Chapter 1 – Deferred Maintenance

Vanessa

There was a light tap on her office door. Francis was right on time, as usual, for the morning's report.

"Come in." Vanessa placed her bone china teacup in its matching saucer and raised her eyes to see her top lieutenant walking into the room. His expression was neutral, never a good sign.

"Sit." She waved a hand at one of the chairs across the desk from her.

When Francis was seated, she asked, "How many?"

"Three."

"Who?"

Francis named three mid-level heroin distributors.

"How much?"

"Three kilos. One each."

Vanessa muttered an Italian curse under her breath, then sighed. "Get them bailed out," she said wearily, "and then – " Then what? She knew what her husband would do. He would order Francis to take them out. She wasn't her husband. The three distributors were useful men, with established networks of dealers and customers. Taking them out would only hurt her operations – more than they were already being hurt. Besides, they weren't the problem. She knew what – who – the problem was.

"Take half of their percentage for the next six months," she ordered. "That should teach them to be more careful."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Anything else?"

"No, ma'am."

"All right."

Dismissed, Francis got to his feet and left, closing the door behind him. Vanessa picked up her teacup and sipped, then made a face. The tea was cold. She resisted the urge to smash the cup, instead setting it gently back in its saucer. By themselves, the nightly losses weren't that significant: a few packages of heroin one night, a shipment of guns the next, the day's gambling take another night. But it was happening every single night, a steady drip, drip, drip. It was unacceptable. The losses were cutting into her profits, the profits she needed to get her husband out of prison. Judges and prosecutors didn't come cheap, and most of them couldn't simply be bought. She needed to have leverage on them, if they were going to do her bidding. That took both time and money.

Not for the first time, she cursed her husband – and herself – for putting themselves in this position. She knew Wilson was trying to protect her when he made his deal with the Devil – a deal she herself had ratified, only a few months ago – but it was no longer working. They should have known better than to make a deal with Daredevil. When he wasn't running around in a mask, he was a lawyer named Matthew Murdock. He was smart and slippery, a real son of a bitch. He knew just how far he could go without blowing up the deal. He would stay within the limits of their bargain and scrupulously avoid going after her. But her operations couldn't keep taking hits from Daredevil, night after night. There had to be a way out.

Foggy

"What a dump," Foggy said to himself, casting his eyes around the entry hall and stairway of the building where he, Matt, and Karen were meeting their new client. The walls were scuffed and stained – he didn't want to know with what. The faded avocado green color said they were last painted in the seventies. The light fixtures were dusty, and half of them were dark, their bulbs burned out or missing. He sighed and started up the stairs, followed by Matt and Karen. The shutter of Karen's camera clicked as they climbed.

Halfway up the second flight, he stopped and gazed down at the riser one step above his feet. A piece of plywood lay across it, nailed haphazardly into place. He scowled at the half-assed repair job, then continued on his way up the stairs, skipping the repaired step. As he did so, he grabbed hold of the railing. It was loose. He turned around to ask Karen to shoot some photos, but she was already on it, so he continued on his way up.

The first thing Foggy noticed about the man who opened the door of apartment 3A was the crutches supporting him as he balanced on his left foot. The second was the cast that encased his right leg from the foot to just below the knee. He wore a navy blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants that hung loosely on his six-foot frame. The right leg of his sweatpants had been cut off at the knee. His dark curly hair needed a trim, and the stubble covering his jaw was at least three days' growth. Both his hair and his beard, especially his beard, were beginning to go gray.

"Drew Moran," he said, with a nod in place of a handshake. He smiled as he greeted them, but Foggy could see the effort behind the smile. He'd seen the same smile on Matt's face God-knew-how-many times. Drew was in pain. After a beat, he continued, "And you must be – "

"Foggy Nelson." Foggy touched his chest, then inclined his head toward Matt and Karen. "Matt Murdock. Karen Page."

"Come in, please." Grunting softly from the effort, Drew turned around and made his way slowly across the room. He handed his crutches to Foggy, then lowered himself onto an armchair and carefully lifted his right leg, placing it on the matching ottoman. Foggy placed the crutches on the floor next to Drew's chair. Then he guided Matt to the black leather couch, where they both took seats facing Drew. Karen pulled up an armchair, the twin of the one Drew was sitting in.

The apartment was a pleasant surprise, after the dingy entry hall and stairway. The living room was small, but the high ceilings and two tall windows overlooking the street made it feel larger than it was. The white walls had been painted recently – not by the landlord, Foggy guessed – and the hardwood floors looked newly sanded and refinished.

"Thanks for meeting me here instead of your office," Drew said with an apologetic wave at the cast on his leg.

"Not a problem," Matt replied. "Shall we get started?"

Drew nodded, then seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Uh, yeah, sure."

"You understand everything you tell us is privileged, right? No one can make you – or us – divulge what we talk about here."

"OK."

"So – tell us what happened," Matt said, waving his hand in the general direction of Drew's leg. Karen had set her camera aside and pulled out a notebook and pen.

"Well, you saw it for yourselves – oh, I . . . um," Drew stammered, red-faced. Foggy had seen that reaction more times than he could count. "Uh, sorry, Mr. Murdock – "

"Don't sweat it," Matt told him mildly. "And it's Matt." He paused, waiting for Drew to continue. When he didn't, Matt prompted him, "You were telling us how it happened."

"Right. Um, I was heading out, on my way to work. Just going down the stairs like I did every day. When I stepped on that step, it just, like, fell apart. My foot went through and got hung up, and I went down hard. My ankle was messed up, big time. Hurt like hell."

"All right." Matt thought for a moment. "So no one saw you fall?"

"No. Mrs. Contreras from 2B found me. She heard me fall and came out to see what happened. She's the one who called 911."

"And your foot was still stuck when the paramedics got there?"

Drew nodded. "Yes. Mrs. Contreras wanted to try to pull my foot out, but I screamed when she touched my leg. She was scared to come near me, after that."

"And then the paramedics came and took you to Metro-General, right?"

"Yeah. But I was fading in and out by that time."

"Not a problem. We'll have your medical records for that." Matt turned toward Foggy and gave a slight nod.

"You said you were going to work?" Foggy asked.

Drew nodded. "I'm a cabinetmaker, work for a company that makes kitchen cabinets, built-ins, stuff like that, the high-end kind."

"They still paying you?"

"No, not since my sick leave ran out."

"What about health insurance?" Karen asked.

"Lydia, my wife, works for the City. I'm on her plan."

"Are you going to have a job to go back to when you're able to return to work?" Foggy asked.

Drew thought for a minute, then shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "Probably," he said. "But I was planning on leaving, before . . . before this happened."

Foggy looked a question at him.

"I was going to start my own business," Drew explained. "Furniture making."

"What kind of furniture?" Karen asked.

"You're sitting on it."

Karen took a good look at the furnishings: the chair she was sitting on, Drew's chair and ottoman, the coffee table, the end tables, a small chest along the far wall, and a round table and chairs that sat under the front windows. All were made of a golden-colored wood, polished to a satiny sheen, with simple, elegant lines. The chairs and ottoman were upholstered in a nubby cream-colored fabric with flecks of a dark gold tone that picked up the color of the wood.

"Wow," she said. "They're all your work?"

Drew nodded. Then he frowned and rubbed a hand over his face. "It's probably not gonna happen, now. Not after . . . this."

Karen gave him a sympathetic look but didn't say anything.

Drew turned back to Foggy. "So do I have a case?"

Foggy steepled his hands in front of his face and thought for a moment. "We need to gather all of the facts, but I'd say it's looking good. I mean, except for your apartment, this place looks like a monument to deferred maintenance."

Drew chuckled. "You got that right."

"Do you know if any of your neighbors complained about the stairs?" Matt asked.

"No, I don't. But Mrs. Contreras might know."

"We'll ask her – that is, Karen will. She'll talk to the other tenants, too. And we'll be able get records of complaints from the building management."

"Speaking of which," Foggy said, "we'll need a copy of your lease and the name of the management company, to start."

"I pay rent to something called JW Management, Incorporated," Drew said. "We made a copy of the lease. Lydia thought you might need it. It's on the desk in the bedroom."

He started to get up but sank back into his chair when Karen said, "Stay put. I'll get it."

She made her way down a short hallway and reappeared a few moments later, holding several pieces of paper. "This it?" she asked, holding them out to Drew. He glanced at them and nodded.

Karen handed the lease to Foggy, who put it in his briefcase, then pulled out several other pieces of paper. He put them on the coffee table in front of Drew. He indicated two of the documents. "These are releases that will allow us to access your medical and employment records. We need them prove your injuries and medical expenses and loss of income." He indicated a third document. "This is a retainer agreement. You'll want to discuss it with your wife, since both of you will need to sign it."

"Both of us?"

"Yes. Your wife has a claim, too," Foggy explained. He pulled out a pen and passed it to Drew. "If you sign the releases now, we can get to work."

Drew signed both releases and handed the pen back to Foggy. As Foggy was putting the papers back in his briefcase, Drew asked, "How long is all this going to take?"

Matt answered him. "It's hard to say. Most cases settle and don't go to trial. If the case doesn't settle, it could take a year or more to complete discovery and prepare the case for trial."

Drew groaned, and Matt added quickly, "But we'll do everything we can to resolve the case sooner than that."

"That's all I ask," Drew said. "Just do your best."

"We will," Foggy assured him.

"Thank you for coming," Drew said, as he reached for his crutches.

"Please, don't get up," Karen told him, "we'll see ourselves out." Foggy guided Matt to the door, and she followed them out of the apartment.

Karen

Karen glared at her laptop, as if a death stare could erase what she saw on the screen. "No, no, no, no, no," she muttered. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when she and Foggy and Matt were finally working out how to be with each other again, as partners and friends. Not when they were doing good work, making a difference in Hell's Kitchen. Of course that was when things would go sideways. Of course it would be because of Wilson Fisk. "God damn it," she said to herself. Or maybe she said it out loud, because Matt appeared in the door to her office, his head tilted quizzically.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Yeah. We need to talk. Foggy, too," she said grimly.

Matt raised his head and called out, "Hey, Fog!"

Muffled grumbling from the corner office. Karen couldn't make out any words, but Matt probably could. Foggy appeared in the doorway, standing next to Matt with a questioning expression on his face. "What's up?" he asked.

"Take a seat," Karen told them, waving her hand.

When the two lawyers were sitting in the client chairs across from her, Karen frowned and said, "We have a problem . . . with Drew Moran's case."

Foggy groaned.

"What kind of problem?" Matt asked.

"You know I've been looking into the ownership and management of the building, to make sure we name the right defendants when we file," Karen explained. Both men nodded. "Well, this is what I found." She turned her laptop around so Foggy could read what was on the screen.

"Shit," Foggy swore. Then he turned to Matt. "The two companies Drew told us about, JW Management and JW Properties, they're subsidiaries of WVF, Incorporated. Three guesses what 'WVF' stands for, and the first two don't count."

"Yeah. I got it."

"It's not a publicly-traded corporation, so there are no SEC filings," Karen said, turning the laptop so the screen was facing her again, "but on their filing with the Secretary of State, the CEO is listed as a 'Francis Walker.' When I looked into him, I found out he was the head of Vanessa's security detail when she was out of the country. Plus, the address of the corporation is the same as Vanessa's art gallery, and the agent for service of process is Donovan & Partners."

Matt shrugged. "So – ?"

"It's Fisk, Matt," Foggy said patiently, "and Vanessa. You have a deal with them."

"And that deal doesn't affect Drew's case. The deal is Vanessa stays free. It's a civil case. No one's going to jail. Vanessa isn't going to like it when we sue her – "

"You think?" Foggy scoffed.

"But it's not gonna blow up the deal."

"Says you."

Matt frowned and folded his arms across his chest. "I do."

Hoping to cut off the bickering before it turned into a pissing contest, Karen changed the subject. "So what do we do now?" she asked.

"Same as we would in any case," Matt replied. "You've been interviewing the other tenants, right?"

Karen nodded. "All of them – well, those who would talk to me – said deferred maintenance, as Foggy calls it, was a constant problem, and the management company wasn't responsive. Their main complaint was the heat. It went out several times last winter, and each time it was days before they got it working again."

"Any complaints about the stairs?"

"A couple of them mentioned that some of the steps felt . . . 'unstable' was the word they used. But they couldn't say if the step Drew fell on was one of them. At least one person complained, but nothing was done. They also complained about the lights out in the hall and stairwell and the railing between the second and third floors coming loose. Nothing was done about them, either. And there's something else . . . ."

"What?" Foggy asked.

"Several of the tenants thought there was something going on, with the building, that is. Like maybe the owner planned to sell it or tear it down, something like that. They didn't know for sure, but one of them told me someone at the management company let something slip once, when they made a complaint. Something to the effect that it wouldn't be their problem much longer."

"Probably just the first step in getting the tenants out, so they can do . . . whatever it is they're planning for the building," Foggy observed.

"You're probably right." Matt pressed his lips together, then asked, "We're still waiting on Drew's medical and employment records, right?"

Karen nodded. "Yes. They should come in any day now."

"When we get them, we figure out what the case is worth and send a demand letter. If Vanessa's as smart as I think she is, she'll settle."

"We hope," Foggy muttered. "That's all?"

"Yeah."

"OK, then." Foggy got to his feet and left.

"You really think Vanessa will settle?" Karen asked.

"I do, " Matt said, confidently. He stood up and turned to leave. Over his shoulder, he added, "I know her. You'll see."

Karen wasn't so sure, but she kept her doubts to herself.

Vanessa

"Is this some kind of a joke?" Vanessa demanded. She cast a disgusted look at the pieces of paper in her hand before dropping them on the desk in front of her.

"No joke, ma'am," Ben Donovan assured her.

"Do they seriously think I'm going to pay them a dime?"

Donovan picked up the letter, four pages on the letterhead of "Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law." "We've investigated their claims, and in my opinion, you'd probably lose if the case went to a jury. The stairs were in poor shape, the property manager knew it, and the tenant, their client, was seriously injured. I would advise you to settle the case, the sooner the better."

"Have you forgotten how much they've already cost us? How much Daredevil is costing us every night?" she demanded. Without waiting for Donovan to answer, she went on, "No. No settlement."

"But you don't have to pay them," Donovan pointed out. "Turn the case over to your insurance company. Let them pay. That's the smart move."

Vanessa sank down onto her chair. "Oh, sit down, will you?" she said irritably, looking up at Donovan. "It gets on my nerves when you hover like that."

Donovan sighed and took a seat.

"If we turn the case over to the insurance company, they take over the case. Correct?" she asked.

Donovan nodded. "Correct."

Vanessa glared at the lawyer in disbelief. Did he not grasp the threat? "No. We have to keep control of the situation. That's the only way to be sure they don't look too closely at JW Properties and JW Management."

"But – " Donovan fell silent when he noticed the expression on Vanessa's face.

"You have noticed who we're dealing with, haven't you?" she asked.

"Of course."

"They're a threat to us." Vanessa frowned. "Not only the two lawyers. That Page woman is just as dangerous, not to mention Daredevil. I don't have to remind you, do I, of all the . . . difficulties they've caused us?"

"No, of course not," the lawyer replied smoothly.

"This isn't just a lawsuit," Vanessa declared. "We need to stop them."

Donovan stood up and walked to the window. He looked out for a moment, then turned to face Vanessa. "There may be a way," he said slowly.

"How?"

"There are still a few judges who are . . . favorably disposed to us. One in particular comes to mind. If I can get the case assigned to him, he can be . . . persuaded to grant a motion to dismiss."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the case will be thrown out before they have a chance to conduct discovery and, well, discover things they shouldn't."

"Do it," Vanessa ordered, "but don't take too long."

"Understood." Donovan gave his client a curt nod and left.