No Good Deed: The Epilogue
 
Author: Linda Wilson AKA ranapipens4ever (rana pipens = bullfrog–love
frogs!)

E-mail: linda_31467@msn.com

Rated: PG-13–some strong language

Premise: This is an epilogue to "No good Deed" as I would like to see
it transpire.

Disclaimer: Nicholas and Burton Fallin, Jesse, Doug DeBorge, Louisa
Archer Olsen, Burton's Cadillac and Nick's BMW are all taken directly
from "The Guardian." Resemblance to any person living or dead is
purely coincidental; similarity of events, dates, characters or the
portrayal of events is unintentional. Tas always, the garden is
imaginary; the toads that live there are real.

More thanks than can be adequately expressed are due to Janet
Dillon, who once again has made me appear intelligent and articulate.

--+-- 

It was well after 8 p.m. and since it was winter, night had long
since come to Pittsburgh. Nicholas Fallin sat back and rubbed his
eyes as he contemplated the pile of paperwork in front of him. He had
managed to get through quite a lot even though his thoughts kept
returning to Jesse, still comatose in the neurosurgical intensive
care unit at Allegheny General Hospital. Nick sighed. Here at Fallin
and Fallin and at Legal Services of Pittsburgh–possibly everywhere–
Jesse would haunt him, how long was anyone's guess.

Nick got up, walked to his office window and looked out at downtown
Pittsburgh at night. Jesse wanted to make it, Nick thought. He wanted
to make something of himself. Yeah, the kid was a slick little
hustler. What else would you expect him to be? The deck was stacked
against him from the very beginning. He had to hustle to survive. The
kid ran a gambling ring with most of the shelter staff as
participants. Even Damsen had a hard time keeping a straight face
over that one. Well, thanks to Doug DeBorge, Jesse won't be doing
any more hustling. He won't be interning for Fallin and Fallin, he
won't be following me around at LSP, he won't be doing much more than
sitting in a chair with–what was it that doctor said? No language
skills, declining cognitive abilities. He'll be just about able to
drool in his shoe. And me? I'm an officer of the court. I'm sworn to
uphold justice. Well, where's the damn justice for Jesse? Justice for
Jesse–sounds like the title of a kid's book or something. Justice–

"I saw a beautiful woman with bandaged eyes,
Standing on the steps of a marble temple…
In her left hand she held a sword.
She was brandishing the sword,
Sometimes striking a child, again a laborer…"
"`She is no respecter of persons'…" Nick recited quietly to himself.

"Spoon River Anthology, the newspaper editor's epitaph," Burton
Fallin said. Nick jumped slightly. "I had to read it in an American
Lit. course in college," his father said. "That one stayed with me."

"It was part of a summer reading list for school," Nick said. "I
remembered that one, too."

"So who didn't the beautiful woman with bandaged eyes respect this
time?" Burton, who had his coat over one arm and carried his hat in
one hand, asked, although he was fairly certain he already knew. He
deposited his outer garments on Nick's credenza and seated himself in
his son's visitor's chair.

"That kid, Jesse," Nick said. He turned and leaned against the
window, his arms crossed.

"It sure looks that way, doesn't it?" Burton said. He looked at
Nick. "Son, what happened was not your fault."

"The hell it wasn't. I could have told him to stay here and file
papers, but no–he wanted to be like me, so I told him to follow me
around at LSP. I wanted to give the kid a break and what happens? He
tackles the LSP psychopath of the month and gets half his brain blown
away. Everything I do I screw up. Everything."

"Did you try to take down this–what was his name, DeBorge?"

"No. I was trying to reason with him–told him to put the gun down and
we'd talk about it."

"Where was this Jesse kid?"

"He was–he was with DeBorge's wife and daughters in the conference
room."

"So you didn't tell him to take on DeBorge?"

"No, of course not."

"All right. He decided to try to be a hero. You didn't tell him to."

"It doesn't matter. If I hadn't told him to come with me he wouldn't
have been there."

Burton stood up and walked to the window. It was his turn to look
out, contemplating the night and the city "And I suppose you were
thinking: this kid is a nuisance so I'll take him to LSP and I'll
tell this DeBorge character to show up with a gun and with any luck
he'll put a bullet through the kid's brain and that'll take care of
that."

"No, but DeBorge was there because of me, too. If I hadn't argued to
terminate visitation he wouldn't have showed up with a gun."

"His violent outbursts were the reason you argued for terminating
visitation, weren't they?"

"He has outbursts because he's brain-damaged himself–some kind of
work accident."

"Whether he can help what he does or not, that's still no reason to
keep a child in an unsafe environment. You couldn't argue for
anything else. Doesn't sound like screwing up to me."

Nick turned to join his father in looking out at Pittsburgh at
night. "Look, Dad, I've thought of all this. It still adds up to the
same thing. It's my fault."

"Is whatever happened to DeBorge to make him do what he does your
fault?"

"N–no. But I should have guessed he'd do something like this."

"And if you had? Why was he at LSP, anyway?"

"He wanted one more visit so he could give one daughter a–a birthday
present."

"He asked for that when?"

"After Damsen ruled on terminating."

"Damsen ordered the visit?"

"Yes, but–"

Burton put an arm around Nick's shoulders. "Son, a lot of people had
a hand in this. There's more than enough guilt to go around, so don't
go taking on more than your fair share."

Nick first stiffened at his father's touch and then relaxed into it,
moving slightly closer. "Still–that kid–"

"If you want to feel guilty about the fact that he was there because
you took him, go ahead. But nobody told him to try to go after
DeBorge. He decided to do that."

"You're saying it was his fault."

"No, I'm not. But it wasn't your fault, either." Burton sighed. "Son,
sometimes things just happen. Nobody wants them to happen, nobody
goes looking for them to happen, but they happen. If this–Jesse–
hadn't been there, DeBorge would still have been waving a gun
around. Somebody else might have been the one to get shot. It might
have been you. And Nicholas, I am deeply sorry for that boy and I'll
do whatever I can–he was working for our firm, even if he was at LSP
when it happened–but what's most important to me is, for whatever
reason, you aren't the one in the hospital." He let his arm tighten.

"I wish I could say that makes me feel better, but it doesn't."

"I didn't expect it to, not right now, anyway," Burton said. "All I
can do is what I've been doing for the past 33 years–make my point
and hope it sinks in sometime." That brought a small smile. He
turned, his arm still around Nick so that his son turned with
him. "And as for the fact that it might have been you–I talked to
your old friend Darger. He told me when they reconstructed the–
incident–that as nearly as anyone can figure, DeBorge had you in his
sights for about ten seconds after he shot Jesse. They were surprised
DeBorge didn't fire again, considering how agitated he was." Burton
leaned against the credenza and Nick leaned against his desk. "You
know, son, when I came into your house the other night and saw that
blood on your shirt–well, I'm just damn glad it wasn't your blood,
considering how easily it might have been." He turned his head away
briefly and swallowed.

"Maybe it should have been mine," Nick said.

Burton's hand shot out. He grasped his son's chin, making Nick look
straight at him. "Don't you ever let me hear you say that again.
Ever." He took a deep breath. "Don't even think it." He released
Nick's face.

Nick stared at his father, astonished. "I–" he started to say.

"You think it should have been you? What would that accomplish? Get
that nonsense out of your head right now. If you caught a bullet from
DeBorge, would that help Jesse any, whether he got shot first or not?"

Nick lowered his eyes for a moment. "N–no."

"After Jesse was shot, what did you do?"

Nick looked directly at his father and paused for a few moments,
remembering the chaos that had reigned at LSP for those interminable
seconds. "It all happened so fast, but it seemed like forever–DeBorge
shot Jesse and I don't even remember deciding to get to him. I just
did, somehow. Jesse said something about–about his shirt–he just
bought it and now there was blood on it, something like that. I think
I just held Jesse's head in my hands for about five or ten minutes
until the paramedics got there. It never even crossed my mind that
DeBorge might fire again."

"And what you did even before the boy was shot–" Burton shook his
head. "Darger told me about it. He said that you were the one who
called 911, that you got the wife and kids and this Jesse under the
table, that you told them to stay there while you left the conference
room–" He paused as the implications of the situation sank in. "Yes.
You left the conference room, where it was safe, to try to learn more
about the situation. That took guts, son."

"I don't know. I think anybody would have done the same, under the
same circumstances,."

"That's where you're wrong, son." Burton looked at Nick and could see
he remained unconvinced. "Nicholas, you did more than anyone could
have expected for this boy. Don't beat yourself up over this. And
speaking of doing things for other people, I heard you took on the
Disciplinary Committee for the Archer woman, Mrs. Olsen–that's what
she goes by, these days, right?"

"Right. "

"Yes. You did all right by her, too, didn't you?"

"I suppose. Three months' suspension, stayed pending six months'
probation."

"That's not bad."

"Considering she saved something like 22 lives– "

"Including yours. I'll have to send her flowers or something."

Nick felt himself flush. "Dad–"

"Am I horning in on your territory?"

"N–no. It's just–"

"Just what? Nicholas, I don't know how much you think of your own
life but I don't take it lightly. You're still here by the grace of
God and the fact that Louisa Olsen can think on her feet. I've
already expressed my thanks to One. I certainly ought to do something
for the other. What's a damn bouquet?"

Nick lowered his eyes. "Well–" he said.

Burton sighed. "Nicholas, what's really bothering you about this? You
think that you should have talked that gun out of DeBorge's hand? You
were trying to do exactly that, son, to talk DeBorge into putting the
gun down, when Jesse tried that damn-fool stunt. That's not your
fault. There's nothing you could have done about that. You and the
Olsen woman were both heroic in your own way. And you both faced the
same risks. If DeBorge had decided to fire again we wouldn't be
having this conversation, at least not here. If anything, I'm being
selfish–if I express my appreciation to the Olsen woman maybe I won't
have to think too much about how it could easily have been you as
well as this Jesse kid. That's all this is about, really." He looked
at his watch. "It's after nine. Let's go. Everyone else already left,
anyway."

"Well, it's our name on the door," Nick said. "We're supposed to be
the last ones out."

"Yep," Burton said. "Where do you want to have dinner?"

"I never said I–" Nick paused. Oh, what the hell. "All right. But I'm
not in the mood for the Incline."

"Neither am I," Burton said. They settled on a quiet Italian
restaurant within walking distance of the Frick Building, one that
not many of their acquaintances in the legal profession frequented.
They ordered and settled back in their chairs. Burton sampled a bread
stick. "Try these," he said to his son.

Nick reached for one. "How is it that you always want to feed me,
anyway?" he asked his father.

Burton shrugged. "Longstanding parental instinct," he said. "That's
what fathers do for their children."

"Speaking of doing things for people, I told Damsen I wanted to be
Jesse's medical guardian," Nick said. "She agreed."

"That's a lot of responsibility," Burton said.

"That's what she said," Nick said. "I know–it's not going to last
until he turns 21, it's going to be for a long time–how long nobody
can say. He needs a medical guardian. I think I'm the logical choice."

"Well–I know better than to try to talk you out of it," Burton
said. "I just think you should be clear about why you're doing this."

"I am," Nick said. He added silently to himself, "It's guilt, pure
and simple. He got shot, I didn't. I'm the reason he was there in the
first place. It's guilt."

"Okay," Burton said.

"I can do this," Nick said.

"You can do anything you put your mind to," Burton said. "I've always
known that." The waiter brought their respective meals. "What's it
going to involve, anyway? Have you heard anything about the outlook
for this kid?"

"Not good," Nick said. "He's lost most of his language skills and
cognitive abilities. They're going to do more surgery, but they can't
guarantee anything. The really ironic part is, aside from the fact
that he's now missing most of what made him a person, he's in pretty
good shape physically. He could live an awfully long time–although I
don't know if that word `living' really applies."

"That's hell," Burton said. "Well, I just hope whoever defends this
DeBorge character gets him to plead to something. I don't want you to
have to go through the whole thing all over again on the stand. Once
was more than enough." He paused. "Eat your dinner."

Nick rearranged small pieces of his veal piccata, thankful that he
had ordered an entreé he could control instead of something with a
mind of its own like linguini or spaghetti. "I have to say I agree.
You never can tell, though."

"About testifying or about Jesse?"

"Both. The Acquired Brain Injury guy said you can see some surprising
improvement sometimes. Then again, sometimes you don't have any at
all. And as for DeBorge, who knows? Diminished capacity might work"

"Well, it won't be your problem. Then again, when you do defend
someone, you do all right."

"I like to win," Nick said. "And I like a challenge–it's no fun if
it's too easy. Then again–"

"Then again what?"

"I won with Jesse. Damsen agreed to let him stay in the system until
he turned 21if he could get together enough for the first semester's
tuition at college. That's why I hired him as an intern."

"Nicholas, we've been over this," Burton said. "You couldn't have
known what was going to happen. No one could. And you certainly
didn't intend for it to happen."

"Intend. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, isn't that
what they say?"

"If that's the case, I'll probably be waiting for you when you get
there, and so will a lot of other people."

"Dad!" Then Nick noticed the twinkle in his father's eye. He laughed
a little, surprising himself–two days before as Jesse bled onto his
shirt he had been sure he would never laugh again. "Well, you're
right–I guess I'll have a lot of company, if good intentions are the
admission requirement."

"I knew I'd make you laugh," Burton said. "Nicholas, about the only
situation I can think of where you can try to predict what will
happen three or four moves ahead is a chess game. Everywhere else,
all you can do is what you think is best based on the facts you
possess at the time. And if it turns out that what you thought best
wasn't what was best, well, you have to live with that. Sometimes you
can correct it or do it over, and sometimes you can't." He
sighed. "I've had to learn that one the hard way. But if you just sit
around agonizing about it, you're going to be a basket case. And
right now, if you're going to take on this kid as well as everything
else, I don't think you have time for that."

"That's for sure," Nick said. It was his turn to look at his
watch. "Speaking of time, it's almost 11."

"So it is. I guess we should call this one a night," Burton said. He
took out his wallet. Nick started to say something. "Let me do it
tonight," his father told him. "You can get the next one."

They walked to their cars. Nick took out his keys as they neared the
BMW. Burton's Cadillac was parked a few spaces away. "You going to be
all right?" Burton asked.

"I'm fine. Really," Nick said. "Dad–thanks. For everything."

Burton put his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Get
home safely," he said. He got into the Cadillac and started the
engine as Nick pulled out of his parking space and headed up the ramp
to the street. Nicholas, you're not "fine" yet, whatever that means,
but you're a lot closer to it, Burton thought. That was a good
dinner, too. What's that other line from Spoon River that I've been
thinking about lately? Oh, yes–"It takes life to love Life." You just
might be getting a little closer to that one, too, Nicholas. Score
tonight a job well done.

The End