John entered the courtroom flanked by Jefferson and his assistants. A quick scan of the crowd and his worst fears were realized. The entire courtroom was filled with Bradys. Shawn and Caroline were barely noticeable, sitting in the back row accompanied by Bo. If that wasn’t bad enough, she was there too. He had known she would be. Hell, he’d hoped she would be. Christ, he was such a selfish bastard.

He locked his eyes on the judge’s bench and pretended he didn’t see her. Marlena, the kids, his family… They were three rows behind the defense table, so close he could almost touch them. Damn, he should have jumped bail, screw the American theater of operations.

He took his seat and the jury began to file in. As ordered, John tried hard not to look dangerous. It was not something he’d had much experience with and he doubted he pulled it off. What an idiot he really should have jumped bail. Standing as the judge entered the room, he made an effort to focus on the actions around him. The effort was futile.

He’d caught just a glimpse of them as he’d walked in. A glimpse had been more than enough. Sami sat closest to the aisle, tears in her eyes as she had watched him walking past. Eric, sitting next to her, had merely glared. John couldn’t help the pride he felt at the boy’s protectiveness. Maybe the family would be able to survive this mess after all. But Marlena… no, his guilt would not so easily be washed away.

He hadn’t looked at her. He wouldn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He knew what he’d see. The hurt. The betrayal. He’d seen that look before. He’s seen it in Katherine’s eyes the night she died. He didn’t need to see that look again, not in this lifetime. Fuck.

Jefferson sat down beside him, jarring him back to the reality of the trial. He realized he’d missed the opening arguments. It didn’t really matter, the entire trial was a waste of time. He wasn’t going to prison, regardless of the verdict. He’d die before he’d be locked in a cage. At this point, that might be the best thing for all concerned. He leaned back in his chair and tried once again to focus his attention as the prosecution began its case.

John stifled a sigh as the testimony entered the fourth hour. It was going exactly as expected. The judge had thrown out all evidence connected to the smuggling charge. Roman had lacked probable cause for the search, and the judge was not buying the good faith exception. The charges against him boiled down to his assault on the officer in the police station. After three weeks, the man had yet to regain full consciousness and the prosecution was pressing for a conviction on a count of attempted murder. He’d pointed out to Jefferson that if he’d wanted the cop dead, the guy would be dead. Jefferson had pointed out that John wasn’t an attorney. Why the hell had he let Dimera talk him into sticking around for the trial?

It seemed like every cop on the force had been called to testify. Well, everyone but Bo and Roman. He wondered why the prosecution had omitted those two and decided to make a note of it to Jefferson. As the D.A. finally closed his case, John still didn’t understand why it had taken so many damn witnesses to establish the fact that yes, he had kicked the guy in the head. Jeesh, he really didn’t think he had the patience for much more of this farce. He was going to be convicted, he was going to jump bail while out on appeal, and he was never going to have to spend another day in this damn town. This trial was just a useless prelude to his flight.

The prosecution having rested its case, the judge turned his attention to Jefferson. “We have maybe an hour before I planned to break for lunch. Do you want to proceed with the defense, or would you rather recess?”

Jefferson was very, very good at his job. He wouldn’t have been Dimera’s lead counsel if he weren’t. He knew the importance of timing when working a jury. If they were going to be contemplating the case over lunch, he didn’t want them thinking about all of those officers of the law, every one of them in their dress blues, and every one describing how his client had ruthlessly attempted to smash a young officer who was only do his job, mind you in the head. No, he had something much better for them to mull over with their roast beef sandwiches. “Your honor, the defense is ready to proceed.”

“Very well, you may call your first witness.”

“Your honor, the defense would like to call Dr. Burke.”

Burke settled back into the witness chair, having been duly sworn by the bailiff. Jefferson strode casually toward him. “Now, Dr. Burke, you have been called as an expert witness. Your field is human psychiatry, is that correct?”

Burke, a distinguished looking man in his early 50’s, fit the part. From his elegantly tailored suit to his neatly trimmed white beard, he could have been trained by Freud himself. In a clear tenor, he replied, “Yes, that is correct. I am the research director at the Center for Behavioral Studies.”

“Dr. Burke, would you tell us what your specialty is within the field of psychiatry,” Jefferson asked his first witness.

“I specialize in PTS, or PostTraumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a disorder most commonly found among war veterans, but is also frequently found in cases of domestic abuse and in victims of torture.”

“What exactly is PostTraumatic Stress Disorder? Can you explain it in laymen’s terms for the jury?”

“Well, at its simplest it is a disorder that results from repeated exposure to violent, traumatizing events, such as combat or abuse. It manifests most typically in flashbacks to the violent events, nightmares, and occasionally in violent episodes.”

“What types of things could be expected to trigger the symptoms of such a disorder?”

“Well, anything and nothing can trigger symptoms. In part, it is the mind’s way of dealing with the feelings of fear and anger generated by the trauma. However, flashbacks and violent outbursts are commonly preceded by stressful events, especially if the situation has similarities to the events of the initial abuse.”

“So doctor, hypothetically speaking, if a man were kept handcuffed and subjected to severe beatings, would it be possible for that person to experience PostTraumatic Stress Disorder?”

“Yes, such experiences could well cause the disorder,” Dr. Burke replied.

“And if, even months later, the same man was once again handcuffed and held against his will, could this trigger symptoms of PTS?”

“Yes. In fact, it would be likely.”

“What if the man was beaten while cuffed and in custody? What would be the response of someone with PTS?”

“One of two reactions could be expected to occur, depending on the personality of the individual. Either the reaction would be turned inward and the person would simply withdraw entirely, approaching a catatonic state. Or, at the opposite extreme, some individuals would react with extreme violence, lashing out with no concern for consequences, seeking only to escape the situation that is triggering their fear.”

“Now, Dr. Burke. If a person with PTS were to lash out, would you consider their actions within their ability to control?”

“No, definitely not. You see, when a person experiences such outbursts, they react without conscious thought often without being fully cognizant of their present surroundings. Often they are flashing back to the original traumatizing event, and elements of the past occurrence tend to mix with their current circumstances. In such a state, they are not truly capable of recognizing their current reality, much less controlling their reactions to it.”

“Thank you Dr. Burke. Your honor, the defense reserves the right to recall this witness at a later time.”

“Very, well,” replied the judge, shifting his attention to the prosecution table. “Your witness.”

“The prosecution has no questions for this witness at this time, your honor.”

“Does the defense have further witnesses?”

“Yes, your honor. However, first we would like to present a piece of evidence that has just come into our hands through an anonymous source. We would like to present a tape that directly relates to the defendant’s culpability, specifically with regards to PostTraumatic Stress Disorder.”

“The prosecution objects, your honor. We have no proof as to the veracity of this evidence.”

“The defense would be glad to provide you with the original tapes. I propose to show an edited version. You are welcome to present any additional footage you feel necessary. If you can come up with any evidence that the tape is fraudulent, then challenge its admissibility,” Jefferson replied.

“The objection is overruled. We’ll leave the legitimacy of the tape up to the jury,” the judge ordered.

“Your honor, the defense also requests that the defendant be excused from court. This footage could prove disturbing to him.”

Jarred from his thoughts, John shot his attorney a hard look. “I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed, wondering what Jefferson was up to.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Jefferson?” the judge asked.

“Your honor, the defendant does not wish to leave, but for his own benefit, I would request that you order him removed.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to go with the assumption that your client is capable of making up his own mind. If the defendant wants to stay, he can. Now, get on with it.”

As the projector was being setup, Roman leaned over the railing behind the prosecutor’s table. “What the hell are they up to with all of this stuff about PostTraumatic Stress Disorder? What are they trying to do?”

“If I had to bet, their strategy is to show that John was not responsible for his actions due to some kind of abuse in his background. Don’t worry, there is no way that a Salem jury is going to let somebody get off for almost killing a police officer just because he says he ‘had a traumatic childhood.’ They’re going to have to come up with something a whole lot better than that if they want to stand a chance,” the D.A. replied with a confident grin.

Across the center isle, Carrie squeezed Marlena’s hand. “What’s going on, Mom? What are they going to show?”

“Honey, I don’t know, but maybe you and the twins should go outside. If it’s film of John’s time on the island, you don’t need to see it and I have a sneaking suspicion that that’s what it is.”

“How on earth could they have film from the island? And what would be the point of showing it?”





Marlena grimaced. “Dimera’s compound had cameras set up all around it, especially in his interrogation room. He undoubtably filmed John’s… captivity. As to why show it? I’m sure that legally, he will tie it into the PostTraumatic Stress defense, which is probably an accurate one. However, I doubt it matters. If the jury sees what happened to John… Carrie, I don’t even know everything that happened, and what I do know is horrendous. If they show a tape of that to the jury, there is no way they are going to convict him, based on the sympathy vote alone. I just wish John would leave the room he doesn’t need to go through this again. Though maybe it will make him question his loyalty to Stefano. I hope so it would be only right for some good to come out of all of this. Carrie please, take the twins outside.”

“Marlena we need to see this. I need to know why he left us without even a backward look. I want to know the man who acted like my father for 14 years. I want to see what would make him do something so horrible.”

Marlena started to argue, but the lights dimmed and the judge called for order.

The film opened on a dark screen, a fuzzy glowing figure occupying the center of the picture. “The first images are filmed using infrared, the cell itself was completely devoid of light. As the film will later indicate, the figure glowing green and red on the infrared is the defendant, John Black,” Jefferson narrated. The jurors, as well as the numerous spectators, gazed curiously at the blurry image. John stared at a distant point somewhere beyond the screen, completely removed from its rather benign image. Suddenly, a scream split the air and the blurred form seemed to jerk awkwardly. The image itself was too alien, and it was impossible to determine what exactly was happening. However, the sounds from the video were haunting and several jurors began to shift restlessly in their seats. Marlena ignored the video, her eyes on John. He sat unmoving, his head bowed, his hands clenched tightly together in front of him.

Jefferson allowed the screams to echo through the room. He and his team had spent hours editing the tape to achieve just the right effect. “This continues for over nine straight hours. The full tape is available if you wish to view it. However, I can tell you there is little variability.”

Jefferson turned his attention back to the video just as the picture flickered. The sound stopped in midcry, the turmoil replaced by an image similar to the first, with the outlined figure demonstrating no movement. The film flickered again, went blank, then snapped into focus. In the center of the frame was a body, hanging from its wrists in the middle of a stone room.

A murmur ran through the courtroom as if became clear that the image from the infrared was that of a man now hanging limply from his chained wrists, a foot off of the ground. The camera revealed a battered body, apparently devoid of awareness. However, at the click of a lock, the prisoner raised his head and glared through the lights, revealing the face of John Black. The contrast with the man siting in the defendant’s chair was striking. The prisoner was filthy, unshaven, his long hair tied tightly back behind him. Dried blood caked his upper arms and his face was so bruised it was difficult to recognize him. Greater than the contrasts, though, was the similarity between the prisoner who could barely lift his head, and the accused who sat frozen, head down and unmoving. Both seemed somehow… wounded.

Jefferson noted with satisfaction that each juror looked over at John, whose tense, almost defensive posture could only help their case. Still, it was against his better judgement for John to witness the tapes, especially in such a public way and without prior preparation. The last thing they needed was for him to lose control and attack somebody in the courtroom. That the man was capable of such an outburst, Jefferson had no doubt.

On the screen, six men wielding batons were surrounding the prisoner, their faces all electronically blurred. The original copy that he had been sent ‘anonymously’, and that he would share with the police, had been careful altered so as not to identify any of the figures except for John. Abruptly, John’s body crashed to the ground. Even Jefferson, who knew John’s capacity for violence, thought the guards’ reactions overkill. In mass, they pinned the captive to the floor, though little struggle could be seen on his part. The man’s arms were once again cuffed behind him Jefferson had been sure to include that shot and then rope was used to tie them tightly together up to the elbows, and then looped down to bind the ankles, pulling them up until they almost met his wrists. Then came one of Jefferson’s favorite scenes, as upon leaving one of the guards turned and unleashed a series of kicks into the completely helpless man curled on the stone floor. Jefferson swore you could hear the sound of ribs giving way on the video. If that didn’t get to the jury, he didn’t know what would.

Noting the focus of several jurors, Jefferson turned to observe his client’s reaction. At first, John appeared completely removed from the evidence of his own torture. Then, at the sound of a particularly heavy blow, he flinched. The movement was slight, but unmistakable. Great, Jefferson thought. If John had a flashback now, there is no telling what he might do but it would definitely not be good. On the tape, the guards walked out of the cell, slamming the iron door behind them. As the screen again went dark, Jefferson cut the tape.

“Your Honor, the defense requests a brief recess. I think my client needs to collect himself.”

“Very well, counselor, if the defendant needs a few moments...”

“Get it over with,” a voice grated out, and it took Jefferson a moment to recognize the command as coming from his client, who still sat staring down at the polished desk top.

“Get it over with. Now,” the command came again, this time more forcefully.

The judge, appearing momentarily affronted, straightened on his bench. “Very well the choice is yours. Continue the film, counselor.”

There was utter silence in the courtroom as Jefferson again set the film in motion. The screen was dark and Jefferson explained to the jury, “It isn’t clear how much time passed between this clip and the next, though our best guess is that is was at least several days. What happened during that period we don’t know.” As he turned back to the screen, a new image appeared. Numerous guards milled around a figure in a barred cell. The man was on his knees, bound and immobile with his arms tied off awkwardly behind his back. On the screen, one guard could be seen giving the prisoner an injection, and though it was hard to make out the separate conversations with so many men in the small cell, the malevolence of the guard was clear.

“Bastard. Fucking bastard. Won’t work she’ll know. She’ll know it’s not me, you bastard.” John’s voice carried clearly through the silent courtroom as the body in the cell convulsed, slamming into the bars.





Marlena could watch no more, her entire focus now John. As the body on the screen thrashed against the bars, soft sobs filled the courtroom. Marlena saw John start, as if suddenly being brought back to the here and now.

“Stop the tape,” John ordered, turning to search out Sami. He knew it was her, he could feel it. God, how could he have let that be shown knowing his kids were in the room? His eyes locked onto Sami’s tear stained face as a low groan sounded from the film, the images still flickering at the front of the room. “Stop the damn tape,” John repeated, halfrising from his chair.

Jefferson, trying to keep a bad situation from getting worse, immediately cut the tape. One of his associates stepped between him and John, trying to placate the man while being very careful not to get in a physical confrontation. Jefferson took the opportunity to motion for a recess. “Your Honor, I think my client has had all he can handle for the moment. I’d like to request that recess now.”

“Recess granted, we’ll adjourn for lunch. And counselor, you might want to warn me before you show footage like that again. I might decide to clear the court,” the judge commented grimly.

“I apologize, your honor. It won’t happen again.”

As the judge left the room, Jefferson and his assistants herded John into a nearby conference room.

“John, will you please calm down!” Jefferson hissed at the man as he stalked through the conference room. Muscles tensed, eyes narrowed, he looked like he was ready to snap.

“No more tapes,” was the ragged reply. Forcing himself to stop his pacing, John turned to face the attorney. “You’ve done enough. My kids did not need to see that crap!”

“They aren’t ‘your’ kids,” Jefferson retorted, instantly recognizing his mistake as John stepped to him, fists clenched.





“No more tapes,” John repeated, his eyes hard.

“Mr. Dimera is not going to like this.”

“I don’t much care what Dimera likes.”

With a mental shrug, Jefferson nodded. “Okay, no more tapes. I think our point has been made. But John, you have to maintain your control. If you snap like that again you are going to scare the jury. We want them feeling sympathy, here. Not fear. Do you understand?”

Running a hand through his hair, John nodded. “Yea, I understand. Let’s just get this damned thing over with, okay?”

“Soon, John,” Jefferson placated. “Another day. Two at the most. There aren’t that many facts to debate. This will be over soon. You just have to maintain a little while longer.”

Moving to sit at the long conference table, John gave voice to a grim chuckle. “Maintain… yea, I just have to maintain.” Sighing, he loosened his tie. “How about some lunch? I’m starving.”

The bailiff called the court to order and John once again sank down in his chair. Though he had caught a glimpse of Shawn and Caroline in the back of the room, he had been pleased to note that Marlena and the kids were gone. As the hours slowly ticked bye, he lost himself in the drone of voices. Only when he heard a familiar name did he drag his attention back to the trial itself.

“The defense calls Lieutenant Bo Brady,” Jefferson said, drawing a low mummer from the spectators.

John lookedup as Bo was sworn in. He had mentioned Bo’s omission from the prosecution’s witness list. The attorney must have seen it as a weakness in their case.

John suppressed a smile as Jefferson slowly walked over to where Bo sat in the witness box. Looking distinctly uncomfortable in his dress uniform, Bo was making a visible effort not to squirm.

“Lieutenant Brady, I believe you were present at both my client’s arrest and the subsequent altercation in the station house. Is that correct?” Jefferson asked in a conversational tone.

“Yes sir,” Bo replied, keeping his answer brief, as instructed by the district attorney.

“In fact, you are the one who put the handcuffs on my client. I was there when you did it. Did you have any reservations about that?”

Fighting the urge to tug at his collar, Bo gave a slight shrug. “Um, maybe a little.”

“And why was that?” Jefferson asked, turning and walking over to the jury.

“Well, he seemed kind of… tense. I could see the scars, the scars on his wrists, and I knew the cuffs spooked him. So I thought maybe it would be better not to force the issue.” Glancing toward the prosecution table, he added hastily, “But it is standard procedure. I mean, the rulebook says we have to put the cuffs on when we take them in.”

“Of course. Must follow the rules,” Jefferson replied smoothly, making eye contact with the jurors. Turning back to Bo, he leaned against the rail separating him from the jurors.

“So, you followed the rules. You put the handcuffs on… Just how did you manage that, by the way? We’ve heard a lot of testimony about what a dangerous man my client is. What did you do? Mace him? Use your nightstick? Just how exactly did you put cuffs on this ‘dangerous man’?” the attorney asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“Well...” started Bo, looking uncomfortably up at the ceiling. “He said it was alright. John did, I mean.”

“Ahh, so he went along with it. Why do you think he did that, Lieutenant Brady? Do you think he was scared of you? Do you think you could have forced the cuffs on him?”

Bo snorted a short laugh. “No. He wasn’t scared of me. He just didn’t want any trouble… I mean, eventually, we would have taken him by force. If he had resisted… there were just to many of us.”

Jefferson sagely nodded his head, turning to address the jury once again. “So, he let you put handcuffs on him. Went to the station house willingly. My client didn’t want any trouble I’m using your words here… What do you think happened that made him change his mind?”

Bo shrugged, looking down at the floor in front of him.

“Well, did he just walk into the station house and go ballistic? Nobody touched him? Nobody laid a hand on him? Come on, you were there officer Brady. Tell the good people what happened,” Jefferson said, voice rising. Walking over to stand directly in front of Bo, he put his hands on the witness box. Leaning in, he repeated softly, “Tell us what happened, Lieutenant Brady.”

“Nobody hit him,” Bo said, looking to the jury for a moment before again dropping his head. “Nobody hit him, but he was shoved around a little. He knocked into a table in the interrogation room and he seemed to just lose it for a moment.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘shoved around’, Lieutenant?”

Bo gave a slight sigh of resignation and looked directly at the jury. “There was nothing excessive, but he was shoved pretty hard a couple of times. Normally, it shouldn’t have been a big deal. But I could tell he was just barely holding it together. I had felt him shaking when I put the handcuffs on him. I knew what had happened to him, how he had been chained up before. I knew something bad was going to happen, I just couldn’t stop it.”

“I appreciate your candor, Lieutenant. The defense has no further questions for this witness.”

As Bo walked from the room, eyes fixed straight ahead, John again found himself drifting away from the proceedings. He barely payed attention as Dr. Burke was recalled, as Jefferson and the prosecutor debated the validity of the PTS diagnosis. He was lost in the dance of dust motes, caught in the fading rays of the sun, when the judge brought his gavel down, ending testimony. Oral summation would begin in the morning. 

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