bedlamsbard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bedlamsbard) wrote2007-04-04 05:15 pm
bedlamsbard) wrote2007-04-04 05:15 pm
Scenes from Season X
See the story arc here.
"Your lawyer's on his way," Flack said, banging back into the interrogation room. He leaned his good shoulder against the door. "What the hell are you playing at, Danny?"
Danny didn't even glance up from his cigarette, feet kicked up on the table. "The NYPD kicked me out. You really think there's all that much I can do?"
"Something besides this," Flack snapped. "C'mon, Danny, you're better than this. Let me make a couple phone calls, see if I can hook you up."
Danny shook his head briefly and sent up another stream of somke. "Go to hell, Flack," he said, but there was a curious lack of emotion in his voice. He leaned forward and cupped his free hand around the cigarette he was holding.
"Those things'll kill you," Flack said.
"Good. I'll see you in hell."
Flack let out a frustrated sigh. "Danny --"
Someone knocked on the door. Flack turned. "I'll be back."
"No," Danny said, crushing out his cigarette on the table and lighting up another one. "You won't."
The report he'd written up hit him in the chest as soon as he closed the door behind him. "Your report's wrong," Yamata said. "Christ, I hate eyewitnesses."
"What the hell?" Flack snapped. "I was there. And what the hell are you doing here, this is my case."
"Not anymore," Yamata said bitingly. "Maybe you better get your eyes checked, Detective, because your facts are wrong. Pastore attacked you and you wrestled for your service piece. Upon gaining control of your weapon you discharged it into Pastore's head. It was a clearcut case of self-defense. Messer didn't come onto the scene until afterwards. You don't have a case."
"Are you insane?" Flack demanded, looking down at the report in his hand.
"Amend that report, Flack," Yamata said. "And fix that Oxford comma on page three before I bust you back down to rescuing kittens out of trees down in Staten Island." He banged into the interrogation room before Flack could say anything else.
"Hey, hold on there," Flack began, heading toward the crime scene tape with hands up and palms out. "This is a closed crime scene --"
The man held up his badge. "Detective Yamata, Organized Crimes."
"Detective Cloke," the woman said. She looked Flack up and down. "You're not Taylor," she added flatly.
"Detective Flack, Homicide," Flack said, raising an eyebrow. "Detective Taylor's inside with the vic. And what brings OCD out here?"
"It's too bad you can't bring a case to trial, Detective," Taccetta said, eyes bright.
Cloke was taking shallow, angry breaths. "Rot in hell, Taccetta," she grated out through clenched teeth, and turned away.
"Is that how you survived three months as a POW in Afghanistan?" Taccetta added, and Cloke turned around and punched him in the face.
"You fucking bastard!" she screamed. Yamata got his arms aorund her waist and pulled her away, off her feet, wincing as Cloke knocked her head back into the bridge of his nose. "Let the hell go of me, Yamata, I'm going to kill that Mafia bastard. Let go of me!"
Yamata held on grimly. Taccetta touched his jaw. "That bitch has a fucking hard right," he spat.
"Get out," Yamata snarled, Cloke still struggling to get ouf his grip and spitting out incoherent cusswords. "Get the hell out of my precinct before I develop a case of Gulf War Syndrome on your criminal ass."
"Your lawyer's on his way," Flack said, banging back into the interrogation room. He leaned his good shoulder against the door. "What the hell are you playing at, Danny?"
Danny didn't even glance up from his cigarette, feet kicked up on the table. "The NYPD kicked me out. You really think there's all that much I can do?"
"Something besides this," Flack snapped. "C'mon, Danny, you're better than this. Let me make a couple phone calls, see if I can hook you up."
Danny shook his head briefly and sent up another stream of somke. "Go to hell, Flack," he said, but there was a curious lack of emotion in his voice. He leaned forward and cupped his free hand around the cigarette he was holding.
"Those things'll kill you," Flack said.
"Good. I'll see you in hell."
Flack let out a frustrated sigh. "Danny --"
Someone knocked on the door. Flack turned. "I'll be back."
"No," Danny said, crushing out his cigarette on the table and lighting up another one. "You won't."
The report he'd written up hit him in the chest as soon as he closed the door behind him. "Your report's wrong," Yamata said. "Christ, I hate eyewitnesses."
"What the hell?" Flack snapped. "I was there. And what the hell are you doing here, this is my case."
"Not anymore," Yamata said bitingly. "Maybe you better get your eyes checked, Detective, because your facts are wrong. Pastore attacked you and you wrestled for your service piece. Upon gaining control of your weapon you discharged it into Pastore's head. It was a clearcut case of self-defense. Messer didn't come onto the scene until afterwards. You don't have a case."
"Are you insane?" Flack demanded, looking down at the report in his hand.
"Amend that report, Flack," Yamata said. "And fix that Oxford comma on page three before I bust you back down to rescuing kittens out of trees down in Staten Island." He banged into the interrogation room before Flack could say anything else.
"Hey, hold on there," Flack began, heading toward the crime scene tape with hands up and palms out. "This is a closed crime scene --"
The man held up his badge. "Detective Yamata, Organized Crimes."
"Detective Cloke," the woman said. She looked Flack up and down. "You're not Taylor," she added flatly.
"Detective Flack, Homicide," Flack said, raising an eyebrow. "Detective Taylor's inside with the vic. And what brings OCD out here?"
"It's too bad you can't bring a case to trial, Detective," Taccetta said, eyes bright.
Cloke was taking shallow, angry breaths. "Rot in hell, Taccetta," she grated out through clenched teeth, and turned away.
"Is that how you survived three months as a POW in Afghanistan?" Taccetta added, and Cloke turned around and punched him in the face.
"You fucking bastard!" she screamed. Yamata got his arms aorund her waist and pulled her away, off her feet, wincing as Cloke knocked her head back into the bridge of his nose. "Let the hell go of me, Yamata, I'm going to kill that Mafia bastard. Let go of me!"
Yamata held on grimly. Taccetta touched his jaw. "That bitch has a fucking hard right," he spat.
"Get out," Yamata snarled, Cloke still struggling to get ouf his grip and spitting out incoherent cusswords. "Get the hell out of my precinct before I develop a case of Gulf War Syndrome on your criminal ass."
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