Wilson had the loan application form the next day, as promised. It wasn't a visitation day so Wilson wasn't allowed to bring the paperwork to the jail. Then Wilson remembered House might have mentioned his lawyer's name. Bell, right? And it's a guy I think. Wilson thumbed through the list of attorneys named Bell in the phone book. He called a few and asked if Gregory House was their client, then realized that client names are confidential. Nobody would be able to tell him who they had for a client.

Wilson couldn't visit, but he could get a message through to House (eventually) and House could call him back. Wilson called the jail and left a message for them to have House call him back. Six or seven hours later, House got the message and called Wilson.

"I need your lawyer's name," Wilson said.

"Why?"

Wilson sighed. There's that 'Why' question again. "They don't allow public visitation on any other day besides the weekly visitation day. They won't let me come in today. I have your loan application paperwork. I know you need it now. If I can get it to your attorney he can bring it to you today. I need to know quickly who your attorney is, before the jail cuts this call off. I've been calling attorneys named Bell all damn day trying to find out which one is your attorney, and they can't divulge client names. Did you just now get my message? I called six or seven hours ago."

"They're not exactly quick to do anything around here unless they're tackling and restraining some poor ass. They can't wait to do that. I'm lucky I got your message at all. His name is Sam Bell and here's his number. I'll call him first and let him know you have something for me."

"Ok, gotta go before they cut us off," Wilson said.

"Wilson?"

"Yeah, House?" Wilson sighed.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, you idiot," Wilson sighed again and chuckled softly. Such a long way to go, but at least there was hope. "We still have a lot to talk about. I'll see you at the next visitation."

House made his way, under a guard's supervision, back to his cell. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could detect a glimmer of the old Wilson in that conversation amidst all the sighing.

Inmates in House's cellblock were not locked down, and were on "tier time" during the day. They could go to their cells if they wanted, but they weren't required to be in their cells during the day. One or two guards watched over the whole cellblock. There were many requirements even though they weren't locked down. One of the requirements was that if they went to their cells, they had to close the door. This was a practical requirement since there was so little room for other inmates to move down the tier when the doors were standing open. Like every other rule, and there was a long list of rules, inmates were not entitled to know the reason for the rule. It was a rule they had to follow, and that was that.

House could not quite get used to the idea of following rules just because they were rules. Sometimes it was difficult for him to close the door behind him because the door handle was on the left. He was right handed and it was natural to reach for the door handle with his right hand. He always had to juggle the cane and a door handle in the same hand. Over the years he had become expert at this maneuver, and handling doors became vastly easier when the Americans with Disabilities legislation was signed into law requiring buildings newer than a certain age to be made handicapped accessible. Many doors in hospitals, businesses, hotels and so forth had assist devices installed on them to make it easier to open and close them. In here, though, the cell doors were reinforced solid steel and much heavier than regular doors. Obviously this jail had been built so long ago that it couldn't be made any more handicapped accessible than it already was without just tearing the whole thing down and building a new one. There were also security reasons why doors in a jail could not be made particularly easy to open.

He knew the rule and tried to follow it at all times. The problem was that sometimes the door required two hands to pull it completely shut. House was learning to hook his cane over his left arm in order to free up both hands to pull the door shut. Sometimes that meant having to sit on his bunk for a few minutes when his leg was bothering him a bit too much. Then he would get up and close the door.

The guards had picked up on the fact that House never spent any time on the tier, always stayed in his cell, and was not always quick enough to close his door.

Today was a good example. When he got back to his cell after the call with Wilson and the follow up call to his attorney, he went right to his bunk, sat down and subconsciously began to rub his thigh. It didn't really hurt more than usual; he just had a lot to think about and this was a habit he'd become accustomed to over the years when something was bothering him. He knew the door needed to be closed. He just wanted to take a few minutes' rest on the bunk before closing it.

"Close the door."

"In a minute," House replied.

"Close it now. You know the rule."

Irritated, he temporarily forgot where he was and fired back loudly from his bunk. "Look, you damn idiot! The place is not compliant with the Americans with Disabilities act. It takes two hands to close the door. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have two hands free. I'm doing the best I can. I'll close it in a minute!"

As soon as the words left his mouth it was too late to take them back, and he remembered where he was. He looked down at his feet. "Guess you're gonna write me up now."

Unfazed, the guard stared him down, closed the door and said, "No. But next time I see you in here with the door open, I WILL write you up."

The guard walked away. Yeah, whatever, House thought, and then immediately went back to what he REALLY wanted to think about.

All the guards in House's cellblock were getting to know House pretty well. Prison officials held staff meetings once a week to discuss the inmates who hadn't yet been sentenced. House was among the group of inmates who hadn't yet been convicted of anything, hadn't been sentenced, and were waiting to either post bail or be convicted and sentenced. If they could post bail, they were free on bail pending trial. If they couldn't post bail they stayed in the county jail until convicted and sentenced. If they'd already been convicted and sentenced, they stayed in county jail until suitable placement was found in a state or federal penitentiary somewhere.

A staff meeting had been held earlier that morning.

House's caseworker, the warden, one of House's guards and the guard's supervisor were seated around a circular table with several files in front of them. If House had been there, he'd have sworn he was back in the diagnostics office at PPTH. The whole process of figuring out how to handle a difficult inmate was actually very similar to the process of arriving at a diagnosis for a difficult-to-diagnose patient.

They all agreed that House was not physically difficult to handle. Most inmates in their experience who were difficult to handle were big bullies, who could physically overpower almost anyone and weren't afraid to show it. For the most part, House was physically cooperative with whatever they asked him to do. What labeled him a difficult inmate was the fact that his strength wasn't physical; it was intellectual. He was a lot like a big bully in the way that he was quite able to outsmart all of the inmates and most of the guards, and wasn't afraid to show it. The whole business of casually leaving his door open when he was in his cell was a prime example of that, in their minds.

"Thank you for coming," the warden announced. "Inmate 020406 House. What's going on with him?" the warden asked the caseworker.

"Waiting to post bail. He told me he's waiting on loan approval to post his bail."

Turning to the guard and the guard's supervisor, the warden asked, "I know there have been problems with him hoarding meds and not closing his door. What's going on with that?"

The supervisor answered, "The medication issue was a one time thing. Detoxing in the infirmary fixed that. As far as the door thing, he says he can't close the door right away because it takes two hands. He says he has to sit on the bed first, then he says after a few minutes he gets up to close the door."

"He's on the upper tier of the cellblock now. There are no wheel chair accessible cells up there. We have one wheel chair accessible cell on the lower tier. Is it available? Should we give him the benefit of the doubt and move him?" the warden asked.

"It's occupied, so no, we can't move him," the supervisor replied. The other guard immediately chimed in. "He leaves the door open a lot. It takes him a long time to close it. I think he's trying to test us, to see what we'll do."

The caseworker added, "I think it's a combination of both. I think he is telling the truth AND I think he's trying anything he can think of to test the rules."

The warden said, "Unfortunately rules are rules. We can't bend them for one inmate and crack down on everyone else. Here's what we're going to do. If it happens again, write him up. He should have been written up the first time it happened. In the meantime, there are two inmates in the wheel chair cell. The one guy uses a wheel chair so let him alone. The other guy might be able to be moved. He uses a cane. We might be able to work something out. For now, inmate House stays where he is." They couldn't move him to any other cellblock because other cellblocks were reserved for women, more violent inmates or inmates in protective custody. This was the only cellblock available.

House passed by that wheel chair accessible cell every time he made his way to and from the chow hall, and every time he made his way to and from the phone. Unlike the other doors that opened manually and had manual and electric locks, the wheel chair accessible cell had a sliding door that opened by pushing a button, and closed automatically behind the inmate. It also had manual and electric locks. The cell was a little larger than the other cells because it had two bunks but the bunks were both on the floor. All the other cells had two bunks stacked one on top of the other. The wheel chair cell was still cramped, but it could house two wheelchair-dependent inmates. Due to the age of the building and the building's layout, it was the only cell in his cellblock that could be made completely handicapped accessible.

House was glad he wasn't in that cell. He'd already figured out, in his short time there so far, that it was not good to stand out. It was not good to be labeled, to be marked as weak or different. The cane already marked him as physically weak. He had to use his mind to make up for that. He'd already heard other inmates call that cell the "gimp hole" and other not-so-nice names. The last thing he wanted was to have to be housed there where he'd be even more on display than he was now. The two guys who were in that cell now were horrible, nasty people. The guy in the wheel chair had already been convicted of rape and attempted murder, and was awaiting placement in a state prison. Wheel chair guy was covered in prison tats and so muscled up that House thought he could probably crush the arm of his own wheel chair in one good grip. House didn't know the other guy in that cell. He didn't want to. All he knew was he was very glad he wasn't in the gimp hole for everyone to stare at.

After dinner in the chow hall, House made his way under supervision back to his cell, just like usual. It was still tier time for another hour or so, so most of the inmates were milling about in the common area, playing cards, chess or checkers, talking, or usually, yelling at each other. House, just like always, was the only inmate who made his way back immediately to his cell. And just like before, the door stayed open behind him. Immediately a guard descended on him. "Close the door."

House tried his tactic one more time. Rubbing his thigh, he said, "In a minute."

The guard pulled out a form and wrote him up. "Inmate House, this is a refusal to close your door. Here's a copy of the write up. You'll meet with the disciplinary board in the morning." The guard handed him a copy of the form.

Meanwhile, attorney Sam Bell received a call from Wilson. "Yes, hello Dr. Wilson. I was expecting your call. Dr. House called me earlier today and told me to expect some paperwork from you. I was leaving for the evening, but I'll stay here another hour or so if you're coming by with the paperwork. Thank you."

Wilson stopped by Bell's office. "I know I'm not entitled to know anything about what happens between you and House – oops, my friend Greg – but if I can help with anything, let me know."

Sam perused the loan application. It would cover the cost of House's bail, but typically these 401k loan applications take days to get approved. He knew from experience that these loans usually involve stock sales and stocks are only traded on business days, so Saturdays, Sundays and legal holidays don't count. This just adds to the number of days it takes to get the money in the hands of the applicant. House might need to be prepared to be in there a few days longer than he thought.

Sam's office phone rang. This late at night, it had to be trouble. He really didn't want to answer it because he just wanted to go home. It had been a long day. He was obligated to answer it, though, so he picked up the phone.

"Sam, it's House. I'm in trouble."