There was a pause after Steve finally finished. It had taken longer, and been far harder, than he had expected. The knowledge that he was probably going to have to tell it again in court, at least once, possibly more, was not exactly pleasant. Harbrook looked a little ashen himself, although not quite as pale as his client. Wordlessly, he took the tumbler from Steve's unresisting hand, refilled it, made sure the straw was in properly, and replaced it in that same hand, waiting patiently while the other man gulped the cool water down. "Better?"
Steve nodded. "I suppose I need to work on getting through all that a little less incoherently."
Harbrook gave him that sympathetic look again. "Depends. At the risk of sounding like I want you to milk it, do you think you could?"
Steve grimaced. "Good question." He was silent for a while. "I wouldn't want to bet money on it," he concluded finally.
Harbrook exhaled mightily. "Well, then. At least it will work for claiming extenuating circumstances where Morgan's concerned."
There was a glaring omission in the statement, and Steve's temper, already highly sensitive to that particular issue, started to rise. "Listen, Harbrook, you'd better understand something right now. I'm only going to say it once. I did not lay a hand on Rachel Pauling."
He would have said more, but Harbrook held up a peremptory hand. "No, Steve, you need to understand. I'm not one of the people you have to convince. The circumstantial evidence is nasty, and we're going to need a very precise approach to deal with it. And I would appreciate it if you would call me Dave instead of growling my last name like a dyspeptic senior partner."
Steve stared at him, not sure whether to shake his hand or toss his butt out, as the entirety of the lawyer's short tirade sank in. He started to smile slowly. "I take it that means you believe me. Dave."
"Now that that's settled," the lawyer said drily, "let me explain what you're up against. As I said earlier, Judge Wharton has a reputation as a fair, if hard-nosed, jurist. However, she's not going to ignore normal bail request guidelines without a damned good reason, and a blue-eyed, innocent look and boyish grin aren't going to cut it. The D.A. is a hot dog and a grandstander, so you're looking at a potential double whammy. Then there are these."
He took several sheets of photograph laser color copies out of an envelope and laid them on the table arm across the bed. Steve's initially puzzled expression altered abruptly to one of shock as he recognized Rachel's face, or what he could see of it. The pictures apparently had been taken before she had been removed from his prior accommodations. His breath hissed out sharply as he absorbed the extent of the injuries, feeling the ever-present incipient nausea rear its ugly head. Unable to bear the sight any more, he closed his eyes. "Dave," he said raggedly, "please get those out of here."
He waited until he heard the sound of them being slid safely back into the envelope before he reopened his eyes. His breathing wasn't quite back to normal.
"If it's any comfort," Dave observed dispassionately, "they think the first blow put her out, and she was probably unconscious for the rest."
Steve apparently had found something absolutely fascinating on the opposite wall and was concentrating on it fiercely. "No, it's not," he said quietly.
Dave waited, giving him time to compose himself, then advised, "There's something else I need to ask you, and I need you to give me a straight answer. You touched on the subject before, but it's more relevant than you think."
Steve's remote gaze slid from the wall to his attorney's face. "Yes. I am."
Dave blinked. "What?"
Steve had returned to his contemplation of the wall. "You were going to ask if I'm a drug addict," he said in a disconcertingly calm voice. "The answer is yes. I'm addicted to methadone."
The lawyer's eyes involuntarily focused on the IV and hurriedly snapped away from it again. Steve noticed the movement; his own expression was not easily identifiable. It might have been classified as a wry smile if it had gotten anywhere near his eyes. "I'm not getting any right now. There's a shunt up there on the drip. Dad's been regulating the dosage. I'd like to start lengthening the intervals between doses, but he's been concerned about my shoulder lately." He smiled a slightly healthier smile. "You'd know if I was taking it. Can't put more than a few words together."
Dave rubbed his nose. "That may provide us with a possible solution." He rose. "I need to get your father in here so we can bounce it off of him."
Mark was only too relieved to be found. His attempted heart-to-heart with Randy had been highly unsatisfactory. Despite her obvious distress, she had flatly refused to respond to his gentle probing, and he knew no more than she had told him earlier, other than that there was an obvious strain in her relationship with his son. That said, he wasn't sure he was particularly comfortable discussing Steve's addiction with someone who technically was still an outsider, even if that person was his son's defense attorney. His uneasiness soon communicated itself to both of the other men; Steve found himself feeling profoundly grateful for his father's affections yet again, while Dave succeeded in obtaining a very clear idea of the strength of their bond.
After Mark had answered his questions about treatment of such conditions in general, Dave put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, Mark, tell me this. If you were allowed to put Steve into treatment right away, say tomorrow, what would it entail -- dosages, length of time, conditions for behavior, that sort of thing?"
Mark gave him a quizzical look. "Am I right in guessing you're going to propose something like that as an alternative to jail without bond?" he asked shrewdly.
Steve broke into genuine laughter at Dave's look of consternation. "You're busted, Dave! Don't ask me how he does it; he just does it." He smiled affectionately at his father. "To everyone. All the time. Perfect record." And, in unison with his father, chanting what was obviously a well-established mantra, "Annoying as hell." Father and son both laughed, enjoying the family joke.
No wonder she fell in love with him, Dave mused, watching them. She had always been a sucker for a big, honest smile. With dimples yet. When Sloan smiled, really smiled, the bitter chill which otherwise lived in his eyes disappeared. He shook his head. Poor Randy. He came back from his odd train of thought on the receiving end of identical looks of inquiry. "Are you two comedians done?" he asked lightly. "Okay. Give me details, Mark."
Mark pondered. "Community General has two substance abuse treatment units. One essentially is a lock down facility. Coincidentally, the coordinators of each unit report to me."
Now Steve was the recipient of that long, calm stare. He tried not to squirm, feeling as he always did that his father could see right into his brain.
Mark tugged at his mustache. "At least one month, preferably two, due to the fact that we have to assess any possible complications due to the phencyclidine Steve was given. He reports to his counselor, the unit director, and to me, and Community General is his home away from home for the duration. Any outside visits must be approved and can only be made with an escort and a tracking bracelet." His disapproving glance fell on the handcuffs. "I hope that would be sufficient. I really don't sanction using this type of thing."
Dave reflected momentarily. "I think I can work with that." He rose. "Thanks, Mark. We may just have a shot at it." They shook hands.
A cold voice spoke from the vicinity of the bed. "Excuse me. Do I get a say in this, or are the two of you going to decide the rest of my future for me too?"
Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Dave stopped him. He didn't look quite so calm now. "Damn straight, Steve. For now, get used to it. It beats being given orders by a prison guard."
Steve's head snapped back as if he had been struck. His eyes blazed hoarfrost. "That's it, Harbrook. You're fired."
Dave gave him a contemptuous look. "No such luck, Sloan. I'm being paid by your wife." He pulled out a card case, extricated a card, and flipped it casually onto the bed. "I'll see you at the courthouse tomorrow at 2:30. If you elect to think with your brain as opposed to a certain other part of your anatomy, my cell phone number's on my card." He turned to leave.
"Dammit, wait --"
Dave turned back, waiting, savvy enough to keep his mouth shut. The burden was squarely on Steve's head, and he knew it. "Look, Dave," he finally said, "I apologize. I was out of line." Try as he might, he couldn't suppress the bitterness in his tone, but Harbrook was willing to skate him on it. His father, however, was not.
"Steve," Mark said with a touch of asperity, "We understand your hostility. But your attorney is not an appropriate target."
Steve grimaced. "I said I was sorry," he grumbled. "I would just appreciate it if the two of you would at least let me pretend I have some tiny degree of control over my life."
His lawyer shook his head. "Steve, I'm not trying to make this harder for you. But you'll manage a lot better if you don't try to think that way. You're just going to have to resign yourself to doing what I tell you with no arguments." He leaned forward slightly, as if to emphasize his point. "I can't promise absolutely that I will keep you out of jail. But I can guarandamntee you that you'll end up there if you don't trust me to keep you out."
He knew Dave was right, but he didn't have to like it. His father's expression, however, clearly said not to look in that direction if he was going to be uncooperative. He sighed. "All right. I guess I have to trust you. What do you want me to do?"
Dave relaxed. Sloan was convinced, now he could let up on him a little. "Get better." His client gave him a disbelieving look. "Really. I need to draft some pleadings and the conditional release proposal. You need to take it easy." He glanced at Mark. "I understand your other witnesses are on their way up --"
"Other witnesses?" Steve exclaimed, wondering just what of circus his hearing was going to become.
"Jesse and Amanda," his father amplified.
"What for?" He was feeling squeamish enough about the upcoming proceedings as it was.
"I think it would be best if Jesse supervises you in the program. That way they can't object that my involvement is too personal and not objective."
"Oh, like my best friend wouldn't be?" Steve asked pointedly.
His father frowned at him. "Quiet, Steve," he admonished. "You're not in charge here, remember? Anyway, Jesse will be able to testify concerning the details of the program, and --"
"And Amanda?" Steve inquired, trying not to sound too sarcastic.
"Actually," his father replied calmly, "Amanda was kind enough to go to the beach house and bring us some clothes." His son gave him a startled look. "I wasn't expecting a lengthy stay, and I would think you'd rather not appear in court wearing a hospital gown."
Steve looked at his attire ruefully. "Got a point, Dad. Okay, the three-ring circus can stay. But --" his smile was short-lived as he suddenly became very interested in something on the blanket.
Sensing that this was going to develop into one of those father-son moments which discouraged outside participation, Dave quickly made his goodbyes and left.
Mark turned his attention back to his son. "What's the matter, Steve?"
Steve was still concentrating on the intriguing distraction, whatever it was, on the blanket. "Dad -- I really don't know how to say this."
His father sat down and tried to look encouraging. "Try me," he said obligingly.
There was a silence. Steve got bored with his diversion and mashed at it with his finger, noticing idly that either his arm was starting to feel better, or there was some really good stuff in the IV, because he could move it without nearly as much discomfort now. He started doodling circles on the blanket.
"Steve?" Mark prompted.
He took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. "Dad -- you know I love Jesse like a brother, and I adore Amanda."
"But?" Mark asked, starting to get a glimmer of where this was heading.
"But -- I can't -- I can only take so much sympathy, Dad," he said in a rush.
Mark gave him one of those infamous fatherly measuring looks. "That why you've been so ugly?"
Steve had the grace to look ashamed. "Yeah -- well, partly. Probably. And -- I don't particularly like the person I become then. But, Dad --" he stopped, doodling forgotten, hands clenching and unclenching with the strain.
Mark took pity on him. Plenty of time to address the ugliness issue. "You don't want to keep remembering, revisiting it, do you?"
How the hell did his father manage to do that? Steve wondered, not for the first time in his life, and probably not for the last. "Not any more than I can avoid it, no."
His father scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Steve -- I realize it's going to take time, but they're family."
Steve was wearing the deliberately shuttered look again. Mark was sorely tempted to shake him. "Okay, son. I wasn't planning to get into this now, but, while we're on the subject of less than desirable behavior, we may as well address it also."
His son continued to study the wall intently.
"Would you mind explaining your animosity towards Dave Harbrook?"
Steve turned his head and stared blankly at his father. "I said I was sorry."
"That's not what I meant," Mark snapped. "You've had a problem with him from the start, which has escalated as you went along. Why?"
"I didn't appreciate being left out of the loop, okay?"
His father stared at his obstreperous offspring. "I thought you got past that."
Steve shrugged, saying nothing. His father's stare became a disapproving frown. "Steve, if you have doubts about his ability to represent you --"
Steve shook his head. "No, Dad, nothing like that. I think he can defend me just fine."
"Then, my eldest and most annoying child," Mark said with exasperation, "would you mind sharing your concerns, whatever they may be?"
Steve was starting to redevelop a keen interest in the wall. "Didn't Randy say anything to you?" It was Mark's turn to stare blankly. "I thought she would give you all the gory details when you two disappeared."
Oops. His father had just acquired that "and another thing" look. Why couldn't he learn to keep his mouth shut? "That reminds me," Mark said, true to form.
Steve closed his eyes in resignation. "No."
Mark broke off in mid-inhalation. "What did you say?" he asked, fixing his son with a narrow stare.
Steve's nerves had tolerated about as much strain as possible for one day. "No, we're not married after all; no, I don't think she really wants to be, to me at any rate; no, I don't know how I feel about it; no, his qualifications notwithstanding, I don't like being indebted to the man who was once engaged to the woman I thought was my wife for anything, much less my freedom; and no, I really don't want to talk about it or anything to do with the last three months any more today." Throughout his speech, his face remained calm, his voice quiet, dispassionate even; only the whiteness of the skin stretched over the taut knuckles betrayed him.
His father noted the clenched fists, so at odds with the deliberately indifferent expression and careful wording. "You know, Steve," he remarked mildly, "you don't have to agree to go for treatment under these circumstances."
What the hell was his father talking about? Steve shook his head. "No, Dad, you don't understand. That I do want -- it's just that --" His hands opened, helpless, and he couldn't hide the wince of pain as his arm and shoulder let him know the medication was starting to wear off.
"Still bothering you, I would imagine," his father stated. "I think you'd best get some rest. You've got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow." He stood up and put his hand on his son's. "Listen to me, son. I hope I won't need to say this more than once to convince you. You have my complete, utter support, as well as Amanda, Jesse and Randy's, for whatever course you choose to resolve your addiction, short of encouraging or ignoring it. We will do everything and anything to assist Dave with this legal monstrosity. And I will give you a sympathetic ear and whatever words of wisdom I can summon to help you deal with any of the psychological and emotional repercussions from this entire affair. I think I can safely speak for the others as far as that goes too."
Steve started to speak, but his father pressed his hand gently, albeit firmly. "Hold on, son. I'm not finished. It's vital for you to understand what needs to be said." The concern in his eyes softened the words. "None of us can truly, totally understand the pain you have to resolve. We can only help you to the best of our abilities. If you need professional help, I'll refer you. But you need to remember that you are not living in an emotional vacuum, and that, much as you may want to avoid the sympathetic efforts of your family and friends, you really do need the security of our love and support to help repair the damage to your own emotional well-being. And," he added, "you may not think so today, but that really is a lot easier than trying to do it alone. I should know -- I tried that when your mother died. If I'd been thinking straight, I would have let you and Carol in, let us help each other through it, but I didn't, and I ended up hurting both of you." He stopped at Steve's stricken look, and waited, wondering if he had tried to push his injured son too hard.
Steve sagged back against the pillows, eyes closed, face muscles tight, saying nothing. Finally, he drew in a ragged breath. "Dad -- I'm -- I'm sorry. I really don't know what to say."
His father spoke up hastily. "It's all right, son--"
"No," Steve interrupted, in that same oddly distant tone as before, "it's not. You're absolutely right. I had no right to behave the way I did." The quiet voice had acquired a slight tremor. "But I don't know how -- Dad, there's something I have to tell you and maybe then it will make sense -- but I'm --" His studied calm was disintegrating rapidly.
"Steve," Mark interposed, "You've had enough for one day. This can wait until later."
"No, Dad, it can't. I -- just don't know how to tell you --"
Mark sat down again, hoping Steve hadn't noticed his weariness, keeping his hand on his son's. "Start wherever you need to. If it's disjointed, we'll figure it out."
Steve looked at him doubtfully. "Okay, Dad, I'll try." Slowly, hesitantly at first, then building up speed as the pain and misery of those last days at Morgan's clinic came rushing back, he awkwardly related to the man he had loved and respected his entire life how the repeated, consistent brutality had eaten away at him, bored through his sense of self and self-control until it had released an inner demon he had never expected to discover. "I thought I had beaten it, Dad. Forced it to-- to give me the strength to fight back, but I thought I had kept it from gaining the upper hand." There was a suspicious brightness in his eyes. "But I didn't. That was all that kept me going, especially after Rachel --"
"After Rachel what?" Mark asked, after too long a pause.
"After Rachel didn't come back," Steve said with difficulty. "Morgan took her away from me -- and I couldn't, I couldn't fight the drugs any more -- so I let the ice out, I didn't have any reason to stop it. So I let it out -- and now I can't make it go back, it's there in the back of my head all the time now. I feel like part of me is permanently frozen and I'll never be able to get warm again." His arm and shoulder were hurting like blazes now, but he would have passed out before admitting it; with some difficulty, he pulled his hand away from his father's and covered his eyes so he wouldn't have to look his father in the face. "And -- instead of accepting their love and concern, I keep trying to inflict that chill on the people I care about most -- oh, God, Dad, I'm so sorry, it's not exactly like you don't have enough to worry about right now --"
Heartsick, Mark leaned over and put his arms around his son as best as he could, given bandages, IVs and handcuffs, and hugged him hard. "It's going to be all right, son. I promise. We'll get you through this." And waited, his own eyes damp, as his son finally released the strangle hold he had been trying to keep on his emotions since his rescue and wept, choking, difficult tears, until he had no more energy to devote to them, finally lapsing into sleep, utterly exhausted. His father remained in his awkward position for a while, disconcertedly reminded of the small boy the man in his arms had once been, and stroked his son's hair. Strangely enough, he felt reassured by the episode. It was going to be a long, difficult path, but now he was sure his son would survive the journey.
