Cell 2357 galactic justice center, coruscant

Tahiri Veila, seated in her very clean and very bright GA cell deep in the bowels of the Galactic Justice Center, her head in her hands, found that she was surprised at what she missed.

She'd expected to miss her freedom, of course. The ability to putter as she wished in her own small, private space. The choice of whether to stay home or go out, perhaps even to visit the Temple. The comfortable, familiar weight of her lightsaber at her hip.

And she did miss those things, but above all else was an odd pang at something else she probably ought to have anticipated—how terribly much she missed the feel of soft grass beneath her bare feet. She had carpeted her apartment with grass, and now, deprived of it, it was the thing she missed most.

She could take her shoes off here, of course. After all, this was a Galactic Alliance prison cell, not a primitive cage. But there was only the cool tile of the too-antiseptic, too-well-lit cell to walk on. And the tile was cold, and hard, and unpleasant, and made her miss everything else just a little bit more.

So Tahiri kept her shoes on, stared at the incredibly white-and-black décor, and thought about how things sometimes just weren't white-and-black. She sighed and rubbed her face for a while, ran her hands through her blond hair, then rose and paced the cold tile floor. Like a caged animal, she thought. Which, just maybe, I am. With the additional irony of knowing that the Jedi Temple was close at hand. The Justice Center was just across Fellowship Plaza from it.

She could have escaped all of this. All she'd have had to do was do what she had done once before—turn her back on people who cared about her and do something reprehensible. Then, it had been to fall under the sway of Jacen Solo, of her own achingly lonely yearning for a boy long dead, of her own wants. She'd killed a decent old man. Not in combat. Not in self-defense, or defending innocents. She'd killed him in cold blood, deliberately. Broken into a room by using the Force to overcome the lock, ordering him to control the Moffs and to violate a surrender. To attack civilians. And when he'd done the right thing, which was to say no, she'd fired at him point-blank.

That had been the deal that Mardek Mool had proposed. He hadn't said in so many words that it had been Daala's idea, but he hadn't had to. It was ironic that Chief of State Natasi Daala, who had been so incensed at that type of action when ordered by Jacen Solo, had been so comfortable with asking Tahiri to betray those who trusted her a second time. It seemed that Daala thought that two wrongs made a right. Because Tahiri had killed Gilad Pellaeon, and lied and deceived in order to do so, it was somehow "right" for her to lie and deceive again. The only difference was, this time it was Daala's enemies, not her friends, that Tahiri was supposed to betray.

But it wasn't right. Tahiri was not about to walk the same misguided path again. She realized that her chances of being found not guilty were, to put it mildly, poor. Make that slim to none. Not even Han Solo would gamble on it.

She didn't believe the courts were completely corrupted. Just mostly.

The Jedi had tried to get Nawara Ven to represent her—something she hadn't expected, something that moved her. She wasn't surprised that Judge Lorteli had forbidden Ven to do so. Mool, the next advocate, had been sincere in wanting to help, but hadn't been up to the task.

Real help had come from an unexpected, but welcome source. Jaina Solo had come to visit her two days ago, smiling as she told Tahiri that "someone was able to find a good representative for you." The someone, of course, had to be Jagged Fel, and the knowledge, like the willingness of the Jedi to support her, had surprised and touched Tahiri.

This new attorney would be arriving at any minute. She knew that he had once been highly respected, but had retired some years ago. That he was a Bothan named Eramuth Bwua'tu. She wondered if he was any relation to Admiral Nek Bwua'tu. There was a lengthy list of cases he had won, but she had no way here to research them, and they had all transpired before she'd even been born. She wasn't sure what to expect.

The door swung open and she stood, her heart beating slightly faster. Tahiri, don't, just don't, don't hope too much—

She blinked. He was, without a doubt, the most elegant being she had ever seen.

Taller than most Bothans, and very thin, he looked like he had stepped out of another era. His fur was dark brown and sleek, though it was thinning slightly with age. Around his muzzle and cheeks, it was snowy white, in stark contrast with the brown, and perfectly groomed. He extended a hand to her, and she took it, noting that he wore gloves.

The rest of his attire was equally as formal. A small, oddly jaunty hat sat between his two ears. His vest, long coat, and trousers looked perfectly tailored, the coat fitting his narrow shoulders, the trouser creases knife-sharp. His boots gleamed, and he sported a cane, black and simple, but with a stylized handle sporting the finely carved head of some animal Tahiri did not recognize. In the same hand he had a small black bag that looked to be made of nerfhide.

"Eramuth Bwua'tu, Esquire," the dapper being said. His handshake was firm, but not too much, and he looked her right in the eye in an interested manner. His voice was deep and mellifluous and resonant. Tahiri could just imagine it carrying in a court of law, with Eramuth crying out something like "I object!" or, more floridly, "Beings of the jury, search your hearts for justice!"

"Tahiri Veila," she managed. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. Why?

"I've been asked to represent you," Eramuth continued. "Please, miss, do sit down."

"I'd rather stand."

He smiled. It was utterly charming. With a rueful shake of the cane, he said, "Ah, but I'm afraid that I would rather sit, and good breeding forbids me doing so unless you do." He winked.

Tahiri sat. Again, she fought the urge to smile.

"Thank you, my dear," Eramuth said, putting a hand to his heart and bowing ever so slightly before pulling out a chair for himself. With anyone else, Tahiri would have thought it a calculated, over-the-top gesture. But with him, it seemed completely natural. There was a grace to him, not just of mannerisms or clothing, but somehow simply emanating from who he was.

Hope started gnawing on her like a mynock on a power cable. She pushed it down, ruthlessly.

"Are you related to Admiral Nek Bwua'tu?"

He gave her another quick smile, focusing the full force of his attention on her. "Indeed I am. He's my nephew. He's done the family proud. Unlike his notoriously eccentric uncle."

He was still smiling, but Tahiri's slightly giddy feeling of hope suddenly turned cold. "Eccentric uncle?". It would be just her luck, she thought, to have landed a madman for an attorney.

"Only in Bothan circles," Eramuth said. "Are you familiar with our culture, my dear?"

Normally, the endearment would have annoyed her, but she sensed only kindness. "Well, I don't want to stereotype, but your people are known for political…um…maneuvering."

He chuckled. It was a warm, rich, happy sound, and Tahiri instantly wanted to hear it again. "You've the makings of a diplomat."

"Oh, trust me, not really."

"Let me put it this way. Sometimes certain clans want certain outcomes in trials. Sometimes that means a verdict of not guilty for my client…which, of course, I desire as well, providing I believe that said client is, in truth, not guilty. I've never taken on a case where I don't believe, with my whole heart, that that being is truly innocent. And I can assure you I never shall."

His voice rose with the passion of his beliefs, and his face went from pleasant to intense and righteous. Tahiri stared at him. She felt a strange catch in her throat and the hairs at the back of her neck rose.

"I am, however, enough of a son of Bothawui to want to be on the winning side." He gave her a somewhat abashed smile. "I do not take on cases I believe I cannot win. And most certainly, I would not come out of retirement and leave my comfortable professorial position for one."

"That's…very comforting to know."

He beamed at her for a moment, reached across the table and patted her hand, then turned to business. He pulled off his gloves with quick, precise movements, opened the case and pulled out—

"Flimsi?"

"Of course." He reached into the bag and pulled out a datapad. "I do have datapads, my dear. Never fear, I'm not entirely out of date. I simply prefer to have the feel of something a little more permanent in my hands. Data can be erased. Ink…is a little harder."

He handed her one of the datapads. "All the information on your case is there. I have the same documents here," and he indicated the flimsi, "all written down in that ink I so love. We can go through it together." Eramuth shuffled through the papers, carefully setting aside a blank piece and a writing instrument.

"Now, my dear," he said, looking at her kindly. "Tell me everything."

CHAPTER FOUR