William Bernhardt - Capitol offence

This was not like most cases. Ben had been reluctant to get into this mess at all, but that didn't matter. He had taken the case, and he had bumbled and lost it. Dennis had placed enough trust in him to put his life in Ben's hands. His faith had been misplaced. His gamble, lost.

To Ben it was never just a case, never could be just a case. He was there to help his client, to do the right thing, to try to extract a little justice from a system that had all too often forgotten that justice was its goal. He'd failed.

Why did he do it? Why was he driven to take these impossible cases? To defend the lost, the hopeless, and, as Jones would point out, the invariably unprofitable. Was he still desperately trying to prove to his long-dead father that he had not made a fatal mistake, not chosen a profession of no value? Or was he trying to prove something to himself? Was he trying to calm the demons roiling inside by showing that he had something to contribute, that he could make the world a little better, one case at a time? Was he trying to find his worth in his work, or was his work trying to tell him who he really was? And how long would Dennis have to suffer because Ben had tripped and fallen on his journey to find his life purpose?

Ben leaned back against the roof, wishing there was some way he could neutralize the thoughts racing through his head. Nothing worked-not food, not television, none of the usual diversions. He had tried playing the piano, the most natural mood elevator he knew. But he couldn't get his heart into it. Not even a good Eliza Gilkyson tune could cure this angst. There would be no release, not even in sleep, when it finally came, because the sleep would be filled with dreams, and his dreams tonight would be nightmares, dark and nasty and remorseless.

Christina had reminded him that this had been an impossible case and that he'd still given the jury a lot to think about despite the absence of any facts or evidence to help him. Ben bought none of it. He had been trying cases for a good while now. He knew the score. The fact was, Guillerman had beaten him because he'd put on the better case. He had outmaneuvered and outfoxed Ben from the beginning. Seen him coming. Outflanked him. The courtroom was a battlefield, and Ben had been pummeled by enemy artillery. Decimated.

That stung.

You can't save everyone, Christina had tried to tell him. And the logical part of his brain knew that she was right. But what he was feeling at this moment had nothing to do with logic.

He knew he wasn't being fair to himself. He didn't care. He didn't want to be fair. He didn't deserve it. On this warm spring Tulsa night, he had no memory of all those he had helped in the past. All he could remember was the man lying on the metal cot staring at the ceiling for what would be the first of so many sleepless nights, alone, apart, separated from everything he ever knew or loved. Until it was time for him to be put down. Because Ben hadn't been able to save him.

Loving saw the first sores appear on his arms, then his legs. Big pustulous sores. Ugly ones. Scars that would never heal.

Next, he felt extreme nausea. He was heaving, puking uncontrollably. He couldn't stop himself. It felt as if he were vomiting up his stomach, lining and all, spewing out his insides.

The sores continued to bubble, boil. They hurt. They spread across his entire body.

Inside, he could feel the poison eating away at him, his insides turning to fleshy mush. His GI tract giving up. His internal organs boiling and bursting, spilling even more poison into his system.

Worst of all, he knew his immune system had shut down, so there was no hope that anything happening to him would ever get better. His body was falling apart, melting. Liquefying.

He was on fire! The pain was so intense, like nothing he had ever felt before, and he had felt a lot of pain in his time. He was being cooked on a high-power rotisserie, inside and out. Burning him alive.

"Ahhhhhh!"

Loving squirmed from side to side, desperately trying to get loose. He knew he was hallucinating. He knew it wasn't really happening, not like he imagined. But it felt just as intense. He was ashamed of himself for giving in to fear and panic, but what could he do? There was a mushroom cloud on his chest! It was killing him!

How long had it been? Seemed like hours, although some small remaining remotely rational part of his brain said it had not been nearly so long.

Shaw had said it would take six hours to kill him, but Loving knew it would hurt a long time before that. He had felt as if he were roasting since he awoke. He was in the desert, under the sun, perhaps that was natural. How could he know? Was it the cesium or the heat? Or his imagination? Which one would kill him first?

He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. There was no point in panicking, he muttered. Then again, was there any point in remaining calm? Was there any point in anything? He would be dead in six hours. His body was melting!

He wished he'd had a chance to say goodbye to his father. He did regret that. Maybe his ex. She had hurt him badly, but he had loved her once and in some part of his heart that would never change. He would have at least liked to have dropped by and said something to her, tried to patch things up. Before he melted!

Why did people play with this stuff? Did they not understand how dangerous it could be? How could we possibly justify keeping any kind of radioactive materials around for any reason at all? Anyone who thought that was a good idea should have to sit with a tube full of cesium on their chest for a while and see if they changed their minds.

He wondered what had happened with Ben and the trial. That was the worst part of this, knowing he had let Ben down.

Who was he kidding? Melting alive was the worst part of this. But he did worry about Ben. The Skipper had done so much for him over the years. What had happened? He had no sense of time, but he knew the trial was winding down even when he was last conscious, back in Tulsa. What would happen to Ben if he lost? There should be some way to convey the information he had obtained, before…

Before he boiled.

He closed his eyes and prayed, prayed like he hadn't since he was a child. He knew better than to ask for deliverance. That kind of miracle did not occur anymore. He asked for assistance for Ben or, failing that, for comfort. He asked for happiness for his friends, his family. His ex. Everyone back at the office. And then he prayed that the radiation would kill him quickly, before he had thoroughly experienced the excruciating pain he knew was soon to follow…

The sun was still beating down on his face when he first heard the sound of a car engine. More hallucinations. Only explanation. Could he not, please, get the one about the bright white light? Because he was ready to be out of this…

The footsteps came so loud and so fast he thought they were going to trample over him.

"My God, is that what I think it is?"

"Yes. Get the freaking pig!"

More footsteps. Loving felt something hard brush against his chest. He hated to open his eyes. He knew it would only lead to more delusions. But it was hard to resist…

"Mike?"

"I'm here, buddy. Sorry it took so long."

"Mike?"

"Don't try to talk. You've been out in the sun too long. You're severely sunburned."

"Is… that what it is?"

"Yes. We caught Shaw and his friend just down the desert a few miles. Thank God you put that tracker on the truck. After you were nabbed, I got the transponder screen out of your van, but I didn't know the frequency. Figured it out eventually, but by that time they were out of range. Knew they were going to New Mexico, though, from their text messages. Called the local authorities and got a helicopter to track down the signal. That's how we found you."