A/N: The Visual Guide to Halls of Stone and Iron is up! (Pics of various things that we'll be talking about.) See my profile for the link.

"There is no client as scary as an innocent man."
Michael Connelly


At 4:00 am, the lights clicked on, rousing Enos from his uneasy slumber, and waking him to the pain shooting through his muscles from lying on the hard, metal bunk. He sat up and rubbed at his lower back, trying to determine what would happen next. Roll call or something like it probably, then breakfast. His cell-mate peered expectantly out the small window of the cell door and down into the common area below. His actions - the tenseness and anxiety in his posture, reminded Enos of a raccoon in a trap - pacing back and forth, waiting for the cage door to be opened.

Within a short time, the door slid to the side, and a call echoed through the cell-block to line up for morning count. Enos, unsure of the procedure and not wanting to stand out at anyone, mimicked the actions of the other man, exiting the cell to stand beside it while the guards took roll call. It was the first time Enos had witnessed the full capacity of the block - there had to be well over 200 inmates housed just in his section of the South Tower, or South Zone, alone. He surveyed their faces, noting ones that looked like they'd personally bite someone's arm off if looked at the wrong way. The order was then given to move, and everyone turned, making their way down the metal staircases at each end of the second level to be joined by those on the lower level in line for breakfast.

The common area was roughly the size of a basketball court, filled with oddly shaped hexagonal tables of gleaming steel with attached circular seats. A strange smell emanated from the front, reminding Enos of burning tires. He lined up behind the others, his appetite diminishing the closer he got to the actual food. Enos took his tray and sat down quietly at the end of the first table, willing himself to be as inconspicuous as he could. He poked at the gray, lumpy solid in the center, presumably meant to be oatmeal, and then opted instead for one of the cold, red potatoes on the other side of the tray. He forced himself to chew and swallow the slimy lump, remembering the creamed, chipped beef that Mr. Hogg had once bought cheap off a traveling salesman to serve as jail fodder. He pushed the tray back from him and rested his face in his hands, his elbows propped up on the table.

The other seats at the table filled quickly and soft murmurs of conversation floated around him, but he didn't look up.

"Hey fish!" a deep, gravely voice down the table from him called. "Hey, you prayin' for your momma? She ain't here."

Raucous laughter broke out as Enos looked up at the man. "Yeah, I'm talking to you, fishy! Say what's you in for?"

"I'll bet he did his wife," said another man. "Them swells like him 're always catching them in bed with the paperboy and then - BOOM!"

Enos pulled his tray back towards him and stabbed at the oatmeal with his plastic spoon. "I don't want any trouble," he said, quietly, looking down.

"Yeah, well you're in Fulton, boy," said the first man. " - you ain't gotta go looking for it, it just finds ya'!" He turned to the man beside him. "I'm betting on he knocked off his girlfriend. He ain't got no ring on his finger."

The men around him fell silent as a guard walked slowly over towards them.

"No talking!" she shouted at them, before coming to a stop behind Enos. "Strate! Get up, time to go!"

He turned around, confused. "Go where, ma'am?"

She leaned over, closer to him, her expression hard and impassive. "Did I ask you to talk?" she screamed, a hysterical edge to her voice. "If I ask you to talk, then you can talk. Now move your ass!"

Enos stood up with his tray, unsure of where he was supposed to go or what to do. He jumped back as the tray exploded from his hands with a slam of her nightstick, falling with a loud clatter against the table and spraying oatmeal out across it's metal surface. He stood, hands still outstretched in front of him, staring at the mess. "

You got anything else to say to me?" She yelled.

Not daring to even say "no", Enos shook his head.

Half and hour later, he shuffled through the granite foyer of the Fulton County Courthouse in shackles, escorted by two Sheriff's Deputies. The sounds of the officer's footsteps, and the chains around his wrists and ankles echoed off the stone walls like a ghostly armada tromping it's way through some vast, underwater cavern."...swish-rattle-stomp...swish-rattle-stomp..."

He was led through a doorway simply marked "Room 103" and into a crowded waiting area filled with wooden, church-like pews, ringed with over half a dozen more police officers, where he was told to sit and wait for his name to be called. Enos' eyes were drawn to the officers, with their crisp, clean shirts, shiny badges, and polished firearms. He missed the comforting feel of his own uniform.

I shouldn't be here, he thought. I should be going through the morning's list of arrest warrants and fugitives, getting a cup of coffee for Rosco, and listening to Mr. Hogg count the county's money.

He'd never felt so far away from home - so out of his element. Even in Los Angeles, he'd been able to fill his time with his job, taking on extra hours when the pain of homesickness began to impinge. He'd had good friends there as well, at the Metro Squad. He sighed, wondering what Turk would say to see him now.

He was still reminiscing over LA when a young man, perhaps in his late twenties but not much older, sat down beside him.

"Mr. Strate? I'm Gary Hunsaker," he said, by way of introduction. "I'll be your Public Defender in your case. Unless you've been able to hire a private lawyer?"

"No sir," said Enos, brightening considerably. " I'm mighty obliged to you for taking my case."

The young man grinned. "Well, before you get too excited, I was assigned to you, but I'll do the best I can to see that you get a fair trial."

"Trial?" Enos had been hoping for this to be over and resolved in a couple days at the latest. "That's plum crazy. They can't hold me here without proof that I've done something."

Gary looked him over with a measuring glance. "You don't get it, do you? They've got you up on Capital Murder charges, Mr. Strate." He paused, but Enos' face still drew a blank. "The state's gonna ask for the death penalty for you, for Chris-sakes, and if they didn't have a case, you wouldn't be here getting arraigned!"

Enos stared at the man for a moment, the horrible truth of the matter finally sinking in: They really, honest to God, think I've killed someone!

The sounds of mindless chatter in the room suddenly seemed deafening, the lights too bright and blinding, He tried to brush away the cold sweat that beaded on his forehead, but his wrists were shackled to his sides. His chest felt heavy, like an invisible weight had settled on top of him, stealing his breath away as the room began to tilt oddly. He was fairly sure he needed to throw up.

"Hey, you aren't gonna faint on me, are you?" Gary shook his shoulder. "Hey, buddy...breathe."

Enos took a deep breath and held it, shutting his eyes against the nausea and the spinning room when the door of the waiting area opened and someone announced "People vs. Benjamin Enos Strate". Why did they have to keep calling him Benjamin? He hated that name. No one had ever called him that, not even his mother. Formality - that was all it was. Just a name so that he could string three of them together.

Gary shook him again. "You're up, Mr. Strate, pull yourself together."

Somehow he got to his feet and followed the officer through the door into a small courtroom where he was motioned to take a seat behind the closest of two small tables in the room, the other being reserved for two men in stuffy, expensive suits. The judge watched patiently from a raised podium as he entered.

"Docket number 30176, the Honorable Judge Paul Dempsey presiding," the bailiff called out. "People vs. Benjamin Enos Strate, charged with murder and obstruction of justice."

The judge peered down at him. "Mr. Strate, as to the charges pending against you, how do you plead?"

Enos looked around, but all eyes were on him. He turned back to the judge, "Not guilty, your honor."

The judge, unsurprised, continued on. "Mr. Hunsaker, have you had the opportunity to inform Mr. Strate of the charges against him?"

"Briefly, your honor."

"Will the state please present it's evidence for the aforementioned charges at this time?"

"Yes your Honor," said one of the men behind the second table. He stood and cleared his throat. "On the night of March 25, 1983, Deputy Strate was patrolling an area of rural Hazzard County when he spotted the victim, Darcy Kincaid, in his 1978 Dodge Dart. Deputy Strate stopped the victim at an area known as Hickory Ridge where he bludgeoned the victim after which he proceeded to run over Mr. Kincaid with his police cruiser multiple times, resulting in the imminent death of the victim. He then disposed of the body in the ravine and sank the car in the lake at the base of the canyon."

To Enos, it was like hearing something out of a horror movie. They thought he did that? His life - everything and everyone that he loved, flashed before his eyes. If he couldn't convince them that they were wrong, they would take it all away! It would all be gone, just a distant memory, and the little stone cage in the Fulton County Penitentiary would be his home for the rest of his life.

He jumped to his feet as Gary tried to pull him back down. "That ain't true, your Honor!" he burst out, "That's a ding-dang lie!"Two officers seized his arms to sit him back down, but he shook them off. "I ain't done none a' what he said!"

His feet were knocked out from under him, and he went down, gasping for breath against the red pile carpet of the courtroom floor. More officers seemed to appear from nowhere, holding him down, their hands grasping his clothes, pressing him hard against the floor.


Friday dawned like any other hot and humid day at the end of July in Hazzard - but that was the extent to which it was normal. The CB radio, which was never turned off, was silent now; Luke having tired of hearing nothing but gossip even before the sun rose.

Daisy moved through her chores on auto-pilot, her mind on more distressing things than laundry and dishes. She felt helpless, and it wasn't a feeling to which she was accustomed. Around Hazzard County, the Dukes were known for getting to the bottom of things. It was a fact that she had taken for granted, and probably Enos had as well, since Rosco said that he'd asked him to talk to Uncle Jesse on his behalf. She looked up at the clock, which read 10:45 am, and felt keenly that she should be anywhere but standing in the kitchen at that particular moment.

With a last swipe at the counter, she stretched her wash rag over the edge of the sink and took off her apron. Scribbling a hasty note to Uncle Jesse and the boys, who were out cutting down a rotten tree over on the north 40, she grabbed her keys and headed out the door.


After the arraignment, Enos had sat down with his lawyer, who wasn't thrilled with his client's poor court manners, and told him what had really happened between himself and Darcy that night. He had a sinking feeling that the guy hadn't believed half of what he'd said, though he'd promised to see about contacting the girl whose license number Enos had written down in his notepad for that night.

The growling of his stomach only served to dampen his spirits further. He'd missed lunch and the jail was in lock-down now, presumably until supper. Enos, who had a hard time just staying inside his apartment on his days off and had a slight problem with enclosed spaces, was already beginning to feel the edges of his sanity getting a bit fuzzy - and it had only been two hours since they'd stuck him back in here. He'd spent half an hour counting the bricks in the room, but had lost track and given up, and now he sat on his bunk, staring at the wall which was nearly close enough for him to reach out and touch. The door made everything worse, solid steel painted a dark navy color with only the small rectangular window in the top. If it had been bars, there would have at least been something to look at, but as it was he was totally enclosed in the tiny space with a person who hadn't said a word to him and seemed to spend large stretches of time sleeping.

There was only so much one could occupy themselves with in a metal rat-hole, he decided, as he hopped up from his bunk and walked the length of the cell. To the door, turn around, and back to the end where a lidless toilet and a stainless steel sink sat bolted into the wall. He lost track of how many times he walked the short length of about 14 feet, feeling like a damned rat in a cage. He felt a sudden pity for all those fireflies he'd caught and put in jars when he was a kid. They would always be dead the next morning. He sat down again, staring at the wall, his fingers worrying with the fabric of his shirt, his body rocking slightly back and forth with internal frustration.

The thought began small, a idea his conscious mind fought to ignore. "What if... What if this is it?" it whispered, "What if this is all that's left? ...What if this is forever?"

He jumped up and ran to the door, banging his fists uselessly against the cold steel. "I didn't kill nobody, ding-dang it!" he shouted through the window, his words muted by the thick plexiglas. "I DIDN'T KILL NOBODY!"

The dry heaves caught him by surprise, and the taste of bile filled his mouth before he could run the other end of the room and spit into the toilet.

"Don't worry," his cell-mate muttered, as Enos wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "You'll get used to it in a couple weeks."