The trial had gone on for three days. The tapes that the prosecution had procured weren't a sight for anyone who had just eaten, or indeed, anyone who wanted to eat again. Just seeing them had made Batman's face turn purple under his cowl.

The witnesses, unfortunately, were less affecting. Most of them had difficult memories of their last courtroom encounters, and they all seemed to lose their nerve when called upon to accuse their tormentors face to face. This nervousness was evident to the jury, but they interpreted it mostly as a sign of dishonesty. They seemed to believe that the Justice League's involvement with the case was good-natured, but a trifle naïve.

The judge was bored to death, much as he hated to admit that he had become jaded to the sights of torture and rape that were broadcast as part of the case. Secretly, he was thrilled that the prosecution was almost done, as he was hoping to get home for an hour of lunch.

"Will the prosecution call its final witness?" he yawned.

The attorney leading the case stood up. "Of course, your Honor, but you see, he isn't in the room at the moment."

"Well, get him then!" he snapped. He was too distracted by his irritation to notice the slight smile that flitted over the lawyer's face. To his credit, the guards' attorney spotted it. (She ought to have, after all, when one considers what she had cost them.)

"Your Honor, I wish to object to-"

"Overruled!" (At this rate, he wouldn't get home in time for dinner, let alone lunch.) "Counselor, where is your witness."

"If your Honor will wait for a second," he replied plaintively. He picked up a cell phone. "Send him in," he said, his grin now covering his face.

The court was soon distracted from this unprofessional spectacle by an oddly pervasive hum. Moments later, none other than Plastic Man materialized just inside the door. (The bailiff yelled and dropped his coffee in shock.) Ignoring the stunned faces in the crowd, Plas strode to the witness stand. The judge was so flabbergasted that it took a loud "Ahem!" from the witness for him to remember to administer the oath. Quickly recovering his professionalism, the prosecutor maneuvered his mouth into a sober line, walking up to the stand to lean on the judge's podium. He looked up at said judge pointedly.

"Oh, um, counselor, you may proceed."

He nodded and turned to face his witness. "Mr. O'Brian, what is your current occupation?"

"I work with the Justice League."

"So… you're a superhero?"

He smiled, enjoying the center stage. "Yeah, you could say that."

The attorney gestured around the expansive courtroom. "Then why, may I ask, are you here today?"

The cheerful visage darkened. "I once… did some things I'm not proud of."

"Would the witness be more specific?"

"I… used to steal for a living. Either on my own or for someone else."

"Were you ever caught?"

"Once. When I was fifteen, I was arrested as a henchman."

"Were you convicted?"

"Yes."

"Did you serve the duration of your sentence?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Iron Heights Penitentiary." Even though everyone in the room had seen it coming, the response was enough to elicit a gasp.

"I see. What was it like for you there?"

He looked down at his hands; they were beginning to shake. "It was hell."

Batman stared attentively at the stand. He was prepared to dash in and bodily drag Plas from the courtroom if necessary.

"Would you please clarify that?"

"I was… beaten. When they… realized that I could survive… other things without - without showing it, they c-cut me. Y'know," he added with a nervous laugh. "I can be ripped into little pieces this big." He pinched two fingers together. "It hurts, just as much as it would for a normal person, but it can't kill me, y'see. It doesn't even leave marks. It's just… the pain. That's all it is." He laughed again, and even the most unobservant there could hear the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. Batman tensed, not sure whether to be enraged or concerned.

The testimony went on for what felt like hours. Plastic Man enumerated beatings, rapes, tortures beyond what even the most imaginative could picture. He described in minute detail the vicious guards, the thoughtless prison doctors, and the ignorant or politically motivated administrators that had all, in a way, been responsible for his condition. He continually shrank, smaller and smaller, until the shaking figure whispering what had happened could scarce be recognized as a member of the Justice League.

Finally, he finished. Even the defense attorney was eyeing his clients in a distinctly unfriendly manner. For his part, the prosecutor looked nothing if not uncomfortable. O'Brian's entire body was shaking, and he was crying silently into his hand. After roughly two minutes of strained silence, the lawyer stepped forward.

"Mr. O'Brian?"

The witness looked up, goggles bent into a depressed (not to mention impossible) position. "Yes?" he asked quietly.

"I just have one more question for you, and then we'll call a recess." There was no trace of doubt in his voice: the judge would allow it, or be publicly lynched. Seeing his witness nod faintly, he continued in a soft, gentle tone.

"How old did you say you were again?"

"Fifteen."

At this, the advocate turned to face the judge and marshaled his face into professional indifference. "No further questions. May I request a brief recess?"

The judge nodded wordlessly.

At this, there was suddenly a commotion in the first row of court seats. One of the prison guards present lunged forward, screaming incoherently. Batman leaped up to restrain him as he forced his way to the witness stand where O'Brian sat, motionless with stark terror.

"You freak!" he spat. "You got everything you deserved! Just wait, before you know it someone will catch you doing something. It doesn't matter what. Your kind always returns to type! And when you are caught, you'll go back, and whether I'm there or not, someone will be there to make sure you pay! Iron Heights takes care of its own!" He was dragged back by the bailiff, still raving. Batman, meanwhile, had run up to his friend, who was now a sickly pale color. He turned to the judge, expression unreadable. The man nodded, no longer thinking of his relaxing lunch hour. He stood, revealing the power behind his glazed expression and the reason he had been granted a judgeship.

"Would the counselor like to cross examine?" he asked, his tone implying that he dared the defense to reply. The attorney shook her head mutely.

"In that case, the witness may stand down." He had addressed himself directly to O'Brian, who took Batman's proffered arm and stumbled to a seat. The multitude would have stared at him for the entire twenty-foot walk, but the judge began to speak again, and the command in his voice was unmistakable.

"There will be no need for the jury to retire. In light of today's overwhelming evidence, including the words of one of the defendants, I may say, without fear of contradiction, that they are guilty as charged." He now turned to the court stenographer. "Furthermore, I wish to formally voice concerns with the current administration and administrative methods of Iron Heights Penitentiary, and demand that until such time as a formal inquest may be conducted, and a full investigation made into their questionable practices, the prison be shut down and its inmates placed in other correctional institutions.

Lastly, I charge that, as the government desires to concern itself with the pursuit of justice, and is held to the highest of standards in the manner that it treats its prisoners, there be a formal request made for funding to establish a non-profit psychiatric institution for the purpose of distributing professional help to those who suffered as a result of political interest and criminal negligence.

Court is adjourned!"

It took the bailiff, who had just finished struggling with the guard, a few moments to collect himself. When he did, he quickly gave the order to rise for the judge, and the courtroom's occupants quickly dispersed.

Batman took out his JLA communicator. "Two to Watchtower," he said tersely. The air hummed again, and they were gone.