PATIENT - Chapter 11: Judgment
Title: Patient
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority’s Exigencies and zeppomarx’s A Gentle Knock at the Door.
Summary: House’s minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep’s intense and angsty The Contract, and Priority’s sequel Exigencies.
Thanks: To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to A Gentle Knock on the Door, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.
Warnings, etc.: Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.
Disclaimers: You know the drill. Don’t own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.
This Chapter: Wilson felt a chill as he realized that House was begging not them, but some unseen tormentors. He was still trapped somewhere deep in his own mind, drifting swiftly from dissociation to a flashback that seemed to him as real as the jail cell was to Wilson and Cuddy.
Chapter 11
Chapter 10
Chapter 9
Chapter 8
Chapter 7
Chapter 6
Chapter 5
Chapter 4
Chapter 3
Chapter 2
Chapter 1
___________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 11: Judgment
When Foreman heard Chase’s voice on his cell phone, he listened, stunned, as Chase told him that not only had House been arrested and dragged handcuffed through the lobby of the hospital, but that he was in jail. Then his stomach dropped and he couldn’t hold on any longer.
“I’ll… I have to call you back,” he said, hanging up urgently, as he began to throw up, vomit spewing all over the phone, all over his lap, and all over his expensive leather couch. Twenty minutes later, after he’d managed to clean himself up, he called Chase back.
“Sorry, man. I-I just couldn’t take it.”
“Mate, you are massively lucky I didn’t see you yesterday,” said Chase bluntly. Foreman couldn’t blame him for his reaction. He wasn’t positive about it, but he thought he detected a note of understanding in Chase’s tone of voice. “After what you did to House, I wanted to smash your face in. But this is so much worse… and I know-I know-you wouldn’t have wanted this to happen to House, no matter how you might feel about him.”
“No, no. Of course not,” said Foreman, sighing. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. House doesn’t deserve this-he didn’t deserve what I did, either. But I’d better not see Tritter when I get there, because I’m not sure I can be responsible for my actions.”
“I’ll bet I can beat you to him,” said Chase, a hint of humor creeping back into his voice. “I’m struggling really hard to remember the Hippocratic Oath right about now.”
* * * *
At the duplex, Linda McAllister quietly hung up the phone and trudged slowly toward Rainie Adler’s bedroom, procrastinating the need to tell her the news.
* * * *
Lisa Cuddy was afraid that if Wilson couldn’t reach House, it would be impossible for her to get through, but she was determined to give it a try. Taking her cue from Wilson, she kept her voice low and her movements minimal. Creeping closer and gently laying her hand on House’s trembling arm, she almost jumped when he pulled away, just slightly, at her touch. When Wilson felt House’s flinch under his fingers, he sighed. Maybe we’re getting through. He continued to rub House’s back.
“House, it’s Cuddy.” She inched even closer. “Greg… can you hear us? Wilson and I are here to help you. We’ll be able to take you away from here soon. It’s going to be all right.”
As gently as she could, she put her hand on his arm and squeezed reassuringly. Again, he flinched.
“We… we… love… you, House. And we’re here to protect you. We won’t let anyone hurt you… not ever again. Please… if you can hear us, let us know.”
As if through a thick fog, House heard her words. Forcing himself to come back from the safe, secure world inside his mind, House turned his face an inch to the left and timidly lifted his eyes to meet Cuddy’s in a moment of flickering eye contact. Quite suddenly, he was aware of Wilson’s hand on his back.
“Save me?” he pleaded pitifully. “Get me out of here.” Then, abruptly, his voice changed and the tears dried up. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry. I’ll be good. D-don’t… don’t… no, not that! Oh, God, nooooooooooooo…!” House’s plaintive wail echoed off the hard walls of the jail cell.
Wilson felt a chill as he realized that House was begging not them, but some unseen tormentors. He was still trapped somewhere deep in his own mind, drifting swiftly from dissociation to a flashback that seemed to him as real as the jail cell was to Wilson and Cuddy.
A guarded look of alarm darted from Cuddy’s eyes. “What’s happening?” she whispered.
“Flashback,” whispered Wilson out of the corner of his mouth. At least he knew what to do about flashbacks-hold House tight until it was over, and ask him his name, where he was and anything else that might ground him in reality. Wilson settled himself on the cement floor, and reached down to put his arms around his trembling friend. Following his lead, Cuddy did the same. The two murmured quiet words of reassurance as the warmth from their bodies filtered into House’s quaking form on the cold cement floor.
After what seemed like an eternity, House came back. Finally, he shifted under them, relaxing his tense body and dissolving into tears.
“It’s okay, House,” whispered Wilson for the umpteenth time. “It’s okay. We’re here.”
“It’s okay?” House repeated, pleadingly. “Okay?”
For a moment, Cuddy was frozen. She hadn’t been around for most of House’s recovery-just the occasional visit when Wilson thought he was up to it-so this was new territory for her, and she found it painfully disturbing. Her prized diagnostician, the man who just this morning had challenged her to return Foreman to his job, was now lying on the floor of a jail cell in this pitiable state. Except that pity was the last thing House would ever appreciate. Without thinking, she said the first thing that came into her head, vaguely remembering Wilson telling her once that House responded better to women than to men, perhaps because women had never tortured him.
“Yes, Greg, it’s okay,” she said firmly. “Now, don’t you think it’s time to get your ass off this freezing floor and pull yourself together before you have to go to court?”
Wilson stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What the hell are you doing?!” he mouthed, appalled.
House, however, reacted to Cuddy’s words, sitting himself up, pushing against the hard floor and struggling to unwind the tight muscles that had been wrapped in a circle around his body for the past couple of hours.
While Wilson glared at Cuddy and she uncertainly glared back, a soft, deep voice got their attention.
“So, are you two just going to sit there, or are you going help me get back in this fucking chair?”
After a quick gasp, Cuddy broke into laughter. Wilson, a little slower on the uptake, hadn’t quite figured out what was happening.
“I might, House, if you promise never to scare the crap out of me like that again,” said Cuddy.
Finally, Wilson caught on. Shocked out of his reverie, he slowly began to laugh. “For Christ’s sakes, House, if you’d told me two years ago that all I needed to do was treat you like a recalcitrant four-year-old, we’d have saved ourselves a lot of bother.”
Struggling to get himself upright, House looked over at Wilson, extending his left arm for help. “Two years ago,” he said, weakly leaning on Wilson for support, “it wouldn’t have worked. Today… it worked.” He looked up at Cuddy, who was leaning over him. “Or maybe I just wanted to get a good look at those milky-white breasts.”
It was the first time in years that House had joked about her décolletage, and Cuddy wanted to cry. Instead she stood up behind House and helped Wilson hoist him back into the wheelchair.
“All you had to do was ask, House. All you had to do was ask.”
* * * *
The vibration of his cell phone went ignored for nearly two hours, but finally Wilson could ignore it no longer. When he pulled it out of his pocket and saw the caller ID, his heart sank. Linda had been calling. After whispering to Cuddy, he stepped quietly to the far side of the cell and returned the call. As it rang, he closed his eyes and berated himself. He should have called her back, should have let her know what was happening so Rainie wouldn’t worry. The last thing House would want was for his patient to suffer because of the arrest.
He was startled when Rainie, not Linda, answered the phone. She sounded surprisingly calm; he’d been sure that finding out about House’s arrest would send her back into her own terror-ridden memories. Although he detected a quaver in her voice, the news she delivered more than made up for it.
* * * *
“All rise.”
All except House rose as Judge Sandra Minton entered the courtroom, sitting themselves down again once the judge was seated behind the bench. The courtroom was small; the judge’s bench was high. Judge Minton, a large, gray-haired woman in her mid-50s, carried herself with the demeanor of someone who knew that she was the god of this universe, and that everyone had better genuflect to her.
“Michael Tritter vs. Dr. Gregory House,” said the bailiff.
At Steven Masala’s nod, Wilson rolled House forward a few feet.
Judge Minton took a moment to glance through the complaint on her desk. As she got to the bottom of the page, her mouth contorted into a frown. She glanced up, getting her first real look at the defendant, and her eyes widened slightly as she saw a scarred, battered and frail man trembling in a wheelchair before her. Then, the lightbulb snapped on over her head as she realized who he was.
“Uhhh…” she began, momentarily speechless. “Uhhh… Dr. House, would you please approach the bench with your attorney?”
Masala stepped forward, motioning for Wilson to push House closer. A fine shiver wafted over House’s body.
“Dr. House? I have a few questions for you as part of this preliminary hearing. Do you think you’re up to it?”
The man before her was clearly terrified. He nodded in acquiescence.
“I’m sure that everyone here is aware of what you’ve been through and why. My question for you is this: Given how traumatic your experiences must have been, would you ever intentionally do anything that might lead to your arrest?”
After a short pause, House shook his head decisively. “Hell, no,” he replied, his quiet voice carrying through the unnatural stillness.
There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom. Minton looked around and glared.
“I understand your settlements have left you wealthy enough never to have to work again. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” House spoke up as clearly as he could, although his scarred vocal cords prevented him from producing much volume and his fear added an embarrassing waver.
“And yet, you chose to return to your job, and willingly accepted as your patient Michael Tritter, who at one time attempted to have your medical license revoked and tried to have you sent to jail. Is that also correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do that? Why would you agree to treat Detective Tritter?”
House let the question sit unanswered for a moment before dropping his head and mumbling his answer.
“I’m sorry, Dr. House. I can’t hear you. Would you please speak up?”
House swallowed, and then tried again. “Because he’s a patient who needs to be diagnosed.” Haltingly, he continued. “And because… because the alternative is… having… n-nothing to do, having t-time to… to th-think… t-to remember…”
A couple of hot tears traced a path down his cheek, tears he brushed angrily away as quickly as they fell. To reassure him that he wasn’t alone in this, Wilson gently placed a reassuring hand on House’s shoulder.
The judge looked away. Wilson thought he detected a shiny film on her eyes. If he was interpreting it correctly, she seemed ashamed of herself for having upset him. Then she paused a moment to give House a chance to compose himself.
“Do you think you can answer a couple more questions for me, Dr. House?”
House swallowed, and exhaled a deep breath. Then he bobbed his head. “Yes, Your Honor. Go ahead.”
“I understand you specialize in diagnostics-in finding the answers when no one else can. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So, can you tell me what kind of illness Det. Tritter has?”
House, relieved to slip back into professional mode, answered more promptly. “I… I don’t know yet, Your Honor. M-my team and I have been working on it.”
“How long has this taken so far?”
“About a week.”
“And do you currently have any other patients?”
“Nope. Not a one.” He added “Your Honor” as an afterthought.
“How many people on your team?”
“Three, besides me.”
“And can you tell me how long it usually takes to figure out a patient’s diagnosis?”
House shrugged, seeming to gather strength as he spoke. “Every case is different. Sometimes we figure it out immediately. The longest case I ever had took nearly a year. The most frustrating cases don’t get solved until after the patient has died.”
“I understand you’re considered the court of last resort for most of these patients-their only hope. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And I also understand you’re considered one the top diagnosticians in the world. Is that also correct?”
“So I’ve been told.”
The judge made a notation on the paper before her.
“Help me to understand what you do. Would you explain to me the process involved in finding the correct diagnosis?”
House thought a moment before answering the question. The few spectators in the courtroom craned their necks as they attempted to listen to the soft, scratchy voice, which grew in strength and volume as he spoke, finding confidence as he focused on the details of his profession.
“It varies. We generally start with a patient history. We study the symptoms and compare them with our database of known diseases and conditions in an attempt to find a match. We check out the patient’s home and workplace for possible toxins, if that seems appropriate. Based on what we learn, we frequently try various treatments to see if the patient responds well… or not. Finding the answer is often a process of elimination. The human body can be subject to an almost infinite array of infirmities-sometimes we have to remove from the equation any variables that interfere with finding the actual cause of the patient’s illness. Occasionally, it’s just a moment of inspiration… but always based on the evidence.”
This was the first time Wilson had ever heard House articulate what he did. There had been moments during the past two years when his behavior toward House prior to his imprisonment had been mirrored back to him in less than flattering terms. This was one of them. Suddenly, he felt a twinge of embarrassment for the many times he had accused House of solving his cases merely through luck. He suddenly realized that it wasn’t simply luck. It was a rare combination of science and art. More to the point, how dare he, an oncologist, presume to criticize the work one of the world’s greatest diagnosticians? Biting his lip, he hung his head, leaning heavily on the handles to House’s wheelchair.
“Thank you for explaining it so clearly, Dr. House. Tell me, how directly do you get involved with patient care? What I mean is, how often do you personally-not your team-actually meet with your patients?”
“Never,” replied House promptly. He appeared startled by the question. “I never see patients.” Of course not, thought Wilson. It was bad enough before, but now there’s no way he’d go see a patient.
“Why?” The judge seemed genuinely interested in his answer.
Haltingly, his hand shaking, House pointed toward his face.
“D-don’t want to frighten them.”
As Wilson glanced around the half-full courtroom, spectators averted their eyes, as if they were discomfited to have been caught staring at House up till now.
“And before? Did you see patients before?” She left her question open-ended, reluctant to say what it was she really wanted to know, and hoping the defendant would understand what she was asking. He did.
“Seldom,” replied House succinctly.
“And again, why?”
“First off, I… don’t exactly have the best people skills. Second-and more important-seeing patients gets in the way of my ability to be objective. It’s extremely important to avoid letting my emotions interfere with finding the answer. Feelings lead to bad judgment calls. It’s best for the patient in the long run if I stay away.”
Judge Minton appeared thoughtful.
“Thank you for your honesty, Dr. House. Now, can you swear to me that you were treating Det. Tritter fairly and to the best of your ability, that your emotions about your past run-in with him didn’t get in the way of his treatment?”
House looked her straight in the eye, his intense blue eyes meeting her brown ones.
“I believe I can, Your Honor. At least I’ve been attempting to.”
“No desire to redress the wrong he did you eight years ago?”
Wilson found himself staring at the judge. Was she aware that she had automatically taken for granted that Tritter had done House a wrong? Apparently so. Apparently, she assumed that Tritter was at fault, and that House had been a victim. Sergeant Duffy’s words suddenly came floating back to him. “You want my opinion? Your friend there shouldn’t-a been brought in here in the first place. If anything this oughta be a civil matter. And probably not even that. Tritter’s really a piece-a work.” Maybe House had been right all those years back-maybe Tritter really had manufactured the whole thing. He felt himself flush as he considered the possibility that, once again, he had underestimated his friend, devalued House’s judgment of what had happened and why.
Although Wilson’s mind was wandering, House responded quickly, and seemed surprised by the question. “Why would I care about something that happened then?”
“I don’t know-revenge, perhaps?”
House looked baffled.
“What for?”
“Dr. House, I’m beginning to think I know the answer to this question, but do you hold any sort of grudge against Mr. Tritter?”
Again, he looked perplexed.
“No. None at all. He’s just a case to me. A mystery to solve.”
Judge Minton had no response. She thought a minute, then asked another question.
“So you would swear under oath that neither you nor your team had any reason to delay Det. Tritter’s treatment or do him injury while he is in your care?”
House appeared to ponder the question seriously. “Of course, I can’t speak for all the members of my team, but I have instructed them to be very careful to treat him as they would any other patient.”
The judge interrupted. “Is that documented, Dr. House?”
From her seat back a couple rows, Cuddy stood up. “Judge Minton?” she asked. “May I approach the bench?”
The judge nodded her approval; Cuddy stepped forward.
“I’m Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the dean of medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and also Dr. House’s boss. I was aware of Dr. House’s instructions to his staff,” she said.
Wilson jumped in. “Your Honor, Dr. House also informed me of his wishes in no uncertain terms, and I would be glad to testify to that fact.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said the judge. “This is not a formal hearing. You both have answered my question sufficiently. Now, Dr. House, how about you? Could you answer the question, please? Did you delay Det. Tritter’s treatment or in any way cause him an injury while he has been in your care?”
“No, Your Honor. I have never even been in his room. I just want to find out what’s killing him, so he can get treatment and leave the hospital. The sooner, the better.”
House jumped when Minton tapped her gavel.
“Case dismissed,” she said firmly. And then, as she rose to leave the courtroom, Wilson heard her mutter quietly through her teeth, “What a farce.”
Chapter 12
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority’s Exigencies and zeppomarx’s A Gentle Knock at the Door.
Summary: House’s minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep’s intense and angsty The Contract, and Priority’s sequel Exigencies.
Thanks: To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to A Gentle Knock on the Door, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.
Warnings, etc.: Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.
Disclaimers: You know the drill. Don’t own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.
This Chapter: Wilson felt a chill as he realized that House was begging not them, but some unseen tormentors. He was still trapped somewhere deep in his own mind, drifting swiftly from dissociation to a flashback that seemed to him as real as the jail cell was to Wilson and Cuddy.
Chapter 11
Chapter 10
Chapter 9
Chapter 8
Chapter 7
Chapter 6
Chapter 5
Chapter 4
Chapter 3
Chapter 2
Chapter 1
___________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 11: Judgment
When Foreman heard Chase’s voice on his cell phone, he listened, stunned, as Chase told him that not only had House been arrested and dragged handcuffed through the lobby of the hospital, but that he was in jail. Then his stomach dropped and he couldn’t hold on any longer.
“I’ll… I have to call you back,” he said, hanging up urgently, as he began to throw up, vomit spewing all over the phone, all over his lap, and all over his expensive leather couch. Twenty minutes later, after he’d managed to clean himself up, he called Chase back.
“Sorry, man. I-I just couldn’t take it.”
“Mate, you are massively lucky I didn’t see you yesterday,” said Chase bluntly. Foreman couldn’t blame him for his reaction. He wasn’t positive about it, but he thought he detected a note of understanding in Chase’s tone of voice. “After what you did to House, I wanted to smash your face in. But this is so much worse… and I know-I know-you wouldn’t have wanted this to happen to House, no matter how you might feel about him.”
“No, no. Of course not,” said Foreman, sighing. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. House doesn’t deserve this-he didn’t deserve what I did, either. But I’d better not see Tritter when I get there, because I’m not sure I can be responsible for my actions.”
“I’ll bet I can beat you to him,” said Chase, a hint of humor creeping back into his voice. “I’m struggling really hard to remember the Hippocratic Oath right about now.”
* * * *
At the duplex, Linda McAllister quietly hung up the phone and trudged slowly toward Rainie Adler’s bedroom, procrastinating the need to tell her the news.
* * * *
Lisa Cuddy was afraid that if Wilson couldn’t reach House, it would be impossible for her to get through, but she was determined to give it a try. Taking her cue from Wilson, she kept her voice low and her movements minimal. Creeping closer and gently laying her hand on House’s trembling arm, she almost jumped when he pulled away, just slightly, at her touch. When Wilson felt House’s flinch under his fingers, he sighed. Maybe we’re getting through. He continued to rub House’s back.
“House, it’s Cuddy.” She inched even closer. “Greg… can you hear us? Wilson and I are here to help you. We’ll be able to take you away from here soon. It’s going to be all right.”
As gently as she could, she put her hand on his arm and squeezed reassuringly. Again, he flinched.
“We… we… love… you, House. And we’re here to protect you. We won’t let anyone hurt you… not ever again. Please… if you can hear us, let us know.”
As if through a thick fog, House heard her words. Forcing himself to come back from the safe, secure world inside his mind, House turned his face an inch to the left and timidly lifted his eyes to meet Cuddy’s in a moment of flickering eye contact. Quite suddenly, he was aware of Wilson’s hand on his back.
“Save me?” he pleaded pitifully. “Get me out of here.” Then, abruptly, his voice changed and the tears dried up. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry. I’ll be good. D-don’t… don’t… no, not that! Oh, God, nooooooooooooo…!” House’s plaintive wail echoed off the hard walls of the jail cell.
Wilson felt a chill as he realized that House was begging not them, but some unseen tormentors. He was still trapped somewhere deep in his own mind, drifting swiftly from dissociation to a flashback that seemed to him as real as the jail cell was to Wilson and Cuddy.
A guarded look of alarm darted from Cuddy’s eyes. “What’s happening?” she whispered.
“Flashback,” whispered Wilson out of the corner of his mouth. At least he knew what to do about flashbacks-hold House tight until it was over, and ask him his name, where he was and anything else that might ground him in reality. Wilson settled himself on the cement floor, and reached down to put his arms around his trembling friend. Following his lead, Cuddy did the same. The two murmured quiet words of reassurance as the warmth from their bodies filtered into House’s quaking form on the cold cement floor.
After what seemed like an eternity, House came back. Finally, he shifted under them, relaxing his tense body and dissolving into tears.
“It’s okay, House,” whispered Wilson for the umpteenth time. “It’s okay. We’re here.”
“It’s okay?” House repeated, pleadingly. “Okay?”
For a moment, Cuddy was frozen. She hadn’t been around for most of House’s recovery-just the occasional visit when Wilson thought he was up to it-so this was new territory for her, and she found it painfully disturbing. Her prized diagnostician, the man who just this morning had challenged her to return Foreman to his job, was now lying on the floor of a jail cell in this pitiable state. Except that pity was the last thing House would ever appreciate. Without thinking, she said the first thing that came into her head, vaguely remembering Wilson telling her once that House responded better to women than to men, perhaps because women had never tortured him.
“Yes, Greg, it’s okay,” she said firmly. “Now, don’t you think it’s time to get your ass off this freezing floor and pull yourself together before you have to go to court?”
Wilson stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What the hell are you doing?!” he mouthed, appalled.
House, however, reacted to Cuddy’s words, sitting himself up, pushing against the hard floor and struggling to unwind the tight muscles that had been wrapped in a circle around his body for the past couple of hours.
While Wilson glared at Cuddy and she uncertainly glared back, a soft, deep voice got their attention.
“So, are you two just going to sit there, or are you going help me get back in this fucking chair?”
After a quick gasp, Cuddy broke into laughter. Wilson, a little slower on the uptake, hadn’t quite figured out what was happening.
“I might, House, if you promise never to scare the crap out of me like that again,” said Cuddy.
Finally, Wilson caught on. Shocked out of his reverie, he slowly began to laugh. “For Christ’s sakes, House, if you’d told me two years ago that all I needed to do was treat you like a recalcitrant four-year-old, we’d have saved ourselves a lot of bother.”
Struggling to get himself upright, House looked over at Wilson, extending his left arm for help. “Two years ago,” he said, weakly leaning on Wilson for support, “it wouldn’t have worked. Today… it worked.” He looked up at Cuddy, who was leaning over him. “Or maybe I just wanted to get a good look at those milky-white breasts.”
It was the first time in years that House had joked about her décolletage, and Cuddy wanted to cry. Instead she stood up behind House and helped Wilson hoist him back into the wheelchair.
“All you had to do was ask, House. All you had to do was ask.”
* * * *
The vibration of his cell phone went ignored for nearly two hours, but finally Wilson could ignore it no longer. When he pulled it out of his pocket and saw the caller ID, his heart sank. Linda had been calling. After whispering to Cuddy, he stepped quietly to the far side of the cell and returned the call. As it rang, he closed his eyes and berated himself. He should have called her back, should have let her know what was happening so Rainie wouldn’t worry. The last thing House would want was for his patient to suffer because of the arrest.
He was startled when Rainie, not Linda, answered the phone. She sounded surprisingly calm; he’d been sure that finding out about House’s arrest would send her back into her own terror-ridden memories. Although he detected a quaver in her voice, the news she delivered more than made up for it.
* * * *
“All rise.”
All except House rose as Judge Sandra Minton entered the courtroom, sitting themselves down again once the judge was seated behind the bench. The courtroom was small; the judge’s bench was high. Judge Minton, a large, gray-haired woman in her mid-50s, carried herself with the demeanor of someone who knew that she was the god of this universe, and that everyone had better genuflect to her.
“Michael Tritter vs. Dr. Gregory House,” said the bailiff.
At Steven Masala’s nod, Wilson rolled House forward a few feet.
Judge Minton took a moment to glance through the complaint on her desk. As she got to the bottom of the page, her mouth contorted into a frown. She glanced up, getting her first real look at the defendant, and her eyes widened slightly as she saw a scarred, battered and frail man trembling in a wheelchair before her. Then, the lightbulb snapped on over her head as she realized who he was.
“Uhhh…” she began, momentarily speechless. “Uhhh… Dr. House, would you please approach the bench with your attorney?”
Masala stepped forward, motioning for Wilson to push House closer. A fine shiver wafted over House’s body.
“Dr. House? I have a few questions for you as part of this preliminary hearing. Do you think you’re up to it?”
The man before her was clearly terrified. He nodded in acquiescence.
“I’m sure that everyone here is aware of what you’ve been through and why. My question for you is this: Given how traumatic your experiences must have been, would you ever intentionally do anything that might lead to your arrest?”
After a short pause, House shook his head decisively. “Hell, no,” he replied, his quiet voice carrying through the unnatural stillness.
There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom. Minton looked around and glared.
“I understand your settlements have left you wealthy enough never to have to work again. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” House spoke up as clearly as he could, although his scarred vocal cords prevented him from producing much volume and his fear added an embarrassing waver.
“And yet, you chose to return to your job, and willingly accepted as your patient Michael Tritter, who at one time attempted to have your medical license revoked and tried to have you sent to jail. Is that also correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do that? Why would you agree to treat Detective Tritter?”
House let the question sit unanswered for a moment before dropping his head and mumbling his answer.
“I’m sorry, Dr. House. I can’t hear you. Would you please speak up?”
House swallowed, and then tried again. “Because he’s a patient who needs to be diagnosed.” Haltingly, he continued. “And because… because the alternative is… having… n-nothing to do, having t-time to… to th-think… t-to remember…”
A couple of hot tears traced a path down his cheek, tears he brushed angrily away as quickly as they fell. To reassure him that he wasn’t alone in this, Wilson gently placed a reassuring hand on House’s shoulder.
The judge looked away. Wilson thought he detected a shiny film on her eyes. If he was interpreting it correctly, she seemed ashamed of herself for having upset him. Then she paused a moment to give House a chance to compose himself.
“Do you think you can answer a couple more questions for me, Dr. House?”
House swallowed, and exhaled a deep breath. Then he bobbed his head. “Yes, Your Honor. Go ahead.”
“I understand you specialize in diagnostics-in finding the answers when no one else can. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So, can you tell me what kind of illness Det. Tritter has?”
House, relieved to slip back into professional mode, answered more promptly. “I… I don’t know yet, Your Honor. M-my team and I have been working on it.”
“How long has this taken so far?”
“About a week.”
“And do you currently have any other patients?”
“Nope. Not a one.” He added “Your Honor” as an afterthought.
“How many people on your team?”
“Three, besides me.”
“And can you tell me how long it usually takes to figure out a patient’s diagnosis?”
House shrugged, seeming to gather strength as he spoke. “Every case is different. Sometimes we figure it out immediately. The longest case I ever had took nearly a year. The most frustrating cases don’t get solved until after the patient has died.”
“I understand you’re considered the court of last resort for most of these patients-their only hope. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And I also understand you’re considered one the top diagnosticians in the world. Is that also correct?”
“So I’ve been told.”
The judge made a notation on the paper before her.
“Help me to understand what you do. Would you explain to me the process involved in finding the correct diagnosis?”
House thought a moment before answering the question. The few spectators in the courtroom craned their necks as they attempted to listen to the soft, scratchy voice, which grew in strength and volume as he spoke, finding confidence as he focused on the details of his profession.
“It varies. We generally start with a patient history. We study the symptoms and compare them with our database of known diseases and conditions in an attempt to find a match. We check out the patient’s home and workplace for possible toxins, if that seems appropriate. Based on what we learn, we frequently try various treatments to see if the patient responds well… or not. Finding the answer is often a process of elimination. The human body can be subject to an almost infinite array of infirmities-sometimes we have to remove from the equation any variables that interfere with finding the actual cause of the patient’s illness. Occasionally, it’s just a moment of inspiration… but always based on the evidence.”
This was the first time Wilson had ever heard House articulate what he did. There had been moments during the past two years when his behavior toward House prior to his imprisonment had been mirrored back to him in less than flattering terms. This was one of them. Suddenly, he felt a twinge of embarrassment for the many times he had accused House of solving his cases merely through luck. He suddenly realized that it wasn’t simply luck. It was a rare combination of science and art. More to the point, how dare he, an oncologist, presume to criticize the work one of the world’s greatest diagnosticians? Biting his lip, he hung his head, leaning heavily on the handles to House’s wheelchair.
“Thank you for explaining it so clearly, Dr. House. Tell me, how directly do you get involved with patient care? What I mean is, how often do you personally-not your team-actually meet with your patients?”
“Never,” replied House promptly. He appeared startled by the question. “I never see patients.” Of course not, thought Wilson. It was bad enough before, but now there’s no way he’d go see a patient.
“Why?” The judge seemed genuinely interested in his answer.
Haltingly, his hand shaking, House pointed toward his face.
“D-don’t want to frighten them.”
As Wilson glanced around the half-full courtroom, spectators averted their eyes, as if they were discomfited to have been caught staring at House up till now.
“And before? Did you see patients before?” She left her question open-ended, reluctant to say what it was she really wanted to know, and hoping the defendant would understand what she was asking. He did.
“Seldom,” replied House succinctly.
“And again, why?”
“First off, I… don’t exactly have the best people skills. Second-and more important-seeing patients gets in the way of my ability to be objective. It’s extremely important to avoid letting my emotions interfere with finding the answer. Feelings lead to bad judgment calls. It’s best for the patient in the long run if I stay away.”
Judge Minton appeared thoughtful.
“Thank you for your honesty, Dr. House. Now, can you swear to me that you were treating Det. Tritter fairly and to the best of your ability, that your emotions about your past run-in with him didn’t get in the way of his treatment?”
House looked her straight in the eye, his intense blue eyes meeting her brown ones.
“I believe I can, Your Honor. At least I’ve been attempting to.”
“No desire to redress the wrong he did you eight years ago?”
Wilson found himself staring at the judge. Was she aware that she had automatically taken for granted that Tritter had done House a wrong? Apparently so. Apparently, she assumed that Tritter was at fault, and that House had been a victim. Sergeant Duffy’s words suddenly came floating back to him. “You want my opinion? Your friend there shouldn’t-a been brought in here in the first place. If anything this oughta be a civil matter. And probably not even that. Tritter’s really a piece-a work.” Maybe House had been right all those years back-maybe Tritter really had manufactured the whole thing. He felt himself flush as he considered the possibility that, once again, he had underestimated his friend, devalued House’s judgment of what had happened and why.
Although Wilson’s mind was wandering, House responded quickly, and seemed surprised by the question. “Why would I care about something that happened then?”
“I don’t know-revenge, perhaps?”
House looked baffled.
“What for?”
“Dr. House, I’m beginning to think I know the answer to this question, but do you hold any sort of grudge against Mr. Tritter?”
Again, he looked perplexed.
“No. None at all. He’s just a case to me. A mystery to solve.”
Judge Minton had no response. She thought a minute, then asked another question.
“So you would swear under oath that neither you nor your team had any reason to delay Det. Tritter’s treatment or do him injury while he is in your care?”
House appeared to ponder the question seriously. “Of course, I can’t speak for all the members of my team, but I have instructed them to be very careful to treat him as they would any other patient.”
The judge interrupted. “Is that documented, Dr. House?”
From her seat back a couple rows, Cuddy stood up. “Judge Minton?” she asked. “May I approach the bench?”
The judge nodded her approval; Cuddy stepped forward.
“I’m Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the dean of medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and also Dr. House’s boss. I was aware of Dr. House’s instructions to his staff,” she said.
Wilson jumped in. “Your Honor, Dr. House also informed me of his wishes in no uncertain terms, and I would be glad to testify to that fact.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said the judge. “This is not a formal hearing. You both have answered my question sufficiently. Now, Dr. House, how about you? Could you answer the question, please? Did you delay Det. Tritter’s treatment or in any way cause him an injury while he has been in your care?”
“No, Your Honor. I have never even been in his room. I just want to find out what’s killing him, so he can get treatment and leave the hospital. The sooner, the better.”
House jumped when Minton tapped her gavel.
“Case dismissed,” she said firmly. And then, as she rose to leave the courtroom, Wilson heard her mutter quietly through her teeth, “What a farce.”
Chapter 12