Connie Rubisrosa watched her boss read his notes as Moran was sworn in. Even though she knew better, she had hoped he wouldn't call Moran. As the chief of detectives he had a position of authority that commanded respect. When this man spoke, people would listen, including the twelve people who could send Goren to jail for the rest of his life. This was the most frustrating part of her job, when they had to prosecute a person she very strongly felt was innocent. Jack was not convinced; he still believed in Goren's guilt. She did not. Moran's testimony was going to be crippling for the big detective. All she could do was hope his attorney was smart enough to find a way to mitigate the damage or, even better, turn it around to his favor. She settled back to watch.

McCoy approached the stand. "What is your position in the police department?"

"I am the chief of detectives."

"So you are familiar with every detective under your command."

Moran nodded. "I make it a point to be, yes."

McCoy indicated the defense table. "So you are familiar with Detective Goren?"

"Very familiar."

"Would you please give the court your assessment of this detective."

Several of the jury members glanced toward Goren. He was watching Moran but he did not react to chief's testimony. He appeared interested, but distracted. None of them had figured the man out yet. They each looked for some kind of visual clue they could grasp onto that would indicate his innocence or guilt, but there was none. He'd shown concern when his friend Lewis testified, and surprise when Peggy Stachowiak was called to the stand, but it became evident that his reactions were directed outward and not inward. He had shown interest in the proceedings from the beginning. They had seen his physical pain early in the trial, but that seemed to have dissipated. The woman who had been in the gallery behind him, showing concern and support, was not there today, and they wondered at that, too. Throughout the prosecution's presentation of the case, every time they thought they were starting to get a handle on this man, his lawyer changed their minds. They wondered if McCoy would be as effective with the defense witnesses. More than anything, they were anxious to see the defendant's testimony, and they wondered if Moredock would put him on the stand.

Moran adjusted his position. "Detective Goren has caused his share of trouble. He cost another officer his job. He was responsible for the release of a violent gang leader suspected in the murder of a police officer. He circumvented the department to conduct an unauthorized investigation into a prison facility outside our jurisdiction. If he doesn't like the answers he gets from the brass, he tries to change the rules to suit him. His mental stability has been brought into question numerous times. He's not a team player; he's a rogue."

"Were you surprised to find out he'd been arrested for murder?"

"No. I figured he finally snapped and that poor girl bore the brunt of it. It was only a matter of time."

McCoy nodded. "What is the department's opinion of him?"

"To the rest of the world, he's one of our rank and file. To the department, he's a cancer, a maverick who doesn't follow the rules or stand behind his brothers. I won't be sorry to see him go to Riker's. It will be a relief."

Just as McCoy had anticipated, Moran tore the detective apart. It was a very grim picture he'd painted with confidence. An unstable loner...just the sort of man who would snap in a moment of rage and kill someone. McCoy smiled as he thanked the chief and returned to his seat beside Rubirosa, pleased and confident.

Moredock finished conferring with Carver and Goren, and he rose to his feet. "Chief Moran," he began. "Didn't my client undergo a psychiatric evaluation that cleared him as fit for duty?"

"Yes, but I prefer to believe my gut over some psychiatric double talk."

"You don't respect the opinion of the department's mental health staff? So why order an evaluation at all?"

"It's protocol. He was returned to duty."

"Against your better judgment?"

"Yes."

Moredock nodded and let that roll around in the minds of the jury members. "Explain how he cost this other officer his job."

Moran shifted in his seat. "Detective Patrick Copa identified a known violent gang leader as the man who shot and killed his partner. Detective Goren cast doubt on Copa's identification and we were forced to release the suspect."

"How did he do that?"

"He raised suspicions about Copa's vision."

Moredock nodded. "And were his suspicions confirmed?"

Moran's jaw tightened. "Yes. Copa was forced onto disability."

"And you would have preferred Detective Goren to keep silent, so that Copa could remain on the job and possibly injure innocent bystanders the next time he discharged his weapon? Or maybe misidentify another person innocent of the crime they're accused of?"

"Of course not," Moran sputtered.

"So what's the problem, chief?"

Moran's eyes narrowed in anger. "He doesn't follow the rules."

"Which rule is it that states he should keep quiet about another officer's infirmity, regardless of the cost?"

"Objection..." McCoy began.

"Withdrawn," Moredock said with a smile, not caring if McCoy's objection was sustainable. The idea was in the air and in the minds of the twelve jury members. At the defense table, Carver smiled.

"Now...about this unauthorized undercover assignment. He went undercover into a prison facility to confirm allegations of murder and torture?"

"Yes, based on the ramblings of a mentally ill inmate who is now a fugitive."

"His nephew, who was in fear for his own life."

"That prison was out of our jurisdiction. There are proper channels, which he bypassed."

Moredock nodded, pleased by Moran's mounting impotent fury. "Channels that would have buried the allegations because prisoners don't matter?"

"Objection!" McCoy rose from his chair.

"Withdrawn," Moredock conceded again.

"As for the gang leader who was released...was he guilty or was Detective Copa's identification wrong?"

Moran was furious, and he struggled to control his rage. "The ID was wrong," he growled.

Moredock nodded. "Chief, what is my client's solve rate like?"

"It's one of the best in the department," he answered reluctantly.

"So he is an effective investigator and interrogator?"

"Yes."

"And his captain seems to have a good opinion of him. He's had the same partner for the last eight years. Is their judgment in question?"

"Of course not. In spite of their association with Goren, they're both well-regarded in the department."

"'In spite of their association with Detective Goren...' Tell me...does he go off on his tangents alone? I understand his undercover assignment almost cost him his life. I also believe his captain and his partner recovered him before he was killed by prison guards at the orders of the warden. The entire ordeal was about correcting an injustice. What were the official results of the inquiry into his findings?"

Moran trembled with the effort to keep his voice calm and even. "The warden and the guards involved lost their positions and were prosecuted for torture and murder."

"So his investigation was solid? He found an injustice and he did something about it. Isn't that his job?"

"His job is to follow procedure. His job is to get the bad guy, not bring down the good ones."

"So you condone what went on in that prison facility?"

"They're prisoners for a reason."

"So they don't have any rights as human beings?"

Moran glared at the lawyer. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"They were your words, chief. I simply clarified them. You think he did the wrong thing in identifying a disability in the vision of a man who carries a gun? If he hadn't, and Detective Copa had killed a child the next time he fired at a suspect, knowing that my client knew about the disability, what would you have done?"

"I'd have his badge," Moran snapped.

Then he frowned as Moredock smiled and said, "That's quite a double standard you hold there, chief. No matter what my client did, he would have been wrong. So he did the right thing, and he was just as wrong in your eyes as if he had not. My client's strict moral standards do not 'jive' with the department's code of ethics?"

"I never said that."

"So it all boils down to a personal vendetta you have against Detective Goren?"

"There are rules and codes of behavior. He needs to follow them."

Moredock nodded. "So you don't like the man because he doesn't fit the mold. I have no more questions."

Moredock returned to his seat as Moran, red-faced with fury, stepped down, glaring at Goren, who regarded him with cool indifference. Carver leaned toward Moredock. "Well done, Barry."

McCoy was done presenting his case, and Boucher adjourned the trial for the day. Moredock and Carver looked at Goren. Carver clapped his shoulder. "That couldn't have gone better. Tomorrow, it's Barry's turn to dance."

With a brief smile, Goren nodded and rose. "I'll see you in the morning, gentlemen."

"Is something wrong, detective?" Carver asked.

He shook his head. "No, sir. I just have some thinking to do."

They watched him leave the courtroom, and Carver said, "He does a lot of thinking. Sometimes, that's not a good thing."

"In this case, Ron, maybe it is."

The two attorneys left the courtroom to prepare for the next day's testimony.

Lewis looked around the bar nervously. He glanced over his shoulder, toward a booth near the front of the room, by the large window that looked out onto the street. Eames and Logan had slipped into the booth and now she nodded at him with a small smile of encouragement. It was all he needed to proceed. Lewis was not stupid. He knew that if Bobby went to prison, he'd never make it out alive. He'd had a tough life and it was about time the guy caught a break. Over the course of a friendship that had lasted a lifetime, Bobby had gotten him out of some tight spots. Now, it was his turn to repay him. If it was one thing Lewis had never been, it was a fair-weather friend.

It didn't take much effort for him to identify Nick Mustello. He was a big guy with a loud obnoxious mouth at the back of the bar, shooting pool. Lewis leaned against the wall, silently watching the game between Mustello and a guy he called 'Barnaby'. From the scowl on the guy's face, Lewis guessed that Barnaby wasn't his actual name. His first impression of Mustello was that he was an arrogant bastard. He adjusted his glasses and continued to watch.

He wondered if Mustello would be easier to handle drunk or sober. It was a late kind of musing, though, because the guy was already halfway to obliteration. Lewis hoped that would give him an edge. Bobby always said he was fast, that he ducked like a prairie dog who spotted a hawk. His speed and balance would certainly give him an edge. Mustello's whiskey-blurred mind wouldn't be able to follow him well enough to catch him. Even so, Lewis knew he would be lucky to get out of this without any blood loss of his own.

Make sure he bleeds on your shirt, Alex had reminded him. Fortunately, this wasn't a shirt he had any particular attachment to. Mike had offered his white undershirt, but Lewis didn't mind sacrificing this shirt. It was one he'd gotten at a discount store for seven bucks. His last girlfriend had liked it, but he didn't like her much any more, so it was all good.

When Mustello missed his next shot and slammed his cue into the table, Lewis decided it was time. Waiting until the guy lost the game would be akin to suicide. A passing thought asked him what classification he would give to his plan to provoke a drunk monster. Sacrifice, he answered. A small sacrifice for the best friend he'd ever had. Hell, if Bobby could get himself busted up for him, bad enough to actually go to the ER, the least he could do was step into the path of a charging bull and get a little blood on his shirt.

Lewis scoffed loud enough to be heard. "That was an easy shot, pal."

Mustello looked at him, eyes blazing. "What did you say?"

"I said, that was an easy shot. My crippled grandma coulda made it. You play pool like a preschooler."

The guy whose name wasn't Barnaby turned pale. "You better move on, kid."

"Yeah, I guess. There sure ain't no challenge here."

Mustello dropped his pool cue and walked around the table toward Lewis. It took a lot of effort for the mechanic to remain where he was and appear calm. Inside, he was shaking like a leaf. Never let 'em see you sweat, buddy... Good advice, but Bobby never did tell him how to convince his body to quit sweating.

Mustello towered above him, and the murderous rage evident in his face told Lewis this man was very capable of taking a life. It also told him that his was the next life Mustello intended to take. But he kept his outward calm as he pushed off the wall. "You're in my way, Gigantor."

Lewis hadn't really expected it to be so easy to provoke him, but it was. He heard the bellow of outrage and ducked to the left as Mustello swung. He heard a crunch as a huge fist slammed into the wall. If there had not been a stud in the wall right there, it would have been the wall that broke and not Mustello's hand.

Moving back a couple of steps, Lewis didn't even try to hide his grin. "Ouch," he taunted. "That sounded like it hurt."

When Mustello charged him, he feinted to the left then jumped right, sending the other man headlong into the bar. Three other patrons went tumbling from their stools, and Mustello hit another one just because he needed someone to hit. Lewis tsked at him like a parent would to a misbehaving toddler. "You shouldn't hit people, sonny boy."

He knew the other patrons must be thinking he was crazy, and maybe he was, but he was having a good time. When Mustello charged him the third time, he made his first, and only, offensive move. As he moved to the left again, he sent out a quick, powerful jab with his right, making contact with the bridge of Mustello's nose. As he continued to dart out of harm's way, he grinned again. The nose was the perfect target. Easily broken and prone to profuse bleeding, it also tended to generate extreme pain when damaged.

Mustello roared like a wounded bear as blood poured from his nose, unheeded. In a blind fury, spurred on by pain and whiskey, Mustello charged Lewis again. This time, Lewis didn't duck or dart away. He charged right at the enraged man, burying his shoulder in Mustello's gut and knocking him back into the pool table. There was no way Mustello could avoid bleeding all over Lewis' back, even if he wanted to.

That was when Logan intervened. Showing his badge, he forced the onlookers to back away from the combatants. Grabbing Lewis by the shirt, he growled, "I seen the whole thing, trouble. You're under arrest for assault."

Snapping his cuffs on Lewis, he propelled him toward the door and called to the bartender, "Clean-up on aisle four."

Eames slipped out of the building behind them, unnoticed, as Mustello roared and screamed at the poor suckers who were trying to help him out from where he'd landed beneath the pool table.

When they got to the car, Logan quickly removed the cuffs, Lewis yanked off his ruined shirt and shoved it at Eames, and they got into the car. As Eames drove past the bar, Mustello exploded into the street, looking up and down the block for the little guy who'd embarrassed the hell out of him by bringing him down in front of too many onlookers. Turning, he punched the window, which shattered, slicing his broken hand as glass rained around him.

Logan laughed. "That was beautiful, man."

In the back seat, Lewis smiled. "Bobby made sure he taught me how to duck."

Eames glanced at him in the mirror. "Are you sure you're okay, Lewis?"

"Not a scratch."

She was relieved. When she pulled up in front of Lewis' place, she got out of the car with him and gave him a hug. Then she leaned up to kiss him. "Thank you, Lewis. We'll call you soon."

He nodded and watched her slide back behind the wheel and drive away.