Thanks to my friend Beth for Beta reading this for me and to Robin for suggesting the need of Dick's placement in the opening scene and to Gina for being so encouraging. Thanks guys! I hope you all enjoy this part. Sorry so long in getting it posted. Char :-)

COURT MARTIAL: Part 27:

Dick's hands pressed palm flat on the cold metal wall. His head was bowed as the hot water cascaded down his neck and onto his back. His eyes were closed. He wasn't sure how long he stood in the same position. He did not move until he noticed the slight shift in the water temperature. Hot was becoming warm. He took the soap and started to scrub off. His hands moved quickly trying to finish before the warm water became luke. He had needed the hot steaminess of the shower to try and melt away the knots of tension that wracked every muscle in his body and wash away the griminess that seemed to stain his soul.

Dick Grayson was a man of movement. He hated sitting still. All of this sitting was starting to wear on him. Sitting in the courtroom, sitting in his cell, always sitting. It was a punishment of its own. What he would give just to go to the Watch Tower's gym for one hour. He sighed to himself as he shut off the water valve and grabbed his towel. His eyes fell on the metal cuff around his wrist. There weren't many exercises he could do at the gym chained up the way he would be if they'd even take him -- which he knew they wouldn't.

He was ... what? Too dangerous? Not trustworthy? Yes. The Justice League had made that pretty plain to him. A murderer? Dick would have to wait and see.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and questioned his own need for modesty as he walked around the small outcropping of wall that separated the bath area of the cell from the rest. There was no one else in his cell. He was alone. Dick allowed himself a derisive laugh as he wondered if he was even allowed visitors again. Yet, despite it all, he still remembered decorum. Lessons from Alfred Pennyworth would remain with him for a lifetime. As he grabbed the other towel and started drying off his wet hair, a smile crept over his handsome features. He wasn't ... exactly ... alone. Never alone, not with the watchful eye of the Justice League upon him. Draping the towel around his neck he looked up and waved for the camera he knew was there even if he couldn't see it. Grabbing the green scrubs that had marked his confinement he walked back behind the privacy wall to change.

He stretched his arms over his head entwining his fingers together as he moved his head from side to side until he felt the sharp pain and quick relief as a pop sounded the end of the knot in his neck. He paced the length of the cell for what seemed an interminable time before he grabbed the book Alfred had brought him and plopped on the bunk. Dick adjusted the pillow behind his back, pulled one leg up and started reading.

About a chapter into the book, Dick looked up when he heard the whoosh of air that released as the locking mechanism in the heavy door slipped its tether. He watched as the door slid open.

"How are you?" Clark asked as he walked into the cell. He moved over to the metal stool across from Dick and sat down.

"I'm fine," Dick answered as he watched the door clang shut and the lock engage.

Clark noticed that the door held more fascination for the cell's occupant than he seemed to. "Dick, how are you? Really?"

Dick shrugged and turned to face his visitor. "I'm fine. Really. I'm locked in a cell. I'm on trial for murder. My friends and family are being torn apart by people I've known and respected my entire life. I'm fine. Peachy."

Clark eyed him sympathetically. He was concerned about the young man, and he was also concerned about the truth of Dick's words. Everything was being torn apart. "I wish I could make this easier on you, Dick. This was the last thing I wanted to happen."

"I know," Dick replied. He marked his page, closed his book, and sat it beside him on the bunk. "I know."

"I was ... trying to protect you. Protect Bruce. But," he sighed, "it seems that everything has spiraled so far out of control. I'm sorry."

Dick scooted to the edge of the bunk bringing himself closer to Clark. "Don't be. You did what was best. You didn't cause this trial, I did. The Bludhaven P.D. issued an arrest warrant for me. The State indicted me. There's no way that I wasn't going to be tried. There was going to be a trial, you just found the best venue."

"But is it? Is this the best?"

"I don't know," Dick sighed. "It has to be. As bad as it gets in there, I'd rather have that jury of five than twelve people who've never experienced the things we have, the things we've done. If you had let me turn myself in to the BPD, it'd be Dick Grayson on trial on every television station in the country. Bruce and anyone else they could have tied to me would be sitting in a cell alongside me. Bruce did not deserve to have everything he's worked for all these years, everything he's accomplished, ruined because of my mistakes."

Clark nodded. He understood, yet it still troubled him. "I wanted to protect you both. It seems that in protecting you from one thing, I've subjected you to other dangers. Now, if you're convicted --"

Dick gave him a lopsided grin. "You can fly out for the occasional visit. ... If they have visits there."

"That is not funny," Clark replied seriously.

"Well, if I don't find the humor in the situation, I'd wallow in despair. Wallowing's not in my nature. I've already done enough of that ... too much of that. But I needed this time. I needed time to ... stop ... to heal. It was bad when I first came in. You know more than anyone. But I've had some time to reflect and remember who I am. I'd lost that for a while."

Clark smiled at him, his hand reached out and affectionately slapped Dick's knee. "Who you are is a good person. Never forget that Dick."

Dick shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know how good I am; but I know how good I want to be. I've had some great role models in my life. Two specifically." Dick looked down, averting his eyes from the man who sat mere feet from him. "I feel like I've let both of these men down. But, if I get the chance, I promise you ..." his voice cracked just slightly as he whispered, "Uncle Clark ... you and Bruce will be proud of me again. One day. I promise you that."

Clark reached across the small divide and tilted Dick's chin up so their eyes locked. "Dick, we're proud of you ... now. Nothing about this changes that fact. Nothing ever will."


"State your name?"

"Dr. Midnight."

"And is that doctor a medical doctor?" Barbara asked.

"Yes it is," the witness replied.

Barbara moved to the Tribunal table and handed up two documents. "Your honors, I have a stipulation signed by the prosecution and myself that Dr. Midnight is being tendered without objection as an expert in the field of medicine and psychiatry. I also submit a copy of his curriculum vitae for the record."

"All right," Captain Marvel said as he took the two documents and sat them in front of him on the table. "Dr. Midnight is considered an expert for the purposes of his testimony."

"Thank you," the red-headed attorney replied as she moved back to her counsel table. "Dr. Midnight, have you had an opportunity to conduct a physical examination of Nightwing since the night that Roland Desmond died?"

"On a number of occasions," he replied. "The first time was in the early morning hours after his arrest. I believe that was a few hours after Mr. Desmond's death."

"Can you describe Nightwing's physical condition on that occasion?" she asked. Barbara glanced over at Dick. She watched as he tensed.

Dr. Midnight nodded. "I can. When I first examined Nightwing, he had many bruises, cuts and lacerations all over his body. He had one broken and three bruised ribs. It was obvious that he had suffered through an awful beating. I knew from questioning him that he had been moving from one fight to the next in the preceding forty-eight hours."

"I have some photographs that were taken of Nightwing that same night that I would like to show you." Barbara approached the witness and handed him the photographs Superman had Flash take of Nightwing after his arrest. "Dr. Midnight, do these photographs fairly and accurately reflect how Nightwing looked when you first examined him?"

Dr. Midnight shifted through the photographs and remembered each bruise, each cut, each mark of the battle that Nightwing had endured. The cut on the younger man's cheek, blood dripping from his lips, ugly purplish green bruises around his shoulders, back and abdomen. The uglier red scaring and bruising around his ribs. However, it was the stark pain in the deep blue eyes that nagged at him ... that night and in these photographs. "Yes, as much as photographs can show what Nightwing had suffered through, they are."

Barbara gave the doctor a slight smile as he retook the photographs and introduced them into evidence. Handing the photos to Green Arrow, she waited a beat while he started going through them. Biting her bottom lip slightly, Barbara managed to prevent a satisfied look from crossing her face as she watched Oliver's expression looking at the images of a very abused Dick Grayson. "What else was Nightwing suffering from that night?"

"He was also suffering from shock. Neurogenic Shock specifically. This is often referred to as "emotional shock", but it is no less serious than any other form of shock. This type of shock is often cause by an injury or insult to the nervous system. There is loss of sympathetic nervous control, causing pooling of blood in the vascular spaces and peripheral vasodilation, effectively increasing the volume of the circulatory system and so lowering the blood pressure. It may well result from a serious head injury. Nightwing certainly had the physical as well as emotional scars to cause this type of shock the night that Roland Desmond died."

She watched as the Tribunal turned rapt attention from listening to the doctor had to say and looking at the photographs depicting Nightwing's physical condition. They had heard how broken he had sounded talking to Batman that night. Now they were getting to see what Blockbuster had done to him. "What else, if anything, was he suffering from?" Barbara asked, her voice masking her emotions.

"It was apparent to me that he had suffered through an anxiety, or panic, attack. Usually an anxiety attack will be diagnosed when any 4 or more of a series of fifteen symptoms occur together. At the time that Roland Desmond was killed and immediately after, Nightwing was suffering from fourteen of these symptoms."

"What were the symptoms that Nightwing was suffering from that caused you to make this diagnosis?"

"Based upon what Nightwing told me as I was treating him, at the time of Roland Desmond's death he had a feeling of imminent danger or doom feeling helpless to stop the reign of terror that Desmond was bringing to his life. He felt the need to escape his situation but had no where to go. Nightwing was suffering from palpitations; sweating; trembling; shortness of breath; a smothering feeling; a feeling of choking; chest pain; nausea; tingling sensations; chills; and dizziness. He was experiencing a sense of things being unreal, what we call depersonalization in the medical field. He had a fear of losing control or that he had lost all control over his life."

"How would such a condition affect Nightwing beyond the physical symptoms?" Barbara asked. She didn't miss watching how all five members of the Tribunal turned their full attention to the witness.

"At the time he was enduring this attack, he would have basically been paralyzed from action," Dr. Midnight stated without emotion.

Barbara nodded at her witness. She waited a moment before asking her next question, making sure the doctor's statement had sunk in. "How many times have you examined Nightwing, Doctor?"

"I examined him the night he was initially brought into the Watch Tower. I conducted a follow-up examination a week later to check on his ribs. I examined him for the power ring burn Green Lantern caused, and I conducted a psychological examination at your request."

Barbara noticed Dick. Noticed how his body tensed at the mention of the psychological examination. Tensed in anticipation of the answer. She hated asking the question, knowing Dick did not want any of this brought up. She shook her head ever so slightly. He would rather not bring up what he viewed as embarrassing. That was a trait he had inherited from Bruce. But they needed to address it. It couldn't be ignored. "What findings did you make based upon the psychological examination?"

Dr. Midnight took a deep breath then exhaled. He was well aware of his audience and hoped he could make them understand what he was saying. "Nightwing was under an enormous amount of stress. I can say that he was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder when I first examined him. It's quite possible that he was already suffering the beginnings of PTSD when he had the encounter with Blockbuster that night. He certainly had been through enough stress inducing incidents to cause an onset."

Barbara nodded and coaxed the rest of his answer with a soft "What else?"

"It is possible that Nightwing wasn't suffering just from PTSD because all of the stress wasn't post. He was, at the time Blockbuster was murdered, in the throes of the trauma causing the stress. Have you ever played pinball?" he asked. He watched as Barbara nodded before continuing his analogy. "You know when you release the ball it pivots and rockets from one buffer to the other adding up points for the player. Blockbuster was the player and Nightwing was the ball."

Dick looked down as he listened. Barbara had told him what Dr. Midnight's testimony would say. The good doctor had already told him the same thing. It wasn't something he relished being told to everyone in the superhero community. Yet, he didn't have a choice. It seemed like it had been so long since he had actually had a real choice, a real say so over his own life.

Dr. Midnight turned toward the Tribunal and continued. "In less than one week Blockbuster had Tarantula attack Nightwing and Oracle, at dinner, causing or at least appearing to cause their breakup. The next day, Nightwing heads to Haly's Circus, his childhood home and Blockbuster sends Firefly to destroy it. People are injured and killed that night. The very next day, Blockbuster bombs Nightwing's apartment building killing everyone but one man -- Nightwing's neighbors and friends, men, women and children, thirty-six deaths in front of him and he couldn't do anything. There was nothing he could do. Then Nightwing fought The Trigger twins, Stallion, Brutale, Mouse and Giz, Shrike and Blockbuster himself in the space of a twenty-four hour period. Nightwing took evidence to the District Attorney and he destroyed it, then Blockbuster murders Maxine Michaels literally in Nightwing's face. When Tarantula told him to move, he was still bouncing and like in pinball ... he tilted."

Batman stared at his son's back. He watched as the younger man dropped his head. His own chest grew tight. How Dick must have felt. Bruce knew he should have been there. He knew he should have been there to help his son. Dick's world had tilted but unlike the first time that had happened, this time Dick had been alone. Batman looked up as Doctor Midnight continued testifying.

"He tilted. Nightwing's mind and his body froze."

The entire room seemed to be filled with silence. It seemed every member of the audience, the trial participants and the Tribunal, all seemed to take in this statement. Dr. Midnight waited, allowing the full impact of his words to reach the listeners.

Barbara waited as well. She needed them to listen to this. Despite the fact that she knew how Dick felt about this testimony. She hated doing something she knew he didn't want ... but she had to save him ... she had to. "Are you saying, Doctor, that Nightwing was incapable of acting to save Roland Desmond's life that night?"

"Under normal circumstances and conditions, Nightwing could and would have stopped Tarantula and Blockbuster. But this wasn't a normal circumstance. Between seventy-two to ninety-six hours his world blew apart in front of him and he was running on pure adrenaline from one buffer to another until he finally tilted out of the game. He had had little to no sleep. His body had taken more physical punishment than it should have. At that moment, he couldn't have stopped a cat. At that moment, Nightwing had what I would classify as a disassociative episode. He was watching what was happening as an observer and no longer as a participant."

The Tribunal members watched the witness intently. J'onn seemed to nod in agreement with Dr. Midnight's words. Ollie scratched his chin, his gaze meeting Roy's as he looked into the audience. Captain Marvel looked down at the photographs of Nightwing that had been introduced into evidence. The purple and green colors of the bruising seemed to clash with the red scratches and blood. Arthur remained impassive as he listened to the testimony. He knew better than to look up, least his eyes catch Garth's as Ollie's had Roy's. Arthur couldn't look at his son right now. This could have been him. Diana scanned the room, her eyes dropping on the trial participants and lingering slightly longer when she caught sight of Batman.

Midnight proceeded along with the rest of his answer. "Tarantula murders Blockbuster. What does Nightwing do? With all his training and experience, he had a panic attack. That is when the post traumatic stress disorder starts. Immediately and in that instance. From my discussions with him, both on that night and since when I've examined him, he clearly described an anxiety attack -- headache, dizziness, chest pain, weakness in his knees. Tarantula then raped him while he was suffering this anxiety attack. Let's be clear, I don't believe he was capable of consenting to sex at that point if he had wanted to, which I don't believe he did."

John Stewart rolled his eyes. He could not believe that Nightwing had so completely fooled Dr. Midnight.

"Are there any physical tests that you conducted, Doctor, which tend to support your diagnosis?" Barbara asked.

"While we are talking about a psychological condition, there are certain tests that the medical profession runs to confirm these types of diagnosis."

"And did you run those tests on Nightwing?"

"I did. On the night in question, and in subsequent examinations, Nightwing's hormones have been abnormal, consistent with PTSD. His thyroid function has been enhanced, his cortisol levels are lower than normal and epinephrine and norepinephrine levels are higher than normal. Add all of that to the sheer physical exhaustion and severe physical trauma to his body and you have someone who was clearly not capable of forming an intent to kill Blockbuster, allowing Blockbuster to be killed, or preventing Blockbuster from being killed. He wasn't capable of doing anything. He was frozen in that moment."

Dick's chest tightened and he stared at his hands resting on the table. They did not understand. He was still frozen in that moment. Still looking at the blood on his hands. He always would be. He could never escape that night but he wasn't going to let it destroy him. He wasn't going to let Blockbuster win.


Wally sat two trays on the table and sat down beside Dick. "Lunch is served." He smiled at his best friend. "Not Alfred's cooking, but thank goodness it's not Roy's either," he chuckled.

Dick smiled and looked over their lunch. Cheeseburgers all the way, fries, onion rings and Zestis. Yes, this was a Wally specialty. "Looks good. Thanks." Dick munched on some fries before asking his friend, "Isn't Babs eating with us?"

"Nah, she wanted to go over some more things with Dr. Midnight. Making sure he's prepped and ready for Stewart's cross."

"Yeah, that," Dick said softly as he dropped his eyes to stare at his food. "If I eat all this I might get sick and miss it."

"Oh you just eat what you want, I'll finish what you leave," Wally said as he propped his foot on a nearby chair. He noticed Plastic Man and Booster eating their own lunch not too far away from them, but far enough that they had relative privacy in the Hall of Justice. Wally was grateful they agreed to let Dick remain in the courtroom with him over the lunch recess.

Dick grinned. "You're a bottomless pit, you know that." He was glad that his friend hadn't seemed to catch the true meaning in his words. It wasn't the food that was making him sick.

"Yeah, its part of my charm. It's one of the many reason's I'm so irresistible," Wally said as he ravenously consumed his food. "Gardner's running the cafeteria with Warrior's food was a really good idea. If it had been up to some of us to run the food service these last few weeks ... whew ... I'd be starved to death."

"And that would be a bad thing," Dick said as he stuffed fries in his mouth. "I'm not looking forward to this afternoon," he said in a matter of fact tone.

"I know," Wally replied. "But it'll be okay. You know ... you can deal with it. You've dealt with worse."

Had he? Had he really dealt with worse? Worse physical pain, certainly. But emotional. Dick wasn't sure. He knew he could withstand the tortures of this trial just as he had the torments of Brother Blood's torturer. Yet, those times he had been tortured in body and mind, racked with pain, it had been just him. Dick could handle this if it was just him; but he knew this was much worse. It was his family, his friends, everyone he cared of. They were all enduring the same excruciating agony of this trial. All because of him. And there was nothing ... nothing at all ... that he could do to save them from this. "And we still have much worse to go," Dick added softly. They were all going to suffer ... more than they had ... before this case was over. "Babs says she wants me to testify."

"I know that too," Wally said sipping his Zesti.

"Since you know so much, how much longer is this trial gonna last?" Dick asked in mock annoyance belying his real feelings.

Wally shrugged. "I dunno, that's a Babs question." He stuck his tongue out at Dick and then grinned.

Dick shook his head and sipped his drink, "You're good for nothing, you know that. Worthless. I don't know why I've kept you around all these years."

"Cuz I'm your best friend."

"Well, there is that," Dick grinned at Wally.

"After the doctor, two more witnesses, that's it." Wally said as he popped the last of his fries in his mouth.

Dick nodded, the full weight of those words falling upon his shoulders. Two more witnesses ... then the Tribunal would reach their decision. A decision everyone would have to live with for the rest of their lives. "Yup. That's it."


John Stewart moved from the counsel table and approached the witness stand. "Now Doctor, you were not in the stairwell of the Haven Hotel the night Blockbuster was murdered, were you?"

"No, I was not." Midnight answered. He and Barbara Gordon had went over his cross examination and he felt as prepared as he could be. He would have been more comfortable in an operating room, but Dr. Midnight knew this is where he needed to be to help his patient. That he would not be deterred from doing.

"And all you know about what happened there was what Nightwing told you?" Lantern asked as he perched on the corner of the desk, half facing the witness.

"That is correct."

"And you didn't speak to Nightwing until after he was in custody, isn't that correct?"

"Yes. I think he had been on the watchtower for about an hour when I first examined him."

Stewart nodded. "An hour. He had already been in the cells?"

"I believe so."

Dick watched Stewart. He knew what he was implying ... everyone did. His fingers drummed a cadence on the table as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Now the physical injuries that Nightwing had that night. They weren't any different than the routine injuries that someone ... especially non-metas ... experience in our line of work?"

"I suppose not. Not after a brutal attack."

"But not uncommon? Nothing that many others in this room haven't faced on other nights?" Stewart turned to the audience and noticed quite a few heads nodding with his statement. His eyes locked with the Defendant's. "In fact, you reviewed Nightwing's medical history from his doctor in Gotham didn't you?"

"I did," the witness answered curtly.

"And he's went through similar beatings, similar injuries, even worse on occasion, hadn't he?"

"Physically. But it wasn't just --"

"Thank you doctor. I'm just talking about the physical now," Stewart stated stopping the Doctor from elaborating on his testimony. Stewart picked his legal pad up and flipped through some pages of notes. Looking back up at the doctor, he continued, "Now you stated that Nightwing had suffered an anxiety or panic attack, is that correct?"

"It is," Midnight answered.

"You went through a list of fourteen symptoms that you stated Nightwing had that led to your diagnosis. Again, those were things that Nightwing told you, weren't they?"

"Yes."

"You had no physical findings in any of your examinations to support the," Stewart looked down at his notes and began to tick off the list, "palpitations; sweating; trembling; shortness of breath; smothering feeling; feeling of choking; chest pain; nausea; tingling sensations; chills; and dizziness. You got all of that based upon what Nightwing told you, correct?"

"I wouldn't say I had no physical findings," Dr. Midnight began. "As I testified earlier, I conducted a number of tests on Nightwing and based upon the findings of those tests, Nightwing's hormones, his thyroid function, his cortisol levels, his epinephrine and norepinephrine levels all showed consistent levels which seem to confirm the diagnosis."

"But not conclusively?"

"There's nothing like an X-ray or an MRI that I can show you conclusively that Nightwing was suffering from what I've told you he was. This isn't like a broken bone, but I stand behind my diagnosis."

Stewart nodded. He did not need to alienate the doctor any more than he had to. "Now, I believe that you also said that at the time of the murder that Nightwing was in the throes of the stress which causes post-traumatic stress disorder?"

"I said that was part of it," Midnight answered as he shifted in his seat.

"And if he wasn't suffering from PTSD until after Blockbuster's murder, then that's not really pertinent and relevant to the issue of his culpability, is it?"

"If that was the case ... but I don't think that was exactly what I was saying."

"And you said that he was suffering, you believe from a disassociative episode to the extent that Nightwing could not react?"

"Yes, I stated that."

"But he did react. He was capable of action. He just walked away, didn't he?"

"Objection!" Barbara growled.

"Withdrawn," Stewart said with a smile as he retook his seat. Steepling his fingers, he looked up at the tribunal, "Nothing further." Then he held his hand up, "Oh, wait, one more thing."

All eyes turned toward Green Lantern. All but Nightwing. He knew what was coming and he braced himself for it. His eyes were fixed on his gauntlets. Nervously, his fingers fidgeted with the empty compartments.

"The so called rape. You said you didn't believe Nightwing was capable of consenting to sex at that time ... but that conclusion is based upon your other conclusions?"

"Of course it is."

"And those conclusions were based primarily on what Nightwing told you?"

"We've already been over this, yes that's a part of it -- "

"And if he was lying then the conclusions aren't valid are they?"

"OBJECTION!" Barbara forcefully called out.

"Sustained," Marvel said.

"That's all," Lantern added.

Dick sighed. He could feel the anger radiating off Barbara and Wally. He knew without turning around that Bruce was sitting stone-faced behind him. No one would know the raw emotions that simmered just below the surface. Dick knew though. He hated this. Hated the hurt this was causing his family. Dick wanted it all over. If only ...

Marvel stood, "We're in recess until tomorrow." He left the room followed by the remainder of the Tribunal.

Dick looked into Barbara's face. "Can you come see me tonight? I need to talk to you."

Barbara gripped his hand in her's. "Sure. I'll bring my dinner and we can eat together."

Dick ducked his head and a shy smile formed on his lips. "I'd like that."

"It's a date," she whispered to him.


Plastic Man stretched his neck to the main door of the secure area. He looked out the circular window into the corridor before pulling the rest of his body to the door. He scratched his head and looked back again. He was surprised by the woman who stood there tapping her foot impatiently. She was not a member of the Justice League. She was not even a costumed hero ... or villain ... she was wearing a business suit.

Plastic Man opened the door, "Are you another lawyer?"

The woman rolled her eyes and pushed past him. "I'm Amanda Waller. I run Task Force X ... "

"The Suicide Squad?" Plastic Man questioned.

"It's been called that. I'm here to talk business with one of your prisoners."

To be continued ...