AN so it's my personal belief that you're not a True Clairedevil Writer unless you let a year pass between updates.

also there's law stuff in this chapter don't look too close.

also also i had lulled myself into thinking i didn't care about matt and claire. boy howdy was i wrong.


Court day. Nelson and Murdock trooped down to the courthouse, because previous engagements always won. Maybe that was where the gangsters went wrong, Karen thought as the judge settled in. If they had simply penciled in their tussles with Claire and Solano and Matt, maybe things wouldn't have been so hit or miss.

She pinched herself as Foggy stood to give the opening statement defending Dugan. Useless ceremony always made her thoughts turn morbid.

Dugan was very still beside her. Despite his bravado, he was worried the charges would stick. Charges of assault were no joke by themselves, even with a good legal team. But considering he had only been charged because the police officer had taken issue with Dugan defending the honor of a black man in a room of biggoted Irishmen who all happened to be friends of said police officer, and now Dugan was being judged by a potentially just as biggoted courtroom…

It was a good thing Nelson and Murdock liked representing underdogs.

Matt was just as on edge as Dugan. He was quiet by nature, but now he was also tense, his thoughts still tangled up with Claire. Karen often marveled at his ability to function with all the clamor in his head, but this was certainly something new. Court cases were tricky enough without separate worries about gangsters.

Karen put on her pretty secretary face as she let her mind wander.

The Temples had been reluctant to leave their home at first, but after Karen repeated Claire's magic reassurances, they had all done as asked. They'd slipped out in twos and threes throughout the day, climbed into a taxi, then gone over to Central Park. Then more taxis, and then they were in Brooklyn. Claire's mother had crossed herself repeatedly, making Karen had once more wonder if life was easier with God's hands on your shoulders.

Now the Temples were tucked away in the mill of a boarding house, their names changed and rooms properly split to help them hide.

When Karen had mentioned how lucky they were to still be safe, Claire's sister had shaken her head.

"Not luck, Miss Page. Loyalty. Our people keep secrets well."

That was something Karen could appreciate. Only, she usually kept secrets from people, not for.

Karen made a note of a witness climbing the stand. Beside her, Dugan shifted, scowling.

"What?" Karen asked.

"It's just Jim Coghlin. He's sore at me from another thing. Real sore. Didn't think it'd be so awkward to see him again."

Karen sighed through her nose. "I thought you told Foggy there wouldn't be any surprises."

"Oh, no, it's just...nothin' big, just some drama from the war. Old stuff."

Karen made a pointed note on her pad. From the veterans she had met, 'old stuff' from the war was never too old to be out of play.

Thankfully, Matt's questioning of Coghlin dodged any land mines. Karen wanted to cheer and pat him on the back. Even sleep deprived, plagued by girl trouble, and the looming threat of gangster violence, Matthew Murdock was a skilled lawyer. Shame he insisted on being small time, Karen thought. He'd be a real hellion, if he was just a bit more cutthroat. Probably richer, too.

The judge called a recess, and the courtroom filled with dull rumbling as people shifted and left. Foggy clapped Matt on the shoulder. He tried talking shop, but Matt's gaze stayed fixed in the distant somewhere.

"You said ya got Rogers on there, right? As a character witness," Dugan asked. He'd been asking a lot of the same questions all day, mustache twitching with anxiety.

"Yes, he's coming up next. Nervous about him, too?" Karen asked, smiling to make it look like she was teasing him.

Dugan gave her a tight smile, his lips all but disappearing. When he spoke, though, his voice was breezy and light.

"Nah, I've got the best lawyers in the Kitchen. Plus I got a spiffy captain comin' and tellin' 'em what a champ I am. That'll beat out the racist bastards on the stand any day."

Karen's mouth quirked in a smile, but she schooled herself. "Keep your voice down, Mr. Dugan. Those bastards might decide you go to jail."

Karen excused herself from the courtroom to get a drink from the water fountain. She checked her lipstick on the way back (the only thing worse than a red-lipped secretary was a sloppy red-lipped secretary, and Karen wasn't about to let the world take away all her fun), then headed back toward the courtroom.

"Looks like you couldn't stonewall me this time," a man said behind her.

Long years on the road with her father had already developed a negative reaction to ominous men appearing behind Karen, but the current gangster situation didn't help. She turned fast, hands clenching around the tube of lipstick. Then she stopped, blinking.

The man before her was black, perhaps the only black person in the building not relegated to picking up after someone else. She remembered seeing him in the courtroom, but she hadn't thought much other than to wonder why he was there. Karen studied him a little closer, curiosity replacing fear.

He was older, grey warring with the black in his hair and winning. He wore glasses, and his forehead wrinkled as he watched her. She couldn't tell if he, like most of the men in the courtroom, looked down on her for her overly stylish appearance. Then again, if he did, he could hardly tell her.

"Ben Urich," he said after a moment. The man stuck his hand out, which she took automatically.

"Ben—Ben Urich, oh yes," she said, face brightening as she remembered. "Yes, no, sorry. I didn't mean to stonewall you, just…we didn't want our best defense leaked to the papers."

"Miss Page, I doubt you would have so much as given me your client's age if I asked," Ben said dryly. He had the hint of a smile, though, like their game of cat and mouse over the telephone was all part of the job.

Karen gave another pseudo-embarrassed laugh. She wasn't remotely sorry for her politely pointed evasion of The Harlem Echo, but liked Ben's straightforwardness enough to not be rude.

"Well, now you get the details along with everyone else. Although," she added, "it's not like there are many other reporters to compete with. What's the hoopla?"

"I had a feeling there was a story, is all," Ben said with a humble shrug.

Karen pursed her mouth. "Enough of a story to interest The Harlem Echo? It's just a vet accused of a public misdemeanor. You have plenty of interesting stuff going on in your own backyard. Why focus on the Kitchen?"

Ben shrugged, a tired smile on his lips that had seen a tad too much. "One could say that's the story itself. Another vet, another misdemeanor... It's been about ten years, and we still don't want to say something changed when those soldiers came back."

"But why pick Dugan? There have to be easier ways to get your story."

Ben considered her a long moment, then shrugged again. This time it wasn't so dismissive.

"To be honest, Miss Page, there aren't exactly a lot of people looking out for our boys. Especially not Irishmen. Especially not vets. So you can see why I'd be so interested."

Karen opened her mouth for a long moment, then closed it. Ben gave a smile that wasn't too amused and nodded.

"But still, that's a lot of effort for a very short story," Karen said. "Why work so hard on something that might not even be half a column?"

"I've learned that talking in a loud voice where it will carry has quite a bit of power," Ben told her. "And drawing attention to something is the first step to changing it."

Karen gave a slow nod. It was a borderline naïve thought, but it was also extremely noble.

She glanced at her watch, then started. "Applesauce, we should probably get back in there."

"Of course. After you," Ben said, gesturing for her to lead the way.

They returned to the courtroom. Karen did her best to be the perfect vision of empty-headed attentiveness, but she couldn't help but think about what Ben had said.

Drawing attention to something is the first step to changing it. That was true enough. The angry women that had fought tooth and nail for national prohibition were proof enough. But if it was applied to something smaller, more helpful…

Matt had wanted to fight for Claire in the courts, to take on things through the power of the mallet. At best, they were looking at months of dawdling and thumb twiddling. At worst, Wilson Fisk would do his millionaire status proud and crush them with paperwork and teams of materially-motivated lawyers. Or he'd finish up the gangster route and have done with all of them.

But if the glossy veneer could be stripped away, if the whole city, whole country could see what he really was, maybe that could be the insurance they needed. No matter how much money a person had, they were not immune to bad press. Not Rockefeller, not Carnegie, not even Fisk.

It was an idea, certainly.

Karen made notes as the case stretched on. Witness, examination, and so on. The American court system was almost charming for its endless rigor.

She had to say, Dugan's war buddy, Captain Rogers, certainly cut a dashing figure on the stand. Everyone sat a little straighter in the presence of a national hero. His character witness shone nearly as bright as the medals pinned to his chest.

"Definitely a good idea to bring him on," Foggy whispered in her ear "Remind me to become best friends with a military officer, in case I go to jail."

"I know a few," Karen whispered back, eyes still on the prosecution.

"Oh?"

"They're Prussian."

"Ah, damn. That's a little too kaiser-friendly for the average jury."

"True. Pay attention. Matt's clearly not."

Foggy cast a glance at Matt, who was straight-backed and glassy-eyed, before he focused on the cross-examination.

Karen drummed her fingers on her knees.

Drawing attention to something is the first step to changing it.

One newspaper aimed at the city's black population would not be enough to protect Claire from Wilson Fisk. Especially not when he clearly had his claws in a paper of his own. They'd need their story everywhere, in papers, on the radio, in dance halls, drifting through the mayor's office.

And then, then they might have a chance to beat him in court.

Karen was eager for the decision of the jury. Dugan was restless beside her, leg bouncing, mustache twitching. He only stilled when he was found guilty, but relaxed when he was simply fined and sternly told to watch himself by the judge.

"Not bad, all things considered," Foggy chirped. "We knew this would be a tough sell."

"Yeah," Dugan said. He still smiled and joked, but they were hollow versions of before. "Shit, that just shook me, I guess. You think you see everything overseas, they can't surprise you with nothin', then you get back here and they smack you with all they got. Oh, I could use a drink."

"Maybe say that after we leave the courthouse," Karen said, patting him hard on the shoulder.

Matt fidgeted with his suit cuffs for a moment before he broke their encouraging banter. He walked to the door fast, not bothering to say good-bye.

"Uh—Matt," Foggy said. "Don't you have kind, bolstering words for our client?"

"Ah—congratulations," Matt said, swinging back toward them. He stuck his hand out, giving Dugan a grimace of a smile as they shook hands. "Pleasure working with you."

Karen and Foggy both stared pointedly at Matt, like that would fix his shocking behavior.

"Karen, Mr. Dugan, would you give me a minute with my partner?" Foggy asked, voice rippling with warning sirens.

"Yes, of course—oh look, there's Captain Rogers," Karen said, wheeling Dugan around so Foggy could drill Matt. Dugan's attention was swallowed by his friend. They made a big show of comradery and commiseration, then said something about everyone getting together for a drink. Karen looked over her shoulder. Matt and Foggy only stayed locked in conversation for a brief moment before Matt shrugged him off and bee-lined for the door.

Karen smiled and encouraged and charmed like she was supposed to, until Dugan had safely left with Captain Rogers. She turned toward Foggy, dying for information.

"So?" she asked. Nelson and Murdock, by virtue of him having practically nothing else to care about, was Matt's life. Something had to be deeply wrong for him to be so careless during something as important as a court case.

"I dunno," Foggy sighed. "He gave me some excuse, but it's easy to tell it's Claire."

"Did you ask about her? Has something happened?" A more worrisome thrill went through Karen. She didn't normally have any pointed concern for assorted strangers, but Karen had looked into the eyes of Claire's mother and sister and nieces and nephews, and she would feel personally miserable if anything happened to them. Also, it was her job to keep them safe, and she really hated failing.

"I dunno." Foggy shook his head. He put his hands in his pockets as they tripped down the courthouse steps toward Foggy's car. "I don't think anything happened to her, but something happened."

Karen mulled over his words. He didn't sound remotely alarmed enough for something dangerous to have happened. Maybe it was something more personal, occurring just between Matt and Claire.

Karen raised an eyebrow. "Do you think…? I mean, he is Catholic, they both are, probably, but close quarters, adrenaline, him protecting her…"

Foggy sighed again like he was too weary to keep the air in his body. "I dunno, Karen. Matt is nothing but a string of contradictions. But I..."

He stared glumly across the road, then shook his head. Foggy stepped forward to open Karen's door for her. It was charming in its chivalry, because it had probably been habit rather than conscious thought for him. Her father had always said it was the little things that mattered.

Karen waited until he climbed behind the wheel to ask, "But what?"

"I—I dun—"

"'You dunno', yes, yes. What do you think?"

"Well, Matt mentioned something a little while back about a girl. Said things didn't work out, but he was obviously miserable for her. Then there's Claire, whom he saved personally from gangsters—twice—and is now living with him in his shoebox apartment. I mean, you saw how protective he is over her."

"So you think something is going on between them," she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No. Maybe. Half of something. Matt's stubborn streak could be a force of nature, and if he thinks it's not right… One plus one equals a little less than fun, considering murderous gangsters are involved."

"All the more reason to take care of these murderous gangsters, then." Karen thrummed her fingers on her lap. "I think I have a solution."

"Other than a swift kick in the ass?" Foggy asked, idling as a horse cart passed by them.

"Yes," she said, smirking. "Only…Matt won't like it."

"Oh goll," Foggy said, another sigh already in the works.

"I think it'll work!" Karen insisted. "We attack Fisk on two fronts, like I said. Only," she said, raising a finger to stem his protests, "instead of fighting with fire, we fight with ink. If we tell enough newspapers Claire's story, Fisk can't hold it back. He's no paper mogul, he can't gag everyone."

"You want to broadcast Claire's details? How does that keep the gangster from killing her, exactly?"

"She won't be going on radio shows," Karen said. Not at first, but if they were lucky... "They can't gun her down from an article. Nor can they gun her down on a stage, if Fisk has any sense. If Fisk is busy facing the media public and the police, then maybe he won't have time to come after her."

Foggy was quiet for a long moment. He wore his thinking frown, but not his that's stupid, that'll never work one.

"You're right, Matt will hate it."

"If we both bring it up, ask Claire…"

"She might hate it, too. This is her life that would be exposed. There's a reason she went into hiding, Karen."

"She'd probably prefer losing her privacy over her life."

"Would you?" Foggy asked, glancing over at her.

Karen opened her mouth, yes, of course, I choose life every time, but there was something about the honesty in his eyes that made her hesitate. Karen shrugged and said, "Preference doesn't play much in life or death situations."

Foggy gave half a scoff, like he could see how the words didn't quite fit in her mouth. He didn't say anything. It was quiet for long enough that Karen grew nervous, worried he had decided against her.

"Which ones were you thinking about?" he asked, and Karen knew she had him.


It was another evening, another round of skirting each other. Matt had been so anxious while he had been in the courthouse, so utterly convinced that Claire would need him and he would be out of reach. Now that he was home, though, Matt thought he might chew through the walls if he had to stay there much longer.

Everything was turned around in his head. He hadn't been able to sleep much the night before, thinking about what Claire had said and what Foggy had said and what Lantom had said and what he had said and how he was going to lose the damn case unless he went the hell to sleep, but Claire and Foggy and Lantom...

He really just needed to go to sleep, but it was barely dark outside and he didn't want to coop Claire up in his bedroom just because of course she would go if he told her he was tired but just being around her was dangerous because his mind was going and he couldn't keep anything straight and he might do something stupid like run his hands through her hair and say that she was beautiful and smart and kind and he wanted so badly to kiss her but he couldn't he couldn't and oh how desperately he wanted to sleep.

Claire sat across from him in her usual armchair. She frowned at in him in the lamplight, eyes on his hands.

"How are they?" she asked, tipping her chin at him.

He flexed his fingers, refocusing on the room. Bruises and small cuts laced his knuckles. They were so common now that he really didn't think about them.

"Fine. They don't stop me from working, so." He smiled at her.

Claire studied him, then laughed and shook her head. "I don't get you," she told him. He sucked in a breath, certain she might have heard the thoughts in his head, might confront him when he will was already so preciously weak, but she continued and said, "I don't get how you are so okay with pain."

"What do you mean?" he asked, blinking

"I hate pain," Claire told him. "I can't stand it, my whole body tenses at the thought. Mine, another person's, it's all terrible. I don't get how you and Santino and everyone else willingly goes to get the stuffing knocked out of you, just for some pocket change."

Matt cocked his head. "I don't know, I guess…everyone has their own reasons. Most go because it's easy money, like with Santino."

"Oh, bushwa," Claire said, smothering a smile as she shook her head. "Suffering's suffering, and it doesn't seem worth it, even if you chose for it to happen."

Matt laughed, a burst of sound that caught even him by surprise. Her words were so like Father Lantom's that Matt couldn't help himself. He was running in circles, hearing the same things, doing the same things, thinking and fearing and feeling everything over again.

As if in agreement, his lip split open.

He hissed in a breath, hand flying up to keep blood from falling on his shirt. Claire sprang to her feet, hurrying to grab something to stop the blood.

"Why did it start bleeding all of a sudden?" she asked. "It's been days since you got that."

"I don't know," Matt sighed, pulling his hand away so she could press toilet paper against his mouth. "Guess all the talking in court today made it raw."

"Shh, stop talking," Claire said. She put a knee on the couch beside him so she could lean in and get a better look. "This is what I'm talking about, you get hurt and it does nothing but keep hurting."

"I know.'"

Her gaze shifted from the cut to his face, surprised by his easy defeat. Claire opened her mouth to say something—

A hard knock on the door made them both jump. They looked at each other, realizing just how close they were, how terribly compromising this scene could be. Claire stood up fast, stumbling back toward the bedroom.

"I—I should go," she mumbled, gesturing behind her.

"I—uhm, yes." Matt cleared his throat as Claire disappeared. He closed his eyes. That was exactly the kind of thing he had been afraid of doing. He really needed to get to sleep.

The person knocked again, louder this time. Matt groaned and dragged himself to the door.

"Foggy," he said in surprise. "Hi. I didn't expect you. Is everything…?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's good. Well, the same, at least. Can I…?"

"Yeah, sure." Matt stepped back so Foggy could come inside.

"Where's Claire?" Foggy asked, peeking into the kitchen.

"She—she's in the bedroom," Matt said, heart thumping extra loud. He felt suddenly caught out (even though he'd done nothing), mind full of Y'know, I saw the way you were with Claire.

Foggy didn't notice the flush in Matt's face as he said, "Right, right, being safe. Well, I just…wanted to check in on you two."

"For what?"

"You rushed off so fast, I was worried that maybe…I dunno. Guess we're all tense."

Matt worked his jaw, a new wave of guilt flooding him. Foggy hadn't been delighted when Matt brushed off Dugan, but Matt could not take the chance that Claire was in trouble. He seemed over it now, though, which was a relief.

Foggy grimaced down at his shoes. "I feel like Karen's the only one handling this at all well."
"Karen's a force of nature," Matt chuckled. "She can take on anything and not muss her hair."

Foggy laughed, but it had a nervous edge to it. "Well, that makes one of us. I feel like I'm in a constant state of being mussed. I keep waking up at night in a sweat. I don't know how Claire keeps so strong."

Matt grunted noncommittally and gestured toward the kitchen. "You want a drink?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Foggy followed him into the kitchen, tugging off his hat. He fidgeted by the table as Matt poured them both a cup of water. He still hadn't taken off his coat, and Matt suspected he had only removed his hat to have something to do with his hands.

"Karen's got an idea," Foggy told him. His eyes were fixed on his hat, a tiny line forming between his eyebrows.

Matt handed him a glass of water, suddenly cautious. "Which is?"

"Different than before. She agrees we can't go after them gun blazing, finally. But she thinks…she thinks we should tell the papers. Use them to get the truth out there, destroy Fisk from all sides."

"No."

"Matt, you didn't even—"

"I don't need to," he said, shaking his head. "That's not an option. Even if that manages to dissuade Fisk instead of inform him of exactly what our plans are, that's opening her up to so much worse. She asked for help, not to have her face smeared all over the newspapers!"

"No, I know, but…Matt, the fact is, we don't have the power to rival a millionaire," Foggy said flatly. "I like to think I'm a pretty good lawyer, but I can't see battling it out with Fisk's top people and winning. Especially when I'm defending a woman that in the eyes of the people, if not the law, shouldn't even be allowed on the same side of the courtroom as him!"

Matt glared at the wall.

"Maybe it's different for us," Foggy continued, voice soft, "But out there it's not. Not for a lot of people. Look at what happened today with Dugan. He defended a black man in public and the whole world came down on him. At least if we can expose the corruption, people might see Fisk's wrongs first, not the color of Claire's skin."

"If we put her in the papers," Matt said slowly, voice almost shaking with the effort to sound calm, "Claire will spend the rest of her life being attacked by bigots and racists. She will never be safe in this city again."

"And if we don't, there's the very high possibility of her being killed in a dark alley somewhere when you're not watching."

I'll always be watching, the reckless part of him snarled, but that wasn't even true. He couldn't hold onto her for forever, not like this.

Foggy caught the conflict on his face, but misinterpreted it.

"Come on, Matt. Do you really need me to say this after today?"

"I'm fine, just a little tired."

"You're exhausted. You're fidgety, you can't focus, you stare off into space so much I'm starting to wonder if you've built a home there. Let us help like we said we would. You can't honestly win this battle on your own."

Matt pursed his lips. The wild, prizefighting part of him wanted to grind his heels into the dirt and declare watch me, but the more restrained, Columbia-graduating part of him knew that Foggy was only trying to do right. He was utterly and completely wrong, of course, but he was trying.

Matt forced himself to draw in a breath. He willed his anger out on the exhale. It didn't go anywhere, but it gave him enough time to chase it somewhere it couldn't be seen.

"This just isn't something we can do, Foggy. Yeah, we're in a hard place right now, but I'll take that over paving the road to hell with newspapers."

Foggy was quiet for a long minute. His expression became melancholy, such an unexpected change that it took Matt back a step.

"Where's this going to end, Matt?"

"I dunno," he said, jaw tight. "But not here, not like this."

Foggy looked at him for a long moment, nearly saying something, then he just shook his head. He adjusted his grip on his hat, glanced at the ceiling, sighed. "Okay, then. Okay. Well…tell Claire what I said. Karen's glued to the idea and there's no shaking her now. And it's better than nothing, so…there we are, I guess."

Matt watched him warily, not trusting that the matter had been settled, just like that. It was only when Foggy shook his head again that Matt realized he should have said something.

"It's getting late," Foggy said, the sting of resigned disappointment thick in his voice. "I came to say my bit, and, well…I said it."

Matt stared at the table. He nodded, sucked in a breath, then stood.

"Thanks for the heads up," he muttered.

Foggy grunted and stepped out of the kitchen. Matt followed in a half-hearted attempt to see him out.

It was a few moments before Claire appeared in the bedroom doorway.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Foggy."

"Were you…arguing?"

Matt wrung out a smile. They might have been, if Foggy hadn't been so quick to back down. "It wasn't pointed enough for that."

"It didn't sound happy"

He walked closer. She leaned against the doorway, head tilted, waiting for the truth.

"Foggy…he was upset I left so fast after the trial," he told her, the mostly-lie but partial-truth coming out so, so easily.

She nodded, expression still pulled in concerned doubt. "Hope I'm not causing problems," she mumbled. She folded her arms and suddenly she was all angles; shoulders and elbows and sharply tilted mouth. Matt wanted to soften her with a hug, but he closed his hands over the impulse and let it choke.

"Of course not," he said, shaking his head.

She glanced back at him, an almost smile lifting her lips. "It's getting late," she murmured. "You had an early day yesterday, you should get to sleep."

Matt nodded dully, a numbing wave of relief flooding through him. Claire lingered a moment longer, and again Matt found himself wondering if there was something more to say, if there was some secret truth she was afraid to say. But she just smiled and gave him half a nod before turning back into the room. Matt watched the door swing shut, murmuring good night after it had closed.


While racism in the North wasn't codified like in the South, it was still very much a reality. Segregation and racial bias appeared through everyday behaviors and social practices. For example, white people and people of color remained on opposite sides of the room in formal settings as a matter of good manners, as alluded to with Ben in the courtroom. Marriage was also subject to these beliefs, as marriage between two different ethnicities was technically legal in the north, but uncommon. Matters were further complicated by the concept of the 'one drop rule', or the belief that a single drop of non-white heritage defaulted the person's racial identity to that particular ethnicity. Claire, though her heritage is likely more Latino than African, would still be considered 'black' in the eyes of the government and the public, and therefore subject to all of these rules.

The Prohibition as a movement was by and large the work of women. By the nature of society, women suffered the negative effects of alcohol more often than men, even when they did not drink. This included alcohol-induced fits of rage, missing work and docked pay, and money diverted to pay for drinking habits. Women protested alcohol as an institution as early as 1873, with the formation of the Women's Christian Temperance Union. While the most attention-grabbing instantances of protest include women smashing bars and throwing bricks through windows, women's temperance was a well-rounded effort that eventually gained enough momentum to cause prohibition on a local, then state, then federal level.