A Policeman, not a Politician

[Sean Pope]

Sean crumpled the newspaper and tossed it across the table. He usually didn't bother paying much attention to the warped and twisted interpretations of the real world that the media threw about, but someone at the Precinct insisted on scattering the tabloids across the table in the break room; it was either that, or read the fire regulations again.

Most of Sean's frustration was at the result of the half-finished - and incorrect, no less - attempts that had been made at both the crossword and the sudoku puzzles for today, although a little of it might have been to do with the fact that yet again the 'Mutant Menace' had earned itself far too much headline space.

Sure, truth be told, people with extraordinary powers were bound to make a few people nervous, particularly if some of them were hell-bent on misusing that power. But the fact remained that members of any group - regardless of gender, nationality, ethnicity or, in this case, genetics - were bound to find themselves on the wrong side of the law at some point. It was society's fault that every member of the group was branded with the same label, and the media was responsible for spurring them on.

Sean let out a sigh, and reclined back in his chair, rubbing a pair of hands over his tired face. "Bad people will do bad things," he muttered to himself, screwing his eyes closed and wishing he wasn't in the midsts of another all-nighter. "It doesn't matter what box you put them in."

A few minutes of moping inside his own frustration was all he needed. Screwing up his pessimism into a tight not, and ramming it deep into the crevasse at the back of his mind, he levered himself back to his feet, and dove back into the hectic chaos of his department.

In truth, 'hectic chaos' was perhaps a bit of an overstatement, given the lateness of the hour. Most of the Detectives had gone home for the night, already worked to the bone with the long shifts they'd been forced to pull lately. The university bombing thing had the beaurocrats crying for results, and unfortunately it was down to these guys to put in the extra hours to make it happen.

Sean shared a brief nod with Detective Jackson as he skirted the edge of the main office space towards his own private sanctuary. God, the man looked tired. He should probably send him home: order him to get some rest. Unfortunately, he knew that Jackson would never do it. Something about this case really had the Detective going, and he knew he wouldn't let it go until he'd been able to reach some kind of resolution. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Jackson's personal investment in the case might be, but decided not to dwell. If Jackson wanted him to know, he'd tell. Beyond that, his private life was his own business.

With another sigh, Sean turned away, and pushed open the door to his office. No matter how much time he spent in the room, he always felt like he didn't belong there; as if there were still things missing that stopped it from feeling like his own space. He cast his eyes around the room as he often did, trying to work out what those things might be. "Coffee," was the one he decided upon for today. "I need a coffee machine in my office."

That decision made, and with the question in his mind satiated for now, he paced across the room to his desk and settled himself down behind it. A few quick prods at his computer later, and his inbox flashed up on the screen. 47 New Messages. Along came sigh number three of the evening. "Good job I don't have dinner plans," he muttered, and began to read.

[John Jackson]

Tired was an understatement, particularly if you were trying to explain how Jackson was feeling. He couldn't remember when he last slept, which was probably a bad sign. He'd lost count of the number of coffee's he'd drunk as well, which was definately a bad sign. Making matters worse, he'd chewed his way through the last of the nicotine gum his partner had provided, and didn't feel even remotely satisfied by it. That much was obvious: the pen he'd been writing with was subconsciously rested between his lips.

Weirdly, he was craving MacDonalds. Ordinarily he hated the stuff: he'd only surrendered to it recently at his partner's insistance. If given the choice he'd rather find at least a nice diner, if not somewhere with a little more culinary prestige, but right now all he wanted was a chunk of slightly dry beef, plastic cheese, and that strange half-mummified bacon that they always shoved into things. Hell, even that weird pickle thing they stuck in there didn't seem all that bad.

Speaking of partners: he threw a glance across at his parner's desk, abandoned for the night. Apparently he had some sort of dinner to go to - Crystal had insisted they celebrate seventeen months of their relationship, or something painfully contrived like that. How the woman managed to keep tabs on their relationship to such an intense degree of accuracy was a mystery, both to Dwayne and to him. Dwayne certainly wasn't nearly as good at remembering that sort of thing, as the frantic tirade over the phone a few hours ago had revealed.

Jackson had sent him home. It was only now that he realised the advantages. Scooting over the short distance that separated their desks on his swivel chair, Jackson plunged into Dwayne's drawers, searching for - at the very least - food. Maybe he'd be lucky, and stumble upon the hiding place where Dwayne had stashed all his cigarettes.

He heard footsteps in the hall - precise, clicking, feminine footsteps. The irrational desire to make a good impression suddenly overcame him, and he hurled himself back towards his desk, grabbing the first thing that came to hand so he could at least pretend to be working. Strangely, the footsteps seemed to be drawing closer, and halted a few yards away from him. He risked a glance, and his eyes settled on the fitted pinstripe business suit and long, golden blonde locks of someone who looked as if he should probably know who they were. Unfortunately, he didn't.

Shifting in his chair, he tried his best to seem casual. "Can I help you, Miss - ?"

[Phillipa Heller]

"It's 'Ms', actually." The statement was accompanied by the blonde's best disarming smile, which most likely would be the most pleasant thing this tired detective would have seen in the past few days. Despite his mistake, he had redeemed himself in the same instant: being called 'Miss' and not 'Ma'am' at thirty-something years of age was something that instilled a rare feeling of flattery.

"Ms Phillipa Heller. I'm here from the DA's Office."

Equal rights and other political activities in that area, Phillipa had often found, made little difference in her line of work; the majority of men who discovered the importance of her work, coupled with a salary far in excess their own, reacted with surprise and were quickly suspicious. The all-powerful decisions of the DA and the complex, time-wasting nature of court proceedings had created much tension between the the aforesaid and the hard-working police force. Phillipa's experiences with the employees of various departments had been mixed, and she was waiting to see just how the man seated before her would react.

"I'm here to see the Captain."

[John Jackson]

Jackson felt his eyebrows involuntarily climb at the mention of her occupation. Having been a Detective for quite some time, Jackson had experienced pleanty of situations where the District Attorney had declined to press charges against a criminal they had detained - regardless of how guilty they were - on some technical complication. Jackson knew on an intellectual level that the DA believed in only prosecuting the cases they stood a good chance of winning, and such problems were the kinds of loopholes that the guilty could use to evade justice. Even so, he couldn't combat the icy disappointment that formed in his gut whenever he saw someone who deserved to be behind bars walking free without reprimand.

Still, this Miss Heller - Ms Heller, rather - seemed a nice enough character; it certainly wouldn't be wise to undermine his opportunity to seem suave, sophisticated and helpful. His efforts would most likely be insufficient to snare anyone so drastically out of his league, but still: there were some delusions better not dispelled.

Jackson threw up his most charming smile. "I think the Captain just made it back to his office; he'll probably need a few minutes for his coffee to kick in before he's ready for visitors, though." He pushed himself out of his chair and to his feet, subconsciously brushing a few creases out of his shirt as he stood. "Can I get you anything while you wait?"

[Phillipa Heller]

Well, at least he's being friendly.

Friendliness and politeness were two traits rarely found within the courts; the defendants were often rude, sometimes angry and bitter, and the lawyers no better, although they tended to claok their insults in a higher register of language, or Latin. Even within the walls of a police station, there was much evidence of less-than-savoury dialogues and behaviours, but that often wasn't the fault of the officers - the very nature of their work demanded a hardened shell that was sometimes difficult to remove when talking to someone who wasn't in the station by way of sin. This detective, however, had offered a smile and some manners, and Phillipa found it refreshing.

She couldn't help but indulge in a brief study of the man as he rose from the chair - she had done the same with many people in a courtroom before; watching their movements for subtle messages and discovering tiny aspects of their character and lifestyle. The detective, for example, wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Nor, for that matter, was there any such evidence of a partner or offspring on his desk. The belt fastened around his waist indicated a comfortably slim figure, perhaps kept by the long hours working with little time to eat. His shirt was tucked in, tie a little loose; a man who tried to be tidy, but whose work made that difficult. And his eyes ...

Phillipa blinked, suddenly realising that he was waiting for an answer. She shook her head, "No, thank you. I'm fine."

A few minutes wasn't long to wait; no doubt the Captain would be functioning well enough to be able to hold a conversation. She sympathised well enough - coffee was sometimes the only thing that kept her going, although most of the time she would much prefer a good cup of tea. A rarity in New York, it seemed, but her upbringing in Michigan had involved her mother having English tea brought into the house, due to her love of the little island. Phillipa had been a few times before on business in its capital, London, and had quite enjoyed herself, although more so for the sightseeing she had done in her free time.

Manners, yes. Phillipa seemed to be lacking some of those at the moment. Offering out a hand, she smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry - I didn't get your name ..."

[John Jackson]

Jackson cranked up his own smile to match. "Detective John Jackson," he introduced, gripping her hand delicately, but with a reassuring firm confidence.

"Phillipa Heller," the representative of the District Attorney replied.

As soon as her surname left her lips, Jackson's smile faltered, ever so slightly. Who in New York hadn't heard of John Heller Jr., Attorney-at-Law? Jackson had met the man only once, defending one of the city's high-flying businessmen from allegations of corruption. It was true that their case had been a little flimsy, but the DA had believed - and justly so - that they had enough evidence to bring a guilty man down. What they hadn't banked on was John Heller Jr. arriving in the court room and shredding every last piece of evidence they'd provided to pieces.

Jackson himself had been cross-examined, and felt like a broken man afterward. Heller had come to find him after the court case, to explain that it had been nothing personal, that he had every respect for New York's Finest, and that all he had been doing was ensuring that the law was served, to the letter. Jackson believed him. But still, that encounter had explained to him first-hand why the prosecution had the fear of God in them whenever Heller showed up for the defence.

Jackson saw the flicker of recognition reflected in Phillipa's eyes: no doubt she knew what the vaguely startled expression that currently graced the Detective's face really meant. Unfortunately, Jackson couldn't think of anything to say to repair the damage he had inadvertantly wrought on the conversation. Releasing her hand and letting his own fall to his side, he gestured across to the far corner of the room. "The Captain's Office is over here."

[Phillipa Heller]

Heller. The name was well known, and that made it a blessing and curse. Her father had made for himself a reputation that extended far beyond the courts - the media had made sure of that. Of course, every member of the police force would have heard stories of his legendary performances in court, crushing the prosecution with harsh questioning, getting under the skin of the witnesses and appealing to jury in an equally convincing manner. The family was successful, the relatives outside Phillipa's own immediate family boasting professions such as medical doctors, army generals, and psychologists. Her younger brother was a doctor of computer engineering - another credit to the prestigious Heller name. Needless to say, family reunions were interesting, and much like walking on eggshells.

There was one coming up within the next two months. And she'd be attending alone, again. For all her brilliance, Phillipa Heller hadn't been so successful in securing herself a husband, and thus had not been able to provide the grandchildren that were currently in great demand - from her step-mother, at least. But then, Tristan and Monty hadn't done so well themselves, had they?

Ah yes; Tristan. A lone skeleton in the Heller family closet. Where was he now?

Phillipa turned her attention back to the matter at hand, "Thank you, Detective."


Despite the fact that she wanted to (surely whatever good opinion of herself she had tried to impress upon the Detective would now be quite damaged), she couldn't feel anything negative towards the tired-looking Jackson; it was her father's doing, not her own. In the legal world, her talents in the courts were well acknowledged, but her father's shadow was like an abyss. There would always be comparison.

Turning, Phillipa made a bee-line for the Captain's office, the thin heels of her rather expensive shoes clicking importantly with every step. It had taken her at least an hour of walking around her flat in said shoes to get used to them, and she was aware of the pain that would flourish in her feet and ankles towards the end of the day, and really she shouldn't be wearing such an expensive pair for work but ...they made her feel confident. Maybe even a little bit powerful. And it was with this confidence that she knocked on the door of Captain Pope's office, waited to be granted entry, and did so, closing the door behind her.

She brushed a few golden strands away from her face as she turned, smiling at the man seated behind the desk across the room. "Hello, Sean."

[Sean Pope]

Sean looked up from his desk. A flash of recognition swept across his face as the DA's favourite prosecutor - a status earned by her abilities, not just her lineage - entered his Office. He tried his best to flash her a warm smile, but with the tiredness tugging at his feaures the result seemed more like a wince.

Ever the gentleman, he rose to his feet and tried again, his second smile meeting with a little more success. "Phillipa," he said warmly, with a gesture towards one of the seats arrayed in front of his desk. "Good to see you again. Please, come in."

The Attorney settled herself into place; Sean waited until she was seated before stroking his tie back into position - it has flicked out and snagged on the edge of the desk as he stood - and sitting down himself. He allowed himself a breath, covering for his pause by rumaging through the stack of folders on his desk. Finding one that seemed appropriate, he flicked it open, and rifled through the pages within. "We haven't made much progress in our search for the bomber. We found a witness a few days ago - some kid who managed to survive the bombing - and he gave us a physical description of the bomber as part of his statement."

[Phillipa Heller]

A raised hand was the signal Phillipa often used when she wanted to interrupt (it was a required skill in her line of work), and she did so now, almost forgetting her point as she observed that her fingernails needed tidying. She swept the thought from her head and lowered her hand to her lap, "I'm sorry - Sean, you said that the witness survived the bombing. It was a nuclear explosion; this witness can't be ..." She stopped short as she searched for the right words. The pursuit was soon abandoned - getting straight to the point was more important, and would save time. "I've read the case notes, Sean. The witness is a mutant."

It was easy to drain her voice of emotion - to sound as objective as possible. When dealing with something as delicate as mutancy - right now, it rivalled gender and racial issues - Phillipa felt her best approach was to be as detached as possible.

"It shouldn't change things, but it does. The courts aren't always so unbiased." Phillipa ran a hand through her hair - left loose today - and gave Sean an apologetic look. There was nothing either of them could do, despite whatever either of them felt about mutancy. "Actually, it relates to what I came to see you about."

[Sean Pope]

"He's a witness in my enqiry," Pope said, as a barely audible growl sounded in his throat. "As far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters."

The Captain took a breath to reign his temper in a little. A firm believer that enforcing the law was as true and noble a pursuit as the training officers always told them, he loathed the prospect that justice might not be as blind as it was meant to be. Race, gender, genetics; they should all be irrelevant, and yet they weren't. The court of public opinion superceded the court of law far too often; no matter how often people tried to justify that to themselves, or to shift that out of their mind, Sean had never been able to make that sit right with him. I'm a policeman, not a politician, he thought to himself, as he observed Phillipa from beneath a heavy frown. All this pandering to the public just gets in the way.

Letting out a sigh, Sean mustered a smile, suddenly realising that he'd been scowling in the Attorney's general direction. Her words played over in his head again; his eyebrows twitched as his frown made a move to return. "How does the irrelevant genetics of my witness relate to your visit?"

[Phillipa Heller]

How indeed. The corners of Phillipa's lightly glossed lips picked upwards in a sly smile. How would Sean react to her news?

Again, the need to get straight to the root of the issue tugged at her; it saved precious time and would allow her to get home sooner rather than later. Her neighbour's cat - the neighbour in question was currently holidaying in Florida - would need feeding, and she knew firsthand just how impatient and grumpy the feline could be.

"Sean, I've come here because the DA wants a new police branch founded." She waited; he appeared to be listening, so she continued, her voice even: "A special branch - one that deals specifically with mutants." Before he could speak, she raised that word-stopping hand again, "Sorry, Sean."

Already he seemed agitated - perhaps she had used the wrong wording. "Let me explain: you and I are both aware of the stir mutancy is creating. That's why this branch needs to be created, and have only individuals best equipped to run it. The DA appreciates that mutants have been given some bad press; this branch will even the odds a little."

Suddenly there was a pang of worry in her chest: had she said too much already? Truly, she had not fully considered how Sean would react to this - he was a good man, with the intent that the law should be served in as objective a manner as possible ...but would he really be interested?

She hadn't yet told him of his role in this arrangement, but instead of interrupting him she settled into the chair a little more and contented herself to wait for his response.

[Sean Pope]

The woman looked slightly concerned about her choice of words, and rightly so - at first glance, the notion she seemed to be explaining sounded like an attempt to clamp down on an aspect of society that was only devided from the masses by virtue of a slight genetic inconsistancy. Such things had existed before, and if Nazi Germany was anything to go by, history wouldn't remember such an effort all that fondly.

As she explained further though, and as he inferred other details from what she hadn't yet said, his aversion to it began to soften. While the rights of mutants needed to be the same as everyone elses, it was true that their abilities presented a variety of somewhat unique challenges to law enforcement. As it stood, the New York City Police Department lacked the funding to adequately protect the citizens of New York from the criminal threat of people who could walk through walls, shoot lightning and flames from their hands, or if recent cases handled by his Detectives were anything to go by, tear the very bricks frm the walls of buildings and survive the onslaught of a nuclear detonation. The NYPD had special branches established to study forensic evidence, or to specialise in homicide, major crimes, cyber crimes, terrorism - why should the extrodinary crimes that only mutants seemed able to commit be any different?

Sean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't entirely sure which was worse - the fact that someone had concieved such a thing, or the fact that he was starting to feel okay with the idea. He shook his head, the negatives beginning to line up, ready to springboard off his tongue. "Such a branch would need an incredible degree of oversight to offset the incredible potential for misuse. It'd require intsensive scrutiny from the Commissioner and the DA's Office. You'd need to screen the potential personnel heavily - ensure they weren't prejudiced against mutants, but that they weren't so sympathetic towards them that it might compromise their judgement. You'd specialist forensics support as well - the boys over at the Crime Lab have their hands full enough with Homicide and Major Crimes to be worrying about whatever these mutant crimes throw up."

He sighed, arms folding across his chest as he reclined into his chair. "And that doesn't tackle the sheer logistical problems of trying to arrest people with mutant abilities. Just using our friend Michael Stern as an example -" He gestured towards the appropriate file on his desk for emphasis. "How do we expect to arrest and detain a man who can disappear into thin air?"

[Phillipa Heller]

Phillipa shook her head despite the elegant smile creeping at the corners of her mouth, "On that, I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you, Sean. You're right - every member of this unit would have to be checked and re-checked for their suitability ...even once they qualified --" she hesitated, a hand nervously straying to her hair. "What I mean is: personnel in this unit would be witness to things that might be extremely damaging. There are reports of mutants who can enter minds and read them, influence people's thoughts, even control minds." There was no proof, however. It would never stand up court; how could a jury of average people expect to be able to make a decision on such a thing? "Sean, it would literally drive someone crazy."

The attourney shifted her position, crossing pleasingly slender legs in the opposite direction and smoothing down her skirt. Those legs were part of the reason that some of her colleagues could not take her seriously; too often had a conversation been ruined by attention being drawn elsewhere from the words spoken. Her father had advised her: "Well, why wear a skirt if you don't like the attention?"

Her step-mother on the other hand: "Use it to your advantage, sweetie."

Sean didn't appear to have anything more to add, so she continued: "Finding forensics suitable and free would be a problem. We'd have to recuit outside of the area - any forensics we do have are already snapped up by the Crime Lab. But," She lifted her eyes to meet his, every hint of a smile suddenly disappearing as she dropped into a well-practiced expression of seriousness, "we can solve the problem of oversight and leadership easily - that is, if you're willing to help."

[Sean Pope]

So that's why she was here after all; a new job. Reassignment. That meant trading in his current role as the senior Detective for this Precinct; swapping out his large team of experienced and capable Detectives for a small group of people who couldn't possibly have any kind of experience with what they would be facing. There'd be legal nightmares; convincing the jury of the specific abilities each suspect posessed would be a chronic headache, and there would no doubt be times when crimes and legal rulings simply didn't exist to cover some of the public wrongs that were already on record and attributed to mutants.

Sean managed a faint smile. Sounds like fun.

Phillipa seemed to recognise the surrender in his expression, but Sean held up a hand, not ready to let her jump the gun just yet. "I'll need to be able to pull in officers from other branches - this can't be done with a bunch of rookies with shiny new Detective badges. Dedicated Forensics support would be nice, but I know you can't guarentee that; at the very least we'll need equipment and a standing warrant from the DA, for DNA testing to confirm mutant status - if they are genetically baseline human, we can pass off their case to other departments."

He hesitated, shooting her a rueful smile. "Someone else is going to need to handle things with the District Attorneys, because I'm not doing it." He let his smile broaden slightly. "I'm a policeman, Ms Heller, not a politician."

His brow creased into a frown as he checked off his list on his fingertips. "SWAT support would be nice too; guys trained and equipped to deal with abnormal situations. I'm sure that there will be situations where the Detectives and standard sidearms in this -"

He halted mid-flow, and let his frown deepen. "What are we calling this new branch, anyway?"

[Phillipa Heller]

He seemed convinced; already Sean Pope was thinking it over, listing their requirements, considering the possibilities, taking everything into account - all of those mental skills that made him a decent Captain and a good man. And yet, he was concerned about the name? Phillipa allowed herself a tiny smile of amusement, brushing back her fair hair before providing the answer.

"The Mutant Crimes Unit. Well, that's the official designation that the DA's office have given it, anyway." Her smile widened, "Of course, it can always be abbreviated by your personnel to something more fitting." She gestured with neat-nailed fingers in the air, as if trying to pluck said contraction from it. "M-C-U, perhaps?"

Something rare appeared on Sean's face: a smile, albeit a brief, tired one. There was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, but the lack of sleep was doing a good job of quelling it. Indeed, both he and Detective Jackson looked as though they hadn't had access to a pillow to rest on for too many hours. But then, the truly excellent in their police force were often these exhausted, good-natured people.

"Sean, I'm prepared to let you make selections from your current team, if you think it's necessary." Phillipa cast a glance out at the larger office surrounding them - a move somewhat lacking in intelligence, considering that the place was almost devoid of life. Getting to her feet, she smoothed down her suit, and offered out her hand to Sean. The brief shake of hands was followed up by Phillipa adding, "And don't worry; I'll handle the DAs."

By picking up her briefcase from the floor, Phillipa signalled that their meeting was over. She turned in her expensive shoes - too impractical for work but ones that made her feel powerful and confident enough to instigate the procedure of setting up a new police branch - and headed towards the door, pausing as her palm touched it.

...Maybe I should tell him to get some sleep.

"And Sean," she looked back over her shoulder, pausing again. He looked up, patiently waiting for her to continue. Even when she had been fledgling lawyer, he had always been patient with her. Phillipa's smile was grateful, "...Thank you."