Batman felt his fist clench tight. Three of his knuckles popped.
"I talked to Ariana," Robin had just said. "I told her everything."
This was one of the very few times that Batman was at a total loss for words, as was Nightwing, who stood dumbfounded behind the dark knight. "You . . . told Ariana." Batman let out a labored breath and put his hand to his mouth, running down the exposed half of his face slowly. "Everything."
Robin nodded. "I had to, Bruce. The secrets . . . " Robin looked at Nightwing. "The lies had to stop. I love her way too much to lose her like I almost did."
Batman looked around, still genuinely at a loss for a response. His face finally retook its customary grim, emotionless expression. "You're own father doesn't know, Robin."
"I know . . . and, don't worry, I won't tell him."
Batman shook his head, looking at the roof. "You don't have to tell me that . . . Robin. It isn't my choice to make. And, I know how tough it can be."
Nightwing looked at Batman now with the same disbelief with which he had just regarded Robin. "How could you tell Ariana?" he asked, his mouth open, his forehead furrowed heavily. "Don't you see what--didn't you realize what could happen? Everything we've done for the last ten years?"
Batman looked sharply at Nightwing, almost scoldingly. "Nightwing . . ."
Robin looked past Batman. "Nightwing, Ariana won't tell the secret. She can be trusted . . . she loves me."
"What if someone . . . extracts the information from her?"
"No one knows that I told her! We could probably count the people who know our identities on one hand. Trust me; no one will ever find out. At least not from Ariana."
Nightwing planted his fists against his hips and looked out over the city. "I . . . how can we trust you when you've just let our most vital confidence out of the bag? To some girl!"
"Of you and Batman, I thought it would be you who would understand, Dick."
Nightwing walked several steps towards Robin, stopped, and pointed at the boy. "Tim, I love you. You're like a brother to me; I want you to know that. I never had a girlfriend, but I will tell you this: I would never--no matter how much she meant to me--never betray the trust that Batman had put in me."
Robin was at a loss for words. Finally, he managed to get out, "I . . . I didn't think that Nightwing meant that much to you."
"Oh, make no mistake, someday, I'll get sick of this. Someday, I'll just take this Nightwing suit and tear it to pieces and scatter it all over this damned city. But, until that day comes, there is nothing that I can put ahead of this." Nightwing pointed to his mask.
Batman's head was lowered. He raised it halfway and looked at Nightwing. "Don't give him a speech, Dick. I've told Tim before that if he thought it was time to tell someone, it was his choice." Batman shook his head, almost as if he were hating about what he was about to say. "Being Robin is his secret, not Bruce Wayne's . . . not Dick Grayson's."
Nightwing held his hands out in front of him, in a pleading gesture. "But, it can't be that way. We--"
"It is this way!" Batman interrupted forcefully.
"We have to protect each other. If one of us falls . . . we all fall." Nightwing turned back to Robin. "And, you should've called me before you did this!"
Robin bore a confused look. "Why? So you could try and talk me out of it?"
Nightwing raised his fist and brought it down hard. "Yes! You're damn right! God . . ., Tim I thought we were . . . I thought that we talked about these things. This was an important decision! It couldn't have been spur of the moment!"
"I love her, Nightwing!", Robin pleaded angrily. "I love her more than I knew a few hours ago!! And, when I thought I was going to lose her, because of the lies that I had to tell her that made me sick . . . Robin didn't seem all that important then."
Batman found himself the only level-headed person on the cathedral roof. He held out his hands, one towards Robin, one towards Nightwing. "Stop. Right now, both of you stop." Nightwing squared his shoulders; Robin crossed his arms; and both listened. Batman looked to Nightwing. "Truthfully, I'm as angry as you are about this, but it does no good. We can all yell and argue over loyalty and duty and trust . . . all of that later. Right now, the facts are this: Ariana just found out; she hasn't told anyone--"
"As far as we know," Nightwing interjected, looking sharply at Robin.
Batman shot an angry glance in Nightwing's direction. "She's told no one. So, we should just . . . deal with that problem when--if--it arises." Batman stepped up on the edge of the cathedral roof. "It's nearly midnight . . . rush hour for the kind of people who made me put on this suit. We can do a lot more good out there--" Batman nodded towards the buildings that spread out as far as the eye could see. "--than we can fighting amongst ourselves up here."
Batman fired a grapple up to the steeple of the cathedral, then took hold of the line and leapt off the roof, swinging out over the city. Nightwing and Robin stood silently on the roof, and followed him after several minutes.
Drake Mansion, 7:13 a.m.
Tim didn't sleep very well that night. He was thinking about faking sick, not going to school at all today. He heard the distinctive, heavy footsteps of Mrs. McIlvaine, and rolled over, moaning, already aggravated.
The portly housekeeper knocked hard on the bedroom door, then opened it and stepped one foot inside. "Timothy!" she yelled rudely. Tim remained motionless; if the housekeeper didn't believe he was asleep, it should've been painfully obvious that he wanted to be. "Timothy! Wake, boy!"
Rolling over to face the door, Tim sat up in the bed, wiped his eyes with his fists, and opened them slowly. Mrs. McIlvaine resolved into view in front of him. "I feel like . . . bad. I'm not going to school today."
"Well, you're right about that, youngster, but you're not staying home, either."
Tim blinked twice. "What--what do you mean?"
Mrs. McIlvaine pointed her thumb to the door over her shoulder. "I think I'll let your father explain it to you. He's waiting at the breakfast table."
The housekeeper left the room and shut the door behind her. Tim rolled over in bed again, closed his eyes . . . then opened them again. His father hadn't been awake earlier than nine in the morning for years, even before his accident. This must've been something important.
Oh my God . . . Tim's mind began to race. He rolled over on his back and put his hands to his forehead, tensing every muscle in his face. Oh . . . please, he thought. A hundred scenarios entered his mind at once. Had his father, for some reason, decided to go into Tim's room to talk to him last night, and found only an empty bed? Had Ariana called that night and confessed all her newfound knowledge, perhaps seeing it as for the best?
Tim jumped out of bed, pulled on a tee-shirt, jeans, and then a button-up shirt on over the tee. He left the front open and rolled up the sleeves to the middle of his forearm. Tim pulled on his socks, then walked out into the hall and began a slow, methodical walk down the stairs.
Jack Drake was in the small dining room, sitting at one end of a six foot long, three foot wide rectangular table. Half of a grapefruit was in front of him, untouched. Tim's father was holding a business envelope, reading and re-reading whatever was printed on the front of it.
Tim stopped outside the dining room entrance, then took a breath and stepped inside. "Morning, Dad," he said cautiously as he approached the table.
Tim's father waited until his son had sat down near him, then held up the envelope.
"What's that?" Tim asked.
"This?" his father asked, feigning ignorance. "This is a letter that was hand delivered to the mansion this morning, about one hour ago." Jack Drake presented the letter to his son. "It's addressed to you, son."
Tim took the envelope with both trepidation and relief. At least this isn't about Robin, he thought gratefully. He read the front of the envelope, the return address was that of the new Gotham County Courthouse. Inside, was a letter. Tim read it carefully, and when he'd finished he read it again just to be sure of what was contained within the letter.
Looking up, Tim saw his father watching him expectantly. "I've been called to testify," he told his father. "Today, at the courthouse."
Jack Drake took the letter and envelope from Tim. "Whatever for?"
Tim found himself staring at the back of the letter as his father read it. "Peter Devorak's sanity hearing. Today."
Arkham Asylum, 9:30 a.m.
Groverton stepped into Oswald Cobblepot's office and sat down in front of his desk.
The Penguin clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward toward his assistant. "So . . . what should be done about Mr. Quentin?"
Groverton pursed his lips; Cobblepot was all business. "He escaped the police, correct?"
Cobblepot nodded. "Yes, but only because I had a man waiting in a car at the end of the alleyway, following him. And, let us not forget that he failed to retrieve the information I sent him for." The Penguin gritted his teeth and clenched both hands into fists. "You know how I like to handle failure, Groverton."
"Yes, sir, and if we were talking about normal street-trash, I would whole-heartedly agree with you. However, this is a highly skilled assassin. You would be wise not to simply discard him and try to find another. You won't be able."
The Penguin nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose you're right . . . perhaps I should, from now on, consider members of my counsel, as it were, off-limits to such punishment." He shrugged, and a grin of evil mischief spread over his face. "I'm sure that, if I used my imagination a little, I could invent some more . . . original ways of dispensing discipline, if ever the need arises."
"And, I certainly hope it doesn't," Groverton added.
"As do I." The telephone on Cobblepot's desk rang. "Hello? . . . Yes . . . no, I don't expect to be there. I will be there tomorrow, though, for the final decision. Unless the hearing runs long, of course. . . . So, it's today at--" Cobblepot pulled up his right sleeve and looked at his wristwatch. "--ten o'clock? . . . Good. Call me again during recess, and give me an assessment on how things are going."
Cobblepot hung up the phone.
HDCT Vehicle, En Route to Gotham County Courthouse from Blackgate Prison, 9:33 a.m.
Ronald Greenwauld switched off his cellular phone and shoved it back in his breast pocket. He leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees, and looked his young client in the eyes. Peter Devorak looked back. "Remember, when you testify today, just make sure that it is made clear that, when you committed the crimes against Jack Drake, as well as the murder of your parents, you were in an altered state. You had no control over what you did."
Peter gave an exhausted nod; Greenwauld had gone over this aspect of the hearing dozens of times in the past twenty-four hours. "Right. Temp insanity, I got ya."
"Temporary insanity, Peter. But you don't use that word. Remember, you've been moving around all your life, your parents were unhappy, living only to make ends meet. You had no love, no friends, no stability. When you reached out, you were rejected, and in your mind, had no choice but to lash out."
Peter gave a half-hearted nod. "No love, no choice," he summarized.
Greenwauld took the briefcase that sat beside him on the floor of the HDCT and placed it on his lap, resting his elbows on it and cradling his chin in his hands. "You'll be the last person I call today. I checked over your case history before I came to see you at the prison Tuesday. Subpoenaed everyone who I think could testify to your mental instabilities." Ronald Greenwauld glanced down at the briefcase. "Lot of hostile witnesses."
Peter grinned, shrugged, and put his hand to his cheek. "Unstable lunatics . . . I guess they don't make many friends."
The lawyer looked scoldingly at his client. "Mental instability doesn't always equate to lunacy, Peter. You're obviously aware that you have problems . . . I think that qualifies you as a reasonably normal . . . person."
"Just not normal enough to be held responsible for my actions?"
"That remains to be seen."
Arkham Asylum, 10:01 a.m.
Edward Nygma had been asleep when he heard his cell door being unlocked. The door came open, and light flooded into the dark room. "Let's go, Riddler," came the voice of guard Jake Fowler. Nygma slowly rolled off his cot and eyed the open door cautiously. "What's going on?" he asked, blinking several times.
"New quarters, Seaman," Fowler said, grinning.
Nygma looked at the guard strangely. "I suppose that was a joke," he commented, rubbing his left eye.
"New cell assignment, Nygma. Let's go."
The man who called himself the Riddler walked slowly towards the guard. Jake Fowler took him firmly by the arm and started Nygma down the hallway. "You been doin' some push-ups in that cell, Eddie?" Fowler teased, "This arm of yours seems a little firmer than last time." Nygma resisted comment. "You right handed?"
Edward Nygma nodded once. "Why is that so important?"
Fowler shrugged. "Just that I think I know what you been doin' to beef that right arm up. That's it."
"You truly are an ignoramus, Fowler. How is that you survive so well in captivity?"
Fowler tightened his grip on Nygma's arm. "I think that little smartass deal is worth a straightjacket for a few weeks. Consider it a house-warming present."
Fowler led Nygma down the hall, around a corner, and into the section of the asylum that was called "New Arkham." New Arkham was just completed. Construction was started on the new wing just after the breakout several years ago of nearly every inmate in the maximum security area, and the area contained twenty of the most high-tech cells to be found in any prison in the country. Smooth cushioned walls, carpeted floor, toilet, sink, and a five foot by five foot square sheet of double-paned, shatter-resistant glass in place of the customary door. The glass was a two-way mirror, so anyone outside the cell could see in, but the occupant would only see a reflection of himself.
Fowler stopped Nygma outside the second cell from the end of the right side of the hallway. The guard lifted the walkie-talkie from his belt and held it to his mouth. "I need number thirteen seventy-two opened." After a moment, the lock on the cell disengaged and the glass slid to the side. Fowler shoved Nygma inside and pulled the glass shut. "Secure thirteen seventy-two."
Inside the cell, Edward Nygma rapped his knuckles against the two-way mirror. "Why have I been moved?" he demanded.
Fowler pressed the talk button on an intercom mounted into the wall beside the glass entrance's locking mechanism. "Ask our new owner, Riddler; he handed out new cell assignments for about ten of your buddies earlier this morning."
Jake Fowler turned off the intercom and walked off down the hall. "Fowler?" Nygma called from inside his cell. "Fowler? Are you still there? Fowler?!"
The guard continued on down the hall, unable to hear the Riddler's cries. As he left New Arkham, Fowler noticed that all the inmates in "old" Arkham were standing at their cell doors, staring out the viewslits. "Where's Riddler?" one of them asked angrily.
"Someplace nice and warm," Fowler answered, smiling widely. "You won't be bothering with him anymore."
An uneven chorus of voices rose up from behind the iron doors that lined the hallway. "Where is he?!"
"Where's the Riddler?"
"What's down that hall?!"
"What the fuck did you do with him?!!"
Fowler looked from side to side up the hall. "All right! Pipe the hell down!"
The chorus of yells and screams continued to sing behind Fowler as he left. The big guard reached the end of the hall and looked back as he stepped into the guards' station. The patients were still yelling, and a few had begun to scream in irritating, high voices. Jake Fowler punched an intercom button. "We might need some sedatives down here," he told a doctor on the other end. "Or else this'll be a long day."
Gotham County Courthouse, 11:54 a.m.
Tim checked behind him for his father. Jack Drake was following behind, leaning on his cane, but not as heavily as he had been before. Tim noticed this and smiled. He and his father entered the courtroom of Judge Harold Ottenbach. The room was empty, save for the subpoenaed witnesses, who filled the front two rows on the right side of the courtroom. Tim noticed Ariana sitting there, and immediately beckoned to her.
Ariana stood and started for Tim, but was stopped by her uncle, who took hold of her arm gently. "You sit here," he ordered quietly. Ari's aunt Natty touched her husband on the shoulder.
"Let her go, Vari." Ariana's uncle looked at her, then released her.
"Thank you, Uncle," she said with a smile, then moved quickly to Tim. Ariana smiled at Tim's father, giving him a short wave. "Hello, Mr. Drake."
"Ariana," Jack Drake said kindly. He smiled down at his son, wistful and almost proud at the same time. Ariana, Tim, and Tim's father sat down near the middle of the third row. Ariana caught her uncle and aunt both looking behind them at her from time to time, so Tim merely held her hand during the wait. Jack Drake merely sat quietly on the other side of his son, resting his hands on the top of his cane.
After a few minutes, Tim looked back and saw Hudson enter the courtroom, with his father. When he saw Tim and Ari sitting together, he looked at Tim, pointed to he and Ariana, and grinned widely. Hudson and his father walked into the row behind Tim and Ariana, and sat down. Hudson leaned forward and stuck his head in just behind Tim and Ariana's ears. "Hey, look on the bright side--we got off school for this."
Ives and his parents entered the courtroom several minutes later, as well as a woman whom Tim recognized as the social worker who had worked with Peter Devorak shortly after he had murdered his parents. Ives gave Tim a look of recognition, then sat down quietly at the end of the fourth row with his family. The social worker took a seat in the first row on the other side of the courtroom.
Other than the summoned witnesses, only a few reporters populated the back of the courtroom. The hearing wasn't very high profile; there were no outside spectators. Hudson leaned forward and tapped Tim on the shoulder. "When's this thing supposed to start?"
Tim checked his watch. "Twelve-fifteen, I think."
"So, what Tim--jeez . . . time is it now, Tim?"
"Twelve-thirteen."
Hudson sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Wonder what the chances are that they'll start early . . .?"
When Tim checked his watch, and it said 12:16 p.m. The door to the Judge's chambers opened, and the bailiff entered the courtroom. "All please rise."
Everyone stood.
The bailiff stepped to the side. "The Honorable Harold Ottenbach." A tall man, robust even in his voluminous black robe, stepped up behind the bench and sat down.
"All be seated," he ordered without ceremony. The judge motioned to the bailiff, who opened a door to the left of the judge's bench. Two county sheriffs entered, with Peter Devorak, his hands and feet manacled. Ronald Greenwauld followed him into the courtroom.
Judge Ottenbach shuffled several papers on his desk into a reasonably neat stack, then folded his hands and regarded Greenwauld. "Your opening statement, please, Mr. Greenwauld."
"Yes, Your Honor," Greenwauld said, standing and straightening his tie. He stretched his arms out wide until both shoulders made a cracking sound, then walked up in front of the judge's desk and turned to face those assembled in the courtroom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're here today because of an injustice--an injustice committed almost one year ago, when the young man who sits shackled in this courtroom was sentenced to death by a jury of apparently sensible people, perhaps not much different from those of us gathered here."
Greenwauld placed his hands in his pockets and turned briefly from those assembled to the judge himself. "The testimony of the people summoned here will prove that the young man sitting at that table, Peter Devorak, was not in control of his actions when he committed the acts of which he has been found guilty. Was it temporary insanity that drove him to murder his parents?" Greenwauld shook his head. "No, no it wasn't. Peter Devorak's condition is the result of a life that no child should be made to endure. In a moment, you will hear from his uncle--his mother's own brother. This uncle will testify to the hardships faced by this boy from the ages of approximately five to fifteen. Ten years. You will hear, Your Honor, of the loveless relationship he carried on with his parents, how his needs were pushed aside in order to try and better the family situation."
Greenwauld walked back to his table, stood behind Peter, and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "You will hear, from Peter's former peers, of how he was neglected and jeered during his short time as a student at Gotham Heights High School, the period shortly before he adopted the identity of Pan, and murdered his parents."
Greenwauld sat down at the table beside Peter. "I believe that concludes my opening statement, Judge Ottenbach."
The judge nodded once. "Very well. You may call your first witness."
Greenwauld stood and looked to a tall gentleman sitting in the first row, ahead of Tim and Ariana. "I call Jonathan Lynnser, Your Honor."
The tall man in the first row stood and approached the witness stand, which sat on the judge's left-hand side. The bailiff approached with a Bible, and the man placed his hand atop it. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
The man nodded. "I do." Withdrawing his hand, he sat down.
"Please state your name for the record, sir."
"Jonathan Michael Lynnser."
Greenwauld approached Lynnser, leaning against the wooden railing that defined the edges of the witness stand. "What is your relation to Peter Devorak?"
Jonathan Lynnser inhaled and looked at Peter. "I'm his Uncle Jon."
Greenwauld nodded thoughtfully. "Uncle Jon. Did you know much of Peter's life, following the loss of his father's job at the Shoreline auto factory ten years ago?"
"Yes, I did. Mattie--that's . . . she was Peter's mother--"
"Your sister."
"Yes. Mattie would call me sometimes. When times got tough, Harold--Peter's father--would go a little too far, you know? Drink a little bit."
"Do you know if he ever hit Peter, or your sister?"
Lynnser shook his head. "No. Absolutely not; Harold did not hit them."
Greenwauld raised his eyebrows. "Really? What allows you to be so certain that Harold Devorak never laid a hand on his family members?"
"I just . . . I knew Harry. He got drunk sometimes, but he'd always sulk. He'd never lash out. It was his depression that drove him to the bottle, not his family, and he never took it out on them, either."
"You and the late Mr. Devorak were friends?"
Lynnser nodded. "Oh, yes. Definitely. We had been friends since junior high. I introduced him to Mattie in eighth grade."
Ronald Greenwauld took in a deep breath. "Why do you think Peter killed his parents?"
Jonathan Lynnser looked up at his nephew, and stared at him silently. "I think . . . that Pete had his problems. I think that, when they came back to Gotham City, he was expecting some stability . . . and, when the renovations of Shoreline fell through . . . Maybe he didn't want to go back to the way things had been. I . . . I just don't know." Jonathan shook his head. "I . . . Peter wasn't well when he committed that act. I don't believe he realized what he was doing."
Greenwauld looked to Judge Ottenbach, then back at Jonathan Lynnser. He smiled at Lynnser. "Thank you. Your Honor, I've finished with this witness."
Judge Ottenbach, resting his cheek on his hand, looked to the Assistant District Attorney, Diana Beckett, who had sat quietly across the room from Ronald Greenwauld. "Ms. Beckett?"
The short, middle-aged woman stood at her place. "No questions for this witness, Your Honor."
"Very well. Mr. Greenwauld, call your next witness to testify."
"I call Gloria May, Your Honor." The woman Tim had recognized as Peter's social worker rose from her chair and approached the witness stand.
Red Racer Bus #2567, Route 24, Outside of Moberly, Missouri
Jean-Paul hadn't looked at the profile he'd stolen from the FBI the night before. Even though it seemed a bit paranoid to him, he had plenty of experience with conspiratorial organizations that told him nothing was too safe. Sitting alone in the back of the bus, with only seven other people in the vehicle with him, Jean-Paul reached into the side pocket of his bag and removed the dark green hanging folder. Inside was a manila folder, and inside that folder was a stack of papers devoted to the psychological status of one Victor Benson, also known as Val Borning.
Along with the Benson file, Jean-Paul removed a small photograph. The photo had been given to him by Diane Benson, the ex-wife of Victor. It was a picture of Todd Benson, who had been molested, raped, and murdered by his own father. Jean-Paul studied the face, the eternally youthful likeness of a boy whose childhood had been ripped from him, along with the rest of his life, by the one man who should have made its protection his number one priority, and then Jean-Paul began to read.
The file contained Benson's psychological profile, and was darkly interesting. Unknown to most of the people who knew him, Victor Benson had been arrested for assault at the age of 16, for threatening his father with a kitchen knife. Benson served six months in a juvenile detention center for the assault charges. During his time at the detention center, he was assaulted physically and sexually on at least four separate occasions, and had to be hospitalized for the final attack, which took place the night before his release.
Following his release, Benson stayed in three foster homes until his twenty-first birthday. During that time, he was charged with assault again, this time by his foster mother, but the charges were inexplicably dropped just a few days before Benson would have been indicted.
After leaving his third foster home on his twenty-first birthday, Victor Benson had worked at every place from McDonalds to convenience stores, even a used car lot. During that time, he met and married Diane Weller. Their son Todd was born eight months after the wedding.
The autopsy performed on Todd Benson following his death revealed injuries several years old. It was estimated by physicians that the boy had been sexually assaulted on countless occasions before his kidnapping and death. Victor Benson had taken his son straight from school to an area of woods nearly thirty miles away from the boy's home, where he repeatedly raped his son, before leaving him, barely conscious, to die in the woods.
Jean-Paul noticed a drop of liquid on the photograph of Todd Benson, and realized he had been crying. Jean-Paul Valley himself had been grown in a test tube, germinated from both human and animal genetic material. Even before he was "born," Jean-Paul was programmed, brainwashed in the ways of the Order of Saint Dumas, the ways of the System. When his father died, Jean-Paul had disposed of his body himself, laying his own father to rest in a dumpster along the streets of Gotham City. Even having lived through all this, Jean-Paul Valley had never heard of something as evil, sad, angering, unnatural, and un-Godly as what Victor Benson had done to his own son.
Jean-Paul dried his eyes, turning up the collar of his shirt and wiping away the tears.
According to the profile, Benson had a pre-occupation with baseball. When the FBI had raided his residence in Kansas City, they had found over forty tapes of baseball games, along with books, audio cassettes, literally volumes of statistics for individual players. He had been born in Houston, he and Diane had lived in Cincinnati, and before that, all of his foster homes had been in Chicago. In short, Victor Benson had never lived in any place that wasn't home to a Major League Baseball team.
Jean-Paul removed a paper pad from his inner jacket pocket, as well as a pencil that had been sharpened down to a stub. He thought a moment, then began writing on the pad:
Gotham County Courthouse, 1:43 p.m.
Ives stepped down from the witness stand.
He, and Hudson before him, had testified as to what happened when Peter Devorak had stayed overnight at Tim's house, several days before the murder of his parents. The testimony had been rather boring. The only thing that held Tim's attention was that Hudson had to be continually corrected from calling Peter "the defendant."
As with Jonathan Lynnser, and Gloria May, the Assistant District Attorney waived her right to question Hudson and Ives. This was beginning to seem more than a little suspicious, and Tim was starting to worry that Peter Devorak might manage to cheat the fate that seemed to have been laid out for him.
As Ives was taking his seat, Tim heard Ariana's name being called. " . . . to the witness stand," Ronald Greenwauld finished. Ariana squeezed Tim's hand, then stood and approached the stand. She took the oath, then sat down nervously.
Ronald Greenwauld smiled at Ari, but it didn't seem to give her much comfort. She merely gave the lawyer her own, uncomfortable smile, then folded her hands and looked down at her lap. "Now, Ariana . . . you don't mind that I call you Ariana, do you?"
Ariana shook her head. "No. It's . . . all right."
Greenwauld smiled again. "Good. Good. Now, Ariana, could you tell me how you first met Peter Devorak?"
Ariana took a deep breath, and cleared her throat. "Well . . . the first day Peter came to Gotham Heights . . . well, I dropped my books at my locker that morning, and he helped me pick them up."
"Did you like Peter when you met him? Was he a nice guy, did you think?"
"Um, he did a sweet thing. That was the first image I got of him; just a sweet guy, I guess."
"Did it seem like he was . . . interested in you? Attracted to you?"
Ariana coughed and put her hands on the arms of her chair. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "It was . . . I mean, I didn't know him all that well, but . . . yeah. It seemed that way. I think so."
"He was attracted to you?"
Ariana nodded once. "Um, yes. He was."
"How did you handle this attraction? Ignore it?"
"No. Well, yes, at first. See, Tim--my boyfriend--seemed to--"
"Tim? Tim Drake, the young man sitting in the third row?"
Ariana smiled. "Yes, that's him. Tim didn't seem to like Peter, and I didn't want to risk what we had."
"You and Tim?"
"Me and Tim. Eventually, after he was flirting with me a few days, I had to tell Peter that I only wanted to be friends."
"He didn't like this?"
"He thought I had rejected him, I guess. He started calling me all the time, apologizing for things."
"What things did he apologize for, Ariana?"
"Just . . . um . . . well, once he called and told me that he . . . he said 'Ari, I'm sorry for hitting on you,' or something. He thought that I was . . . that I didn't like him."
"You didn't dislike him, then? Even after he began . . . bothering you?"
"I was kind of flattered, actually. I mean, Tim's the only other person who's been interested in me as much as that. Most guys just take me out a few times, then move onto the next girl."
"What happened the night before Peter Devorak killed his parents?"
"He came to my house."
"How did he find your house?"
"I don't know . . . that sort of scared me."
"Why was he at your house, Ariana?"
"He said he had just come from Tim's house. He was real upset. He said that he . . . needed me. He was real upset."
"He tried to force himself on you?"
"He didn't want to leave. He kept saying that he was in love with me, that he needed me."
"You sent him away?"
"Peter started to yell about how bad his life was. He was yelling about some job that his father had stolen from him, or something. Um, I found out later that his father was going to be working for the new car factory, before Lex Luthor decided not to buy it. It was going to be his dad's first steady job in, like, ten years."
"But, did you force him to leave?"
Ariana nodded, almost shamefully. "Yes. I told him that he had to leave, and when he wouldn't, my Uncle Vari threw him out."
"And, the next day . . . ?"
"The next day was when Peter killed his parents."
"Did you feel some guilt over the murder of Peter's mother and father?"
"It wasn't my fault . . . but, I think that if I had been a little more . . . I don't know, understanding that night before . . .maybe he wouldn't have gone over the edge."
"Over the edge?"
"Yeah . . . Um, the counselor that the school sent us all to said that Peter went a little nuts when he killed them. It wasn't my fault."
"For the record, Your Honor, Ariana is referring to Debra Hillyard, a counselor hired by the Board of Education to help the students deal with the ordeal Peter created. She was out of state, and couldn't be located in time to be here this morning."
Judge Ottenbach nodded. "Very well, Counselor. Proceed with the questioning."
"Ariana, do you believe that Peter was acting normally when he murdered his parents?"
Ariana shook her head, but hesitantly. "I . . . the person I knew--I didn't know him that well--he wouldn't have done something like that. I think he just wanted help."
Greenwauld nodded. "Thank you, Ariana. That's all for this witness, Your Honor."
Judge Ottenbach looked once again to A.D.A. Diana Beckett. "Any questions for this witness, Ms. Beckett?"
Beckett stood at her chair. "No, Your Honor."
The judge sighed. "Very well. Proceed, Mr. Greenwauld. You're dismissed, Ms. Dzerchenko."
Ariana stood and started back to her seat. She sat back down beside Tim, and he put his arm around her. "I hope you're not mad at me," she whispered in his ear.
Tim pulled her close to him and kissed her on the cheek. "You had to tell the truth, Ari. If anything, I'm proud of you." Tim felt his father's hand on his shoulder, and turned to face him. Jack Drake was looking proudly at his son. Tim smiled at his father and settled down in his chair.
Tim looked up suddenly. " . . . to the stand, Your Honor."
"Did he just call me, Dad?" Tim asked nervously.
Tim felt his father squeeze his shoulder. "Yes, son. He did."
Arkham Asylum, 1:58 p.m.
The inmates were still screaming.
The fact that Killer Croc and Two-Face had just been moved into the New Arkham wing hadn't helped the situation, either. Thankfully, the conference room in the roundhouse had been soundproofed. Oswald Cobblepot was sitting in a leather upholstered easy chair. Beside him was Groverton, who had just been hired as Head Psychiatrist. The justification for this was that Groverton was a trusted friend of the asylum's new owner who also happened to have a degree in psychiatry.
Also in the room was Quentin, who was dressed in a plain, sterile white uniform. He was getting used to his new position as Chief of Patient Care. Although he projected his usual air of pompous confidence, there was something in Quentin that was thankful that the Penguin hadn't lived up to his ruthless reputation after Quentin had failed to obtain the information Cobblepot had wanted from Derek Brellton.
Seated in a small circle, along with Cobblepot, Quentin, and Groverton, was the Riddler, Killer Croc, and Two-Face. All were unmanacled. Cobblepot folded his hands on his stomach and cleared his throat. "Now that we're all here . . ."
It was the Riddler who spoke first. "What are we doing here, Cobblepot? In fact, what are you doing here?"
Cobblepot sighed and looked at Nygma, smiling. "I'm the new owner, as I'm sure you know. And, I thought that it was time I met my . . . highest profile patients."
"You might be able to con the rest of the world into believing that the Penguin is happy sitting in boardrooms, making deals, shaking hands with the old men and women who pull the slot machines. But, I know you. Tell me what this is really all about, Oswald."
Cobblepot looked down at the floor, then back at the Riddler. "I couldn't tell you anything more than you already know, Edward. But, I can give you some things that you've never had before."
Two-Face looked up suddenly, the yellowed eye on his face's scarred left side glistening. "Like what?"
"Trust," Cobblepot answered immediately. "Responsibility. Resources. All of you in this room, including our new Chief of Patient Care--" Everyone looked to Quentin, who crossed his arms proudly. "--Has influence, connections that, until now, could only be used for personal gain. Now, you all have the chance to not only help yourselves, but also a greater good."
Two-Face half-smiled. "What greater good would that be?"
"The greater good of this city, my twofold friend. Even under Black Mask, Gotham was never united. He eliminated those who would have been his enemies. I don't want to rule solely by force or threat of force. Those are tools, not techniques unto themselves. I don't want to destroy those who oppose me, I want to unite them. The more people I control, the more I control." Cobblepot looked around at everyone in the room. "I have a manifest destiny. Everyone in this room will share in it."
"What about if we don't wanna?" Killer Croc offered in a grizzly tone.
"The two-way mirrors in your cells are electronically controlled. Just flipping a switch can reverse their views, so that you can look out, but the guards can't look in. Of course, I would need a reason to order my guards to do this . . ."
The Riddler shook his head. "I think we will need a bit more incentive than mere privacy."
"If the guards are not able to see inside your cells, then there is certainly a . . . relaxation of limitations regarding what you can keep in your living space. You would have certain . . . privileges extended to you that the other patients could never take advantage of."
Two-Face added his voice to the conversation again. "Tell us . . . what privileges?"
"Telephone privileges. Heating and air conditioning in your cells. Better meals. And, of course, when necessary, I would allow for certain . . . field trips."
"Field trips."
"When hands-on expertise is definitely called for."
The Riddler grinned. "These would, of course, be supervised excursions."
The Penguin nodded. "Of course, but your . . . shall we say 'chaperones' would only involve themselves when necessary." Cobblepot glared at Quentin. "A fact to which our new Chief of Patient Care can attest."
Quentin looked at the Riddler and nodded, as if to say That's right. Nygma still seemed unconvinced. "You'll still need to convince me, Oswald. You certainly have a reputation among your fellow thieves, but . . . well, it isn't enough."
Cobblepot nodded. He looked to Two-Face. "What about you two? Any decision?"
Two-Face lowered his head. "We will need to consult an authority before answering you."
Cobblepot shrugged. "Very well." He looked to Croc, who had been quietly staring at his cupped hand. "Mr. Jones? What about you?"
"My cell needs a place for Swampy."
Oswald raised his right eyebrow. "Pardon?" He looked at Quentin, then nodded to Croc's cupped hand. Quentin approached, leaning over Killer Croc's shoulder.
"It's a . . . um, salamander. One of them little lizards."
The Penguin nodded. "Ah ha. Well, I'm sure that we can make a space in your cell for . . . Swampy, and perhaps a few of his friends. If you agree to help me, that is . . ."
Croc raised his head. "Sure, I'll help. But . . . I gotta count for somethin'. And, you hafta do somethin' for me, too."
Cobblepot smiled. "Of course. We can talk about that later." He looked at Two-Face and Riddler. "I suppose I can expect your answers soon?"
Two-Face nodded. "We think we'll know by tomorrow."
Riddler folded his arms. "We'll see."
The Penguin stood, and Quentin walked over and opened the door. "That's all I can ask, you know."
Gotham County Courthouse, 1:58 p.m.
"Please state your name for the record."
He cleared his throat. "Timothy Drake."
Ronald Greenwauld walked up to Tim and smiled. "Mr. Drake . . . Tim, when you met Peter Devorak, what did you think?"
Tim looked at Peter sitting in the courtroom, as he was now. Then, he thought back to over a year ago, to how Peter had been then. "I wasn't really impressed with him, if that's what you mean. He was just . . . I dunno, a normal guy. Just a normal guy."
Greenwauld nodded thoughtfully. "Did you approach him as a friend? Try to make him feel welcome in his new school?"
Tim looked down at his lap for a moment. "I didn't . . . I didn't go out of my way to befriend him. Besides, he seemed more interested in Ari than anyone else."
"Ah. So, did his interest in your girlfriend turn you off to him?"
"Well, not totally. He was a pretty nice guy, and all. But, if it weren't for Dad, I never would have . . . well, you know . . ."
"What did your father do?"
"Well, the weekend after Peter moved to Gotham, I was having a . . . I invited Hudson and Ives over for the weekend. Dad insisted that I invite Peter too. He told me this story about this kid he knew in school who nobody paid attention to, and eventually the guy committed suicide."
"So, you invited Peter over to your house?"
"What else could I do?"
"How did the little sleepover go over, Tim?"
"Pretty well, until we started playing D and D . . . um, Dungeons and Dragons. It's a role-playing game we like to . . . play."
"Why did things turn sour when you played . . . D and D?"
"Well, it wasn't actually the game that did it. Ives and Hudson started talking about their families . . . their parents. I guess Peter thought we were rubbing his nose in his own family situation, or something."
"Did this strike you as a normal response?"
"Well, no. No, not at all. I mean, we weren't trying to insult him, but he almost lost it. I mean, it was after midnight and he just grabbed his stuff and left. I guess he walked all the way back home."
Greenwauld walked back to his table and pressed his fingertips onto the wooden surface. "What happened the Monday after Peter was at your house?"
"Well, that Sunday was when they found his parents. They were stabbed to death, just laying in their bedroom. Peter came to school that day, he seemed really upset. We were all wondering why he'd even come to school in the first place."
"Peter went to the school guidance counselor that day. Do you know what he said?"
Tim nodded. "He said that I had killed his parents."
"Thank you, Mr. Drake." Ronald Greenwauld nodded to Judge Ottenbach. The Judge looked again to A.D.A. Beckett.
"Ms. Beckett? Perhaps you'd like to--"
"No questions, Your Honor."
"Very well. . . . Mr. Greenwauld, have you anything further?"
"No, Judge. I'd like to make my closing statement now, if you'll permit me."
Judge Ottenbach folded his hands on top of his desk. "Yes. Proceed, Counselor."
Ronald Greenwauld removed his glasses and dropped them into his front pocket. "Your Honor, Peter Devorak was not well in the mental sense when he murdered his parents. He was not well before he committed this act, and he still isn't well today. He is a sick person, and he needs help, not punishment. He doesn't belong in Blackgate Prison, he belongs in Arkham Asylum.
"You've already heard that Peter Devorak reacted strangely, over the top, you might say, to talk about family which his mind misinterpreted as a personal insult. When he murdered his parents, it was a sudden, brutal act. According to the final autopsy report, Harold and Mattie Devorak were stabbed a total of eighty-seven times. Afterwards, he blamed the act on Tim Drake, the person whom he thought had insulted him earlier; the same person whom he saw as standing between him and his conquest of Ariana Dzerchenko.
"It was shortly afterwards that Peter adopted the identity of Pan, the personification of Peter Pan, whose fairy tale adventures were the only constant in his young life. Since he has been captured, sentenced to death in Blackgate Prison, Peter Devorak has escaped twice, both times adopting the guise of Raven, a vigilante identity based on that of Robin, the famed sidekick of the Batman. He has also been under the influence of the criminal mastermind Harvey Dent, better known as Two-Face.
"Peter Devorak has never had a stable life, never a stable role model. He doesn't need punishment; he needs help. Judge Ottenbach, I ask you, please transfer this troubled young man to Arkham Asylum. There, he can get the help that he so desperately needs."
Ronald Greenwauld put his glasses back on, then sat down. "That's all, Your Honor."
Judge Ottenbach drew in a breath and looked lazily at Diane Beckett. "You may begin your case, Ms. Beckett. If you have one, that is."
The small woman stood, took a manila folder, and approached the judge's bench. "Your Honor, I have here the final report of the Blackgate Prison's psychiatrist, who has interviewed Peter Devorak twice during his stay there. He has been found mentally competent on both occasions. I rest my case."
"Would you like to make a closing statement?"
A.D.A. Beckett shook her head. "No, Your Honor. That's all."
Judge Ottenbach raised his eyebrows and looked around contemplatively. "Very well. I will look over today's proceedings, consider all the testimony, and give you all my decision tomorrow at two fifteen in the afternoon. Court is adjourned." Judge Ottenbach rapped his gavel on the bench, stood and retired to his chambers.
Tim stood, his arm around Ariana. Everyone walked out into the hallway. Tim kissed Ariana lightly on the lips, and she left with her aunt and uncle. Jack Drake put his arm around his son and together they started outside. Tim was glad that his father was here; he needed his confidence . . .
. . . because he had a bad feeling about tomorrow.