I had tracked him down. I had scoured Google Maps for hours on end, scrutinizing every pixel of every screen to pick out this man from the masses. I had done my research, learning every detail. I had found the apartment of one Diego Armando-a dead man. Today, I would interview him.
My notebook and pen clutched in my trembling hands, I pressed the doorbell connected to number 215 of the Rosewater Ravine Apartment Complex. The place had a brisk, breezy feel to it, and I could see why my subject had chosen it as his home. A few flowers of assorted variety were spread neatly around a planter next to the door, and a faux pine wreath was strung across it. For such a small patio, he had made the most of it. Adjusting my choker, I awaited his approach.
A low, throaty voice came from beyond the door's peephole.
"Who is it?"
"I am looking for a Diego Armando. Is he here?" I replied.
"No…" The voice seemed to lose interest.
"Well… Is there a Prosecutor Godot?"
"Ha…! One moment." Several locks clicked open, and the door swung outward. Shoes scraping on the doormat, my subject stood before me, smiling with an intoxicating charm. My stare scarcely left his so-called visor, a red glass-and-metal mask that covered his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
Though supposedly rather young, his hair was an unnaturally pure white, kept in a clean, chaotic pattern of wisps and spikes. His left ear was pierced by two steel clips, and his chin covered with the black stubble of a slight goatee. He wore a dark teal shirt with a khaki pinstriped vest, his muscles showing ever so slightly through the fabric. On each of his sleeves, a black band of elastic pinched in, revealing that he was far fitter than one would think.
Not my mental image of a lawyer. He gave off an intimidating aura, and, though I was used to dealing with formidable, unnerving people, I confess that I stuttered when initially addressing him.
"Puh… Prosecutor…?"
"I am he. And what may I call you?" he asked hoarsely, as if his voice were never meant to be so quiet.
"Let's just say my name is Graph. I have come for your interview with the Weekly Journal." I managed to avoid stammering this time, as the words were pre-programmed in my mind. I had introduced myself that way for as long as I could easily remember, and had never confused my words.
"Ah, yes. That. Give me a moment to flag a cab, Mrs…"
"Miss."
"Ms. Graph. I know of a pleasant coffee house not far from here. If you will be so kind…" He strode from his doorway and stomped down the stairs, pausing at the street curb to hail a passing taxi. The yellow hybrid pulled up to the sidewalk, and Godot motioned that I should get in. We clamored into the back seat and rode in silence.
XXX
A few minutes later, our driver abruptly stopped and demanded that Godot pay his fare. My companion unceremoniously forked over a 5 and a handful of quarters and stepped from his seat, pausing only to hold the door for me. He smirked, his charisma so intense that my hair stood on end. I exited the taxi and distracted myself with my hairband while he leaned against the coffee house's glass front door. The evening streetlights gave his outline a vermillion glow, and I felt myself forced to stop for a moment and look him over. Quite a handsome person, this Godot, I admitted reluctantly.
I entered the Black Magic Lounge with a slight apprehension. It was an art-deco themed "coffee bar", apparently a frequent nighttime haunt for the thirsty anarchist or beatnik. The stylish glass tables were predominantly occupied (mostly by young couples on a night out), and a live jazz band was belting out a rhythm in the back corner of the main room. I had never much cared for places like this, but it mattered not; so long as I could hear his response, Godot could be interviewed in the place of his choosing.
We took a seat at a table in the front corner of the lounge, as to avoid the blaringly loud background music. Godot ordered a specialty blend (his "usual", if my memory serves) for himself and a "half-caff" for me, then dismissed the server with a flick of his wrist. He rested his cheek on the back of his left hand and let his other arm hang at his side, tucked under the table. I could almost sense his calculating eyes… Of course, his visor made it all the more difficult to read his expression. With this slight awkwardness I began.
"So, Prosecutor… I hear you are rather inexperienced."
"Correct. I have only prosecuted a handful of trials." He grinned smugly. I wondered why, but figured it best not to ask.
"Is it true, however, that you were originally training to be a defense attorney?"
"…? No. Where did you here that?"
"A… A reliable source," I answered. I was on to his secret, and he knew it.
"I prefer to keep personal information to myself, Ms. Graph." His tone had darkened and gone hard. The smile faded from his lips.
If you're so secretive, why be interviewed… I wondered, but remained silent. He registered the puzzled look on my face, and explained.
"I'd assumed you would be asking me about the cases."
"Yes, of course… To my knowledge, you have yet to get a guilty verdict in one of your more recent trials. I find it difficult to believe that it was only coincidence that a man by the name of Phoenix Wright was the defense attorney for each of these cases. You even dropped one of your current cases when he took another one… State versus Byrde, I believe. Are you trying to meet Mr. Wright in court?"
The smirk returned, and he was about to answer when our drinks arrived. A proper-looking man in a black tailcoat distributed our orders: a large, steamy cup of dark coffee for Godot, and a creamier, smaller beverage for me. It was something both men had recommended for me, a "half-caff", complete with cream, sugar and a tiny toothpick-sized parasol. My subject nodded in approval to the waiter and cast the man off into the kitchen. After he had gone, Godot sipped his cup contentedly. He answered the question still forming in my mind.
"Blacker than a moonless night, hotter and more bitter than Hell itself… That is coffee. My one true indulgence in this world."
"I see… But, I must ask that you answer my question, Prosecutor." He wasn't getting away that easily. From the way that he stared intently into the velvety darkness of his beverage, I could tell that he was avoiding my inquiry. "…Perhaps I should rephrase: Do you know Phoenix Wright outside of the courtroom?"
He looked up. "Not personally, no. You could say that we are… acquaintances."
"You have only taken cases which he has. Surely, this is not by chance…?" I pressed. I had my theories, yes, but I needed an answer. Was this man the one I sought?
Godot took another gulp of coffee, then shook his head. "Sometimes the bitterest coffee comes from the darkest bean. This seems logical, but is it only coincidence? Or are the two related?"
I glared at what could only be assumed to be his eyes, trying my best to look intimidating. The "evil eye" had helped me get out of many a tight jam. Making sure to sound forceful, I interrogated him again: "Mr. Godot! No one can believe that this is mere coincidence. The way you sneer at him in court… How exactly do you know this man!?"
"Whoa. Ease up, Kitten. I was simply using a metaphor."
His use of linguistics was not what was bothering me. I sighed. "Perhaps I should cut to the chase, Prosecutor. I am… searching for someone who was reported "dead" several years ago. I know that I may sound insane by saying this, but I think that you are the man I seek." I gripped the table, trying to subdue my anxiety. "His name… Your name… is Diego Armando."
He took a swig from his cup and seemed nonchalant. "Prove it."
"Wha…?"
"You heard me. If you want to accuse a lawyer, be ready with some proof. Evidence." He paused. "…Unless you don't have any."
I slipped an image from Google Maps onto the tabletop. "I searched 'Diego Armando', and this was the address I found you at… Mr. Godot." On top of my first paper, I placed a printout of computer code. "This is your e-mail address, . So, you tell me: Have I really got the wrong man?"
Godot chortled. "Are you even reallya journalist? Are you really called Graph, or do you simply call yourself that?" He smiled mockingly, taking a quick swig of coffee.
My assignment was simple: Find the connections between Phoenix Wright and Godot, and do a story about their most recent case. Of course, this meant tracking down someone who, for all intents and purposes, was dead and interviewing them.
I am not on good terms with my editor.
"This is what I was sent to do."
"How do you know who 'darmando' is? And why does it matter? How could Diego Armando be tied with the attorney on my most recent case…?" He grinned smugly, taking a victorious sip of coffee and shaking his head. Perhaps he thought he had stumped me; perhaps it was nothing more than the familiar feeling of bringing a porcelain cup to his lips as he watched someone's ego wither and die.
Either way, he was bitterly mistaken.
"I have here a transcript of the blog of username AceAttorneyGrossberg. He used to chat for hours about his apprentices, Diego and Mia, and how they were quite clearly in love." I let that sadistic delight of making someone look incompetent steady my shaking hands. "He mentions their last names, Armando and Fey, here." Passing Godot a copy of the text, I pointed to the entry marked "Day 84".
He adopted a look of confusion after scanning over the document a few times, and titled the paper back and forth to see it from different angles. Though I had to strain to see Grossberg's annoying red font, it wasn't that difficult. Godot cursed under his breath, something along the lines of "Damn red lettering!" I waited for him to finish fiddling with the paper before continuing, and he soon gave up on whatever he was trying to do..
"Mia Fey is tied to Mr. Wright by several murder cases… Mr. Godot…?"
He sipped his coffee, wiped his lips and stared at the floor. I had hit a nerve with murder, apparently. "I… I have the case reports here. Your murder and the murder of your girlfriend are among them… Need I say more? There is a common denominator: Phoenix Wright. I'll make this easy for you: Yes, you know Mr. Wright very well. And you hate him, don't you?"
"…" He stared back at me, his fist clenched around his empty mug. It began to crack under the pressure of his grip, and he let out a long, agonized sigh. Silence hung in the air, the tension heavier than a rope stretched to its breaking point.
"…Well done, Graph… Ask whatever you want. I will try to answer."
I gave him a woeful glance and continued. "I… I have very little to ask you specifically. I want your story."
"Story…?"
"Yes. To say that your life is unfortunate… would be the understatement of the century. I just want you to tell me a bit about your life, the murders… People have never seen this side of you."
Godot took a small sip of coffee and peeled off his visor. He set the mask on our table, and I barely stopped myself from gasping.
His eyes were covered with a translucent white film, and his irises were almost colorless. Bloodshot and weary, they gazed at me, seeing nothing. Those eyes held pain, fear, anger, and a terrible, guilty remorse. He could not directly meet my own gaze, and the reason for his visor became abhorrently clear.
In a softer, raspy tone, he spoke. "Her name… was Dahlia. She took everything from me. Just one drop of whatever hellish chemical she put in my coffee that day… It destroyed my life. My body. Everything. She put me to sleep, just when my life was coming together. I had the love of my life by my side, I had was one of the best defense attorneys at Grossberg's firm… Everything was perfect. But that wasn't the worst part. I was asleep the one time it mattered… When Mia's life was on the line. And that spiky-haired freak… He failed her, just like me. If not for his negligence, she might have lived. But the real reason why I hate him is… because he didn't care. Just look at him. He doesn't even miss her. He just took her job and her office, and went on with his life. Mia deserves better than that."
He toyed with a ring on his left pointer finger. "This is exactly what it looks like," he mumbled, referring to the silver trinket. "We were… going to be together for the rest of our lives. I think she still has hers."
I fell temporarily silent, unable to comment on his dismal tale. All that I could manage was, "Thank you. The article should appear on the 27th."
"Article…!" The color began to drain from Godot's face as he replaced his visor, horror flashing onto his features. It was immediately masked by his usual cockiness. "Sorry, Kitten, but this is all off the record. Just between us. I won't let you publish it. …You need my permission, don't you?" His sudden forcefulness terrified me, and I had the sinking feeling that I didn't have a choice in the matter.
"I-I'll see what I can do."
He sighed in relief. "…Thank you, Ms. Graph."
XXX
As I endured a pulse-pounding, migraine-inducing taxi ride home, I couldn't help but think that I would interview Godot again. It somehow felt that this wasn't to be our last goodbye, our last coffee shared, and I wondered if or when we would meet again.
I could have never guessed that I would soon be standing in a prison visitor's room, interviewing a convicted killer and bringing him his favorite beverage.
I really need to have a stern talk with my editor.