Post-Trauma 11.5
“Mr. Drake, do you have any questions for this witness?”
The defense counsel stands up. “I do, your honor.”
“Proceed.”
Drake oozes, snakelike, up to the witness stand. “Gregory, do you always tell the truth?”
House bites his lip. “No. I’m an addict,” he adds.
“Dr. House, just answer the question that was asked, please,” the judge says gently.
“Gregory, why were you in treatment with Dr. Luerssen?”
“Because I’m an addict,” he answers.
“Because you’re an addict. Did you enter treatment voluntarily?”
“No,” House says in a small voice.
“No. In fact, you were court-ordered into treatment after you were caught stealing painkillers from a man who was dying of cancer in your hospital. Isn’t that the case?”
“Yes.” House’s voice is barely audible.
“Speak up, Gregory. I don’t think the jury heard you.”
“Mr. Drake,” the judge says firmly, “I’ll take care of issuing instructions to my witnesses, if you don’t mind. Dr. House, please repeat your answer.”
“Yes,” House says loudly. “That’s what happened.”
“Thank you. Did you-resent-being ordered to undergo treatment?”
“Objection, relevance,” Shepherd calls out.
“Your Honor, I’m attempting to give the jury a context for the witness’s conflicting accounts of Dr. Luerssen’s behavior,” Drake says.
“I’ll allow it. But get to the point quickly.”
“Of course. Gregory, did you resent being ordered into treatment?”
“Yes,” House admits.
“Would it be accurate to say that you invented the story about Luerssen injecting you with a mystery substance, during your regular sessions with him, because of this resentment?”
House rubs at his temples.
“Answer the question, please, Gregory.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I lied.”
“You don’t know. You don’t know much, do you, Gregory?”
House says, “No, sir,” at the same time that Shepherd says, “Objection!”
“Withdrawn,” Drake says quickly. “Gregory, you previously testified that ‘John Smith’ did not inject you with anything while he was in the clinic on Thursday morning.”
House doesn’t respond.
“Well?”
“I didn’t hear a question,” House explains innocently.
Drake sighs, and says very slowly, “Did. John Smith. Inject you. With anything?”
“No.”
“Did Dr. Luerssen inject you with anything, at any time?”
“No.”
“Did Dr. Luerssen threaten you, at any time?”
“No.”
“Did he harm you in any way, at any time?”
“No.”
“Gregory, do you have anything you’d like to say to Dr. Luerssen?”
“I’d like to thank him for helping me get better,” House recites dully.
“Thank you, G--”
But House is still talking. “I’m sorry I let you and everyone down by using again. I’m ready to go back to rehab. I’ll be good this time. Just don’t-don’t hurt Jimmy.” House is crying quietly now, not bothering to hide his tears from the lawyer, or Luerssen.
Or the jury, who-when Wilson tears his eyes away from his friend to glance at them-are staring at Luerssen with revulsion.
House, you magnificent son of a bitch. Wilson’s sure that, no matter what House thought he was doing with that declaration, he’s just managed to convince the jury that, his sworn testimony to the contrary, Luerssen did hurt him, badly.
The judge takes a packet of tissues out of one of the sleeves of her robe and hands one to House. “Who’s Jimmy?”
House wipes his eyes. “My best friend. James Wilson. He’s the best oncologist on the east coast,” he adds proudly.
“I see. Mr. Drake, are you finished with this man?”
“Uh--” Drake glances over at his client. “Yes. No further questions.”
“Dr. House, you may step down.”
Wilson hurries up to meet House as the bailiff helps him down from the stand. “You did great,” Wilson tells him, shooting a glare at the back of Luerssen’s head. “You okay?”
House nods. “Great.”
They leave the courtroom. Temas is still out in the hallway. “He okay?” he asks. “Luerssen’s lawyer made him cry,” Wilson says grimly.
Temas tilts his head to one side. “From a legal perspective, that’s probably good.” He looks down the hall. “Ms. Shepherd’s going to call me when the verdict comes in. Do you want to get something to eat, while we’re waiting?”
Wilson glances over at House. He’s not looking forward to sitting at home, waiting for a call-or to dealing with House when it comes. “Does that sound okay, buddy?”
House looks around. “Yeah. I guess.”
“We can go home, if you--”
“It’s okay.”
“Lee’s around here somewhere,” Temas says, “if he hasn’t gotten himself arrested. There’s a bar and grill sort of place across the street; why don’t you two go ahead and I’ll be over as soon as I find him.”
“Sure.” Wilson takes House’s arm and guides him down the hallway. House is dragging his feet, as though reluctant to leave the court. “Do you want to stay and wait for the verdict here?” he guesses.
“No.”
“What, then? Are you just not used to leaving a courtroom under your own power?”
House sighs. “I guess I was thinking They’d take me back right away,” he admits.
“They’re not taking you back at all,” Wilson says. “We’ve talked about this, remember? I won’t let Them.”
House smiles wryly; Wilson has the impression, somehow, that House is humoring him. “I’m okay. Let’s go.”
The place across the street is fairly quiet, it being mid-afternoon on a Saturday. There are televisions and sports memorabilia on the walls, and an extensive menu of things that have been deep-fried. House’s kind of place. They get settled at a table with some menus, and a moment or two later Temas and another man come in.
“Lee, this is Dr. House, and Dr. Wilson. Guys, this is my partner, Lee.”
House glances over at them. “I didn’t know you were a homo,” he observes distantly.
“House!” Wilson’s not sure whether to be exasperated, or pleased that House is saying something inappropriate.
Lee leans across the table. “Is that a problem?” he asks mildly, his face inches from House’s.
“Er…nope. No problems here.”
“Good.” Lee bounces back into his seat. “Look, Andy, they have Guiness.”
“I’m not drinking. This is a work thing! I’m at work!”
Lee shrugs. “So?”
“…Never mind.” Temas studies his menu.
Wilson does the same. He notices that House just glances quickly through his, then closes it and folds his hands on top of it. “You know what you want already?” He hopes House is planning to eat something-he’d eaten fairly well at breakfast, but had skipped lunch entirely. If the news from the courthouse is bad, the outlook for dinner isn’t very good, either.
But House says, “Uh-huh.”
“Great.” Wilson decides on the chicken Caesar salad. Normally he’d now have to start thinking of ways to keep House amused and out of trouble, but House is sitting quietly. Wilson doesn’t see any of the subtle signs that let him know House is about to start loudly discussing the amount of rat feces legally allowed in pepperoni, or hitting on a group of nuns, or demanding to speak to the manager about the likelihood that one of the framed baseball cards on the wall is a forgery.
It’s not as much of a relief as Wilson would have expected.
A ponytailed blonde in a polo shirt with the bar’s logo on it bounces over to them. “Can I start you guyses off with some wings?”
“Uh, no thanks,” Wilson says. “I want the chicken Casear and a Coke, please. House?”
“Appetizer cornucopia, bacon cheddar burger, double order of fries,” House says.
The waitress writes. “Uh-huh. Anything to drink?”
“Rolling Rock. In a bottle. Please.”
The only thing at all unusual about that order is the “please.” And the absence of any commentary on the waitress’s physical attributes. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Wilson points out.
“I’ll have you know my cholesterol is excellent,” House answers.
“Turkey sandwich and potato salad,” Temas says. “And a diet Coke.”
“I’ll have what he’s having.” Lee points at House. “Except Swiss on the burger instead of cheddar.”
“You want another appetizer cornucopia?” the waitress checks.
“Yes,” Lee says.
“You know that’s a lot of food, right?”
“He’ll eat it all,” Temas tells her.
“So will he,” Wilson adds.
“O-kay.” She leaves.
Wilson casts about for a subject of conversation. “So, Lee, what do you do?”
“Research, mostly. I see a few private patients.”
“What kind of research?”
“Psychopharmacology.”
“Oh,” Wilson says faintly.
“Yeah. I’ve never made a secret mind-control formula, though. Bet I’d make a better one, though. Undetectable.”
“GHB, maybe, for short-term amnesia,” House suggests.
“You know, LSD was invented by the CIA as part of a project to develop mind control,” Lee says.
House nods. “Project MKULTRA. They gave up the project when they found that a significant percentage of subjects became convinced that they could withstand any kind of questioning, even intense torture, when under the influence.”
“And when they found that quinuclidinyl benzilate was more effective in creating what they called an ‘exploitable alteration of personality,’” Lee continues.
“In legitimate research, it was showing some promise for treatment of psychotic disorders, but when the CIA gave up on it, all research into its clinical usefulness stopped.”
Temas and Wilson share a wry look. “It’s good to see them playing nicely,” Wilson says.
“Lee doesn’t always share his toys with the other kids,” Temas comments.
“So, uh, Lee, did you have a look at House’s blood work?”
“I haven’t seen the new batch, but yeah, I looked at the old ones. Strictly amateur hour.” Lee makes a dismissive gesture. After an elbow-jab and pointed glare from Temas, he adds, “Not that the effects weren’t serious. But the non-pharmaceutical interventions probably had more to do with it than the drugs. I mean, if you can tie someone down and berate them for an hour at a time, almost anything that puts them in a relaxed state is going to help. I could probably brainwash somebody with cough syrup if I wanted to.”
“He tied them down?” Wilson asks.
Temas shoots a look at Lee. “Some of them. Not House, I don’t think.”
Well, that’s something.
Embarrassed silence reigns for a minute or two, until a team of waitresses brings over their drinks and two heaping platters of appetizers, each easily the size of a car tire. “Your entrees will be out in about five minutes,” their main waitress says. “Can I get youze guys anything else?”
“I think we’re good,” Wilson says.
House shakes his head. “I want malt vinegar for my fries.”
House and Lee both start eating. “Can I have one of your potato skins?” Temas asks Lee.
“If you wanted potato skins, you should have ordered some,” Lee tells him.
“If you eat all that, and the fries, and the burger, you’ll die,” Temas points out.
“Not if I pace myself.”
Wilson sighs sadly. If he asked House for a potato skin now, House would probably give it to him.
House peers at him inquisitively, then spears an onion ring with his fork and jabs it in Wilson’s general direction.
Even worse. “Thanks, House,” Wilson mumbles, and takes it.
“What’d I do this time?” House asks.
“Nothing, you’re fine,” Wilson reassures him.
House looks at him doubtfully, then shakes his head and goes back to his food.
Temas had initially been dubious about Lee’s decision to come along to court today, but it’s becoming apparent it was a good idea. Despite a rough first few minutes, he and House are hitting it off, and House has come out of his shell somewhat.
“What was Wilt Chamberlain’s number with the Philadelphia Warriors?” Lee asks, craning his neck to look at a framed jersey that’s on the wall behind him.
“Lucky thirteen,” House answers, around a mouthful of hamburger.
“That’s what I thought. Wonder why that signed jersey is number 14.”
“’Cause it’s a fake,” House answers. “The real one’s in the Hall of Fame, I think.”
“The one from the hundred-point game, sure. He must’ve had others.”
“Well, yeah. But that’s not one of them.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Lee answers.
“The fabric looks like a polyester blend, too,” House adds.
“Which wasn’t even used for NBA uniforms when Wilt was with the Warriors,” Lee concludes triumphantly.
Temas is sorry when his phone rings, and everyone goes silent. House stares at his plate as if he’s trying to memorize what it looks like, and Wilson watches Temas with the concerned, soulful eyes of a Labrador. Even Lee doesn’t say or do anything inappropriate. He turns on the phone. “Hello. Andy Temas.”
“Hello, this is Leslie Shepherd.”
“Ms. Shepherd. What’s the news?”
He holds his breath until she says, “The jury returned an indictment.”
“Oh thank God.”
“The bad news is that all of my motions to delay the trial were denied. It’s been set for April 4th, a week from Tuesday. We won’t have much time to get our case ready.”
“That’s…not much time.” It had taken close to two months from Luerssen’s last session with House for him to start to recover.
“I know. And it’s going to be difficult. The jury had some trouble reaching a decision, until the judge reminded them very strongly that an indictment is only an affirmation that the evidence warrants a closer look, not of the defendant’s guilt. I don’t know that any of them were fully convinced he’s guilty. And in the trial, our side will bear the burden of proof.”
Temas is going to have to get House ready to testify. “What about bail?”
“Denied for now, because Judge Hardcastle is not a fan of witness tampering, but she’s revisiting the question on Monday. His counsel says they’ll present an offer that will ensure the safety of all the witnesses in this case and the murder case-probably house arrest with an electronic ankle bracelet, which I think I’ll agree to. The chances of keeping him locked up are low, unless he gets into trouble in jail between now and then.”
House would probably feel safer with Luerssen locked up, but electronic monitoring is a reasonable compromise. “Okay. Thanks for letting us know. Will you give me a call on Monday, let me know about the bail issue? I can take care of notifying House and the rest of the former patients.”
“Yes, I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thanks. Bye.” Temas hangs up. “Indicted,” he tells the others. “And they’re keeping him in jail at least until Monday.”
“Thank God,” Wilson says, letting out a breath.
House looks fearful. “They indicted him? But I said he didn’t do it.”
“Yeah, well,” Wilson says. “Fortunately, they didn’t believe you.”
The defense counsel stands up. “I do, your honor.”
“Proceed.”
Drake oozes, snakelike, up to the witness stand. “Gregory, do you always tell the truth?”
House bites his lip. “No. I’m an addict,” he adds.
“Dr. House, just answer the question that was asked, please,” the judge says gently.
“Gregory, why were you in treatment with Dr. Luerssen?”
“Because I’m an addict,” he answers.
“Because you’re an addict. Did you enter treatment voluntarily?”
“No,” House says in a small voice.
“No. In fact, you were court-ordered into treatment after you were caught stealing painkillers from a man who was dying of cancer in your hospital. Isn’t that the case?”
“Yes.” House’s voice is barely audible.
“Speak up, Gregory. I don’t think the jury heard you.”
“Mr. Drake,” the judge says firmly, “I’ll take care of issuing instructions to my witnesses, if you don’t mind. Dr. House, please repeat your answer.”
“Yes,” House says loudly. “That’s what happened.”
“Thank you. Did you-resent-being ordered to undergo treatment?”
“Objection, relevance,” Shepherd calls out.
“Your Honor, I’m attempting to give the jury a context for the witness’s conflicting accounts of Dr. Luerssen’s behavior,” Drake says.
“I’ll allow it. But get to the point quickly.”
“Of course. Gregory, did you resent being ordered into treatment?”
“Yes,” House admits.
“Would it be accurate to say that you invented the story about Luerssen injecting you with a mystery substance, during your regular sessions with him, because of this resentment?”
House rubs at his temples.
“Answer the question, please, Gregory.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I lied.”
“You don’t know. You don’t know much, do you, Gregory?”
House says, “No, sir,” at the same time that Shepherd says, “Objection!”
“Withdrawn,” Drake says quickly. “Gregory, you previously testified that ‘John Smith’ did not inject you with anything while he was in the clinic on Thursday morning.”
House doesn’t respond.
“Well?”
“I didn’t hear a question,” House explains innocently.
Drake sighs, and says very slowly, “Did. John Smith. Inject you. With anything?”
“No.”
“Did Dr. Luerssen inject you with anything, at any time?”
“No.”
“Did Dr. Luerssen threaten you, at any time?”
“No.”
“Did he harm you in any way, at any time?”
“No.”
“Gregory, do you have anything you’d like to say to Dr. Luerssen?”
“I’d like to thank him for helping me get better,” House recites dully.
“Thank you, G--”
But House is still talking. “I’m sorry I let you and everyone down by using again. I’m ready to go back to rehab. I’ll be good this time. Just don’t-don’t hurt Jimmy.” House is crying quietly now, not bothering to hide his tears from the lawyer, or Luerssen.
Or the jury, who-when Wilson tears his eyes away from his friend to glance at them-are staring at Luerssen with revulsion.
House, you magnificent son of a bitch. Wilson’s sure that, no matter what House thought he was doing with that declaration, he’s just managed to convince the jury that, his sworn testimony to the contrary, Luerssen did hurt him, badly.
The judge takes a packet of tissues out of one of the sleeves of her robe and hands one to House. “Who’s Jimmy?”
House wipes his eyes. “My best friend. James Wilson. He’s the best oncologist on the east coast,” he adds proudly.
“I see. Mr. Drake, are you finished with this man?”
“Uh--” Drake glances over at his client. “Yes. No further questions.”
“Dr. House, you may step down.”
Wilson hurries up to meet House as the bailiff helps him down from the stand. “You did great,” Wilson tells him, shooting a glare at the back of Luerssen’s head. “You okay?”
House nods. “Great.”
They leave the courtroom. Temas is still out in the hallway. “He okay?” he asks. “Luerssen’s lawyer made him cry,” Wilson says grimly.
Temas tilts his head to one side. “From a legal perspective, that’s probably good.” He looks down the hall. “Ms. Shepherd’s going to call me when the verdict comes in. Do you want to get something to eat, while we’re waiting?”
Wilson glances over at House. He’s not looking forward to sitting at home, waiting for a call-or to dealing with House when it comes. “Does that sound okay, buddy?”
House looks around. “Yeah. I guess.”
“We can go home, if you--”
“It’s okay.”
“Lee’s around here somewhere,” Temas says, “if he hasn’t gotten himself arrested. There’s a bar and grill sort of place across the street; why don’t you two go ahead and I’ll be over as soon as I find him.”
“Sure.” Wilson takes House’s arm and guides him down the hallway. House is dragging his feet, as though reluctant to leave the court. “Do you want to stay and wait for the verdict here?” he guesses.
“No.”
“What, then? Are you just not used to leaving a courtroom under your own power?”
House sighs. “I guess I was thinking They’d take me back right away,” he admits.
“They’re not taking you back at all,” Wilson says. “We’ve talked about this, remember? I won’t let Them.”
House smiles wryly; Wilson has the impression, somehow, that House is humoring him. “I’m okay. Let’s go.”
The place across the street is fairly quiet, it being mid-afternoon on a Saturday. There are televisions and sports memorabilia on the walls, and an extensive menu of things that have been deep-fried. House’s kind of place. They get settled at a table with some menus, and a moment or two later Temas and another man come in.
“Lee, this is Dr. House, and Dr. Wilson. Guys, this is my partner, Lee.”
House glances over at them. “I didn’t know you were a homo,” he observes distantly.
“House!” Wilson’s not sure whether to be exasperated, or pleased that House is saying something inappropriate.
Lee leans across the table. “Is that a problem?” he asks mildly, his face inches from House’s.
“Er…nope. No problems here.”
“Good.” Lee bounces back into his seat. “Look, Andy, they have Guiness.”
“I’m not drinking. This is a work thing! I’m at work!”
Lee shrugs. “So?”
“…Never mind.” Temas studies his menu.
Wilson does the same. He notices that House just glances quickly through his, then closes it and folds his hands on top of it. “You know what you want already?” He hopes House is planning to eat something-he’d eaten fairly well at breakfast, but had skipped lunch entirely. If the news from the courthouse is bad, the outlook for dinner isn’t very good, either.
But House says, “Uh-huh.”
“Great.” Wilson decides on the chicken Caesar salad. Normally he’d now have to start thinking of ways to keep House amused and out of trouble, but House is sitting quietly. Wilson doesn’t see any of the subtle signs that let him know House is about to start loudly discussing the amount of rat feces legally allowed in pepperoni, or hitting on a group of nuns, or demanding to speak to the manager about the likelihood that one of the framed baseball cards on the wall is a forgery.
It’s not as much of a relief as Wilson would have expected.
A ponytailed blonde in a polo shirt with the bar’s logo on it bounces over to them. “Can I start you guyses off with some wings?”
“Uh, no thanks,” Wilson says. “I want the chicken Casear and a Coke, please. House?”
“Appetizer cornucopia, bacon cheddar burger, double order of fries,” House says.
The waitress writes. “Uh-huh. Anything to drink?”
“Rolling Rock. In a bottle. Please.”
The only thing at all unusual about that order is the “please.” And the absence of any commentary on the waitress’s physical attributes. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Wilson points out.
“I’ll have you know my cholesterol is excellent,” House answers.
“Turkey sandwich and potato salad,” Temas says. “And a diet Coke.”
“I’ll have what he’s having.” Lee points at House. “Except Swiss on the burger instead of cheddar.”
“You want another appetizer cornucopia?” the waitress checks.
“Yes,” Lee says.
“You know that’s a lot of food, right?”
“He’ll eat it all,” Temas tells her.
“So will he,” Wilson adds.
“O-kay.” She leaves.
Wilson casts about for a subject of conversation. “So, Lee, what do you do?”
“Research, mostly. I see a few private patients.”
“What kind of research?”
“Psychopharmacology.”
“Oh,” Wilson says faintly.
“Yeah. I’ve never made a secret mind-control formula, though. Bet I’d make a better one, though. Undetectable.”
“GHB, maybe, for short-term amnesia,” House suggests.
“You know, LSD was invented by the CIA as part of a project to develop mind control,” Lee says.
House nods. “Project MKULTRA. They gave up the project when they found that a significant percentage of subjects became convinced that they could withstand any kind of questioning, even intense torture, when under the influence.”
“And when they found that quinuclidinyl benzilate was more effective in creating what they called an ‘exploitable alteration of personality,’” Lee continues.
“In legitimate research, it was showing some promise for treatment of psychotic disorders, but when the CIA gave up on it, all research into its clinical usefulness stopped.”
Temas and Wilson share a wry look. “It’s good to see them playing nicely,” Wilson says.
“Lee doesn’t always share his toys with the other kids,” Temas comments.
“So, uh, Lee, did you have a look at House’s blood work?”
“I haven’t seen the new batch, but yeah, I looked at the old ones. Strictly amateur hour.” Lee makes a dismissive gesture. After an elbow-jab and pointed glare from Temas, he adds, “Not that the effects weren’t serious. But the non-pharmaceutical interventions probably had more to do with it than the drugs. I mean, if you can tie someone down and berate them for an hour at a time, almost anything that puts them in a relaxed state is going to help. I could probably brainwash somebody with cough syrup if I wanted to.”
“He tied them down?” Wilson asks.
Temas shoots a look at Lee. “Some of them. Not House, I don’t think.”
Well, that’s something.
Embarrassed silence reigns for a minute or two, until a team of waitresses brings over their drinks and two heaping platters of appetizers, each easily the size of a car tire. “Your entrees will be out in about five minutes,” their main waitress says. “Can I get youze guys anything else?”
“I think we’re good,” Wilson says.
House shakes his head. “I want malt vinegar for my fries.”
House and Lee both start eating. “Can I have one of your potato skins?” Temas asks Lee.
“If you wanted potato skins, you should have ordered some,” Lee tells him.
“If you eat all that, and the fries, and the burger, you’ll die,” Temas points out.
“Not if I pace myself.”
Wilson sighs sadly. If he asked House for a potato skin now, House would probably give it to him.
House peers at him inquisitively, then spears an onion ring with his fork and jabs it in Wilson’s general direction.
Even worse. “Thanks, House,” Wilson mumbles, and takes it.
“What’d I do this time?” House asks.
“Nothing, you’re fine,” Wilson reassures him.
House looks at him doubtfully, then shakes his head and goes back to his food.
Temas had initially been dubious about Lee’s decision to come along to court today, but it’s becoming apparent it was a good idea. Despite a rough first few minutes, he and House are hitting it off, and House has come out of his shell somewhat.
“What was Wilt Chamberlain’s number with the Philadelphia Warriors?” Lee asks, craning his neck to look at a framed jersey that’s on the wall behind him.
“Lucky thirteen,” House answers, around a mouthful of hamburger.
“That’s what I thought. Wonder why that signed jersey is number 14.”
“’Cause it’s a fake,” House answers. “The real one’s in the Hall of Fame, I think.”
“The one from the hundred-point game, sure. He must’ve had others.”
“Well, yeah. But that’s not one of them.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Lee answers.
“The fabric looks like a polyester blend, too,” House adds.
“Which wasn’t even used for NBA uniforms when Wilt was with the Warriors,” Lee concludes triumphantly.
Temas is sorry when his phone rings, and everyone goes silent. House stares at his plate as if he’s trying to memorize what it looks like, and Wilson watches Temas with the concerned, soulful eyes of a Labrador. Even Lee doesn’t say or do anything inappropriate. He turns on the phone. “Hello. Andy Temas.”
“Hello, this is Leslie Shepherd.”
“Ms. Shepherd. What’s the news?”
He holds his breath until she says, “The jury returned an indictment.”
“Oh thank God.”
“The bad news is that all of my motions to delay the trial were denied. It’s been set for April 4th, a week from Tuesday. We won’t have much time to get our case ready.”
“That’s…not much time.” It had taken close to two months from Luerssen’s last session with House for him to start to recover.
“I know. And it’s going to be difficult. The jury had some trouble reaching a decision, until the judge reminded them very strongly that an indictment is only an affirmation that the evidence warrants a closer look, not of the defendant’s guilt. I don’t know that any of them were fully convinced he’s guilty. And in the trial, our side will bear the burden of proof.”
Temas is going to have to get House ready to testify. “What about bail?”
“Denied for now, because Judge Hardcastle is not a fan of witness tampering, but she’s revisiting the question on Monday. His counsel says they’ll present an offer that will ensure the safety of all the witnesses in this case and the murder case-probably house arrest with an electronic ankle bracelet, which I think I’ll agree to. The chances of keeping him locked up are low, unless he gets into trouble in jail between now and then.”
House would probably feel safer with Luerssen locked up, but electronic monitoring is a reasonable compromise. “Okay. Thanks for letting us know. Will you give me a call on Monday, let me know about the bail issue? I can take care of notifying House and the rest of the former patients.”
“Yes, I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thanks. Bye.” Temas hangs up. “Indicted,” he tells the others. “And they’re keeping him in jail at least until Monday.”
“Thank God,” Wilson says, letting out a breath.
House looks fearful. “They indicted him? But I said he didn’t do it.”
“Yeah, well,” Wilson says. “Fortunately, they didn’t believe you.”