Walking side-by-side out of the church doors, a long stick extends outward from Matt's hand to the ground, guiding him as Jessica stuffs her hands into her pockets. "I can see the appeal, you know?" she begins. "Of wanting to believe in a higher power." She pauses. "For me, it's just…it's really difficult."
"You've been through hell. No one could blame you," he sympathizes.
She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "You're no stranger to Hell yourself. I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?"
"You know...'keep the faith'," she explains, contorting her voice to denote air quotes.
He sighs. "Not that I'm trying to convert you, Jess, but God can't save everyone. Sometimes you have to find the strength to save yourself." She considers the words until Matt interrupts her train of thought. "So, what was it that you wanted to talk about?" Just then, Jessica feels her phone vibrate and the two of them come to a halt. Slipping it out of her jean pocket, the color drains from her face when she sees the caller ID. "Hello?" she answers.
"Hello, I'm calling for Ms. Jessica Jones?" a gruff voice says questioningly on the other end of the line.
"Speaking." Despite her quickened pulse, her voice is as emotionless as ever. The man introduces himself as an officer with the NYPD. "What can I do for you, officer?" Matt's ears perk up at the words.
"We need to speak with you and your lawyer down at the station. Please come by at your earliest convenience," the officer instructs.
She looks at Matt with concern, her ear glued to the phone. "We're on our way."
Jessica saunters off and he follows behind her. He smirks to himself in realization. "Hell- I see what you did there."
At the nearby police department, Jessica and Matt are greeted warmly by the officer from the phone, who proceeds to hand over a plastic bag with items Jessica left behind at the scene of the accident. Mumbling her gratitude under her breath, she accepts the bag before turning and strutting out of the precinct with Matt by her side. Once outside, Jessica leans against the wall of the building near the entrance and he follows suit. A particular object in the bag catches her eye and she immediately removes it. "Thank God," she sighs.
"What is it?" Matt inquires, cocking an eyebrow.
"My camera."
"Everything still on there?"
"Looks like it," she confirms, scanning through pictures with the click of a button. She stops cold at a picture of a bald man with a larger-than-life presence.
The sudden silence is deafening to Matt. "What is it?"
Still staring at her camera, Jessica responds. "We never got to talk…" She tilts her head towards him without looking directly at him. "The night of the accident…I saw something, Murdock. Someone."
He jolts to attention, his gaze locked on her. "Who?" he presses.
"Please don't jump on me for not telling you sooner-" she starts.
"Jessica." His waning patience was growing ever clearer.
"Fisk," she relents. "I saw Wilson Fisk."
Jessica had never seen blood drain out of someone's face so fast. Seemingly just as fast, her forearm finds itself in Matt's tight grip. "Where? Where is he? Tell me," he growls in desperation.
His words send a chill through her. "I can't do that."
"Why not?" he grumbles, teeth gritted.
"Because I get the feeling that you're motivated by revenge, not justice."
"Rich, coming from you." Jessica ignores this, and silence follows. Matt's hand tightens around his long stick. "Tell me. Please."
"I'm not about to serve Fisk up to you on a platter just for you to do something you'll regret," she says defiantly.
"Fine." He releases his grip on Jessica. "I'll find him myself." With that, he disappears down the street at a brisk pace. Unfazed, she pushes off the wall and back through the doors of the police department, mumbling an obscenity under her breath.
Armed with names, Jessica throws open the door to her apartment and opens her laptop. The only thing she could think to do after Murdock left was to find out if there were any other suspects in the cab driver's murder. Both the officer she had interacted with and the lead detective on the case refused to budge; she even tried to explain that she is a P.I. In the end, all they would offer her was the identities of the deceased. She types in the first name- that of the taxi driver- into Google. Five pages' worth of search results later, it's clear that it's a dead end. She murmurs "goddamit" and immediately moves on the second name.
It again looks to be a dead end, until Jessica stumbles onto an article on the third page of search results. From the New York Post, the article briefly describes a charity fundraiser, which is followed by a couple of pictures of attendees. The first is of no consequence, but the second shows a familiar face. Next to the driver of the other car in the crash is one Richard Jacob, Jessica's latest client. She reads the caption and her breath catches when she reaches the end. '…and Richard Fisk of R. F. Inc.' Her eyes go wide. "Shit!"
Another quick search provides an address for the business, and without a moment's hesitation, she's out the door once more.
Jessica jumps out of a taxi and shoves her way through the doors of a glossy New York high-rise reminiscent of that of the former Hand headquarters. She addresses the unaware receptionist rather harshly. "Richard Fisk- what floor?" she demands.
The receptionist's head flies up, startled. "He's on nine, but-" Jessica pays her no mind, immediately dashing into the nearest elevator. After an eternity of waiting, the elevator doors open to reveal another receptionist and a door behind her with a nameplate reading R. Fisk. This receptionist greets her, but Jessica ignores her altogether, flying straight past. She barrels through the door and sees the man himself in a large, black swivel chair behind his desk. The perimeter of the room is lined with desk-high bookcases, the walls covered with golf artwork and certificates. Without stopping, she moves on him and shoves against the wall. "Richard Fisk, I want answers and you are going to give them to me. Right now."
