Chapter 9

House settled himself into the hard wooden chair, cane between his knees. He was the last defense witness, set to testify on his own behalf. He had been drilled by Schiff, so he thought he could contain his guilt for what he had done to Cuddy, his lack of guilt or shame for his escape with Wilson, and his worry about being incarcerated and kept away from his family.

He had stared at himself in the mirror that morning, before Cuddy fussed with his tie. The gray suit and blue striped tie brought out the gray in his hair. He was struck by how much he had aged since running away with Wilson. When he was out with his children, he would look like their grandfather, if he avoided a lengthy prison sentence and had time with to be with his children and Cuddy. He had shaved and was not sure if his bare face made him look younger or older. It did make him look more vulnerable.

Schiff moved into House's line of sight and brought him out of his reverie.

The audience in the courtroom stirred in anticipation. This was the testimony all had waited for. House clasped the head of his cane. He glanced up to Cuddy and she nodded encouragement. Wilson stared at him intently. Finally, he looked to Schiff as he had been instructed.

"Doctor House," the defense attorney began. "The crux of the matter before us today is your presence in the burning warehouse with your patient, now known to be deceased. What were you doing there?"

House steadied himself. They had rehearsed his testimony. He was no stranger to public speaking, but the stakes were very high. "My patient was a heroin addict. In part, I had gone to check on him. I was concerned when I realized that the address he had given was an abandoned building."

"In part?"

House winced. His attorney had insisted that he had to be straightforward about that night. He looked down, unwilling to watch Cuddy while he admitted, "I was facing a personal crisis. I thought I might persuade my patient to share some of his stash."

"Heroin?" Schiff asked, voice sympathetic.

"Yes."

"Please describe this crisis, Doctor House."

House took a deep breath. Wilson's treatment and positive prognosis helped to alleviate some of the frantic worry he felt, but it didn't erase the memory. "Due to a prank gone wrong, I was required to report to prison the next day, to serve the entire remaining six months of my sentence. James Wilson's untreated cancer was likely to kill him in five months." House worried the top of his cane. His voice dropped so it was barely audible beyond the first row, the agony in it palpable. "He was, is my best friend. He would have been gone before I got out." House felt as out of breath as if he had been running. His pulse was pounding in his ears.

Schiff's calm voice brought him back to the hearing. "Doctor House, was the warehouse burning when you got there?"

"It was not."

"Did you find your patient?"

"Yes."

"Was he alive at the time?"

"No, he was not."

"How did you verify that?"

"There was no pulse or respiration. Pupils were fixed. The body was cold, and rigor mortis was beginning to set in."

"Did you attempt to revive him?"

"I tried chest compressions, standard CPR, but as I said, the body was cold and rigor was setting in. The condition of the body suggested that he had been dead for at least three hours. In addition, a syringe was still stuck in his arm below a tourniquet."

"Were you able to determine the contents of the syringe?"

"A bag of white powder lay on the floor next to the body. I tasted it and determined that it was probably heroin."

"So you went to report the death?"

"No, I pulled the syringe out of his arm, emptied it, and prepared another dose." The audible gasp around the courtroom did not surprise House. His quiet, steady report of that evening appalled him, too. "I made a tourniquet with my belt and injected myself." This time, Wilson's gasp startled him. He looked up and met Wilson's eyes.

"A used needle from a known addict, Doctor House? That seems very reckless."

"There was a cigarette lighter on the floor by the body. I lit it and ran the needle through it, but yes, it was reckless."

"Why did you do something so reckless, so out of character, Doctor House?"

House sat back and looked away from everyone he loved in the courtroom, who sat staring at him with horror. "Wilson was going to die. I couldn't be with him. If the drug was tainted, if it killed me, well, that didn't seem all that bad just then. In retrospect, I can't believe I did it."

"The Fire Department testimony indicated that the fire did not begin on the second floor. Could the lighter have started the fire?"

"No. It was a standard, metal lighter. The flame was snuffed out when I flipped the lid closed. I heard some voices downstairs and toward the back of the building. There were used syringes and drug apparatus scattered all over. I thought it likely that other addicts used the place. I was concerned that they would come and take the heroin away from me. I was rushing to get that fix, that dose, before they found me. As I said, I wasn't doing well, certainly not thinking straight. "

"So you didn't plan to kill yourself?"

"No. I just didn't care if I lived." House looked up and realized Cuddy was weeping. Ignoring the attorney and court procedure, he said to her, "Lisa, I'm sorry."

Schiff let that reverberate around the courtroom for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Doctor House, then what did you do?"

"I must have passed out. I found myself lying on the floor by my patient. There was smoke, making it hard to breathe. I could see fire flickering from somewhere on the first floor. The floor I was lying on was warm."

"So you looked for a way to escape the burning building?"

House locked eyes with Cuddy again, then Wilson. He felt as if he were exposed naked in front of everyone. Still almost whispering, he admitted, "No. I thought if I stayed there, I wouldn't have to go to prison, and I wouldn't have to be there when Wilson died."

"Yet, we are here with you today, Doctor House. How did that happen?"

House clutched the head of his cane, eyes locked on the floor by his shoes. "Doctor House," Schiff called him again. "Obviously, this is a difficult thing to remember and talk about today. Are you able to continue?"

Again, House looked at Cuddy. Her eyes were glistening, but she smiled encouragement. "Let's get it over with," he growled.

"Did you decide to try to escape the fire, Doctor House?"

"Not at first. I was still high, I think. Anyway, I had a series of hallucinations, people I cared about, some living, some dead, who told me to get up off the floor, to leave, to try to live, or to just let it go and find some peace. I had to decide. Some of the choice was made for me when the floor beneath me collapsed and I landed on the concrete on the first floor." He closed his eyes, remembering the fire all around, the flames getting closer. With eyes still closed, he said, "There was a window, I think at the front of the building. It looked like I might be able to get out there. I had gotten banged up when I fell, but I climbed to my feet and staggered toward it. My cane was left behind. When I got to the window, I saw Wilson, and I tried to find something to break the glass. Then a burning beam fell. I jumped out of the way just in time. I figured I'd waited too long, but for a moment I saw what looked like an open door in the back. I got down on my hands and knees, something very difficult for me, and crawled toward the door, hoping the air would be breathable close to the floor. And at the end I was almost on my belly, dragging myself, but I made it out to the alley behind the building."

The courtroom was dead quiet. All eyes were on him.

Schiff broke the spell. "So you went to assure your friend that you had survived the fire?"

House sat back. This was the next tricky part of his story. What he had done was enough to ensure a prison sentence. Well, he couldn't dodge it now. "I realized that I could avoid prison long enough to be with Wilson in his final months. So I hitched a ride with a trucker back to the hospital. He asked me what I had been up to. I was covered with soot and reeked of smoke, so I told him I was homeless and had gotten a little too close to a campfire. Anyhow, I substituted my medical records for my patient's, and then I found a place to hide for a few days."

"Didn't you think how cruel it was to mislead the people who cared about you?"

"Wilson was dying. I couldn't see any other choice."

"What about giving up your home, your career, your identity?"

House straightened in the chair. "Wilson is worth it." He looked at Wilson defiantly. Wilson, too, had been weeping silently, sitting in his chair. They shared a long look, until House lowered his head and broke it.

"A magnificent sacrifice, Doctor House," Schiff declared, and let the whole, ghastly few minutes sink in. Finally, he cleared his throat again. House realized that the worst was over.

"Just a few more questions, Doctor House. Why did you come back? You knew the legal consequences of your actions would be very serious."

"Wilson seemed to be heading toward remission. Being dead no longer seemed like a solution. I had to face up to what I had done. I wanted my life back, as much as I could still have of it."

"Very well. I was asked to ask you about when you stopped your heart by sticking a knife in an electrical outlet. Why did you do it?"

"It was an experiment."

"An experiment? Were you trying to kill yourself?"

"No. I paged one of my fellows before I did it, so if all went according to plan, I'd be revived."

"Wasn't that awfully risky."

"I suppose it was."

"Doctor House, why did you do it?"

House sighed. He would have preferred to avoid this discussion. "There was a patient in the clinic, an accident victim, who had had a near death experience for ninety-seven seconds. He said he had a vision of the afterlife. So he stuck his knife in an outlet to try to duplicate it. I was curious, so I used his knife and tried it, myself."

"Did you see what your patient saw?"

House swallowed uncomfortably. "No. And when I came to, I was told that the patient had died."

That bombshell settled for a moment. Schiff looked away. Well, the judge had asked for an answer to that question. Getting back to the main thread of House's testimony, Schiff asked, "Doctor House, Doctor Chase has testified that to his knowledge you have never been treated for post traumatic stress. Is this true?"

"My current psychotherapy includes dealing with post traumatic stress."

"I'm relieved to hear it. Doctor House, I understand that you were reluctant to initiate this appeal. What changed your mind?"

"Wilson accepted treatment. Lisa Cuddy was willing to include me in her life. I had to try to get my life back. And now, Lisa and I are expecting a child, a baby brother or sister to her daughter Rachel. We're a family. I want to be there for them."

"Thank you, Doctor House. That's all the questions I have for you."

Cross-examination was brutal, as expected. House knew that taking the stand was a calculated risk. But Schiff and he had agreed that by the nature of his appeal, he really had no choice. By the time opposing counsel was finished, House felt that he had run a marathon, bad leg and cane and all.

Nolan had prescribed a tranquilizer in case of an especially grueling day in court. House took it when he and Cuddy got back to his apartment. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Closing arguments were scheduled for the next morning. The ordeal of the appeal was almost over.