See Disclaimer, Chapter 1

Bird Flu - Chapter 54

Ryan Morgan was ferried back to the prison and changed back into his jumpsuit in time for the before-dinner exercise break. It consisted of a fifteen-minute stint in the yard while the prison guards ushered the first crew back to their cells, and the cafeteria prepared for the second crew waiting outside. His eyes roved over the inmates until he'd found the one he wanted, Hector Cruz. Word was; Hector could get a person anything short of a gun, for a price.

He wandered up to Cruz, working his way in through the men surrounding him. They eyed him suspiciously, but gave way. In retrospect, at least as far as the prison was concerned, the scar was a good thing; it made him look tough. Morgan shuddered to think what some of the prisoners would have done with the pretty boy that he used to be. Of course, considering his reputation and what he was rumored to have done, maybe they wouldn't have touched him. Certainly, no one wanted to cross him now.

He sidled next to Cruz, and spoke softly. "I need something."

Cruz kept his eyes forward, and shrugged. "What?"

Morgan leaned as close as he dared, and whispered. Cruz stared forward, expressionlessly. "I don't know if I can get that," he muttered. "How about this?" He leaned toward Morgan and whispered back, pretending to scratch his nose, without breaking eye contact with the far wall.

"Okay," said Morgan quietly, "but I want the other if possible. And a key or a pick for handcuffs. How much?"

"Five G's. When?"

"As soon as possible."

"Maybe – one day, maybe two."

Morgan gave a slight nod, and slowly worked his way out of the group, pretending to wander aimlessly. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money, but his mother was good for it, and he had to have this. There was no way he was going to rot in prison for the rest of his life. He might not need it, the way the trial was going, but in case things went bad, he'd be prepared…

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Charlie sat on the futon in the darkness of the solarium, and stared at the bottle of sleeping pills. It would be so easy, he thought; just swallow some pills, and it would all be over. It wasn't the first time he'd considered it; in fact, he'd been even closer several days ago, the night Don had come up and found him holding a handful of pills. Don had come up to say good-bye for the evening, and Charlie had thought he was leaving – hadn't realized that he'd decided to stay the night. If he'd known that, if he'd thought that Don would have been there in the morning and his father wouldn't have been alone when he found his body, he might have done it then. He'd thought about it every night since then; some nights were worse than others. Tonight was one of them.

He knew he had to hold it together, he had to give it his best shot, but the weight of it was almost unbearable. Still, he had to bear it - he owed it to the other victims; they couldn't speak for themselves, so he had to find the strength for them. If he failed, there would be time enough to think about pills…

He laid down on the futon, looked at the stars through the glass of the solarium, and prayed to the night sky that he somehow would find the will to get through tomorrow.

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Colby glanced at his watch as he strode into the Greene Medical Center. Ten p.m., after visiting hours. It didn't matter, he could show his badge, and he did just that to security, before making his way to the emergency area. There – this was the area where they'd waited for the ambulance that had taken Morgan to Cedars-Sinai. He closed his eyes, trying to remember Morgan, what he'd done, where he'd waited in the wheelchair. Over there, he decided, and moved to the section of floor. This was the spot they'd transferred Morgan to the gurney. It was a section of open floor, there was no place to hide a pair of gloves.

And then it hit him, and he slapped himself in the forehead. Morgan's hands had been cuffed behind him, and Colby had removed the cuffs and then cuffed the killer's hands in front of him so he could lie on the ambulance gurney. Morgan had been screaming at the time, a bloody mess, yelling about police abuse, and Colby had been intent on getting him out of there quickly. So intent that he hadn't realized that Morgan didn't have gloves on – at least he didn't think so. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He was fairly sure – he seemed to remember bare hands, and not bloody gloves. So that meant that Morgan had ditched them somewhere between Charlie's room, where Colby had first cuffed him, and the waiting area for the ambulance.

He turned slowly, and began to retrace the path back to Charlie's former room, his mind turning over the scene. This hallway, that hallway, all bare, clean, light flooring, nowhere to hide gloves, and besides, they had been moving the whole time, Morgan in his wheelchair, Colby just behind the orderly who was pushing it.

He'd made it back to the room where Charlie had been attacked. It was still empty, and he paused outside, before slowly walking in and flicking on the light. If Morgan had left the gloves there, the crime scene techs would have found them, he knew. They'd turned over everything, even stripped the bedding from the gurney. Morgan had to have gotten rid of them after he left the room.

He was getting frustrated now. There was nowhere, he thought, nowhere Morgan could have hidden them on the trip between, even if he hadn't been moving. "Goddamn gloves," he muttered to himself, as he stumped down the hallway. "Goddamn…,"

He stopped, staring off into space, with his mouth gaping open. The wheelchair – the damn wheelchair. He shut his mouth with a snap and hurried down the hallway to the nurses' station, and pulled out his badge. It was the same nurse who had been on duty the night Charlie was attacked; she recognized him. "I need to check out your wheelchairs," he said. "Where do you keep them?"

She frowned, and came out from behind the desk. "At night, we marshal them all down here," she said, leading the way down the hall. "They get wiped down for the next day. Sometimes one will get left in a room, but we try not to do that."

They came around a corner, and there sat the wheelchairs in an alcove, a dozen or so. "These are all of them in the hospital?" Colby asked.

"Oh, no," she said. "The other two wings have some too, and there are a few in the surgery area."

"Do these ever leave this wing?"

"Not usually, but you can't guarantee it. If one gets taken down to surgery, one of the other wings might pick it up there."

"Okay," Colby sighed. That was exactly what had happened with Morgan's wheelchair – it had been taken down to the central area near surgery. He might have to look through the entire hospital. "I'm going to take a look at these if you don't mind."

"Be my guest," she said, as she headed back toward her station. Colby ran his hands over the padding of the one of the chairs, and discovered that it wasn't glued on; it was attached by straps and fasteners, and there was space between the padding and the back of the chair, and the seat. He didn't care if this was going to take all night, he thought, as he ran his hands under the padding - he was going to find those gloves.

It took him two hours, and he'd had to go to the drug rehab wing, but he found them, stuffed between the padding and the back of the chair. As convinced as he'd been that he would find them, he still looked at them a bit stunned, as he held them carefully up by the edges, noting the dried blood as he dropped them into an evidence bag. "Holy shit," he breathed, and then his face broke into a wide, jubilant grin. "The damned gloves!"

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"So you've got the gloves," said Don, the next morning to Phelps. "Why does he still have to testify?"

They were in the prosecutor's office at the courtroom, and Charlie was cloistered in the small attached room next door with David, trying to prepare himself. "Chain of evidence," retorted Phelps. "Don't get me wrong, finding the gloves is a great thing, and I'll submit them, but it will take the lab at least a day to analyze them and that's with a rush job. And when I do submit them, Parker can argue that they were unaccounted for during the last several days and could have been tampered with."

"And who would have tampered with them?" growled Colby. "Little evil old ladies with white hair? Criminal paraplegics?"

"I know, I know," conceded Phelps. "But I can't take the chance – the judge could throw them out, not allow them as evidence. They will undoubtedly help the case if he allows them, but even then, it's not a slam-dunk. We need Charlie."

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Charlie, at that moment, was sitting with his head over his knees trying to fight off a surge of dizziness. David had a steadying hand on his shoulder, and drew it back but let it hover, as Charlie sat slowly up, panting, and wiped his forehead. "You okay, there?"

"I – I – no." Charlie answered. He swallowed. "I don't know if I can do this – physically, I mean. I keep feeling like I can't breathe.

David nodded sympathetically. "It's never fun testifying. I hate it. Of course, I've never been the victim, either." He paused for a moment. "I've always had this belief, ever since I was a kid. When I was young, I grew up in a rough neighborhood. We never had a lot; I always felt like something less, put down – I felt like a victim of society."

Charlie's breathing had slowed a little and his eyes were on him, and David, encouraged, continued. "I got resentful, angry – I felt like I had no control over my life, no way to get out of that neighborhood, so I started acting up. My mother caught wind of it, and she pulled me aside, and said, 'David, no one makes you a victim. They can hold you down, they can be unfair, but they cannot make you a victim against your will. You need to stand up and take charge of your life – then you won't be a victim.'" His eyes rose to the ceiling, flashing as he spoke, as he remembered, then his face softened and he looked at Charlie. "You've been feeling like a victim, man. Don't let 'em do it to you. Today's your day to feel like a hero. Today's your day to fight back."

A knock sounded, and one of Phelps' assistants stuck his head through the door. "The judge is ready."

Charlie looked at David, and rose to his feet. "Okay." He stood for a moment, his gaze on David's face. "Thanks." In truth, the words had barely sunk in; he was still trying to concentrate on breathing, but he tried to focus on them - he had a sense that he'd just been told something profound, and he tried to hang on to it, as he shuffled out of the room.

David gave him a soft slap on the arm, and they made their way through the outer office into the hallway, where Don, Larry, Colby, and Amita were waiting. Larry and Amita hadn't been present since the first day of the trial; they'd both had commitments at CalSci, but today, they had again lobbied successfully for more time off, so they could be there for Charlie during his testimony.

Don took in Charlie's pale face with concern. "Okay, Buddy?" he murmured.

Charlie nodded. His heart was hammering; he couldn't speak.

Amita looked at him, her heart twisting. He was quiet, and pale, but somehow, in spite of his vulnerability, she was left with the impression of a warrior about to do battle. She impulsively tiptoed and kissed him softly on the cheek, then smiled at him as he turned toward her. "For luck," she said, and he nodded again, zombie-like, and walked down the hallway.

Later, he didn't remember walking into the courtroom other than a snapshot glimpse of Morgan's face, his evil blue eyes. He didn't remember anything, in fact, not even Phelps calling him to the stand; he didn't remember walking up there. He remembered nothing until after he was seated, and his hand was on the Bible, as he swore an oath to tell the truth. And then it began to sink in.

David was partially correct. In spite of what the agent had said, Charlie was a victim, but

David was right about one thing - it was time to fight back. He was there representing all of the others who had been attacked by that monster, and he had to make it right. It didn't make him any less terrified; if anything it raised the stakes – but it did make him determined to succeed, or die trying.

The hours of rehearsal with Phelps helped. The D.A. really knew his craft, Charlie realized, as Phelps gently guided him through his testimony. It was, in an odd way, like giving a lecture – one organized one's information, one prepared, rehearsed; then spoke to the audience. When Charlie put it in that light, he was able to set the horror aside a little, as if the terrible story was merely lecture material. He spoke quietly, mostly to the jury, because he couldn't stand looking at Morgan. He was lecturing, and they were attending his lecture. Keep it at arm's distance, keep chugging away, get through the material, stay calm, and don't fall apart. Like a lecture, like a lecture…

Phelps took his time. It took the entire morning to get through Charlie's kidnapping and Joanie Shire's murder at the warehouse; Phelps reintroduced evidence, grisly pictures of the scene, a bloody cord that had been used to bind Joanie, anything physical they had to punctuate Charlie's story. At one point, Charlie shifted his gaze from the jury and it passed over Mike Shire. Silent tears were running down his face, but he looked at Charlie with a fierce encouragement, rooting him on. Charlie took a breath for a moment, his eyes scanning the gallery where the rest of the victims' families were sitting. Grief was apparent in their faces; it had to be so hard for them to hear how their loved ones had died, but there was a light in their eyes similar to Mike Shire's – a light of vindication, a look that said finally, there was someone who would tell the real story to the jury.

The knowledge that they were depending on him suddenly hit home; the burden abruptly felt too heavy to bear, and Charlie faltered.

"Dr. Eppes?" he heard Phelps ask, and Charlie looked at him. "Dr. Eppes, are you all right?"

"Yes," said Charlie. He uttered the word simply to buy time – he wasn't okay, but he was trying to get there. He looked over Phelps' shoulder, caught Parker and Morgan leaning forward slightly, with anticipation, and then Don watching him with concern – and Dad... He pulled himself together - had to get back to the lecture. Had to get back… "Yes, I'm okay. It's just… difficult." He looked at the jury, apologetically, and a large black woman seated in the second row actually nodded at him, encouragingly.

Phelps caught her look, and felt a little thrill run through him. Eppes was perfect – he was extremely expressive, and it was apparent to all that the story was hard for him to tell, but he was holding together, speaking calmly, quietly, his voice shaking sometimes, but only when it was appropriate. Although Phelps was sure it was unintentional, Charlie had the jury eating out of his hand, and Phelps couldn't resist a glance at Parker. Randall Lee looked as though he just eaten something sour, and Morgan – Phelps found himself staring, and caught himself, looking at the jury to see if they had seen it. The look on Morgan's face was shocking. He wasn't angry; he was smiling – leering lopsidedly, his blue eyes lit with an evil predatory glint. He was obviously completely obsessed with the young man on the stand, and Phelps glanced around involuntarily, just to make sure that there was a guard close. Charlie was now composed and waiting, and so, fighting the chill running down his spine, Phelps led Charlie back into his story.

They broke for lunch, and as usual headed back to the prosecution office; the press made it impossible to do anything else. As soon as they were inside, Alan enveloped Charlie in a bear hug, and Amita followed suit with a quick hug of her own. Don gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze, a ghost of a smile on his face, pride in his eyes, although he still appeared sober. There was a lot more testimony to come, and Charlie had yet to face Parker. "You did great, Buddy," he murmured, and Charlie took a deep shaky breath.

The break went quickly. Charlie choked down two bites of a sandwich; it was all he could manage, and all too soon, they were heading back in. He was facing some of the worst parts of the story yet – Albuquerque, and the meatpacking plant at Denver.

The courtroom was buzzing as they came in; the reporters conversing with barely subdued excitement. It was certainly one of the stories of the decade, and they were all realizing how fortunate they were to have been selected to cover it. Once the testimony began again, however, the room fell eerily silent for one so full of people; everyone was hanging on each quiet word that came from the professor's mouth.

As Charlie began to recount his awakening in the hotel room in Albuquerque and his realization that he'd been shaved while asleep, Morgan closed his eyes. He could barely contain himself; the memory of that, of the skin under his fingertips. His eyes flickered open, caressed the professor's face, the jaw line, dropping into the neck, and then under his shirt, his suit jacket, down the chest…

"Wipe that look off your face," Parker hissed. Morgan opened his eyes, and tried to straighten out his features; fortunately, the scar made it difficult to tell if he was smiling or frowning. Several of the jurors were looking at him oddly, some with outright repulsion, and Morgan almost snorted with laughter.

He glanced at Parker, slightly amused. "I thought you said we had this case locked up," he whispered back.

"That was yesterday," Parker whispered back irritably. He frowned, scanning the documents in front of him as he listened, which contained a written version of Charlie's testimony that the prosecution had submitted, looking for holes, for anything in the written statement that conflicted with the verbal testimony that the professor was giving now. So far, there had been nothing.

Morgan scowled a bit at Parker's response, and his gaze flitted back to the jury. He felt the beginnings of real fear start to take root in his stomach, and he took a glance around the courtroom, noting the position of the guards. He needed to start assessing his best opportunities, if this was going bad; there were only a few days of trial left, and he had to solidify his plans. His gaze was arrested as it came to rest on Charlie again. The professor was beginning to talk about waking up in the meatpacking plant in Denver, and Morgan couldn't help himself; he floated back in time, remembering …

Randall Lee Parker pursed his lips, and studied the young man on the stand. Charlie was definitely uncomfortable with much of the testimony – especially this part. That made him vulnerable on the stand, and if Parker could get an edge somehow… He frowned, as Charlie moved on from the attack – there was something missing – he had left something out. Parker looked down at the written testimony, searching through it until he found it. There it was, interesting, now why would he leave that out? Parker wondered. Eppes had completely left out any mention of actions that could have been construed as sexual assault – he'd described being hung from the hook and being beaten until he was unconscious, but that was all. Parker flipped to another document, the list of charges being filed against his client, and looked under the charges listed as sexual assault – there were several on behalf of the female victims, but none on behalf of Charles Eppes. The government had filed charges of kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder on the professor's behalf, but nothing else. Apparently, the professor hadn't wished to press that particular charge, and Parker knew why – he didn't want to discuss it on the stand. Unfortunately for the professor, the prosecution hadn't taken those details out of the sworn statement. That made it fair game for Parker. He sat back in his chair, a grim smile on his face. He had just found his edge.

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End Doc 54