Pay attention, “Law & Order” fans. Remember when Detective Cerreta took a bullet and decided to give up the cop life? And how despondent Logan was to be losing his partner?

It nearly happened to me when my partner, Chris Williams, ended up in the emergency room with a condition so manly, I won’t describe it here lest I make some other hospital patient feel inadequate.

You know Chris. He’s the reporter who hangs out at the courthouse and manhandles prosecutors and defense attorneys for information. When he took over the court beat a few years ago, my workload was cut in half, and we swiftly gave ourselves nicknames. I’m Law and he’s Order. We even had hats made.

You may scoff all you’d like. But Chris and I comprise the perfect justice team. I’m all hyper and jumpy, he’s cool and methodical. I prefer the clamor of downtown chaos, Chris specializes in analysis and a methodical examination of facts. Our conversations typically go like this:

ME: “Holycowthatdownto-wnactionwasamazing!You-shouldaseenit!Bulletswere-flying!”

CHRIS: “I would expect charges of aggravated assault and there is a possibility of an attempted manslaughter count. It is crucial that we secure the police affidavit to see if those charges are supported.”

If a man on crack decided to have a discussion with a man on Valium, this is what they’d sound like.

The perfect balance. And so I was not eager to see my partner downed by some sneaky affliction landing like a sniper’s bullet. I rushed to the hospital and hung out in the ER, dreading the sight of his pale legs beneath the hospital gown.

I had nothing to fear. Through all the tests and the poking and prodding, I learned, Chris wore pants and boots. Crime reporters only take their pants off for good things, such is the height of our machismo.

And the prognosis was good. The doctor who treated Chris quickly fell into step and began to address us properly as Law and Order. I believe it might be written that way on Chris’ chart, as it should be.

Our conversation went like this:

“So, you’re going to be all right?”

“Yep.”

“Not that I give a crap about your health. I was just worried I’d have to start picking up court documents myself and you know how I hate driving in Auburn.”

“Roger that.”

You know how it is because no matter what you do for work, you have a partner. Drug agents devise secret handshakes and eventually learn to communicate telepathically. Drug dealers speak in street code and vow never to rat on each other. Snowplow drivers lift the blade when they drive past their partner’s driveway. A mill worker will quietly punch in his partner on the D machine if he is running late.

Without a partner, no one would understand your customized nomenclature, as illustrated here in a typical conversation between Chris and me.

“According to the El Tee, they’ve got PC in that DV.”

“No kidding. Which El Tee?”

“Scooby.”

“He still got that thing?”

“Oh, yeah. Looks infected.”

“Toilet plunger.”

“Roger that.”

“I’m going 10-8.”

“Watch out for The Scalpel. He’s in a mood.”

“Franks and beans.”

And like the TV detectives, we recoil at the notion of landing a new partner. Who wants to take the risk that the new guy will be averse to esoteric language or bending a rule when one needs to be bent? Who wants to start the long process of building an alliance from the ground up? Who wants to learn a new name?

Not me, that’s who.

If you’re a plumber, you want to spend the work day with someone who can easily manage a conversation about shank washers and bladder tank drawdowns. If you’re a firefighter, you want a partner who knows his way around a penciling stream because otherwise, you might be toast.

On the crime beat, partnership is vital. It provides a unified front against stubborn judges who deny photo requests, lawyers who refuse to talk, cops who still insist on using words like “perpetrator” and “subject,” and editors who are responsible for the remaining annoyances in the world.

Partnership is key because if it’s a good one, entire conversations can be completed through nods, grunts and hand signals orchestrated with the precision of a third-base coach ordering up a hit and run.

What knocked Chris back a few moments last week was likely an overabundance of testosterone. They siphoned some off and donated it to someone in a less manly profession. Perhaps a television news anchor today finds himself spitting and grunting more because of that donated dose of machismo. And good for him or her!

At any rate, Chris is on the job. If you see him, wish him well and tell him I said: “Gray isn’t coming through with that first report of fatal. Might as well get a ball peen and wait for the dew point. We’ve got deer ticks going into the third turn. Roger that?”

It’s a crime beat thing. You wouldn’t understand.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. You can e-mail him at [email protected]. 10-4.