A/N: My first attempt at a one-sided conversation. Hope you enjoy. And sorry if I'm stepping on any toes about the title. It seemed appropriate.

All I ask is that you spell my name correctly, James Evan Wilson. At this point, Dr. is optional.

It's the Hippocratic that landed me here. Here, meaning prison. People don't like doctors killing people.

Look at Dr. Sam Holmes Shepperd. Everyone thought he killed his wife even though he explained untill he was blue in the face that it was the one-armed man that did it. No, no sorry, I'm sorry. My mistake. That was The Fugitive, a TV show and then a movie with Harrison Ford. But the point is, they were all doctors convicted of murder.

Nobody forgives a doctor.

Like me and that damn Hippocratic oath tripping me up.

All I wanted to do was right a wrong. Save House after I messed everything up.

It didn't occur to anybody that I cut a deal to save House from himself. Get him to get help. I thought what I was doing was good, but no one saw it that way. Not Cameron, Foreman, certainly not Cuddy. And House? He was too busy forging my signature to scrips and medicating himself with other people's pills. Pills that I prescribed. We both were drowning in his drug addiction. I had to do something.

What did I have to lose? Tritter had us by the short hairs.

Sorry. Actually, I didn't used to talk this way or this much before prison, but this place gets to you. Also changes your concept of right and wrong, good and bad.

For instance, it's good that Hank chose me to be his friend. Protection, you know? It's good not to talk to the inmates either. Better to keep secrets.

My story is old anyway. Nobody cares. You don't have to send me a copy of the article you're writing, but can you do me one favor? Send me an old issue that covered my trial? You know, one of those supermarket rags at the checkout counter that said, 'Wonder-Boy Killer,' on the cover. I want to show the guys. They won't care about the story inside. It's my insurance when Hank's in solitary.

Do you want to know what irony is? Having to prove you are a Big Bad Murderer in prison to get some peace and quiet.

That's not the only irony… when I was in the car with Tritter ? On that rainy night? I tried to reason with him. Begged him not to trash House's career and mine. All Tritter did was laugh. Laughed and said we both deserved it. That our antics were about as funny as a heart attack.

And then he had one.

Clutched his chest, and his head fell against the steering wheel.

I knew immediately what was happening, and exactly what to do. All the pieces fell into place. He said, 'Help me. Please. You're a doctor.' I answered, 'You want me to help you? Use my medical knowledge the same way you, a detective, twisted the law to help me and House?' Sure I can do that.' Then proceeded to sit back and watch. Watched until he choked on his last breath, and all I could think about was, no Tritter—no case.

I can see by your eyes you're disappointed and bored. Not very exciting the way I tell it. Never once had to get my hands dirty. Really, not the stone-cold killer everyone painted me out to be. Just behaved like an oncologist, sat by and watched my patient die.

And that's that.

When I was sure no one was looking, I got out of the car and walked away.

But I still landed here. Just like an old Hitchcock movie, I got what I deserved. Someone was coming off a shift and saw me leave Tritter's car. The police and coroner put two and two together and here I am, behind bars.

I told you. All because of that damn Hippocratic oath.

Because doctors save lives. They don't kill.

What? You're shaking your head. You're not buying my story? A doctor who stands by and doesn't help a dying man isn't the same thing as a killer? Tell that to the judge and jury.

What about House? He visited for a while and then he didn't. Hard to look into a friend's face when you know he's a murderer.

Heard he spun out of control on drugs. Lost his license, like me.

You gotta go? Okay. You won't forget to send me a copy from my trial? You won't? You need to come again next week? Ask more questions? I've told you everything that happened…."

"How's Wilson doing?"

"In his own little world. Still delusional. Babbling about his imaginary friend, Hank, and Tritter's death. Can't get the Jewish guilt out of his head. Equates wishing Tritter dead and hesitating for a split second before the bastard up and died in front of him as murder."

"Did he recognize you this time?"

"No. Just like last week and the week before. Thinks I'm a reporter. Could have strapped your breasts onto my chest, Cuddy, and he'd never notice anything was wrong."

"I'm sorry, House. Are you going back next week? I'll go with you."

"Won't do any good. Mayfield only allows one visitor at a time."

~fin~