Monday, 4th December
12:31
Detention Center
They say the more things change, the more they stay the same. I don't know who said that, but I assume they were talking about the detention center, which hasn't got so much as a new coat of paint since I became a lawyer. I can imagine the causes of its dilapidation without having to ask anyone. Budget cuts. Funny how those two words can impact so much. You'll never see the chief of police with holes in his suit driving a hatchback in conjunction with the threat of 'budget cuts', though. Figuring out where all the money goes – now that'd be the case of a lifetime.
Is cynicism a product of ageing, like back pain and greying hair? If the Phoenix in college could see me now, what might he think? He never worried about money, so I don't think he'd be upset I have so little of it. Maybe he'd be upset that I'm upset I have little of it. It's rarely greed that makes an average person miserly, nor want of luxuries. I have Trucy's welfare in mind. Those years spent in dusty dive-bars playing piano...it wasn't the best environment to raise a child. Well, it wasn't the best environment for me, either. I can look at the past and say it's over, but that doesn't mean it is. The past isn't even past. Especially for Cilla. I thought about that as I waited for the guards to bring her from her cell to the visitors' area.
If you asked me when as a defence attorney do I feel most nervous, the answer might surprise you. It's not in a courtroom. The courtroom has its own energies – it's a public spectacle as well as a hall of justice. No matter what happens, I'm slightly outside of myself, slightly unaware. It's a performance, and I have my part to play. I get pre-trial jitters, though not nearly to the extent new attorneys do, but that isn't true nervousness to me. I'm nervous in the silence between my asking to see my client and my client appearing before me. The environment in which you meet someone inevitably dictates your perceptions of them. A lot of the time this is my first time meeting my clients – and if they're someone I know, like when I defended Edgeworth, seeing them vulnerable, isolated in a prison setting, is like seeing someone you know suddenly horribly aged or disfigured. Parts of them aren't there. The air in the room changes when an attorney meets a client. The client suddenly realises this face – my face – is the face of a man who'll try to win their freedom. I might be their last hope. I see my client, I see the face of someone I have to defend, for whom the consequences of failure are life-shattering. There's a lot of uneasy meaning in that first glance between attorney and client. In theory, there's no reason the defence attorney should feel nervous – what are they risking? They have all the power – power over another's life. Well, it's that power that makes me nervous. I want to help people, but the responsibility that being a defence attorney brings is never a comfortable one for me. I can't disconnect my role with who I am, a human being, no greater or lesser than any other human being. It's part of professional courtesy to sidestep the reality of that power imbalance – to be polite, accommodating, but a little distant from the client. When I first look into the eyes of another, I can't hide from them. I wonder if they see something I'm afraid to see in myself.
I tried to keep my pose neutral as my self-consciousness broiled inside my chest. I was so distracted I didn't see Cilla arrive until she sat before me.
'...who are you?'
'Oh! Excuse me, my name is Phoenix Wright. I'm a defence attorney. You are Cilla Kay-White, am I correct? Your record company is hiring me to represent you for your upcoming trial, and I thought it important to meet you before anything else.'
Her eyes searched mine. They were a large greenish-blue, the harsh light of the detention center reflected in them. They matched the girl I saw in the photos, but not much else of her did. Cilla was sickly pale, her long coppery hair curtaining one side of her face. She sat with her legs curled up against her chest, her hands beneath her chin. She'd probably been in the foetal position in her cell the entire time. Were it not for her eyes, you'd think she there was no more innocent creature in dire need of help. They were beautiful eyes, but opaque. They went beyond saying nothing; they concealed. Her strong gaze was incongruous with her body language. Already I felt less at ease than I did with Coen. She watched me for a long time, unblinking. Then she closed her eyes and moved her arms, her head dropping into her chest.
'There's no need for this...' she spoke in such a low voice it seemed private speech I strained to hear sitting in front of her. She raised her head to meet me again, but fixed her gaze firmly at the space above my head.
'I'm Cilla. If you want to ask me questions, I'll answer...what I can.'
'What happened on the night of the... incident?'
She continued to avoid meeting my eyes.
'We were beginning my new tour. Everyone was nervous because we'd been rehearsing for weeks and this was the first arena-sized show I'd done solo, apart from occasional festival appearances. The fans seemed to enjoy it...it wasn't a perfect show but we were still happy to begin. The future was bright. We celebrated afterwards, in the hotel. Then...'
Sometimes the easiest way to prompt someone to continue their testimony is to remain silent. I held the silence.
'He was dead.'
...
'Is that it?'
Another silence. It was around about this time that my Magatama would reveal Cilla's Psyche-Locks. If I needed to interrogate someone about the details of a case, the spirit energy of the Magatama would manifest as locks that protect one's secrets from another. If I could break someone's Psyche-Locks through thorough questioning, I could uncover the truth. There's nothing untoward about it – it's more of a tool for me to guide my questions than it is some manipulative force that controls the minds of others. In less co-operative defendants, it came in useful. And I'm sure it would've come in useful here, had I brought it with me...my pockets suddenly felt emptier than before. Then it struck me. Trucy had asked to borrow the Magatama when she went off with Athena to assist with her case. I thought I'd be spending the coming week doing admin work, so I had no need for it. Beads of sweat were forming on my forehead. That's just what I get for relying on mysticism. My investigation was going to have to proceed to old-fashioned way...
'Your story's too vague, Cilla. Were you the one to find the body?'
She nodded. 'I don't remember how, though. I remember the hotel, then I was in a cell, because of someone I killed...'
'You don't know for sure that you found the body, then? You were told that after you were arrested?'
'Yes, I—No, no, I remember seeing him alive. For a split second, and I remember a loud noise... he was shot, I remember the gunshot, I heard it.'
'Okay, so you remember bits and pieces. The celebration in your hotel – was there alcohol involved?' Her sickly appearance wasn't wholly brought upon by the stress of arrest, it was obvious now. 'I drank too much. Went way beyond my limit. Blacked out.' Cilla forced a sardonic smile. 'I'm absolutely the world's worst defendant, Mr. Wright. I don't even recall the murder I committed.'
'So you think you killed someone?'
Her voice dropped to a croaky murmur. 'Probably. Nobody else was arrested. They told me I had a gun. I remember the sound of gunfire, I remember the guy in front of me. It must've been me.'
'Don't assume that, Cilla. Do you feel you're the kind of person to want to kill anyone?'
She paused. 'Do you want the truth, or am I supposed to reassure you?'
'Always the truth.' Not that I have any method of knowing anymore. Damn it, Phoenix, don't get sour just because you're working a case without a Magatama. Isn't that what most lawyers do?
'The truth is—maybe. I think everyone's capable of killing. If humans couldn't kill, we wouldn't be where we are.' She let her words hang in the air. She'd been brooding about death for a while, anyone could tell.
'That's all well and good from a philosophical perspective, Cilla, but I'm talking about you. Why would you kill anyone – why would you kill a stranger?'
Cilla dropped her face into her hands and held them with her eyes peering out through the gaps between her figures. 'I would say "because the sun was in my eyes," but the murder happened in the middle of the night...To be frank, Mr. Wright, I don't think my feelings have much to do with the reality of what happened. I was drunk.'
'Perhaps far too drunk to commit such a crime.'
'It might be your job to believe in my innocence, but I certainly don't have to. The pieces fit. Whether I want them to or not.' Cilla muttered her last remark in a familiar tone. I'd heard it in Maya's voice, when she was accused of killing Mia. I'd heard that tone in the voice of Maggey Byrde. Even in Edgeworth's voice, a long time ago. I don't claim to be a psychologist, but I knew there was more to Cilla than how she presented herself. Did she kill someone? Her insistence that she did only inclined me toward the opposite conclusion.
'I'm not so sure about that. I'll be beginning an investigation promptly, and I'll find out for myself if the evidence the police implied against you works as they say. You don't have to see yourself as a victim in all this, but don't lose hope! If you can't believe in yourself, believe in me.'
'Believe in you, because you believe in me, is that it? You don't know what happened any more than I do. Why consider taking this case if you're not going to just plead guilty on my behalf?'
'I don't believe in you. You think you're guilty, and what little you've told me works to sustain that narrative. If I wanted to think you might not have killed anyone, I can't believe you. I'm withholding judgement until I investigate for myself. Now, tell me—you said they found you with a gun. Do you own one?'
'No, I—I said it must've been Konstantin's.'
'Konstantin?'
'My bodyguard. Konstantin Ivanovic. I have a small security team for the tour, but he's separate from that. He's been with me since before I got a record deal.'
'You had a bodyguard before you became a professional singer?'
'He was a friend then. He's ex-military. Taught me how to shoot.'
'He taught you? So that's why you think it's possible you could've shot someone while inebriated?'
'Yes, we practiced a lot together. He told me I was a natural...I must've taken the gun from him that night. It wouldn't have been as difficult as one might think. He trusted me. He shouldn't have.'
Konstantin Ivanovic...this guy had a lot to answer for. I didn't need to be an expert bodyguard to know it was a bad idea to allow anyone to stumble drunk onto the streets with a weapon of yours. Had the police been questioning this guy? The prosecution must be pursuing some sort of criminal liability suit against him, supposing what Cilla said is correct. Questioning him was now a major priority. The matter of the victim himself, though, still needed clarification. I hadn't even gotten a name yet.
'Okay, let's take a step back for the moment. You didn't know the person you killed at all, right?'
'No, but the police told me he was a fan of mine. A ticket to that night's concert was found in his pocket.'
'Do you remember at all the place where you encountered him?'
'It was an alleyway near the hotel. I must've been throwing up...I was certainly still sick when I woke up in a cell. I don't know why he was there.'
'Seems oddly coincidental for a musician and a fan to meet in a dark alleyway. If you don't know him at all, you must've been taken off-guard seeing him.'
'Yes. And he must've recognised me...Going down this train of thought won't exactly bolster your faith in my innocence, Mr. Wright.'
'Oh? Why's that?'
'A girl like me, drunk and alone, coming across a stranger in an alleyway who knows who she is. A girl with a gun. Doesn't that supply me with a motive? Was I not fearing for my safety?'
I had a premonition of the trial. The prosecution's argument was falling into place before me, and I had nothing.
'...it's plausible.'
'Then you understand why I'm not sobbing my eyes out, begging for a saviour to vouch for my innocence. I must've killed him. If you still want to defend me, just follow Sylvester's orders and this doesn't need to be a bigger deal than it is.'
'You're talking about Sylvester Coen? Why would I take his orders on how I handle this case?'
'He's the one hiring you, isn't he? Everything between me and the outside has to be mediated by him. That's just the way it's been. He's not exactly chasing the whole 'secretly innocent' line with this either.'
'How do you know that?'
'He visited me before you did. He told me about you before you yourself arrived. Probably before you even knew you were coming. That's how he is. I told him what I remembered and, well, he's pragmatic.'
'Did you tell him what you remembered, or what the police told you was the case?'
'I—' Cilla faltered, questioning herself. That was a good sign. I knew how easy it could be for the accused to buy into the atmosphere of suspicion. It's hard to understand unless you're in their shoes, exactly, but it's rare that someone gets accused of murder and doesn't at least partially think the accusation is right and that their individual memories are faulty. People are typically better at deceiving themselves than others. It's not the police's job to reassure a defendant of their innocence, and if the first person to talk to Cilla after the police was Coen, then it's no wonder she feels guilty.
'He seemed to predict what I was saying before I said it. He interrupted me regularly, finishing my sentences. I didn't have a chance to think about it at the time, that's just his way, but you think he spoke to the police before me?'
'If he's the man I met at Babel Records, he certainly did. Talking to him only reinforced a side of the story that isn't totally yours. If he figured you were guilty before you spoke, then anything you said related to that thought cemented that belief. What did he tell you about me?'
'Not a whole lot. There are a few law firms that are associated with the record company already – dealing with distribution and streaming rights, intellectual property, all that stuff. Sylvester said he didn't want to hire any of those lawyers for this. That you had a reputation for defending the innocent (though I'd never heard of you, sorry) and that your name might improve optics for the trial.'
'Optics? What does that mean?'
'I try to stay clear of spin. The method is his business, not mine. Maybe he thinks you can prove me innocent against all the odds. Or maybe having you as my legal counsel will keep the news cycle cautiously optimistic regarding my fate. Keeping them on side'll likely keep him from losing more money.'
'From the tour cancellations? He told me about that. How much money is at stake, regarding that?'
Another grim smile. 'Beats me. $500 million? 600? The money's his business too.'
The casual magnitude of Cilla's figures unsettled me. Even supposing she was exaggerating, I understood that Coen wasn't messing around with his wealth. The money behind Cilla Kay-White was much bigger than the sorry business of a killing in an alleyway. You didn't get to the position he was in by caring about little things like that. I couldn't trust Coen to have Cilla's best interests at heart – not that he'd inspired much trust in me before. A twinge of uncertainty jabbed my chest. Why'd I been hired for this? Was I really so successful a defence attorney to get the support of so much money behind me? That seemed naive. Still, I could only worry about what I could plausibly do. Defend Cilla.
'It's early days in my investigation, so I'll be back later to ask you more questions. Will you be okay with that?'
She gave a short nod of assent, still avoiding my gaze. There wasn't much more I could say to her to reassure her, not until I had some evidence to back myself up. She'd given me an awful lot to think about, though I felt she was leaving out a lot too. Without Psyche-Locks, I only had my instincts. There wasn't much of a point of questioning her further about the night of the crime if she claimed to black out. I had no reason to suspect otherwise. Was she admitting too little of what she remembered? Maybe, but I couldn't force her to say anything. She didn't trust me yet. I can't always rely on what my client says is true to find the truth for myself. 'Everybody lies', the old adage, never stops being true. I needed hard details, fast.
As I stood up to leave, the door behind me opened. A man stepped in. He was tall – nearly a head taller than me – and solidly built, wearing a black suit jacket, grey shirt and black-and-grey striped tie. His black hair was clipped short, and his face was set into a near-permanent dour glare, though he was handsome besides. Cilla flatly declared his arrival.
'Konstantin.' She spoke his name as something abstract, mathematical. The guarded nature I'd begun to unravel was back in force again. He didn't register his name being spoken; instead, he looked at me, offering a hand. I shook it.
'Phoenix Wright, defence attorney.'
'Konstantin Ivanovic.' His baritone had only the barest trace of a Slavic accent.
'Cilla tells me you are her bodyguard? It's very important I speak to you about the night of the incident.'
He shook his head. 'Not now, Wright. I must speak to her. Mr. Coen wants to dine with you this evening. I shall be there. We will talk then.'
He gestured to the door. There was little reason for me to argue. I couldn't effectively question anyone until I'd got to the scene and examined the evidence. I glanced at Cilla as I was leaving. Her eyes were fixated upon Konstantin. Residual warmth buried beneath the weight of new circumstance. A familiar spectacle during prisoner visits. Loved ones gaze anew at one another as strangers.
A/N: Hi everybody, hope you're enjoying the story so far - please let me know your thoughts with a review, they really make the writing process more worthwhile. I'm bringing back a certain fan favourite detective in the next chapter, so I'm hoping to balance the story's seriousness with some classic AA humour. Look forward to it!
