Batman no mans land, p.31
Batman: No Man's Land, page 31
“What the hell are you trying to prove, Harvey?” Gordon asked suddenly, voice rising.
“Order in the court!”
“Dammit, no! You’re going to kill us both—”
“This is going to be a fair trial!”
“Right,” Gordon said, rising, almost spitting in his anger. “Fair. You’ll kill mc, you’ll kill her, you’ll kill my wife, my people—”
“You broke the law! Your law, Jimmy! Guilt must be punished—”
“And innocence?” Montoya asked.
Two-Face and Gordon both looked at her.
“If he’s found innocent, then what happens, Harvey?” she demanded.
Two-Face shrugged. “He’s free to go, of course. His wife, his family, his sector, all free.”
“Not good enough. What about me?”
“Renee…” Two-Face began.
Montoya cut him off. “You let me go. And you turn yourself in. You surrender yourself to our custody. That’s fair.”
“I’m on trial, too?”
“You know exactly what you’ve done,” she said.
Two-Face looked at the coin, then back to Montoya. He nodded. “So be it. May we proceed?”
Gordon reluctantly took his seat once more. Two-Face approached the witness stand, the gun in one hand, coin in the other.
“Detective Montoya, how do you know James Gordon?”
“He’s Commissioner of Police. He’s my boss.”
“And how long have you known him?”
“Little under four years.”
“Is he a good boss?”
“The best.”
“So you like working for him?”
“I do.”
Two-Face turned back to the defense table, leaning down to put his ear near Gordon’s. “You can object any time you like, Jimmy,” she heard him saying.
“Will it do any good?” Gordon growled.
“It might.” He straightened and moved once more to Montoya.
“Detective Montoya, please describe your relationship with James Gordon.”
Montoya almost threw up her hands in frustration. “For crying out—”
“Answer the question!” Two-Face screamed.
It took Montoya a couple of seconds before she could recover her voice. “He’s my boss,” she managed. “He’s—”
“Boss?”
“—my friend, I—”
“Friend?”
“Objection!” Gordon shouted.
Two-Face grinned, still looking at Renee, and she could see it in both eyes, he was having the time of his life; so far, he was having a blast.
“Good call, Jimmy,” he said, and then he flipped the coin and read the result quickly. “Overruled.”
“Of course,” Gordon muttered.
“Let’s continue,” Two-Face said. “We’ve got a lot to get through, Detective.”
* * * * *
It was almost comical it was so surreal, Montoya thought. Out beyond the courthouse, her friends were fighting and dying, and here she was in an all but destroyed courtroom, playing lawyer with Harvey Dent. And the greatest irony of all was that Harvey Dent was a good lawyer. A damn good one.
He was suave and quick and charismatic, split personality and deformity notwithstanding. Montoya had been cross-examined by the best in her years on the force, but never by an attorney like Harvey Dent. One question and then another, and suddenly the whole line had turned and she would find herself out on a limb, having said something she’d had no intention of sharing with him at all.
Because what Two-Face was after was really very simple. He was after the truth. He wanted only for her to confirm that Gordon had sent her to him and asked for his help.
“You disapproved of his sending you to talk to me?” Two-Face asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She hated herself for saying it, knowing it would give Two-Face exactly what he was looking for, but it came out anyway. “We’re cops. You’re a criminal. Working with you is morally and ethically wrong.”
Two-Face nodded sagely. “It is, in fact, illegal. Did you want to talk to me?”
Montoya hesitated, swallowing. He was switching back and forth too fast for her to keep up with now, and she was certain the next question, the next answer would be the one to send him careening over the edge.
“Detective?” Two-Face asked. “Answer the question, please.”
“No,” she admitted.
“Why not?”
“You scare me.”
That stopped him midpace, as he was facing the box full of imaginary jurors, and he swung his head around to look at her, and she didn’t know what to make of his expression or the look in either of his eyes.
“What?” he asked, and it wasn’t his lawyer voice, it wasn’t his madman voice, it was … just a man, she thought.
“You scare me,” Montoya repeated.
He looked at her for a long while, for over a minute, and still she couldn’t make out his expression and she was afraid to say anything more. Finally he turned back to the jury box, waving in her direction with the gun in his hand.
“No further questions,” he said softly. “You can step down, Detective Montoya. The people thank you for your testimony.”
He returned to his table and took his seat, putting his head in his hands. Montoya left the witness stand, and for a moment didn’t know what she should do. She could see where TallyMan’s gun still lay on the floor, hidden beneath the benches. Gordon was squinting at her.
She moved toward the defense table and Two-Face, without looking up, said, “Where are you going, bailiff?”
Montoya stopped cold. “I’m not certain where you want me… ”
The coin in his hand seemed to shiver with the strength of his grip. He was almost whispering, his voice hoarse, when he said, “Resume your assigned position.” Then he cleared his throat, straightening in his chair again, adjusting his tie. “The people call James W. Gordon.”
Gordon took the stand.
* * * * *
“You were responsible for the people of this city!” Two-Face said. “You set events in motion, Commissioner!”
Gordon didn’t move, glaring at the figure in front of him, trying to focus. His head throbbed, his bones hurt, and every moment he stopped to actually think about what was happening beyond the courtroom, his insides seemed to melt into some sickening mixture of guts and heart.
Sarah, he thought. Oh, God, Sarah.
“You abused your office, your power, your command! You broke your agreement with Two-Face. You refused aid to Two-Face when he called upon you, when he begged for your help while under attack by Bane! How many men died because you refused to honor your agreement? Can you even answer that question, Commissioner?”
Gordon shook his head, and it struck him then that there was a method to the madness, a truth to it beyond, perhaps, what even Two-Face imagined. Maybe he deserved to be on trial.
He had caused men to be murdered. He had given orders sending others to their deaths, in the name of his quest, his belief that Gotham could be saved, if only by his will alone. Even now, all those men, all those women, even the children—and he thought of Chris and Andy and Justin—were in peril, maybe dying, maybe already dead.
All because of his decisions, his choices, his actions.
Pettit was right, he thought. I’m too soft for the No Man’s Land.
I still have a conscience.
He looked at Two-Face glaring back at him, and all James Gordon could think at that moment was that, indeed, an accounting was required. And if his was to be now, then that was, perhaps, as it should be.
“You’re guilty as sin, Gordon,” Two-Face was saying. “And you know it.”
Gordon watched the other man return to the prosecution table, smiling smugly.
“I rest my case.” Two-Face raised the coin, in his hand, looking over it at him and Montoya. “Don’t think we’re going to need this to determine the verdict, huh?”
Gordon saw the gun coming up, blurry in his sight without his glasses, and he thought that he was sorry he hadn’t said farewell to Sarah and Barbara, and that he really had left a hell of a lot undone and unsaid in his life. He heard Two-Face say the word “guilty” and he expected the bullet, and then Detective Renee Montoya, dressed as a bailiff, was in front of him, shouting.
“No! You can’t do this! You can’t do it like this, Harvey!” she was saying. “What about his defense? He’s entitled to a defense, dammit!”
Dent shook his head, and Gordon thought he sounded almost sad when he said, “No defense. No one to speak for him, Renee.”
“He can speak in his own defense,” she retorted.
“Can’t do that. He’s not a lawyer. I’d have to declare a mistrial.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“Same problem, Renee,” Two-Face said, raising the gun again.
“You can’t do this! You told me you loved the law, Harvey! How can you pervert it this way? In this courtroom, in Judge Halsey’s chambers, how can you do this? Don’t you see?”
He stopped once more, and the look he gave Montoya was sorrowful, and Gordon saw that Dent honestly couldn’t see another option. “No one can speak for him, Renee. Don’t you understand?”
“You can,” Gordon said. “I want Harvey Dent to defend me.”
The shock rode across both sides of Dent’s face like a searchlight ranging the night sky. “Dent? For … the defense?”
“You have to, Harvey,” Montoya said. “You’re the only one who can defend him.”
Two-Face looked from Gordon to Montoya and back again, the conflict raging in his expression. He stepped back, eyes frantically searching the courtroom, and then he remembered the coin in his hand, and without another word, gave it a toss.
It was the longest coin toss of Gordon’s life; it seemed that the silver half-dollar danced through the air forever, audibly flipping end over end. The sun gleamed off the good head as it crossed the shaft of light from the window, and for a moment the polished side threw a reflection against the face of Justice on the wall. Then Dent’s hand had closed around the coin once more, and his fingers were coming apart, and he was reading the result, and there was no expression on his face, none at all.
Then he pointed the pistol at Gordon again and Montoya started to open her mouth, but Two-Face said, “You may step down, Commissioner.”
He lowered the gun, staring at the coin in his hand.
“Harvey?” Montoya asked.
Dent shook his head, waiting for Gordon to move from the witness stand. Montoya saw him struggling to get up, moved to help him, and her hands were sure on Gordon’s arm, and she guided him back to the table. It was easier this time, Gordon thought. He was getting more steady on his feet.
“The defense calls its first and only witness,” Dent said. “Two-Face.”
Gordon and Montoya watched as Dent took the stand, seating himself, the gun still in one hand, coin in the other. He surveyed the room, and for a long moment there was nothing else, no noise, no motion, just Dent on the stand and the two police watching him.
Then Dent shut his eyes and put his hands to either side of his head. Very faintly, they could hear his voice, barely make out what he was saying.
“…did it you did do it you blackmailed him you did do it … did not no … yes did you did, you did …”
And then he fell altogether silent, and the only sound in the courtroom was the creak of the chair as Two-Face continued to rock gently, back and forth, on the stand.
Montoya quietly moved away from Gordon’s side, stepping over TallyMan’s body. She retrieved the dead man’s revolver, checking the cylinder, then giving Gordon a nod. There were rounds still live. She searched TallyMan’s body, finding the keys to the handcuffs, and quickly unfastened them from Gordon’s wrists.
“Go,” she said softly. “I’ll wait here.”
“I’m not leaving you alone,” he whispered back.
“Go. Find out if your wife and Bullock and the others are still alive. I’ll be okay here.” She looked at where Dent was fighting his own madness, and Gordon saw the compassion on her face, and he thought that she was a hell of a good police, that she could care so much for someone so insane. “He won’t hurt me.”
Gordon turned, making his way to the doors quietly.
Just before he stepped out, he heard Two-Face’s voice, almost a child’s sob.
“The defense … rests … not… guilty…”
THIRTY-NINE
HALF BLIND, HALF NUMB, AND ALMOST out of his mind with the lurking fear that it was too late to do anything, James Gordon ran for his home. On Schnitzer Avenue he took a bad spill, catching the edge of a pothole, and his right ankle, unable to support the sudden shift, went out from beneath him. He shredded the left forearm on the jumpsuit, felt the burn and sting of the abrasion. Still, he got up and kept moving.
The smell of smoke was strong as he hit the bridge, and he barreled past the Kelso Blockade, certain that the only reason he wasn’t seeing the bodies of his people was that his glasses were gone. Coming down Bonafe he saw three buildings in flames, the fires in their dying stages. One of the buildings, he knew, had held twenty of their population, all gathered together under the same stable frame. In the winter, the building had been insulated, and kept them warm.
He realized it was raining, but he kept running.
There were no guards outside of his home, not a cop to be seen anywhere on the street, and he stumbled through the open doorway, his lungs raging for air, and when he tried to call his wife’s name he broke into a coughing fit that left him doubled-up. He tried again anyway, wheezing it.
“Sarah! Sarah!”
There was noise from the garden, the sound of a door opening quickly, and he turned toward it, lurching down the hall past the pictures on the walls. There was the blur of a shape and then he saw that it was her, and he felt the relief whip out of him, and he said her name once more, falling into her arms.
Neither of them could speak for a minute, and neither of them wished to.
“Jim,” Sarah finally said in his ear. “Oh, I was so worried, I thought I’d lost you for good.”
“No,” he said. “No, never, never lose me. Never.”
He broke out of the hug long enough to look at her face, now close enough to see her clearly. “Two-Face … he lost it … just, lost it completely…”
She was nodding. “I know. I know. But … Renee? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, she’s still with him, she’s. I’m sure by now she’s put him under arrest, probably has him locked up in the holding cells. We’ll need to send people over there, to help her, before more of his men get back. If we still have people If we… how many did we lose, Sarah?”
She started smiling, pulling him toward the garden. “None. We won.”
“My eyes aren’t any good, don’t tell me my hearing has gone, too.”
“Your hearing is fine, Jim. None. We didn’t lose anyone.” She slid the door back, guiding him through the opening. “We had some help.”
Gordon came down the steps, then stopped. The garden was full of people, and without his glasses it was difficult to distinguish the faces. Bullock was there, and DeFilippis and Weir and Leonhardy, and others, the two boys who’d shown up so many months ago, Paolo and Nicky, the Cassamento family, who had been in TriCorner for three generations and who sure as hell weren’t planning on leaving just because the government had told them to do so.
But those weren’t the shapes, the blurred faces that stopped him.
It was Batman.
And Robin.
And Nightwing.
And a woman, a woman dressed as Batgirl.
Sarah was behind him, and she said, “They came as soon as they heard.”
Batman moved forward.
“All right,” Gordon said. “Let’s talk.”
Night was falling before everyone had left, by which time Gordon had changed his clothes, cleaned his wounds, and found his last spare pair of eyeglasses. Word had come back from Bullock that Montoya had Two-Face in custody, and that City Hall could now be added to their list of territories. The rest of Two-Face’s mob had dispersed, and Gordon presumed that the other vigilantes were taking care of that business while Batman waited for him in the garden.
Sore and stiff, the Commissioner went back outside, and when he saw that Batman was still there, the anger he’d been carrying, the anger he’d thought he’d finally lost, came back.
Someone had lit a fire in the barrel, setting it in the middle of the patio, and the flames made Batman look alternately more demonic and more human, depending on their cast. He had turned when the door opened, and Gordon descended the stairs knowing he was being watched. But Batman’s expression stayed as impassive and unknowable as ever, and that only gave the anger in Gordon’s gut another push.
He sat on the bench, easing his sore body down, trying to keep the weight away from his right ankle. The pain in his body had diffused, moved to claim whole territories, as if it, too, had learned the law of the No Man’s Land.
Batman didn’t move, watching him.
I’ll be damned, Gordon thought, if I’m going to speak first.
For nearly an hour they said nothing, each man putting their eyes anywhere but on one another. The fire crackled in the barrel, the flames dancing, occasional sparks fluttering skyward into the clear early winter night.
“Your garden,” Batman finally said, and Gordon saw that he was cupping a chrysanthemum gently in the palm of one gloved hand. “You’ve done a fine job with it.”
Gordon nodded, heard himself saying, “We had some trouble in the summer. An infestation in the vegetable bed.” He indicated the bare spot of earth by the back door, feeling his shoulder throb with even that slight movement. “Had to tear everything out to keep it from spreading. Saved some of the crop, though.”
After a second Batman said, “That’s good.”
“We got some nice carrots out of it,” Gordon said. Then he added, “Tomatoes, too.”
Batman nodded.
Gordon sighed, removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. In a way, he thought, it was like trying to talk to his first wife when they both knew the marriage was ending, and neither of them had been willing to concede that divorce might be an answer. The anger was abating again, but he knew it would be back, and he knew that, at least for him, at least then and there, it was not only justified, it was righteous.
