A Different Game 3c:
Walters and Avery looked up from where they were sitting in the attorney-client conference room when Dick and Tim were brought in from the holding cell. "Sit down, boys," Wilson Avery said somberly. The boys exchanged glances and sat down.
"What?" Dick asked, 'now' silently added by his tone.
"Reynolds' next witness will take up the remainder of the afternoon."
"It's his standard Friday afternoon move. He does this in every murder trial," Jon Walters added.
"Does what?" Tim asked, afraid to know the answer, but needing to know at the same time.
Avery continued, "Dr. Chancellor from the Medical Examiner's office will be testifying next. Then Reynolds can send the jury home thinking about the autopsy photos over the weekend."
Dick shook his head as he stood up and walked to the window. Through the barred glass he looked out at his city. A million memories flashed through his mind. Visions of Bruce, and of Batman, flew through his head. His hand pressed against the cool windowpane. Cool. It was September now, Gotham was starting to get cold already. It was hard to believe he and Tim had spent the last part of summer in jail. They had had so many plans. None of them had happened. Time lost was something they could never get back. He sighed and, still looking out on his city, asked, "Autopsy photos?"
"Yes."
"But...but the body was burned," Tim stated shaking his head. He knew they had taken photographs as part of the autopsy, but he hadn't really thought about the fact that they would show those photos in court.
"Which means the pictures will be very hard to take," Wilson Avery said as he placed his hand on Tim's arm.
"Bruce's autopsy photos," Dick said, softly. "Oh my God."
Jon Walters had walked over to Dick. Placing his hands on Dick's shoulders, he said, "Come on, let's go in. We'll be starting any minute."
Dick turned and started for the door, stopping only to wait for Tim. As Wilson started to open the door, Tim said, "Wait a minute!" All eyes turned toward the young boy. "Do we ... do we have to look at..." He couldn't finish his sentence.
Wilson looked at his too young client and responded, "I'm afraid so, Tim. They'll be slides and enlargements for the jury." Wilson looked into Tim's wide blue eyes and sighed. "I'll give you a legal pad when we reach the table. You can look down or write when the pictures are being shown."
Tim shrugged and nodded his head.
Dick's own emotions were churning inside him. He knew these photographs were not the memories of his father he wanted in his mind. He remembered the last time he and Tim had seen Bruce. They had been enjoying each other, spending time with each other, in the study at the Manor. That afternoon. THAT Friday afternoon. Why had they left?
If only they stayed. Bruce had wanted them to stay -- to patrol Gotham with him -- not that he had actually asked in so many words -- but he knew Bruce had wanted them to stay. But they HAD to go to Bludhaven -- HAD to leave him alone -- to do their own thing -- couldn't change their plans to spend a few extra hours with Bruce. GOD! Bruce had left the office early to meet them at the Manor. He WANTED to spend time with them. BUT they wouldn't change their plans. It was their fault, all their fault.
No. It was HIS fault. It was his idea for Tim to spend the weekend with him. He went to Brentwood to pick him up. Tim hadn't spent time a lot of time patrolling with Bruce. Tim might have been more open to spending a couple more hours with Bruce, if he hadn't been so insistent that they go to Bludhaven. It was all his fault.
Dick avoided making eye contact with his group of supporters as he approached the counsel table. He couldn't have them see the guilt in his eyes. He didn't want to see their love and support. He didn't deserve it. It WAS his fault. He might as well be guilty. He grabbed his suit jacket and put it on. As he started to sit down, a strong hand gripped his shoulder. Dick flinched at the touch. It was so similar. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it was Bruce. He needed Bruce.
Clark turned the boy to face him. With his other hand, he lifted Dick's chin, and looked into his eyes. Clark saw that look -- Bruce's look -- the one Bruce got when he blamed himself for everything that was wrong in the world. Why did his son have to be so much like him? Clark sighed. "What's wrong?"
Dick shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing."
Clark looked deep into Dick's eyes, then pulled the boy closer so he could whisper in his ear, "It wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault."
"But --"
"No buts. Understand," Clark said firmly. It wasn't a question, it was an order.
Dick smiled weakly and nodded his head just as the judge reentered the courtroom. Dick turned and stood until the bailiff told them all to be seated. Then, he watched as the jury was herded into the courtroom. He watched as Reynolds called Dr. Karen Chancellor to the stand. Gotham's chief medical examiner was a frail looking woman in her early fifties with wispy blonde hair.
Dick and Tim continued to watch as the district attorney questioned the doctor about her credentials. Tim pulled the legal pad Wilson had given him over to him and scribbled a note. He pushed the pad in front of Dick who looked down at the one word Tim had written: "BORING!!!!" Dick bit his lip to keep from snickering. He looked at Tim and nodded in agreement. Dick was surprised at himself, that he could still find humor in the world.
Their humor soon changed as Reynolds started questioning Chancellor about the particulars of the autopsy.
"Were you able to determine an identity for the body that you examined?" Peter Reynolds asked.
"Yes. My office was able to determine that this was, indeed, the body of Bruce Wayne."
"And how did you make that determination?"
"Through D.N.A. analysis. During the autopsy, we took certain samples from the body -- blood and tissue samples. We contacted Dr. Leslie Thompkins, Mr. Wayne's personal physician, to inquire if she had any samples of Mr. Wayne's D.N.A. which we could use for comparison purposes. Her office was able to provide a blood sample of Mr. Wayne's which we used for comparison purposes. The D.N.A. was a match to a 99.99% degree of certainty."
"And were you able to determine a cause of death for Mr. Wayne?"
"Yes, I was. Mr. Wayne died from multiple stab wounds. Thirty-three to be exact," Dr. Chancellor replied drolly.
"And what type of weapon could have made those wounds?"
"Based upon the depth of penetration, we're talking about a long bladed object. Not something small like a pocket-knife, more like a sword or a large kitchen knife."
"A sword would be consistent with your findings?" Reynolds asked.
"Most definitely. Although the wounds were stabbing, hacking wounds. Like someone was pounding their fist -- only holding a sword or long blade in their fist at the time."
"And the burns on the body, did they contribute to the cause of death?"
"The cause of death were the stab wounds. While it is possible that Mr. Wayne was still alive when his body was set on fire," Dr. Chancellor stated, "the burns and smoke inhalation were not contributing factors to the death."
Dick gripped the arms of his chair as she spoke. He had sat entranced as she spoke describing Bruce's wounds. He had felt the pain. But this last bit of information had been too much. Bruce may have still been alive when -- he felt the bile rising in his throat. He had never imagined -- never thought that -- oh Bruce. He felt like he was going to be sick.
Reynolds continued his examination of the medical examiner. "Doctor, let me show you some enlargements of the autopsy photographs you took and ask you to explain the significance of each to the jury."
Tim's head jerked up and he stared at Reynolds at the mention of the photographs. He had been dreading this part. He pulled his legal pad closer and looked down at the yellow lined paper. He could write -- something -- anything. Anything to keep from looking. He stared at the lines on the paper as he picked up the pen. He listened as Dr. Chancellor described each wound in detail. Tim found he couldn't write, his hand wouldn't cooperate, so he just looked at the black lines on the yellow paper. He turned the pad to it's side and stared at the lines. They were bars staring back at him.
***********************************************************************
Barbara sighed as she lifted herself onto her bed. The trial was over. At least for the weekend. It had been a hell of a week. She laid back on her pillow and looked at Dick's picture on her bedside table. He has such a wonderful smile. She worried she would never see that smile again. Slowly, she reached out to that photograph. She lifted the frame from the table and pulled it to her, and hugged it tightly to her chest.
Dinah walked into the room and over to the bed. She sat on the side of the bed. "Hon, it'll be --"
"Don't say it Dinah," Babs said with a lump in her throat. "Don't. It's not going to be okay. It's never going to be okay again."
Dinah hated this. She wanted to say something comforting to her friend. She wanted to go break something or someone, because she felt Barbara was right. How could one day of testimony totally destroy their hopes? And it wasn't over yet. That's what they had to keep in mind, it wasn't over yet.
***********************************************************************
"Alfred, why don't you sit down?" Leslie asked as she watched him cleaning her kitchen counters.
"I have been sitting all day. I need to stay busy," he replied.
"Alfred," she sighed, "you need -- "
"No Leslie," he said firmly. "I know you think I to rest. Believe me, I do not. I have to do something to feel useful. Cleaning your kitchen makes me useful."
"You don't have to clean to be useful," she replied.
"I wasn't very useful in court this morning," he said as he stopped rubbing the counter.
Leslie stood from her kitchen table and walked over to him. With a gentle hand, she took his face and turned it towards her. "You did what you had to. Dick understands. Tim too."
"But I don't Leslie. I don't understand why I couldn't have said no."
"Because you and I both know that you couldn't lie. If you could, you wouldn't be the Alfred Pennyworth we all know and love."
"And that fact may have cost our boys their lives. We've already lost Bruce. Can we bear to lose them as well?" he asked through tied eyes.
***********************************************************************
Tim sat cross legged on his bunk shuffling the deck of cards. He would look up at Dick and then look back down at the cards. Dick was lying on his bunk, his arms under his head, staring at the ceiling. "You wanna play something?" Tim asked as he continued to shuffle.
"Not now."
"Okay," Tim said as he started dealing solitaire on his bunk.
A prisoner on the clean-up crew stopped at their cell, a mop in his hand. "You know, you two been ruining everyone else's T.V. Ain't nuthin' else on."
"Sorry for the inconvenience." Dick replied, never looking at the cell door.
Tim turned his eyes toward Dick and snickered as the prisoner moved on grumbling under his breath. Dick involuntarily started laughing along with Tim. Soon they were rolling with laughter. Tim, who had long fell over his face near the foot of his bunk, asked, "What's so funny?"
"Hell if I know Tim," Dick replied holding his aching middle as he tried to sit up. "Nothing and everything. We needed the release."
"Play something with me."
"Okay," Dick said as he moved onto Tim's bunk and picked up the newly discarded deck of cards. "You know, there's got to be a better way to spend a Saturday."
"I know there is," Tim replied as he picked up his cards, his mind thinking of all the things he and Dick could be doing. They could be running through training simulations, practicing and preparing for their nightly flights over the city. So many things they could be doing. "You think we'll be monopolizing the T.V. today? I mean it's Saturday."
Dick looked at Tim, "Afraid you'll miss X-men?"
"I do NOT watch cartoons.," Tim said indignantly.
"Sure ya' don't. Doesn't matter anyway, C-Block doesn't get to the rec room until this afternoon."
"Darn it!"
"Told you."
"I don't watch cartoons."
"Do too."
"Do not."
"Too."
"NOT!"
"Whatever."
***********************************************************************
Roy Harper entered the jail through the Visitors' gate and walked to the line at the window. Roy was used to this and he knew that was not a good thing. As he reached the window, he was asked, "Prisoner you're here to see?"
"Richard Grayson."
The guard hit the button on the intercom, "C-Block, bring Grayson to the visitors' room." He handed Roy the log book to sign in and directed him to the door to the visitors room.
Roy waited as the heavy steel door slid open so he could enter. He shoved his hands in his pockets as the door closed behind him. A guard pointed to an empty cubicle and he went and sat waiting for Dick to be brought in.
***********************************************************************
A guard came to the cell door, "Grayson, you have a visitor."
"You get more visitors than I do."
Dick looked at Tim as he stood up laying his cards face down on the bunk. "Don't cheat."
"Me?" Tim asked innocently as Dick left the cell.
As Dick entered the prisoner's side of the visitation room, he saw Roy Harper sitting at the first cubicle. He smiled as he walked over. "Hey," he said as he took his seat.
"How are ya' doing, man?"
"Okay. Hey, if I haven't said it before, I wanted to thank you for being here. You and Wally and Donna. It's really meant a lot to me that you'd be here for this. Thanks."
"Robbie, where else would we be. When one of us in trouble, we're all there to help. And that's what we're planning on doing. Helping you and Tim."
"Your support is helping."
Roy rolled his eyes at Dick's comment and with a wide grin said, "We were thinking it might be more helpful to be a little... hands-on."
Dick raised an eyebrow as he looked at Roy and leaned closer to the glass, "What are you talking about?"
Roy leaned closer too, so they could whisper, "Wally and I are getting you two outta here tonight. You tell me when. When's the best time to do this?"
"Have you lost your mind?" Dick asked. "You're talking about a jail break. You can't do this."
"Yes we can," Roy said plainly, "We certainly have the capabilities. And it's not like we haven't gotten people out of tight spots before."
"You're not going to do this. Wally's not going to do this. Donna would have your hides if she knew what you were planning."
"Donna's in agreement with this," Roy said firmly.
Dick's eyes grew wide. "What? What are you thinking? If we were to go along with this crazy plan of yours, Tim and I would look guilty."
"Dammit! Were you in court yesterday? I was. You two already look guilty!" Roy replied with anger in his tone.
Dick sighed as he leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, Roy, I was there. I know yesterday was bad. But it was just the first day. Tim and I talked last night. We were upset too. But we're innocent. We didn't kill Bruce. And they can't prove we did."
"YES. They. Can. And they're doing a good job of it. And you can't prove you didn't do it! Dick you can't seriously -- "
"Look Roy, you can't do this. I won't let you. The three of you have been in that courtroom everyday last week. It's not like your identities are secret. If Tim and I were to just disappear, you three would be implicated."
"You don't know that for sure, Robbie," Roy countered.
"Forget it, Bowhead, I'm not going to let you do that."
Roy shook his head as he listened to his longtime friend.. "Wake up and smell the blood Robbie: it's yours!" Roy's eyes burned with a fire of determination when he spoke. He leaned closer to the glass, his jaw set, "Robbie, when this trial goes south on you -- and it WILL, dude -- if you WON'T do something then we Titans will. Together. No way are we gonna just sit back and watch these bastards set you up for slaughter."
Watching as Roy left the visitor's room, his voice echoed in Dick's ear, "Wake up and smell the blood Robbie: it's yours!"
to be continued ...
Walters and Avery looked up from where they were sitting in the attorney-client conference room when Dick and Tim were brought in from the holding cell. "Sit down, boys," Wilson Avery said somberly. The boys exchanged glances and sat down.
"What?" Dick asked, 'now' silently added by his tone.
"Reynolds' next witness will take up the remainder of the afternoon."
"It's his standard Friday afternoon move. He does this in every murder trial," Jon Walters added.
"Does what?" Tim asked, afraid to know the answer, but needing to know at the same time.
Avery continued, "Dr. Chancellor from the Medical Examiner's office will be testifying next. Then Reynolds can send the jury home thinking about the autopsy photos over the weekend."
Dick shook his head as he stood up and walked to the window. Through the barred glass he looked out at his city. A million memories flashed through his mind. Visions of Bruce, and of Batman, flew through his head. His hand pressed against the cool windowpane. Cool. It was September now, Gotham was starting to get cold already. It was hard to believe he and Tim had spent the last part of summer in jail. They had had so many plans. None of them had happened. Time lost was something they could never get back. He sighed and, still looking out on his city, asked, "Autopsy photos?"
"Yes."
"But...but the body was burned," Tim stated shaking his head. He knew they had taken photographs as part of the autopsy, but he hadn't really thought about the fact that they would show those photos in court.
"Which means the pictures will be very hard to take," Wilson Avery said as he placed his hand on Tim's arm.
"Bruce's autopsy photos," Dick said, softly. "Oh my God."
Jon Walters had walked over to Dick. Placing his hands on Dick's shoulders, he said, "Come on, let's go in. We'll be starting any minute."
Dick turned and started for the door, stopping only to wait for Tim. As Wilson started to open the door, Tim said, "Wait a minute!" All eyes turned toward the young boy. "Do we ... do we have to look at..." He couldn't finish his sentence.
Wilson looked at his too young client and responded, "I'm afraid so, Tim. They'll be slides and enlargements for the jury." Wilson looked into Tim's wide blue eyes and sighed. "I'll give you a legal pad when we reach the table. You can look down or write when the pictures are being shown."
Tim shrugged and nodded his head.
Dick's own emotions were churning inside him. He knew these photographs were not the memories of his father he wanted in his mind. He remembered the last time he and Tim had seen Bruce. They had been enjoying each other, spending time with each other, in the study at the Manor. That afternoon. THAT Friday afternoon. Why had they left?
If only they stayed. Bruce had wanted them to stay -- to patrol Gotham with him -- not that he had actually asked in so many words -- but he knew Bruce had wanted them to stay. But they HAD to go to Bludhaven -- HAD to leave him alone -- to do their own thing -- couldn't change their plans to spend a few extra hours with Bruce. GOD! Bruce had left the office early to meet them at the Manor. He WANTED to spend time with them. BUT they wouldn't change their plans. It was their fault, all their fault.
No. It was HIS fault. It was his idea for Tim to spend the weekend with him. He went to Brentwood to pick him up. Tim hadn't spent time a lot of time patrolling with Bruce. Tim might have been more open to spending a couple more hours with Bruce, if he hadn't been so insistent that they go to Bludhaven. It was all his fault.
Dick avoided making eye contact with his group of supporters as he approached the counsel table. He couldn't have them see the guilt in his eyes. He didn't want to see their love and support. He didn't deserve it. It WAS his fault. He might as well be guilty. He grabbed his suit jacket and put it on. As he started to sit down, a strong hand gripped his shoulder. Dick flinched at the touch. It was so similar. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it was Bruce. He needed Bruce.
Clark turned the boy to face him. With his other hand, he lifted Dick's chin, and looked into his eyes. Clark saw that look -- Bruce's look -- the one Bruce got when he blamed himself for everything that was wrong in the world. Why did his son have to be so much like him? Clark sighed. "What's wrong?"
Dick shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing."
Clark looked deep into Dick's eyes, then pulled the boy closer so he could whisper in his ear, "It wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault."
"But --"
"No buts. Understand," Clark said firmly. It wasn't a question, it was an order.
Dick smiled weakly and nodded his head just as the judge reentered the courtroom. Dick turned and stood until the bailiff told them all to be seated. Then, he watched as the jury was herded into the courtroom. He watched as Reynolds called Dr. Karen Chancellor to the stand. Gotham's chief medical examiner was a frail looking woman in her early fifties with wispy blonde hair.
Dick and Tim continued to watch as the district attorney questioned the doctor about her credentials. Tim pulled the legal pad Wilson had given him over to him and scribbled a note. He pushed the pad in front of Dick who looked down at the one word Tim had written: "BORING!!!!" Dick bit his lip to keep from snickering. He looked at Tim and nodded in agreement. Dick was surprised at himself, that he could still find humor in the world.
Their humor soon changed as Reynolds started questioning Chancellor about the particulars of the autopsy.
"Were you able to determine an identity for the body that you examined?" Peter Reynolds asked.
"Yes. My office was able to determine that this was, indeed, the body of Bruce Wayne."
"And how did you make that determination?"
"Through D.N.A. analysis. During the autopsy, we took certain samples from the body -- blood and tissue samples. We contacted Dr. Leslie Thompkins, Mr. Wayne's personal physician, to inquire if she had any samples of Mr. Wayne's D.N.A. which we could use for comparison purposes. Her office was able to provide a blood sample of Mr. Wayne's which we used for comparison purposes. The D.N.A. was a match to a 99.99% degree of certainty."
"And were you able to determine a cause of death for Mr. Wayne?"
"Yes, I was. Mr. Wayne died from multiple stab wounds. Thirty-three to be exact," Dr. Chancellor replied drolly.
"And what type of weapon could have made those wounds?"
"Based upon the depth of penetration, we're talking about a long bladed object. Not something small like a pocket-knife, more like a sword or a large kitchen knife."
"A sword would be consistent with your findings?" Reynolds asked.
"Most definitely. Although the wounds were stabbing, hacking wounds. Like someone was pounding their fist -- only holding a sword or long blade in their fist at the time."
"And the burns on the body, did they contribute to the cause of death?"
"The cause of death were the stab wounds. While it is possible that Mr. Wayne was still alive when his body was set on fire," Dr. Chancellor stated, "the burns and smoke inhalation were not contributing factors to the death."
Dick gripped the arms of his chair as she spoke. He had sat entranced as she spoke describing Bruce's wounds. He had felt the pain. But this last bit of information had been too much. Bruce may have still been alive when -- he felt the bile rising in his throat. He had never imagined -- never thought that -- oh Bruce. He felt like he was going to be sick.
Reynolds continued his examination of the medical examiner. "Doctor, let me show you some enlargements of the autopsy photographs you took and ask you to explain the significance of each to the jury."
Tim's head jerked up and he stared at Reynolds at the mention of the photographs. He had been dreading this part. He pulled his legal pad closer and looked down at the yellow lined paper. He could write -- something -- anything. Anything to keep from looking. He stared at the lines on the paper as he picked up the pen. He listened as Dr. Chancellor described each wound in detail. Tim found he couldn't write, his hand wouldn't cooperate, so he just looked at the black lines on the yellow paper. He turned the pad to it's side and stared at the lines. They were bars staring back at him.
***********************************************************************
Barbara sighed as she lifted herself onto her bed. The trial was over. At least for the weekend. It had been a hell of a week. She laid back on her pillow and looked at Dick's picture on her bedside table. He has such a wonderful smile. She worried she would never see that smile again. Slowly, she reached out to that photograph. She lifted the frame from the table and pulled it to her, and hugged it tightly to her chest.
Dinah walked into the room and over to the bed. She sat on the side of the bed. "Hon, it'll be --"
"Don't say it Dinah," Babs said with a lump in her throat. "Don't. It's not going to be okay. It's never going to be okay again."
Dinah hated this. She wanted to say something comforting to her friend. She wanted to go break something or someone, because she felt Barbara was right. How could one day of testimony totally destroy their hopes? And it wasn't over yet. That's what they had to keep in mind, it wasn't over yet.
***********************************************************************
"Alfred, why don't you sit down?" Leslie asked as she watched him cleaning her kitchen counters.
"I have been sitting all day. I need to stay busy," he replied.
"Alfred," she sighed, "you need -- "
"No Leslie," he said firmly. "I know you think I to rest. Believe me, I do not. I have to do something to feel useful. Cleaning your kitchen makes me useful."
"You don't have to clean to be useful," she replied.
"I wasn't very useful in court this morning," he said as he stopped rubbing the counter.
Leslie stood from her kitchen table and walked over to him. With a gentle hand, she took his face and turned it towards her. "You did what you had to. Dick understands. Tim too."
"But I don't Leslie. I don't understand why I couldn't have said no."
"Because you and I both know that you couldn't lie. If you could, you wouldn't be the Alfred Pennyworth we all know and love."
"And that fact may have cost our boys their lives. We've already lost Bruce. Can we bear to lose them as well?" he asked through tied eyes.
***********************************************************************
Tim sat cross legged on his bunk shuffling the deck of cards. He would look up at Dick and then look back down at the cards. Dick was lying on his bunk, his arms under his head, staring at the ceiling. "You wanna play something?" Tim asked as he continued to shuffle.
"Not now."
"Okay," Tim said as he started dealing solitaire on his bunk.
A prisoner on the clean-up crew stopped at their cell, a mop in his hand. "You know, you two been ruining everyone else's T.V. Ain't nuthin' else on."
"Sorry for the inconvenience." Dick replied, never looking at the cell door.
Tim turned his eyes toward Dick and snickered as the prisoner moved on grumbling under his breath. Dick involuntarily started laughing along with Tim. Soon they were rolling with laughter. Tim, who had long fell over his face near the foot of his bunk, asked, "What's so funny?"
"Hell if I know Tim," Dick replied holding his aching middle as he tried to sit up. "Nothing and everything. We needed the release."
"Play something with me."
"Okay," Dick said as he moved onto Tim's bunk and picked up the newly discarded deck of cards. "You know, there's got to be a better way to spend a Saturday."
"I know there is," Tim replied as he picked up his cards, his mind thinking of all the things he and Dick could be doing. They could be running through training simulations, practicing and preparing for their nightly flights over the city. So many things they could be doing. "You think we'll be monopolizing the T.V. today? I mean it's Saturday."
Dick looked at Tim, "Afraid you'll miss X-men?"
"I do NOT watch cartoons.," Tim said indignantly.
"Sure ya' don't. Doesn't matter anyway, C-Block doesn't get to the rec room until this afternoon."
"Darn it!"
"Told you."
"I don't watch cartoons."
"Do too."
"Do not."
"Too."
"NOT!"
"Whatever."
***********************************************************************
Roy Harper entered the jail through the Visitors' gate and walked to the line at the window. Roy was used to this and he knew that was not a good thing. As he reached the window, he was asked, "Prisoner you're here to see?"
"Richard Grayson."
The guard hit the button on the intercom, "C-Block, bring Grayson to the visitors' room." He handed Roy the log book to sign in and directed him to the door to the visitors room.
Roy waited as the heavy steel door slid open so he could enter. He shoved his hands in his pockets as the door closed behind him. A guard pointed to an empty cubicle and he went and sat waiting for Dick to be brought in.
***********************************************************************
A guard came to the cell door, "Grayson, you have a visitor."
"You get more visitors than I do."
Dick looked at Tim as he stood up laying his cards face down on the bunk. "Don't cheat."
"Me?" Tim asked innocently as Dick left the cell.
As Dick entered the prisoner's side of the visitation room, he saw Roy Harper sitting at the first cubicle. He smiled as he walked over. "Hey," he said as he took his seat.
"How are ya' doing, man?"
"Okay. Hey, if I haven't said it before, I wanted to thank you for being here. You and Wally and Donna. It's really meant a lot to me that you'd be here for this. Thanks."
"Robbie, where else would we be. When one of us in trouble, we're all there to help. And that's what we're planning on doing. Helping you and Tim."
"Your support is helping."
Roy rolled his eyes at Dick's comment and with a wide grin said, "We were thinking it might be more helpful to be a little... hands-on."
Dick raised an eyebrow as he looked at Roy and leaned closer to the glass, "What are you talking about?"
Roy leaned closer too, so they could whisper, "Wally and I are getting you two outta here tonight. You tell me when. When's the best time to do this?"
"Have you lost your mind?" Dick asked. "You're talking about a jail break. You can't do this."
"Yes we can," Roy said plainly, "We certainly have the capabilities. And it's not like we haven't gotten people out of tight spots before."
"You're not going to do this. Wally's not going to do this. Donna would have your hides if she knew what you were planning."
"Donna's in agreement with this," Roy said firmly.
Dick's eyes grew wide. "What? What are you thinking? If we were to go along with this crazy plan of yours, Tim and I would look guilty."
"Dammit! Were you in court yesterday? I was. You two already look guilty!" Roy replied with anger in his tone.
Dick sighed as he leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, Roy, I was there. I know yesterday was bad. But it was just the first day. Tim and I talked last night. We were upset too. But we're innocent. We didn't kill Bruce. And they can't prove we did."
"YES. They. Can. And they're doing a good job of it. And you can't prove you didn't do it! Dick you can't seriously -- "
"Look Roy, you can't do this. I won't let you. The three of you have been in that courtroom everyday last week. It's not like your identities are secret. If Tim and I were to just disappear, you three would be implicated."
"You don't know that for sure, Robbie," Roy countered.
"Forget it, Bowhead, I'm not going to let you do that."
Roy shook his head as he listened to his longtime friend.. "Wake up and smell the blood Robbie: it's yours!" Roy's eyes burned with a fire of determination when he spoke. He leaned closer to the glass, his jaw set, "Robbie, when this trial goes south on you -- and it WILL, dude -- if you WON'T do something then we Titans will. Together. No way are we gonna just sit back and watch these bastards set you up for slaughter."
Watching as Roy left the visitor's room, his voice echoed in Dick's ear, "Wake up and smell the blood Robbie: it's yours!"
to be continued ...
