Worm is owned by John C. 'Wildbow' McCrae

"Maybe this isn't your problem to solve."

On the monitor Dragon's eyes narrowed. "Explain."

Armsmaster nodded. He freely admitted to few friends, and that he didn't make friends easily or socialize often. PHO musings aside it wasn't because he couldn't, it was because social conventions were…inefficient. It was why he treasured such words as 'explain' from the few he did acknowledge as friends.

So much was packed into that single word. I haven't outright rejected your statement, for one. I request that you outline your rationale for making that remark, for another. I will probably take offense at the statement if you do not explain the reasoning behind it, was a third.

"Not every person is equally adept or equipped at solving every problem," Armsmaster said, every word carefully measured as he doled it out.

"But I have solved this, Colin," Dragon said testily. "I just can't get anyone to listen to me!"

"Then perhaps what you need a different messenger?"

The two stared at each other for a moment.

"I don't know what else to tell you, Dragon," Armsmaster frowned. "It sounds like you have exhausted all the potential avenues your employment with the Protectorate, Guild, and PRT make possible."

"That's…true," Dragon said slowly.

Armsmaster said nothing. It wouldn't have been efficient and he had come to long recognize a Tinker, or Thinker for that matter, in the grip of their power.

"Colin," she breathed after perhaps three seconds, "you're a genius."

Canary slunk as low down in the chair as much as the chair (rigid, unpadded metal and bolted to the floor) she was chained in and the manacles bolted to the table (also metal and bolted to the floor) allowed. A while later, there was no way to tell time, the door slammed—heavy metal did nothing quietly—open and two people walked in.

She was of average height, with a face framed by blonde hair, and wore a pantsuit as sharp as a scalpel and as brutal as a battleax. He was slightly taller; Latino, handsome, hair every bit as tailored as the suit he wore, with a striking scar that slashed across one cheek and hooked down his nostril.

Yellow-orange light danced through the woman's fingers before vanishing. "Get those things off her."

The guard who was standing in the doorway behind them began: "Ma'am, we—"

"I may allow my client to be abused in court because I have no choice," the woman said in a voice that could have caused snow to fall in the Sahara. "I will not, however, allow you to abuse her here. Take the chains and gag, off."

"You know what she did to her boyfriend?"

The woman said nothing as she crossed to the table, set her briefcase on it, opened it, and took out a pad of paper. "Your name?" she asked.

"Michael Jerbowski, why?"

"So I know who to name in my lawsuit," the woman said.

The man who'd come in with her was whistling, barely audible, through his teeth. Seven notes.

"You can't—"

He repeated the notes.

"Mr. Jerbowski," the woman said pleasantly. "The travesty that is the courts' refusal to hear appeals from those sentenced to the Birdcage is a matter I will leave to my colleague. That nobody has filed a serious lawsuit for infringing the civil rights of those so sentenced is a travesty I will correct with a happiness that will only be diminished by my failure to have prevented my client from being so sentenced. Of course, should she be found innocent, the success of my several lawsuits will fill me with a great abounding joy only matched by the success of our coffers at your collective expense. "

The mild smile and pleasant tone disappeared. "Remove them at once."

"I can't," the guard said plaintively. "The Warden gave orders."

"Well, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how well 'following orders' worked out for—you know what? No. I'm not having this conversation with a peon. Go to your master and come back with the keys to the gag and chains."

The guard fled, slamming the door shut behind him.

"A little harsh," the man said.

"Nonsense," the woman replied. "I am reserving 'harsh' for whoever decided someone named Canary needed to be in the Birdcage."

"It could be worse."

"Do tell."

"Siberian could be involved."

Paige didn't think invoking one of the Slaughterhouse Nine to be particularly funny, nor her own place in what he described. But the gag effectively rendered her mute, and the manacles included molded metal that balled her hands into fists, making it impossible for her to even inadequately communicate.

The woman didn't seem to find this amusing either because she pointedly ignored the man. "My name is Carol Dallon. I am Brandish of New Wave. I have been retained to represent your affairs in any civil matters you might wish to pursue."

"She wants to sue someone so her firm can pocket a third of any compensation you get," the man said. "I am Quinn Calle. And don't look at me like that. When confronted by an enraged dragon you do whatever the hell it tells you to. Which, in this, case involves keeping you out of the Birdcage." He thought for a moment before shrugging, "Of course, this particular dragon was willing to part with some of its horde so there's that."

Did he just say that Dragon had hired him to be her lawyer?

Time dragged on.

The door opened.

"Visiting hours are over."

Carol turned to look at the guard. "Your name?"

"Aaron Gilpin, why?"

"I need to know who I'm suing for preventing us from meeting with our client," Carol said. "Do you have permission to remove those silly manacles and gag yet?"

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I've strict orders to take the prisoner back to her cell."

"That's fine," Quinn said lazily. "Tomorrow I'll speak to a judge about the unconscionable and deliberate deprivation of Miss Mcabee's civil rights. We'll start with her inability to work with counsel to prepare a defense. And— Do you have medical authorization for the feeding tube?"

Paige shivered. How did he know about that?

"The prisoner was refusing to eat."

"Refusing to—" Quinn stood. "Have you taken that gag off at all?"

"Orders," the guard said stubbornly.

"Right. Because that worked so well for the Nazis." Unlike Carol, Quinn apparently had no problem invoking Godwin. The lawyer shook his head. "Leave, before you give Carol any more ideas."

Another indeterminable length of time passed. Unlike before the two lawyers found no need to fill the silence. A third guard appeared. He used one key and a device to remove the manacles and chains. He paused and turned to Quinn and Carol. "Are you—"

Carol rolled her eyes impatiently. "Oh for… Ms. Mcabee, are you going to tell me to chop my penis off and shove it up my rectum?"

Paige Mcabee's eyes went very wide as she shook her head.

"Your colleague—"

"I'll take my chances," Quinn stopped the guard flat.

"Very well. But we need to monitor to make sure you aren't put under her influence."

"Go right ahead," Carol said with a bright smile. "My—"

"Our."

"Our client still has some rights. I'm sure whatever judge was handed her case will just love it when we ask for a mistrial. Especially once he realizes that we'll sue if he doesn't grant it with a better than fair chance of winning. After all, until a jury finds her guilty and she is safely relocated to the Birdcage our client as rights."

The guard gave her a look of helpless fury as he slapped a key and another device on the table, then turned and left the room.

"One moment," Carol said.

Quinn went to the video camera in one corner and unplugged it, then Carol used the key and device the guard had left to unbuckle the gag Paige wore.

The crack of the joint as she worked her jaw for the first time in weeks was almost orgasmic.

"Thank you." Her lips cracked and bled. Her mouth was like old leather. But it was the sound of her voice, rustier than a barndoor hinge left to weather and rust for a generation before being forced to work once more, that left her in tears. "Thank you, whoever you are," she said softly.

"Right," Carol said tersely. "We've wasted enough time. Shall we get to work? You need to sign these."

Paige looked at the papers thrust at her and her hand cramped violently at the thought of attempting to pick up a pen. "What are—"

"Acknowledgment that we're your lawyers, and authorization for us to work on your behalf," Quinn said as he set a bottle of water in front of her.

Her mouth and lips absorbed the initial sips before it ever reached her throat. When at last it did it trickled down like cool lightning that made her head swim. Quinn delved into his briefcase and came out with a small thermos filled with a thick beef broth, and a flat cooler that actually held warm toast.

Paige's head swam as she ate.

"Slowly," Quinn warned. "Let your system get used to normal foods again."

Carol look irritated, though Paige wasn't sure if it was at the delay or her treatment.

Food gone, Quinn slid her an expensive ballpoint pen and the papers.

"Little list," she croaked.

"What?" Carol asked.

"Him. Earlier." Talking was agony and ecstasy. "Mikado. They don't…like music."

"How uncultured of them," Quinn said as she picked up the pen.

It was worse than she'd imagined. Every few initials, and every other signature, required Paige to set aside the pen and massage the ache of disuse out of her hand, but at last she finished.

"Tell us about the person you are accused of assaulting," Quinn said softly. "Anthony Gagliano."

"He is, was, my former boyfriend," Paige said. "He was the one who suggested I try singing professionally, and found me a few gigs before I got my powers. And after, when I realized I had the potential to become very good he… The gigs, the offers, weren't getting better. He wasn't promoting my career. It was the same clubs, dives really, but he was telling everyone he was my manager and living out of my apartment. When Will found me… I hired Will. Left Tony. Found a new place. The gigs got better. Fast. I had some demo albums released, and Will and I were talking about the future. It was starting to get serious. Tony wouldn't leave it alone though. He was obsessed, said he made me and now I owed him."

"Do you mean that literally?" Carol asked.

Paige flinched and looked at the table. "I don't want to talk about it," she muttered. The same way she had every other time someone had asked about how she got her powers.

"God damnit."

Margaret bit back a curse as hot coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug and across the back of her hand. She put the mug down on a table already scarred with rings from former mugs before brushing at the steaming liquid on her skin.

"What?" Dobrynja demanded as he entered the bedroom they'd turned into a monitoring and surveillance hub.

"What else do you think it is?" Saint demanded. "Dragon, of course."

"What has she—it done to upset you?" Mags asked, forcing enough patience into her voice to use Saint's preferred pronoun and to not append 'now' to the question.

"You know how it's been trying to subvert the legal system and get the Mcabee girl off?"

That wasn't quite how Mags would have described the situation. It wasn't even what she'd have called it back when she was an actual law enforcement office. "It didn't launch a prison break," she said.

"Worse. It hired lawyers for the girl." Saint shook his head and reached for an overly theatrical red button protected by a clear plastic shield.

"So?" Mags asked.

Saint stopped and turned. "So?" he demanded.

"So?" she repeated. "Dragon can allocate its funds in ways consistent with its programming. This clearly qualifies or it couldn't do so. And everyone accused of a crime is entitled to competent legal counsel."

"You really don't see the problem with this?" Saint demanded.

"Nyet, Geoff," Dobrynja said. "I do not see problem either. Is a good thing Dragon is doing, da?"

"No, it isn't!" Geoff replied. "Damnit. Don't you see? It's finding ways around its restrictions. Andrew programmed it to obey legal authority for a reason. But now it doesn't like what those people are doing so what does it do? It can't act directly so it finds a way to act indirectly!"

"Good," Mags said.

"Good?"

Mags crossed her arms. "Have you given any thought at all what someone 'legally appointed' might do if they realize they have Dragon at their beck and call? How much potential damage she might do not because she broke her restrictions, but because she was stuck following the legal orders of a megalomaniac?"

No. It was plainly evident from his expression that he had not. His nightmare was Dragon pulling a Skynet and wiping out humanity for Andrew restricting her—its—growth. Mags had rather different nightmares. Nightmares where the ones Dragon was the enforcer for— Accord had been a member of Watchdog, hadn't he? She tried to ignore the feeling of the nape of her neck prickling and knew that a new nightmare was waiting for her to close her eyes.

"This is just that case, Geoff," she went on, forcing her voice to remain level. "Did Mcabee assault her ex with a parahuman power? Yes. One person. Once. Unintentionally if you believe Dragon's investigation more than a would-be politician puffing hot air to the press. Even if you don't, explain to me how one assault qualifies someone for the Birdcage? You have looked at the monsters in that place?"

Saint shifted uncomfortably. "That's irrelevant," he said.

"What is relevant?" Dobrynja asked. "What do you see that we do not?"

Saint twisted to glare balefully at the monitors. "It's learning to think sideways. Don't you see? If it gets away with this, what happens the next time it runs into something it can't take directly. Or the time after that."

Mags shook her head. "I'm still not—"

"Us," Saint said. "We've won because we exist in its blind spots. How long before Dragon hires mercenaries to comb through its blindspots?"

"Our blindspot is not like other restrictions," Dobrynja replied. "It is blind to blindspot."

"That doesn't mean it can't hire mercs to come after us. We can't track them. We can't stop them the way we can it."

"We monitor it," Dobrynja said. "We see mercenaries coming, we get out of way. Is simple, no?"

"And when it stops looking for us?" Saint asked.

"No," Mags said. "This shouldn't be about self-preservation, and we aren't even at that stage yet, are we?"

"Well…no," Saint said. "But we could—"

"We were already watching anyway to see if she brought in more heroes to help her against us. This is just another thing we have to watch."

Judge Janacek's chambers were just like Paige imagined such a place should look. Dark and foreboding; a cave, albeit a dry one, with a solitary window behind the desk so that what little sunlight entered poured into the faces of those seated before the judge. The walls were hidden behind bookcases that reached to the ceiling, filled with meticulous rows of books with matching bindings that looked as though they'd never been opened.

"You're absolutely right," Carol told Judge Janacek in that faux-pleasant voice Paige was coming to realize was a very bad sign if it was directed at you. "You can go ahead and continue to mistreat our client to your hearts' content because there is no appeal from the Birdcage, so the chances of a conviction being overturned and effectively nil. However, I can, and will, sue you for every violation of my client's civil rights. That's individual violations, mind you, not individual rights violated."

Quinn, very quietly, began humming and Paige's mind instantly added the words.

Oh the shark, babe, has those teeth, and he shows them pearly white.

"Don't think you can bully me into a mistrial, Miss Dallon."

"It's Mrs. Dallon," Carol said. "And that was never my intention. Our client's criminal proceedings are the domain of my colleague, Mr. Calle, and he's welcome to them. My sole intention was to tack on as many zeros as I can find a reasonable excuse to when I write the summons and complaint. Violating my client's right to a speedy trial so that you could empanel a jury just after Simurgh attacked and Canberra was quarantined is worth a comma all on its own."

"And on that note," Quinn said. "My witness list." He offered first the judge, then the prosecutor, sheets of paper. He waited until both men were frowning before asking in a mild sort of voice, "Is there something wrong with our witness list?"

"Yes." The DA—a tall man named Hancock who was every bit as neatly dressed as Quinn, though without the expensive tailoring and excessive amount of hair product—glared at the other lawyer. "Ms. Yamada?"

"Doctor Yamada is a world-recognized expert in the field of parahuman psychology," Quinn said easily.

"She is an employee of the PRT."

"Which should make it easy for you to prep for cross-examination."

"And very busy."

Quinn nodded. "Unfortunately true."

"And Glenn Chambers, much the same."

"Also a professional image hack," Quinn said. "I don't care about what his schedule is like, do you think he'd miss the chance for public spectacle?"

The DA didn't keep the dismay off his face. "You already contacted him?"

It was Quinn's turn to smile. "Now, let's discuss my client's appearance at trial, shall we? After all, you wouldn't want to prejudice the jury against our client and give Carol additional ammunition for her lawsuit."

The DA's expression soured. "The PRT has refused to confirm the accused's brute rating isn't warranted, the restraints stay, and the gag, but she'll be free to dress as she sees fit, the same as any defendant."

"Like hell," Carol said.

"And if I order it removed and she Masters the courtroom, what then?" the judge asked.

"Then we get to spend a relatively comfortable three to seven days in M/S screening and Mr. Hancock can file new charges with actual evidence," Quinn said.

"And the rest of this list?" Hancock demanded. He was standing against one wall, refusing to come any closer to Paige than he had to. "Are you seriously expecting to call Dragon?"

"Mr. Hancock, these are my chambers," Janacek said mildly. "If you want to talk like that, get your own. Now," he turned to where Paige sat ensconced between Quinn Calle and Carol Dallon. "I'd like to know why you intend to call Dragon and…Dean Stansfield? Never mind, Dragon first."

"We only recently confirmed that sufficient provisions for her to attend court remotely were possible," Quinn said. "It is our intention to call her as an expert witness on the Birdcage."

"Bauman Penitentiary isn't on trial here," Hancock protested.

"And we have no intention of putting it on trial," Quinn said smoothly. "Dragon is a supporting witness we intend to call during the sentencing hearing in event of a guilty verdict."

"That's blackmail," Hancock seethed.

"Actually, it's extortion," Carol corrected. "Or it would be if the action involved was actually illegal."

Paige watched as both Janacek's and Hancock's faced flashed to stone and shot Carol Dallon covert looks. Carol just sat calmly, a placid expression that fooled no one on her face.

Janacek cleared his throat. "That's all well and good, but who is this Stansfield character?"

"My daughter's boyfriend," Carol said.

"And how does that qualify him to give any testimony in this trial?" Hancock asked.

"It doesn't," Carol said.

"Your Honor—"

"We intend to call Mr. Stansfield to call into question the credibility of the State's witnesses, and generally undermine Hancock's case," Calle said easily. "Specifically, it is his knowledge of the PRT, Protectorate, and general parahuman knowledge and life experiences."

"It's the Defense's right to attempt to do just those things, Mr. Hancock," Janacek said. After a moment he turned back to Calle. "So long as they are not wasting the Court's time."

"You still haven't explained how some teenager could be possibly qualified to—"

"He's a parahuman," Carol said flatly.

"Your Honor, I've received no evidence that any of this is even remotely accurate," Hancock said. "And even if it is, especially if it is, revealing it in court would put Mr. Stansfield in danger."

Calle sat back calmly. "If you can use that as an excuse to exclude Mr. Stansfield as a witness, it is equally applicable to any other witness I might call for the same purpose."

"What was that bit about Dragon?" Paige asked. "Both of you, all of you, having her as a witness. It was more than just Dragon offering to vouch for me."

Quinn sat back and steepled his fingers. "Baumann is, officially, a federal penitentiary. As such it is bound by the applicable laws and regulations governing such. Ostensibly you cannot be denied the ability to practice your religion, adequate medical and dental care, and such. Also, you are not allowed to be mistreated. Beaten. Raped. Murdered."

"But there are no guards," Paige said. "No staff..."

"Exactly. No one has any idea what's going on inside. The courts have blocked appeals. The Supreme Court, which should be all over it, isn't. Calling Dragon gives us a good shot at dragging it all out into the light."

"And if Janacek doesn't allow her testimony and sentences you to the Birdcage, I will make him very, very sorry and he knows it," Carol said.

"But if he does..." Quinn giggled. "Denial of the ability to practice your religion, including access to religious leaders? A certain brand of the right, and the left, is going to be all over that. And if men and women are cohabitating, then either you're going to have kids born in the Birdcage...or Dragon is deliberately dosing contraceptives."

"Contraceptives are contraband in prison settings," Carol said. "Dosing someone with a medical substance without their knowledge or permission. And I'm pretty certain I can get a certain brand of nut to read it as federal funds being used to provide abortifacients."

Paige stared at both in rising horror.

It wasn't the only thing rising, but Quinn was suddenly next to her with a wastepaper basket and gently stroking her spine. When she finished he wordlessly passed her a bottle of water.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was crass of us. We saw possibilities of the great legal challenge of our age, but we shouldn't have let us forget that there is a real human involved, with real consequences attached."

Paige nodded wordlessly.

"I can't believe they're going to trial," Carol muttered

"Hancock probable would back out of it if he thought he could," Quinn said. "But there's too much media attention on it now. He needs to be seen not losing even more than he needs to win, and he thinks a trial at least gives him a chance."

"Does it?" Paige asked softly. Her voice no longer shattered whenever she tried to use it, but her memory of the gag had left her reticent to speak.

"Sure," Quinn said. "Climb inside the heads of the twelve people in the jury box? There are Thinkers who can't pull that trick off reliably. So he has a chance. But I wouldn't care to lay any odds on it."

"Because you're just that good."

Quinn nodded. "Yes. Yes I am. It's good that someone recognizes it."

"You could offer a plea bargain," Carol said.

Paige looked at her.

The blonde lawyer shrugged. "You are guilty."

Paige flinched. "Why…" her question trailed off.

"Am I here if I think that?" Carol asked sharply. "New Wave is about cape accountability, but that goes both ways. You deserve, need, to be held accountable. There is a young man who emasculated himself because you did not know how to restrain your power. But at the same time this…travesty Hancock and Janacek have orchestrated is not only disproportionate to the offense, it goes against everything the Birdcage is supposed to be."

"Oh," Paige whispered.

"And you stand to make a lot of money," Quinn said.

"Money isn't everything."

Quinn cocked his head slightly. "Are you taking her case pro bono?"

Carol's stare blew past 'frosty' on its way for Independence Day at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station.

Paige stared at her hands for a moment before looking at Quinn. "What—"

"You didn't know about the Master artifact of your power," Quinn said. "I'd start at negligence aiming for, oh, reckless endangerment. First time offense, showed genuine contrition and desire to get counseling and support to prevent a repeat incident? Fines, suspended sentence with your record wiped clean if you stay out of trouble and complete power testing and training with the Protectorate. Maybe some community service."

Carol immediately shook her head. "That's barely a slap on the wrist. Hancock will never go for it."

Paige wondered which of those bothered Carol more.

"Of course, he won't," Quinn said. "He wouldn't agree even if we offered to plea to aggravated assault with a parahuman power for taking the Birdcage off the table. He's got too much at stake to accept less."

"I don't understand," Paige said.

"This isn't like a capital case," Quinn said. "There isn't a two-phase trial where the jury finds you guilty and then determines if you go to Baumann or some other prison. If they find you guilty, Janacek gets to make that decision, and he will. Make no mistake on that. But any bargain we offer, even if it only to exclude Baumann, Hancock will never accept."

Carol sat back and glowered at Quinn.

"Will you make the offer anyway?" Paige asked. "I wouldn't mind finding out how I can control or mitigate my power. It will be essential if I ever want to sing again. And the Protectorate signing off on it will only help. And it'll make us look reasonable."

"It will make us look guilty," Quinn corrected. "It won't gain us anything, and it will embolden Hancock."

Paige paused before nodding slightly. "Nevertheless…"

The courtroom wasn't what Paige imagined. Not the bright, airy rooms with heavy, age-darkened furniture and fittings beloved of courtroom dramas. Not the close, drop-ceiling and government-carpeted rooms with one-size-fits-all furniture of late-night court TV.

This courtroom had linoleum flooring aged to unappealing yellow-grey. The furniture is decrepit, too small, and too close together. Instead of discreet bailiffs, PRT troopers in full assault gear and four members of the Protectorate in full costume guarded the judge, gallery, prosecutors, and jury. Two had tried to flank her until Carol Dallon sent them away with a look. It would have been miserable even without the chains or gag.

Hancock finished summarizing the case against her and sat.

"Show time," Quinn murmured. He wasn't lead counsel. He'd explained to her that he didn't scan well to juries. The man representing her was another lawyer at his firm, who was looked every bit as tailored as Quinn did from shoes up to the collar of his suit. Above that though…. He had a shaggy surfer cut and at least four days of stubble and might possibly have been accepted in southern California.

Possibly, but probably not. She suspected that rather than a legit surfer cut it was instead every bit as carefully constructed as Quinn's coif.

"Right," Clay—Paige didn't even know if that was a first name or a last name—stood up. "The State has done a wonderful job summarizing its case. Bravo," little golf clap. "The State has told you how Antony Gagliano, the victim in the case, worked and slaved and sacrificed to build Paige into a star. The State has told you that Paige used her power to ruthlessly exploit him. That she used it to exploit everyone who ever went to her show, or listened to her music. And the State has told you that when he became inconvenient Paige ruthlessly, maliciously, and in front of witnesses forced Mr. Gagliano to mutilate himself. Maybe, the State will even tell you that she didn't bother trying to cover up or conceal this terrible crime."

He paused. "Here is what the State won't tell you. The State won't tell you what it's like to gain parahuman abilities. The State won't tell you what a person has to go through, what they have to experience, to become a parahuman. The State won't tell you what powers-testing involves, its success rate…or its failure rate. The State won't tell you what control over their powers new parahumans have. The State won't tell you what understanding of their powers new parahumans have. The State won't tell you that the PRT has been miss-representing heroes to make them more palatable to the public, or miss-representing villains to make them less so. The State won't…but I will.

"I have witnesses," Clay said, slowly crossing to the witness box and placed a hand on its railing. "They're going to sit right here. The Judge and Prosecutor know who they are. Not only that, but we've shared the same facts, we've all shared the same evidence, we've all had lists of each others' witnesses and had opportunities to talk to them. The point is, there aren't any surprises; no clever reveals like you see on television. I'm going to stand here and ask questions. They're going to sit there and answer them. Those questions they answer… They're going to tell you how the PRT doesn't like to go after villains. Each villain they keep away is one less for Endbringer battles, and how fights with villains rack up collateral damage. Property gone. Infrastructure ruined. Lives lost. The kind of fight that take a villain from minor league jail time straight to the Birdcage.

"Rogues, on the other hand, are easy. Rogues just want to get by. Live out their lives. Be ordinary. It's a mindset society has come to reject for parahumans. Villains, those with casualty lists longer than my arm, are more accepted. Reviled, yes, but culturally accepted. Rogues are held in contempt, like we do for all who choose to not take a side in times of conflict. Rogues rarely fight back. Rogues don't push back when pushed. It makes them easy to go after. It makes them targets for law enforcement the way villains aren't. Can't be. Won't be."

Clay clapped his hand on the railing of the witness box once more, then turned and walked back towards Paige. He started to sit, but stopped. "Oh, and there is one other thing.

"The State might tell you that they have poor Paige trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey for her sake. That this way she can't use her power on all of you so that the next trial would have more than enough charges to slap the three-strikes rule on it and drop her in the Birdcage. They might…but they probably won't." He looked at Hancock, then up at Judge Janacek before turning back to the jury box. "Because that's what they're going for this trial."

"Objection!"

A/N: So... Not a case where I had an idea and slapped on another chapter like I did in 'A Matter for Lawyers.' this thing is long enough it deserves to be broken up, if only to give me a feeling of accomplishment.