�Mr. Denby?� the judge sounded irritated. �Are you with us?�

�Harry, the judge just asked how you plead,� Bob whispered in Harry�s ear.

Harry�s mouth was bone dry. He rasped, �Not guilty, Your Honor.� He struggled to clear his throat again, and he sounded horrible as he coughed and sputtered.

The judge crinkled her nose in disgust as she looked down at Harry. �Mr. Denby, I find sufficient evidence to remand you for possession of controlled substances, harboring a fugitive, sale of narcotics, kidnapping, murder one and falsifying police reports. I agree with the Prosecutor that you are a flight risk. Therefore, your motion for bail is denied. I order you to remain in custody until your trial date. Calendars, ladies and gentlemen.�

�Your Honor,� Bob objected, �due to the delicate nature of Mr. Denby�s ongoing investigation, keeping him in custody will expose him to an increased risk of assassination by his suspects once they learn that he is a police officer.�

Harry�s heart began beating in his throat. He tugged at his tie, desperate for air. Suffocating. Can�t�breathe�

�Overruled, Mr. Martinez. I feel Mr. Denby will be at far less risk while in police custody than if he were fending for himself out on the street.�

The judge and attorneys agreed on a speedy trial date, beginning in two months. Calendars slammed, briefcases snapped. Harry�s face was flushed, and he gasped and choked as he tried to free himself from his tie. Seconds later, amid gasps and screams from all over the courtroom, Detective Harry Denby crumpled on the floor.

�Where the hell am I?� Harry woke from his nightmare in clean white sheets. He was on his back, and two pillows elevated his head. A heart monitor beeped above him to the right, and oxygen tubes were in his nostrils. An IV bag dripped saline lazily into a vein in his left arm. The monitor beeped faster and sounded an alarm as Harry took in his surroundings. He tried to reach the leads on his chest so he could shut off that infernal noise, but he found he couldn�t move his arms. His wrists were cuffed to the rails of his bed. His ankles were attached with Velcro straps to the bottom rails. It wasn�t a nightmare. He was, indeed, a prisoner. In some kind of hospital. He looked out the window, and figured it was late afternoon.

A nurse came in to check him, responding to the alarm. Silently, she measured his vital signs, checked her watch, and efficiently jotted some notes in Harry�s chart. She pulled back his eyelids to examine the sclera, clucked her tongue disapprovingly, then jotted a few more notes. Finally, she pressed a few buttons on the monitor to silence the alarm. Thank God. Still silent, the nurse slipped the chart back into the slot in the door on her way out.