Transcribed June 23, 2028. 3:35 p.m.

Los Angeles District Courtroom No. 3

People vs. Weiler, cont.

Wright: Can you tell the court what you were doing at 8:00 last night?

Witness: I was alone, at home, hiding under my bed.

Wright: … why were you under your bed?

Witness: Well, I was... afraid.

Wright: Okay, I got that. What were you afraid of?

Witness: [unintelligible]

Wright: What was that?

Witness: I said, I was afraid of the Marshall.

Wright: … [long pause] … What's the Marshall?

Witness: … [no response]…

The city felt sort of like a silent movie in winter. The blacks and greys became more pronounced as the falling leaves left tree branches barren and snow covered the grass in the parks, sucking the already sparse color out of the concrete jungle. On that particular day, rolling, heavy clouds had started to gather, signaling either more snow or a very unpleasant thunderstorm. The statue of William Penn perched at the top of Philadelphia's City Hall looked adrift in a sea of bad weather, and Marlow Fernicker kind of felt bad for the old guy in a really strange sort of way. He sighed heavily, pressing his forehead against the window pane and slumping forward in a way that reflected his distinct lack of coffee. His office was dark (because he hadn't felt like turning the light on) and cluttered with files (because he hadn't felt like doing paperwork). His tie hung loosely around his neck, his rolled-up sleeves were starting to unfurl themselves, and his yellow vest was beginning to look a little wrinkled. Even Conrad the turtle, who stood in the middle of the desk munching on the lettuce from an uneaten salad, seemed more lethargic than usual.

Marlow sighed again, gazing out over the slowly darkening sky. "This is just great. I'm probably either gonna get snowed on or soaked by the time I go home today." He scowled. "Or maybe I'll get lucky and get struck by lightning. That'd be exciting, huh, Conrad?"

Per his usual, the turtle maintained a serene silence.

Marlow felt about ready to fall asleep on the window when a sharp ringing sound jolted him back to his senses. "Who's calling now?!" he grumbled, stomping over to his desk and picking up the phone with a huff. "Fernicker speaking."

"Marlow Fernicker?" The voice was decidedly female.

"The one and only," Marlow drawled, not in the mood to be having this conversation. "Look, if you're a client, I'm not really the one you should be talking to. The firm has its own number and everything-"

"I'm not calling the firm, I'm calling you." There was a curt edge to her voice. "I'm in some trouble, and a friend told me about you. You are a defense attorney, right?"

Marlow snorted, rolling his eyes. He knew where this was going. "Lady, I am not that kind of attorney. And before you start bawling about how desperate you are, how frightened and alone you are, you should know that I don't fall for that crap." He leaned his back against the wall. "I don't do criminal law, so unless your name ends in L.L.C. or Incorporated, you're on your own." He poised his thumb over the "end call" button. "Goodbye-"

"My brother's Marcel Taylor," the woman blurted.

Marlow paused, staring at the phone in his hand like it was contaminated. "...So?" he said at length, trying to keep his voice level.

"I know you know him," the voice continued, sounding more confident now. "I think he's involved in this somehow."

"Involved in what?"

"...I'll be going on trial in three days," the woman stated, slowly pronouncing each word. "For murder."

Marlow whistled. "Well, good luck with that."

"That's not all." She sounded like she knew she had him right where she wanted him, which, truth be told, she did. "I'm a court stenographer. A file containing some of my highest-profile transcripts was stolen."

"And you think Marcel Taylor had a hand in it?"

"...I don't know," the woman admitted quietly. "But I do have proof that he was in my office."

"..." Marlow held the phone away from himself and covered the end of it with his hand. "What do you think, Conrad?" he whispered. "Should I help the crazy lady?"

The turtle simply looked up at him, then went back to nibbling at the lettuce.

After a long silence, Marlow sighed, defeated. "Fine. What's your name?"

"Adley Taylor."

"Right." Marlow scrambled for a pen and jotted what he hoped was a semi-correct spelling of the name down on a sticky-note. "What precinct are they holding you in?"

"Actually..."

Marlow somehow didn't like where this was going.

Adley nervously cleared her throat. "I'm in Los Angeles."

"..."

"...?"

"...Oh, you have got to be freaking kidding me," he growled, not even bothering to at least somewhat mask his frustration. "Why the hell did you think I would fly all the way out there to help your sorry hide when I don't even practice criminal law?!"

"Because I'll pay for your hotel and plane tickets," Adley stated matter-of-factly. "Don't worry, all of your expenses will be fully covered. And we practice Bench Trial law down here, so the whole thing won't be longer than three days."

Marlow had to admit, a free trip to Cali sounded like a pretty good deal in exchange for a three-day trial. He knew that court stenographers didn't make much and that the money was probably fishy, but frankly, he'd had fishier, and he felt due for a vacation anyway. There was also the matter of Marcel... "Alright, if you insist-"

"Great!" Adley suddenly sounded excited. "Fly down here as soon as you can, and keep your receipts. I'm being held in the central detention center, so come see me when you arrive. I'll tell you everything you need to know." And with that, she hung up.

Marlow stared at the phone for a few silent seconds, trying to make sense of what had just happened. After a while, he gave up, sighed, put the phone back in its place, slumped into his chair, and started massaging his temples.

He couldn't help but feel that he was getting into something he'd really regret.

Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth was sitting behind his desk, tackling a rather large stack of personnel forms, when his office door made an almost imperceptible squeaking noise. He glanced up from his work; sure enough, the door had opened just a crack. Sighing quietly to himself, he stood up and crossed the room to pull open the door. "Is there something you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Baynes?"

The young man cowering outside his door slowly lowered his red scarf, which he had held up to hide his face in what Edgeworth could only assume was a nervous reflex. "W- Well, if it's alright with you..." he whispered, then trailed off and shakily adjusted his glasses.

Edgeworth sighed, shaking his head. Why must good prosecutors always be so difficult to deal with? "I can't help you if don't tell me what you need, Mr. Baynes."

The young man cast his blue eyes to the floor, playing nervously with his scarf. "I don't want to be any trouble to you, sir," he murmured, "but could you... I mean, you don't have to, but... could you please take me off the Taylor case?"

Edgeworth raised an eyebrow. "You've never turned down a case before... I assume you have a good reason for this?"

Baynes brushed his blonde bangs out of his eyes. "I... may be too emotionally involved, sir."

Edgeworth hadn't known the man could experience emotions other than fear. "I'm sorry, but it's too close to the trial date. I don't feel comfortable entrusting the case to another prosecutor with so little time left for them to prepare." His grey eyes narrowed slightly. "If this case bothers you, why did you not bring it up before now?"

Baynes looked up at Edgeworth with wide eyes. "I… I was too… too…"

Edgeworth frowned, realizing that the answer to his own question should have been obvious. "Too nervous, correct?" When Baynes gave a tiny nod, he sighed and started to close the door. "Again, I apologize, but I really can't afford to take you off this case. Whatever your 'emotional involvement,' I am confident in your capabilities as a prosecutor. Please try to remember that."

As the door to Edgeworth's office closed, Sidney Baynes shut his eyes tight and leaned back against the wall, hugging his arms to his chest. "...I was hoping you wouldn't say that, sir…" he whispered.

Marlow whistled. "Nice place. Very homey."

Adley let out a single harsh, rather sarcastic laugh, but her light brown eyes betrayed a spark of genuine amusement at the comment. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't make jokes in questionable taste, Mr. Fernicker." She tapped on the glass pane that separated her from her newly-hired attorney. "Though it is a very up-to-date detention center. I've certainly seen worse."

Marlow leaned back in his seat and spread open a manilla folder on the small ledge/table/whatever that jutted outwards from the bottom of the glass. "I guess we should get down to business. I already talked to the detective in charge, a guy named Gumshoe… he seems pretty incompetent, so there's one name to add to the 'possible exploitable witnesses' list."

"I feel kinda bad, since he's so nice," Adley admitted, smoothing the front of her powder-blue blazer. "But we can definitely exploit him. I heard he likes hot dogs."

Marlow smirked. "You know what, kid, you're not half-bad." He raised an eyebrow. "Although you look more… chipper than you sounded on the phone."

Adley shrugged, an easy grin forming on her face. "I was trying to make a strong first impression. Now that you're actually here, I can be myself."

Marlow rolled his eyes. "Grand." He turned back to his case file, which was actually distressingly thin. "Anyway, here's the facts I got from our obliging detective: the victim is a Mr. Joseph Schmö, thirty-two years old and unemployed. On December third, at approximately two in the morning, a janitor in your building called the police station saying that he heard what sounded like a struggle in your office. Ten minutes later, the police arrived at the scene to find a room that looked like a hurricane tore through it, featuring you standing over a very dead body with blood on your clothes and a creepy, murderous expression on your face."

Adley looked innocently confused. "Creepy and murderous?"

"Yeah, well, I get the feeling that Detective Gummy has an active imagination," Marlow drawled, pulling a yellow notepad out of his briefcase and flipping to a blank page. "But you have to admit, this doesn't look good."

Adley folded her arms and raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk on her face. "Does that bother you?"

Marlow grinned. "Not in the least. In fact, I'm looking forward to spinning this one." He pulled out a pen and started to jot some notes down on his pad. "Do we wanna go for self-defense? Maybe battered women's syndrome? How well did you know the guy?"

"I didn't know him at all, and I didn't kill him," Adley insisted, pouting slightly. "I just walked into my office to find the place a mess and his body on my new carpet. Of course, I couldn't know if he was actually dead or not, so I did the right thing and checked his pulse, which is how I got the blood on my clothes."

"But before doing that, you checked your files and noticed some of them had been stolen," Marlow corrected, pointing the business end of his pen accusingly at Adley. "There was no blood on the cabinets, so obviously your papers were more important to you than the guy bleeding out on the floor."

"I- I wasn't thinking clearly at the time," Adley insisted, obviously still trying to milk the 'innocent' act. "How did that poor man die, anyway?"

Marlow flipped through his case file. "Let's see… stabbed in the chest with a kitchen knife. The thing was still sticking out of him when police reached the scene."

"Well, I didn't want to remove it," Adley clarified, sounding somewhat defensive. "I've heard that doing that can actually make the person lose more blood. Besides, if I touched the knife, my fingerprints would get on it. See, I was trying to not end up here."

"Well that sucks, because it turns out that the knife was actually from the set in your kitchen," Marlow informed her dryly. "So of course your prints are on it. Do you remember anybody breaking into your apartment within the last couple of days?"

"No." Adley bit her lip. "But Marcel has a key."

Marlow froze. "...You've been in touch?"

Adley looked uncomfortable, if not somewhat guilty. "Not really… but I sent him that spare key last year, when he still had that P.O. box in Missouri, along with a letter telling him that he could come visit anytime he wanted."

"Marcel's been on the lam for years, kid," Marlow stated icily, glowering at Adley with his arms folded. "It was stupid to think he'd drop in one day for a friendly chat."

"I know," Adley sighed, playing distractedly with her short brown hair. "But he's my brother, and… I just really wanted to see him again. I don't expect you to understand…" Her expression softened. "Especially after what he put you through."

Marlow rolled his eyes. "What, you mean that one time when he skipped town just as our company was about to get the pants sued off of it and left me to take the fall? Or how he betrayed my trust, ruined my innocence and turned my life into a living hell of debt, failure and broken dreams? I'm totally over that."

Adley glared at him. "He never meant to do any of that to you, he was just scared!"

"Look, you said you had proof that Marcel was in your office," Marlow shot back. "Whether he's actually involved or not, we might be able to pin this on him and get you off the hook, so you'd better tell me everything you know right now."

Adley looked upset, but she bit back her anger and settled for simply glowering at him. "The proof is the spare key that I sent to him. I found it sitting in the cabinet drawer where I stored the stolen transcripts."

Marlow nodded pensively, scribbling what she'd told him onto his notepad. "Spare key… got it. I'll get somebody to dust it for prints, but of course we've got nothing to match them against. Still, it at least raises the possibility of a third party having been in that office, which is good for us. Now..." He put his notepad back in his briefcase and folded his arms. "When you called me, you said you were told about me and my connection to your brother by a friend."

Adley avoided eye-contact. "I don't think I should tell you who he is…"

Marlow shrugged. "Okay, whatever. I'll just head back to Philly, then. Get myself a good beefsteak with whiz-"

"Fine." Adley sighed. "I work with the prosecutor's office a lot, so when I was arrested, the man who's trying my case suggested I call you. His name's Sidney Baynes."

"Baynes?" Marlow was having a hard time remembering where he'd heard that name before… suddenly, it hit him. "Oh yeah, that guy. He used to follow me around back in college." A smirk spread across his face. "So 'Sissy Sid' is prosecuting your case? That's a relief. I thought I'd end up against someone tough, like that Blackquill that's been all over the news recently."

"Don't underestimate him," Adley warned, though she looked like she was suppressing a laugh. "Sidney's actually got a pretty high conviction rate. His questioning may be annoying as all get-out to transcribe, but he's a good lawyer." She held a finger to her chin thoughtfully. "Though if he's giving me advice on defense attorneys, I guess he must sympathize with me at least a little…"

"I really can't imagine why," Marlow grumbled, shoving his case file into his briefcase and standing up from his seat. "Well, it's been fun, but I think we're done here. See you in court tomorrow."

Adley waved at him cheerily as he headed towards the door. "I believe in you, Mr. Fernicker!"

Marlow scowled, wincing visibly. "Don't ever do that again."