhh.

“I guess you’re Jean,” said a voice from behind the couple. Jean and Scott turned
to look. A young woman smoking a cigarette leaned against the wall. “Who’s the
beefcake?”

Scott held out his hand. “I’m Scott Summers. Also with the Xavier Institute,” he
said with a winning smile.

“Let’s go,” Tae said, ignoring Scott’s proffered hand. She gestured to the couple
to move. In a moment the trio stood in the sunlight on the street. “I’m Tae. I suppose you
got that already.” The woman took a last drag on her cigarette, then dropped it and
ground it into the snow with the heel of her calf-high boot.

“Yes, I figured,” said Jean. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

“I let you drive all the way up here, didn’t I? Come on, I know a place. I’m
starved.” Tae set off down the street, and Jean and Scott hurried after her.

“So, you work there?” Jean asked casually as they walked.

Tae laughed. “Uh huh. And no, I don’t wash dishes. What do you two do for a
living? Besides ask questions, that it.”

“We’re teachers,” said Scott. “At a school for the gifted.”

“Mutants, you mean,” said Tae.

“Well, yes.”

“That must be all kinds of fun. This is it.” Tae led the couple into a cramped diner
and slid into a corner booth. “I recommend the eggs.”

Jean sat down across from the younger woman. Scott settled in beside her. “You
come here a lot, then?” he asked conversationally.

“Well, it’s close to work.”

A middle-aged, gingham-clad waitress wandered up, clutching her pad and pencil.
“The usual, honey?” she said to Tae.

Tae nodded. “Yes, please. And coffee.”

The waitress turned to Jean. “I’ll have what she’s having,” said Jean.

“Make that three,” said Scott.

The waitress nodded. To Tae, she said, “Mindy should be here in about ten,” and
then she wandered away.

Tae took a packet of Sweet ‘n Low from the box at the end of the booth and toyed
with it, folding the edges down and smoothing them out again. “So. You have
questions?”

“Yes. I was hoping we could talk about your brother,” said Jean. Scott studiously
folded his arms over his chest and leaned back, ready to play “silent cop” and let Jean,
who was usually so good with people, do the talking.

“Yes. My brother.” Tae smiled and ripped open the Sweet ‘n Low, pouring it into
a neat little pile on the table. “What do you want to know?”

“Tim McManus told me that you were the reason the Warden decided to
discontinue use of the Smart Collar.”

“That’s probably true. Personally, I think Warden Glynn capitulated out of sheer
annoyance. But hey, whatever works.”

“Can you tell me how exactly you went about convincing him?”

“I called Glynn’s secretary every day asking for meetings. And I insisted of
meeting with Tim McManus.”

“Why McManus?”

“Because he’s in charge of my brother’s cell block. And because it pissed Glynn
off.”

Jean furrowed her brow. “Why was that?”

“You’ve met with him. Can you figure it out?” Tae blew softly on the pile of
Sweet ‘n Low, sending the granules scattering across the table top.

Jean thought for a moment. “Wait—is it because his office is in Em City?”

“Got it in one. Apparently I was causing disturbances.”

Scott looked between the two women, confused.

“I have tits,” Tae explained. “Maximum security prisoners don’t get to see a lot of
those. Besides, it’s a long drive up to Oswald. Whose fault is it if I was on my way to
work?”

Oh what I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall in Em City that
day, Jean though. She laid a reassuring hand on the leg of her boyfriend, who was
blushing furiously.

“Anyway,” continued Tae. “I kept demanding meetings and being my own
charming self until Glynn did what I wanted. It only took six months.”

Jean nodded. “You should know that I’m preparing a law suit against the
manufacturers of the Smart Collar. Your brother’s case will be important evidence if the
case goes to trial.”

“Okay. And?” Tae was using the edge of another packet of Sweet ‘n Low to
arrange the mess she’d made into a series of tidy lines.

Jean shot a frustrated glance over to Scott. Isn’t she even a little interested?
“I want to be able to say that Oswald discontinued use of the Smart Collar because
of the adverse effect it had on the health of the inmate it was used on—your brother.”

“Well, then say it.”

Jean narrowed her eyes in annoyance. “What I’m saying, Miss Finnessey, is that I
need to know if there was any other factors that influenced that decision.”

Tae looked up from her Sweet ‘n Low and smiled. “Oh. I see. Then why didn’t
you just ask?”

“I’m asking now.”

Tae looked Jean right in the eyes and said, “No, I didn’t fuck Tim McManus in
exchange for helping my brother.”

Jean’s eyes widened. Scott cleared his throat loudly. The waitress re-appeared
with three plates of eggs and toast, which she set in front of her customers, and a coffee pot, with which she filled the empty mugs on the table. The trio remained silent until she walked away.

“Does that answer your question?” asked Tae coolly. She wiped the lines of
Sweet ‘n Low into her hand, then poured the handful into her coffee.

Yes, but it raises some others. “Tim McManus led me to believe that the two of
you had a… relationship.”

“Yes, we have a relationship. Which has nothing to do with my brother.” Tae
sipped her coffee.

Jean lifted her own mug, but didn’t drink. “I don’t mean to be rude, Ms.
Finnessey, but a jury might see the situation differently.”

“Not my problem,” Tae said and began to devour her eggs.

Well, I guess McManus warned me. Jean picked up her own fork, Scott followed
suit, and the three ate in silence for a few moments. Finally, she said, “You know, there
are dozens of other prisoners all over the country who are still subjected to Smart
Collars.”

Tae set down her fork. “Boo hoo for them. I wish you well, lady, I really do, but I
don’t want to get involved in this whole thing.”

“But you are involved! It’s because of you that changes were made at Oswald,
and that’s sure to come up at a trial.”

Tae was about to reply when the door to the diner opened, admitting a gust of
cold wind, an older woman whose winter coat didn’t completely cover her gingham diner
uniform, and a bundled-up toddler. The latter two made straight for the booth where Tae sat
with her guests.

“Hey baby,” said Tae, sliding out of the booth to pick up the toddler. She turned
to the other woman. “Hey Mindy. Was she good?”


Taking off her coat, Mindy smiled. “She was fine. Traffic was shit, that’s why
we’re late. I’ve gotta get back there. Bye honey,” she said to the toddler in Tae’s arms,
then disappeared behind the counter.

Tae set her burden down on the booth’s bench and began removing winter gear: a hat, scarf, mittens, and coat. Jean watched the operation, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
Tae finally got the little girl pared down to street clothes and sat the child beside her at
the booth. The little girl had adorable, blond pigtails, and was staring at Scott with a
mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“So. Is she yours?” Jean asked finally.

“I guess so,” said Tae. “This is my niece, Becca. Becca, this is Jean and Scott. Can you
say ‘hi,’ Bec?” The toddler raised one tiny hand and waved shyly across the table.

Scott smiled. “Hi Becca.”

Cute, Jean thought. Then it hit her. “Your niece? You mean-.”

“You got it, Sherlock. I’m her guardian.”

Jean found herself staring at the child as Tae fed her pieces of toast with jam.
“I’m just surprised. I’ve talked to your brother several times, and he’s never mentioned
her.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a touchy subject.”

“Why’s that?”

“Abel’s not allowed to see her.”

“You mean you won’t take her there?” asked Scott acidly.

“I mean that he’s legally prohibited from interacting with his daughter, okay?”
Tae snapped. “Part of the package now when you’re guilty of using your mutant powers
to commit a felony. You’re an unfit parent, and you child has to go to a non-mutant
guardian.”

Scott leaned forward earnestly. “What?”

“It’s called the Prevention of the Corruption of Minors Act. Missed that memo,
did you?”

“So you’re not a mutant?” Jean asked doubtfully.

“Not legally, no. I’m not registered, and don’t plan on becoming registered.
Unless I ever get arrested and compelled to give a DNA test, in which case they register
you automatically, just like fingerprints. So as far as Child Protective Services is
concerned, no, I’m not a mutant. Bec, don’t eat the toothpicks.” Tae pried a toothpick out
of her niece’s hand and replaced it with a plastic teething ring from her purse.

“Listen, Tae,” said Jean earnestly. “There’s got to be something we can do to help
you. It’s not fair that--.”

“Listen, lady. The Mutant Rights Defense League or Mutants Anonymous or
People for the Ethical Treatment of Mutants or whoever the hell you represent wasn’t
interested in Abel during his trial or his sentencing or when I was trying to get them to
take the damn Collar off, so don’t tell me you’re interested in his welfare now,” Tae said.
“We’ve got to go.” She scooped up her niece, coat and all, and stalked out of the diner.
*************

SVU Squad Room, New York City


“Hey Fin. You got a minute?” Olivia asked as she seated herself casually on the
edge of his desk.

Fin leaned back from his computer. “Sure. What’s up?

“I want to know if you have an unsolved case during the week of June 16th last
summer.”

Fin studied Olivia for a moment. “Is this for that pedophile case you’re working?” he
asked at last.

“No, actually. It’s--.”

“Let me guess. Do the names Landry or Castille figure into this equation?” Olivia
smiled sheepishly. Fin replied with a sigh. “All right. I’ll check. Mind telling me more
specifically what I’m looking for?”

“I wish I could. Here’s what I do know: Landry said in his testimony that the
night he killed Remy Castille, Castille had gone out and done something ‘bad.’ Landry
wouldn’t say what that bad thing was. I’m wondering if he might have left a victim.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the ‘bad thing’ was visiting Lola the mistress of pain, or going
to a KKK rally, or eating at McDonald’s. Who knows?”

“You’re right, Fin, it couldn’t be anything. But Remy Castille helped kill two
people less than a week before coming to New York, not to mention spending years
helping his father sexually enslave and abuse a younger boy. So I have the idea that his
idea of making trouble is probably pretty criminal.”

“All right. Point taken. I’ll check it out. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks Fin, you’re great.”

“I’m the best.”
************

Oz: Em City

It was late afternoon on a Tuesday. Normal business hours for the operations of
Em City’s residents. The Latinos were gathered in El Cid’s pod, the gays were having a
fingernail-painting party near the television, and the members of the Aryan Brotherhood
were huddled around a couple of tables in the corner of the quad farthest from the guard
station.

Schillinger was addressing the troops. “We’ve been increasing our influence
while the Niggers and Spics have been fighting, but if we expect others to respect us, we
can’t tolerate threats. It’s come to my attention that a certain obnoxious Mick has been
talking a big game about how he has us Aryans under control. He thinks we’re scared of
him. Ryan O’Reilly is getting a little too big for his britches, and I have just the way to
put him down,” Schillinger said. “Prag! Come here.”

Landry crawled from where he had been sitting on the floor to kneel by his master. “We
all know that O’Reilly was a weak spot when it comes to his retard brother. The question
is how to use that weakness effectively. That’s where Ben here comes in. If Chris Keller
could seduce Tobias Beecher, I’m pretty sure that Benny here getting Cyril O’Reilly in
the sack will be like taking candy from a retarded baby.” The assembled Brotherhood
members exchanged looks that varied from incredulous to amused.

Adler spoke up. “Sir, I’m sure you’ve already thought of this, but, um… Won’t
Ryan O’Reilly put a stop to that?”

“Well, there’s some risk involved. But Benny Boy is brave,” Schillinger said. He
paused for a laugh, which his cronies provided. “Besides, I would bet money that Ryan
O’Reilly will land himself in the Hole before too long. That will get him out of the way
long enough for Ben to make his move. Then we’ll see who’s under control.”
************

Oz: Counseling Office


“Tobias? You remember that detective is coming in today,” Sister Pete said from
her desk.

“Yes, I remember,” said Beecher without pausing from his typing.

“Have you made any progress?” she asked nonchalantly.

Beecher stopped typing. Pete was trying to be casual, but he knew she really cared
about this case. Or, more accurately, cared about Beecher’s part in helping on this case.
Part of my ‘healing process.’ “Some. I have an idea of what a real lawyer would
want to challenge on appeal.”

“That’s a start, at least.”

“Yep. But there’s not much I can do without more information. The cases are
pretty well linked, and I don’t know much about the New York prosecution’s case.”

Sister Pete sighed. “Tobias, aren’t you going to ask my why I never gave you
Landry’s file to type?”

Toby smiled. Nope. Waiting got the job done. “I figured you’d tell me if
you wanted me to know.”

“I trust you, Tobias. You get access to information that’s very sensitive.
Information that other inmates might not want anyone else to know,” said Pete slowly.
Beecher turned to look at his boss and waited for her to go on. “I wanted you to come to
your own conclusions about him. I wanted you to decide to help him on your own, before
you knew about, well, everything.”

“Jeez, Pete, you’re scaring me. I’ve seen Landry do some pretty fucked-up
things.” Believe me. “I bet nothing in his case history would surprise me.”

Sister Pete fixed him with an admonishing look. “Here’s the file. You may have
to save it for later—Detective Benson is supposed to be here any minute.” She handed
Beecher a file folder thick with copies of documents and notes written in her own neat,
cramped hand.

Beecher opened it and began flipping randomly through the pages. History of
sexual abuse dating back several years… identified as a father figure… fierce devotion…
experienced panic attacks at thought of separation… refusing to testify…repetition of
target behaviors… Stockholm Syndrome… denied the abuse… inhibited sense of
individuality… likely to continue established behaviors…, Beecher read. Jesus.
No wonder this kid can’t help himself.

“Sister Pete?” Officer Eaton was standing in the doorway. “There’s an NYPD
detective here to see you.”

“Yes, thank you Alan. Send her in,” said Pete.

“It’s a he,” said Eaton. He stepped into the hallway and a moment later returned
with a well-built, blue-eyed man with a receding hairline and a hawk-like nose.

“I’m Sister Peter Marie, and this is Tobias Beecher,” said the nun.

“Detective Benson couldn’t come. She had to be at a trial. I’m Detective Stabler,”
said the newcomer, and exchanged handshakes with Sister Pete and Beecher.

He’s cute. Damn cute, thought Beecher. I used to be so straight.
“I’ve been looking over the materials Detective Benson gave me,” he said. “And I
think I’ve found some things.” Beecher grabbed his notes form his desk and took a seat
on the couch. Stabler sat on a nearby chair, and Sister Pete opted simply to lean against
her desk.

“So, counselor, how’s the situation?”

“I’m not a counselor anymore, detective. Disbarred, actually,” Beecher said, with
only a flutter of regret at the memory. “The first thing Landry needs is a real lawyer. But
there are definitely grounds for an appeal.” Stabler leaned forward, listening.

“My argument would be that Landry should never have been tried as an adult in
the first place. For starters, according to what there is of the statement, he was not the
instigator of the action, merely a participant. Of course, since Henri Castille is dead,
there’s no one to corroborate that story. But I’m willing to bet that if the prosecution had
had Henri to pin this on, Landry would never have been hit with manslaughter charges.
From what I’ve seen of Landry’s behavior, and judging from the relationship he had with
Castille, I’d say it’s pretty clear who planned their little adventure.”

“All right. So that’s an argument against the manslaughter charge. What about
assault with a deadly weapon?”

“That one’s harder in some ways because of the sheer ridiculousness of the
charge,” Beecher said, beginning to enjoy the feeling of empowerment that came from
knowing his shit backwards and forwards. “I mean, the fact of Landry’s mutancy was
inadmissible at the trial, so how can they claim he used his powers as a deadly weapon?
That’s nuts. No evidence was ever presented to prove it. There’s a case from Tennessee
where a man’s deadly weapon conviction was overturned because it was ruled that there
was insufficient proof he actually possessed the weapon in question. That should be
useful.”

“It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought, Mr. Beecher.”

Beecher paused. When the hell was the last time anyone called me Mister?
“Yes. I suppose I have.”

The detective flashed Beecher a wry smile. “Detective Benson and I were hoping
that you would be willing to write the appeal.”

“Me?” asked Beecher doubtfully.

“Why not, Tobias?” Sister Pete jumped in. “You know all the facts of the case.”

“But I’m not a criminal lawyer. I’m not even a lawyer anymore!”

“Neither is Kareem Said,” said Pete calmly.

Beecher shot her a look of barely-concealed annoyance. Do I sense
manipulation? Maybe a little emotional blackmail? Yes, yes I do. He turned to
Detective Stabler. “I don’t mean to be rude, detective, but I am curious. Why is the
NYPD concerned about this?”

Stabler folded his arms over his chest and leaned back. “We’re still trying to catch
the bad guy. If helping Landry can bring us closer to catching the bad guy, then it’s worth
a shot.”

Beecher looked between Stabler and Sister Pete and sighed. “All right. I can write
the appeal. As long as someone else can explain to Landry that all this is going on.” He
fixed Stabler with an accusatory look. “Your partner failed to mention to him that she’d
asked me to review his case.”

Stabler just smiled. “Must have slipped her mind.”

“Right,” muttered Beecher.

Sister Pete jumped in, her voice bright and cheery, “So, can I get anyone coffee?”
************

Oz: Em City

Schillinger placed a hand on Landry’s shoulder, and breathed in the clean scent of his
hair. He was standing behind his prag by the door of their pod, watching the action below
in the quad. “There he goes,” he said, watching Officer Murphy buzz Ryan O’Reilly
through the contact gate. “You’ve got less than ten minutes. Go get ‘em, sugar.” He
slapped Landry on the ass.

Landry pushed open the door of the pod and took off for the table where Cyril
was looking at a porno mag.

“Hey,” he said casually, plopping down in the seat next to Cyril.

“Hey!” said Cyril, his face lighting up with a look of surprise and pleasure. “I
haven’t seen you in a while.”

Landry leaned in and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Ryan told me I shouldn’t talk
to you. But I still want to be friends.”

Cyril whispered back, “Me too, Benjamin.”

“Fine, then,” said Landry with an easy laugh. Across the quad, other eyes were discreetly
watching the scene at the table, looking at the body language in an attempt to read the
conversation. Cyril and Landry. Landry and Cyril. What’s gunna happen. “So. Won’t
talking to me get you in trouble with Ryan?”

Cyril made a face. “Ryan’s not the boss of me.”

“Yeah, but he’s your brother,” Landry pointed out.

“That’s not the same.”

“But you do what he tells you, right?”

Cyril frowned. “Do you have a brother?”

“Naw,” said Landry, shaking his head. “No family at all, really. So I guess I
wouldn’t know what it’s like.”

“It’s nice,” said Cyril.

Landry smiled playfully. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t want your brother.”

Cyril returned his smile. “No, you probably wouldn’t.”

“Whatcha reading?” Landry asked to change the subject.

“Magazine,” said Cyril. With a slight blush, he closed the magazine. Not that the
cover picture was any more modest than the spread that had previously been visible.

Landry put both elbows on the table, propping his head in his hands; he was a
picture of friendly innocence. “Hey Cyril, tell me something. Do you remember what it
was like to be with a woman? On the outside?” Landry asked softly.

“Um…” said Cyril uncertainly.

“I was just wondering,” said Landry quickly. “See-.” He leaned in closer to Cyril.
“I’ve never been with a woman.” He leaned back again. “But on the outside you were a
bad-ass Irish gang boss, shit!” Landry laughed, and Cyril joined him.

“I don’t remember much,” said Cyril sadly, once he was done laughing. “Mostly I
remember Oz.”

“That sucks,” said Landry. “What a crappy thing to have to remember. Plus,” he
laughed again. “Not so much pussy up in here.”

Cyril laughed too. “Nope, only here,” he said, pointing to the magazine on the
table. Then he glanced cautiously around and leaned in toward Landry. “But there’s
something else,” he whispered. Landry raised an eyebrow inquisitively, and Cyril
inclined his head to the left where, a few tables away, Keller and Beecher were playing
chess.

Landry looked from Cyril to the couple and back again. “Like me and
Schillinger,” he said softly.

Cyril shook his head fiercely. “No. Not like that. Schillinjer isn’t… He hurts,”
Cyril said emphatically, and hung his head.

“Hey,” said Landry, scooting his chair closer to Cyril’s. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t
worry about Schillinger, okay? Forget about him.”

Cyril shrugged. “I just don’t want him to hurt you.”

“I do what I have to,” said Landry quietly. Cyril gave him a pained look. “Hey,
it’s okay. I may not have a big brother to look after me, but I can take care of myself.
Besides, I won’t be with Schillinger forever.”

“Yeah. Augustus says he might be paroled in a few years.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Landry softly. “I meant that…” He blushed and
turned away. “Forget it.”

“What?” asked Cyril, concerned. “Benjamin, what?”

Landry turned back to look at the Irishman. “I thought there might be something
else. Something better.” Cyril looked confused. “I mean, things here suck, but
sometimes… I mean, like you said, like Beecher and Keller, sometimes people find
something together.” Cyril’s eyes widened in understanding.

Landry gently put his hand on the back of Cyril’s neck and leaned forward until
their foreheads were touching. “And it’s not always bad. It doesn’t always hurt. If you
love the person enough.”

Cyril raised his tortured eyes to Landry’s hopeful ones. Their lips were practically
touching. Throughout the quad, onlookers had their eyes riveted to the scene.

The moment was interrupted when Ryan O’Reilly, charging like the bull tattooed
on his bicep, slammed his fist into the side of Benjamin Landry’s head, sending his chair
flipping over and clattering to the floor next to the Cajun. “Get the FUCK away from
him!” Ryan yelled.

The guards from the station stormed down the stairs as the other inmates surged to
their feet and drew nearer to get a good view. Cyril dove to the floor by a dazed Landry.
“Benjamin!”

“Get away from him, Cyril,” said Ryan dangerously, standing above the two.
“Right now.”

“No,” said Cyril, standing up to face his brother. “You get away.”

The guards reached the scene. Officer Bradley hit Ryan in the back of the knees,
sending him sprawling to the floor. Officer Holtz grabbed his arms, and then they were
pulling him away toward the gate. The other inmates cheered. Ryan struggled against the
guards, screaming. “You’re a dead man, Landry! A fucking dead man!”