The right forefinger tapped, almost of its own volition, as Judge Wharton scanned the faces before her. The two attorneys looked confident; the defendant's expression could only be described as strained; and the spectators oozed expectation. Her gaze snapped back to the tall man with the arresting blue eyes. They were much clearer than on his previous visit to her courtroom, although weariness still lurked in their depths. The sling on his right arm puzzled her; it couldn't possibly be due to the same gunshot wounds six weeks earlier.

"Lt. Sloan," she asked curiously, "what happened to you this time?"

He flushed. "One of those careless slips and falls they warn you about on TV, your Honor. I just landed badly."

She noted the flicker in Mark Sloan's eyes, but decided not to call them on it. Not a bad story, necessarily; just not the right one. She filed that thought away for future reference. "I take it your medical condition has improved sufficiently for you to stand trial?"

His neck still slightly tinged with red, he assured her he was fine, although she sensed another slight ripple in the reaction of the group before her. She pondered a moment, then beckoned the attorneys to approach. "Gentlemen," she said in a voice too low to be heard beyond where they stood, "I'm going to say this only once. Any foolish surprises or grandstanding, and you're in contempt. Do you understand?" Startled, they nodded, and she addressed Dave again.

"Mr. Harbrook, I want your assurance that your client is well enough. Otherwise, I'm continuing this proceeding."

Dave pushed air into his throat. "He's fine, your Honor."

The gimlet eyes bored into him. "He hasn't yet completed his rehabilitation, has he?"

"No, your Honor," Dave replied carefully, "he hasn't. He's maybe a week, two weeks max, away. It's my understanding also that the dosage is minimal, and that Dr. Travis ordered it continued primarily due to the injuries to my client's arm when -- he broke it." He hoped his expression was sufficiently open and reassuring. "He's more than well enough to deal with this."

Judge Wharton's gaze travelled from Dave's face to that of his tense client, to the noncommittal countenance of D.A. Edding. "All right, gentlemen," she conceded. "Bailiff, bring in the panel."

To Steve, unfamiliar with the initial portions of the judicial process, it seemed like an indecently short period of time passed before a jury was selected. He told Dave so when they broke for lunch, and was shocked when his attorney laughed.

"Steve, we've got a good group out there. They're educated, reasonably sophisticated, and they look like they're capable of listening to evidence and evaluating it intelligently. That's not always easy to find." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I think the blonde in the front row is attracted to you; don't overdo it, but don't be afraid to make eye contact with her periodically."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "You're kidding," he said finally.

Dave shook his head. "No way," he replied with a grin. "You'd be amazed at what works. All you need is one juror who starts to feel a little more critical of the prosecution, and you can achieve a lot."

Steve shrugged and agreed to follow his lawyer's instructions, although he couldn't help but take note of the irony. Right now, it seemed like he was attracting more female interest than he could handle without adding to his difficulties.

The prosecution's case, he thought sourly, was fairly pathetic. He couldn't figure out how Edding, even with presumable marching orders from Wyler, could have justified the investigation which had targeted him, much less actually filing charges. As far as Steve could determine, the only actual physical evidence which could be used against him in the attack on Rachel were the bloody restraints. Dave demolished that quickly and neatly, forcing the state's witnesses to admit that Steve had hardly had the necessary freedom of movement to give his jailers the slip and attack his nurse in his room, all without anyone seeing him.

But, Edding argued, Steve's attack on the doctor was obvious evidence of his uncontrollable rage and desire for revenge, and therefore it was not inconceivable that Steve could have perceived Rachel as a willing accomplice. In fact, the D.A. implied shock that Steve had not agreed to a plea of insanity. Dave leapt to his feet then, objecting, but the judge was already shutting Edding down. Steve wondered, however, if the damage had already been done; the words, once spoken, couldn't be unsaid. He wasn't totally sure himself that a good argument for temporary insanity couldn't have been made, at least with regard to his attack on Morgan, which he had to admit had been so close to the edge as to almost push him over it.

That one was at least less problematic for the narrow-faced prosecutor. That Steve had assaulted the doctor couldn't be denied; but the twin spectres of severely extenuating circumstances and fear for one's own safety had raised their bothersome heads, threatening his case, and Edding knew it. He dragged out the state's presentation as long as he could, but finally had to concede the stage to his opponent.

Due to the lateness of the afternoon, the judge recessed until the next morning. Steve was escorted back to the hotel by two newly selected and thoroughly screened deputies. The group assembled in the sitting room of the suite Mark had reserved for what began as a strategic planning session and rapidly devolved into splinter conversations as Steve lost interest in chewing over the events of the day. He had only picked at, and finally given up on, the Chinese takeout they had ordered, and now prowled the suite, unable or unwilling to settle anywhere for very long.

Mark watched him with increasing concern and irritation. "You're making me dizzy, son," he complained, only half joking.

Steve had stopped temporarily at the window, to stare outside moodily. "Can't get comfortable, Dad."

Mark gave him a closer look. Steve's ribs and back were obviously troubling him; he was standing with shoulders hunched, good hand jammed into his pants pocket. "Arm bothering you too, son?"

Steve sighed noiselessly, and eased into an armchair across from his father. "Yeah. I guess so."

Despite the presence of other people in the room, it was almost as if he and his father were insulated from their conversations. "Do you want to tell me what really happened to you, son?" his father asked, very quietly.

"No," Steve said shortly.

His father just looked at him, brows slightly raised, wise eyes regarding him so calmly. He squirmed. "Dad -- I can't. Please don't ask me."

The eyebrows slid higher, but his father seemed undisturbed. "All right, Steve. I'll be right here when you're ready to tell me."

Much later, as Mark woke for the umpteenth time, attuned to his son's restlessness, he couldn't help wishing that he'd been a little more aggressive in his approach. He almost got up himself several times, each time changing his mind, recognizing Steve's need to work through it on his own. Finally, however, he got out of bed and started searching through his medical bag.

The voice from the window was icily quiet. "Thanks, Dad, but I don't want any."

Mark wasn't inclined to cooperate. "You're not going to get very much."

Steve sighed. "I can't afford to take any chances with tomorrow, Dad. I need a clear head."

"I'm trying to make sure that's what you have," his father retorted. "All I'm going to do is make sure you get some rest first." He flicked the light on so he could measure the dosage.

Steve started pacing again. "Dad, I'm serious."

"So am I, son." His father gave him a searching look, then apparently relented. "I have a proposition for you. I won't insist on you taking this if you tell me the truth about your arm."

Steve flung himself into a chair, twisting awkwardly at the last minute in order to avoid jolting the appendage in question. "Dad -- I can't."

Mark leaned against the table, rolling the syringe between his fingers. "Can't or won't?"

Steve blew out an explosive breath. "Either one, Dad. I'm not exactly in the mood for games." He started to fiddle with his cast, avoiding his father's eyes.

"Steve."

The voice was quiet, authoritative, and inexorable. Unwillingly, he glanced up, to find his father standing before him, frowning at him.

"I've given you considerable license. I understand you have to travel your own road in order to recover properly. But this will not do." Mark paused, hoping not to have to say more, but his son's mulish expression set him off. "Do you have any idea what went through my mind when you came staggering through that door, face white as a sheet, blood dripping from your fingertips?" he asked angrily.

Steve winced, but said nothing.

Mark's ire escalated. "For that matter, do you have any inkling, glimmering, concept whatsoever, of how we felt while you were missing? Not knowing where you were, what condition you were in, if you were even in any condition at all? Or," he demanded, "having you do your damndest to shove us away?" He saw his son's body jerk with the impact of his harsh words, and wished heartily that they weren't necessary; but he couldn't afford to ease up on Steve now. "It's hard enough living with the knowledge that that one terrible phone call is always a possibility, without having to second-guess whether you're planning on being fit for polite company as well."

He would have continued in this vein longer, but Steve suddenly capitulated. "All right.-- All right, Dad, I can't stand this any more. I'll take the medicine."

Mark fixed him with a quelling stare. "After you tell me."

"I thought you were offering a deal."

Mark shook his head. "That was a one-time offer for a limited amount of time. You've run out. Now talk."

There was no perceivable way out of this conversation. He took a deep breath. "Dad -- please understand. You don't know any of this."

"I know," his father agreed, then thought better of his response. "Wait. I know; no, I don't know. What don't I know?" he asked, with only natural exasperation.

"If Wyler finds out I talked, he won't necessarily go after me," Steve said grimly. Slowly, with some difficulty, he related the sordid little story to his father. "So, Dad, you see, I can't -- I can't just arbitrarily assume everyone will be safe. And --" He stopped, searching for the right words.

His father had no such compunction. "And you're going to let yourself be intimidated into keeping your mouth shut. This isn't you, son."

Steve's head came up, anger sparking the blue eyes. "Dad, I'm not me. I'm not the same person who drove away that morning. I have to learn to live with what's happened to me. And this is hard enough without you giving me grief about it." His eyes went hard. "I don't like being threatened by Wyler either. But I can't --"

"You can't permit threats against you or me to keep you from doing the right thing," his father stated bluntly.

"Dad, it's not just that!" he almost shouted. "Weren't you listening?"

Hearing the note of increasing strain in his son's voice, Mark relented slightly. If he let Steve get too excited, any medication would be ineffective, which more or less would make this entire exercise pointless. "All right, son," he said as calmly as possible. "Tell me again."

Steve rubbed his eyes, starting to feel the fatigue. "They didn't limit themselves to either of us, Dad," he said tiredly, unhappily. "They included the whole group -- even --" His throat felt thick; he took a deep breath and pushed the ugly words out. "Even Amanda's boys." His fists clenched. "I can't take that chance, do that to her. And I couldn't live with myself if anything happened."

"Oh." Mark sagged back against the chair cushion. What a mess. As he had done so many times since finding his son lying in a puddle of blood in that hellhole, he wished Wyler or Morgan were within arm's reach; his fingers itched to strangle them both for what they had done to Steve, for this long, difficult road they had made him travel. He put a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder, automatically kneading the tense muscles. "I understand, son. We'll find a way to get through this and keep everyone safe." He started to get to his feet.

"Dad?"

"What is it, son?"

Steve looked exhausted. "I think you're right about getting some rest." With difficulty, he started to ask, "Would you --?"

Mark nodded. "Go lie down."

He sat by his son's bedside, as it seemed he had been doing so often lately, and watched as the drug took effect. Steve's arm had definitely been bothering him, because he shifted awkwardly, then more easily, as he slowly relaxed into sleep. Mark waited until his breathing had deepened into a steady rhythm, then crawled back into his own bed and willed himself to take his own advice.