A/N: Hello, darlings! Thanks for waiting so patiently for this chapter. I'm sending everything through beta first, so it sometimes takes a bit to get them ready, but I'd rather make you wait for something perfect! This chapter was a lot of fun to write because I got to play lawyer from both sides - although you'll recognize that John Buchanan, in addition to being a total ass, is also a perfect stereotype. Whoever writes him on SVU needs to be hit in the head. I'm already working on Chapter 4, so stay tuned - and thanks to my two awesome beta readers for their help!

Song: All I Do Is Win by DJ Khaled

"I called in a favor," Peter Florrick said. "It's not like I think you can't get clients on your own. But I thought this might make it a little easier for you to at least get started out there."

Eli rubbed his forehead, clutching his cell to his ear. "You know you shouldn't have done that, Peter. It could look bad - if not now, then definitely later. Favors always come back to bite you."

"It was nothing, Eli. After everything you've done for me these last five years, it's the least I could do. This isn't Senate Candidate Peter Florrick giving his former Chief of Staff a quid pro quo. This is Peter Florrick giving his friend an employment lead." Eli could almost see Peter's grin through the phone. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Well, then… thanks, Peter."

"No problem. Hey, by the way, how's Marissa's job working out?"

"She seems to be happy," Eli said. "Her boss is… well, he's good at his job."

Peter chuckled. "Alicia's heard from Marissa that he's a real hardass. Sounds like someone I know."

Eli rolled his eyes. "Was I that hard for EVERYONE to work with?!"

"Yes," Peter replied. "But that's what made YOU good at YOUR job. Listen, I've gotta go, Johnny has me scheduled for back-to-back meetings with constituents all morning and then a speech at the Rotary tonight. Lemme know how things work out. And tell Marissa I said hi."

"Will do, Peter. Thanks again." He sat on the end of the bed, staring at the phone. Peter had just given him a lead on a firm in New York that was looking for reputation management - kind of like pre-emptive crisis management. It wasn't much, but it was more than he had at the moment. It wasn't even that he needed the money - it was that he was bored. He thought back to his conversation with Marissa two days prior. She was right. I don't have a life.

Of course, at that same dinner, he had been flirting with the idea that her boss would be a good candidate to run for the upcoming District Attorney election in just over a year's time. But Eli had a hunch that the guy was a natural for political office. From everything Marissa had told him, Rafael Barba was a thorn in the side of defense attorneys across the city, didn't tolerate bullshit, and had opinions on everything. Plus, in the five minutes Eli had spent with the man, he noticed a definite swagger that carries a politician through an election with optimism. It was hard to resist the lure of politics when confronted with that feeling of possibly discovering the next Barack Obama.

Ultimately, however, a hunch was not enough. It was stupid to fall back into politics when he didn't even have concrete evidence that it would be worth it. He looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror hanging across from him. He looked older than his fifty-two years. His once jet-black hair was starkly grey now. There were lines on his face that he didn't remember being there even yesterday. He had been doing what he could to reverse the aging process - running two miles every morning near the river, eating as healthy as possible (not an easy task since he barely knew how to make an omelet). He even sucked it up and bought a moisturizer in a vain attempt to curb the wrinkles around his eyes. But as exhilarating as the game could be, he was exhausted by it. Crisis management could be exhausting as well, but it was mostly routine with the occasional stressful hiccup. Politics was mostly stressful hiccups with the occasional routine.

He checked his watch. It was 9:00am now. He had to make it to this meeting by 10:00. He'd also promised Marissa he would come down to the courthouse for lunch before Barba's closing argument that afternoon. Sighing, he hoisted himself from the bed, in search of his marketing materials that were probably still buried in an unopened box.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I realize it doesn't look good for my client. There's no doubt he had sex with his accuser. He admits that much. Yes, the two of them were intoxicated. Yes, money changed hands. And yes, there's a witness to this sexual encounter."

John Buchanan rose in his chair and buttoned his rumpled suit jacket. The red-faced, sweaty man walked slowly around the defense table and headed toward the jury box. He took a quick glance at his client, Martin Pollack, who was sitting confidently at the table, watching his attorney's every move. Rafael could already feel the bile in his throat. He knew what was coming, having been in a courtroom with Buchanan before.

"But ask yourselves this: have you ever had a sexual encounter that you later regretted, even if only a little bit?" Buchanan leaned on the jury box, making eye contact with several of the jurors. "Most of us probably have. Maybe you weren't as attracted to that person in the sober light of day as you were in the drunken haze of the bar. Maybe you were lonely. Maybe both of you knew it was a mistake. But just because you regretted it, well...you know the difference between regret and rape."

Rafael took notes as Buchanan spoke, writing down all the stereotypical bullshit the man usually spewed. It was almost rote at this point, but Rafael wanted to be prepared to respond to any particularly nasty remarks.

"Let me bring your attention now to the recent witness the prosecution 'discovered' toward the end of this trial. Now, she claims that Mr. Pollack raped Ms. Robertson at Tau Omega's frat house, and that she walked in on it while it was happening. But if that's the case, why didn't she try and stop it? Why not say something before now? Or is it possible that what she witnessed was merely consensual, drunken sex between two college students? She was, after all, subpoenaed by the prosecution - perhaps she was feeling pressure from the D.A.'s office to testify a certain way."

A half second later, Rafael was on his feet. "Objection!"

"Sustained," the judge replied. "You know better than that, Mr. Buchanan."

Buchanan smiled and turned back to the jury. "I'm sure you want to know why, if there was no rape, Mr. Pollack's family would have given Ms. Robertson money. The answer is simple: because she demanded it. She knew Mr. Pollack was from a wealthy family. So she decided to make a profit. And rather than risk this precise situation, Mr. Pollack opted to pay the ransom she placed on his reputation."

Buchanan walked back to stand in front of the prosecutor's table, and pointed toward the victim, Stephanie Robertson, who was sitting just behind the bar. Rafael got a faint whiff of cheap whiskey, and held his breath.

"This woman claims that she was raped. Despite the fact that the hospital reports a rape kit being taken, it wasn't introduced into evidence. The only physical evidence introduced were photographs taken at the hospital of her "injuries," which were merely unfortunate consequences of the rough sex to which she consented and enjoyed! She didn't tell anyone else about this alleged rape until six months later when, playing the victim yet again, she made a, quote, suicide attempt. Does that sound like a rape victim or an attention-starved young woman?"

Once again, Rafael leapt from his chair. "Ob-JECTION!"

The judge barely contained her own contempt when she sustained the objection. Rafael knew what was coming next, so well that he unconsciously mouthed the words right along with Buchanan, who had walked back to his client's side.

"There is a victim here, ladies and gentlemen. But it is not Ms. Robertson. My client is the victim. Don't re-victimize him by putting him in prison for a crime he did not commit."

Even from the back row of the gallery, Marissa could sense her boss's desire to roll his eyes. So she did it for him. John Buchanan was the most disgusting man Marissa had ever met, and that was saying something considering she had worked in Chicago politics. From the cheap suits covering his flabby body to his abhorrent courtroom practices, Buchanan was the perfect embodiment of the stereotypical defense attorney. That would have been comical if, in so many cases, it weren't so effective. From what Mr. Barba had told her, Buchanan was his least favorite defense attorney to deal with, primarily because he presented the biggest challenge. Jurors tended to buy the bullshit Buchanan presented, because he did it so theatrically.

Still, Marissa knew, Buchanan was sweating this one. Otherwise, he wouldn't have called Mr. Barba the past Friday trying for a last-minute deal. Most attorneys would be intimidated by the high-profile nature of the case and might have taken the deal. But not Rafael Barba. He was a stubborn son of a bitch and when he knew he had the upper hand, he dug his heels in even more. Sometimes Marissa didn't know whether it was because of his ego or his desire to help victims - maybe a little bit of both.

The judge adjourned court for an hour, and Marissa headed toward the prosecutor's table to see if her boss wanted anything to eat. Psh, she scoffed. If the man ever turns down lunch, I'll have to have him admitted to the hospital. She pushed past the horde of reporters, spectators, and paralegals until she reached the bar between the gallery and the attorneys.

"Mr. Barba, did you want anything for lunch? My Dad's on his way here to meet me, and we're just going to the little Thai place on Bayard, so I could bring you back something if you want."

Rafael smiled. Marissa could always be counted on to try and feed him. She sometimes referred to it as her "inner Jewish mother, trying to escape."

"Yeah, thanks," he replied, shoving papers into his briefcase. "Ah… Red Curry. Let me know what I owe you and I'll expense it out." He gave her a curt nod and took off for the side exit, likely to revise his closing with whatever he found noteworthy from Buchanan's remarks. Marissa whipped back around and quite nearly knocked over her father.

"JESUS!" She stumbled backward and caught herself on the bar. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Tempting," Eli said, echoing her words from the past weekend as he helped upright her. "But I'd miss these little moments."

"Ha ha," she said, brushing past him. "We need to get it to go, by the way. Boss needs food."

Eli raised an eyebrow, following her out the courtroom door as she dialed a number on her phone. "And you have to get it for him why?"

"Because he doesn't like milk, and I'm a good bodywoman." She stopped at the front door of the courthouse, pulling Eli to the side with her. "Yes, hello. Two red curries and a pad thai, to go, please? Yes. Yes, when I get there. About ten minutes? Thanks."

"I'm assuming you just ordered our lunch," Eli said.

"And got you the most boring thing on the menu, as usual," she replied. "Let's go. We can eat once I deliver his."

"When did you get so bossy?" They headed out of the courtroom, hustling past reporters and attorneys. Eli had to take two steps to each of Marissa's just to keep up.

"Probably an inherited trait," she said. A light rain had just started when Eli had arrived at court, cooling the sticky summer air just enough to make the walk bearable. The two were silent for most of the five-minute walk.

"You seem focused," Eli said, glancing over at her as they came up on their destination. "Is he going to die if he doesn't get food right away?"

"Quite possibly," she replied. "You know those Snickers commercials where someone's so hungry they turn into Betty White?"

"Got it," he said. "Feed the Golden Girl."

Marissa was quickly in and out of the restaurant, and handed Eli the warm bag of food.

"Seriously?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously," she said. "Did you think I invited you for company?" He rolled his eyes but carried the bag anyway. As they headed back, it felt like she was walking double-time. It was even worse when she all but ran up the courthouse steps.

"Jesus, Marissa, do you want me to have a heart attack?" He struggled to catch his breath as he caught up with her.

"Not quite yet. Give me the bag, I need to run this in. Meet me at 2B. We've got about half an hour to eat before I have to get back in there."

As Marissa disappeared into the crowded hallway, Eli headed back to the courtroom and stepped inside. He hadn't been in a courthouse since Peter's first gubernatorial election, when the feds were investigating him for voter fraud. Walking past the bar and over to the defense table, he became irrationally nervous. Always the picture of confidence, he hadn't admitted to anyone that he had been genuinely scared. Although he hadn't engaged in anything illegal, he also knew innocence wasn't always enough to keep a person out of prison. He began to wonder just how many innocent people were persecuted every day. It was so easy to twist facts into fictions. He knew, because he did it for a living.

"Okay, Dad, you hungry?" He spun around with a start as Marissa came barreling into the room with the bag of food.

"Again, old man. Weak heart," he said. "And yes." They headed back out of the courtroom and sat on a nearby bench.

He dug into his mediocre pad thai. "Oh, by the way, how'd what's-his-name do this morning?"

Marissa shrugged. "It was exactly what we expected. Same old bullshit excuses: she wanted it, the witness is lying, my client's a choir boy. This dude is so predictable. I'm surprised Mr. Barba actually has to revise his closing at all."

Eli cocked his head. "So why is he? Revising it, I mean."

"Because he's thorough and an overthinker. But that's part of his job. He's said before that the one thing you fail to mention is the one thing the jurors will want to hear about."

Eli considered this. A careful guy. Likes to be prepared.

Then he told himself to shut up.

"How'd your meeting with that client go?" Marissa had already plowed through half of her curry. He made a "so-so" motion with his free hand. "That's optimistic of you."

"It wasn't that it was bad," he said. "It was that they just don't need any actual crisis managing right now, so I'd basically just be on an as-needed basis. Which is fine, but… boring."

"Isn't the point supposed to be that you amass tons of clients so that you've always got something to do?"

"Yeah, why?"

"If you're trying to build a client base, you should probably, I don't know, take some clients."

"I am taking clients!" Eli snapped. "I just want to take clients who actually need me."

"Just because someone doesn't need you right this second doesn't mean you don't need them."

He stared at her open-mouthed. "That was… kind of astute."

"Thanks for the tone of surprise," she replied. Her phone buzzed. She took it out of her purse and silenced it. "Okay, court's back in ten minutes." With that, she grabbed Eli's half-full bowl of food and tossed it, along with her own, into the trash.

"HEY! Did it look like I was done with that?"

"Don't know, don't care. You're about to see a good show. See you in a few minutes. Go get a good seat." Marissa waved him off and headed down the hall. Eli turned and saw the media filing back toward the courtroom, so he took Marissa's advice and headed in.

When he was a child, Rafael used to imagine he would be an actor someday. He had a flair for the dramatic, and, although he was a nervous public speaker, he learned how to act as though he were the most confident person in the room. The more he did it, the more natural it became. At this point, he could deliver a strong closing argument without much effort at all. Over lunch, he had reviewed his notes on Buchanan's closing. Thankfully there was nothing surprising to necessitate any last-minute revisions. He was entirely too predictable sometimes. Rafael also knew he had the upper hand based on Buchanan's last-ditch effort to plead out on Friday. All of that being said, even the best actors got stage fright before a performance.

After bringing the jury back and calling court to order, the judge nodded toward Rafael. "Mr. Barba, proceed."

Rising from his seat and buttoning his jacket, he stepped from behind the table and took a deep breath. Here we go. Don't fuck it up.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "like any sexual assault case, we are asking you to decide one overarching question: whether the sex was consensual. It's my job to prove to you that it was not, beyond a reasonable doubt. But the key is just that: REASONABLE doubt. You are all reasonable people. So, given that Mr. Pollack has offered you his version of events, I want you to consider each part of that version of events. I want you to think about them carefully. And then ask yourselves, are they reasonable?

"Mr. Pollack claims that the sex was consensual. The day after the incident, Ms. Robertson went to the hospital. She had a rape kit done. This has been documented. Whether or not we have the results of the rape kit is irrelevant. The question you need to answer is, is it reasonable to believe that someone who had not been assaulted would subject herself to an invasive procedure such as that? No.

"Ms. Robertson had massive internal injuries, including tears to her cervix. She had a concussion from banging her head on the headboard. She had bruising on her neck from where he choked her. You saw evidence of these injuries in photographs and X-rays. Is it reasonable to believe that these injuries were sustained during the course of consensual sex, no matter how rough? No. Is it reasonable to believe that Ms. Robertson would have elected to have sex in the middle of a frat party, with a door that was wide open? Absolutely not."

Rafael was on a roll. His stage fright fell away, revealing the strong, fast-talking attorney underneath. He approached the jury box, leaning on it casually. Confidently.

"Now, defense counsel asked a question about our witness. Why did Joanna Briggs only recently come forward to testify? Well, she has already answered that for you. As she testified, she knew that Mr. Pollack came from a politically and socially powerful family. I'm sure you can imagine how intimidating it would be for anyone to accuse a prominent politician's son of rape, much less a nineteen year old who still has to go to school with him. Furthermore, Ms. Briggs did not know Ms. Robertson at the time of the rape. She has no connection to her, not even any mutual friends. She just happened to be at the same party. So is it reasonable to believe that she has any reason to lie about this crime? No.

"That's also why she didn't intervene. As a nineteen year old girl, intimidated by the potential backlash against her, she made a judgment call. Whether or not we agree with it does not change what she witnessed. Is it reasonable to believe that just because a witness did not attempt to stop a rape in progress, the rape did not occur? No. Mr. Buchanan also suggested that Ms. Briggs is lying under oath because of a subpoena. By that logic, every witness who testifies under subpoena - for the prosecution OR for the defense - is lying simply by virtue of having been subpoenaed. Is that reasonable? Of course not."

He realized he might have gone a bit far with his contempt for John Buchanan's implication that his office intimidated a witness. But he felt that if he didn't display at least some anger, the jury wouldn't realize how ludicrous it was. He knew it could also alienate the jury, but he was willing to run that risk. He slowly paced in front of the jury box, reminding himself to slow his words.

"Ms. Robertson has also testified under oath. She has stated that Mr. Pollack raped her on the night of November 1, 2014. That he drugged her, took her to a bedroom in the Tao Omega frat house, and proceeded to violently assault her. Ms. Briggs saw it, but, as with so many witnesses, didn't want to come forward. Ms. Robertson didn't tell anyone about the rape, other than the hospital, but did not call the police. Again, this is common. Mr. Pollack's family, fearing the consequences to their political and social standing, paid Ms. Robertson to keep quiet. And eventually, Ms. Robertson was so consumed with what had happened to her, she attempted suicide. Does Mr. Buchanan's version sound more reasonable than this?"

Eli sat up a little straighter in his seat. He had seen dozens of politicians flub speeches, self-destruct in televised interviews, and go off track in debates. But he had never seen someone under this much pressure totally obliterate his opponent's arguments in such a calm, logical, eloquent manner.

Rafael half-turned toward the defendant, pointing a finger in his direction. This was the final point he had to make, the last thing the jury would hear before they went into deliberations. Make it count, Rafael.

"Mr. Buchanan wants you to believe that the victim rolled over and asked for sex with the defendant. He wants you to believe that the witness in this case rolled over and lied under oath because of a subpoena. He wants you to believe that his client rolled over and succumbed to alleged threats of extortion - threats of which he has no proof, by the way. And now, he is asking you to roll over and ignore the reasonable answer to the only question left to be answered: was this a rape? The answer to THAT question, ladies and gentlemen, is a resounding YES."

Eli's eyes narrowed. His brain was rapid-firing. He noticed the way Rafael stood, chest out, shoulders back. It could only be described as a power stance. He talked fast, but made sense. He was logical, he was forceful, and he was clearly passionate about the whole justice thing.

"Marissa, I think-" Eli whispered. Marissa elbowed him in the ribcage. "OW!"

"Shhhh! Not now!"

Rafael walked back to his table, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat back down. Almost immediately, he started analyzing his own performance. It was a holdover habit from law school. People always said not to think about your exams after they were done, but he would sit there thinking about all the points he'd forgotten to make. Meanwhile, the judge adjourned court for the remainder of the day. The jury would be instructed and begin deliberations in the morning.

The gallery began to file out of the room, but Eli sprang from his seat and pushed through the crowd, heading directly toward Rafael. He had to find a good opening to broach this topic, starting with sucking up.

"Dad, what the hell-Dad!" Marissa called after him, but he barely heard her. "Great…"

Rafael was packing his suitcase when Eli came striding toward him.

"Well," Eli said. "That was… something." Rafael shrugged.

"Just doing my job," he said. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Oh, Marissa and I went to lunch. She wanted me to come see your argument. Said it would be a sure winner." Marissa caught up to Eli just in time to overhear him.

"DAD!" She hissed. A small smile crept onto Rafael's lips.

"My assistant thinks far too highly of me," he said, snapping his briefcase shut. "Hopefully she's not wrong. Anyway, I hate to cut this short, but I have a pile of paperwork on my desk, and I'd like to be knee-deep in scotch by 8, so if you'll forgive me…"

"I'll walk with you," Eli said, turning to Marissa. "Gotta catch a cab anyway. I'll call you later." Marissa stared at her father, open-mouthed.

They left the now-empty courtroom, and Rafael was about to head toward the front doors, but stopped when he realized there was a group of reporters still huddled in the hallway. He turned in the opposite direction, and Eli had to jump to the side to avoid a collision. Rafeal didn't seem to notice. "I hate dealing with them," Rafael said, rolling his eyes. "It's the worst part of the job."

"Don't blame you," Eli said. "The press has a unique way of getting the story they want instead of the story that's true. You know how there's a gaggle of geese? That down there is a migraine of reporters."

Rafael laughed as they rounded a corner and headed out the side exit of the courtroom. The rain had cleared, so now the humidity was picking back up. "You were in politics, after all."

Eli found the opening he was looking for. "Speaking of that, I wanted to ask you if you've ever considered running."

Rafael let out something between a laugh and a snort. When Eli didn't respond, he spun around to face him. "I'm sorry, were you serious?"

"I'm very serious," Eli said, using a corresponding "serious face."

"I cannot begin to tell you how uninterested I am in holding political office," Rafael said, looking at his watch. "I'm good at my job. I'd like to keep doing it. Which is where I'm going to leave this, because I really do have a pile of paperwork. It was nice seeing you again, Eli."

Eli had seen this before, potential candidates who had no interest in office. Alicia had been one of them, until the State's Attorney had exploited Will Gardner's death. He just had to find whatever Rafael's weakness was, the thing that would piss him off enough to want to get involved.

Eli squinted thoughtfully as he watched Rafael march down the street. "Okay, Mr. Barba," he said. "Challenge accepted."