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urbancateFirst foray into Law & Order fic. IDK. I blame it on Linus Roache. *facepalm*
Michael Cutter has a baseball bat in his office. She considers the reasons why, assesses. It is possible he played, in high school or earlier. But the bat is not because he is a player, an athlete. He might hit a batting cage every so often, he most likely works out. But not much. He is the type to be consumed with his work. And she would know, because she is the same. The bat, it's probably like the pair of green dice in a bowl on her desk - a distraction, something to occupy the physical while the brain does its work.
It is also quite possible he is having an affair with the other ADA, the tall one with the exotic eyes and dark hair. Then again, partnerships often look like something else to outside observers. And she would know, because her ex thinks she was sleeping with her partner. As if she would be so unprofessional or stupid. When you're bending over dead bodies and running down perps, your partner is your friend but there is little time for anything else, even if you are so inclined. And she wasn't. Isn't.
Lawyers have their uses, she figures. You don't get to be a cop, a good cop, without a healthy respect and appreciation for the courts and justice and the system of it all. And Cutter seems as, or more, useful than most. He believes in the law and the rightness of his side of it the same way she believes in her wits and her badge and shooting with both eyes open.
Still, respect aside, she's not sure she likes him all that much.
Court appearances are a necessary evil; dressing to impress a jury with her rank and experience, as if the right color of blouse underneath her black suit will tip the scale, delivering the facts, dry and unembellished but impassioned all the same. Court appearances are not her idea of fun.
Especially when Cutter hangs her out to dry on the cross examin. Sure, she knows the game, has figured where the redirect will go, and that this particularly nasty piece of human trash will go away for a very long time when the ADA is done with his theatrics - but it doesn't mean she likes twisting in the wind for the defense.
“Detective,” he calls after her when it’s all done for the day. “You did good in there. Thanks.”
“You do your job, I do mine.” She doesn’t reciprocate the gratitude because she’s still not sure if she likes him. He is extremely effective at his job, intense, and attractive. But that doesn’t mean she likes him.
And she’s not inclined, remember?
“Buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” she replies. “You owe me, anyway.”
“I owe you,” he queries over scotch.
“Yeah. I’ve heard you make a habit of screwing over cops on the stand, and today wasn’t nice, but maybe we’ll just call it even.”
“I do my job, Detective Quinn, you do yours,” he says.
“Ah, a sense of humor.”
“That’s quite the accusation.”
“An observation.”
“And what else do you observe?”
“You like baseball.”
Michael Cutter has a baseball bat in his office. She considers the reasons why, assesses. It is possible he played, in high school or earlier. But the bat is not because he is a player, an athlete. He might hit a batting cage every so often, he most likely works out. But not much. He is the type to be consumed with his work. And she would know, because she is the same. The bat, it's probably like the pair of green dice in a bowl on her desk - a distraction, something to occupy the physical while the brain does its work.
It is also quite possible he is having an affair with the other ADA, the tall one with the exotic eyes and dark hair. Then again, partnerships often look like something else to outside observers. And she would know, because her ex thinks she was sleeping with her partner. As if she would be so unprofessional or stupid. When you're bending over dead bodies and running down perps, your partner is your friend but there is little time for anything else, even if you are so inclined. And she wasn't. Isn't.
Lawyers have their uses, she figures. You don't get to be a cop, a good cop, without a healthy respect and appreciation for the courts and justice and the system of it all. And Cutter seems as, or more, useful than most. He believes in the law and the rightness of his side of it the same way she believes in her wits and her badge and shooting with both eyes open.
Still, respect aside, she's not sure she likes him all that much.
Court appearances are a necessary evil; dressing to impress a jury with her rank and experience, as if the right color of blouse underneath her black suit will tip the scale, delivering the facts, dry and unembellished but impassioned all the same. Court appearances are not her idea of fun.
Especially when Cutter hangs her out to dry on the cross examin. Sure, she knows the game, has figured where the redirect will go, and that this particularly nasty piece of human trash will go away for a very long time when the ADA is done with his theatrics - but it doesn't mean she likes twisting in the wind for the defense.
“Detective,” he calls after her when it’s all done for the day. “You did good in there. Thanks.”
“You do your job, I do mine.” She doesn’t reciprocate the gratitude because she’s still not sure if she likes him. He is extremely effective at his job, intense, and attractive. But that doesn’t mean she likes him.
And she’s not inclined, remember?
“Buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” she replies. “You owe me, anyway.”
“I owe you,” he queries over scotch.
“Yeah. I’ve heard you make a habit of screwing over cops on the stand, and today wasn’t nice, but maybe we’ll just call it even.”
“I do my job, Detective Quinn, you do yours,” he says.
“Ah, a sense of humor.”
“That’s quite the accusation.”
“An observation.”
“And what else do you observe?”
“You like baseball.”
