Chapter Text
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… the internal mantra, a repeating tattoo, if you will, is both succinct and poetic by turns as applied to our subject's life…
The cell's lone occupant gives an involuntary shiver. His clothes, which had been wet through when they brought him in, are now just uncomfortably damp.
The cold from the hard, grey concrete seeping through the soles of his shoes, settling into his bones, is doing its bit to pull him even deeper into the misery and confusion that grips his heart and soul.
Note to self, he thinks derisively, only get arrested in chucks, Italian loafers might look great in the 09er but are lousy for incarceration.
Another shiver wracks his body. Experience tells him that the shivers are likely to get worse as the adrenaline wears off and signs of shock emerge.
By rights, he should be in a hospital under the care of experts, but no, instead, he finds himself incarcerated and isolated – the denizens of the Neptune Sheriff’s Department taking it on themselves to decide that he is both dangerous and a literal flight risk.
An assessment apparently made based solely on his profession, his surname, and that of the current Sheriff.
Perched tensely on the edge of the narrow bunk, elbows resting on his knees, clasped hands pressed against his bowed forehead, he considers the unyielding concrete floor with an intensity any aspirant to play Superman would covet.
How is this happening again? He thinks to himself, running the event of the past two hours through his mind’s eye.
It’s inconceivably ludicrous that he finds himself back in this particular dilemma. Once is bad enough, but three times? Unless you’re a career criminal, who else but him is unlucky enough to find themselves in this predicament on what, in anyone’s eyes, is a regular basis?
But worse than his current fake legal woes are the very real events of the night, he thinks sadly, grief hitting him like a wave.
Most of the night is a blur - apparently receiving an electric shock will scramble your memories, he thinks wryly, so he’s relying on the notoriously unreliable statements from the Deputies who took him into custody after finding him unconscious on the wet tiles at the scene of the supposed crime.
He knows for a fact that Carrie called looking for help that night.
James Oppenhiem once said that “The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance. The wise grows it under his feet.”
Oppenheim was on to something, he thinks ruefully. He knows only too well that trying to change someone who didn’t want to change is not only futile but leads to misery for both parties… there’s rarely a happy ending.
He knows that he should have said no, left Carrie to the shell of a life she’d chosen over their relationship and just lived his own life, the one he’d fought hard to build.
But like the King of Lost Causes he is, he’d once again dragged on his reluctant White Knight persona, leapt into his trusty European steed and raced over, ready to save the day, and to once again try and convince the troubled woman he’d cared so much for to get help.
He remembers the unlocked door, the dimmed lights, the soft music playing in the background, the uncharacteristic emptiness vibe that hung in the air of the normally lively house.
Sadly, he recalls feeling the familiar tingle, the spine tingling chill he gets sometimes before flying a mission, the one that tells him something is about to go sideways.
He knows he jogged up the stairs, calling out to Carrie, like he’d done so often in the past, but somehow knowing instinctively, this time his entreaties would go unanswered.
He remembers pausing on the threshold of the luxurious bathroom where they’d shared passionate, deeply intimate experiences as well as the cherished domestic moments that had helped formed the mundane fabric of their relationship.
He remembers the fear and anguish that struck him to the core at the sight of the slim, tanned arm hanging limply over the edge of the oversized tub.
He knows that if his brain acknowledged the water spilling across the polished Italian marble, or the electrical cord, it never registered, even with his operational training, his only thought was to get to Carrie, to save her, to do whatever he could to make this not be happening.
But it did happen and now Carrie is dead.
Her bright light extinguished forever, just another in a long line of tragedies, he thinks wretchedly, a deep pang in his heart for yet another woman he’s love and lost – a list that’s longer than warranted for a man of his age.
But Logan Echolls is no stranger to tragedy, and Carrie Bishop, or Bonnie DeVille to her adoring fans, had been, over the past year, the epitome of self-destructive tragedy.
Sitting in that cold, bleak cell, Logan sadly recalls the nights spent caring for his wasted girlfriend. The mornings spent pleading with a hungover Carrie, who was, by turns, remorseful or resentful, depending on her mood and the remnants of drugs in her system.
He remembers in sharp detail the harsh, angry words they exchanged over her asshole friends and their enabling behaviors.
He also remembers the slammed doors, the pointed silences, the irrational accusations, all of which were a far cry from the first halcyon months of their relationship, where they fell in love.
A soft smile graces Logan’s face, despite the current dire circumstances. Because on top of this tragedy, he also remembers being caught up in the rush of being with someone who could match his passion and zest for life – whatever Carrie did, she did it at full speed, reservations and boundaries were for other people, not Pop Star Bonnie DeVille!
But underneath it all, Logan got to see the real Carrie, the woman who didn’t hesitate to stand up for those she cared about. The woman who fought for her place in the cutthroat music business, and did it on her own terms, with a glint in her eye and a taunting smirk on her lips. That was his Carrie, the one Logan had come to love.
Carrie was the first time in a long time - since HER, if he’s honest - that Logan could see himself being happy, being seen for the person he’d become, being loved for himself, not his just for his uniform or his notoriety. And, for a blissful interlude, he, they, were happy.
But like all the good things in Logan’s life, the end came far too soon.
And now, he’s faced with a new reality, one in which he’s accused of ending Carrie’s life, one in which he’ll need to defend himself against the undefendable.
The sinking feeling in the pit of the aviator’s stomach isn’t just his not inconsiderable legal troubles, or the unrelenting wave of publicity he knows awaits him, or the very real grief he’s experiencing, or even how the Navy will react. No, it’s the unshakable knowledge that there’s only one person that he trusts to save his ass, or, in this case, possibly his life as well… California haven’t executed anyone in years, but with his lousy luck, they’d make an exception, he thinks angrily.
Logan sits bowed, motionless, mulling over all the various scenarios, playing out all the ways the conversation he knows he needs to have can go badly. That’s if, and it’s a sizable if, he even gets to have the conversation.
He’d lay strong odds that the chances of his call being answered are low - Nine years is a long time for complete radio silence.
She’d said it was going to take some time and apparently that meant forever…Logan knows that he’s as much in HER rear-view mirror as Neptune is.
HER.
Always in bold and in Caps in his mind.
How three little letters can hold such a big feeling has always puzzled Logan. But he knows they do, after all, she herself was every oversized emotion contained in a petite package.
Would she even believe he was innocent? He wonders. God knows she didn’t hesitate to think him guilty of heinous crimes, up to and including murder in the past.
Would she see the headlines and think ‘that tracks’? Logan thinks cynically.
Would his call garner nothing but an exaggerated eyeroll and a disbelieving head shake before being declined?
Would she even consider picking up an unknown caller? Hell, it’s not like his number would still be in her phone all these years later, Logan thinks ruefully.
The approaching sound of expensive shoe leather on the aging linoleum floor tiles gets the despondent man’s attention… apparently the results of his one phone call are about to pay dividends.
Not bothering to stand, Logan Echolls, now third time accused murderer, simply raises his head, his tired eyes meeting the serious, concerned ones of the high-priced lawyer Dick Casablancas keeps on retainer.
Sure, the guy sporting the Armani tie and slinging the pricy leather briefcase is an entertainment lawyer, but clearly, based on the Deputy accompanying him, he’s either got the contacts or the skill to secure bail for a high profile murder suspect, so he can’t be completely inept, Logan decides wryly.
“Mr Echolls, I’m Eugine Andrews, of Pratt & Pratt, Richard Casablancas sent me.” The man explains by way of a formal introduction. “Your bail has been posted and an arraignment date set for a weeks time.”
While Andrews was talking, the disinterested Deputy unlocked the cell, swinging the door wide, announcing without ceremony, ‘You’re free to go.”
Strolling casually out of the cell, “A pleasure as always,” Logan quips drily to the familiar Deputy, who remains impassive, with not so much as a quiver of recognition from the uniformed man rocking the impressive mustache.
“Don’t leave town.” Is the only instruction he’s issued by the lawman.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Logan says wryly.
Rightly deciding that getting his client out of the dingy holding hallway was his best play, Andrews motions Logan to follow him, saying as they walk, “You need to call a Lawyer who’s experienced in these types of cases. Did you need me to recommend one?”
Making the all too familiar walk towards the bullpen, the accused already knows what his best play is and he’s not looking forward to it.
“No, it’s ok,” Logan says grimly, “I’ve got someone I call in these situations.”