Dave started the defense aggressively by calling Jesse as his first witness. Painstakingly, he walked Jesse through his fateful visit to the clinic, making sure the jury received the full, disturbing effect of the young doctor's initial reaction to what he found. Steve himself sat numbly, trying to keep a tight rein on his thoughts, as his best friend described his dismay at Steve's condition and related his subsequent conversation with Rachel about Steve's care and impending rescue. He wasn't sure which was worse: having to tell his story himself, or being forced to listen to Jesse's simple narrative, told in a voice rough with emotion. It was a potent reminder that his family and friends had been put through considerable trauma themselves, and the guilt for being the cause of that pain washed over him again. He shut his eyes for a minute, willing himself to be calm, and opened them to meet the concerned gaze of the woman Dave had mentioned earlier. Uncomfortably, remembering Dave's advice, he held her eyes momentarily, then looked away.

Asked by Edding if he thought Steve would have been capable of the vicious attack on Rachel, and barely restraining the urge to call the D.A. an idiot, Jesse stated grimly that, among other things, it was highly unlikely that Steve would even have had the strength for any kind of sustained physical activity, much less systematically battering someone into oblivion. "I don't mean to sound brutal or callous," he added earnestly to the jury, trying to get a grip on his own feelings, "but it's a simple fact. He was in no shape for something like that."

Dave ran the young doctor through a description of his rehab treatment program. This was easier. Jesse testified calmly and clearly, even keeping his cool when Edding, on cross-examination, tried to relate Steve's addiction to the prosecutor's continued attempts to call Steve's sanity into question.

Dave, however, had had enough. "Your Honor, the defense has made no attempt, nor do we intend, to plead an insanity defense, and any representations we make as to state of mind at the time are simply that, no more."

Judge Wharton agreed. "Mr. Edding. I'm not going to say this again. You will restrict any questions along this line to state of mind, and that's as far as you go. Do you understand?" she asked acidly.

The D.A. flashed a resentful look towards his opponent. "Yes, your Honor." Frustrated, he wrapped up his cross-examination, and sat down.

Dave asked Jesse a few questions on rebuttal, then indicated the doctor was finished. He then called Dr. Morgan, immediately going on the offensive by asking the doctor to justify his rationale for his research. "Please enlighten us, doctor," he asked bluntly, "just what beneficial effect you could possibly hope to accomplish by combining a potentially addictive narcotic with a known dangerous halllucinogen?"

Morgan's thesis, as Mark had discovered earlier, was weak on paper. It held up even less well in open court. The expressions on the faces of the jury ranged from shock to outrage. The blonde woman in the front looked particularly upset, Steve realized. He had discovered it was easier to watch the jury's reactions while he listened impassively to Morgan's stumbling testimony than it had been during Jesse's passionate answers, when he had simply wished the ground would swallow him up where he sat.

And Morgan made a terrible witness. Highly defensive about his pet project in any event, he became more and more evasive and ineffective as Dave pounded him repeatedly, frequently tripping him up by pointing out inconsistencies between his statements at deposition and his current testimony. Despite Edding's attempts at damage control, Dave came off the clear winner in that round.

Steve was not allowed to feel relieved for long, however. Over lunch, his attorney filled him in on the plan for the rest of the day.

"I gave some thought to what you told me about Ms. Pauling, Steve," Dave said, cutting his chicken into manageable pieces.

Steve looked up in alarm from the chopped sirloin he had been more or less pushing about on the plate. "What do you mean?"

Dave gave him a level glance. "You made her a promise, you said."

The eyebrows were starting to slide downwards. "And as I recall you weren't interested."

"Changed my mind," Dave said flatly. "I'm calling her as the next witness."

Steve stared at his lawyer, his food forgotten. "I thought you said her testimony would be suspect because of her -- feelings for me."

Dave took a bite of chicken and maddeningly chewed it thoroughly before replying. "That was before we got this jury and I had the opportunity to pulverize Morgan. Besides, I talked to her last night."

Steve choked on his water, and began to cough uncontrollably, wincing in pain as the spasms pulled at his sore ribs and back. "You did what?" he sputtered finally.

"Talked to her," Dave replied calmly. "She phoned my office yesterday, and I called her back."

"She can actually speak now?" Steve asked, unsure how to feel about this latest development.

Dave nodded and swallowed. "She told me in no uncertain terms that she planned to come, and she expected to be able to take the stand."

Steve slid his unoffending plate aside, appetite having done a vanishing act. His lawyer glanced at him with concern. "I thought you wanted her to testify."

He sighed. "Dave, right now I don't know what I want. I have basically two modes -- scared and numb. I'm not sure I'm particularly capable of critical analysis." He made a feeble attempt at a grin. "That's why you're here."

Dave looked doubtful. "As long as you're sure you're okay with this, Steve. Don't get me wrong; I think her testimony's important, but I'm not going to force you to agree to it." He gave his client a critical look. "You may not be allowed to see her first, you know."

Steve rose and started prowling around the small room, temporarily arousing the curiosity of the deputy posted outside the door. "And after?" he asked.

Dave shrugged. "Depends."

Steve grunted, worrying at the thought like a dog with a bone, still pacing. There was a knock at the door, and he glanced up, expecting to be told it was time to go back, but the deputy motioned to Dave.

"Mr. Harbrook? You're needed out here for a moment."

Steve had stopped prowling to lean against the wall with his good hand, much like a runner stretching, when the door opened again. "Time to go?" he asked, without turning. There was a strange whirring sound, and he caught a faint trace of wisteria in the air, evoking a flash of cool hands, warm eyes, and soft voice. Half afraid of what he would find, he swung around.

She was sitting in an electric wheelchair, a brace on her left knee and her right forearm in a cast up to her knuckles. Hesitantly, he let his eyes travel to her face. There was bruising from her recent surgery, and the suture lines were unavoidable, although the wiring was gone. But her mouth was smiling, and her eyes still held that elusive pull which had engulfed him before. He made to speak, and realized his vocal chords were being constricted by the same fierce hand which had wrapped itself around his heart and lungs. Wordlessly, he went to her and took both her hands in his good one, still unable to force any sound from his throat.

"Steve? Are you all right? What happened to your arm?" Her speech was slow, but recognizable, and still the same soothing voice which had calmed him so many times during his trip through hell. The sound of his name as she spoke it made him tremble.

"Rachel," he managed finally, still leaning over her, clutching her hands. His abused ribs ultimately took exception to his stance; he hooked a chair over with a foot and sat facing her, still not releasing his grip. Belatedly, he registered her question. Both questions, actually. "I'm all right. I just got careless, broke my arm." He winced inwardly at the lie, but he definitely wasn't going to tell her about Flores. "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

She gave him that stern look. "You made me a promise, remember?"

He tried to soft-peddle it. "Neither one of us was thinking very clearly that day, Rachel. I don't expect you to --"

"To testify on your behalf -- looking like this?" she asked shrewdly.

He flinched at the reminder, but held firm. "Yes."

Rachel smiled at him. "But I intend to -- now and again when Morgan goes to trial. I owe you that much."

The words, spoken lightly, nonetheless hit him like a ton of bricks. His heart constricted even more, if that were possible. "Is that all it is?" he asked diffidently, steeling himself for the answer.

She stared at him, searching for the right words. Finally, when he began to despair of receiving an answer, she made up her mind. "No, Steve, it's not," she said firmly.

His head came up, eyes glinting. "And?" he asked hopefully.

"I -- care about you, Steve," she replied, a tinge of red staining her cheeks.

"About? And -- for?" he asked, not taking his eyes from her face.

It wasn't fair, she decided. He was doing that burning thing with those incredibly blue eyes, and she had no ability to muster any defenses to it whatsoever. "For, too," she replied in a small voice, trying desperately to keep her head as those eyes blazed with the intensity of his reaction. Then she felt the touch of his mouth on hers, tentative at first, then more firmly, as he leaned forward and kissed her, and lost all semblance of objectivity.

Steve was drowning and totally unwilling to save himself. Unconsciously, his good hand came up to cup her cheek gently as the lips beneath his turned silken, promising sweetness to come, the heady scent of wisteria filling his senses.

A slight cough pulled them apart, and Steve looked up guiltily to see his lawyer standing in the doorway, a slight smile on his lips. Dave nodded at him. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's time to go back. Ms. Pauling, may I give you any assistance?"

"Just a sec, Dave," Steve said hurriedly. He turned back to her. "Rachel, I --"

She put the fingers of her good hand to his mouth. "Steve, you don't have to make any decisions today. We have plenty of time to explore our feelings."

Wonderingly, he fell into those astounding eyes again, wisteria everywhere. More to clear his head than for any other reason, he kissed the fingers at his lips. "All right, Rachel, but that's another promise I intend to keep."

Numbly, he watched her move away, chair whirring gently, not even paying attention when his guard replaced the cuffs and escorted him back to the courtroom. His father noticed his preoccupation, and would have inquired further, but Dave's first statement following the judge's return satisfied his curiosity.

"The defense calls Rachel Pauling."

And there was no denying that she caused quite a stir as she wheeled up to the witness stand, limped into it, and took the oath in her slow, deliberate voice, all eyes staring in fascination at her scarred face. With only occasional nudging from Dave, she told her story concisely and as clearly as possible under the circumstances.

"So, Ms. Pauling," Dave said pleasantly, aware of the rapt attention of all in the room, "please tell us whether you believe the defendant to be the man who attacked you."

She gave Steve a small smile, and faced the jury squarely. "No. Absolutely not," she declared firmly, and listened with considerable pleasure to the consternated reaction of the spectators. Although Edding then did his level best to shake her testimony, she remained firm, and her calm, quiet demeanor made a substantial impression on her listeners. The prosecutor finally exhausted his ingenuity, and Rachel was excused. She wheeled herself out with a dignity equal to her entrance, all eyes again riveted to her as she departed.

Dave then put first Amanda, then Mark, on as character witnesses, following his testimonial one-two punch with Captain Newman, who presented a succinct but compelling account of Steve's career record. As Newman read the list of awards his most capable officer had received, Steve tried to watch the jury's reactions without looking too obvious about it. It was clear that they were impressed, and it certainly seemed that they were troubled about the validity of the charges against him. For the first time since the trial started, possibly even in the last several days, he felt the tight band of pressure around his lungs ease slightly, as some of the tension in his muscles dissipated, and he actually allowed himself to hope that Dave's plan of attack would work.

Edding didn't even try to put much effort into cross-examination of the trio. There really wasn't much to be accomplished; Steve's professional credentials were outstanding, and the D.A. stood nothing to gain by attempting to discredit either Mark or Amanda. He had his sights set on the primary target anyway, since Steve had already stated his intention of testifying on his own behalf.

It was getting late, however. Judge Wharton inquired as to remaining defense witnesses, and, when Dave indicated only Steve remained, she decided to recess until the next morning rather than break for the night in the middle of his testimony.

They were debating the virtues of pizza compared to barbecue from the local purveyor when there was a knock on the hotel suite door, interrupting Jesse, who was advocating barbecue as the only sensible business decision. Cheryl was closest, and answered the door.

The soft voice Steve had heard tantalizingly in his head all afternoon spoke. "May I come in?"

Cheryl flicked a quick glance at the lawyer. "Are you going to need Ms. Pauling as a rebuttal witness, Dave?" she inquired.

He debated briefly, then shook his head. "No, that shouldn't be necessary. She made her point quite clearly this afternoon." He rose and went to greet her. "Ms. Pauling, thank you again for your help. I hope it wasn't too much of an ordeal."

She smiled at him, and he could easily see why she would have attracted Steve's attention. "I'm just glad I could come. And please call me Rachel."

He returned the smile. "Rachel, this is Cheryl Banks, Steve's partner; his father, Dr. Mark Sloan; Dr. Amanda Bentley, a very good friend of the family; you remember Jesse; and of course," grinning now, "you know Steve." He glanced around, hoping to get through a potential difficult moment as quickly and painlessly as possible. "Where's --?"

"She was talking with one of the other lawyers working on the class action, and said she'd be down as soon as she was finished," Cheryl replied, observing Rachel surreptitiously but thoroughly. As a peculiar byproduct of her close working relationship with Steve, she had developed the ability to sense the electricity when a woman was interested in him, and this one was definitely emitting little tiny sparks. As Steve moved by her to greet Rachel, she felt the heat coming from him as well. For some reason she couldn't quite pin down, however, she felt vaguely perturbed instead of humorously tolerant. Because he had kissed her that day? No. She shook herself mentally, and pushed the distracting thought aside; grudgingly, it slid away, tabled but not forgotten.

Steve had taken Rachel's hands and was smiling down at her, heart, as well as danger signs, in his eyes. She squeezed his fingers and gently extricated her hand. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," she explained, "and I was hoping to meet your family." She glanced up at the distinguished-looking doctor with the kind eyes who had been introduced as Steve's father. "He did mention you, you know," Rachel said gently, "only unfortunately not coherently enough until the night he told me how to reach you. But it's clear to me now that you all were in his thoughts often."

"My ravings, you mean," Steve remarked wryly.

Mark shot him a mildly reproving glance and treated Rachel to his version of the famous Sloan smile, which she realized was as perilous as his son's in its own way. "Thank you for taking care of my son," he said simply, and, on impulse, leaned down and hugged her.

Just then the door opened, and Randy came in quickly, irritation apparent in the cadence of her step. "Would you believe Wyler's still underground?" she demanded of the inhabitants of the room in general. "I really wish --" Her voice ground to a halt as she took note of the newcomer and the expression on Steve's face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dave was there suddenly, kind, worried eyes glued to her as he took her hands and kissed her lightly. "Randy, my dear," he said, with only a slight warning glance at her, "this is Rachel Pauling. Rachel, Randy Wolfe, another good family friend."

Rachel looked puzzled, and Steve realized with horror that somehow he had never had the chance to explain his new-found state of non-marriage to her; and he wasn't sure this was the best time to try. Randy saw the sick awareness in his eyes, and the hostility she had felt since walking into the room evaporated. She had come to terms with the whole mess, and had made her decision, which, as she recognized the extent of her feelings for Dave, had ultimately been the right one. In all fairness, she couldn't keep penalizing Steve for a mistake they had made together. And this woman had obviously paid a much higher price for her feelings.

"We were posing as an engaged couple in order to find out what had happened to my sister. Since Wyler never had the legal authority to perform weddings, we were never actually married." She smiled at Steve, who let out the breath he had been holding with not quite noticeable relief. "I told Steve what we'd discovered once he was well enough, and we agreed to simply be very good friends." She switched her attention from the gratitude in those intense blue eyes to the woman in the wheelchair. "Thank you for everything you've done for him."

Rachel was becoming visibly uncomfortable with all the attention. Mark glanced at Steve, who was looking at her as if he'd never seen a woman before, and therefore was not likely to be of much practical help, and took pity on her. "Rachel, we were just discussing the relative merits of barbecue as compared to pizza. Would you please join us and help solve the dilemma?" He waggled his eyebrows at her hopefully.

She couldn't help but laugh. "That would be lovely, as long as the pizza contingent doesn't object. I vote with the barbecue faction, hands down."

Mark came awake suddenly with the vague sense of disturbance which invariably strikes in the dim, grey-black hours before dawn. His initial confusion was speedily resolved, however, by the sounds drifting into the room despite a firmly closed bathroom door. Somehow, he didn't think it was because the barbecue dinner had disagreed with his son's digestive system. This was the third time that night; he flipped on the light and waited patiently.

Steve eventually emerged, shakily, moving as quietly as possible until the lamplight registered and he threw a slightly shamefaced look at his father. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to wake you."

Mark waved a hand. "Not a problem, son. I just wish you'd get some sleep."

Steve shook his head and leaned against the window, staring out into the darkness. His bare chest was damp with sweat. "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Dad."

His father wisely said nothing, sensing his need to talk, but also understanding intuitively that it needed to be at his own pace.

"I keep telling myself that I can get through it, that in a few days I'll be able to -- to go home," Steve said painfully. "And then the panic hits, and I'm not so sure." He put his left fist precisely against the glass, as if measuring its potential resistance to a blow. "It's almost like the worst of the withdrawal; I can taste it, smell it, touch it, do everything but actually have my freedom." He was on the move again, prowling around the suite like a caged animal.

Mark gave him a worried look. "I don't think it's advisable to give you any additional meds at this point, son."

Steve laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Wouldn't do me any good anyway, Dad."

"Hmmm." Mark started rummaging in his suitcase. "This may seem hokey, but it's worth a try. Park yourself in the recliner over there," he ordered.

Steve had already tried out the piece of furniture in question; it was a massively overstuffed, incredibly comfortable beast of a chair which literally swallowed up the person sitting in it. It was also virtually impossible to get out of it without determined assistance. "Little shop of horrors?" he asked with a trace of a grin.

His father nodded. "Sit. And if it says, 'FEED ME', I don't want to know."

The grin emerged properly, and Steve cautiously descended into the recliner's depths, giving his father a dubious look as the latter approached.

"Close your eyes," Mark commanded, and he obeyed, although not without question.

"Dad -- what are you doing?"

Mark smacked him lightly upside the head. "Quiet. You'll find out. Eyes closed?" He bent to make sure his son wasn't peeking, then set and adjusted a set of earphones on Steve's head.

Intrigued in spite of himself, Steve obediently kept his eyes closed. Whatever his father had in mind, he thought, was fine as long as it made him happy. A small, oblong box was pushed into his good hand, and he felt a button moving. It felt like a -- tape recorder? He started to open his eyes; then he heard, slowly, the sound of waves rolling in to break on the shore, followed by the shriek of a gull and more waves. "Dad -- what --?"

"I set up the tape recorder down on the beach a few afternoons ago."

His throat closed. "Our beach?" he asked thickly, opening his eyes to stare at his father.

Mark nodded. "Yes. I thought you might want to hear it at least."

Steve closed his eyes again. "Dad -- I don't know what to say. Thank you sounds so terribly inadequate."

Mark put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Maybe to you. To me, having you here to say it, it means all the world." He yawned. "Try not to stay up playing with that for the rest of the night, will you, son?"

Steve chuckled. "All right, Dad. Good night."

Mark awoke briefly a little later, glancing automatically over at the omnivorous chair. His son slept soundly, good hand dangling, an occasional soft snore escaping him. Mark allowed himself a smile and rolled over, to soon fall asleep himself once more.