So Cold The Knight

by Asp

Michael and Kitt find their world in turmoil when they are called to testify for a defendant they're trying to put behind bars. Section 2 posted

1. The Investigation

Knight Rider characters copyright Glen A Larson
All other characters copyright P E Cameron.
So Cold The Night copyright 1986 London Records Ltd
Rated: R for language and adult situations
A/N: This fic includes a mild, non-graphic rape scene.
I would also like to thank my wife, Tomy, for the beta read, and understanding, and Vega, for helping me get out of the corners I enjoy writing myself into.

So Cold the Knight
by Asp

I watch your window
I shake so scared
spying form my room
with nervous unrest
night after night your fingers caressing
the skin that is so fair, you slowly undress
soon we will be together
until then so cold the night
~The Communards

Part 1 The Investigation

"Do we have enough on this guy, Kitt?" Michael was referring to the suspect they had been following for three days. The case they were on was, for them, a relatively simple one. A drug dealer, who doubled as a pimp, but used his drugs to keep his stable of girls under control. One of the girls, having kept herself as straight as possible, wanted out. Unfortunately, the overworked, understaffed, police department of Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, didn't waste two seconds of their time with her. They had much bigger fish to fry. Murderers, rapists, kidnappers, and the likes.

It was a simple decision for Michael. She called, he answered. The country didn't matter to him. Nor to FLAG.

What Michael Knight wanted to know from his partner, Kitt, was if they had enough evidence for a search warrant. FLAG had contacts in the region, so Kitt could therefor produce one from his printer, signed by a local judge.

"Yes, Michael. I'm in the process of producing it now. The British Columbian judicial system uses a quite different warrant than what we are used to. It will take me a few minutes."

Michael frowned, looking into the rearview mirror at his reflection, seeing again the deep scar along his cheek. An old scar, causing his face to take on a menacing cast. His thoughts drifted to the woman who for the past year had looked past the scar and the bravado of him, and saw the real man beneath. The woman, Secretary of State Shirley Johnstone, and he had fallen in love, deeper than Michael had ever thought possible again. It had been a decade since Stevie had died in his arms, and he had a number of casual, and intense relationships since. One of the latter giving him the disfiguring scar. But nothing since Stevie had been real. Not until Shirley. He had once again found a reason for his living, outside of his work.

Kitt's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Michael, the warrant is ready now. Would you like to wait for the local authorities to arrive? This is after all, as you say, their turf."

"No buddy, I want to make sure we've got everything we need before we call in the cops. Where's the transponder we planted on him say he is?" The suspects car had been bugged with a small transponder that transmitted a locator beacon that only Kitt's special equipment could pick up.

"He is still on the East Side, Michael. Apparently making his rounds." The distaste was evident in Kitt's voice.

Michael opened his door, stood beside the car and leaned in the open window. "Okay. I'm going in. Keep your eyes peeled." Kitt didn't even dignify the unnecessary comment with a response.

The tall man walked casually to the Brownstone, taking the three porch steps in one. Stopping at the door, blocking his motion with his body, he began to expertly pick the lock. He could have had his partner do it, in less time in fact, but Michael liked being self reliant. A minute later he let himself into the handsome house.

He was standing in a large two story foyer. Ivory marble floor, with matching marble tiles, used as wainscotting up to four feet from the floor. The walls were painted in a pale green, the entire ceiling a golden yellow. The colours all merged and swooned together in the mirrored hallway doors. It was extravagant, but done with class. He moved forward down the hall, his sneakers whispering on the tile. To the left was a living room, off white leather furniture, sky blue carpeting, with a raised section holding a baby grand piano. The first thing he noticed was the lid was up on the piano, and there was no dust. Who was this guy? How did a guy in such a sleazy life have the class and discernment to not only furnish a house like this; that could just be the decorator, but to obviously enjoy the contents. Michael shook his head as he went straight ahead into the kitchen. More marble, this time in greys and browns, stainless steel appliances, granite counter top, with well polished oak cabinetry.

Michael started his search in this room. The kitchen is the most used room in almost very household, so most people keep their everyday stuff handy in drawers there. For most people, that would mean bills, keys, first aid kits, etcetera. For Jason Miller, their suspect, it would mean a stash of heroin, crack, whatever drugs he dished. He looked through the drawers first, then moved to cupboards. Well organised for layout, everything having a place, and everything in it's place. Glasses, dishes, pots and pans. Michael had searched behind every door thoroughly. All except one. He smiled as he thought of his almost oversight. The cabinet above the refrigerator. Nothing useful is ever stored there. The perfect place to put something you don't want accidentally found. He moved a few object d'art from the top of the fridge, the opened the doors wide. He smiled again. An ice cold smile. He hated drugs. Hated them with a vengeance. To many good lives were ruined by them. To many people damned to a life of poverty on the streets, because of sick bastards like this one. He did a quick inventory, estimating over a million dollars worth of product at street price. The cabinet was full to bursting.

At long last he spoke. "Kitt, take a picture of all of this for me will you? Then scan it, give me a complete inventory." The ice in his voice made him sound harsh toward his partner. He wasn't worried about that though. They had been together for too many years for Kitt to not know how this would be affecting him.

Finishing in the kitchen, he went down a small hallway to a back set of stairs. One set leading up, the other down. He chose down. More for convenience than anything else. Start at the bottom, work your way up. Then if you had to run, always a possibility, you were running with an height advantage. In the basement, he found nothing noteworthy. He started making his way up the main staircase when his commlink beeped at him. "Yeah Kitt, what is it?"

"Michael, Jason Miller's car is approaching. He is exactly two point four miles away. ETA six minutes."

"Thanks buddy. We've got enough now anyway. I'm just gonna make one last sweep, make sure everything is back where it belongs."

"Be quick, Michael."

He ignored the comment as he made his way quickly back down to the basement. Looking carefully but quickly at everything in the area, he made his way to the back staircase, climbing the stairs three at a time. At the landing, he turned toward the kitchen. As he did, he noticed a panel in the wall. It was loose a crack. He pulled it out, slowly, carefully. It came easily. It was meant to. Behind it was a large stainless steel door. A large freezer by the thermometer imbedded in the door. Hesitating for only a second, Michael pulled the door open, bracing himself for whatever he might find.

It swung easily on well oiled hinges. The smell caught him immediately. He glanced inside quickly, closing the door, then pushing the panel back into place. He checked his watch. Two minutes. He moved silently back to the front hall, letting himself out the door. "Kitt, lock this for me will you?"

"Done, Michael. Hurry, they're almost here."

He jogged over to his car, the door swinging open automatically for him. Settling himself into the seat, Michael told Kitt to call the police.

His voice worried his partner. "What is it? What did you find in there?"

"Our client, Kitt. In a large walk-in freezer. I couldn't tell from what, whether she froze to death, or was shot. Just that she was dead. How long?"

Kitt knew that he was being asked for an ETA for the police. "Twelve minutes."

"Good. We'll wait until they get here, then we're gonna bust this guys balls. We're taking him all the way down, Kitt." As he finished his vehemency, their target pulled up in his classic Jaguar E-type. British Racing Green, long hood, sensual curves. The car had a custom lemon coloured interior. The car made Michael think of a Sprite label. The lemon and the lime, intertwined, almost as if in a dance. The car suited it's owner. Flamboyant, conflicting statements of power, class, and the obviousness that was lacking in the house, of coming from the East Side. A Lexus sedan followed behind, carrying Miller's enforcers. His bodyguards.

The police arrived exactly when Kitt had said they would. Michael walked up to the first cop out of a car, handing over the search warrant, informing him of the body. The cop, a Sergeant, slid back into his car, getting immediately on the radio. The warrant looked all right, but this guy wasn't a cop, wasn't even a Canadian citizen. He wanted instructions. God knew that a case as large as this, with a suspect with as much money as this one had, everything had to be done precisely by the book. And here was this loner with a hot rod, already screwing things up. The Sergeant had known about Miller for a long time, knew his prior rap sheet, knew his business now. Problem was, there was never any way to prove it. If they got a witness, then that witness either disappeared, or just shut up. Now, grudgingly, the Sergeant had to admit, they had a case. No witnesses needed. A ton of drugs, and a corpse. That would be a twenty-five to life sentence. The radio crackled back to life, breaking his line of thought. He stepped out of the car, looking up at the man who had called him.

"Mr. Knight. You obviously have some very well placed friends up here. I've just been told to have you accompany me. But, here's the game plan. We're going to execute your search warrant, acting on the premise that we have no idea what we will find. 'Kay?"

"Sure. We can do that. Whatever it takes for Miller to be incarcerated. I don't care."

The Sergeant didn't make another comment. Just shrugged and walked for the front door. They rang the doorbell. Waiting for an answer, he looked at the lock. It had been picked. The marks were obvious to a trained eye. Cursing silently to himself for some people's ineptitude, he grabbed his nightstick. Hammering repeatedly on the door with it, until it finally opened unexpectedly. The Sergeant was able to stop the stick from crashing into a forehead, just in time.

Holding the search warrant, and his identification folder out in front of him, he barged into the front hall. He noticed none of what Michael had seen only half an hour earlier. Instead he waved his men, four other officers, into the direction he wanted them to search. Miller came walking casually down the curved, oak banistered, staircase from the second floor. He was dressed like royalty, red silk dressing gown, gold brocade shirt, black slacks, cuffed at the bottom, with triple pleats at the front of the waist. He had a tumbler of a clear liquid in front of him, carried tenderly in his right hand, his left gripping the banister. Maybe too hard, as the Sergeant noticed the knuckles turning white.

"I would like to see your search warrant please. And your identification." Sergeant Dean Anderson handed both documents over silently. Watching as Miller perused them. "Sergeant Anderson, I presume that I am permitted to make a phone call while you and your men are ransacking my house?" Anderson nodded. "Good, then I will call the judge of record on this warrant, and have this entire fiasco called off."

"Go ahead, Miller. Judge Ramses can't be bought by you. But hey, you go right ahead and try." Michael had tried to keep quiet, after all, this was the Sergeant's show. But the arrogant prick thought he could do whatever he wanted. It had been guys like this that kept Michael working, long after he thought it was time to quit.

Miller looked down the last stair at the scarred man. He appraised him immediately. Large, muscled, but past his prime. No match for any of his men. Just another fly to be swatted out of the way. "And you are?"

"Your nightmare."

"Cute. But I need a name, and identification. Otherwise, you can leave my house."

Michael handed over his Foundation ID. Slightly smirking as he did so. Up here, people might associate a title like Foundation for Law And Government as a part of the FBI, or whatever. And he didn't want to ruin that possible image.

"And what is your interest in all of this, Mr. Knight?"

"I'm the guy who put together all of the evidence that's on the search warrant. The Sergeant here is just being nice enough to let me be in on the search. You'll notice that my name is on the warrant. That it was issued to me. Which means, I'm not going anywhere," Michael finished with menace in his voice.

Michael and Sergeant Anderson went into the kitchen. Two of the officers were already rummaging through the cupboards. Anderson moved the little statues from above the fridge, opened the cupboard door. A sidelong glance at Knight, then he spoke. "Nothing. It's empty."

"Of course it is," replied Michael. "What did you expect? There's several cops outside their door for twenty minutes, you think they're not gonna stash everything away? Come on. Down here." They walked down the hallway he had ventured into earlier. "See this panel here? It pops open, like this."

The panel slid open, Anderson studied the shining door behind. With one hand on the handle, he turned to look at Michael. "What d'you think the odds are that all the evidence is stashed in here now?"

"Not easy to see it, and, it's not on any blueprints of the place. I'd say pretty good."

Anderson pulled on the handle, the door swinging out. As soon as it was completely open, Anderson yelled to one of the cops, "Detain Miller! Don't cuff him yet, just make sure he doesn't go anywhere!"

The officer nodded his head, walking to the living room. Michael watched him go, knowing that in LA, Miller would already be read his Miranda warning, and thrown in a squad. He figured they had a different way of doing things here. "What's the deal?" he asked Anderson.

"Since we don't have an arrest warrant, we need to wait to see if we can prove that this body, one of his girls, in his freezer, in his house, was put there by him. If we can find one piece of evidence to say that, then we won't need an arrest warrant. So, we wait."

Michael was beside himself. "That's ridiculous! As you just said, it's his girl, his freezer, his house. His hidden freezer in fact. What the hell are you waiting for?"

"Mr. Knight, I am being very patient with you. Don't try that patience, I'm not known for it. Now, maybe that's how they do things down in LA, or even on the movies, but maybe, that's also why the LA District Attorney's office is constantly losing cases it should win. Technicalities. They're a bitch, but we have to play one hundred percent by the rules, or we don't play at all. Especially on a big case like this one. This guy's well connected, been fallootin' around with the higher society crowds. is arrest is gonna be big press. Fuckin' reporters." Anderson walked away from the freezer, pulling out his cell phone.

Michael heard him ask for a crime scene unit. Knight knew better than to go into the freezer, and he figured Kitt could scan the body from this distance, ten feet. "Partner?" he whispered into the commlink. "Can you get any fingerprints off the body?"

"No. Unfortunately, the cold temperatures cause the skin to prickle, making it necessary to use powder to lift the prints. I'm sorry, Michael."

"That's alright, buddy. Work on it though, okay?"

"Of course."

An hour later, a tired group of people, all in blue windbreakers with CSU on the back arrived. This was this team's third call of the day. Already at seven hours, and this scene promised at least four more. The lead investigator, a tall red headed woman, freckled face and arms, cigarette unlit at the side of her mouth. "What's up Andy?" Michael noticed her voice was what eighty grit sandpaper would sound like if it could talk.

Andy, Sergeant Anderson, explained the details to her, then introduced her as Sergeant-Detective Rotenwiler to Michael. "Rotty, or dog to my friends. For now, you can call me Detective."

He laughed as he shook her hand. "Very well Detective. Anything I can do to help you here?"

While they had been talking the rest of the team had begun the gruesome task of examining the body, and the immediate surroundings. One officer was drawing a detailed diagram, showing every object, in scale, in the area of the body. Another was videotaping the entire house. When the videographer was in the freezer, he cursed at the officer taking the still shots. The flash was disrupting the picture. There was yet another, a woman, inspecting the body closely, behind the ears, in the mouth, until she came to something under the nails. Using her penknife, she carefully scraped the material from under the index nail of the left hand into a small brown paper bag. The bag was folded, then taped securely, and then stapled, before it went into a ziploc evidence bag. Biological material, such as skin, blood, and even hair, can be corrupted by staying in plastic for too long. That's why the paper bag.

She stood up, slowly walking over to Rotenwiler, waving the bag. "Got what looks like skin from under the nails. Could be anyone's though. It'll take a couple of weeks before the lab can give us a prelim."

Michael stepped forward, eyeing the bag. Realizing the use he could be, he offered his, and Kitt's services.

"You can what?" The investigator with the bag was Corporal Wendy Jones, known as Bloom County.

"Bloom County?" Michael laughed. "I probably don't want to know. Okay, we go out to my car, And my partner analyzes it and we have a prelim in about ten minutes. But, and here's the great part, we can have a match in five, if we take a hair from Miller's brush, and give that to Kitt to analyze as well. All he has to do is compare microscopic strands, and we'll know for sure."

"Sounds hard to believe, Mr. Knight..."

"Michael, please."

"Okay, Michael. We'll do it. But, I'll need to sign the evidence out of the log first." Evidence, from the moment it's gathered to the end of it's existence had to be meticulously kept track of. Every person who touched it, for what reason, and where it went. All had to be marked in a log book.

Rotenwiler had gone upstairs to the bedroom to acquire the hair sample. Michael and Jones were waiting in the front hall. He led the two women, with Anderson in tow, to Kitt. Opening the door, he asked for the samples. Kitt slid out his specimen tray and Michael dropped the hair in. He then opened the bag and released a small amount of the skin particles into the tray as well. "Do your best, Kitt." The tray slid into place.

The three police were still wondering what the hell was going on when Kitt spoke. "Michael, it appears on the surface that the DNA does not match closely."

"Shit!" exclaimed Anderson.

"I wasn't quite finished yet, Sergeant Anderson. As I was saying, on the surface, it doesn't appear to be a match, but that is because the hair supplied is not Jason Miller's. The dandruff attached to it is a perfect match to the skin's DNA. Further analyses would be needed for a one hundred percent guarantee, however."

"God damned! Okay, time to arrest Miller." Anderson started walking back toward the house.

Rotenwiler caught his arm, spun him back around to face her. Glancing at Michael, she said in a low voice, "Andy, we only have the say so of...of a car. You can't arrest a suspect on that basis."

"Detective Rotenwiler, I am not just a car. I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand. I am, for your purposes a mobile crime unit. I can take images of fingerprints from most surfaces, analyze objects such as those I have just completed, and many other useful functions to aid you in your investigation."

Michael laughed as Kitt rebuked the detective. "It's okay, Kitt. Remember, we haven't worked with this department before. They don't know anything about us." Facing the three police he continued, "but, I have to agree with Sergeant Anderson here. There's enough incriminating evidence to at least hold Miller for now. Maybe until you can verify the results of the test?"

Anderson was agitated. This was one of those rare cases when you knew who the guilty party was right from the get go. Unfortunately, he had been in this business long enough to know that those were the cases that scared the Crown Attorney's Office the most. Because people did jump the gun a little too often. "Listen guys, I know what your thinking, CA's not gonna like it, it's all too fast, blah, blah. But I'm telling you, if we don't arrest him tonight, he's gonna go underground. Then we'll never find him. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be within the CCC in arresting him."

"Alright," Rotenwiler said, "Lets go get him. Of course his lawyer is here now. He may put up a bit of a fight."

"Not a problem. His lawyer is corporate, not criminal litigation." Anderson walked back to the house. The others followed close behind.

"Mr. Jason Miller, under section 495, subsection '1a' of the Criminal Code of Canada, I am arresting you for possession of drugs for the reason of trafficking, and for Murder in the first degree. It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct legal council without delay. You have the right to telephone any lawyer you wish. You also have the right to free advice from a legal aid lawyer. If you are charged with an offense, you may apply to the British Columbia Legal Aid Plan for assistance." Anderson was reading Miller's right straight from the book.

No wonder, Michael thought. What a mouthful.

"I don't fucking need legal aid. My lawyer is right here. Nice try with the charges, but I'll have your badge, and these charges thrown out by the end of business tomorrow!"

Unperturbed, Anderson continued in his monotone. "You are charged with Possession of drugs for the reason of trafficking, and for murder in the first degree. Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?" A few moments of silence as Miller glowered at Anderson. "Mr. Miller, I need an audible yes or no answer to the question. Do you understand what I have said?"

"Yes, I fucking understand. Jesus Christ Gene, get these guys out of here."

The lawyer, Gene Snell, a short, overweight, pompous man stood, stepping between his client and Sergeant Anderson. "Officer, I would like to see a warrant for my client's arrest."

Smiling, Anderson said, "If you would have been paying attention, I don't need a warrant. As I said at the beginning, as per Section 495, subsection '1a', A peace officer may arrest without warrant a person who has committed an indictable offense or who, on reasonable and probable grounds, which is what we have here, he believes has committed or is about to commit an indictable offense. Now, sit down. We have evidence that your client committed the murder, or was at least there for her murder, and we sure as hell have enough irrefutable evidence of the drugs." Snell sat back down, frowning at his client.

"Now, where was I? Oh yes. Mr. Miller, if you have spoken to any police officer or to anyone with authority or if any such person has spoken to you in connection with this case, I want it clearly understood that I do not want it to influence you in making any statement, at any time. Do you understand?" Anderson was smiling as he finished reading Miller his rights.

"Yeah, asshole. I understand my rights. Now get out of my house." Miller sat obstinately in the couch.

"Mr. Miller, either you stand up, or my officers will be forced to pick you up. Which will it be, sir?"

"Jay, stand up, go with them. The last thing we need is for you to be charged with resisting arrest, as well." Snell tried to pull his client up to his feet.

"Let go of me! Piece of shit. Fine, I'll go," he said, finally standing. "But, Gene, get me a good criminal lawyer, then get him to get me out of here. You and I both know there's bullshit flying here. Take care of it." He allowed the cuffs to be put on him by one of the officers, then walked calmly out to the waiting cruiser.

Anderson addressed Miller's employees, and lawyer. "Everyone will have to leave the house. It's an official crime scene. Oh, and don't anybody leave the city. We're gonna have lot's of questions for you."

"Does that apply to me as well, Sergeant?" Snell's voice almost quivered with fear.

"You know better than that counselor. The only question I have for you, is how the hell you can represent such a piece of shit?"

As Snell walked out of the room he answered, "we all have jobs to do, Sergeant. That doesn't mean we have to like them." With that he was gone.


*

Sylvia Twinley was seventeen. Her hair flowed down past her shoulders, glistening gold in the sunlight of San Francisco. Her life was in ruins. Young and naive, she had finally succumbed to the boyfriend her parents didn't know about. Now, two months later, she was certain. Pregnancy. It was a horrifying thought. Said boyfriend had run as soon as she told him. She knew he'd never come back. She was a bright, pretty girl, about to finish high school, ready to enter UCLA, where she had been accepted into it's history program. These dreams were gone.

As she walked the streets of downtown, her mind drifted to the conversation, the disaster with her parents. They were devout Catholics, couldn't condone her prenuptial intercourse, and wouldn't let her have an abortion. Carrying the baby would destroy her life, but her parents cared more for her 'eternal soul' than her existence on earth. Tears streaked her face, but she didn't care.

She wasn't aware of where she was going, until she rang the doorbell. The kindly woman entered her into the small apartment, sitting her at a Formica kitchen table, on a rickety wooden chair. She collapsed, full blown tears flowing freely now.

The woman, her Aunt on her father's side, poured her a large mug of instant coffee. They had regular visits here, unbeknownst to her parents. Sylvia looked up at her aunt, thanking her for the coffee before she broke down again. Shattered.

Sylvia had seen the kids living on the streets, loathed them for their beggary, a sin, she had been taught. She had often wondered what had driven them to the life. Now she knew. If she had the baby, she would be expected by her parents to work, and raise it. They would offer no help. If she had an abortion, they would force her to leave. Either way she figured she would end up on the streets.

She and her aunt talked for hours, intermittently broken by the uncontrollable sobbing which possessed her. They discussed options. No, she couldn't live here. Her aunt just couldn't afford it. Nor could her aunt afford the tuition for university. She was told to have the abortion, if that's what she wanted, work for a year, live miserly, and then go to school.

But, Sylvia wondered, how could she have the abortion? California law dictates the need to be eighteen. She wasn't. She would need her parents authorization, and she knew where that would lead.

British Columbia, up the coast, into Canada. Their abortion laws were more flexible, plus with their government health care, there would be no cost.

Sylvia broke down again. The thought of leaving everything, everyone she knew, was more than her fragile state could bear. What cruel and wicked days are these, she thought, paraphrasing Shakespeare, something she did regularly. The tears came for a long time. Too long. Her aunt had to leave for work, but yes, Sylvia could spend the night here. Tomorrow, they would talk more.

After her aunt left, Sylvia walked through the apartment, rummaging through bookshelves, drawers, cupboards. She wasn't snooping, just trying to fill the hours, keep herself from crying again. In the bedroom, on the mirrored vanity, she found a picture of her mother with a tall dark haired man. He was good looking, except for a mark on the one side of his face. It looked like a huge scar. She picked up the picture, looking more closely at it. She saw her aunt was crying. She turned the frame over, saw the card stuck to the back. On it was written in messy writing, "Call if you ever need help again, Michael" Sylvia had never seen the picture before, had never, in fact been in this room prior to tonight. Without thinking, she took the card, stuffing it into her wallet. She didn't know why. Exhausted, she flopped onto the bed. Sleep overcame her fears quickly.


She found herself on a Greyhound bus for the second day. She decided this was the true meaning of 'Hell on wheels.' It wasn't the motorcycle gangs, it was the cramped seating, non drinkable water, and horrid smells. The woman next to her was a chain smoker, but since she couldn't light up on the bus, something she complained about often, she was jittery, easily angered. Sylvia desperately wanted to move, to change seats, but there weren't many empty. It was vacation time. School had let out the week before. Three weeks after her argument with her parents. Her aunt had bought the ticket for her, and given her five hundred dollars in cash. She was a smart girl, most of the money was in her front pocket, only a few twenties in her purse. There was no return ticket, she was expected to buy that when she was done. It would be cheaper that way.

Mercifully, the bus pulled off to the side at the border crossing. Everyone had to show identification. She prepared her birth certificate for inspection. As the customs officials walked down the centre of the bus, she noticed people at the front stepping off. She could feel her neighbour squirming with the need to get out and smoke. The official stood next to her, glanced at her ID. He took it from her, staring intently at it. Her heart stopped. Had her parents reported her as a runaway? She had to admit, it was likely. She would be pulled off the bus, kicking and screaming, if she had her way, then sent back home. Her ID was handed back to her with a polite smile. The guy was young, might've just wanted to know her age.

Her restless neighbour had just about leapt over her when her chance came. The groans were audible from inside the bus as the driver told the smokers they were ready to leave. The smokers all trudged dejectedly back to their seats. The smell in the bus instantly worsened.

Her eyes were bulging out of their sockets. Vancouver. A sprawling city, but with lush greenery everywhere. It was, by far the most beautiful place she had been. The weather was clear and she could barely see the mountains in the distance to the east, but they were there. Stark, majestic. She sighed as the realization that this trip, this unpleasant business was almost over. She and her aunt had looked up several clinics in the city, had made phone calls and received an appointment.

She stepped off the bus, young beautiful, full of life. She was naive, unaware the size of bull's eye that danced brightly about her aura. The predator's moved in.

"Hi there. I'm Jimmy. I've got a cab around the corner if you need a lift." He was fairly young, maybe twenty, she thought, nice friendly green eyes, pock marks on his face the only imperfection.

She was surprised by the service of a cab driver, coming to the bus to offer his services. But, she had heard that Canadians were really very friendly.

A firm hand pressed down on her shoulder. She looked behind her, saw the smoking woman, her neighbour for two days. "Don't you go with this hustler, little missy, "she said as she exhaled smoke. Each word caused a different pattern to appear before her mouth.

"He's a taxi driver," Sylvia said, as if she was worldly enough to know the difference.

The woman pointed out the glass doors of the terminal. "Them there are taxi drivers. This here's a sheister." With that, the woman grabbed her by the arm, dragging her away from the predator towards the cabs.

Her appointment was for the end of business hours, the day that she arrived. She thought it would just be a case of signing some papers, be put under, and walk out an hour later. She hadn't really expected to have problems even entering the clinic. There was a large rally out front of the small building. It looked more like a house than a medical centre. A hundred people were on one side of the street, waving graphic placards, shouting chants of "Stop the killing," and "Murderers." The other side of the street was filled with people waving flags. They looked like confederation flags. A well known symbol of freedom. It almost made her laugh. After all, the confederates enslaved hundreds of thousands of Africans and Caribbean people. But their flag represented freedom. The irony struck her.

She tried to make a bee line for the entrance. She was stopped no less than thirty times, by both sides. When she entered, the receptionist behind the desk reached out her hands, silently taking the armload of pamphlets she had had forced upon her. Sylvia smiled. She was here at last. She gave her name, filled out some forms, then waited in the small reception area. There were a couple of men, both looking steadfastly at their shoes, as if their laces held the answers to the universe. She heard some loud moans from somewhere upstairs. Her fear started. Her religion spouted forth in her mind. This is a sin, it kept repeating. Incessant. A chant.

When her name was called, she almost bolted. The fear must have been evident on her face because the nurse gently took her arm, leading her to a room on the main floor, whispering that today was only a preliminary evaluation. She was told to undress and slip on a gown. The doctor would be a few minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, a haggard woman entered the room, flopped a thin file onto the counter, then sat heavily in a chair. She introduced herself as Dr. Gina Reese, gynecologist.

The examination was brief, then she was moved to another room, told it would be another short wait. She saw paddles, and monitors. She had no clue where she was. What she was doing. The fear rose and fell like the swells of the ocean, lapping at her resolve, slowly eroding it.

A chubby man entered, told her he was going to perform an ultrasound to confirm how far along she was. His fingers were cold as he applied jelly to her abdomen, then pressed the small paddle to her. An image instantly formed. She was able to see the monitor, unable to discern what anything was in the picture. Until he showed her. Then she could make out the eyes, mouth, small little hands and feet. The curve of the body. She started to cry again. The baby was three months old, she was informed, barely listening. Seeing the image of her child. Everything else blocked out.

She was led from the room, back to the original examination room and allowed to dress. She stepped out into the hallway, still seeing the image, unaware of her surroundings. A gentle hand took her to another room. An office. She was seated, offered a drink of water or juice. She didn't respond. A counselor began asking her; was she sure this was what she wanted, aware of the potential repercussions. Depression, pain, anguish. She was barely listening. All she knew was that these 'repercussions' were already tearing her apart. She took a breath, cleared her eyes. Willed herself strong. Yes, she was aware, was, in fact, already suffering some signs of post partum depression. Yes she was indeed certain that this was the best course of action. Was in fact, the only plausible course of action for her. Thank you. Now, when will it happen. A date was scheduled for three days away. A Friday. Eight o'clock in the morning. The counselor handed her a business card, name and three phone numbers on the front, if she needed to call at any time, and the appointment scrawled on the back. She thanked the counselor, then left. The receptionist advised exit through the rear door.

The door led into an alley, straight ahead, left or right. She didn't know where she was in the city, nor where she was going. She walked straight. Halfway down the alley, a man approached her. Her eyes were fixed on him as she walked. She was ready to scream. Before she could, she was hit from behind, knocked to the ground. She tried to stand, but was held in place firmly by three hands. The fourth slid a needle in her arm, depressing the plunger. She stared in horror as the clear liquid entered he body. She collapsed minutes later.
"Well done, Jimmy." Jason Miller smiled at the thought of the years of service this attractive girl would provide.

Two years later, Sylvia had found the card in her old wallet, and called Michael Knight.

*

The briefing room was fairly small, cramped with people. The investigative unit included Jones, Anderson, and was headed by Josie Rotenwiler. Michael scanned the rest of the officers present. Most were in uniform, there strictly to be given their assignments. The task of all these men and women, was to bring Jason Miller to justice. His bail hearing was scheduled for that afternoon. Anderson and Michael would be in attendance. The Crown Attorney had asked. Michael had spent a furious afternoon the day before with the CA, a balding man with large eyebrows and small lips; the high forehead seemed to make his eyes even smaller than they really were. Luckily, Michael thought, he was not the one trying the case. The thought of that man, posing, trying to look dignified and honest, in front of a jury, almost brought a smile to his lips.

"Mr. Knight, here will be canvassing the other prostitutes known to be under the control of Miller. When will you be doing that?"

Rotty's mention of his name and question brought him back to the present. "After the hearing this afternoon. I don't think they'll be out in force this early."

A few snickers around the room. "You might be surprised, Mr. Knight. These girls are forced to work twelve to fourteen hour days, so they're already out there. It's just a case of finding them this early. But, as you say, you have an appearance this afternoon. Have a report in here in the morning?"

He could tell she was trying to establish his place in the investigation. She knew that without him, they wouldn't be this far, but was also aware that his methods were...spurious in her eyes. "I'll have something here before I fall asleep tonight. Okay?"

"Sure. You and Anderson better get going. They're gonna want to talk to you before court."

Anderson walked beside him as they traversed the corridor to the exit. "Who's car we gonna take?" There was a trace of excitement to his voice. He had not yet been in Kitt.

Smiling, Michael said, "I suppose we could take yours." Seeing the crestfallen face Michael added, "but, I'd prefer mine."

They walked straight for Kitt, saying nothing until they were in the car. "An impressive piece of machinery here, Michael."

"Thank you, Sergeant Anderson." Kitt's voice was more than a little irritated. "But I prefer to be referred to as something more than just, 'a piece of machinery,' as I am sure you enjoy being addressed as more than just 'a sentient form of carbon.'"

Michael laughed at the uncomfortable look on the sergeants face. "Don't mind Kitt, he's just a little testy this morning."

"Umph. Strikes me as odd that a computer has emotions, but hell, there ain't nothin' else out there like this, is there?"

Michael chuckled to himself as they wove there way through the streets to the Provincial courthouse. It always amazed him at the reluctance of some, and the almost religious acceptance of others to Kitt.


The courtroom looked the same as any of a number that Michael had been in. It was the dress of those present that confused him. The lawyers wore robes like that of the judge. The defense to the judge's right, the prosecution, to his left, closer to the jury. That too, was different. He was used to the defendant being close to the jury's booth.

The judge, Harold T. Ramses, grey haired with intense blue eyes, scowled at the courtroom, emphasizing the large jowls on his face. "This is strictly a formality hearing, on the case of bail. My understanding is that the Crown does not wish to allow the defendant to post. Arguments?" His glare moved to his left at the prosecutor, Jennifer Wilson.

Michael had met her that morning, and immediately been drawn to look at the long legs and green eyes. She was attractive, definitely. Capped with brunette waves of hair, she was almost perfect to look at. Until she spoke. The hostility held within was incredible.

Now, that hostility was projected at the defendant. As she stood, walking to the podium, her eyes never left Miller. Sorting her notes, the eyes focused on Ramses, full intensity. "Your Honour, Mr. Miller is known to make his living from crime. His vast network of prostitutes, drug dealers, money laundering fronts, and loan sharks, provides him with a very handsome income in excess of one million dollars per year. No reasonable bail rate is possible with this high of an income. Nor, do we believe that the court should accept illegally accumulated funds. It could prove to corrupt the court, Your Honour."

"Miss Wilson," Ramses boomed. "I will decide what will, and what will not corrupt this courtroom! I will gladly remind you of that fact. Further arguments?" His look challenged her to say yes.

She did. "Your Honour, I understand that you decide what is in the best interest of the court. I am just trying to assist you in making the most educated decision you can. To aid in this, I wish to inform you of the defendant's character. This is a man who treats women as slaves, capturing them, drugging them, forcing himself upon them, then when they have no moral self worth left, he demands they sell their bodies. For him. This is a man, who canvasses schools. Not High schools, Your Honour, but grade schools. He, and his employees canvass these schools to sell drugs. Cocaine, heroin, marijuana, ecstasy. Whatever these children want, and can afford. It is known to our office that he starts these transactions at discounted rates, then, as the children become more addicted, increases the cost until it is prohibitive. This is a man..."

"Objection Your Honour." Snell was on his feet. "The prosecution is trying my client here and now. As you know, this is neither the time nor the place for these arguments. Also, Your Honour, if the prosecution knows all of these, why is my client not charged with them? If there was proof, there would be charges. The Crown Attorney's office has not laid these charges, as of this moment, nor have they given any indication that they are going to. These statements are prohibitive to the court."

"As are yours, Mr. Snell." Ramses' scowl focused on the defense table, then shifted to Wilson. "But, what you say has merit. Miss Wilson, if your office 'knows' all of this, why have charges not been laid?"

She was nettled, the look on her face gave it away. "Your Honour, as you have known, through your many years of experience, both as a magistrate, and a defense attorney, knowledge does not constitute proof. We believe that through the course of our investigation for the crimes which the defendant is being tried, that we will divulge enough evidence to bring him to justice for these other crimes. But, Your Honour, we do have this knowledge, and enough evidence to provide to substantiate our claim. The defendant is not a man who should be allowed to roam free." Sitting down, she looked at Michael and Anderson, then gave the smallest hint of a smile.

Ramses looked back to the defense table. "Mr. Snell? Rebuttal?"

"Thank you, Your Honour. In all honesty, I cannot imagine why we are here today." Ramses' eyebrows raised. Quickly, Snell continued. "Yes, there was a body found in my client's house. Found, in an illegal search of the premises. Found, after the house had been broken into by one of the prosecutions investigative team, without a search warrant. How could he have one? He is a citizen of the United States. He is not a law enforcement officer, nor a licensed peace officer in this province. This means, that he could not have acquired a warrant to search Mr. Miller's property. But, it was a copy of a warrant, issued to Mr. Knight, that was shown to me that day. It is that unlawfully acquired warrant which brings my client before you today. We move that these charges be dropped by the prosecution Your Honour."

"Mr. Snell. Did you happen to notice the judge's signature on that warrant?" The tone was fierce. Ramses was obviously implying something. Only Michael knew what.

"Umm, no. Your Honour."

"It was mine," Ramses' voice echoed throughout the court room. "Mr. Knight, and the Foundation for Law And Government are well known to me. They are also well known to many police forces to the south of our border, including the FBI and the Secret Service. You have played this card very poorly, Mr. Snell.

"I am going to set bail at a prohibitive rate. Before you argue with me Miss Wilson, it will be prohibitive, and the funds will not be kept by the court. They will go to charities to help those people whom have been hurt by Mr. Miller's actions. Bail is set at two million dollars, payable by certified cheque, bank draft, or cash. Of course, cash would be impossible for a legal businessman, wouldn't it Mr. Miller?" Ramses swung his gavel before there could be any more argument.

*

After leaving the court house, Michael drove to the east side of the city. It struck him as odd that every major city he had ever visited had a section like this. Dark, pervasive. Prostitutes and drug dealers shared the streets, each staking out their own territory. Their customers drove up to them, only opening their windows when stopped, then closing them immediately. Occasionally a hooker would get into one of the cars, but another would take her place before the first one left. Vancouver's east side was a busy place. Over half of it was owned by Miller.

Michael parked Kitt on a side street, walking back to the main drag. The shining lights of strip joints and adult video stores beckoned to the men walking with hands in pockets, heads down. Michael ignored all of this, instead focussing his attention on the women. He needed information. Damning, information. The problem would be how to extricate it from these women. He knew they were scared, drugged, and alone. He also knew that this was their only world now, and that they would be adverse to leave it.

The thought hit him. He walked directly for a woman who looked to be in her early twenties from a distance. Long blonde hair, short spandex skirt, barely covering her ass, and a cotton halter top. Closer, he saw that she was probably no older than sixteen.

"Hey sweetness, how'sabout a little romp?" Her words were slurred, slow, and not very interested.

"Sorry, dear. Hey, did you know Sylvia Twinley? She wasn't much older than you, worked in Miller's stable?" Michael showed the girl the picture he had received from Corporal Jones, Sylvia dead.

Fear and confusion danced in the girl's eyes. She glanced over her shoulder to an alleyway, dark and uninviting. Michael figured the pimp was hiding in there.

He walked away from the girl, making it look like he was leaving, then doubled back, sidling against the wall. "Kitt?" he whispered into his commlink.

"Yes, Michael."

"You see the alley I'm about ten feet away from? Can you block the back end of it? I've got a guy in there I'm gonna have to have a talk with."

"Give me two minutes, and I'll be there, Michael." The sound of the car starting came through the commlink as the last words were spoken.

Waiting, Michael watched the girl he had spoken to. She gave no indication that she knew he was still there. Street smart self preservation. When he figured Kitt would be coming into position, he ran to the corner of the alleyway. The man was exactly where Michael figured he would be. Leaning against a dumpster, cigarette glowing in his mouth. He startled as Michael ran around the corner, then recovered quickly, pulling a knife. Michael saw Kitt pull up behind the dumpster, effectively blocking an escape route.

"Wha' the fuck you want?!"

"Ah, the eloquence of street vernacular," Michael laughed. "Why don't you put down your knife, and you and I can have a nice little chat about your boss. Miller."

Confusion and panic rolled the pimps eyes in his head. Then they turned wild as he came to his inevitable conclusion. The wrong conclusion. He lunged with the knife yelling, "Fuckin' pig, stick ya, fuckin' pig!"

Michael easily stepped away from the lunge to his left, pivoting on his left foot he brought his right hand down like a blade on the assailants wrist. As the knife dropped, Michael grabbed the same wrist with his left hand, pivoting his body further, pulling his attackers arm up and over his shoulder. The man was on his back, wind knocked out of him from the flip Michael had performed.

"Now, as I said, you and I are going to have a nice little chat about Miller." The pimp saw nothing but cold death reflected back at his eyes.


"Here's my report, Dog. Want a brief overview?"

Detective Rotenwiler looked up from her desk, glanced at the thick report from Michael, sighed leaning back into her chair, and rasped, "yeah. Please. My eyes are starting to bug from so much reading. But not here. Let's go down the street to the local hangout."

The local hangout turned out to be a Scottish bar, rich with wood, kilts hanging on the walls, plaids of every imaginable combination of colours. Televisions hung everywhere, and it was packed. Michael's jaw dropped when he saw what was playing on every tv in the place.

"Shit, sorry, I forgot it was Smurf night. Let's see if we can get a booth." Rotty smiled up at him as she saw the slack jaw. "What, never heard of the Smurf game?"

Startled, he looked down at her. "No, wha'? The Smurf game? No, I've never heard of it."

Sitting in a booth, Michael facing the front door, he watched the rest of the patrons as he slowly sipped his beer. Every few seconds, every person in the bar sucked back a shooter. Many were already close to falling over. Some already had. He could see taxi's starting to line up out the front. "What the hell are the rules to this game?"

She smiled, looking over her shoulder. "You ever watch the Smurf's?" When he nodded, she continued, "Okay, whenever you hear any derivative or version of the word smurf, you shoot an ounce of whatever kills ya. The object of the game is to be the last standing at the end of the half hour."

Michael was laughing so hard his eyes were watering. He remembered watching the show when it first came out with friends and their kids. It seemed like every second word had a smurf in it. "And of course, all the taxi companies know this, so they put a bunch of drivers out in front. This bar must make a killing on these nights."

There was another clamour as more shots were tossed back, the glasses being banged back onto wood. "Nope. Not really. You pay twenty bucks to play, and drink as much as you can. At an average of two bucks per ounce, and the fact that most people drink between ten and twenty ounces before their done, it's kind of a loss. But, it keeps us coming here on other nights, when this place would normally be slow."

Michael shook his head in wonder. It made good business sense in a way. Just who thought up this crazy game? "Okay, back to business. I conversed with one of Miller's pimps this evening. He's now sitting in one of your jails in a private cell. His name is Jimmy Smart, or so he says. I asked him about Sylvia, and I hit the jackpot. This was the guy that followed her from the time she got off the bus. She went to an abortion clinic, then escaped out a back door into an alley to avoid demonstrators. Our friends Jimmy and Miller found her in the alley, abducted her, and pumped her full of heroin. Jimmy says that Miller then took her to one of his houses on the east side, and kept her tied up and drugged for two weeks. During that time, he raped her in every way imaginable. After that two weeks, she was released, completely addicted to drugs, and put to work. Six months later, she had a baby. Miller took it. Jimmy is positive it's still alive. If so, Rotty, I've got to find it." The plaintive tone of his voice brooked no discussion of the matter.

"I'll read the report, Michael. And, we'll try to help you find the baby. It would be what, a year and a half old? We know of a few places to look." Resting her hand on top of his, she added, "We'll help."

*

Michael woke in a cold sweat, eyes dancing in his head. He had dreamed of a baby, addicted to drugs, crying constantly in a dilapidated house. In his mind, he was certain it was a crack house. He shivered, shaking off the images. Walking across the floor of his motel room, he stepped into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Steam immediately started filling the small room. After his shower, he toweled off, sitting naked on the bed. He needed to talk to someone. Picking up the phone, he dialed Washington DC.

"Shirley Johnstone, speaking," came the cool voice attached to the woman he loved.

"Hey, Hon. Just calling to see how you're doing."

"No you're not, Michael. I can tell by your voice that something is wrong. What is it?" Her voice was soft, consoling him before he even had a chance to spell out his grief to her.

He found it hard to express these types of feelings, that he had always held to himself. Somehow though, through the year and a half they had known each other, Shirley was able to get him to tell her things, he had never told anyone before, not even Stevie.

"This case I'm working on - a girl called, she was the niece of a friend of mine. She came up here to Vancouver to have an abortion, then was abducted, basically tortured, and killed. She was killed _after_ she called me for help, Shirl. I can't help thinking that in some way, I'm responsible for her death." His voice wa catching in his throat when he finished.

"Michael, you can't hold yourself responsible for other people's actions. You know that. Yes, she was taken advantage of, and she called you, then she was killed. But, that doesn't mean that it was because of you that she was. This case has made all the major papers down here, and from what I've gathered, in the business that she had been forced into, there were numerous reasons that she could have been killed. Only one of them was you."

"She had the baby, Shirl. I have to find it now." There was a knock on his door. He tried ignoring it, but it persisted, getting heavier. Grabbing a robe, throwing it over his shoulder, he said into the phone, "Hon, can you hold on a minute? Someone's at the door."

Closing the robe about his torso, he strode to the door. Opening it, he was shocked to see George Snell. Before Michael could say a word, Snell said, "It's a subpoena, for you to testify for the defense at the pretrial hearing." Snell left without another word, leaving Michael in the open doorway, the wind catching the bottom edges of his robe.

Shivering, dumbfounded, Michael closed the door, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. Sitting in shock with the phone to his ear, he heard Shirley saying, "Michael? What is it? What's happened?"

"I don't fucking believe it. I've just been served to testify at the pretrial. For the defense."

"You had better go, check in with the investigators, let them know. Why would they ask you to testify for them? They must know you'll be a hostile witness to the defense?"

"Because," Michael said, realization dawning on him, "somehow Miller knows that I was in the house, before the police carried out my search warrant. They're going to attack my credibility, try to get the whole case thrown out."

"That's an awfully large gamble for them to play, Michael. That would work better at a trial in front of a jury, don't you think?"

"I don't think Miller wants to let it get that far, if he can help it. I'd better let you go, Shirl. I'm gonna have to talk to Rotty about this." Pausing, he added, "thanks Hon. You're always there for me when I need you. I hope you know it's appreciated."

"No need to thank me, Michael. I love you. You know that." Putting a smile in her voice she added, "Now go!"

Michael walked into the briefing room, shaking hands with several officers, as he made his way to the front where Rotty, Andy, and Bloom County were hovering over a stack of papers. As he approached them, Rotty looked up and said, "We've got a meeting with Wilson in an hour. Apparently you have some high placed friends. Somebody called Wilson twenty minutes ago, and she called us. What the hell's going on Michael?"

Pulling out the papers, he quietly handed them to the detective.

In disbelief, she looked up at him, growling, "What the fuck?" Handing the papers over to the others, she stood silently, glaring at Michael. "You're working for the defense now?"

"Shit no! That bastard Snell served me those this morning. If I was working for him, he wouldn't have to serve me, would he."

"We'd better move our meeting up a bit with Wilson," Andy said, nervously glancing between the two posturing figures.

Wilson met them in a conference room, elegantly appointed with a large mahogany oval table They sat in the comfortable cloth chairs, Wilson at the head, Rotty to her right, with Corporal Jones beside her; Michael and Andy on her left. She took the offered subpoena from Michael, scanned it and said, "This is what Ms. Johnstone talked about."

Confused, Michael looked at the prosecutor. "You spoke to Shirley? When?"

"She called my office immediately after she spoke with you, Mr. Knight. She had a couple of interesting ideas, which I believe we are going to use. Oh, and before you start to worry, we're keeping you on the investigative team. Your's, and your car's talents are too important to pass up. As to what Ms. Johnstone and I discussed, she is going to be called as a rebuttal witness to their character assassination of you. She'll be here on Monday morning for the pretrial."

Michael sat in mute shock as the others looked in confusion between himself and the prosecutor. Finally, Andy asked the question. "Who is this Shirley Johnstone?"

Standing, resting his fists on the table for support, he replied, "The United States Secretary of State. My...girlfriend."


*

Sylvia panicked when she finally came to. Her hands and feet were tied to four posts of a bed, her clothes nowhere to be seen. There was a bag held on a stand above her head to her left. From it ran a hose containing a clear liquid attached to a needle in her arm. Her thoughts were all convoluted. She couldn't think straight, other than escape. She fought at her binds, struggling until she cried out in pain. The door opened and a man came in that looked familiar to her. Then another walked in, an evil lascivious grin on his face.

"Well Jimmy, it looks like our newest recruit has finally awakened. We can start her training any time now."

"Jason, she's pregnant. What the Hell are we gonna do with a pregnant kid?"

"You forget that some of our clientele enjoy women in that state. God knows why." Jason Miller said with a smile. "Go call the boys in, we'll get her started now. I'll get started while we're waiting."

Sylvia couldn't believe it. The man dropped his pants, climbing on top of her. She wanted to scream, but found her voice caught in her throat. Never had she imagined this fate for herself. She gave up the fight, realizing the futility of it. When the first man climbed off of her, she noticed many more outside the door to her room. She cried, tears streaking her face as man after man attacked her.

For two weeks Sylvia had been kept tied, fed only through the intravenous tube, which also fed her the drugs. Every day, her body was attacked. Her mind formed a shell for her to hide in after the third day. That shell felt almost like home now. Home is where her mind took her during these 'visits', to the good days with her parents, her boyfriend, and her aunt.

Her thoughts, as non coherent as they were, were broken by Jimmy entering her room. He sat on the bed, stroking her face, whispering endearments to her. Telling her she was to be his whore. That he would treat her well, so long as she gave him no trouble. She feebly nodded her head, and he started to undo the ropes holding her body in place. She tried to sit upright, quickly, but blacked out before she was halfway up. Jimmy laughed at her, informing her to take it slowly, that the new girls all had problems when they were first released. She finally managed a sitting position, swinging her legs off the bed, feet touching the cold wood floor. Her eyes wouldn't focus on anything, her body shaking. Finally, gathering her breath she asked for a bathroom. Jimmy grabbed her by the arm, helping her to stand, and led her through the door, across a dimly lit room, finally depositing her on a toilet. He closed the door as he left her there. Sitting there, she realized just how bad of a position she was in. She felt more filthy than ever in her life. Looking at the bathtub, she decided that she would force herself into the shower, to stand in it for as long as possible. She started the water flowing. No sooner had the water turned hot than the door flew open, Jason standing there scowling at her.

"What the fuck you doin', bitch."

Scared again, knowing the ferocity of this man, she looked down, away from his eyes, saying, "I just wanted to clean up. To..." thinking fast she concluded, "to smell better for you."

Staring at her, an angry look on his face, his mouth opened to say something when a hand came down on his shoulder. Jimmy came into the doorway saying, "it's okay, Jason. She's ready. You know it. Let her get cleaned up, then I'll take her out to the street, get her new career started."

"She ain't fuckin' ready yet man. Look at her, yeah she's scared, but she can still think. That ain't no good m'man. Give her another week on the bedpan, then she'll really know her defeat."

"Jason, you told me she goes in my stable, right? You ever had problems with any of my girls? No. So trust me on this one. I can handle her."

"You sure you're not just a little smitten by your new whore?" Miller asked in a dead voice. "'Cause if she gives me any problems, she dies, and so do you." He walked out of the small bathroom, storming across the hard floor, and out the front door of the house.

"C'mon, I'll help you take a shower. You know you can't stand on your own for that long." She watched in horror as Jimmy stripped his clothes off, his erection already started, and he took her hand and stepped into the stream of water.

*


Michael visited Jimmy Smart in the jail. Since he was the one to apprehend him, it was decided that he would also be the one to offer him the deal. They were sitting in a small, light green painted room with a metal table and two chairs bolted to the floor.

"Okay, Jim, here's the deal. The police aren't going to lay any charges against you so long as you follow these requirements to the letter. First, you're gonna convince Miller that you testify on his behalf at the trial. Second, that when you're cross examined by the prosecution, you let slip a few pertinent facts, before they're asked. That's important, before you're asked, you say something incriminating. Third, after you've testified, you'll be put into protective custody, but at that point, you have to inform the investigators of everything you know. Otherwise," Michael let the thought hang in the quiet room.

"Otherwise," Jimmy said, catching on. "I'll be released from protective custody, and killed by Miller. Shit man, if he knows I'm here now, he'll kill me. He's already wanted to do it, just he can't afford the heat that would bring on him. I told you that."

"Well, you're just going to have to keep on hoping that you'll live. Otherwise, they're gonna charge you with accessory, trafficking prostitutes and drugs, and a whole slew of other charges. You'll be in prison til you're an old man. Just remember Jimmy, you're a good looking guy. You won't be after a few years in prison." Michael stood, putting his hands in his pockets. "So, we got a deal? You'll be outta here in twenty minutes."

Scared of both options, he mumbled, "yeah. We got a deal man."


"Michael, they've released Jimmy Smart? Why?" They were following Smart from a discreet distance.

"Kitt, I guess it's a strategy Wilson wants to use. Personally I think she's watched too many Perry Mason shows, not enough Law & Order. These kinds of games don't usually work out to well."

"Then why would an experienced attorney try it? I just don't understand the rationale, Michael."

"I can't say I do either, buddy."

Noting something in Michael's voice, Kitt asked, "Is something wrong, Michael? Your vitals and voice tell me you're feeling fear. What is it?"

Smiling at the voice modulator, Michael pushed the 'Auto' button, sat sideways in his seat and started telling Kitt his fears. "This trial, for the first time is going to question us. Our effectiveness. Our legality. It's going to call into question everything we've ever done. I just don't know how I'm gonna react to that. But, I'll tell you. My reaction right now is fear. Fear that because of us, Miller will be released. Fear that the Foundation will be forced to shut us down. You, and this job, are my entire life. And Shirley, now. Nothing else matters, except the good we do, and all that may come apart because of this trial. And, I found out that now Shirley has thrown herself into the ring."

"What do you mean? What could she possibly have to do with this case?"

Sighing, Michael said, "Kitt, she called Wilson right after she got off the phone with me and told her she would testify on my behalf. As a rebuttal witness. I'm a little worried about her safety, though I understand she'll be escorted by Secret Service officers. Still, it was only a year and a half ago that The Movement tried everything to kill her, and now, because of me, she's right back in the crosshairs."

"Michael," Kitt said as softly as he could, "Shirley is one of the strongest women I have ever known. I also know how much she loves you, and if she thinks that she can help you, she will." With some sternness to his voice, Kitt concluded, "No matter what you, or I, do or say."