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Traffic tickets in New York City aren't outrageously expensive.
But there's one key difference from how things work in other countries.
Here, a traffic violation is treated like a minor criminal offense. In other places, you might just pay a fine, get some points on your license, and be done with it. Here, you have to waste a day in traffic court.
So...
As Gwen started the car and began the drive back to LaGuardia Airport, she was still feeling relieved that she'd gotten out there in time. Otherwise, she'd have had to take a day off school just to deal with it.
At the same time, she was still a little confused.
"It's so weird. You can park right in front of the courthouses in Manhattan. Why not in Queens?"
"..."
Sitting in the passenger seat, Hawk listened to Gwen thinking out loud. After a moment, a thought occurred to him. "Even if you got a ticket, couldn't you just have Captain Stacy take care of it?"
Gwen snapped out of her thoughts and glanced at Hawk, then shook her head.
"No way."
"Uh..."
Hawk remembered the courtesy card Gwen had just shown the traffic cop.
Gwen seemed to read his mind and explained with a smile, "Using the family card is fine. Everyone does it. It's one of the unofficial perks for police families. But getting an actual ticket is different. My dad would never call in a favor with one of his friends at the courthouse over a parking violation. He'd just give me a very serious look and say, 'Gwen, you need to stand before the court and take responsibility for your actions.'"
As she explained, Gwen perfectly mimicked the stern tone and expression of George Stacy of the NYPD's 19th Precinct.
Hawk listened to her explanation and nodded in understanding.
He had always pictured George Stacy as one of those old-school, by-the-book cops who didn't bend the rules for anyone.
But from the way Gwen described him...
That didn't seem to be the case.
Movies always rely on stereotypes.
...
Forty-five minutes later.
Gwen pulled up to the curb at LaGuardia Airport.
Hawk unbuckled his seatbelt and thanked her one more time as she put the car in park.
Just as he was about to open his door and get out, Gwen spoke up. "I'm curious about something, Hawk."
Hawk, who had already pushed the door open, turned back to look at her.
"What?"
"If I didn't accept your 'thank you,' what would you do? Just keep saying it?"
"..."
Gwen's question left Hawk speechless.
After a moment.
He looked at her smiling face, which seemed genuinely curious about his answer, and thought about it.
"Sorry?"
"..."
Now it was Gwen's turn to be silent.
If I don't accept your thanks, you apologize?
...Sure, why not.
Gwen's smile grew wider. She looked at Hawk and said, "You say 'thank you' way too much. We're friends. Friends don't have to say thank you all the time."
Friends?
Hawk was taken aback again.
He and Gwen were friendlier than he was with most other students, but that was mainly because they shared a physics class and sat next to each other.
But that was it.
Outside of physics, they barely interacted at school.
To be fair, he barely interacted with any student.
But—
Hawk didn't argue. She had just given him a ride all the way out here. The last thing he was going to do was tell her they weren't friends.
He wasn't a complete social idiot.
Soon.
After he got out, Gwen made a U-turn, hit the gas, and disappeared from view. Hawk watched her car go, then turned and walked toward the temporary shelter.
...
That evening.
Manhattan.
The Goring Building.
Helen Stacy was lounging on the sofa in her pajamas, watching the latest episode of Desperate Housewives. She heard the front door open and turned to look.
Her husband, George Stacy of the 19th Precinct, walked in, dressed in a black suit, his badge clipped to his belt.
"You're home."
"Yes."
George replied, closing the door behind him. He looked at Helen on the sofa. "Where's Gwen?"
Helen glanced toward the stairs.
"In her room."
"Oh."
George nodded and headed upstairs. He knocked lightly on his daughter's door. "Gwen?"
Gwen's voice came from inside. "It's not locked, Dad."
George pushed the door open.
Inside.
Gwen was already in her pajamas, a cute matching set. Her long, blonde hair was down, and she was sitting cross-legged on her desk chair. She looked up as her father came in. "What's up, Dad?"
George didn't come into the room. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a knowing smile on his face. "So, you skipped your afternoon classes today."
Gwen froze for a second, then it clicked.
She uncrossed her legs and stood up.
"Did someone call you?"
"What do you think?"
George chuckled. "They have to call and verify. Make sure it wasn't someone using a fake family card."
It was unlikely, but...
There was a saying in the department: You can be an idiot, but you can't be a boring idiot.
People had tried to fake the cards before. It was rare, but it happened.
Since calling to verify on the spot could be awkward, the protocol was to just jot down the plate number and confirm it back at the precinct.
If the card was legit, no problem.
If it was a fake, well, that was also no problem. They had the plate number. The driver could look forward to a dozen tickets in their mailbox the next day.
The NYPD made sure that anyone who tried to pull a fast one paid the price.
Gwen sighed. "Dad, I really didn't mean to park there. You can park right in front of the courthouses in Manhattan."
George shrugged. "I'm not interested in your parking violation. That's what the family card is for."
He wasn't that much of a hard-ass.
The card was meant to be used. Just not abused.
Gwen blinked.
"Then why..."
"Why were you at the Queens County Courthouse this afternoon."
"Oh."
Gwen sat back down in her chair and picked up the book she had been reading. "It was nothing. I just gave a classmate a ride to the courthouse for something."
George's smile widened.
"A male classmate?"
"..."
Gwen put down her book and looked at her father, her expression serious. "Dad, Hawk and I are just friends."
No, that's not right.
That guy seems to actively resist the idea of being my friend.
Gwen thought to herself.
She remembered the look on Hawk's face that afternoon when she'd told him they were friends—that fleeting, almost pained expression of stiffness.
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