Today, the Interstate:

She groaned as she attempted once again to wipe the foggy windshield clean with her bare hand hand. "Come on, come on...useless defogger." She attempted to glance at the speedometer while still keeping an eye on the slick, treacherous highway. Barely thirty miles an hour and a good two hundred more miles to Chicago.

There was no way she was going to make it by 9 a.m.

But she was damn well going to try.

Two weeks earlier at the Springfield Airport:

"Final boarding call for U.S. Airlines Flight 3 to Chicago..."

"Are you sure?" she asked for the last time.

He nodded slowly, eyes upon her own all the while. "I'm sure. I'd rather you stay here."

He slowly unwound his arms from around her waist, and turned to board the plane. "It's better this way."

She nodded reluctantly.

She'd stayed to watch the plane lift into the air, until it was well out of sight.

Today, the Interstate:

A flash of lightning interrupted her reverie as more rain began pelting the windshield.

"NO, NO, NO, you can't do this!"

As if mocking her, the thunder crashed, and more rain than Michelle ever thought possible began to fall.

"Okay, okay, you can do this," she muttered as she pulled off to the side of the road.

"Stubborn, stubborn, man!" She slammed the steering wheel in frustration, and then howled in pain.

She stared at her hand, willing the pain to dissipate, and then looked up into the cloudy sky.

Today, The Four Seasons Chicago:

He stared at the sky from his hotel balcony. It should have been an early dawn in the Midwestern summer, but all he could see was a storm in the distance.

Today, the Interstate:

She sighed, waiting for the storm to pass. She could remember each detail of that morning, as if it had only occurred a few hours earlier. Corn flakes in the bowl, the orange juice in the glasses, his usual pathetic attempt at making coffee...

Springfield, Nine months ago:

She'd been fruitlessly been attempting to make it drinkeable again with a stiff shot of cream and sugar when the doorbell rang.

When she's answered it, she'd known it would be trouble.

"Is Daniel Santos at home?" Badges flashed.

"Who are you?" She knew who they were.

"We're from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to speak to Mr. Santos privately."

He appeared over her shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

"Daniel Santos?" he nodded. "We need to speak to you in connection with..."

The office of Professor Gerald Ferguson, University of Chicago School of Law two weeks later:

"... smuggling, extortion, RICO... your general organized crime." The older gentleman in a flannel shirt, worn blue jeans, and work boots, rubbed his hands with glee. "The juicy stuff, and no tax evasion to worry about!"

"No, the Santoses always pay their taxes; we're 100% American." Danny muttered dryly.

Professor Ferguson laughed heartily, but Danny realized that Michelle hadn't said a word since they'd arrived at the university. "Michelle, baby, are you okay?"

There was silence.

"Michelle?"

Today, the Interstate:

The pain in her hand was dulling. She still recalled that first night after he had come back from questioning.

She had long since been in bed, staring at the ceiling sleeplessly. When he had slipped silently into their bed, he had slid an arm around her waist.

"So, did you do it?"

She could feel his chin moving against her back as he nodded.

"Some of it."

She put her hand over his own, and wept.

"It was before I met you..."

Professor Ferguson's Office:

"Michelle," he reached over and took her hand, "I'm sorry, Professor, do you mind... I think my wife needs some air."

"No, not at all."

He led her into the corridor, empty that Saturday afternoon.

"Michelle, do you want to go back to the hotel? I can stay here with the Professor by myself."

"No, no, Danny, I want to be here with you."

"Are your sure?"

She led him back into the Professor's office.

As she sat herself down, she looked the Professor in the eye and slowly, took a deep breath, "When I asked Ross to recommend an attorney, he told me you were the best, Chicago Law professor, an expert in federal criminal law and procedure, a former clerk on the Seventh Circuit... he told me that no one knows the federal courts in Chicago like you."

"What are we looking at?"

He returned her unblinking gaze. "Dr. Bauer, frankly, your husband's case on the substantive merits is not that strong. However, the substance is only part of the case. Your husband's case presents several interesting procedural and evidentiary issues, which is why I am intrigued enough to take the case. It will not be easy, but we have a chance."

"I see."

Today, the Interstate:

Had she really understood what it would take? The reams of evidentiary documents that had poured through the house, the late nights... she felt sure she had learned more about the hearsay evidentiary rules than most law students...

She had read the case against Danny when it arrived. It hadn't been a surprise. She had had some idea of what he had done before they met.

But reading it on paper, names, dates, places... "September 5, 1995, Mr. Santos arrived at ...." Her hands had been shaking, shaking violently by the time she had finished the first ten pages. She had had to take a shot of whiskey before she could finish the document.

He had been late coming home that day. When he arrived, he found her sitting in the easy chair with the documents in her lap, staring out the window. He hadn't even had to ask what it was.

They had eaten dinner in silence that night.

Oh she had gone with him to Chicago, but she stayed in the hotel, and she never read the documents which arrived from the U.S. Attorney's office again. She could recite most of the hearsay rules and exceptions without skipping a beat, debate the federal criminal procedure with complete self assurance, and had researched the Honorable Margaret Harlan to the point where she knew the names of all eleven grandchildren.

But she never discussed the merits of the case with Danny.

The night before he left for his court date in Chicago two weeks ago, she had been packing the navy dress she had prepared for court when Danny had sat down on the side of the bed.

"Michelle..." he began.

"Yes."

The Four Seasons Chicago:

He continued to stare into the gray, opaque sky.

It would have destroyed her to be here, he told himself. A witness to the prosecution.

He had seen how the process had eaten at her, first a dribble of papers arriving at the house, then a consumption of all their time, and finally the flood of reporters that had taken up residence on their lawn.

The day one of them had trampled the rose bushes that Vanessa had transplanted from Maureen's garden, he had almost given in to his instincts. Fortunately, Bill had been visiting that day.

Fortunately, for the reporter. Bill had forgiven him a couple days later.

Michelle had locked herself in their bathroom for an hour. He'd been able to hear her crying. After that he had vowed that he would do anything to protect her from what HE had done. And so, they never spoke about it.

At least that's what he had told himself.

As he saw a faint pink light in the distance, he had to admit to himself that he could not bear the idea of Michelle seeing him in court, confirming all of Rick's ... hell, all of Springfield's notions about him. A mobster, a con, a felon, a hoodlum, a gangster...

A criminal.

And he knew he wouldn't be able to sit in the same room with her when the indictments were read out loud in court.

But somehow, he had given in last night, and had told her everything he had wanted to say over the past nine months.

Right before he hung up, "I love you. I miss you."

Today, the Interstate:

The rain was letting up.

Yesterday, on the phone they had talked about nothing for hours as the rain had started to fall.

He had to go to sleep for court in the morning. "I love you, I miss you." Click.

She had stared at the phone for a good ten minutes, before calling the airport.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Bauer, all flights to Chicago have been cancelled due to the storm."

"What?"

"Dr. Bauer, there are no flights to Chicago until at least tomorrow afternoon."

She had called Rick and Abby from the road.

"Michelle, it's not safe enough to fly to Chicago. Don't you think that means it's not safe enough to drive?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. I have to go."

She pulled back onto the Interstate. 

Monday, 8:30 a.m., the U.S. District Court in Chicago:

A strange, unfamiliar sensation struck as he settled into his seat.

Panic.

If he didn't get off, he was never going to see Michelle again without a sheet of bullet proof glass between them.

His head whipped around and he began to scan the crowd in the gallery. He'd told Michelle to stay at home, but that had never stopped her before.

She wasn't there.

Maybe it was selfish to want her there. Maybe it was selfish to not want her there. All he knew was that, in that moment, he had never wished harder for anything in his life.

 Outside the court room:

It had taken a liberal interpretation of the speed limit, some creative wardrobe changing into the navy dress in the Chicago rush hour traffic, but she was there, she thought, as she sped through the courthouse hallways.

Almost there.

Beep, beep, beep....

"Miss, would you step over here please."

It took a moment for Michelle to register that the security guard was speaking to her.

"What?"

"Would you step over here please?"

"But I don't have anything...."

The guard firmly took her arm, and began running a metal detector over her.

Michelle looked down at her watch. 8:45. She could still make it.

"Miss, I'm afraid your dress has metal buttons..."

"WHAT!" Men clearly did not think of such things when recommending dresses for court. She was going to have to speak to Ferguson about this.

"The metal detector is on high sensitivity. The Santos trial, you know...."

Inside the Courtroom:

Danny stared at his watch. Ten more minutes. He gulped in some air.

Eight more minutes.

He tapped his foot.

Five more minutes. The courtroom was packed.

Three more minutes. He stared at the ceiling.

Two....

There was a commotion outside the courtroom. "I'm sorry, miss, the courtroom is full..."

"You don't understand...

"Miss, you'll have to leave..."

"But..."

"Miss..."

""BUT I'M HIS WIFE."

He started smiling before he even began turning his head.

She squeezed her tiny frame between two courtroom artists.

And she smiled back.

The End.

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