Chapter 1:
Monday, one-thirty A.M.
The CCTV camera underneath the warehouse eaves wasn't meant for spying. On most nights, frankly, it was not even switched on. The warehouse held nothing very important, anyway, and the owner was in good terms with everybody who worked the port - authorities and amateur assassins, alike. The CCTV was a lot like its owner: easy, friendly, and sleepy.
But not tonight.
That morning it was bright-eyed and wide awake. And it had its gaze trained specifically on a fresh white yacht just about to set off on its maiden voyage. It had slept through the christening ceremony earlier that day, but tonight, it watched.
One thirty-three A.M.
A group of two came limbering down the docks, dragging between them a third person. They stopped at the edge, and the third person was thrown into the water. He landed face down; floated. A bit of scrabbling, and when the two men stood up again, the body was gone.
Exit, stage right.
One thirty-six A.M.
A wiry man in a button-down and slacks stole into the scene. He looked around, and for the briefest moments, the CCTV catches his face. A bit blurry, but there was the aquiline nose, the thin face, and the deep set eyes. In the next second he was kneeling down in front of the yacht, apparently looking for something. A minute later, he stood, seemingly satisfied, and calmly walked out in the direction from whence he came.
Monday, five forty-four A.M.
Nine-year old Peter had never been up so early before. But today was a special day. It was his birthday, and Papa and Mama had just bought him a boat - a real boat! They were going to take it out for a spin, and were going to picnic in the neighbouring island for lunch.
"Hurry!" he called over his shoulder at his laughing parents. The gangplank was already down, and excited footsteps thundered up it, culminating in a loud thud as Peter jumped right onto the deck. The wood felt good under his feet, and it sounded good, and the way the boat sank a little bit was gratifying. He raced around the perimeter, running his hands along the cool metal rails still wet with salty dew. If he leaned far out, he could catch the blue letter spelling out the boat's name - Marie Angelie.
"Mama! Papa!"
"Calm down, sweetheart."
"We're already here. The captain's preparing to leave."
That was the signal to run to the cockpit. The captain, in white and blue, saluted him with a grin. Peter halted, drew himself upright, and saluted back.
"Will you let me steer?"
"Perhaps," came the reply. The captain checked controls while Peter hovered.
"Are we almost going to sail?"
"Very nearly." A final check and the roar of the engine coming to life shook the yacht. It was a long, low purr...which very quickly slowed to a cough, then spluttered to almost a stop. The captain frowned. He was reaching for the intercom when one of the sailors ran in.
"Propellers are tangled," he said, his face white.
"Tangled? Somebody messed up the anchor chain?"
A mute shaking of the head. "You have to see this, sir."
They ran out, Peter at their heels. The sailor led them to the prow.
Red water lapped against the pristine white of Marie Angelie. And looking up at them from the water, was the bruised, bloated face of a man in a police officer's uniform.
Monday, six oh-five A.M.
Officer Jones had his eyes locked on the door of apartment 426. They had been lying in wait for fifteen minutes now, and his legs were beginning to fall asleep from being folded too long. From out of the corner of his eyes he saw the grim faces of his co-officers. Police Chief Edelstein was there as well, pressed up against the wall, pistol held in long, elegant hands. At another time, Jones would have marvelled at the incongruence of it, but not then. Right then he was fired up with nothing but adrenaline, and hate, instead of blood, flowed in his veins. A brother officer was dead. Killed. Murdered.
The seconds seemed to tick forever until they heard the first sign of movement. Slowly, excruciatingly, the door to apartment 426 opened. A slender leg first stepped out, then followed the rest of the body. A thin face, sunken eyes, and a mop of unruly hair. He didn't have to check the reference photograph. He knew. The hate told him. And the hate propelled him forward. He charged like a raging bull, the war whoop curdling in his throat. He felt his shoulder collide with a pack of solid flesh. One moment he was stumbling; next, he had his captive shoved up against the wall.
There was shouting.
"Who the hell are you!?"
"Jones, no unnecessary force!"
"Turn around and hands on the wall!"
"You're under arrest!"
Things were slammed open and officers spilled into the apartment.
"No weapons on him, sir."
"Sir, bloodstained clothes in the bathroom."
Still facing the wall, the thin mouth on the bony face curved up into a smirk.
Monday, six forty-five A.M.
There was one thing Tino Vainamoinen did every night before going to bed: he checked his horoscope for the next day. He did it so early because when he got up the next morning, he was usually about to run late for something, whether it was an office meeting, or a client meeting, or a court hearing, or a pile of work sitting on his desk. And he kept doing it even though he didn't really believe in horoscopes and even though he usually forgot what it said when it read it the night before.
Exception: today.
When the piercing shriek of his cellphone forced him awake at roughly six in the morning, he remembered what his horoscope said about a "rude awakening". After instinctively rolling over, he remembered that the call might be important, and reluctantly reached over to pick it up. Admittedly, his "Hello?" wasn't the perkiest, but it was only six in the morning and he'd fallen asleep only three hours ago.
"Attorney Tino Vainamoinen?"
He suppressed a yawn. "Yes? Who is this please?" The owner of the voice, Tino figured, had probably already had coffee. He began to wonder whether he would have time to run to the corner deli for a cup on the way to attending to whatever it was now.
"Officer Abel Peeters. We have arrested a man suspected to be involved in the murder of Police Officer Ulrich Edelstein. He has requested for you to be his counsel."
There wasn't going to be time for a cup of coffee. There never was enough time for anything, anyway.
Monday, eight-fifty-nine A.M.
The meeting room was dubbed, "The Cabinet". It was a tiny place squashed in the middle of all the office cubicles, and made even tinier by the massive conference table set squarely in the middle. It could seat twelve at once, with a thirteenth chair at the head. In many ways, it was like a fancy interrogation room, and came complete with an invisible airconditioner capable of sub-zero temperatures. This enhanced capability was usually only resorted with when negotiating with stubborn adverse parties and their even more mulish counsels.
Four people currently sat at the table. The chair at the head was empty. To the right sat Attorney Berwald Oxenstierna, and beside him, Ludwig Beilschmidt. The chair at the left was empty, and beside that sat Attorney Lukas Bondevik, flanked by Felice Vargas. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic tapping of of the keyboard. Tino had called earlier and asked to have an application for bail prepared. Felice was working on it.
Lukas was looking over Felice's shoulder and was about to comment on something when the door burst open and a loud "God morgen!" rattled the tinted glass walls. Ludwig tensed and Felice visibly flinched. Berward looked up from the newspaper he was reading and Lukas, eyes still fixed on Felice's screen, replied, "Shut up, Dane."
"Aww..what'sa matter? Not enough sleep? No butter on your toast this morning? Sorry I forgot to leave some for yo-ack!"
The newcomer, Attorney Mathias Kohler, was half-sprawled on the table. Lukas had him by the tie and they were nose-to-nose. "When I tell you to shut up..." He stopped, eyebrows drawing together. "You've been drinking."
"It was just a beer!" Mathias hands shot up in a placating gesture. "I swear to god, I'm not even drunk!"
"You have a hearing at ten," Berwald put in, flipping another page of his morning paper.
"Aw, come on! It's at Lukasiewicz's sala anyway! It's not like he'll notice!"
"He will!" A cheery little voice cut in. It was followed by an ample chest and the smiling face of Katyusha Arlovskaya. "Last week, he told me Dr. von Bock - the coroner, you know? - went in to testify. And he smelled like French perfume! I didn't know they had those at the morgue!" She giggled, passing around styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. "I've also heard that Dr. von Bock is a looker!" she giggled. "And here I thought all coroners were old and smelled like dead people!"
Lukas choked on his coffee. "Katya, please. It's too early for this."
She giggled again. "Sorry."
"If von Bock isn't up to your standards after all, Katya sweetheart," Mathias winked, "you know I'm still available."
"This should be counted as sexual harrassment," Berwald murmured into this espresso.
Mathias stuck his tongue out at him. "You're just jealous because a certain Tino-"
"Present!"
All conversation stopped, and heads swivelled towards the newcomer. Tino, loaded down with a file folder and his laptop, toed the door closed and plopped into the empty seat at the head of the table. "Sorry I'm late. Morning, Katya!"
"Good morning, Mr. Tino." She placed the last cup of coffee in front of him, smiled at everyone, and quietly left the room.
As soon as she was gone, everyone returned into solemn action. Even comical Mathias, having had a draught of coffee, straightened his tie and sat up to attention.
"The client's name is Amando Guiliani," Tino began. "Apparently, his name has been on the police's list of those possibly involved in arms smuggling. The victim is police officer Ulrich Edelstein-"
"Roderich's son?" Mathias put in.
"Yes. Police Chief Edelstein's son."
He hissed. Lukas spared him a glance. "Go on, Tino."
"Right...So, Officer Edelstein was found dead at five-fifty this morning, his body lashed to a yacht. The CCTV camera of the warehouse nearby recorded activity around one-thirty in the morning, of two men dumping the body. A few minutes later, Guiliani comes into the scene, apparently checking on the..." he hesitated, "...the disposal, and walks away. He was arrested at his home at six-forty-five this morning. Bloodstained clothes and a fan knife were found inside his apartment by the arresting officers."
"What did he tell the police?" Berwald asked.
"Nothing. He denied everything. Said he was into wood carving as a hobby, and cut himself accidentally with the knife. So he changed clothes and hadn't had the chance to wash them yet. He claimed to be running late for work."
"The police believed him?"
Tino shrugged. "His left hand was bandaged."
"Did they take DNA samples?"
"Everything. Complete fingerprints, mugshots, mouth swab, hair, blood, and even the dirt on his shoes."
"Did he tell you anything privately?"
A shake of the head. "He said he wanted out first before he would talk. That's why I called for the bail application-"
"Done," Felice beamed, meeting his questioning gaze.
"Great. We'll file that this afternoon. I was planning to take Ludwig and Felice with me tomorrow to interview witnesses. I want to build my defense from that."
Romulus Vargas went by many names, but his top favourite was "Nonno", followed by "Boss." In hushed conversations amongst themselves, his employees referred to him as "Emperor".
He was a huge man who lived for pleasure and who wallowed in decadence. His days were spent updating his wine cellar, meeting with jewellers, and getting fitted for the priciest suits. Afternoons were for the family, siesta, and attending to the vineyard. Business matters were reserved for the evening because unpleasantries always ruined entire days. If they were relegated to the evenings, he thought, at least he could have a glass of wine - or brandy if the news was particularly distasteful - afterwards and then sleep it off.
Eight o'clock on a fine Monday morning found him soaking in his open-air bath, a glass of Montepulciano on hand. It was a humid day, pleasant if only because his only granddaughter had promised to be home in time for dinner. It was days like these that Romulus regretted allowing her to go to law school. Felice was hardly ever home anymore, and when she was, she was holed up in her room, reading. Conversations with Nonno had to be cut short in favour of the vain ramblings of an unknown judicial scholar.
Romulus let out a long sigh. It used to be that she talked and talked to him until she fell asleep, still talking.
"I'm going to law school to protect the family," she'd said. His heart swelled with pride at those words and he couldn't find it in himself to refuse her.
"How is Felice?" he said to nobody in particular, but expecting the butler to reply. Instead, it was a too-familiar voice that said,
"Busy protecting the family, Nonno."
Romulus smile widened. He didn't need to open his eyes to know who it was. "Lovino," he murmured. "Glad to see you've returned safe."
Lovino made an irritated sound. "That moron Guiliani's been caught. Booked this morning."
"Oh? And what do you want to do?"
"He's called for the services of the lawyer Felice's interning for."
"Oh." Finally, Romulus opened his eyes. This first thing he saw was the creamy white of his ceiling, and then the clear, blue skies beyond. The smell of fresh earth wafted in from the garden. "In that case, give him bail money. Let Felice play lawyer to her heart's content."
It's criminal-legal drama-ish thing. Not sure if I can have pairings, but we'll see how the flow of the plot goes.
Hm...I wrote this because I wanted to do something fun with the things I learn in school, and also because I wish to share what little I can of this world I want to belong to.
The characters. I wanted to write GerIta, but Ita-chan doesn't seem like the law school type. On the other hand, his nyotalia version seemed to be tough enough, so I chose to use her instead. Other characters will make appearances, some supporting, others just cameo. I hope everybody will look out for them. :3 Oh, "Ulrich Edelstein" is Holy Roman Empire. At first I didn't want to use countries, because it might offend, but since HRE has been defunct for hundreds of years, I'm guessing it's safe to use him. The accused is NOT a Hetalia character. I'm sure we all know why.
Aaaaand...ah! the title. "Final and Executory" is what we call judgments that can no longer be appealed or reversed. They are final and cannot be set aside anymore. "Executory" means that there's nothing else to be done but to carry out the judgment. The title is a sort of play on words, which readers are meant to discover at the end of the story. Kind of a bad pun, actually, but...heh.
So...that's it. I hope you enjoy the first chapter. Feedback is greatly appreciated.