Post-Trauma 11.1
A/N: Chapter 11 should be going up in three parts tonight/early this morning. We're nearing the end of the road.
House, with his dark suit and sneakers, his expression of pain and bewilderment, looks like a kid at a funeral when Wilson hands him over to the Prosecutor. A blonde woman in a navy suit, she’s about Cuddy’s age, but lacks her magnificent endowments. Probably just as well, since House is in no position to appreciate them.
“I’ll be right out here,” he says, looking back and forth between them. “If he needs me. House, if you need a break, tell the lady, okay?”
House nods affably. “Sure, Jimmy.”
They disappear into an office and shut the door behind them. Wilson stares disconsolately at the door for a moment before turning to look for a place to sit down. There are long wooden benches lining the hallway, so it isn’t difficult to find one. He sits as close as he can to where House is, knowing full well what House would say-you think the closer you are, the more you care?
Well, he does care. Closing his eyes, he leans back and stretches out his legs. Last night was a rough one-after that awful, heartbreaking conversation with House, it had taken hours for him to get to sleep, and even then he’d slept badly, bothered by weird, confusing dreams.
Trust House, the one time he shows concern about somebody’s feelings, to get everything so completely backwards. How can he possibly think that Wilson’s better off with some smiling automaton in place of his best friend? The more House had tried to comfort him, the worse he’d felt.
He just misses him so much.
Temas goes to the courthouse early-Shepherd asked him to be a little early so that they can touch base before he testifies, and he figures House and Wilson will be there even earlier, and might need some support.
The place is pretty quiet, on a Saturday afternoon. He goes through the metal detector, and asks the security guard where to find the Luerssen arraignment. She directs him to the right hallway, where he finds Wilson sitting on a bench, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed.
“James?” he says, going up to him. The man looks like he might almost be asleep.
He picks his head up immediately. “Hey.” Not asleep, then. “House is in there--” he inclines his head “-with the Prosecutor.”
The two men share a wry smile before Wilson says, “This probably isn’t the time, but there were some…developments…last night.”
It’s not the perfect time, but nothing about this case is ideal. “Go ahead and fill me in, if you want to.”
With a few false starts, and a digression about pancakes that Temas isn’t sure what to make of, Wilson explains the new insight House has given him into his state of mind, concluding with, “Last time he was just…blank. I mean, you remember. But now it sounds like he’s…on Luerssen’s side. Like he’s decided to stay like this. And I think-I think he’s convinced he’s going back to rehab, no matter what, and he’s decided to make the best of it.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” Temas says. From what he’s seen of the man’s real personality, he isn’t much given to making the best of a bad situation.
“No. And he seems to--” Wilson brushes angrily at his eyes “-to think that it’s better for me, somehow, if he stays like this.”
“I can see why you’re upset.” Temas is stalling for time. He doesn’t know why House would think his best friend prefers him as a mindless zombie. “Do you think it’s something Luerssen told him?”
Wilson shakes his head. “The day he saw Luerssen, he was focused on insisting he hadn’t seen Luerssen, nothing had happened, Luerssen never did anything to him. This…this thing about hurting me less like this, it’s new.”
“It sounds to me like he’s trying to find a way to make what Luerssen’s doing to him, and the way he’s reacting to it, make sense. He knows, on some level, that Luerssen’s controlling his mind, and he knows he got over it before. It probably seems to him that, knowing what’s happening, he ought to be able to just snap out of it. Since he can’t talk himself out of this state, any more than he could talk himself out of a broken leg, he’s talked himself into believing he has a good reason, even a noble reason, for giving in.”
Temas isn’t sure that what he’s saying makes sense, but Wilson’s nodding. “That sounds like something House would do. So do you think….”
“That he’ll get better? I don’t know. I think there’s still a good chance that things will clear up, once the drugs are out of his system.” Temas hopes so, anyway. “It might still take some time, but once his head’s clear, he should be able to see that what he’s thinking doesn’t make sense.”
“I hope you’re right,” Wilson says. “It’s just so…unlike him. Not the not wanting to hurt me part, that’s just always been very well hidden. But this…calmly accepting his fate? It’s not him.”
Temas has known Greg the zombie longer than House the man, but he recalls how House had jumped into action following his breakthrough a few short weeks ago-arranging for Wilson to “rescue” him, starting acupuncture, working on the case against Luerssen-and he agrees that calm acceptance doesn’t appear anywhere on House’s list of virtues. “I understand your concern.”
Wilson rubs his forehead. “So what do I do? How do I help him?”
That’s the million-dollar question. “For now, just keep doing what you’re doing. Tell him every chance you get that he’s not going back to rehab, he hasn’t done anything wrong, and you’re not better off without him. Don’t feel like you have to fix him single-handedly; you’ll just make yourself miserable.”
“Easier said than done,” Wilson murmurs. “House is…I take care of him. I always have. I know it’s not…it’s just what we do.”
Temas knows that the relationship between the two men is complex, and perhaps not entirely healthy. But he’s not too concerned about that right now. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you,” he says instead.
Wilson smiles faintly.
Wilson feels House go rigid with fear next to him when Luerssen comes into sight. He’s coming down the hallway at the center of a knot of dark-suited lawyers and uniformed officers, his hands cuffed in front of him. House is gripping his cane with white-knuckled hands and breathing shallowly.
“It’s okay,” Wilson murmurs, putting one hand on House’s forearm. “I’m here, you’re safe.”
House ignores him, or perhaps doesn’t even hear him, his eyes focused on his tormentor.
As he sweeps past, Luerssen raises his hands in a jaunty little wave, and murmurs, “Hello, Gregory,” with a cold smile.
House lurches to his feet and stands, wobbling slightly, until the courtroom doors bang shut behind them. Then he falls back onto the bench, rubbing his thigh in agitation. After a moment he murmurs, “Haven’t seen him since….” He trails off, like he’s not quite sure when he saw Luerssen last.
“I know.”
With Luerssen out of sight, House settles down some, although his tension is still apparent. Wilson offers occasional words of comfort, but House doesn’t respond, beyond the occasional glance his way.
Temas is called in to testify first. Wilson feels his anxiety ratcheting up-House’s turn can’t be far off-but House takes little notice of what’s going on.
“You feel ready for this?” Wilson asks him.
“Doesn’t matter if I am or not, does it?” House asks.
“I guess not,” Wilson admits.
“I’m ready, anyway,” House says. “I know what I’m gonna say.”
That’s not exactly what Wilson was worried about, but he doesn’t argue the point. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
House just shrugs a little. After a while he says, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” What’s he think he’s done this time?
After a long pause, House answers, “Everything.”
It’s not much longer before an officer of the court comes out and says, “They’re ready for you now, Dr. House. Go right to the front, and sit in the witness box, and we’ll swear you in.”
Wilson slips in behind him, and takes a seat at the back of the courtroom. It’s painful to see House hobbling to the front of the court. Despite his height, he looks small and vulnerable.
When it’s time to pass by the defense table, he hesitates and stalls to a stop, until the woman bailiff takes his elbow and presses him on. She hands him up into the witness box-something House would normally hate-and then holds the Bible to swear him in.
The judge is a Black woman, perhaps a little older than House. Wilson thinks that’s probably good-House tends to do a little better with women than he does with men. “Doctor House, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
House doesn’t believe in God, and in all of his previous court appearances has insisted on the God-free version of the oath. But this time he just says meekly, “I do.”
“Thank you. Ms. Shepherd, you may proceed.”
She gets up and walks toward the witness stand. “Dr. House, when you returned from the New Horizons rehab center, you were in treatment with Dr. Erich Luerssen, is that correct?”
After along pause, House says slowly, “Yes. That’s correct.”
“Do you see Dr. Luerssen in the courtroom today?”
Another long pause, and then, “Yes.”
“Point him out for us, please.”
House takes a deep breath and points to Luerssen.
“Let the record show, that the witness indicated the defendant, Erich Luerssen,” the judge notes.
“What did your treatment with him consist of?” Shepherd continues.
“I saw him weekly for individual 50-minute sessions.”
“What went on at those sessions?”
“Objection!” Luerssen’s lawyer stands. “The content of Gregory’s individual therapy sessions is confidential.”
“Your Honor,” Shepherd says, “I’m asking for a general description of what went on, not specific details.”
“Dr. House, are you comfortable answering the question under those conditions?” the judge asks.
House shifts in his seat. “Yes.”
“I’ll allow it.”
House waits patiently, until Shepherd repeats the question. “What went on in your sessions with Dr. Luerssen?”
“We talked. Mostly he talked. About my addiction.”
“Thank you. At any time, did Dr. Luerssen prescribe any medication for you to take?”
“No, he did not.”
“Did he ever give you any pills or injections of any kind?”
“No.”
“On March 14th, you gave a statement to Detective Angela Whitley of the Princeton PD alleging that Dr. Luerssen gave you weekly injections of an unknown medication, without your consent. Did--”
“I lied,” House interrupts.
Shepherd stops. It looks to Wilson like she wasn’t expecting that. He’s not sure why-that’s what House has been saying for the last couple of days. After a moment she resumes, “On Thursday, March 24, at approximately 10:30 AM, you treated a patient named John Smith in the walk-in clinic of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” House says docilely.
“Had you met John Smith at any time prior to this occasion?”
“No, I had not.”
“Is John Smith in the courtroom today?”
Wilson leans forward in his seat. What’s House going to say to that?
“Yes, he is,” House says.
“Point him out for us, please.”
House points straight at Luerssen.
The judge says, “Let the record show that the witness has indicated the defendant, Erich Luerssen.”
“Objection,” Luerssen’s lawyer says, standing again.
“Overruled. Continue, Ms. Shepherd.”
Shepherd continues, “Are you sure you haven’t seen John Smith at any time other than that day in the Clinic, or today in the courtroom?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Wilson covers his face with his hand. He can see what Shepherd is doing-demonstrating that House’s testimony is unreliable-but this is painful to watch.
“Objection! The Prosecution is suborning perjury.”
The judge looks at House, her expression pitying. “Dr. House, are you aware that you’re still under oath?”
“Yes, your Honor,” he says, his eyes wide and bewildered.
“Are you certain that the testimony you’ve just given is true and correct?”
“Yes.” His voice trembles slightly.
“Point out John Smith for me again,” she says gently.
He does.
“And Dr. Luerssen?”
House points to him again, his arm trembling.
“All right.” The judge smiles at him in a grandmotherly way. “Thank you, Dr. House. Objection overruled.”
Shepherd leans on the witness box. “Do you need a few minutes, Dr. House?”
“No. Thanks. I’m fine.”
“All right. What happened when you were in the examination room with John Smith?”
House shifts, his eyes darting from one side to the other. “I’m…that’s confidential? I think? HIPPA?”
“I have a waiver here, signed by John Smith. Let the record indicate I’m showing the witness People’s Exhibit N.” She hands House a paper.
He looks at it. “That looks like it’s in order. John Smith presented complaining of a sore throat and slightly elevated temperature. I conducted a visual examination and took a throat culture to rule out the possibility of strep throat. It came back negative, so I discharged him with throat lozenges and instructions to rest and push fluids.” House’s voice is even and confident, his eyes focused and alert.
“At any time did you inject John Smith with anything?”
“No.”
“Did John Smith inject you with anything?”
House smiles faintly. “No.”
“Doctor House, how are the clinic’s drugs stored?”
“Depends on the drug.”
“Say, morphine. Where is that kept?”
“In our pharmacy, in a locked cabinet.”
“If you needed to give an injection of morphine to a patient, how would you gain access to it?”
“Write out a prescription and take it to the pharmacy, or have a nurse take it there. The person who physically picked it up would sign the controlled substances log.”
“What about thorazine?”
“The same.”
“Haloperidol?”
“The same.”
“Ritalin?”
“Probably the same, except the controlled substances log. We might have some samples of the controlled-release tablets in the exam-room cabinets; I’m not sure. For an injection, you’d have to go to the pharmacy.”
“Sodium pentathol?”
“I…don’t know we keep that on hand,” House admits.
“Later that day, some of your colleagues found traces of all of those substances-morphine, thorazine, haloperidol, Ritalin, and sodium pentathol-in your system. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.” House looks down at his hands.
“How did those substances get into your body?”
“I injected them.”
“You injected them.”
“Yes.”
“When did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ballpark it. Before you went to work in the morning? After?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you obtain these substances?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you get them from the hospital pharmacy?”
“No.”
“Did you get them from elsewhere in the hospital?”
“I…don’t think so.” House looks confused and frightened; Wilson has to restrain himself from rushing to his side and defending him from the woman.
“You don’t know where you got these substances, or when you injected them. Do you remember injecting them?”
House hesitates for a long time. “No,” he says in a small voice.
“No. If you don’t remember injecting them, how do you know that you did?”
House looks around, as if hoping to find the answer to their question written on the courtroom walls. “I must’ve. I don’t know how else it could have happened.”
“Okay. You’re doing fine, Dr. House. Just a few more questions. If a person is self-administering an injection, which hand would they usually use to do it?”
“Their dominant hand. For most people, that’s the right.”
“And are you right-handed yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Where on your body would you normally perform the injection?”
“It depends what kind. An intramuscular injection could be in any large muscle, usually the thigh, buttock, or upper arm. A subcutaneous one--”
“I’m sorry, I should have specified, an intravenous injection.”
“There are a number of possible sites, but the first choice is nearly always the median cubital vein, just inside the elbow.”
“And if you were giving such an injection to yourself, with your right hand, you’d inject into which arm?”
“The left. Of course.”
“Do you recall giving yourself an intravenous injection at any time in the past?”
“Yes. A few times. Morphine.”
“Do you recall ever giving yourself an intravenous injection in your right arm?”
“No.”
“Good. Thank you, Doctor House.” Shepherd shakes his hand before going back to her seat.
House, with his dark suit and sneakers, his expression of pain and bewilderment, looks like a kid at a funeral when Wilson hands him over to the Prosecutor. A blonde woman in a navy suit, she’s about Cuddy’s age, but lacks her magnificent endowments. Probably just as well, since House is in no position to appreciate them.
“I’ll be right out here,” he says, looking back and forth between them. “If he needs me. House, if you need a break, tell the lady, okay?”
House nods affably. “Sure, Jimmy.”
They disappear into an office and shut the door behind them. Wilson stares disconsolately at the door for a moment before turning to look for a place to sit down. There are long wooden benches lining the hallway, so it isn’t difficult to find one. He sits as close as he can to where House is, knowing full well what House would say-you think the closer you are, the more you care?
Well, he does care. Closing his eyes, he leans back and stretches out his legs. Last night was a rough one-after that awful, heartbreaking conversation with House, it had taken hours for him to get to sleep, and even then he’d slept badly, bothered by weird, confusing dreams.
Trust House, the one time he shows concern about somebody’s feelings, to get everything so completely backwards. How can he possibly think that Wilson’s better off with some smiling automaton in place of his best friend? The more House had tried to comfort him, the worse he’d felt.
He just misses him so much.
Temas goes to the courthouse early-Shepherd asked him to be a little early so that they can touch base before he testifies, and he figures House and Wilson will be there even earlier, and might need some support.
The place is pretty quiet, on a Saturday afternoon. He goes through the metal detector, and asks the security guard where to find the Luerssen arraignment. She directs him to the right hallway, where he finds Wilson sitting on a bench, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed.
“James?” he says, going up to him. The man looks like he might almost be asleep.
He picks his head up immediately. “Hey.” Not asleep, then. “House is in there--” he inclines his head “-with the Prosecutor.”
The two men share a wry smile before Wilson says, “This probably isn’t the time, but there were some…developments…last night.”
It’s not the perfect time, but nothing about this case is ideal. “Go ahead and fill me in, if you want to.”
With a few false starts, and a digression about pancakes that Temas isn’t sure what to make of, Wilson explains the new insight House has given him into his state of mind, concluding with, “Last time he was just…blank. I mean, you remember. But now it sounds like he’s…on Luerssen’s side. Like he’s decided to stay like this. And I think-I think he’s convinced he’s going back to rehab, no matter what, and he’s decided to make the best of it.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” Temas says. From what he’s seen of the man’s real personality, he isn’t much given to making the best of a bad situation.
“No. And he seems to--” Wilson brushes angrily at his eyes “-to think that it’s better for me, somehow, if he stays like this.”
“I can see why you’re upset.” Temas is stalling for time. He doesn’t know why House would think his best friend prefers him as a mindless zombie. “Do you think it’s something Luerssen told him?”
Wilson shakes his head. “The day he saw Luerssen, he was focused on insisting he hadn’t seen Luerssen, nothing had happened, Luerssen never did anything to him. This…this thing about hurting me less like this, it’s new.”
“It sounds to me like he’s trying to find a way to make what Luerssen’s doing to him, and the way he’s reacting to it, make sense. He knows, on some level, that Luerssen’s controlling his mind, and he knows he got over it before. It probably seems to him that, knowing what’s happening, he ought to be able to just snap out of it. Since he can’t talk himself out of this state, any more than he could talk himself out of a broken leg, he’s talked himself into believing he has a good reason, even a noble reason, for giving in.”
Temas isn’t sure that what he’s saying makes sense, but Wilson’s nodding. “That sounds like something House would do. So do you think….”
“That he’ll get better? I don’t know. I think there’s still a good chance that things will clear up, once the drugs are out of his system.” Temas hopes so, anyway. “It might still take some time, but once his head’s clear, he should be able to see that what he’s thinking doesn’t make sense.”
“I hope you’re right,” Wilson says. “It’s just so…unlike him. Not the not wanting to hurt me part, that’s just always been very well hidden. But this…calmly accepting his fate? It’s not him.”
Temas has known Greg the zombie longer than House the man, but he recalls how House had jumped into action following his breakthrough a few short weeks ago-arranging for Wilson to “rescue” him, starting acupuncture, working on the case against Luerssen-and he agrees that calm acceptance doesn’t appear anywhere on House’s list of virtues. “I understand your concern.”
Wilson rubs his forehead. “So what do I do? How do I help him?”
That’s the million-dollar question. “For now, just keep doing what you’re doing. Tell him every chance you get that he’s not going back to rehab, he hasn’t done anything wrong, and you’re not better off without him. Don’t feel like you have to fix him single-handedly; you’ll just make yourself miserable.”
“Easier said than done,” Wilson murmurs. “House is…I take care of him. I always have. I know it’s not…it’s just what we do.”
Temas knows that the relationship between the two men is complex, and perhaps not entirely healthy. But he’s not too concerned about that right now. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you,” he says instead.
Wilson smiles faintly.
Wilson feels House go rigid with fear next to him when Luerssen comes into sight. He’s coming down the hallway at the center of a knot of dark-suited lawyers and uniformed officers, his hands cuffed in front of him. House is gripping his cane with white-knuckled hands and breathing shallowly.
“It’s okay,” Wilson murmurs, putting one hand on House’s forearm. “I’m here, you’re safe.”
House ignores him, or perhaps doesn’t even hear him, his eyes focused on his tormentor.
As he sweeps past, Luerssen raises his hands in a jaunty little wave, and murmurs, “Hello, Gregory,” with a cold smile.
House lurches to his feet and stands, wobbling slightly, until the courtroom doors bang shut behind them. Then he falls back onto the bench, rubbing his thigh in agitation. After a moment he murmurs, “Haven’t seen him since….” He trails off, like he’s not quite sure when he saw Luerssen last.
“I know.”
With Luerssen out of sight, House settles down some, although his tension is still apparent. Wilson offers occasional words of comfort, but House doesn’t respond, beyond the occasional glance his way.
Temas is called in to testify first. Wilson feels his anxiety ratcheting up-House’s turn can’t be far off-but House takes little notice of what’s going on.
“You feel ready for this?” Wilson asks him.
“Doesn’t matter if I am or not, does it?” House asks.
“I guess not,” Wilson admits.
“I’m ready, anyway,” House says. “I know what I’m gonna say.”
That’s not exactly what Wilson was worried about, but he doesn’t argue the point. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
House just shrugs a little. After a while he says, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” What’s he think he’s done this time?
After a long pause, House answers, “Everything.”
It’s not much longer before an officer of the court comes out and says, “They’re ready for you now, Dr. House. Go right to the front, and sit in the witness box, and we’ll swear you in.”
Wilson slips in behind him, and takes a seat at the back of the courtroom. It’s painful to see House hobbling to the front of the court. Despite his height, he looks small and vulnerable.
When it’s time to pass by the defense table, he hesitates and stalls to a stop, until the woman bailiff takes his elbow and presses him on. She hands him up into the witness box-something House would normally hate-and then holds the Bible to swear him in.
The judge is a Black woman, perhaps a little older than House. Wilson thinks that’s probably good-House tends to do a little better with women than he does with men. “Doctor House, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
House doesn’t believe in God, and in all of his previous court appearances has insisted on the God-free version of the oath. But this time he just says meekly, “I do.”
“Thank you. Ms. Shepherd, you may proceed.”
She gets up and walks toward the witness stand. “Dr. House, when you returned from the New Horizons rehab center, you were in treatment with Dr. Erich Luerssen, is that correct?”
After along pause, House says slowly, “Yes. That’s correct.”
“Do you see Dr. Luerssen in the courtroom today?”
Another long pause, and then, “Yes.”
“Point him out for us, please.”
House takes a deep breath and points to Luerssen.
“Let the record show, that the witness indicated the defendant, Erich Luerssen,” the judge notes.
“What did your treatment with him consist of?” Shepherd continues.
“I saw him weekly for individual 50-minute sessions.”
“What went on at those sessions?”
“Objection!” Luerssen’s lawyer stands. “The content of Gregory’s individual therapy sessions is confidential.”
“Your Honor,” Shepherd says, “I’m asking for a general description of what went on, not specific details.”
“Dr. House, are you comfortable answering the question under those conditions?” the judge asks.
House shifts in his seat. “Yes.”
“I’ll allow it.”
House waits patiently, until Shepherd repeats the question. “What went on in your sessions with Dr. Luerssen?”
“We talked. Mostly he talked. About my addiction.”
“Thank you. At any time, did Dr. Luerssen prescribe any medication for you to take?”
“No, he did not.”
“Did he ever give you any pills or injections of any kind?”
“No.”
“On March 14th, you gave a statement to Detective Angela Whitley of the Princeton PD alleging that Dr. Luerssen gave you weekly injections of an unknown medication, without your consent. Did--”
“I lied,” House interrupts.
Shepherd stops. It looks to Wilson like she wasn’t expecting that. He’s not sure why-that’s what House has been saying for the last couple of days. After a moment she resumes, “On Thursday, March 24, at approximately 10:30 AM, you treated a patient named John Smith in the walk-in clinic of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” House says docilely.
“Had you met John Smith at any time prior to this occasion?”
“No, I had not.”
“Is John Smith in the courtroom today?”
Wilson leans forward in his seat. What’s House going to say to that?
“Yes, he is,” House says.
“Point him out for us, please.”
House points straight at Luerssen.
The judge says, “Let the record show that the witness has indicated the defendant, Erich Luerssen.”
“Objection,” Luerssen’s lawyer says, standing again.
“Overruled. Continue, Ms. Shepherd.”
Shepherd continues, “Are you sure you haven’t seen John Smith at any time other than that day in the Clinic, or today in the courtroom?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Wilson covers his face with his hand. He can see what Shepherd is doing-demonstrating that House’s testimony is unreliable-but this is painful to watch.
“Objection! The Prosecution is suborning perjury.”
The judge looks at House, her expression pitying. “Dr. House, are you aware that you’re still under oath?”
“Yes, your Honor,” he says, his eyes wide and bewildered.
“Are you certain that the testimony you’ve just given is true and correct?”
“Yes.” His voice trembles slightly.
“Point out John Smith for me again,” she says gently.
He does.
“And Dr. Luerssen?”
House points to him again, his arm trembling.
“All right.” The judge smiles at him in a grandmotherly way. “Thank you, Dr. House. Objection overruled.”
Shepherd leans on the witness box. “Do you need a few minutes, Dr. House?”
“No. Thanks. I’m fine.”
“All right. What happened when you were in the examination room with John Smith?”
House shifts, his eyes darting from one side to the other. “I’m…that’s confidential? I think? HIPPA?”
“I have a waiver here, signed by John Smith. Let the record indicate I’m showing the witness People’s Exhibit N.” She hands House a paper.
He looks at it. “That looks like it’s in order. John Smith presented complaining of a sore throat and slightly elevated temperature. I conducted a visual examination and took a throat culture to rule out the possibility of strep throat. It came back negative, so I discharged him with throat lozenges and instructions to rest and push fluids.” House’s voice is even and confident, his eyes focused and alert.
“At any time did you inject John Smith with anything?”
“No.”
“Did John Smith inject you with anything?”
House smiles faintly. “No.”
“Doctor House, how are the clinic’s drugs stored?”
“Depends on the drug.”
“Say, morphine. Where is that kept?”
“In our pharmacy, in a locked cabinet.”
“If you needed to give an injection of morphine to a patient, how would you gain access to it?”
“Write out a prescription and take it to the pharmacy, or have a nurse take it there. The person who physically picked it up would sign the controlled substances log.”
“What about thorazine?”
“The same.”
“Haloperidol?”
“The same.”
“Ritalin?”
“Probably the same, except the controlled substances log. We might have some samples of the controlled-release tablets in the exam-room cabinets; I’m not sure. For an injection, you’d have to go to the pharmacy.”
“Sodium pentathol?”
“I…don’t know we keep that on hand,” House admits.
“Later that day, some of your colleagues found traces of all of those substances-morphine, thorazine, haloperidol, Ritalin, and sodium pentathol-in your system. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.” House looks down at his hands.
“How did those substances get into your body?”
“I injected them.”
“You injected them.”
“Yes.”
“When did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ballpark it. Before you went to work in the morning? After?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you obtain these substances?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you get them from the hospital pharmacy?”
“No.”
“Did you get them from elsewhere in the hospital?”
“I…don’t think so.” House looks confused and frightened; Wilson has to restrain himself from rushing to his side and defending him from the woman.
“You don’t know where you got these substances, or when you injected them. Do you remember injecting them?”
House hesitates for a long time. “No,” he says in a small voice.
“No. If you don’t remember injecting them, how do you know that you did?”
House looks around, as if hoping to find the answer to their question written on the courtroom walls. “I must’ve. I don’t know how else it could have happened.”
“Okay. You’re doing fine, Dr. House. Just a few more questions. If a person is self-administering an injection, which hand would they usually use to do it?”
“Their dominant hand. For most people, that’s the right.”
“And are you right-handed yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Where on your body would you normally perform the injection?”
“It depends what kind. An intramuscular injection could be in any large muscle, usually the thigh, buttock, or upper arm. A subcutaneous one--”
“I’m sorry, I should have specified, an intravenous injection.”
“There are a number of possible sites, but the first choice is nearly always the median cubital vein, just inside the elbow.”
“And if you were giving such an injection to yourself, with your right hand, you’d inject into which arm?”
“The left. Of course.”
“Do you recall giving yourself an intravenous injection at any time in the past?”
“Yes. A few times. Morphine.”
“Do you recall ever giving yourself an intravenous injection in your right arm?”
“No.”
“Good. Thank you, Doctor House.” Shepherd shakes his hand before going back to her seat.