[October 2nd, 2:56 am. LeBlanc & Co. Law Offices]

The office was coated in a dark blue, in those areas that caught little shafts of light from the old blinds that bent and didn't cover the entirety of the window. Otherwise, outside and inside the building was mostly blackness, making most of the topography of the little room indiscernible. The young attorney was sprawled out on the old leather sofa that sat in the middle of the room. It was maroon, and worn and sagging in numerous spots due to overuse, but with a throw pillow placed lovingly on the armrest, it made as good a spot as any other to sleep. Of course, his bed was only a few feet away, in the next room, which was locked tightly during business hours, but he lacked the energy: papers were strewn about the handsome little glass and mahogany coffee table that was the office's lone indicator of any air of professionalism. Some of them were legal in nature, developments in case law of which an attorney would need to keep apprised, but most were bills, menacingly circled and underlined in thick red ink. Their edges were folded at random, and they were only loosely organized in order of due date.

At once, a white light filled the center of the room, casting that same bluish glow on the office's features. Seconds later, it was accompanied by a small electronic tone and the sounds of vibration. The young attorney's eyes strained against the sudden bright light as he groped blindly for his phone. Eventually, to his great relief, he found it, and tapped the button on the screen, pushing it to his ear. "Mmhello?" he muttered into it, his voice hoarse. The voice on the other end sounded familiar, but the attorney's eyes remained closed, and he failed to process the information over the incredibly powerful desire to remain asleep.

"Are you listening to me, Robin?" the voice finally demanded. Robin assured the caller that he was, and allowed the conversation to continue with a few mutters of interest so as to pretend he was paying careful attention to the story. He caught only blurbs, but they were enough. When prison was mentioned, his ears pricked up. "So... you're there right now?" the attorney mumbled, itching his temple. "Yeah," he repeated into the phone a few times as inquiries were made. "Well, don't talk to anyone else," his dazed attorney's mind counseled, "Just... just tell 'em you're waiting for your lawyer. You don't have to say anything." He yawned. Concern dripped into his ear from the other end. "I know," he said in a way that was not as common as his still-sleeping mind presumed, "They won't let me in this late. In the morning. Yes... Yes... Uh-huh. Okay, try to get a little sleep. ...I'm sure, but try anyway. ...Don't. Good. Yeah, morning. Bright and early, okay? Okay, g'bye." Feeling blood rushing into his head, the attorney grimaced, tapped his phone, and tucked the item back into his pocket, shutting his eyes and lowering himself onto the throw pillow once more.

[...]

[October 2nd, 9:03 am. LeBlanc & Co. Law Offices]

A gust of air stirred up a few locks of his hair. The young attorney felt his eyelids squeeze and he subconsciously pushed up from the pillow, swiping a paw at his face, in part to obscure the daylight and in part to quickly remove any drool that might have emerged in his sleep. He smacked his lips together a few times and fluttered his eyelids to ensure that he was really awake, then sat up and grasped the couch, unsure of himself in sitting still for a few seconds. He gazed dully at the wall until someone steps in front of his view. "Good morning, sunshine," she smirked, her lips dripping with irony.

"Uh, morning," the attorney managed to reply, recovering from the shock. It doesn't take long to understand who he's seeing, however. The woman was tall, curly ruby-red bangs adorning her head, wrapped up into a neat ponytail that hung just slightly below the back. She was dressed in a black sweater, covered by a ruby vest (a favorite of hers) and a warm gray-and-yellow striped skirt that was of a conservative length. She also sported a pair of lethally professional black heels and two gold earrings that swung in a ridiculous fashion whenever she moved. "You're here early, Ms. Vendise," the young attorney coughed out. Anna Vendise, his secretary and financial adviser. Although, to say "his" was unfair: Anna had started working as a secretary for the firm years before Robin had, but with the departure of its founder, Robin was the only one left who could be considered her employer.

"Don't call me that." She smiled, pulling a plastic trash bag out of a cupboard and fitting it into the can that sat by her desk. "You make me feel like your grandma. My name's Anna."

"Sorry," he mumbled, standing up. He went over to his desk, tucked away in a room on the other edge of the central corridor. The desk was a polished maroon wood, very beautiful and official-looking, surrounded by classical and legal literature that made it all the more impressive. Robin would be surprised if he had managed to read even half of those books in his time here. The small placard on the desk designated it to one "Robin LeBlanc," a fair-skinned young man who was a little too eager to jump into a suit, but couldn't stand having to wear a tie. They always choked him. Again, however, it felt insulting to suggest that this desk belonged to him: a few months ago, his office was a stack of binders arranged on the coffee table, and the placard on this desk read "Fado Verlaine." Fado was a significantly more impressive-looking fellow, one that you'd trust with your life from the minute you saw him: cerulean hair, a square jaw with a rugged beard, but large gray eyes, both compassionate and sagely. He was the type of man you could trust with a secret, and with desperation.

A sprightly but untrained attorney inspired strictly the opposite reaction, however. Why Fado had ever decided to grace him with the run of the building, Robin couldn't guess. Maybe the old man could see that the area was going south and Robin was the only sucker foolish enough to be willing to pay to take over the space. That would explain why the building's few other employees also vanished, except for Anna. "And," Robin uttered, stepping back out from the darkened office, "sorry about yesterday. Here you go." He dropped a check onto the desk.

Anna stopped pecking at her laptop and looked down at it. "What's this?"

"Your check," Robin said and shrugged, "I got it sorted out."

Anna grasped the paper and read it carefully: $2,680, made out in her name. "I thought you said you couldn't afford it right now." She eyed the document suspiciously.

"I got it sorted out," the attorney repeated.

She stared at him for a minute, trying to glean something, then gave up and smiled, stowing the check in her purse. "Well, thanks, boss man."

"Don't call me that, either," he requested, "I'm not really... Fado's the boss."

"He did look more equipped to run a joint," she answered sarcastically.

"So," Robin settled himself and let out a sigh, "How are we looking, Ms. Master of Finances?"

"We'll be looking much better when we get ourselves a client." Anna frowned at the empty spreadsheet displayed on her computer, following it up with a disapproving glance at the empty office.

Robin's lip pouted, too, hearing what wasn't really news to him. They had been without a client since the greenhorn attorney took over, and that was quickly becoming a significant problem. But then the young attorney remembered something and clicked his tongue, "That's right."

"What's right?" his secretary glanced up.

He pulled his coat off the rack and slipped it over his arms. "I actually think I might have a client for us."

"Really?!" Anna's eyebrows jumped up in shock.

"Yeah." Robin nodded with less enthusiasm. "I got a call from an old friend last night, she's run into a spot of trouble. Asked me to come down to the detention center; I told her I'd be there first thing in the morning."

"Well, what are you standing around for?" Anna scoffed, "Get going!"

"Obviously," he huffed, "Will you be okay by yourself? It might take a while."

"Oh, no, not time to work by myself in peace," the secretary said, rolling her eyes, "Anything but that."

"Just make sure we're not robbed or something while I'm out." The attorney smiled back. Anna saluted affirmatively and went back to her laptop.

The elevator ride from the eleventh floor of the old building seemed to take forever on that particular day. The elevators were always slow and unreliable, frequently taking several minutes after being called to finally arrive, but today was the worst: Robin hadn't felt the pressure of a deadline in weeks, if not months. When he reached the lobby, cold air was sweeping into the building as people drifting into the space from the streets intermittently threw the glass doors open. Robin pushed past a few of them and made his way down to the parking lot to jump in his old black car, the interior of which was already ten degrees colder than outside. He cranked up the heat as soon as he started it, but the vents always started by spewing a bit more cold air into the vehicle before it warmed up. Robin shivered; the sky stood steel-gray. There was a thirty percent chance of rain.

As he pulled out of the lot and down the street, Robin switched on the radio, which began in the middle of a news report. The attorney liked to listen to talk shows on his usual drives, but the station only broadcast news between 8 and 9 am. He shrugged and listened in.

"...in the murder of Harken Gaetz, a ranking Ylissean military official. Gaetz was beloved by many in the Ylissean military for his brotherly treatment of the men under his command and his strict adherence to codes of honorable conduct. Gaetz was awarded Ylisse's 'Soaring Pegasus' medal last summer for his exemplary leadership during the Plegian terrorist conflicts some twenty years ago. A biography focused on Gaetz's life was reportedly in the works, but now that book will have a sad conclusion. Once again, that's Sergeant Harken Gaetz, 55, murdered in his home overnight. This is Mitchell Konway, reporting for HNB news."

"Thanks Mitchell," a different broadcaster took over, "and this incident will likely complicate efforts which have been spuriously reported starting last week that the Ylissean government is in talks with Plegia on the idea of creating a supranational organization responsible for bridging the gap and ameliorating tense relations between both nations..."

Robin changed the station. He doubted that. He had learned a lot about Ylisseans in coming to their country to study law, and the most resonant of those lessons was that they were a mixed bag, at best. Some were incredibly kind and magnanimous, like Fado, but others were... Others didn't care much for Plegians. For his kind. And more than anything, their system of justice was skewed. Ylisse had once been a military dictatorship (they called it something else, but that's what it was) and their culture had maintained a few elements of it, namely that defendants charged with capital offenses, such as murder, were presumed guilty until proven innocent. The Ylisseans had tremendous trust in their law enforcement and investigators.

Robin turned down the loud classic rock he had switched to as he pulled up into the detention center parking lot. When he hopped out and entered the door, a few cops stood outside, huddled near the door in heavy coats, sipping steaming cups of coffee. The all glanced sideways at the young attorney as he entered. He tried to give them a friendly wave, but they ignored him. When Robin entered, the cobalt-walled room was not much warmer than outside, but, as was standard procedure, Robin hung up his coat next to a thin, young policeman who gave him a stiff salute. Robin heard family members and friends mumbling through the microphones in front of the plexiglass, plenty of rueful faces and voices sitting on the other side. Once he checked in with the clerk and flashed his license, Robin grabbed a green folding chair and took a seat, looking ahead.

In front of him, a girl with raven-black hair and a disinterested look in her bag-heavy eyes had her brow jump up a bit. She gripped the underside of her seat delicately with her fingers as she adjusted herself, then beamed her eyes forward, waiting. "Hello, Tharja," Robin spoke calmly into the mic.

She flushed and smiled. "Hello, Robin."

"Sorry I couldn't be here earlier," he said, rubbing his neck.

"Don't worry about it," she assured him, "How've you been? You look great."

It was his turn to blush. "Thanks. I'm doing okay, got myself a private firm now."

She gasped and put her palm in front of her mouth. "So soon? Wow."

He smirked. "It's not as wonderful as it seems. Anyway, what are you doing in Ylisse?"

"Didn't I tell you?" She cocked an eyebrow. "I said I was going to follow in your footsteps, get schooled here, and bring that knowledge back home."

"You're not studying law, are you?"

"No, nothing like that. Sociology, psychology, that kind of thing."

"That always seemed more your wheelhouse. Where are you staying?"

"I was with a foster family..."

"'Was...?'"

The raven-haired girl stared at her feet. "Why do you think I'm in here, Robin?"

"I assumed you'd tell me," he said, sitting back.

"They charged me with murder, Robin." She stared at him, eyes gleaming. "Murdering the man who gave me my foster home."

Robin LeBlanc swallowed. "Heavy charge. And you're a Plegian... they can't be happy about that."

"They're not," she agreed, "And he was a soldier, so it's all the worse."

"What's his name?" Robin fished a notepad out of his pocket and readied a pen.

"Harken. Harken Gaetz," she answered.

Robin cocked an eyebrow, "Harken Gaetz? The guy that was in the news this morning?"

"It's in the news?" Tharja bit her lip. "Oh, Grima... they'll be all over me. They'll want my head on a pike."

"Try to keep calm, Tharja," her counselor advised, "Just tell me what happened."

She closed her eyes and bowed her head, "Well, it all started yesterday. I came home from classes, nothing unusual. Typically, I'd go out with a few other Plegians I've met since coming here, and we'd do something... usually just hang out in a café, or something... But I'm getting distracted, yesterday, I felt really sick to my stomach, so I told Mr. Gaetz and his wife that I was going to bed early. I totally passed out when I got in bed, and I slept the whole night away, but I woke up around two in the morning to police yelling at me, shining flashlights and pointing guns."

"That's it?" Robin looked up from his notes.

"That's it," she confirmed, "I don't know what happened to Mr. Gaetz. I only saw his body when I came downstairs."

"Well," Robin supposed, "that doesn't sound like much. Why'd they arrest you, then?"

"What do you mean?" she wondered.

"Evidence," he elaborated, "what have they got that points to you?"

Tharja Anderra shook her head. "If you think they told me, you're crazy, Robin."

The young attorney chewed his lip a moment and nodded. "I guess you're right. It'a a hell of a spot to put you in, though. Do you have Mr. Gaetz's address?"

She gave it to him.

"All right," Robin noted it, "Well... I don't have much to go on, but I'll get down there and check things out." He dropped a white sheet of printer paper into the mail slot beside them. "Mind signing this for me?"

Tharja paused, eyes gleaming again. "Does that mean... you accept?"

The attorney put away his notebook and cocked an eyebrow, "'Accept?' You mean 'will I be your lawyer?' Of course, I thought I had given that impression over the phone."

The girl knitted her fingers together. "W-Well, I wasn't sure, given that there was so much counting against me already... I figured you could find better cases."

Robin scoffed. "I don't think you realize how desperate I really am, Tharja. And besides, this isn't just any old case: this is a favor to an old friend."

She blushed and buried her head in her bangs. "...Thank you." She signed the sheet and pushed it back through the slot. Robin took it and nodded.

"You're welcome." He smiled at her, picking himself up from the chair.

Robin LeBlanc signed himself out and retrieved his coat from the young policeman, and stepped out to find the same group of police still huddled around and drinking their coffee. They still ignored the attorney as he passed by, but he didn't really notice this time. Instead, he hurried into his car and blasted the heat when it turned on. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the office.

A pleasant voice chirped on the other end, "LeBlanc & Co. Law Offices. How can I help you?"

"It's me, Anna," Robin replied.

"Oh." He wasn't sure if she was disappointed or not. "Well, what's up?"

"I'm taking the case," he responded simply.

"Great," her voice grew higher, "What's the name? I can do a little digging."

"Tharja Anderra," he answered.

The phone was silent.

"Still there, Anna?" Robin demanded.

"Not the Tharja Anderra who killed Harken Gaetz?"

"Was charged with killing Harken Gaetz."

"Are you crazy?! That's your first case?! That's committing career suicide before you've even gotten started!"

"So far, I haven't even heard the evidence against her."

"It's bad, Robin, I'm telling you."

"I'll see for myself."

"Robin-"

He tapped the screen. Sliding the phone back in his pocket, Robin pulled out of the lot and headed for the address.

[...]

[October 2nd, 12:32 pm. Gaetz Home]

The house wasn't brilliant, but it wasn't shabby, either. Very "bourgeois," a real estate agent might say, or so Robin thought, anyway. It was a simple brick manse, two stories, windows on each floor. Of course, the driveway was packed full of squad cars, and police tape cordoned off the entryway to the house. As Robin left his car and strolled up the sidewalk, a cobalt-haired man in a long, heavy-looking sea-green trenchcoat that looked to big for him, accompanied by an unconvincingly-tied black tie approached him, a thin, unlit cigarette in his mouth. "Hold it," the man demanded, "Where are you going?"

"Inside, if possible." He smiled weakly.

The young man was not impressed. "It's a crime scene, bud. Can't let just anybody come strollin' through."

The attorney nodded. "That's fair. What if I told you I'm the attorney for the defendant?"

The man leered at him suspiciously. "Got an affidavit, bud?"

Robin opened his coat pocket and produced the document that bore Tharja's signature, handing it over to the young man.

He read it scrupulously, then handed it back after a moment. "All right, looks legit. 'LeBlanc,' huh? Have I heard'a you somewhere before, bud?"

"I used to work for Mr. Fado Verlaine."

"Ah, yeah, Verlaine. Real hard-nosed guy, that one. Liked him. Sad to see him leave, but the show must go on, eh?"

Robin nodded, waiting for the young man to finish his reverie.

"Anyhow," he shrugged and extended a hand, "I'm Detective Colm Fletcher, lead investigator."

"Nice to meet you, detective," Robin took the hand and shook it. After they exchanged pleasantries, he led Robin into the house, pointing out the body of the victim first, not that that really needed pointing out: it was the first thing one saw upon entering the room. A tall, broad-shouldered, muscular blond man, his face hard and stretched with wrinkles, sat slumped over on an old green sofa, a wickedly curved knife stemming out of his chest.

"Cause of death was that little fella, if you can't tell," Detective Fletcher noted, "Very precise stab, right to the ol' ticker. Mr. Gaetz was killed instantly; 'sudden cardiac arrest' is what the eggheads call it, I think."

"The victim was stabbed straight in the heart?" Robin summarized, surprised.

"Yeah." The detective nodded, "Real precise stab, too, no nicks or anything, that we can see, anyway. Autopsy will be later today, but I doubt they'll find much else. There wasn't even a lot of blood."

Robin's attention was diverted as he noticed a scrap of paper, hidden, as it was matted to the dead man's chest. It seemed to bear writing. The attorney walked up and read the note as best he could: "'This lamb dies on the altar of truth.' What's that supposed to mean?"

"Got me," Colm shrugged, "But the knife what killed him is a ritual sacrificial knife. It was kept in the defendant's bedroom here, and it had her fingerprints all over it."

Robin nodded silently. He had something to say about that, but it was better not to interrupt the detective. Any point he could make would be better made in court. "Mind if I just have a quick look around?"

"Sure," the detective assented, lighting his cigarette, "but don't touch anything. Disrupting evidence will land you with a lawsuit all your own, and, of course, your case will be moot. But I don't have to tell you that."

Robin nodded again; he didn't. As he strolled around the house, the attorney drifted into the dining room. He looked over the table, a silk white cloth adorning it. A few brass candleholders sporting scarlet candles sat on top of it. Very ritzy, especially for a military man like Gaetz. But also a trifle dirty: there were some dark spots near the ends of the tablecloth. Someone was hiding them, probably to avoid his wife noticing, Robin chuckled. He drifted upstairs and examined the bedrooms: there were only two, and a big master bathroom sat between them. The bathroom was spotless, most likely cleaned very recently, and thus, not much help. He walked into one bedroom, just a bit smaller than the front room of the house and sporting a split aesthetic: some of the room was dainty and proper, including the lacy white sheets and throw pillows on the bed, but everywhere one looked there was a military uniform or patch hanging on something. Presumably, it was the victim and his wife's room. Robin searched the area carefully, but found no blood or hair, only a few crinkles in the sheets, as if someone had gotten up suddenly that evening.

The attorney proceeded to the other bedroom, Tharja's, and chuckled a bit: it looked like a Plegian cultural exhibition one might see in a museum: she had old Grimleal candles and books strewn all about the room, plus traditional female Grimleal garments on the floor and hanging in her closet, along with some more modest and less extravagant street clothes. Robin noted a pair of nails driven into a high part of the wall by the window, like hangers for something. Perhaps this was where the dagger was meant to sit. The attorney made a mental note and stepped out, finding it a bit stuffy in the room.

As he descended the stairs, Detective Fletcher was waiting for him, smoking. "Find what you were hoping for?"

Robin chuckled, "Not exactly, but I'm certainly no worse off than before."

Colm nodded. "You never do. That's why you just gotta keep lookin'."

The attorney nodded quietly as they left the house. "Are you testifying tomorrow, detective?"

He blew a big puff of smoke. "Hell, I'm the lead investigator, aren't I?"

"Just figured I'd ask," he dismissed, "Do you know who the prosecutor is?"

"Nah," he popped the cigarette back in his mouth, then blew out another puff, "but I don't think it's anyone special. Prob'ly just one o' those old guys who do mostly clerical work."

"Really?" Robin cocked an eyebrow. "They don't want someone big working such an important case?"

"You're overstating it, just like the news." Colm smirked. "It's a bad thing that Plegian chick did, no doubt, and people are pissed, but the case itself is open-and-shut; there's no doubt it was her."

"Maybe." Robin didn't look at him.

"Plus, the prosecutor's office isn't going to waste any of the big names' time with a rookie attorney," the detective added.

Robin cocked an eyebrow. "How'd they know about that?"

"News travels fast." Detective Fletcher shrugged, his cell phone sticking out from his pocket.

The attorney got back into his car. "Well, thanks anyway, Detective Fletcher. See you at the trial."

"Yeah, sure thing, bud." He inhaled from his cigarette.

[...]

[October 2nd, 1:57 pm. LeBlanc & Co. Law Offices]

Robin swung the door open and flung his coat on the rack, sighing and massaging his hands with his face. He had been through this process so many times before with Fado, but now, faced with the prospect of having to assemble a case all by himself, he was completely petrified. He had seen things, sure, but what could he say to an impatient judge and jury that would convince them of Tharja's innocence? Right now, he wasn't even sure he could convince himself: everything did essentially point to the Plegian girl. He couldn't fault the Ylissean police for being prejudiced or anything to that effect: they had made the right arrest, under the circumstances, but a few things remained stubbornly vague: who and where was Gaetz's wife, and what had happened with that knife? Tharja claimed she was fast asleep the entire evening, so someone might have entered the room, but only Harken or his wife would have been present to do so. Robin bit his lip: a Ylissean jury would not accept a suicide or a wife murdering her husband over a Plegian whackjob of a girl. Those were possible, but he would have to play his cards very carefully if he tried to go there.

"Feeling some of the pressure?" Anna quipped, looking up from her laptop.

"I have my work cut out for me," the attorney conceded, "I never dreamt it would be easy, though."

"I still have to lobby against taking such a high-profile case. Who cares what happens to one Plegian girl?" Anna typed away.

"She's a friend," Robin reminded her.

His secretary paused. "Sorry. That was harsher than I meant it to be, but c'mon, do you really think you can convince people that she's innocent?"

"I have to try," he supposed, "she is, after all."

"And how do you know that?" Anna rolled her eyes.

"I trust her." Robin nodded to himself. "There was a certain look in her eyes... Fado taught me to watch for it. Guilty people don't look like she did."

"Whatever you say." The redhead shrugged. "But people are going to hate you regardless of the outcome. Even if she really is innocent, people are going to think you just twisted the facts to find her not guilty."

"Then let them think that," the attorney rebutted, "maybe we can get a few other people in here desperate for us to 'twist the facts' for them."

"Tenacious about this one, huh?" Anna leered over her desk.

"I have to be," the attorney answered. He stood up and proceeded into Fado's old office.

"What are you up to now?" Anna Vendise wondered.

"I'm going to brush up on my trial law," Robin replied, shutting the door and pulling a few of the old books down from the shelves, full of the musty smell of old literature and the complex terminology of legality that made them nigh-incomprehensible even with training and instruction. He would continue reading them long into the evening, hearing Anna's keys jingle as she packed up and sounded a muffled goodbye through the door. When he finished perusing the first book, the clock showed 8:31. Robin got up. He threw together a cheese sandwich and grabbed a soda from the office's fridge and went back to the room, popping open the next text.

[Blacklight Turnabout ~ Day 1, Investigation End]

[AN: Hey folks, thanks for reading! For those of you familiar with "Turnabout Tactics," thanks for coming back! As of right now, my plans for TT are uncertain. I may finish it, or I may let that sleeping dog lie, because I'm doing something with this story that I don't usually do in order to get this one right: outlining. Detailed outlining, too, meaning every testimony and contradiction in this case is already basically written down. As such, I'm hoping to have clearer, more interesting trials where evidence doesn't come out of nowhere like it did in TT. Also, this is, obviously, essentially an AU, so don't be upset if I'm a little loose with some characterizations. In accordinance with my outlining, however, I can tell you that in this chapter alone, you have about 95% of the information needed to solve this case. The rest will be shown in testimony. See you in court! And please, if you'd be so kind, leave a review: it's the only way I get better. And I'd like to see what you're thinking about the case at hand. In any case, I'll be happy for any and all feedback, even if you hate it.

Current plan is to have these updated in spurts, meaning I'll draft the outline one week, then dole out the actual story over a few days. I don't know how frequently this story will be updated, as it has two other schedules to contend with, so consider each story to be mostly self-contained, like the original Sherlock Holmes short stories.]