Note: Phoenix Wright / Gyakuten Saiban, its settings, plot
points, and characters, are all the property of Capcom, and are being
used here without permission. This chapter takes place during the 'missing day' between GS1-2 Trial Days 1 and 2; Spoilers for that case and
references to others, I'm sure.
Episode II: A Toast to the Sisters
Part 5-1: Brush with Greatitude
September 8th, 2016, 6:42 PM
"Wow, Jack," muttered Donny Docket, staring at the piece of paper in his hand with an expression of startled awe. "This is really... something, that's for damn sure."
Jack smiled lightly; he could tell that his best friend was only trying to be polite. "It's alright, Don," he said. "It only took me a few minutes to make it, anyway."
Donny blinked twice and shook his head. "No, it's all right... I just didn't realize you could be so... perceptive. So this is all the stuff you could think of?"
Jack nodded. "Yep. I didn't realize how much of it there was until I actually bothered to write it all down." He paused and shot Donny a coy smile. "Can I have it back, please?"
Startled, Donny merely nodded, sat the paper back on the bar counter, and slid it back to Jack with little fanfare.
"Thank you," said Jack politely. From when he'd finished opening the bar at 2:00 until Donny stopped in, Jack had had no customers, and thus, he'd spent the idle time mulling over the various things he'd seen in the three days previous. Bored, he'd even written them down on a spare pad of paper so that he could try and find connections between them. Smiling, he paused for one moment to again admire his handiwork.
Odd Things I Have Seen
Maya accused of murder first – Nobody thought otherwise
Murder trial evidence not thoroughly examined
P.P. Parsons scheduling late-night legal meeting with Edgeworth
Mr. Grossberg mad at himself about refusals – What's he hiding?
Grossberg's Phone Call about Paintings – Very Odd Debate
Yesterday's News – They talked about Hammond's case and ignored Mia's
Washer talking to some guy named "Niño" – acting weird(er)
Sudden switch of defendants in Ms. Fey's trial – What the hell?
Shaking his head, Jack then returned his gaze to Donny with a sigh. "It's definitely longer than I first expected it to be... but it hasn't really helped me at all. All it's telling me is that something might be going on, but I have no clue as to what."
Donny sipped his beer appreciatively. "I don't think there's any point in telling you you're wrong, is there?" He spun the piece of paper around and looked at it again. "Have you seen Mr. E or 'Tective G today... tried to talk to them about this?"
Once again, Jack shook his head in the negative. "Nope. I tried calling Detective Gumshoe a little after five, but I only got some stupid message saying the call couldn't be completed. Considering what he knows about cell phones, I wouldn't be surprised if he kept it turned off without one of those voicemail programs picking up the slack."
Donny gave the paper another thoughtful look. "What about Mr. E?"
Jack gave his friend a small smirk. "As much as I wanted to, I don't think Mr. Edgeworth would appreciate getting a call from his bartender while he's in the middle of preparing a case."
Donny laughed. "I guess not."
"I had hoped that he would have shown up here by now. When a case becomes this hectic, he usually stops by after the investigation's done."
"Well, maybe he's not done yet, then."
"That could be," Jack said tentatively, "but still... Most of the facts of the new Fey case are the same; they just managed to change defendants somehow. Unless Edgeworth comes here, I don't think it's my place to bother him about the details of his job." He sighed. "I wish I could find a way to learn more... to do more... the way things are going, all the unknowns about this case are killing me!" He tugged the collar of his button-down shirt in exasperation.
Donny shot Jack a sharp look. "Man, you look like you need a vacation. I haven't seen you act this stressed since La..." he trailed off and shook his head.
He's right. I am starting to go off my nut. Frowning, he asked, "What do you think I should do, Don?"
"I suggest you watch some TV, get your mind off of it all," Donny said patiently. He drained the rest of his beer and leapt to his feet; the bulge of his stomach shook rather amusingly from the swiftness of the action. Reaching a hand into his back pocket, he continued, "Hell, while you're at it, you open this up to the comic pages and read those." He extracted a rolled up newspaper and sat it on the counter. "It's not much, but it's the best you can do without getting drunk off your own stores."
"If you say so, Doctor Don," muttered Jack, unrolling the newspaper so that he could see the front page. Upon viewing the headline, he disdainfully added, "Of course, I could also read the story about Mr. Wright's arrest, which happens to take up most of the newspaper you been keeping hidden for the last half of an hour."
"Say what?" Donny snatched back the newspaper so he could look at it himself. "Oh, yeah, that too." he finally said, scratching at his head sheepishly. "I'm surprised I missed that; I must have gone straight to the sports page today."
Deciding it'd be a waste of energy to get angry over a newspaper, Jack said, "It's all right, Don. I'll read this, and then I'll watch something nice and stupid... there's got to be four or five reality shows on the TV at any given time anyway."
"Good for you, Jack," Donny said cheerfully. He reached into his pocket, extracted a wallet, and pulled out some banknotes. "Three for the beer," he said, sliding them across the counter.
"Thanks." As Jack placed them in the old cash register, he continued, "Where are you going to go now? Home?"
Donny smiled. "Yeah, but only to change my clothes. Once I get my party outfit on, I'm going to head to the District Hideaway!"
"That's one of the big clubs in the Center City area, right?"
Donny smiled. "It sure is! Hopefully, there'll be a girl there who's willing to give good old Don Juan a chance," he gushed.
That'll be the day, all right, thought Jack, rolling his eyes. "Good luck, Don."
"That's the spirit! Bye, Jack!" Donny whistled a cheerful tune as he made his way across the room and out the bar. As soon as the chime went off and the door closed behind him, Jack put Donny's mug in the sink, moved his chair near the TV, and sat on top of it with a sigh of content.
Donny may not have the skills of a bartender or a lawyer, but he probably knows what he's talking about when it comes to relaxing. As soon as I read this damn newspaper story, I'm going to take his advice. Having assured himself of his plan of action, Jack leaned forward, grabbed the newspaper—a District City Examiner—and unfolded it so he could see the headline in full.
"Wright's Wrong Move," he read. An attempt to be funny through use of a pun. How nauseatingly typical.
Before he tried to read the text, Jack stared at the two large pictures that were fixed just below the headline. The one on the left he'd already seen; it was the Police Department Photo from last night's breaking news story. The other picture, however, was completely new to Jack: it showed the lowest floors of an oddly bright blue building; the photograph was focused on the sets of glass doors that obviously formed the structure's front entrance.
Jack absently read the caption: Accused murderer Phoenix Wright made his last stand here, in front of the main entrance of the Bluecorp Building in the Center City Business District.
Such a grand-looking place, Jack thought dully. Sparkling doors of crystalline glass just a few feet away from the curb of the otherwise busy street way.
"Oh dear, I must be becoming a poet," Jack verbalized luridly. Shaking his head in amusement, he started to read the article.
"WRIGHT'S WRONG MOVE"
Young Defense Attorney Arrested In Front of Center City Crowd
By Henrietta Happenstance
Yesterday evening, local defense attorney Phoenix Wright was arrested and charged for the murder of his boss, defense attorney Mia Fey. Mr. Wright, a very cunning man by nature, might have gotten away with his insidious crime had he not tried to take his deceptions too far.
"From what I understand, Mr. Wright had managed to fool many of our best and brightest into believing that the defendant's sister was the culprit," said Neville Specter, District City's Chief of Detectives. "However, when he tried to take his 'investigation' to illogical extremes, he was recognized for his crimes and arraigned by several police officers."
Indeed, multiple members of law enforcement were involved in Mr. Wright's arrest, which took place in front of the Bluecorp Building, an incredibly large edifice located in the heart of Central District City. After his arraignment, Mr. Wright was interrogated for several hours, but as of yet he futilely maintains a plea of innocence, citing his lack of motive. Several legal experts, however, disagree with this foolish notion.
"I possess the belief that Mr. Wright committed this horrific act for the sake of power," said Mr. Bill Grantor, legal commentator and host of DNN's 'Legal Lowdown'. "By eliminating the person in a position nearest to his, he gained the opportunity to take control of a law firm that's been earning prestige in legal circles for nearly three years now."
The quest for power, however, may not be the only motivation behind Mr. Wright's actions. Other, more basic theories have been cropping up throughout the last twenty-four hours.
"From what I've heard, the victim and the defendant had been involved in a rather, er, steamy relationship at the time of the incident," Specter said. "I am, in fact, quite intrigued by the possibility that the victim possessed some sort of lapse of morality, which could logically..."
Exactly what logic Chief Specter was talking about, Jack never learned, as he'd thrown the newspaper to the ground with a cry of disgust. "Stupid rag has gone too far..." he muttered darkly. "It's one thing to paint a defendant a killer... but... Ms. Fey, immoral? I ought to put this in the sink and burn it."
Angrily, he picked the newspaper up and stared at it one more time. It's definitely a load of rubbish, he thought absently, but it's definitely an odd thing, too. With mild trepidation, he stashed the paper under the bar and hastily scribbled a note about it at the bottom of his list.
And now that that's taken care of, he thought curtly, I'm going to see what piece of mind-numbing madness I can find on this silly TV set. After briefly standing up and pouring himself a cola, he sunk into the lightly padded back of his old chair. Drink firmly in one hand and remote in the other, Jack settled down, turned the set on, and started flipping through channels.
Click!
"YEEEEEAH! Coming up next on the Crazy-Ass Techno Countdown is our #6 song... Justice-Man Forever!" shouted a tall young man with a bright pink Mohawk, skin tight leather clothing, and several dozen facial piercings.
"Not my glass of wine, there..." muttered Jack.
Click!
"Today, in a watershed moment for modern science, medical researchers have proven that sticks of wax have nohealth benefits when applied directly to the skin. Whether these findings translate to common glue sticks has yet to be determined..." droned an astute looking woman with orange-yellow hair.
My tax money better not have funded that waste of time...
Click!
"And now... we shall determine which of these various bikini models and shirtless male B-celebrities can make it across the perils of the swimming pool of mayonnaise!" declared a tall, silver-haired woman, her taut and expressionless face reflecting the results of at least a dozen elaborate plastic surgeries.
Jack shook his head as gazed at a line of scantily clad men and women, standing before what was undoubtedly an Olympic-sized swimming pool filled with mayonnaise.
Normally, I'd try to avoid this, he thought resignedly, but it's definitely about as mindless as I can get on TV around this hour. Heck, even repeats of the Steel Samurai require more brain activity than this reality junk. With a heavy sigh, Jack leaned back and started to watch, but he didn't even get to see the start of the race before...
Bring-ling-ling! Jack jumped as a loud electronic jangling emanated from the bar's phone, affixed to an empty area of the wall nearby. Grumbling at the interruption, he forced himself up from the chair, walked all of two steps, wrenched the black cordless receiver from its identically black storing cradle, and thrust it to the side of his head without fanfare. "This is Jack," he said flatly. "Who's speaking to me?"
"Ah, J-Jack! H-how are you doing; faring; feeling this fine evening?!"
Jack frowned slightly; not only had he never received a phone call from Upton Washer in recent memory, but the man sounded even more nervous than what was typical for him. "I guess I'm all right, Mr. Washer," he said cautiously. "I hate to sound rude, but for what reason are you calling me at this hour?"
A pause, and then: "W-well, Jack, the reason for my call is quite basic; ordinary; simple! I n-need you to get your bar ready for some VIPs!"
Jack made an absent noise. "VIPs...?"
"Yeah! You know... bigwigs; important people; major players? I've got two of them with me and we're heading straight for you, pal!"
Somehow, I never saw Washer as a 'pal' kind of guy, Jack thought dully. In a relaxed voice that hid his bewilderment and excitement, he asked, "So, Mr. Washer... exactly who are these... 'Major Players' of yours?"
The phone fell largely silent; Jack could only make out a few vague, muffling tones that indicated that Washer was undoubtedly speaking with someone else. After a few seconds of this, Washer finally stated, "N-now, now, Jack, there's no reason to get nosy; inquisitive; curious! You'll find out when we arrive!"
Annoyed, Jack covered the receiver with his hand and let out a mild oath. Taking a deep breath to keep himself relaxed, he asked, "And exactly how long will it be before you and these mysterious big-shots... arrive?"
Another pause. "Oh... I'd say around... t-ten minutes! Better get cracking, Jack!"
He's really not putting me in a good mood here. Running a frustrated hand through his hair, Jack levelly stated, "I guess you're right. I'll be seeing you, Mr. Washer."
"All right, Jack! Goodbye; farewell; sayonara!" An instant later, the connection broke and was replaced by a dial tone. Jack turned off the cordless phone and sat it back in the cradle with a sigh.
"I wish Washer would have explained himself better... that man makes me want to tear my hair out sometimes," he announced to the empty room. "Like it or not, I'd better make sure this place is in working order, though."
Turning off the TV with a click of the remote, Jack set himself to making sure the Gavel was as presentable as it could be. Grabbing a trusty washrag out from under the bar, he started by leaving the main bar area and wiping each of the bar's four wooden tabletops to a healthy gleam. Once he'd finished with that, he sat the rag down and proceeded to set the pool table up in case two of the three visitors wanted to play a game.
Of course, that leaves someone with nothing to do... I'd better make sure the pinball machine is working, Jack thought absently.
Placing a coin in the gimmicky machine, he managed a little smile as the various lights started illuminating the playing field, a darkly whimsical display of bumpers and obstacles set atop a board that depicted scenes of fancifully old magic tricks.
"Pinball Magic." He quietly read the machine's name as he reflexively launched the balls up the ramp and let them fall back down below the bright yellow flippers. "I don't know what the pinball company was thinking when they made this contraption," he mused. "They should have tried making video games instead."
As soon as the pinball game was done declaring his intentionally abysmal score, Jack quickly looked at the walls and the floor (they were fairly clean), and managed a glance at the little bathroom (it was clean too). Having done the best he could do as far as the public space was concerned, he took his washrag back to his bar area and proceeded to wipe the bar counter down as best as he could.
I wonder how a person such as Mr. Washer got into close contact with so-called important people, he thought absently. He doesn't seem like the sort of man that would really attract the rich or powerful...
About a third of the way down the bar, Jack noticed a ring shaped stain had congealed where Donny's drink used to be. Frowning, he tightened his grip on the washrag and started scrubbing the area harder.
And, while I'm at it, exactly how important can Washer's 'big shots' really be? I mean, I've been tending to famous legal workers for years. In fact, I've served pretty much all the Chiefs this city's legal system has to offer: Chief Gant, Chief Specter, Chief Wayside, hell, even Lana, I guess... Jack paused for just a moment before continuing to work his way down the bar.
Also, Mr. Washer sounded damn high-strung while he was bragging his techno-colored head off. Considering that Washer's always high-strung to begin with, that's quite odd. I guess he could just be nervous on the phone, like he had been with that 'Niño' guy yesterday evening. Vainly shaking his head, Jack quickly started wiping the last bit of the bar counter.
It was only once he finished the wipe-down and returned his precious washrag to a spot near the sink that he heard the all-too-familiar door chime. Turning around, he was greeted by the odd sight of the fairly average-sized Mr. Washer leading two of the most burly-looking men he'd ever seen to the stools on the other side of the bar counter. In fact, Washer reminded Jack of nothing more than a decorative swizzle-stick with a couple of bodyguards as he let his two companions sit down on either side of him.
"A good evening to you, Mr. Washer," Jack stated evenly. By speaking first, he hoped that Washer would provide him with the identities of his acquaintances.
"Yes! G-good e-evening to you too, J-Jack!" Obviously, Mr. Washer's nervousness was even more prevalent then ever. After pausing a moment to wipe the sweat of his brow and collect himself, he continued, "I-I'd like you to meet my... friends." Pointing to the man his right, he gulped, and continued, "This man is M-mister Peter Parsons. Y-you know... the p-public p-prosecutor?"
Oh my... Jack thought dazedly.He hadn't been lying about his 'big-shots' after all. In the pause of a second, Jack quickly memorized everything about Prosecutor Parsons' appearance. He had a stern, square face, complete with a creased forehead, heavy jaw, and cold, pale-blue eyes. His dark green suit was not that of a businessman but an army officer, complete with brass buttons, a rather familiar looking row of gold metals pinned on his chest, and silver rank insignias—replicas of the State prosecutor's badge—gleaming on each shoulder. When combined with his shaved head and prominent barrel-chest, it gave him the airs of a man who shouldn't be messed with.
Remembering what Donny had told him about Mr. Parsons two days earlier, Jack quickly put his feet together and lifted his hand to his forehead in salute. "I am Jack Keeper. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir!" he snapped enthusiastically.
Parsons blinked several times in surprise before allowing his face to break into a rather un-military looking smile. "At ease, Keeper," he grumbled, pleasantly returning the salute himself. "I must admit, I'm looking forward to trying out this canteen... especially after all the stuff Redd told me about it... isn't that right, Redd?" Both he and Washer turned their heads toward the man on the far left. Jack quickly followed suit, and his eyes widened in surprise.
Jack felt an odd familiarity upon looking at 'Redd'; he realized almost instantly that he'd seen him somewhere before. Physically, he had an appearance roughly equivalent to Washer and Parsons blended together; while his figure was as large and hulking as the Public Prosecutor's own, his absurd pink suit, lurid jewel-pattered tie, and the obnoxiously large diamond adorning his breast looked like things that only Upton would have worn. Redd's face, and not his suit, however, was what set off bells of recognition in Jack's mind—the sharp purple eyes, dark eyebrows, unnaturally large smile, and (above all else) finely groomed purple hair were all enormously familiar to him.
"You're a well-known person," Jack said, pointing at Redd uncertainly, "But for the life of me I cannot remember your last name." Fiddling with a button on his shirt, he added, "I guess I should get out of this bar more often."
Redd's already wide smile grew wider. "Is that so?" he asked, his tone flamboyantly pompous. "Well, I guess I can forgive you this once, as a drink-usher such as yourself possesses a most decorative excuse for not knowing my full title, in spite of how exalted my personage may be. I am Redd White, and I am the President, or, to use an equivalent term, the C.E.O. of the Bluecorp Conglomerate."
Confused, Jack rubbed at his temple. Drink-usher? Exalted personage? What kind of fruity phrases are those? A second later, however, this confusion turned to surprise as he realized why White seemed so familiar. Redd White... his face is featured on bus advertisements and billboards throughout the city. No wonder, considering how he's the President of that Bluecorp Company" A second later, his eyes widened further as he realized the significance of White's job. The Bluecorp building... that was the place Mr. Wright was arrested! Jack adjusted his collar and tried to look as dignified as he could; with customers such as these he might finally be able to get some of the answers he'd been looking for!
"Is there something wrong, Mister... Mister Taker?" White added haughtily. "My compatriots and I are getting quite unpatient, or should I say insettled, by your lack of bartending initiative!"
No need to act rude and screw up my name, Jack thought roughly. Holding back his indignation behind a mask of professionalism, he stated, "I'm sorry, Mr. White. I... I'm just trying to take all the information in, you know? If the three of you know what you want, just give me your orders."
In spite of looking rather ill, Washer managed to speak first. "I'll have a whiskey sour, and make it a d-double," he stammered.
Parsons went next. "Some extra-fine beer would hit the spot for me!"
Nodding, Jack then automatically directed his attention to White. "And you, sir?"
White's face briefly lost its jovial look as he scratched his chin in deep thought. After a few seconds, he finally spurted, "I desire a Cosmopolitan, if you please!"
Jack smirked and gave the three a little bow. "Just a few minutes, then." As he made his way to the bar shelves and started taking down the bottles he would need for the three rather different drinks, White began to speak, his tone more than loud enough for everyone to hear.
"The Golden Gavel... such a cheerific place." Even when reminiscing, there was a streak of arrogance in his voice that didn't quite go away. "I have not bothered to access this locale for quite sometime... In fact, not since your precedent was here, dear bartender."
"Would that be Mr. Busman you're talking about, Mr. White?" asked Jack, mixing together a whiskey sour with little conscious thought.
"Why, I am certainly speaking of him, Bartender! Are you even attempting to audit my words?"
"Er, yes..." muttered Jack, turning his head so that he wouldn't contaminate any drinks with forehead sweat. "It's just that I've never come in contact with a dialect quite as... unique as yours before."
Another hearty laugh, this time from Prosecutor Parsons. "Well, Redd here's always made his own rules when it comes to vocabulary," he said, his voice still rather cautious in spite of its militancy. "It's one of the things that helped him rise to the top of the corporate chain of command!"
White laughed heartily. "You are too flattericous, Mr. Person," he said offhandedly.
"I see," muttered Jack, cautiously filling Parsons' mug with premium beer. Turning to face White, he added, "Forgive my ignorance, but what type of company is your Bluecorp, anyway?"
White's already large smile grew larger. "If you must know, my good bartender, we at Bluecorp specialize at buying and selling information. In the past ten years, I have built it up from a singleton-run operation to one of the most spectakerific research conglomerates in the world!"
Jack made a thoughtful noise. "So... by information, would you mean mailing lists? Name, age, consumer habits, that sort of thing?"
"That would be practically correct. Is that not right, compadres?"
"Aye," Parsons said tersely.
"That would be right; accurate; a truth!" Washer added ungainly.
Seeing that he would get no more information on the subject at the time, he merely finished making White's cosmopolitan, sat all three drinks before their owners, and waited patiently for their replies.
Both Washer and Parsons drank without a word. Instead, they turned towards Mr. White, obviously interested in hearing his opinion first. Jack began to feel nervous as White took great care in wafting and sniffing his cocktail before taking but a tiny sip.
"Well?"
White made several smacking noises with his tongue before allowing himself to swallow. He paused just a moment more and declared, "This is a most splendiferous concoction! I only last tasted such a decadent cosmopolitan when Mr. Busboy made it for me!"
As Parsons and Washer nonverbally agreed with White's opinion of his drink, a calculating expression crossed Jack's face. "You sound rather fond of Mr. Busman," he said neutrally.
White took a large sip of his drink before nodding voraciously. "That is a truth! For you see, no insult towards your personage withstanding, Busboy was definitely the paramount example of what a good drink-usher should be. He was a kindly man... he made incorrigibly good drinks... he knew a great many things about the workings of the system... and he was very cooperative. A fatabulistic combination, wouldn't you think?"
Well, I've definitely heard all of that before, except perhaps the 'cooperative' bit, Jack thought absently. "That sounds about right," he said. Placing a finger against his chin, he added, "Was your fondness of Busman the reason you've never dropped by here since I got the job?"
White looked vaguely pensive for a moment before leaning forward and crossing his arms. "I believe you could say that, bartender. Once Busboy had so... sadistically passed onward, I decided to go to other drink-warehouses out of respectitude. I received word that this place had opened from numerous personages, but I honorifically did not think to make my presence here until now."
Odd way of showing your respect, if you ask me... Pulling a stray strand of hair out of his face, Jack asked, "So... why exactly did you decide to come here now, then?"
White took another sip of his drink before sitting back up, his cheerful visage once again firmly in place. "Why... it's quite simplistic, bartender! Mr. Wash-up here was ever so kind as to again bring this lovely location to the front-most sector of my mind!" Almost mindlessly, he spun his barstool so that he faced Washer and not Jack. "Isn't that right, my friend?" he shouted, slapping the defense attorney in the small of his lime-suited back.
Upton jumped in surprise from the contact; he hadn't expected the conversation to suddenly jump to him. "I-I guess that would be an honest; fair; balanced description of things," he trilled nervously.
Jack frowned as Upton returned to silence. Washer hasn't been talking much, and Mr. Parsons has been saying even less, he thought critically. And they don't seem to care in the slightest that Mr. White's butchering their names and dominating the conversation. Tucking those thoughts in the back of his mind, he looked at Washer and asked, "So... when were you and Mr. White chatting things up about little old me?"
Upton flinched visibly at the question; Jack noticed that beads of sweat were starting to form on his forehead. "W-well, it was when I-I... er..."
"Now, now, Uppity, there's no reason to be impolite to the bartender, is there?!" White interrupted loudly. Looking Jack in the eye, he added, "After all, I believe it to be quite apparent to him that the two of us spoke, at length, over last night's supper arrangements. You heard us conversing upon the telephone, did you not?"
Jack's eyes widened with surprise; given that Upton only talked on his phone once the prior night, he could draw but one conclusion. "Wait..." he muttered, giving his shirt collar a compulsive tug. "So that means... you're the man called Niño?"
White merely downed the last of his Cosmopolitan and widened his ever-present smile. "But of course! Blanco Niño, or Niño for short, is my pseudonym... my nick-name, if you please. Of course, only my dearest compadres are allowed to call me that... is that not correct, fellow drink-mates?"
Parsons sat down his nearly empty beer mug and nodded. "That is an affirmative! Niño and I have been brothers-in-arms for several years now!"
Upton merely nodded, his fingers fumbling over his now empty drink tumbler.
Noticing this, Jack asked, "Would you like another one, Mr. Washer?"
This time, Washer merely shook his head in the negative, fidgeting faster than ever.
Washer's acting progressively more strange... just as he was during his conversation with White last night... I wonder what Mr. Parsons thinks of him asking requests from the defense? Seeing no reason to keep silent on this point, Jack leaned forward and asked, "So... how did things go with that murder suspect you were talking about?"
To Jack's surprise, both Washer and Parsons reacted to this question, the former going into stammers while the later flinched and nervously toyed with the medals on his chest.
Jack frowned, his mind abuzz with thought. A low-level defense lawyer and one of the most powerful Prosecutors in the State... both of them equally upset about the same case. I think I know where this is going... but... what does it mean? Jack decided to take a risk and glare back and forth between the two suspicious-looking men, but he didn't even get an answer before White intervened.
"There's no need to resort to intimidating tacticries, bartender, no need at all! I find it ineffable that you would lower yourself to such a level! Now then..." White leaned back slightly and turned his arms outward; almost magically, the various jewels on his hands and chest twinkled in the bar light. Allowing himself a small chuckle, he continued, "The man whom I'd been speaking to Wash-up about did not partake inhis servitude. A shame..."
"I see," muttered Jack dully. "And, if I may be so bold to ask... what was this defendant's name?" Jack hated sounding so confrontational, but he had to make sure that he wasn't just imagining a connection between this set of oddities and all the ones he'd seen before.
Unfortunately for Jack, Washer merely jumped yet again and placed his head in his hands. He was clearly trembling, and seemed unable to speak. Parsons turned his barstool away from Jack and began to conspicuously rub the top of his shaved head. Alarm bells started going off in Jack's mind as he fixed White with an intense questioning glare.
Predictably, the irksome man was not annoyed in the slightest. "Now, now, bartender... there's no need to be hasteful! I believe that it is quite obvious that my compadres are suffering from an infliction of the cranium, and thus, are in need of more liquids. I believe it best that I, in my unfathomable generosity, buy their next drinks. Do you not agree?"
Okay, now he's just trying to distract me... Avoiding the urge to grind his teeth in frustration, Jack stated, "Fine. Mr. Parsons; Mr. Washer, what would you like me to get you?"
Turning his barstool back to its former position, Parsons looked thoughtfully at the back of the bar before stating, "I'll have a-"
"Whiskey!" White interrupted grandiosely. "A fine whiskey for both of these gentlemen, if you please."
"Uh, are you sure that they actually want-"
"Yeah, w-whiskey!" Parsons announced suddenly. "That's exactly what I was going to say, Mr. White! You were going to ask for one too, weren't you, Mr. Washer?!"
Washer's snapped his head upward in response to the direct question. "Y-y-yes, I was!" he squeaked unconvincingly. "I c-cannot help but admire the flavor; the quality; the brownness!"
'Brownness'? Dear God, Washer's synonym train is starting to derail... Knowing that arguments would be futile, Jack merely nodded his head, turned around, and grabbed one of his better (and fuller) bottles of whiskey off of a bar shelf.
"This Wiseguy brand Whiskey's been aged for fifteen years," he announced matter-of-factly. Placing it on the bar, he added, "While it might not be at the tip of the quality pyramid, it's pretty damn close."
"Fifteen years? A most splendiferous vintage!" White declared. "Drink up, amigos!"
As soon as Jack had given the two lawyers their drinks, they downed the contents as quickly as they could. Jack frowned as Parsons expressed his appreciation of the fine whiskey with a more ungainly belch.
"Sorry about that," he said weakly. "But, damn, that's some top-notch rations right there! I aught to have some more of that!"
Looks like the Public Prosecutor wants to get a decent buzz right here and now... and I can't exactly deny service to someone with this much... brass. I'd better see if I can get some information out of him before he gets too far gone to answer... Snapping himself out of his mental reverie, Jack carefully leaned one arm against the side of the bar counter. "So... Mr. Parsons, sir..." he began cautiously. "What do you think about all the things that have been happening with the Fey Murder Case?"
Parsons went stock-still; though this reaction was opposite to that of Washer it was still obvious that the man was shocked. "What... what... what do you mean by that question?" he asked haltingly.
Jack took a step back and looked down at his clasped hands in an effort to appear innocent. "I don't mean to offend or pry, Prosecutor Parsons, sir..." he said levelly. "It's just that Ms. Fey was a dear friend of mine, and I've been paying especially close attention to everything that's been happening in that case these past few days. The information has been changing so quickly... so I've been getting rather confused about it. I'm just hoping that your opinion will be able to answer a couple of my questions, that's all."
Unfortunately, Jack's emotional statements forced Parsons on the defensive. "Well, I... I," he glanced leftward; "I must ask exactly what... what... what questions are you speaking of?" he finally forced out.
I'd better be careful on this... don't want to sound too suspicious."Well... what do you think about the State's change in defendants? That move always struck me as rather... strange."
Though he remained stiff, Jack noticed that sweat was starting to form on the Public Prosecutor's head. "Well... about that... did you... did you read about that in the paper?"
Jack frowned, though he made sure to keep up innocent airs. "Well, I did read one, but the reason they were trumpeting didn't make much sense... they were saying that Ms. Fey did something that I knowshe never would have done. Isn't that... odd,Mr. Parsons, sir?"
Parsons' eyes bulged; it appeared that he know longer knew exactly what to say.
Surprisingly, it was not Jack or White but Washer that broke this latest silence. "J-Jack, please!" he stammered. "I know that your intentions are good; proper; moral, but don't you think you're being a bit hasty with your words?" His voice rose in pitch as he continued, "After all, there are some things that can't be revealed; divulged; ...d-disclosed to the public!"
Before Jack could even formulate a reply, White smacked a hand against the bar to get everyone's attention.
"A thousand apolitudes, my dear bartender, but it appears that Person and Washup's cranial complexities are only getting bigger, and a reductification in their stress-cells will be needed to query them relief."
Jack absently adjusted his collar. "And... exactly what does that mean,Mr. White?"
White's smile grew almost impossibly wide. "It's quite simplistic, bartender. These two people will require spirits and solidarity in order to regain their balance!" He paused and placed a hand against his heart; Jack turned away as light reflected off the jewels on his hand and into his face. "Thus, Mr. Bartender, I will be foraying into a great sacrifice by purchasing that spirit-bottle from you in its entirety." Turning to Parsons and Washer, he continued, "Then, you two, in order to instill some fresh air, will retire to my limozeloum, parked just in the lot just offsides from this bar, and let out your troubles in the form of solaceful, cooperative drinkery!" He paused, reached into the left side of his suit, and pulled out a pack of ordinary playing cards, which he sat before Washer with a flourish. "If you should find the televisor boring, you many finagle with these while you drink." He paused to flash one of his shiniest smiles. "Hell..." he muttered, "You can also partake in the use of the on-board computers, if it pleases you." He turned back to Jack and smiled. "Do you not agree with my logisticry, Mr. Bartender?"
Jack frowned, and his stomach gave a little gurgle. I may be a bartender, but I don't like the idea of people just recklessly drinking themselves stupid for no good reason. Knowing better than to flat-out deny White's offer, he turned to Washer and Parsons instead. "What do you think about Mr. White's idea?" he asked.
"I think it sounds on the up-and-up!" Parsons blurted quickly. Washer merely nodded his head in agreement.
"Uh... are you sure...?" muttered Jack, wiping his brow.
"On a footnote," White added, "It will give us a most centrific opportunity to speak mano a mano about varied things." He gave Jack a most significant look.
In a flash of realization, Jack realized that White had likely been hoping to speak to him 'mano a mano' all along.Ignoring the still louder gurgle of his stomach, he slowly nodded and muttered, "Very well."
White clapped his hands together; his smile stretched to almost impossible proportions. "Splendiferous! Now, if my poor fluxed friends would so kindly take their leave...," He fixed Washer and Parsons with a piercing glare.
"Of course, Mr. White, of course!" said Parsons, obviously thankful that he was getting away from Jack and his questions. "And thanks for the hooch! Come on, private." He grabbed the whiskey bottle, shot glasses, and playing cards before lifting Washer from his seat and steering him out the door at the other end of the room.
White chuckled as he listened to the chime and watched the door swing shut behind them. "Now then, Mr. Bartender, we can converse in relative privatude, can we not?"
"Yep," said Jack matter-of-factly. I don't know where he's wants to say to me, he thought to himself. However, I do have an unsettling feeling that it's going to be something huge...
To be continued...
A/N: Yes, I'm totally going in this direction. Before you get upset, I assure you that the next two chapters (the rest of II-5) will not be a flawless copy of canon--my main character may emulate Phoenix Wright for a moment, but his time in the sun will be extremely brief. Now, a few things I should probably clarify:
Who is Chief (Neville) Specter?: Mentioned both in the newspaper article and one of Jack's thoughts, Neville Specter is the pathetic Chief of Detectives from the Criminal Affairs Department--that guy in the CAD background that always seems to be playing solitaire or discovering two day old news instead of doing anything useful with his life. In fact, had it not been for the invention of the blue badger, I don't think this guy would have even done anything the slightest bit helpful to the department at all, and that's being generous. As of right now, he doesn't appear in the bar during the story, though I could have him come in for a bit part if it's really necessary.
And Chief Wayside?: Also mentioned in Jack's thoughts, Ambrose Wayside was Chief Prosecutor before Lana Skye obtained the position in February 2015. All you need to know about him is that he was a stickler for the rules, and that he was forced out of the Office shortly before Lana's promotion. Big whoop.
What's Pinball Magic?: 'Pinball Magic' was a magic-themed (duh!) pinball machine made by Capcom in the early 1980s. I didn't invent it myself, and I merely included it in the bar as a homage to AA's mother company.
If there's anything else in there that you believe deserves clarification; feel free to bring it up and I'll do my best to explain. Chapter 11, (II-5-2), titled The Man Behind the Curtain, will hopefully be up within two weeks; as for description, let's just say that my ever-curious main character will engage Mr. White in what amounts to a series of warped cross-examinations. In doing so, however, he'll end up with more answers than he bargained for. Stay tuned...
-DSL