Remorse and Resolution

The heat seemed incongruous with the night. Even with the airconditioner on at full blast in his car, Neil Avedon could sense the torpid humidity without. The stars seemed uneasy in the night sky, the moon half-obscured by a layer of fog. Of course, this was Los Angeles, and that haze was as much due to pollution as it was to the temperature. Still, his shirt stuck wetly to his back, and he found himself tugging interminably at his collar, his already-discarded tie laying limp on the passenger seat of his car.

He took the turn into the quiet residential neighborhood slowly. The last thing he needed was more attention from the police. After spending the day being raked over the coals in court, he wanted no more than some simple reassurance and the peace of his bed. He drew in, held, and then released a deep draught of air, trying to concentrate on letting some of the grinding tension out with his breath. It barely made a dent, the heavy weight of panic remaining tightly pinned to his chest.

Teddy would know what to say, he promised himself. Teddy would make everything better. If he could just look his tenacious attorney in the face, maybe he could leach away some of the man's seemingly endless strength, and find a way to make it through the night without dropping back into the relief that alcohol could offer. His hands shook on the steering wheel, the need rising so sharply within that it obscured his vision. The dim pavement blurred in front of his eyes, and he instinctively slammed on the brakes. The car shuddered to a halt, and he sat there, trembling, gasping for breath.

No. He would not. His fingers grasped so tightly on the leather-rimmed wheel that his knuckles turned an unhealthy, strained white. The pain of the cramped muscles broke through his concentration, and he let go, wriggling the sore digits. He blinked, suddenly realizing he was stopped in the middle of the road, the car's front end poked too far into the opposite lane. Glancing anxiously around him, he quickly pressed on the gas, easing the car forward.

The house was like thousands of others in suburban neighborhoods spread out over the sprawling metropolis. Set on a small lot, the grass green and neat, the simple white structure held a certain peace. A memory of warmth washed over Neil as he set the car against the curb and stared at the small decorative stairway leading to the front door. He remembered the blinking lights of a Christmas tree, and the heavy weight of a large wooden angel in his hand as he set it on the tip of the small pine. There had been laughter, comfort and welcome in that house, and his heart leapt at the sight of it. Borrowed though the time had been, that one evening had been the happiest of his life.

Gathering up the small bag from the seat beside him, he bolted from the car, knowing if he didn't move now, he'd lose his nerve and turn away. Going there that Christmas had been difficult, and he'd sat in his car for over an hour before swallowing the remnants of his pride and walking up to the door. Tonight, he went quickly, though with no less fear. The difference was that this time there was desperation coloring the fear, driving it upwards and outwards, forcing his feet to stumble in their haste to reach that brightly-lit doorway.

Stabbing at the bell, he held his breath as he waited, his face taut and shadowed. He bit at his lower lip, shifting on his feet like an uncertain child. When the door finally opened to reveal the slender figure of a blond-haired woman, his face lit up into a tentative, boyish smile.

"Mrs. Hoffman," he said with open warmth. "I'm sorry I didn't call first. I need to speak to Teddy - but it'll be quick, I promise."

The questioning look of welcome with which she had opened the door froze. His heart skipped a beat as her eyes darkened. He knew instantly that he shouldn't have come, and his stomach did an abrupt flip in his abdomen.

"I'm sorry to bother you..." he began, taking a short step backwards. "I guess it can wait..."

"No, Neil, it's all right," she said, pushing the door open further. She hesitated, then bowed her head. "You'd better come in."

He slipped past her into the familiar comfort of the house. Unlike the heat of the night air, it was cool in here, yet it was also warm with a heat that didn't stifle, but rather soothed the soul. He stepped into the living room, then turned back to face her as she followed him into the room.

"Ummm, this is for Lizzie. I..." He paused, not able to find the words, then mutely held out the small bag.

"You didn't have to do that," she said, her face almost motionless. Again he felt that sinking feeling of panic begin to work its way through his nerves.

"I just wanted to..." He looked down at his outstretched hand, then dropped the bag onto the small end table next to the couch. "Is Teddy busy? I can wait."

She suddenly broke into motion, walking past him to nervously straighten the afghan on the couch. He watched her silently for a moment, and a few interminable seconds later, she turned to face him.

"He's not here," she said softly.

"Oh," Neil nodded. "OK - just tell him I came by to see him. It's not important. I'm sorry to disturb you."

"No. He's not coming back here tonight. He's...we've separated." Her voice was unnaturally calm, but her eyes betrayed the emotion. Wide and unguarded, they reminded him of a startled deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming car. Without realizing it, he mirrored the same expression back at her, as he fought for his breath.

"Whhhat?" He shut his mouth, unable to stop himself from looking around. "But..."

"He's staying at the Sheraton in room 975. I'll write it down for you," she fumbled for pen and paper, turning her back to him. He watched her silently, the shock giving away to a new flood of emotion. Guilt. Raw, blazing, soul-wrenching remorse. Partnered to his new-found sobriety, it had become a constant companion. He went to sleep with it at night, and woke to find it waiting patiently for him in the morning. It haunted him in the courtroom, and followed him home. He had woken to the world, with eyes that finally saw with chilling clarity the horror of his own reflection in its view.

It would be hard for him to say which moment had been the most difficult among the hours spent sitting in that courtroom listening to his life being drawn out for public view, detail by excruciating detail. Perhaps it had been watching Melissa's Griotte's tape, for Neil still had no recollection of doing what the film so mercilessly showed. It made him doubt his sanity, his memory, his innocence. Despite his attorneys' reassurances, those uncertainties had not dissipated. Instead they had burrowed like worms into his soul. Despite Melissa's lies and half-truths, he had to face the fact that he had treated her badly. Lost in a haze of drugs and alcohol, he had slid from woman to woman, party to party, with little more care than for where the next drink was coming from. Afraid to face himself sober, he was now paying an even deeper price for putting off the payment for so long.

"Here!" Annie Hoffman was shoving the small piece of paper at him, and when their fingers brushed, she jolted away from the contact. Pain struck hard in his chest, squeezing on his lungs, and he nearly stumbled. His fault, this was his fault. Crumpling the small note in his hand, he mumbled something neither of them heard, then he turned and almost ran for the door. The humidity hit him in full blast as he left the house, but he was oblivious.

Something indefinable shifted in him as he started the engine, a quiet kind of resolution, and he would always remember the rest of that drive. It etched itself on his mind in clear, perfect detail. He absorbed it all, each streetlight burning into his eyes, the sound of the engine filling his ears. Every instant took an eternity, the whole was over before he thought he had taken another breath.

Reaching his own house, he parked the car carefully, again moving with meticulous detail. He noticed everything, the smell of flowers in the air, the sweat that prickled the skin of his back, the sound of his footsteps on the pavement. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside, but let the door swing shut by itself. He felt no need to shut the night out, and did not turn when the door came to rest ajar.

Dropping his keys on the couch, he switched on the lights automatically, then pivoted in place. He saw the room clearly for the first time, absorbing every facet. He shed his jacket and shoes in swift, economical motions, moving with a purpose. His expression was serene, and he breathed with a steady calm as he walked through the house.

In his bedroom, he stole a moment for the same intense recording of the contents as he had given the living room, then he dug in the drawer of the bedside table for pen and paper. He wrote like a child learning to write, drawing out the letters one-by-one, feeling the figures loop and curl under his hand. The marks were even and smooth across the white surface, line following line as neatly as though it had been traced against a ruler. Then, finally, he added one last abrupt scribble to the end, a rapid curley-que that sloped off at an unruly angle from the evenly spaced text above. The pen dropped from his hand, clattered against the table top, then rolled to a stop against the bottom of the lamp.

Picking up the letter, he turned and entered the white-tiled bathroom. Under the unforgiving glare of the ceiling light, he stood in front of the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Eyes as black and empty as a pool of crude oil gazed unforgivingly back at him, the skin around them luminous in its pallor. His hair was a wild, ebony mat, strands hanging thickly down over his brow and curling over the tips of his ears. He grinned without amusement, and watched the image return the grimace, then the mirrored expressions settled into an unnatural calm.

He propped the hand-written note against the wall behind the sink, then undid his cufflinks. Carefully, he rolled up his sleeves and gazed intently at his wrists. Blue veins pulsed beneath the skin which stretched taut over muscle and bone. He flexed his arms, and watched the tendons shift, forcing the blood vessels ever closer to the surface. It would do, he decided peacefully, and he reached up to open the cabinet behind the mirror.

Retrieving his razor, he fumbled for a moment before he was able to free the blade. He had to knock it against the sink, but it finally broke open. Unconcerned with the remnants of the small instrument, he let them fall into the sink, picking up only the bright metal piece. He held it up to the light, ran a quick finger over the sharp edge, gasping slightly when it caught painfully at the flesh of his thumb. He drew it back, and stopped for a moment, staring. But only for an instant, and then he moved again. Abandoning the sink, his eyes flickered towards the large empty bathtub.

Keeping the blade held between thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he used his left hand to steady himself as he climbed into the big porcelain basin. Stretching out his legs as best he could, he came down to rest within. Then biting at his bottom lip in concentration, he poised the blade and exposed the inside of his left wrist. Light flared off of metal as he forced it into motion, and barely a whisper escaped his clamped lips as it sliced cleanly across his skin, just below the silver band of his wrist-watch.

He stopped long enough to watch the bright red fluid well up through the slash, then he transferred the razor blade to his other hand, and copied the previous motion. Again, he emitted barely a murmur in protest to the sudden pain, and again he paused to watch blood begin to ooze out of the thin wound. He carefully set the sliver of metal down in the soap-dish beside him and leaned his head back against the corner of the tub.

Resting his arms across his legs, the back of his hands against the curve of his knees, he silently watched the bright, slow trickle gather and run. At first it pooled along the top edge of his palms, building up until small droplets began to form and release. Like water dribbling from a broken faucet, it splashed downwards into the tub between his legs in a steady gradual flow. Mesmerized by the spreading color, he followed the swirl and ebb of it, brilliant against the white surface, until his eyelids drooped and his mind began to drift into darkness.

"Damn." Chris Docknovich muttered under his breath as the cell phone rang unanswered in his ear. Surely Neil would be home by now, so why wasn't he answering his phone? Running a hand through his wavy blond hair, he frowned at the unblinking red light hanging above the intersection. When it finally shifted to green, he gunned his car's engine, blue eyes focused into the distance.

It had been a rough day in court. Lately, they seemed to have been taking one hit after another, the defense team being rocked by disaster after disaster. The Prosecution's case seemed unassailable, despite the steadfast attempts of Chris' boss, Theodore Hoffman, to chip away at the edges. Sitting there, day after day, listening as a mixture of half-truths, lies, and exaggerations tore his life and soul into shreds was becoming a nearly intolerable strain on the defendant. His past mistakes were rising up to haunt him, and for a man who was never stable emotionally, it had been a difficult balancing act from the beginning. He had held on precariously to his sobriety, but even that had a price tag attached. Clarity of mind meant seeing himself clearly, and there were painful truths for Neil to face amid the lies.

Nonetheless, Neil had seemed to be holding together when he left them earlier that evening. But something about his demeanor, perhaps that husky softness in his voice, or the endless well of pain imprinted into his dark eyes, had set off warning bells in Chris' attentive mind. Sober, Neil had an innocence that could be startling in its honesty. He looked to his attorneys like a child looks to his parents, trusting and dependent, gauging himself by their reactions, tentatively testing his limits, yet binding himself by their strictures. In the absence of the arrogant Hollywood playboy act that he put on like a shield against the world, he was shy and charming, capable of a nearly blinding warmth.

Chris shook his head in frustrated concern as he raced his car along the freeway. So much progress had been made, even despite the one relapse before Christmas. Chris had seen Neil through that night without difficulty, and one night of sleep lost to listen to the outpouring of fear and uncertainty from his client had not been a sacrifice, especially when he had been rewarded with the dawning light of understanding in those tormented eyes. At long last, Neil was showing recognition of his own patterns of behavior, seeing the causes for his mistakes and their consequences. There was so far to go, but the possibilities were there.

So, as he raced towards Neil's home that night, Chris told himself that he was worrying without reason. He would get there and find that Neil had simply turned off his phone to get some sleep. Or was taking a long bath. Or just simply didn't feel like answering his phone. There was nothing wrong, he assured himself, but a warning bell deep inside was chiming an unsettling melody.

That gentle sound turned into a load roar in his ears as he drove into the driveway and saw light streaming from an open door. Neil's car was parked neatly in the driveway, and Chris pulled up behind it with a screech of his wheels. Jumping out of the car, he ran up the steps, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Neil!" He yelled out as he got to the open door. Met with silence, he banged on the door, calling out again. "Neil! It's Chris! Neil!"

There was no answer, and his stomach abruptly sunk. Pushing the door fully open, he hurried through the hallway and into the living room. His eyes fell on the brown suitcoat draped over the back of the couch, and he nearly stumbled when his foot hit an abandoned shoe. Grabbing onto the couch, he righted himself, then ran into the kitchen. Only the sound of his own voice, desperate and sharp-edged, echoed in his ears as he left the big empty room, and headed down the inner hallway. Light tumbled from the half-open door to the master bedroom, and Chris stopped only to take a quick gasp of air before rushing inside.

The room was still, a shimmer of light emanating from the bedside lamp. The bed was rumpled, a pair of black sweatpants laying abandoned across the white sheets. There was no sign of the missing occupant, and Chris' fears deepened.

"Neil!" He called out again, his ears jerking at the slightest sound, yet he could only hear the hum of the airconditioning and the rasp of his own breath in reply. The door to the bathroom was wide- open and the light was on there too. Chris edged to the side so that he could see his own wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. Walking toward his own image, the same prescient sense that had brought him here blared again, even as his eyes fell towards the sink. Propped against the wall was a small piece of paper with writing on it, and within the sink itself were the pieces of a man's razor. Picking up the plastic handle, he realized that the blade was missing, and he froze in place.

Time stretched out, every second imprinting itself on his mind as he shifted on his feet and angled his head around. Then something snapped, and dropping the empty razor, he ran over to the tub. At first all he saw was Neil's head resting awkwardly against the back corner of the tub and his knees jutting up out of the basin. It was only when he bent down in a crouch and reached out to take hold of Neil's shoulders that he saw the pool of red liquid beneath.

Chris' first bemused reaction was that Neil had simply spilled a bottle of red wine, and he cast around for the bottle even as he slid his arm around Neil's neck. Disturbed, one of Neil's arms flopped downward, exposing the gaping, oozing gash across the slender wrist. Recognition of what the red liquid was roared over Chris, and he collapsed backwards onto the bathroom floor. His stomach heaved, and he grabbed for the edge of the tub to bring himself upright. He got only as far as the sink before the nausea overcame him, forcing him to retch helplessly into the small basin.

After he gave up the remnants of his dinner, he yanked on the faucet and threw quick handfuls of water on his face. Then he saw the letter in front of him, damp with splashes of water, and he abruptly realized its intent. Instinctively, he stuffed it into his pocket before steeling himself to turn back to the tub. He staggered slightly as he re-approached Neil's body in its bath of blood, collapsing to his knees on the floor.

"Neil?" Chris tentatively at first, then with increasing desperation, fumbled for a pulse. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his fingers into Neil's neck, trying to find the jugular vein. Was the pulse there? He rubbed his sensitive fingertips into the yielding flesh. YES, there it was. Beating unsteadily, but definitely there. Pressing the palm of his hand against Neil's mouth, he felt the brush of warm breath against his own skin and he nearly fainted with relief. Could he possibly be in time?

His mind whirled as he tried to focus through the shock of his discovery. Call 911, yes, he had to find a phone. He started to push himself up to his feet, but suddenly stopped. He couldn't leave Neil like that, he had to stop the bleeding.

Feeling like he was outside of himself watching his own actions, he quickly wrapped a towel around each of Neil's oozing wrists as tightly as he could. The white cloth instantly started seeping up the red color, and when he let go the cloth hung limply around Neil's arms. Chris groaned in frustration, he needed a way to bind them. His eyes darted around, then somehow fell to notice his own tie as it draped over into the tub, the end already stained with Neil's blood.

In an instant he had it off and tied firmly around one of the makeshift bandages. Knowing he needed another, he ran for the bedroom. Opening drawers at random, he tossed the contents around until he found what he needed. Trailing the long thin piece of material, he hurried back into the bathroom and bound the other wrist. Then he picked up both arms and propped them up against the wall over Neil's head. It took a bit of maneuvering, but he finally was able to wedge them into the corner so that they stayed in place.

Scrambling back to his feet, he ran back into the bedroom. Seizing the phone on the dresser top, he dialed 9-1-1 with quick stabbing moments, while his chest heaved with the effort of supplying air to his lungs.

When the operator answered, he had to gasp before he could get the words out, and his voice erupted hoarsely, grating against his parched throat.

"I need an ambulance at 1197 Garwood Ave. Hollywood Hills....Please hurry, he's bleeding to death." He paused, then answered in a rush of words. "I think he tried to kill himself with a razor, he cut his wrists...No, straight across them...A lot, he's lost a lot of blood. I found him in the bathtub, and there's a pool of it running down the drain. I've never seen so much blood before...

"I am calm...Chris, Chris Docknovich...d-o-c-k-n-o-v-i-c-h. Yes, that's the address, they've got to hurry. Yes, there's a pulse and he's breathing...!" He stopped, drawing in a ragged breath. The operator spoke smoothly, soothingly into his ear, but he barely heard a word she said. She repeated herself insistently, and he jerked in response.

"What? Oh, yes. I wrapped towels around them and then bound them with ties. Yes, I did. Yes...The door is open. I found it that way when I got here. The bathroom off the main bedroom. Down the inner hallway to the left. The room lights are on. Yes, I'll be here. Please hurry!"

He hung up the phone, then picked it up again. It took a moment to realize he didn't have the number of Ted's hotel room memorized. That meant a call to information before he could reach the front desk, and then another hold while they rang Ted's room. The wait seemed interminable, and Chris kept glancing towards the bathroom, wavering, desperate to return to Neil, yet terrified that he might find his client had slipped away.

"Where is that damned ambulance," he muttered under his breath, with a defiant frustration, and then finally, Ted's voice came through on the line.

"Hello?"

"Ted, thank God you're there."

"Chris?" Ted Hoffman's voice sharpened. "What's wrong?"

"It's Neil." Chris could hear the break in his own voice, and he had to swallow hard before he could continue. "I was concerned about him, so I tried to call him at home. He never answered, so I drove up here and...Dear God, Ted, he tried to kill himself. Tried...he might have succeeded. There's so much blood!"

"What? Chris, what the hell happened?"

"Neil cut his wrists with a razor. In the bathtub. I found him. He's still alive, but I don't know if he'll make it much longer."

Chris heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, then Ted asked with abrupt, characteristic decisiveness. "You called 9-1-1?"

"Yes. I had to."

"I know. All right, stay with him. I'll be there as soon as I can. Do you know which hospital they'll take him to?"

"I...Maybe St. Mary's. It's the closest."

"OK, I'll call Lisa and have her get down there in advance. Damn! Any idea what set him off? Did he take anything?"

"No. I don't know. Lester's betrayal hurt him badly. I don't know about the drugs, there're no bottles or needles around. Wait...he left a note." Chris drew the slightly crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at the words for the first time. "It's addressed to you."

"Hang onto it, don't let anyone else see it. I'm on my way now. Just try to stay cool."

"OK." Chris hung up the phone again, and this time couldn't put off returning to the bathroom. Closing his eyes for a moment, he then hurried back into the small space. Somehow, even though he knew better, he had hoped against hope that something would be different, but, of course, it wasn't. Neil was still resting in a pool of his own blood, and Chris felt his heart constrict at the sight. Dropping to his knees beside the tub, he took hold of Neil's hands in one of his, then placed the other against the unconscious man's cheek.

"Hold on, Neil," Chris whispered. "Please, just hold on a little longer."

"...attempted suicide at 1197 Garwood Ave..." Detective Arthur Polson was only half-listening to the police and rescue band when the address jumped out at him. Startled, he nearly dropped the lukewarm cup of coffee from his hand. His head jerked around, and he gave full attention to the dispatcher's voice, but she had already moved on.

But his mind was turning over, running that address over and over again, for he was certain that he knew it. With a sudden flash of understanding, he reached for the thickest case-file on his desk and quickly scanned the contents. The words came up bright against the white paper as he found the form he was searching for.

Neil Avedon
1197 Garwood Ave
Hollywood Hills, CA 90211

And then the rest of the statement echoed in his mind...attempted suicide....

"Jesus Christ," he swore, leaping up out of his chair. Grabbing at his abandoned suit jacket, he raced past his startled colleagues, forced his way out through the busy lobby, and ran for his car.

By the time the paramedics arrived, Chris was in a near panic, his fingers not moving from the pulse in Neil's neck. He had propped Neil's arms over his own shoulders, then gathered the unconscious man up against him, digging one arm down around his back, ignoring the wetness of the blood as it coated his hand and forearm, whispering a constant stream of prayers, pleas, and protests.

When the white-coated men tried to pull him away, he struggled for a blind instant, refusing to release the precious burden in his embrace. They soothed him away with the ease of much practice, one guiding him into the bedroom while the other bent over their patient. He remained seated on the edge of the bed, trembling, spreading the blood from one hand to another, drawing wide gory streaks across his face and hair. Pieces of the paramedics' conversation floated over his head, words disjointed from sense, skittering across the corners of his mind. But when they drew the stretcher out past him, his eyes, and then his entire focus reconnected.

Neil was wrapped in red-stained white sheets, his skin bleached as pale as the thin mattress he rested upon. They had not changed the make-shift bandages on his arms, but the sharp black bands of tourniquets were clinched tightly around his upper arms. The cloth of his right pant leg was cut open, leaving room for the long shaft of an IV needle, the tubing attached to a plastic bag full of clear liquid, held suspended by one of the men as they wheeled him out of the room. Stumbling to his feet, Chris followed them down the long hallway and out into the sultry night.

After they had loaded Neil into the back of the ambulance, Chris darted forward past a pair of blue-uniformed police officers. He took hold of the ambulance door, using it to support himself as he attempted to climb on board. One of the attendants tried to stop him, but Chris ignored him, shoving the man aside.

"You can't go in there, sir!" The paramedic shouted, but Chris was beyond listening, his only thought for his client, for the sense of responsibility he felt. "Have to stay with Neil..." the words were only a whisper, a whimper, but the feelings they expressed were too strong to be denied. He should have been there to stop this, he should have seen this coming, there should have been something he could have done...

A strong pair of hands seized him, holding him back from the ambulance door. Someone said something he didn't hear clearly as his feet hit the ground without preparation for the shock of impact. Fury erupted as he fell to his knees upon the pavement, even as the ambulance doors slammed shut behind him, and the vehicle raced off, sirens blaring.

Chris turned his face upwards to see who had interfered, then let out a bellow of rage.

"You bastard!" he screamed, rising to his feet and aiming his fist in one swift, fluid motion. Detective Polson never had a chance to defend himself, the punch landing square on his jawbone and tossing him backwards. He hit the pavement with a thud, crying out in astonishment as he belatedly acknowledged the pain on the side of his face. Blood welled inside his cheek, and he gasped for breath, then fought his way back to his feet. A few inches away, Chris staggered to his feet, glaring with unabated anger.

"What the hell are you doing here, Polson?" Chris yelled, blue eyes glaring beneath a vivid gory streak of Neil's blood. "Come to gloat a little about how you got your man? How you drove a man to pour his life down the drain of a bathtub? Going to take a good look so that you can report success back to your masters? How much did Cross pay you to let an innocent man take the blame for his crime, you son of a bitch, How much?"

"Take it easy!" Polson said warily, instinctively putting up a hand between them, palm facing outward. "Just calm down."

"Calm down? Go to Hell!" Chris yelled back. "Neil took a razor and sliced both his wrists and sat there for God knows how long in that bathtub while he slowly bled to death, drop by drop. He believed he deserved it. Well, he didn't. But that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that he was just as much a victim as Jessica was. It doesn't matter that those bastards killed him just as surely as they killed her. Only they did it to him slowly, let him collapse inside, day-by-day, minute-by-minute, twisting up his guts with guilt and pain until he couldn't find another way out. At least it was over quickly for Jessica, Neil didn't get such mercy."

Chris threw up his hands in the air, shaking with frustration and rage. Turning away from the stunned Polson, he swung around towards the car behind him, and slammed his fists down on the hood.

"Damn, damn, damn!"

"Look, Mr. Docknovich. Chris..." Polson started to speak, but the words dried up in his mouth, when Chris turned to glare at him.

"Shut up," Chris said, his entire body shaking with the effort to regain control. "Shut the Hell up! Go do your goddamn work...go on! Go look at what you've done." His hands gestured wildly at the open doorway, "Go take a good look, Detective."

Polson opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, headlights flared in their faces, forcing both men to draw back towards the house, shielding their eyes. The brilliant light flashed, then was gone, even as the roar of the engine broke into sudden silence. The sound of their breathing again filled the night, until a door opened, then slammed shut and heavy footsteps ran towards them.

"Chris? Detective Polson?" Theodore Hoffman hurried around the front end of his car towards the two men standing near the doorway, the gleaming light from the house streaming over their fair heads.

"Here, Ted." Chris felt some of the grief sink in the always calming presence of his boss, unconsciously straightening his shoulders and quieting the hard rush of his breath.

"Ted." Polson nodded to the big, imposing man as he approached, unable to avoid releasing a soft sigh of relief. Hoffman, at least, could be counted on to remain cool.

"Neil?" Ted asked in a low, pained voice.

"On his way to hospital. He was still alive when they put him in the ambulance."

"Thank God," Ted replied fervently, coming face-to-face with his younger associate. They turned so that the light from the house hit them equally, and the sight of Chris' war-painted face drew a gasp of horror from the older man.

Chris smiled wryly, his eyes remaining dark and intent. He stared into Ted's face, then let his gaze wander downward towards his bloody hands. "Why? I mean, I know why - but why? Why didn't he come to us for help? Why didn't I realize he was heading towards this and do something? I knew he was upset by Lester's betrayal. All those horrible lies, and he had to just sit there and take it. I should have stayed with him, talked to him...done something..."

Ted reached out to take hold of the slightly taller man's shoulders, speaking urgently. "There was no way you could know he'd do this. And you did do something. If you hadn't decided to check in on him, Neil wouldn't have had a chance. He's alive right now, and God willing, will survive this, because you cared enough to come here tonight."

"It shouldn't have happened. He was doing so well. He hadn't touched drugs since October, and he hadn't drank since that one time at Christmas. We had a good talk then. He always listened to me, to you... and he stayed out of trouble, did everything we asked of him without complaint, no matter how scared he was."

"I know," Ted replied soothingly, his hypnotic voice deep with sorrow. "I'm proud of him too. And more angry than you could imagine. Chris, the most painful part of being a defense attorney is not defending a man we know is guilty, it's defending a man we know is innocent. The reality of our job is that more than 90% of our clients are guilty, and however hard you think that is - it's the easy part. Those clients don't touch you where it matters, you simply log in the hours, do the job required of you, then walk away, win or lose. It's when the client is innocent that it starts to touch you inside, where you begin to realize that a life is hanging in the balance of your hands, and suddenly the possibility of failure means more than a career statistic. You start to care. You wouldn't be human if you didn't, but right now you have to use that feeling to stay focused for the client. Neil is going to need every ounce of strength and support we can give him. We have to be calm and stay in control if we are going to have a chance to get him through this ordeal."

Chris nodded numbly. He stared back down at his gore-coated hands, and only barely restrained himself from wiping the blood off on his pants and coat. "You're right. I'd better get cleaned up, it won't do Neil any good if I show up at the hospital covered in his blood." He attempted to laugh, but the sound twisted harshly in his throat.

"No, it won't," Ted said soothingly. "That's a good idea. Go home, shower and change, then head over to the hospital. Lisa should already be there, and Arnold should be on his way as well. I sent Justine in to the office to serve as a communications center. She's going to notify Ray, and start working on some kind of press release. This is going to be a firestorm when word gets out."

Chris blanched. "Dear God, I hadn't though about that. The press is going to go crazy over this."

"Yes, but we'll just have to deal with it. See what you and Arnold can do to arrange a secluded room for Neil."

"That's assuming he lives," Chris reminded him darkly.

Ted nodded. "Until we know otherwise, we have to make that assumption. Now get going, I'll take care of things here, then meet you at the hospital."

"All right," Chris grimaced at his sticky hands, then sighed and turned away, ignoring the watching detective. A few feet away, he suddenly stopped, reached into his pocket and pivoted around to face his boss. Silently, he walked back over and handed the crumpled letter to Ted, his eyes communicating silent caution. Ted nodded, taking the letter and immediately tucking it into his pocket. The two attorneys inclined their heads almost imperceptibly at each other, then Chris retraced his steps back to his car.

Walking back towards the watching Polson, Ted's face remained shuttered in silent denial to the detective's unspoken question. Polson eyed him with faint suspicion, but didn't push the issue. His bruised jaw ached, and he probed at it thoughtfully while watching Chris get into his car. In uneasy companionship, the defense attorney and the policeman stood in the shelter of the open doorway, two sets of blue and white police lights strobing across their drawn faces.

Polson and Ted Hoffman stared grimly down at the red-stained bathroom ignoring the activities of a crime scene officer as he carefully retrieved the razor blade from the soap-dish and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.

"A few pints of blood down the drain," Polson muttered as he rubbed gingerly at his sore jaw. "He must have been stoned to the gills."

"No." Ted said sharply. "No," he added more softly. "Neil was sober, he had stayed clean for weeks."

Polson shook his head. "I'm sorry Ted, but no one does something like this sober. I've seen several of these cases, and it can take hours for the blood loss to cause unconsciousness, especially when they cut across the wrist instead of slicing up the arm. No one could just sit there and bleed to death, a drop at a time, sober."

Ted chuckled harshly. "You don't know Neil Avedon. There's a lot more to him than you realize, Detective. He wasn't drunk, he knew what he was doing."

"You really believe he's innocent, don't you?" Polson asked, his voice edged with incredulity.

"Of killing Jessica Costello?" Ted questioned in a monotone, almost as though he was talking to himself, his eyes never wavering from the streaks of blood on the white porcelain. "Yes," he answered bluntly, "of course I do. Don't you?" His eyes lingered briefly, contemplatively, on the tub, then he turned and walked away leaving Polson staring after him, speechless.

The sight of Lisa Gillespie standing by the nurse's station in casual clothes, her short sandy hair attractively mussed, made Chris Docknovich's heart leap. Sensing his presence when he approached from behind her, she turned to hold out her hands to him.

"Oh, Chis..." she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Are you all right?"

He took her hands gratefully, pulling her closer to him. "I'm fine. It's Neil I'm worried about. Is there any word?"

She shook her head, tightening her grip on his fingers. "Nothing yet, just that they're giving him transfusions as quickly as his body will accept the fluid. The lab is running blood tests, to make certain he's drug free before they attempt to give him anything but the blood."

Chris paused to breath in her fragrance, a faint whiff of lilacs mixed with soap, then he answered with heartfelt sorrow. "I think he's clean, Lisa. In a way that scares me more. That he could do something like that sober...I just can't imagine the kind of pain someone would have to feel to sit there for so long letting yourself die."

"I know," she sighed deeply, focusing her large, azure eyes on his face. Releasing his hand, she reached up and traced his cheek with a gentle forefinger. "I feel terrible that we didn't see it coming. There must have been warning signs."

"There were, but Neil's always been emotionally unstable, so it was hard to tell the difference. I just wish I knew what had pushed him over the edge."

"It's my fault," a grave voice said behind Chris. They let go of each other's hands abruptly as Chris spun to face their boss. Ted Hoffman looked wearier than they had ever seen him, his suit rumpled, sweat gleaming on the dome of his bald head. His eyes were sunken pools in skin that seemed too pale.

"Ted, uh... there's no word yet on Neil." Lisa spoke too quickly, the words came out in an awkward rush. She exchanged a quick glance with Chris, but their boss seemed not to have noticed the fact that he had found them holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes like a pair of love-struck teenagers. He nodded briefly in response to her statement, then shoved his hands into his pockets. The silence was uncomfortable and Chris broke it abruptly.

"What do you mean, Ted, about this being your fault?" He regretted the words the moment he had spoken them, but Ted didn't seem to mind. He answered calmly, in a soft rhythmic tone.

"I should have told him about Annie and me. He must have found out from someone else, and he blamed himself for our separation in his suicide note. He thought that everyone would be better off if he simply ended this now. That all of our lives would be better without him to mess them up. That the world would be a better place without him in it." Ted paused, then looked up at Chris as though startled to see him, and suddenly changed tack.

"I almost forgot, Chris, to thank you for retrieving the note. It was quick thinking on your part in a tough situation. There's nothing in it that could really harm our case, but it still saves us some trouble. It could have been embarrassing if the press got hold of it."

"Thanks. I'm not even sure why I picked it up."

"You were protecting your client. It's a good instinct for a defense attorney to have," Teddy said. "Speaking of which, we've got some damage control to do while we wait for news on Neil. I have no doubt the press will be descending on us in droves within the hour - just in time to make the 11 o'clock news. Let's get some coffee and find a place to sit." He placed a hand on both of their shoulders, then followed them through the lobby.

The first reporter appeared an hour later, and soon there were three TV cameras, four newspaper reporters and a couple of free-lancers milling around the emergency room lobby. The hospital staff was alternating between annoyance and curiosity, mumbling under their breaths at the interference, yet poking their heads out at the impromptu press conference at any possible opportunity. Ted Hoffman fielded the barrage like the consummate professional he was, working hard to minimize the damage. His statement came down to a simple acknowledgment that Neil Avedon had tried to commit suicide that night, that the actor was under emergency medical care, and that nothing further was known. They pressed for reasons why, he spoke guardedly about the stress of the trial and the difficulties of overcoming drug and alcohol addiction.

Finally they accepted that they had gotten all they were going to get, and wandered off, some trying to assure a place on the late evening news, others to try to get statements from available hospital personnel. For his part, Ted retired to the far end of the lounge easing his large frame into an empty chair beside his two younger colleagues, where they sat in silence until the quiet became too heavy a burden.

"Good job," Chris said belatedly. He gained a spare nod in return.

"This could work both ways," Lisa mused aloud. "A lot of people will see this as an admission of guilt, but it could also gain him some sympathy. The big question, though, is the jury. They're not supposed to be reading anything about the trial, but sometimes you have to wonder. This is going to be really hard to miss. How will we know which jurors know and which ones don't, and how will it affect their votes?"

"Those are good questions, Lisa, and I don't have all the answers. Actually, though, I'm less worried about the jury's reactions at this point, than I am about Grasso and the Judge. We're going to have to talk to them tomorrow morning. We'll need a recess until Neil recovers enough to go back to court, and I'm afraid Grasso may use this to get him back behind bars."

Before either could answer him, his cell phone shrilled loudly. Fishing it out of his jacket pocket, he spoke sparely into it, "Hoffman."

His demeanor lightened in response to the voice that answered, and his voice was warm when he asked the person to hold for a moment. Covering the receiver with his big hand, he whispered to his associates, "It's my wife, will you excuse me for a moment?"

They both nodded, and he stood up and walked over to the opposite corner. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, he spoke again into the phone.

"Hello Annie. Is Lizzie all right?"

"Yes, she's fine. I'm calling because...I was just watching the news. They said that Neil tried to kill himself tonight. Is it true?"

"Yes, it's true."

"Oh God," she whispered. "Is he going to make it?"

Ted shifted on his feet, rubbing wearily at the back of his neck, the phone clutched against his ear. "I hope so, Annie. He's still in danger, but they think he was discovered in time. Chris found him and stopped the bleeding right away - that gave Neil a fighting chance. They're pumping him full of blood and saline as fast as they can, but he lost an awful lot of fluid." He sighed. "It doesn't help that he doesn't want to live, he's not fighting to come back."

"I'm so sorry," she said with pained sincerity. "I feel like I should have seen something when I saw him earlier, but I had no idea. He seemed fine."

"You saw him? When?" His voice leapt out at her, he could barely restrain the urgency enough to keep from shouting. The sound came out in a harsh, hurried whisper.

"Yes, about seven. He was looking for you and I gave him your hotel room. Didn't he..."

"What did you tell him?" Teddy interrupted sharply.

Startled, Annie asked, "What do you mean?"

"What did you say to Neil?" Ted demanded insistently, the meticulous fervor of the trial attorney creeping into his tone. "He blamed himself for our separation, it was in his suicide note. Dear God, Annie, one of the reasons he did this was because he felt responsible for breaking up our marriage. I know you're angry with me for taking this case and exposing us to the public circus, and for putting Lizzie at risk, but did you have to take it out on Neil?"

Before he could say anything more, she broke in, audibly upset. "Teddy, how could you think that I would do that? I didn't. All I told Neil was that we had separated and then I wrote out your address for him. He took it and left, that's all. I assumed he was going to see you." An image flashed in front of her eyes, the horrified expression on Neil's face when she gave him the news. She had been too caught up in her own pain then to pay much attention to his reaction, but looking back now the memory hit her hard. The anguish had been there for her to see, if she had been willing to look.

"I couldn't lie to him," she finished awkwardly, feeling the words fall flat as she spoke. Another memory jangled at her senses, the shy, uncertain smile of a visitor on Christmas Eve soaking up the warmth of their life the way a starving man would down a bowl of soup. She had felt sorrow and sympathy for him then, for the first time seeing the human being beneath the public reputation. For once she had almost understood her husband's preoccupation with this case. An understanding that had died with the kidnapping of their daughter.

"I know," Ted was saying to her, forcing her to focus back on the present. "Of course you couldn't. I should have told him myself, but he already had too much to cope with today. I'd hoped to wait a couple of days before discussing it with him." He paused, then contradicted himself wryly. "Or perhaps I was thinking that we might somehow get back together before I had to tell him. It was stupid."

"No. Teddy, it wasn't stupid. I know Neil thought a lot of us..." She let her voice trail off, while he nodded sadly into the phone, his head twisted towards the nearby wall.

"Yes, he did. It's strange, Annie. I dreaded telling Neil more than I did Lizzie. It doesn't quite make sense. Or maybe...Do you know that he wrote that the Christmas Eve he spent with us was the happiest moment of his life. In his suicide note, I mean." He stopped abruptly, and they both remained silent for a moment of bittersweet reminiscence, somehow seeing in the pathetic cry of a wounded soul, a brighter image of their lives as they had been. It hit them both hard, the awkwardness of the moment stretching painfully between them.

"It wasn't just that," Teddy finally said. "Neil has more than his share of troubles right now. He's done well staying sober, but the trial just isn't helping. Lester's betrayal today was devastating. Neil trusted him completely, and to have that trust violated in public like that is a terrible shock. He's had to face a lot of hard truths lately, and not all of them have been about himself. I wish I could put that corrupt bastard on trial for what he's done to Neil and God knows how many of his other so-called patients."

"You really believe Neil's innocent, don't you?" Annie asked, as though realizing it for the first time.

Surprised, Teddy paused an instant before answering. "Of course I do, I thought you understood that by now. I had doubts in the beginning, just as you did, given Neil's past behavior. It was easy to believe the accusations. But Neil - no matter what else he's done, he's always been honest. Task him for his behavior and he'd laugh at you. Sure I did it, so what? he'd say. This was different, even when he was stoned to the gills, he swore that he hadn't killed her. And then Davey Blalock was killed, something Neil couldn't have been responsible for. You know I've found out some disturbing things about both Richard and Lester. That Lester was - is - drugging and sexually assaulting his female patients: Julie Costello for sure, possibly Jessica as well. I don't know if Richard knows that, maybe he's using it to force Lester to help him frame Neil for Jessica's death. I don't have all the answers yet, but they're the ones behind this, Annie. Not Neil. He doesn't have a malicious bone in his body, and these are the acts of cold, clever, and cruel men. Neil's as much their victim as Jessica, I'm certain of it."

There was an awkward silence before she responded. "I knew most of that," she finally admitted. "I just didn't want to acknowledge it. I hated the way all the sordidness and craziness crept into our lives. I still don't like seeing Lizzie touched by this case and I hate feeling like I'm living in a fish bowl. The media is still camped outside, and sometimes people look at me like something's wrong with me because you're defending a murderer. Like the crime is our fault. It makes me feel sick."

"I understand," he replied sincerely, "I really do. This has been a nightmare, and I'd never want to do anything that would put Lizzie or you in danger. But I can't walk away from this now. I owe it to Davey to expose his killer, and I feel a responsibility to Neil. I won't downplay his problems. He's a deeply troubled young man, barely managing to stay off drugs, with the maturity level of a ten-year-old at best. He's a frightened child, Annie, and he's counting on me to save his life."

Before she could answer, a shout distracted Ted's attention, and he put the phone down from his ear even as she began to speak. He never heard a word she said. Chris was running towards him, desperate for his attention. Ted turned towards him, leaning his head slightly so that Chris could speak into his ear.

"Sorry to interrupt, but you'd better come quickly! Neil just woke up and is throwing a fit. The doctor is talking about putting him in restraints."

Ted looked up sharply, and nodded, already breaking into motion. As the two attorneys strode rapidly for the hallway leading to Neil's room, Ted briefly spoke into the phone, cutting Annie off in mid- sentence.

"Neil woke up, I've got to go. I'll call you later, I promise." He hit the 'end' button and pocketed the phone, leaving her alone on the other end of the disconnected line.

"Go to Hell, you bastards! Leave me alone! Why didn't you just let me die? No! Let go of me! Just let me die!" Neil's screams could be heard half-way down the hallway, and at the first penetrating sound, Ted gave up any pretense of calm and started running, Chris following close behind. Ted's feet half- skidded on the highly-polished hospital tiles as he reached the open doorway, and his fingers grasped at the door jam as he pushed his way into the small, crowded room.

Neil was twisting wildly on the bed, one doctor, two nurses and Lisa Gillespie making a valiant effort to restrain him. Lisa was talking nonstop, her flow of soothing phrases playing in gentle harmony to his shrieks. The doctor was alternately pushing Neil's shoulders back down on the bed and yelling out for a sedative. One of the nurses was hanging on desperately to the IV still precariously taped to Neil's arm, fighting to keep him from ripping it out. The attorneys' entrance shook her concentration, and he got hold of the tubing and ripped it free of the needle still lodged in the flesh of his elbow. She swore, and swept back down just in time to close her hand over the shaft of the protruding needle before he could grab for it.

"Neil!" Ted yelled, demandingly, pushing aside the nurse attempting to aim a needle for any part of the hysterical patient she could reach. The doctor saw him approach and yelled over the din, "Get the Hell out of the way! Where is that damn sedative? Get someone in here with some restraints!"

"No!" Ted told him, seizing his arm and pulling him aside. Lisa took the doctor's place, perching herself half on the edge of the bed, and reaching out to try to wrap her arms around Neil. His eyes were wild as he turned towards her, reacting to her touch with a shove. She toppled over, landing unceremoniously on the floor. Chris got to her a second later, pulling her up to her feet. She leaned gratefully into him, answering his concerned look with a quick nod.

Not wasting time trying to argue with the doctor, Ted pushed him aside and strode over to the side of the bed. The doctor moved to follow, but Chris stepped in his way, Lisa backing him up. The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but Chris put a hand up in the middle of the man's chest and shook his head in warning.

"Neil!" Ted demanded. Everyone else stilled in response, watching. Neil ignored the command, struggling frantically with the one nurse still clinging to his arm. Ted leaned in closer and took firm hold on Neil's shoulder, physically forcing him to look around.

"Stop - this - now."

Each word was spoken with perfect enunciation, drawn out for emphasis, punctuated with absolute, implacable authority.

Neil froze. He blinked, focused his eyes on Ted's face, then abruptly shrunk down into the mattress. His skin bleached even whiter, the faint color that had been transfused back in seeming to leach out into the white sheets. He opened his mouth, was hit by a resolute glare from Ted, and subsided mutely. Trembling, he lay still.

"Good," Ted said. "Rest for a moment, then we'll talk." Leaving his hand still clasped on Neil's shoulder, he turned towards Chris and the doctor. "Thank you Doctor. I appreciate all that you have done, but if you wouldn't mind, I'd like some time alone with my client." He looked over at the nurses, "If you would please excuse us."

The doctor started to protest, but Chris interrupted him instantly. "Doctor, if I could please have a word with you. Outside."

"But..."

"Outside," Chris repeated, giving the white-coated man a none-too-gentle shove. Sputtering, the physician gave in, reluctantly allowing Chris to propel him into the hallway. Lisa and Ted exchanged quick glances, then Lisa began to urge the two nurses from the room. The one holding onto the IV protested strongly, insisting that it had to be reattached.

Lisa paused and looked to Ted for guidance. He nodded, and Lisa turned to follow the other nurse from the room.

"Go ahead," Ted told the remaining nurse. With an uncertain glance at the now quiet patient, she let go of Neil's arm and reached for the detached tubing which was dribbling bright spots of concentrated red blood cells. The moment she let go of him, he tucked his arm in against his chest, hugging it tightly.

When the nurse had the plastic cord ready and went to take hold of Neil's arm, he shook his head in silent denial. He didn't start struggling again, instead he curled up on himself in mute refusal, his eyes darting to Ted's face, questioning, pleading, yet defiant. The nurse's fingers brushed against his shoulder, and Neil jerked away, huddling as though she had struck him. His face took on a pout, his lower lip shaking as he pushed it outward.

"No," he muttered in a hoarse, raspy whisper, the simple syllable catching hard in his throat.

"Neil..." Ted said, and Neil winced slightly, but he refused to move.

"Neil." Ted spoke more sharply.

"No. I don't wanna." Neil's voice could have passed for that of a two-year-old refusing to go to bed, the whine of hysteria slowly rising in his tone.

"Neil." Ted repeated himself with the air of a parent who is saying something for the third and last time, the warning implicit but obvious.

Neil stayed stubborn for a long moment, gazing up into Ted's face with childish defiance, then slowly, he untangled his arms and laid the right one out across the sheets. The nurse hesitated, but at a firm nod from Ted, she reattached the IV swiftly and efficiently. Once she was sure the solution was flowing safely into a firmly anchored needle, she hesitated again.

"Thank you," Ted told her politely, inclining his head at the door. She glanced quickly from him to the momentarily quiescent patient, and shrugged her shoulders. Walking towards the door, she stopped before she left the room and turned.

"If you ever need a new job..." She grinned at Ted, shook her head, then turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Ted carefully sat himself down on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry, Teddy," Neil whimpered, turning his eyes anywhere except at his attorney's face. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Ted responded with deep tenderness. Reaching behind Neil, he propped up the pillows, then urged Neil into a half-sitting position. Neil obliged without argument, though his eyes fluttered from corner to corner, and his hands played restlessly with the edge of the sheets. He was paler than the sheets, the remnants of his tan grafted to skin that had lost all semblance of life. Except for the burning light in his eyes, he looked more dead than alive.

"Relax," Ted said soothingly. "Take it easy. Everything's going to be all right."

"No it's not!" Neil burst out, finally looking Ted straight in the face. "Don't lie to me, Teddy. We're going to lose the case. Everyone believes I killed Jessica, sometimes I believe it. After what Lester said, and that tape of me and Melissa, I don't know what to think anymore. Maybe they are right about me, maybe I am a killer."

"I don't believe that," Ted reminded him calmly.

"Then you're a fool," Neil replied with sudden anger. "How can you keep defending me when even I can't believe myself? When I've cost you your marriage? All I ever do is hurt the people I care about. You should have let me die Teddy, it would have been the best for everyone."

"No," Ted said softly, but implacably. "It wouldn't be the best thing for anyone, except maybe the real killer. The only person you've ever hurt is yourself, Neil. Killing yourself isn't going to make things better."

"Why not? They're going to put me in the gas chamber anyway. Why not save everyone the time and trouble?"

"Neil!" Ted spoke sharply, then stopped and took a deep breath before continuing. "You're not going to end up in the gas chamber. I won't let it happen."

"You can't say that for sure." Neil retorted.

Ted held back his reply, then reached down to take hold of Neil's shoulder. Leaning in towards him, he spoke slowly and carefully. "I can - and do - promise you that I won't stop fighting. I'm going to stop this. I'm not ever going to give up on proving your innocence. I'll get Cross and Lester, if it's the last thing I do. I swear to you, I'm going to take those bastards down."

Neil was silent for a moment, the heartfelt promise in those words hanging heavily in the air between them, then he asked plaintively, "Why?"

"For many reasons. Because you're innocent. Because it's the right thing to do. Because the person responsible for Jessica's death should pay for it. Because I'm sick and tired of watching that evil son-of-a-bitch terrorize people and walk away untouched. Jessica isn't the only victim, he had my friend killed and my daughter threatened. Don't let him destroy you, too. If you kill yourself, you're only doing Cross' dirty work for him."

"I'm sorry, Teddy. I'm so sorry." Neil's voice broke, and he stopped speaking, desperately trying to contain the tears. He rubbed the back of his arm against his eyes, exhaustion deepening the shadows on his cheeks and deepening the grooved lines across his forehead. The motion pulled hard on the attached IV and Ted restrained him, making sure the tubing was still properly attached as best he could with untrained eyes. Neil sniffled, his mouth trembling.

"It's all right." Ted soothed, suddenly feeling rather helpless. He was a trial attorney, not a psychiatrist, and he just wasn't sure what the right words were. What do you tell someone so scared, so full of self-hatred, that he had slit his wrists, sat down in a bathtub, and watched himself bleed to death, sober and aware?

"Neil...I need you to promise me you will never try something like this again." He anxiously tried to lighten his tone on the next sentence. "You scared Chris half-to-death, and I'm afraid we're going to have to add his suit to your bill. I don't think the...stains...are ever going to come out." He winced imperceptibly, that hadn't come out right. Yet, it did win a tentative smile from Neil.

"Sure, I already owe you everything I own, kitchen sink and all."

Ted forced out a light chuckle. "Don't worry about it. Just sign over the proceeds from your next movie and we're even."

"If there is one," Neil said flatly, breaking the mood.

Ted paused, then he spoke again, insistently.

"Promise me you won't do this again. If you need help, ask for it. Call me, call Chris, call Lisa, call anyone in the firm. Call your sponsor, call your girlfriend. For goodness' sake, call the suicide hotline if you have to. Get help. I know how hard that can be, to have to go to someone else and admit you can't handle things yourself. You don't have to go through this alone. We're going to get you through this, together."

"I...Teddy, I don't know if I can promise I won't do...this...again." Neil answered with breathtaking honesty.

"Then promise me you will try. Promise me that you will call someone if you feel like...doing this again. Can you do that?"

Neil considered for a moment, then nodded his head solemnly. "Yes, Teddy."

Ted waited for a moment, until Neil understood what he wanted and answered formally. "I promise I will call you or Chris or someone if I ever decide to...decide to kill myself again." The last part of the sentence came out in a violent rush, then Neil swallowed hard. His eyes flickered to the white bandages on his wrists, dilated visibly, and he began to gasp for breath.

"Neil!" Ted reached out to take hold of Neil's shoulders. "Just relax. Breathe. Come on, take a deep breath in....and out...in...and out..."

Just as Ted was about to call for medical help, Neil finally went limp and his breathing started to even out. Drawing his knees up towards his chest, he sat up in a crouch, Ted's hands still tightly clasped to his shoulders. Drawing in one more deep breath, he let it whistle past his teeth as he relaxed. Then turning his head to meet Ted's concerned gaze, he said wryly. "I really fucked up again, didn't I."

"Yes, you did," Ted replied bluntly.

"God, I'm a mess." Neil started to laugh, his mirth high-pitched with the edge of hysteria.

"True, but knowing it is the first step towards fixing it. Admitting it is the second. That means you're making pretty good progress."

"Progress?" Neil laughed even louder, the hysteria getting more pronounced. "I just..." he faltered, the laugher choking off. "I almost died tonight."

"Yes, you did." Ted decided not to cover the seriousness of the matter, it was better to make Neil face up to it now. "If Chris hadn't been concerned enough about you to go to your house when he did, we'd be making funeral arrangements right about now."

Neil whispered, "Jesus...What am I going to do? Teddy, you've got to help me." His voice broke into a sob. "Why should you help me? I broke up your family. If it hadn't been for this case..." He began to rock himself, tears pooling in his eyes. "Lizzie..." He couldn't finish the statement.

"It's not your fault. Neil, you're not responsible for what's happening between Annie and me. That has nothing to do with you, it's a private thing between us. What did you tell me that day in court? Don't worry about things you can't control. You've got enough real problems to deal with."

Neil was beyond listening, though, and Ted's words fell on guilt-deafened ears. Finally giving into the combination of terror and pain that had been slowly building in him throughout the trial, he broke down completely. All of it, the constant aching need for the drugs, the terror, the guilt, and the anguish of listening to the constant stream of damning accusations, half-truths and lies exposed before the world, overwhelmed him in one heart-wrenching flood of misery.

Every muscle in his body clenched nearly to the breaking point, he curled up into a fetal position and cried out from the bottom of his soul, unable to feel anything outside of his own pain, even the tight pressure of Ted's arms closing in around him, or the change in sensation against his cheek as his tears were soaked up into the attorney's shoulder instead of dripping out heedlessly into open air.

Lisa spread her fingers tenderly over Chris' arm as they watched the doctor walk away. Their attempts to soothe his ruffled feathers had been as successful as they were likely to be, and they could only hope his sense of professionalism would propel him to be cautious in his statements to the press. Chris half-smiled down at her, then sighed deeply. He ran his hand through his neat blond hair, barely stifling a yawn. Then he turned, Lisa's head following his, towards the closed door of Neil's room.

"I hope Ted can get through to him," Lisa said softly.

"If anyone can, it'll be Ted. Neil will listen to him before he listens to anyone else."

"Chris, Lisa!" Both spun around in response to the urgent summons. Arnold Spivak hurried up to them, his expression haggard and alarmed.

"Arnold," Chris said as their associate came up to them, fell back on his heels, and instinctively attempted to adjust his jacket and tie. "What's wrong?"

"The press is in a frenzy out in the lobby. Hospital security is trying to hold them off, but word has leaked out that Neil woke up and assaulted someone. Different stories are going around, and getting exaggerated by the second. Someone better get out there and calm them down."

"As though anything we say will do that," Lisa said wryly.

"Still," Chris said, looking back towards the closed door behind them. "It would be good if Ted could make another statement."

"Where is he?" Arnold asked. "He told me over the phone he was coming here."

Chris pointed over Lisa's shoulder. "He's with Neil."

"I don't think we should interrupt them," Lisa said. "Neil's pretty upset. Ted can do the most good with him."

"Someone's got to deal with the vultures out there before they start swarming in here," Arnold replied anxiously.

Chris only barely restrained himself from pointing out that vultures don't swarm, but he managed to swallow the comment just in time. Instead he paused, then said with a resolution he didn't feel, "I'll make the statement to the press."

Lisa and Arnold both looked startled, but before either could protest, Chris shook his head. "I'll keep it brief, get in and out as quickly as possible. Someone has to do it, and I'm still second chair on this case. Ted needs to be with the client, so it's my responsibility."

Arnold still appeared unconvinced, but Lisa slowly nodded. "You're right. Just watch yourself."

Chris grinned. "Like I'm walking on the edge of a cliff." He looked at Arnold. "Maybe you should come with me." Then back to Lisa, "Would you mind staying here, someone ought to guard the door. I don't want anyone walking in on Ted and Neil right now."

"Of course," she agreed. Surreptitiously brushing his hand with hers between their bodies, she went over to the door and leaned up against it, crossing her hands over her elbows.

Chris smiled at her, then his face settled into a grim professionalism. "Let's go," he told his colleague, and together the two men strode back down the hall and out into the maelstrom of public scrutiny.

Using his badge to get past the obviously irritated hospital security guards, Polson paused at the door to watch as Chris Docknovich deftly fielded a barrage of questions. Flashbulbs popped, lights flashed, voices screamed out over the general din, each demanding to be heard. Chris nodded towards one outstretched microphone, indicating to its wielder to repeat the question. He paused momentarily after the inquiry had been repeated, then he spoke slowly and softly, forcing an element of silence to descend in order for his words to be heard.

In that moment of relative calm, Polson slid backwards into the hallway, and buttonholing a nurse, quickly got directions to the room he wanted. Suicides had to be treated as murder cases until enough evidence had been gathered to prove conclusively that they were indeed self-afflicted. Polson had no doubt that Neil Avedon had done exactly what it looked like he had done, but the procedure had to followed, the paperwork filled out and filed. It was not going to be fun to try to interview the man in question, however, as Polson was acutely aware. The process of getting to speak with him might be most of the battle.

His suspicions were confirmed when he located the room and found the slender figure of a young woman propped up against it.

"Ms. Gillespie," he said politely.

"Detective Polson," she responded warily. She stood up taller, instantly assuming an air of calm efficiency that somehow managed not to conflict with her casual attire. He could almost see the image of a tailored suit interpose itself over her jeans and blouse, even as she let her hands fall to her side, and she took a step closer to him.

"Is Mr. Hoffman here?" Polson decided that dealing with the senior attorney directly was probably his best bet for getting the statement he needed as quickly as possible. Hoffman may have often been a difficult adversary, but he was a true professional. What needed to be done would be done.

She paused, considering her answer, then inclined her fair head towards the door she had been leaning against. "He's with Neil right now."

"Good," Polson replied. "I need a statement from Mr. Avedon and I think Mr. Hoffman should be there."

He took two steps closer to the door, but she inserted herself neatly between him and his goal.

"No," she told him firmly. "This is not a good time. Neil only just woke up. He's still in very weak condition and should not be disturbed. He needs rest."

Polson knew that, and if it had been any other attempted suicide, he never would have even considered trying to see them so soon. Tomorrow was certainly good enough, but this case had become so important, his own involvement so frustrating, that he couldn't separate his own feelings from his work. After losing the subject of his first arrest, he just couldn't admit to himself the possibility that he had been wrong in his second choice, and the small niggling doubts that had been exacerbated by tonight's events only pushed him harder into denial.

"This won't take long, and it won't be any easier tomorrow. Please step aside, Ms. Gillespie," he said in his best cop's voice.

She was unfazed, and she stared him straight in the eyes as she refused. "You can wait for Ted to finish with Neil and then discuss it with him."

He looked at her for a moment, then gazed at the closed door, then back to her again. They stood in each other's space, glaring fiercely at one another, both refusing to give an inch. Several feet away, the hallway door opened, letting in the tumultuous noise from the lobby, then a loud clatter sounded from the opposite end of the hall. Startled, Lisa's eyes flew towards the second source of sound, only to see an orderly chasing after the instruments he had dropped. She turned back barely a second later, but was too late to stop Polson from darting past her and through the forbidden door.

His shoulder brushed against her as he moved, and she stumbled. Regaining her balance, she reached out to try to restrain him. But he was already into the room before she could catch him, and she abruptly ran hard into his back as he came up to a sudden halt in the doorway.

Off-balance, she took hold of him for support, and his hand seized her arm in support - an automatic reaction that stole none of his attention from the sight which greeted him. When she found her balance, Lisa glanced quickly up at him, then found herself compelled to follow his fixed gaze towards the two men on the hospital bed.

Ted Hoffman's back was to them, and he showed no sign of noticing the intrusion. He was perched on the left side of the mattress, causing it to dip down beneath his weight. His strong arms were clasped tightly around the shaking ball that was Neil Avedon.

Curled up into a fetal position, Neil huddled into his attorney's embrace, knees drawn into his chest, his head buried against Ted's shoulder. Painful, wracking, choking sobs emanated from the very center of his being. Only one arm was extended outward, the hand clutching at Ted's shoulder, the fingers opening and closing convulsively. His cries were mostly whimpers, but the depth of anguish in those pitiful sounds tore at the hearts of the man and woman watching from the doorway.

Polson was suddenly unable to move, his words of interruption frozen on his tongue. The casual sarcasm he would have used on Hoffman, if not Avedon as well, abruptly felt cruel and cutting. And his excuses to himself about demanding the statement immediately lost any ability to compel. Backing up, he felt a slight blush of embarrassment creep up over his fair skin in response to his sudden insistent need to be anywhere other than here. The worst part of his job was seeing the depths of other people's souls laid bare, and he had often felt the uncomfortable, awkward sensation that he was serving witness to things so private that no one should have to see them.

Polson turned and pushed past Lisa into the hallway, turning his back on the room as he fought for balance. Those small doubts were enlarging, and he felt himself staggered by the possibility that he really had been wrong this time. Could Neil Avedon really be innocent? He drew in a few deep breaths, his mind racing, though by the time Lisa had followed him back out of the room and gently shut the door behind her, he had forced himself back under control.

This is an accomplished actor we're dealing with here, he told himself. Avedon is an expert at manipulating people's emotions. He knew subconsciously that what he had just seen had not been faked, but the rationalizations still came easily, especially the one that insisted it wasn't his problem anymore. The case was in court now, he'd done his job, now it was up to the jury to decide.

"Happy with yourself?" Lisa's cold accusation startled him, and he pivoted to face her.

He cleared his throat to give himself time, then he ignored her words. "Perhaps tomorrow would be better. Tell Mr. Hoffman that I will contact him in the morning to set up a time."

"Certainly," she said coolly, anger glittering in her large sapphire eyes.

"Excuse me," he replied, drawing the shreds of his professional dignity around him as he turned to leave. He got only about five steps down the hall when he found himself face-to-face with Chris Docknovich.

"What are you doing here?"

"Investigating this case," Polson replied, unable to keep from fingering his still-aching jaw. Chris' eyes narrowed as they followed the gesture, refusing to let down the challenge.

"What case?" This came from Arnold Spivak, who was standing to his associate's right. "Neil attempted suicide....didn't he?"

Lisa came up quickly to frame Polson between them. "Is there any doubt that Neil did this? You don't think?" Her anger fled before the dawning fear, her eyes widening even further.

"No," Polson shook his head. "I don't think there's any doubt. Neil's fingerprints were the only ones found on the razor, which is covered in his blood. There are no signs of forced entry or of anyone else's presence. But it's standard procedure to treat a suicide as a murder at first especially in the absence of a suicide note." His eyes darted up to Chris' shuttered face. "You didn't happen to see a note did you?"

Chris shook his head, answering sparely, "No." His expression gave nothing away, and Polson could only take it at face value, despite his growing suspicion.

"You're the one who found him and called 911, correct?" Polson pushed.

Chris nodded. "Yes." It was another one word answer, and Polson had to bite back his retort. He settled for another pointed question.

"What made you go there so late at night? Trying to win credit with the client for working late?"

"I was concerned about Neil," Chris answered warily.

That was five words, Polson carefully counted them, and decided it was definite progress.

"Why were you concerned?" he asked.

Chris shrugged. "It had been a rough day in court, so I thought I'd call and see if Neil was feeling all right. He didn't answer his phone, so I thought it would be a good idea to stop by and see if he was OK."

That was almost a full speech, and Polson mentally cheered the accomplishment. He thought for a moment about the meaning of the words, then stored them away for further reference. Moving on, he asked Chris to describe what he saw when he got to Neil's residence.

"The door was open and the lights on. I ran inside, calling out for Neil. He didn't answer. I looked into the kitchen, then went to check the bedroom. The bathroom door was open and the light on, so I went inside. Neil was in the bathtub, and at first I could only see his head and knees sticking out. When I got closer, I could see he was unconscious and that there was a lot of ... red stuff. I thought he had simply gotten drunk and spilled some red wine, so I tried to shake him. Then I saw his wrist and realized..."

Chris broke off and swallowed hard, trying to stifle the show of emotion. He held his voice calm, but his eyes glittered as he stared at Polson. "I bound his wrists as best I could, then called 911. I waited for the ambulance to get there, and...you know the rest," he finished abruptly.

"Do you remember what you touched?" Polson asked.

Chris frowned, then shook his head. "Lots of things, I guess. The bathtub, the sink and faucet, I don't know."

"I'll need you to come in and give us your fingerprints," Polson told him.

"Sure," Chris replied. He was back to single syllables, and the tight squeeze of his mouth indicated that he was unlikely to offer more.

Polson couldn't help pushing the issue, though, even as he felt the pressure of the three pairs of eyes boring into him. "Let's go back to why you went to see your client. I still don't quite see why you felt it was so important to drive all the way out here from downtown so late at night. He could have been asleep."

"It's called 'caring'," Lisa broke in with thick sarcasm. "Chris cared enough to make sure Neil was all right. Surely even you can understand that."

Polson turned and fixed her with an officious stare. "Of course, I can understand that. The question I have is why blondie here cared enough to do it. Is Avedon paying you to serve as his nanny as well as his attorney? Or is there something personal between you?" The last question was dripping with implicit meaning, and Chris' eyes lit up with anger.

"What exactly are you implying, Detective?"

Polson shrugged. "Just trying to understand what happened tonight."

Chris opened his mouth, his anger obvious. "Neil is my client and my friend," he replied, biting off each word through clenched teeth.

Before Polson could reply, Arnold forestalled him, speaking diplomatically, but firmly. "What happened was that our client tried to kill himself tonight. Chris was lucky enough to reach him in time to save his life. I don't think you need to know anything more."

"As hard as it may be for you to believe," Lisa interjected, "we've become very close to Neil over the past few months. When you spend a lot of time with someone you get to know them well. There isn't a person in this firm who hasn't come to like Neil Avedon. He's worked incredibly hard to straighten himself out, and has earned our respect - and our concern."

Arnold and Chris both nodded, shifting slightly so that all three attorneys were shoulder-to shoulder. Polson suddenly felt cornered as they closed ranks against him, both physically and symbolically. Attempting to regain some kind of control over the situation, he changed the subject abruptly, going stridently on the offensive.

"I could have you charged with assaulting a police officer," he threw at Chris.

Ignoring the startled looks he got from his colleagues, Chris remained undaunted. "Go right ahead," he replied coldly.

Polson met his glare for a long moment, then the detective sighed and shook his head. "Nah, not worth the trouble. Hoffman would have you off before the ink was dry on the forms. Extenuating circumstances." He drew himself up to his full height and assumed a stern look. "Just don't think you'll get away with it again. I'll throw your ass in a jail cell if you ever take a swing at me again. I can hold you for a day or two regardless, and I don't think you'll enjoy LA county jail any more than Avedon did."

With that, he turned and strode back down the hall, faintly aware he was walking away from the lobby instead of towards it, but refusing to give up what dignity he had. The three attorneys watched him turn the corner, then both Arnold and Lisa's eyes flew to Chris. Before they could speak, he shook his head and raised his right hand in the air.

"Don't even ask."

Ted Hoffman tucked the bed covers up to his sleeping client's chin, then got to his feet with a sharp indrawn breath. His head ached, and he rubbed at his eyes wearily. Neil finally looked at peace, the lines of his face soothed out in slumber, the emotive eyes shuttered, the thick dark lashes vivid against the bleached skin. The arm attached to the IV lay exposed on his left side, needle still pumping in fluid, the wrist surrounded with a tight white-cotton bandage. Ted reached down one last time, brushing a stray lock of hair off Neil's forehead, then he turned and left the room.

He found his three associates in a tight cluster in the hallway. They turned together to face him, Chris standing tall in the middle. His shoulders were drawn back tensely, and his face seemed to have aged years, deep-grooved lines scoring the corners of his mouth and eyes. Lisa managed to look even younger than usual, her soft sandy hair disarrayed, the casual jeans accentuating the slender perfection of her form. Arnold looked - like Arnold. His tie was slightly askew, his face held its almost perpetual harried look. Yet, all three were a delight to their boss' exhausted eyes, and he gave them a faint smile as he closed the door and joined them in conference.

"How is he?" Arnold asked.

"Sleeping quietly for now. I think I managed to calm him down, but I think it would be a good idea to have one member of the firm with him at all times. At least until we're sure he's past this." Teddy sighed. "I'm afraid we made a mistake not getting him a therapist. I had thought the drug counseling would be enough."

"There's no way we could have known he'd do this," Lisa interjected. "He seemed to be doing really well. I talked to him for a while when we went down to the appeals court the other day - for the Lester appeal - and while he was worried, he seemed to be holding up fine."

Chris nodded grimly. "I've kept in touch with his sponsor, and Jeff has been delighted with Neil. He just got his ninety day certificate from CA. Damn it! He's been trying so hard!" Chris thrust his hands in his pockets, hugging in his shoulders.

"Take it easy," Ted placated. "Goodness knows anyone could break under this kind of pressure. Being a defendant in this kind of trial is hard enough without combining it with recovery from drug abuse. Either one is more than enough for any person to have to deal with. We will just have to make sure he gets the additional support he needs from now on."

"Still, it's not going to be that easy to find a shrink for Neil. If I were him, I'd be really suspicious of them right now, after what Lester did to him." Arnold said doubtfully. Chris and Lisa threw glances at him, he could occasionally be surprisingly perceptive.

"Or someone we can trust not to be bought off," Ted replied, his demeanor remaining cool, but his voice took on a menacing growl. "I'll get Ray on it, the last thing we need is another Lester right now. I don't want anyone near Neil who isn't a part of this firm, or who hasn't been thoroughly checked out."

"What about his sponsor and his girlfriend?" Chris asked.

"He's not seeing her much anymore," Lisa responded.

"What?" Chris said, startled.

Lisa tilted her head up at him. "He said the timing wasn't right. That he couldn't be any good for her right now, not with the trial and everything. They are still attending the same CA meetings, and will often eat together before or after, but not much more than that. He doesn't want her life messed up by him. She apparently protested that her life was already a mess, but he decided that was all the more reason to wait. So they're kind of on hold. Just friends."

All three were silent for a moment, then Chris said softly, "I think Melissa Griotte managed to get one truth in among the lies. When he's sober, Neil is the sweetest guy in the world."

"He'd be his own best asset if only he could see that," Ted agreed.

"Well, we'll just have to help him do that," Lisa said.

"We will. But for now, though, we've got a lot to do while he rests. I want someone from the firm with Neil at all times," Ted repeated the instruction firmly. "Let's take it in shifts."

"I'll stay with him tonight," Lisa said quickly. Chris started to protest, but Ted shook his head at the young man. "No, Chris. You've done enough already, and I'm going to need you in good form tomorrow when we go see Grasso and Bornstein. I want you to go home and get some sleep."

Chris opened his mouth to protest, took in his boss' stern look, and settled back in reluctant agreement.

Ted glanced at his watch, and almost groaned aloud. "Arnold, why don't you take over for Lisa at seven. Chris and I should be able to get back from the meeting by noon, so one of us can take over then. Justine can fill in the dinner shift. Hopefully, we'll be able to get him out of here in a day or so."

"We'd also better get some more security in here," Chris suggested. "The press is crawling all over the place, and the fans aren't going to be far behind. The last thing we need is some ambitious reporter or rabid admirer sneaking into his hospital room."

"Yes - Arnold, see what you can arrange before you go home tonight. Call Ray and have him help with it."

"OK." Arnold nodded. He turned to walk towards the nurse's station at the far end of the hall, but Ted forestalled him. "Make sure the guards know that no one gets in except qualified staff and the members of this firm."

"It might be a good idea to get Jeff Keller from CA in here to talk to Neil. Also, he could probably make a good suggestion for a therapist." Chris said.

Ted nodded agreement. "Why don't you make the call, Chris, since you've already been in touch with him."

"Will do, Ted." Chris promised. Ted stepped back to let Arnold pass, and he hurried on down the hall. The others remained silent for a moment, then Lisa shifted on her feet and looked towards the door. "I'd better get in there, in case he wakes up."

"Just try to keep him calm. I think he'll be all right after our talk, but..."

Lisa nodded, reaching out to press her hand against Ted's arm. "We'll be fine," she reassured. Exchanging a meaningful glance with Chris, she reentered Neil's room and shut the door gently behind her.

Before Chris could say anything more, Ted raised his hand between them, palm outward. "Go home."

Chris sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and grimaced. "OK. I'll meet you at the office in the morning."

"Eight will be fine," Ted told him. Chris nodded, then turned and left the senior attorney standing alone in the long white hallway. He stood there for a few seconds, a tall, bald man with big shoulders and a dominating presence. At this moment, however, he seemed smaller, quieter, the intensity of his regard turned inwards. His eyes darted back to the closed door of his client's hospital room, and he drew in a deep breath, his chest filling out, then he released the air in a quick rush. His eyes narrowed as he finally focused his attention outward, and he turned towards the crowded lobby, his entire body tensed for the oncoming storm.

Neil blinked, twisting onto his side only to feel a sharp tug at the inside of his left elbow. Turning onto his back, he rubbed at his sleep-fogged eyes, then slowly opened them to stare down at the IV needle taped to his arm. Memory was slow in coming, and his first reaction was one of self-directed dismay. He must have done it again, he thought. Must have given in to the drugs or the alcohol. But while his throat was dry, his stomach was peaceful and his head didn't ache.

Groaning softly, he pushed himself up and looked up to take in his surroundings. As his mind began to come slowly awake, his eyes focused on the face peering anxiously down at him. A shock of golden blond hair surrounded boyishly handsome features, a square jaw and wide blue eyes. Those eyes held a hesitant warmth that was both clumsy and endearing at once.

"Hey, how're you feeling?" Arnold Spivak asked, meeting Neil's confused gaze.

"OK," Neil licked at his lips, feeling the sounds catch in his parched throat. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. "Where am I?"

"In the hospital," Arnold told him, dropping the file he had been studying onto the floor beside his chair. Leaning forward, he reached up to help prop the pillows up behind Neil's back while Neil wriggled upwards.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" Arnold asked, watching him with open concern.

The memory was sluggish, but once the gate opened in his mind, the images flashed across Neil's vision in rapid succession. He swallowed hard, and nodded. "I think so, yeah..." He stared down with obvious consternation at his bandaged wrists, forcing Arnold to place a restraining, comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Take it easy. Everything's going to be all right."

Neil didn't respond directly to the attempt at reassurance, he was too busy trying to figure out what he was feeling. If he felt anything at all. If he could even begin to distinguish the varied flow of thoughts and emotions competing for his attention. The ever-present guilt was there, the same remorse that had precipitated last night's suicide attempt, but also a sense of shame for the attempt itself. The choice that had seemed so clear the night before now appeared as only one more mistake, one more disaster, that he could only blame himself for. There was some anger there, too - anger that he had failed yet again, and anger that he had not been allowed to die. But there was relief and gratitude as well, and a weird sense of emptiness, as though the emotions themselves, however powerful they should have been, couldn't quite touch some void in the center of his self.

Finally, unable to find words that could come close to expressing any of his thoughts, he settled for a simpler question. "What time is it?"

Arnold glanced at his watch. "About ten-fifteen am."

"Ten..." Neil bolted fully awake. He turned dilated chocolate eyes at the young attorney. "But we're supposed to be in court this morning," he yelped, staring around him anxiously as though the small white hospital room would somehow fade into the big wood-paneled courtroom.

"It's all right," Arnold soothed, tightening his grip on Neil's shoulder. "Ted and Chris are meeting with Bornstein and Grasso as we speak. They'll take care of it."

"Oh God," Neil whimpered. "I'm in deep shit again, aren't I?"

Arnold met his gaze with a slight shrug. "I doubt you're really that much worse off than you were before, and at least you're not dead." He paused, a stricken look overtaking his open features. "I mean..."

"It's all right," Neil said. In fact, there was something comforting about Arnold's bluntness, it put things into clear perspective. He gazed back down at his wrists, lifting his hands up in the air. "Why am I not surprised that I couldn't get killing myself done right." He chuckled harshly. "Now there's a new defense strategy. Tell the jury I couldn't have done it because I'm such a screw-up that I'd have fucked it up. Hell, if I'd have done it, Jess would probably still be alive." He broke off there, staring blankly at the far wall.

"Well, it's certainly a novel approach," Arnold replied dryly. "I'm not sure Ted would go for it though."

That calm comment broke through Neil's depression far more easily than any reassuring platitudes would have. He stared at the junior associate. Arnold gave a shy half-smile, gaining the same in return, creating a new sense of comfort between the two men. Squeezing Neil's shoulder one last time, Arnold sat back in his chair.

"Ted and Chris should be back here in a couple of hours, in the meantime, you should probably try to get some more rest. I'll be here, Ted asked me to stay with you. Also, there's a security guard outside to keep the press and the fans away so you won't be disturbed. Are you hungry at all, or thirsty? I could get you a book to read."

"I could use something to drink," Neil said, the thirst suddenly becoming much more strident. Life had a tendency to just keep going, and that imperative often made itself known in the simplest of demands, in this case the need to wet his dry throat. Below that thirst was the faint, but burgeoning reminder that he had never had dinner the night before. It hadn't seemed important then, but somehow, now, those plain needs resurrected themselves, damping down the focus on the emotional pain and replacing them with the mundane daily requirement for sustenance. Gaining an odd sense of comfort from the returning sensations of hunger and thirst, he turned his head to see a pitcher of water and plastic- wrapped cup on the bedside table and began to reach for them.

"I'll get it," Arnold quickly took hold of the cup, struggling to remove the plastic covering. It proved stubborn, and he finally had to tear at it with his teeth. Neil restrained a laugh as Arnold finally got the cup free, then almost knocked the entire pitcher of water off the edge of the table and onto the floor as he attempted to pick it up. Arnold gave Neil a sheepish glance and a shrug, but managed to fill the cup without any further mishap.

Neil accepted the water gratefully, and took a deep sip. He watched Arnold watching him, those blue eyes filled with honest concern, and abruptly felt an sharp twist of remorse for the barely stifled laughter a moment before. He began to compare himself with the shy, yet forthright attorney, quickly realizing that he came out on the light end of the scale. For all of his clumsiness, Arnold was decent, honest, intelligent, and a good attorney. He was not facing criminal charges, did not suffer from addictions to drugs or alcohol, and there were no murder charges hanging over his head. And he wasn't the one sitting in a hospital bed having his blood replaced through an IV needle after he had dumped most of it down the drain. Neil had no right to laugh at his kindness, however awkward it might be.

"What's the matter?" Arnold asked, and Neil blinked, startled, the water sloshing as his hand shook. He suddenly realized he had been staring. Taking another deep drought of the cool liquid to give himself another moment before speaking, he then put the cup down and spoke with heartfelt sincerity.

"Thank you."

The attorneys filed into the Judge's chambers in solemn procession. Waiting for them was a middle-aged woman with a strong, professional demeanor. She wore her blond hair in a soft curve, the edges brushing against her black-robed shoulders. This morning her face was grave, her eyes lined and serious as she contemplated the three men and two woman standing before her. Turning her clear gaze up at the lead attorney for the defense, she spoke with soft, but clear authority.

"What happened, Mr. Hoffman?"

Ted Hoffman took in a deep breath before answering, the pause itself speaking volumes. His words, when they came, were gentle, brief, and to the point. "Last night my client, Mr. Avedon, attempted suicide, by cutting his wrists with a razor blade. My associate, Mr. Docknovich, was able to reach him in time to save his life. Mr. Avedon is presently in stable condition at St. Mary's Hospital."

This was not really news to anyone in the room. Judge Bornstein nodded, then looked from Hoffman to his taller, silent associate, and then to the two prosecuting attorneys. As usual, Mark Washington gave way to the forthright and dominating Miriam Grasso.

"I'm sorry to hear that, but I can't say that it comes as a big surprise. We've known all along that Neil Avedon is not stable. It was only a matter of time before he got drunk and hurt someone again..."

"He wasn't drunk!" blurted out Chris Docknovich, pushing forward to stand between Hoffman and Grasso. "He's been sober since he got out of the Hills Clinic."

The prosecutor chuckled, shaking her head. "Come on, sober people don't slit their wrists with razor blades and then quietly bleed themselves to death."

"This one did," Hoffman replied calmly, softly. He stared straight into the Judge's eyes. "The hospital did a thorough screen on Mr. Avedon when he was brought into the emergency room, since they did not want to risk giving him improper medication if he already had chemicals in his system. He came up clean, no alcohol, no cocaine, not even a single sleeping pill. I can get you copies of the lab reports if you wish."

"OK. So he was sober," Grasso admitted. "However, that doesn't mitigate the situation. If anything, it underlines just how violent and dangerous this man is." She gestured widely, punctuating her argument with a vigorous wave of her hand.

"Neil is no danger to anyone - except maybe himself." Chris broke in. Ted reached out to calm him, but the usually quiet and restrained young man had reached the limit of his tolerance. "He needs help and support, not more accusations."

Grasso snorted. "He needs to be locked up somewhere where he can be restrained from any more violence."

"That's the last thing he needs!" Chris yelled.

"Chris..." Ted tried again to reel him in, but Chris ignored the interruption, his voice strung with anger and frustration.

"Lock him up again and you'll destroy him!"

"Mr. Docknovich!" Judge Bornstein warned, but she only got a burning blue glare for her trouble.

"It never occurred to you to think about the consequences for Neil to be betrayed by the person he trusted the most, did it? After all, if Neil kills himself it saves the state the time and trouble. Let's just go ahead and bury him right beside Jessica Costello. Who cares if there's a murderer out there laughing at us while we do his dirty work for him?" The words rushed out of Chris in a disconnected torrent, the syllables sliding together in a vehement flood of emotion.

"That's enough!" Bornstein shouted. "If you can't restrain your associate, Mr. Hoffman, I will declare him in contempt of court."

"I'm already in contempt of this court," Chris shot back.

"Chris!" Ted grabbed hold of Chris' arm and pulled him back away from the Judge's desk. Placing both hands on the younger man's shoulder's, Ted whispered urgently. "Get hold of yourself. Getting yourself tossed in jail on a contempt charge isn't going to do Neil any good. Calm down."

Chris shook his head, then met Ted's unrelenting gaze. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath, released it, then drew in another. After letting that one go, he finally relaxed, his shoulder's slumping. Ted squeezed Chris' arms in silent encouragement, then he pushed Chris aside and re-approached Grasso and the Judge.

"I apologize. This has been an extremely rough night for us all, especially for Mr. Docknovich, since he's the one who found Mr. Avedon and stayed with him until the ambulance arrived." Ted paused, opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was no need to give further details, even though the gory images would be imprinted on his own brain for a long time to come.

Bornstein nodded, responding with both sympathy and resolve. "I understand that this was quite a shock." She looked past Ted towards Chris, directing herself to him, despite the fact that he was still facing towards the far wall, shoulders heaving. "If you need to take time off to deal with this, I would suggest that you do so now - but please realize, I will not tolerate any further outbursts."

Chris swung back around towards the Judge and nodded. His breath was still uneven, but his voice was steady. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, it won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Bornstein turned back to Ted and Grasso. "I have to admit, Mr. Hoffman, that Ms. Grasso does have a point. I am reluctant to leave Mr. Avedon out on bail if he is prone to this kind of behavior."

"Your Honor," Ted replied quickly. "My associate may have put it a bit roughly, but he was correct. Mr. Avedon is no danger to anyone except himself. Locking him up will not help him overcome his self-destructive tendencies - if anything, it will aggravate the situation. If he wants to kill himself, he'll find a way - putting him in jail will not stop that from happening. No, the only sensible thing to do is to see that he gets the psychiatric help he needs."

"What I'd like to know is why he wasn't in therapy already," the Judge asked.

"A couple of reasons," Ted replied, spreading his hands wide as he spoke. "First, he already is receiving regular counseling. He has been attending both CA and AA group meetings every week since being released from the Hills Clinic last October. Since he has shown no signs of relapsing into substance abuse, and his behavior has been markedly improved since the start of treatment, we felt that there was no need for more."

"Obviously, that was a mistake." Grasso interjected.

Ted nodded, willing to grant her the point. "Yes. It was MY mistake, and I take full responsibility for it." He turned back to Bornstein, pleading directly to her. "Recovery from years of drug and alcohol abuse is a long and difficult process for anyone, Your Honor. Many people don't make it through, even without the pressure of being the defendant in a nationally publicized murder trial. That in and of itself would be enough pressure to break most people. Add the two together and you've got more than any one person ought to be expected to handle. Mr. Avedon has actually done surprisingly well under the circumstances, but he's obviously feeling the strain. This suicide attempt is a desperate cry for help. It does no-one, least of all Neil Avedon, any good to further punish him at this juncture. Rather, the only sensible thing to do is to see that he gets the psychological assistance that he needs."

"He can get that 'assistance' in a prison hospital along with full time supervision." Grasso argued.

"He can be under full-time supervision in his own home," Ted countered. "I've already arranged for a member of my firm to be with him at all times."

"Don't tell me your associates have degrees in psychiatry as well as law?" Grasso asked sarcastically.

"Not exactly." Ted replied mildly. "But Neil has formed some close relationships with the members of the defense team - he trusts us. That is more important than anything else right now. Give us some time, Your Honor, and we'll get Mr. Avedon what he needs, whether it is full time medical supervision or simply some additional counseling."

Judge Bornstein considered for a moment, then pronounced with customary authority. "All right, Mr. Hoffman, at this point I cannot see that putting Mr. Avedon into jail will do him any good." She raised her hand to forestall Grasso's objection. "However, I will stipulate that he is put immediately under full-time observation by a responsible professional psychiatrist, one that will be subject to approval from this court."

"It's not going to be that easy to find the right therapist for my client. It will take some time," Ted protested.

"Why?" Grasso jeered, "Hollywood is full of shrinks, just look in the yellow pages."

"We can find a shrink," Ted replied gravely. "The problem is finding one whom Neil Avedon can trust. After the fiasco with Doctor Lester, that is going to be twice as difficult. It takes time to build up a successful therapeutic relationship, and forcing a court-approved therapist on him is not going to help that process."

"Then put him back into a lock-down facility until one can be found," Grasso argued, looking to Bornstein for support. The Judge appeared thoughtful, however, as she turned to Ted for his counter- argument. "What would you suggest, Mr. Hoffman? Right now I am inclined to agree with Ms. Grasso."

"I agree completely with putting Mr. Avedon under full time supervision, Your Honor," he answered honestly. "But I would argue that the disposition of that supervision should be left to me and my firm."

"You haven't done a very good job to this point," Grasso interjected.

"We've done quite well up until last night. Neil is sober and drug-free, and has remained so for several months. He was under Dr. Lester's supposedly 'professional' care for over two years, and yet he was not sober for more than a day or two during the entire time. The bottom line is that he trusts us. I know we missed the danger signs yesterday, but now that we are prepared for it, we can handle this for the short period of time needed to find Neil a therapist he feels comfortable with."

"I don't think Avedon's comfort is of issue here, protecting society from this man's violent tendencies is."

"On the contrary, Miriam, that is exactly what is at issue here. Until that jury finds Neil Avedon guilty, he must be presumed innocent of this crime. Therefore, the only issue facing us right now is the question of how best to serve his needs until such time as the jury makes its decision. And right now that is to allow my firm to take care of him until we find him appropriate counseling."

"It's a little late to start building an defense based on mental incompetence." Grasso warned. "We're not going for less than full murder one. You gave up that chance before the trial started."

"I'm not trying to," Ted replied equably. "My client is innocent of the charges against him, and we will proceed on that basis. But this is not the question here, what we have to decide now is what is best for Neil Avedon's mental health."

Bornstein sighed, leaning back in her chair. "All right, Mr. Hoffman. Until you can find someone more suitable, I will accept the substitution of a member of your firm. But Mr. Avedon is not to be left alone, you will make certain that a responsible adult is with him at all times. Further, I will expect regular reports on his status."

"Your Honor, I see no problem with the supervision, however, regarding reports to this court - anything between Mr. Avedon and his attorneys or his therapist is fully covered by privilege. You cannot make the exception you applied to Dr. Lester carry over to a new physician, much less to an attorney."

"I am not asking for a violation of privilege, Mr. Hoffman, but simply the assurance that Mr. Avedon is not a danger to himself or to anyone else."

"I still do not see how an attorney can be considered qualified to make such a judgment regarding Mr. Avedon's mental state," Grasso argued.

"I managed to figure out that he was in trouble quickly enough to save his life last night," Chris responded coldly. "I'll stay with Neil," he added. "I'm working on the case full-time anyway. I can sleep at his place just as well as I can at my own apartment."

"Are you sure, Chris?" Ted asked softly.

"Yes, I'm sure." Chris replied firmly. "I feel responsible. I knew he was upset, I should have done something sooner than I did." His eyes fell down towards his hands, which he held out in front of him, splaying out the fingers, then wringing them together, rubbing at the skin restlessly.

Ted reached out to grasp Chris on the shoulder. "Don't blame yourself - I should have seen it coming too. There's no use in second guessing ourselves, what's done is done. The thing to do now is make sure it doesn't happen again. If you want to stay with Neil, I think it's a very good idea. He's listened to you before."

"More like he's got you twisted around his little finger," Grasso muttered.

Chris glared at her over Ted's shoulder, and she shrugged her shoulders and turned to the Judge. "Mr. Docknovich is obviously quite personally involved..."

"You spend an hour up to your elbows in someone's blood, praying to God they won't die in your arms, and then maybe you'll have the right to say something to me about 'personal involvement! Damn right I'm 'personally involved!'"

"That's enough...both of you," Bornstein insisted forbiddingly. There was a moment of silence as they all turned to face her. Grasso crossed her arms in front of her chest, her glasses slipping down on her nose. Ted kept his hold on Chris' shoulder while the young man stood tall and defiant. The Judge pursed her lips doubtfully, then sighed and nodded in his direction. "All right, Mr. Docknovich. You've made your point vividly. For the time being I will appoint you as Mr. Avedon's guardian. At any time, if you cannot be with him, you are required to make certain that another responsible adult is. When you have found him a proper counselor, and that individual has evaluated Mr. Avedon's condition, you may request a change in his status at that time."

"Understood, Your Honor. Thank you."

Bornstein curtly inclined her head, then continued abruptly. "The only question remaining is when the trial can resume. Do you have any idea when Mr. Avedon will be well enough to return to court?"

"The doctor believes that he ought to be able to leave the hospital in a couple days. He simply needs rest and fluids. I can't see any reason why we shouldn't be able to continue on Monday." Ted answered.

Judge Bornstein nodded. "Fine. We will recess until 9 AM Monday morning." She sat back in her chair. When they didn't move, she said sharply. "That will be all."

Ted promptly inclined his head at the Judge, took hold of Chris' arm, and propelled him out of the room as quickly as he could without unseemly haste. Grasso and Washington were slower to follow, but it was still only moments before Bornstein was alone in her chambers. When the door slid shut, she leaned forward, rested her chin in her hands, and closed her eyes, squeezing the eyelids shut as though in pain.

"What the hell did you think you were doing in there!" Ted whispered furiously into Chris' ear as he guided him down the hallway of the courthouse.

Chris swallowed hard, he knew had almost blown it, but his emotions were in turmoil. He'd always been able to keep his cool when working on a case, to stay calm and in control regardless of what happened in court - an ability that he prided himself upon. He had admired that same skill in his boss, and had worked hard to emulate it. But this case had touched him the way none other had, and the previous night had torn down the remnants of his control.

"I'm sorry Teddy. I really am. I know I messed up. It just makes me so angry!" He stopped and turned to lean his back against the gray wall, plunging his hands into his coat pocket. "I know better than to let myself get personally involved with a client, but Neil...I guess he just got to me. Damn it Ted - I keep seeing what he could be if he had half a chance. And after all the hard work he's put in to straighten himself out, to see him tossed to the wolves like this just infuriates me! It feels like we're coming up against one stone wall after another. If Neil gets convicted he won't survive it, you know that." Chris drew his shoulders in, leaning his head down towards Ted as he spoke in a fervent whisper.

Ted listened, then paused, carefully weighing his words. When he answered, it was with equal passion, though his voice never rose above a quiet speaking tone. "This case has gotten to us all, Chris. I'm just as deeply involved as you are, maybe more so. And I know how you felt last night, I felt the same way when I found Davey Blaylock's body. I want revenge, I want justice, I want the truth exposed. But we are dealing with some very clever people here, both in and out of court. It's going to be a tough fight, and there are no guarantees. But I do know that if we start letting our anger and our grief overcome our ability to think clearly and act carefully, then we won't have a chance in hell. I know it's hard but we have to stay focused and in control. If you can't do that, I need to know it now so that I can replace you on this case. I don't want to do that, you've been a valuable asset to this defense and you've developed a good relationship with our client. But if you can't keep your emotions under control, I won't have a choice."

Chris nodded. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath before replying. "You're right. I'll try my best to keep a clear head, I promise. This won't happen again."

"Good," Ted told him. "That's all I could ask for. If you need to let off some steam, go play racquetball or something, just don't do it in front of Bornstein again."

"Yeah - that was really stupid." Chris groaned, peeling himself off the wall to fall in step beside his senior colleague.

"Yes it was...But you did seem to get through to her. At least for now, we've got the best outcome we could have hoped for. So we might as well count our blessings..."

"Counselor - got a minute?" Arthur Polson suddenly appeared square in their path. Obviously, he had been waiting just around the corner for their approach, and both attorney's eyes narrowed as they contemplated his scowling face. Both silently wondered, in the same instant, how much of their conversation he had overheard.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" Hoffman replied blandly.

"I need to interview Avedon," Polson told him bluntly, a trace of challenge in his tone.

"Absolutely not," Chris retorted coldly. Polson's fingers unconsciously traced the yellow and black bruise discoloring the line of his jaw, as his eyes flickered over to meet the younger man's gaze. They caught and held each other in a silent contest of wills, each refusing to be the one who looked away first.

"Why do you need to see him?" Ted interrupted, watching with a faint air of amusement coupled with irritation.

Polson jerked his head around, and stared at Ted as though he hadn't know he was there. He recovered himself quickly, and replied fluidly. "Suicides are always investigated as murders until it can be fully established that the injuries were self-afflicted and that no-one assisted in the attempt. I need a statement from Avedon as to whether he acted alone or with an accomplish. Besides, suicide is against the law, which means I could arrest him for it."

Chris shook his head. "He's already on trial for murder, isn't that enough for you?"

A rush of rage ran hot through Polson, but the angry words died in his throat before he could speak them. Not sure what stopped him, he sighed and buried his hands in his pockets, squinching in his shoulders in a defeated shrug. "Look, counselor, I don't want to arrest him, I don't want to bring charges against him. The law on suicide doesn't have any teeth to it anyway, it's just meant to be a psychological deterrent. But the forms still have to be filled out, the motions of an investigation gone through, the paperwork filed. I can't do that without some kind of statement from Neil Avedon. I'm not planning to put him through the third degree, I just need a few minutes of his time to ask a couple simple questions. Of course, as his attorney's you will be there throughout the interview - to protect your client's interests." His voice turned ironic at the end, twisting harshly against the clear, almost conciliatory honesty with which he had begun.

Ted nodded, considered for a moment, then he fixed Polson with an intense stare. Polson stood his ground warily, refusing to back down, letting Hoffman weigh his request.

"All right, Detective." Ted's agreement was blunt and soft-spoken, yet the impact rocked both members of his audience. Polson blinked, looked as though he was about to argue, then swallowed down hard as he realized belatedly that he had just won the battle seemingly before it had begun. Chris was more open in his surprise, leaning in towards Ted's ear, he whispered anxiously, "Ted, you can't be serious."

Ted turned to face Chris. "Actually, I don't think this is such a bad idea. It will be helpful to have all the official paperwork filed away on this thing - that will help diminish the impact of the situation. Also, it might not be bad for Neil to have to confront what he did straight on."

"Ted, he's got to be pretty shaky right now. Anything he says to Polson is admissible in court, if he gets upset and says the wrong thing..."

"I don't think he will," Ted replied thoughtfully. "I think Neil is more ready for this than even he realizes." He turned back to Polson and his tone shifted to an unveiled warning. "That does not mean that you have license to harass him in any way. I expect you to stick solely to the events of last night. He will not answer any questions about the Costello murder or the trial, and you will not even ask."

Not having expected to win even this much, Polson agreed easily. "Su