[October 3rd, 8:47 am, District Court-Defendant Lobby No. 2]
The attorney massaged the sides of his head, sighing a little louder than he probably should have. The linoleum tiles and white marble walls felt exceedingly cold today, colder than any time he had been inside the courtroom before. Everything was bright and straining his eyes, especially the buzzing fluorescent lights that reflected in the waxed sheen of the tile. Through it all, a guard or two traipsed through the lobby, pausing to briefly inspect the room, then taking off, sometimes whistling to himself. Any way he thought about it, the sharp, twisting pain in his stomach wouldn't disappear: Robin LeBlanc was nervous. This was his first tim appearing in a court of law, absent the calming presence of his mentor (as well as the reassurance that he wouldn't really be depended upon for much). The clock was ticking closer to zero hour with every second, and Robin felt every twitch of its hands. He cursed himself and tried to wipe his face to find some clarity.
When he moved his hand, Tharja Anderra was frowning and knitting her brow at him. She was in handcuffs, held at her back by a thirty-something police officer who clearly wanted nothing to do with the girl. "Is everything all right, Robin?" she murmured.
Smile, dammit, smile! A part of Robin's subconscious encouraged him. He did so, forcing a grin, "Oh, I'm just fine, thank you, Tharja."
"Are you sure?" she bit her lip, "You were looking a little pale." She wasn't exaggerating: the attorney's face was the color of a faded pink carpet.
"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed, "it's just early, you know? Haven't had my morning coffee yet."
"I thought you didn't drink coffee," his client and friend recalled.
"Uh... yeah," Robin's face sunk.
Tharja frowned, "Do you really think it will be that bad?"
The attorney's eyes jumped wide open, "No! I mean, that's not... Haha! Don't worry so much, Tharja, everything's going to be just fine!"
Her eyes remained disbelieving, but her mouth curved into a half-smile, "A-Are you sure?"
"Well sure I'm sure!" Robin lied, "Just you watch and see: this is going to be the swiftest defense ever! You won't even remember that you were arrested you'll be out of there so fast!"
Tharja chuckled a bit to herself, lowering her head, "If you say so, I believe you, Robin." She gazed at him a moment, smiling fondly.
"All right, let's get moving," the man accompanying her demanded, patting her back roughly.
"Hey!" she growled, "I have a right to speak to my attorney before the trial, don't I?"
"Yeah, but the bailiff's going to be calling any minute-"
"Just give us one more moment, please," Robin asked, looking carefully at his client, "Tharja, I just need to ask you one more thing: are you sure you've told me everything you know?"
The raven-haired girl nodded, "I felt sick, came home from school, popped my window open for some fresh air, and went straight to bed, and when I woke up, it was at two in the morning, when I was being arrested."
Robin nodded sympathetically, recalling her illness, and her probable fatigue, given that the bags under her eyes were even darker and starker than usual. It seemed neither of them had gotten much sleep last night, although it was clearly the defendant who had had a much rougher ordeal. There was something else about her words that struck the attorney, however, something that didn't feel right. When he opened his lips to ask, the impatient guard pushed the girl again. He cursed himself, then fished into his pocket, "Here, Tharja, I got a little something for your stomach." He tossed her a small plastic bottle that rattled as she caught it.
"Handing out drugs in the courtroom?" the guard glared angrily at him.
"They're chewable tablets for upset stomachs," Robin rolled his eyes, "they sell them over the counter. You can check them if you're really that suspicious."
The guard didn't seem to be that interested and gave up. Tharja blushed, staring at the medicine, and simply mouthed the word "Thanks" before being led into the courtroom.
Robin shut his eyes and exhaled. He slowly began picking up his papers and files, packing some less essential material into a neat black leather briefcase he had bought for himself the day he was hired onto the firm. It was expensive, which was why he had every intention of using it thoroughly. Before he could get very far, however, the attorney felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it out and answered, "Hello?"
"Hey 'boss man,'" Anna teased, "have you fainted yet?"
"Ha. Ha," he groaned back.
"Just trying to lift your spirits before you get in there," the secretary chirped.
"Well, thanks for trying," the young attorney sighed back, "Is that all?"
"Not quite," her tone was mysterious, "See... uh, and this is kind of silly, but uh..."
"But what?" Robin wondered.
He could hear her embarrassment through the phone, "Well... All right, look, Fado had a... policy before he left, something he did for all the attorneys, you understand, so I'm not just being weird, or anything..."
"Spit it out, Anna," the attorney was eager to hear this.
Anna cleared her throat, "Uh, 'to you, young attorney, who are about to enter the fold for the very first time, be not afraid! You have the entirety of the Verlaine & Co. Law Offices behind you, and if your heart is pure, you have justice as well! Therefore, go forth, use your knowledge, and present the truth!'"
The phone was silent for several seconds.
"Uh, did you get all that, Robin?" Anna mumbled.
Robin laughed, first quietly, a few giggles, and then a raucous explosion into the phone.
"W-Well, you're welcome!" Anna shouted angrily.
"N-No, Anna, I'm sorry," Robin cackled, wiping tears from his eyes, "I just... ha ha... Thinking of Fado talking like that, and you imitating him..." He fell into another burst of laughter, "I couldn't help it... Sorry, thank you."
"Just go win the stupid trial," she spat curtly.
"Thanks, Anna," he sighed, "I appreciate your calling me."
"Good luck," she added, "and make us some money." The redhead hung up the phone.
Robin smiled and looked up. The bailiff emerged from the doors locking off the courtroom, "Mr. LeBlanc? Please come in."
[...]
[October 3rd, 9:04 am, District Court-Courtroom No. 2]
Robin swallowed slightly, feeling a bevy of eyes leering down at him as he set his files down on the desk before him. He glanced about the room, taking a few deep breaths. Behind him sat the gallery, with a few people interested to see the trial, but mostly reporters eager to get the first story of the day. Some snapped photos of Tharja, who was in a small cordoned-off section close to the defense bench. Robin nodded to acknowledge her and she smiled, but quickly hid herself from the paparazzi again. Directly in front of the attorney was the witness stand in front of the judge's bench and facing the jury box. That was the cornerstone of Robin's defense: Ylissean judges needed to confer with and isolate a vote from juries in order to prevent legal absolutism or bias. It didn't prevent discrimination or wrongful conviction altogether, but it was better than the military courts of eras past. Past the witness stand stood a tall, somewhat lanky man with silver-blue hair that was bizarrely sharp. He wore an almost comically small pair of reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and a very ruffled, frilly suit, complete with a silk cravat, all the markings of a man desperately trying to make himself look more significant than he was. His deep burgundy eyes leered carefully at the attorney.
At the tallest bench in the room sat the judge, a generally kindly-looking old fellow with a smooth bald scalp, rounded features, and a prodigious silver beard that hung down over his face and covered his tie along with his robes. His eyes were gray, but still occasionally acute. Yes, the judge seemed an amicable man, but you never felt worse than when you were on the wrong side of his gavel, this much Robin had seen in working with Fado. But now, of course, it was just him.
"Ahem," the judge cleared his throat with finality, "I believe we're ready to begin. Bailiff, would you kindly close and lock the doors? Thank you." The judge pulled up a pair of reading glasses and glanced at his docket, "Now then, today we are hear to hear the trial of Ms. Tharja Anderra. Madam, would you come up here please?" The raven-haired girl was brought to the witness stand, where she glared unpleasantly at the judge. Robin cocked an eyebrow at her and she softened her expression.
"Ms. Anderra, you are charged with the first-degree murder of Harken Gaetz. How do you plead?" the judge glanced down his nose.
The girl looked to her attorney for confirmation, then nodded, "Not guilty, Your Honor."
"Very well," the judge slipped his glasses off and sat back, exhaling, "Then we will begin the trial." After a moment, he sat straight up again, "One thing has caught my attention, however: may I speak to the defense?"
Robin picked his head up, feeling his eyes glaze over and his ears ring, "M-Me, Your Honor?"
He nodded, "Yes, Mr. LeBlanc, is it?"
"Yessir," the attorney assented quickly.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but did you not work for Mr. Fado Verlaine?" the judge asked.
"I did," Robin answered, "Fado- er, Mr. Verlaine was my mentor and, until recently, my employer."
The judge nodded solemnly, eyes shut, then looked again, "I see also that this is your first time presiding over a defense all your own. You must be rather nervous."
The attorney resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow, "I'd be lying if I said I was entirely comfortable, Your Honor."
"Understandable," he smiled, "perhaps we might conduct a little exercise to calm your nerves: can you remind me of the name of the victim in this case?"
"That'd be Harken Gaetz, Your Honor," Robin answered.
"And how was Mr. Gaetz killed?"
"If I recall correctly, according to the police reports, he died of sudden cardiac arrest upon being stabbed directly in the heart."
"Good, very good, Mr. LeBlanc. I can see you've made yourself aware of the facts of the case. Now then... I don't recall your name either. Is this your first time appearing as a prosecutor, Mr...?"
"Canarde," replied the silver-blue-haired man across from Robin, "Virion Canarde. And no, Your Honor, I have appeared in court in... ahem, years past."
"Well then," the judge shrugged, "will you please deliver your opening statement to the court, Mr. Canarde?"
"Certainly," he bowed extravagantly, "and with magnificence! At approximately 4 pm on October first, the defendant returned home from her schooling complaining of a stomachache. Ms. Anderra is a student from Plegia, currently studying abroad and living with a foster family. She was in the care of Mr. ans Mrs. Harken Gaetz. When she returned that afternoon, feeling ill, she retired immediately to her room. In her room, there sat a ritual sacrificial knife. This information will become important later. Mr. Gaetz and his wife remained at home for the rest of the evening, through dinner, and sat down to watch television. At around 10 pm, Isadora Gaetz, the victim's wife, noticed that her husband had fallen asleep and decided to retire to bed, leaving her husband on the sofa. A few hours later, she was awoken by the sounds of footsteps near the defendant's room. Assuming it was her husband climbing the stairs, she ignored it and went back to sleep, but she was awoken not long after by a similar disturbance. Ms. Gaetz assumed this was only the defendant having suddenly woken up and searching for a glass of water, but she decided to check to be certain this time." The prosecutor produced a wicked smirk, "Good that she did, else she might have been in danger. Ms. Gaetz checked Tharja's room only to still find the girl wrapped up under her blankets. She also noticed that her husband had not yet returned to bed, and so went to check on him. When she did, she was filled with horror to discover that the victim had the same dagger from the defendant's room lodged in his chest, accompanied by a note reading as follows: 'This lamb dies on the altar of truth.' At 1:24 am on October 2nd, Mrs. Gaetz phoned the police, who arrested the defendant, who continued to hide in her bed."
"Robin!" Tharja grunted a whisper at her attorney, "Why aren't you objecting, or something?"
"It's just an opening statement," Robin shrugged, "I'm not allowed to, unless he says something outlandish, like making up an accusation. We have to wait for testimony before I can respond."
"Mr. LeBlanc?" the judge called out, "Is something the matter?"
"No," color drained from the attorney's face, "Just momentarily conferring with my client."
The judge nodded without satisfaction, "Very well, but please wait until information is not being delivered to the court."
"Beg your pardon, Your Honor," he apologized.
The judge faced Virion Canarde, "Mr. Canarde, I assume you have evidence to present?"
"Indeed," the prosecutor offered, "I have the dagger used to murder the victim, covered in the defendant's fingerprints and the note that came with it. And further, I have the sworn testimony of the lead investigator on the scene. C'est magnifique, n'est-ce pas?"
"Please limit your introductions to English in this courtroom, Mr. Canarde," replied the judge.
He stammered, "Er, right. Apologies. Let's have the detective speak for me, eh? Will you join us, Monsieur le Detective?"
"I guess that's s'posed to be me?" the cobalt mop of Colm Fletcher's hair arrived at the stand, his big green trenchcoat swaying and an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
"Smoking is not allowed in the courtroom, Mr. Fletcher," the judge coughed.
"It's unlit, big boy," Colm shook his head, "nothin' illegal 'bout that, is there?"
"Maybe you should just comply with M. le Judge's request, good detective," Virion smiled weakly.
Detective Fletcher cut a glare at him, "Maybe you should buy yourself a real suit, you dime-store dandelion." Robin blinked in response to the insult: what did that even mean?
Virion seemed rather disgruntled by it, however, grimacing as his face fell. "A-Anyway, would the witness grace us with his name and occupation?"
"Name's Colm Fletcher," the man mumbled through his cigarette, "and, as you seem to have suddenly forgotten, I'm a detective, the lead investigator on Mr. Gaetz's murder."
"Detective, would you mind telling us why you arrested Ms. Anderra?" inquired the judge.
"No prob," the detective pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, flicking it around in his hand playfully and cleared his throat, "So, here's the story: When I arrived on the scene with some of my boys, we found the body exactly as described by Mr. Frills, here. That is to say, stabbed, with the knife he presented pinning the note to his body. The autopsy later conducted by the coroner showed that the stab was precise, professional: it didn't hit any ribs or nothin', just slid straight into the heart. It was only one stab, too, no abrasions from withdrawal of the weapon, just one clean strike."
"Hold it!" Robin demanded, "Detective, are you saying a young female student was the one who performed such a professional attack? How can you think that?"
"You 'hold it,'" snarled the detective, "I was getting there. The defendant here is a major lover of ancient Plegian culture, evidenced by the contents of her room and her clothing. Interestingly, Grimleal priests of the past would often perform sacrifices in order to appease their god, Grima. Can you see where I'm going with this? The priests were instructed to stab straight into the victim's heart, both to minimize suffering and to ensure the purity and integrity of the sacrifice's body. Numerous texts exist on the exact methodology employed by the priests, as it was very popular. If the defendant had read one of these books, she would know the method, and it'd be easy to pull on a sleeping target. As such, that explanation accounts for both the precision of the attack and the note."
"But," Robin protested, "Do you know Ms. Anderra has read such a book?"
"Several of the books on her shelf contain the instructions, as a matter of fact," the detective answered banally.
"But do you know that she read them?"
"If you are unsure, why not ask her yourself, M. LeBlanc?" Virion chuckled, "Enlighten us, Mademoiselle Anderra. Do you know of this process? Remember that you are under oath."
"You don't have to say anything that will incriminate you, Tharja," her attorney rebutted. The raven-haired girl glanced at he prosecutor, detective, judge, and attorney before finally hanging her head, refusing to answer. Whispers came from the jury.
"I can't prove what she knows empirically," Detective Fletcher shrugged, "but for the purpose of this explanation, it's more probable than not, unless you've got a better theory."
"I concede I don't," the attorney shook his head, "but why would Tharja murder her foster father anyway, detective?"
"Good question," Colm smiled, "The girl was known to have a great distaste for the Ylissean military. She hung out with a group of Plegian activists who try to get Ylisseans to include more information about Plegian labor camps in Ylissean history texts. The politics of it don't matter much, just know that she didn't like the Ylissean military. What better way to strike back at them than with the murder of a decorated veteran?" More whispers continued to spread through the crowd. "So, since Ms. Anderra was the only one who had access to that dagger during the evening, and knew the killing technique, combined with the note and her political beliefs, it's a sure thing that's she's the one who killed Mr. Gaetz."
"Thank you, detective," bowed the judge, "Now, Mr. LeBlanc, your cross-examination."
"Yes, Your Honor," the attorney nodded, "Detective, you said Ms. Anderra was the only one who had access to the dagger, but it was in an unlocked room. Couldn't Mr. and Mrs. Gaetz have accessed it just as easily?"
"Yeah," Colm shrugged, "but neither of them knew the technique to stab the victim straight in the heart like that. If they were inexperienced, it would show. And, given the angle the blade went in, it would be pretty impossible for it to have been a suicide."
"But wouldn't it have taken a lot of force to make such a deep stab, regardless of how precise it was?" the attorney hoped.
"I s'pose," Detective Fletcher replied, "but that doesn't rule out he defendant. She's a tough gal, aren't ya, sweetheart?" Tharja growled.
"Did you find any blood on Ms. Anderra?" he pressed.
"No, but there wasn't much blood anywhere," Colm sighed.
"And were there any traces of Ms. Anderra near the scene?" Robin continued.
"Her fingerprints were all over the knife, like I said."
"Sure they were, it was her knife, after all."
"You can play coy all you like, she was the only one who could've used that blade during the evening."
Robin felt himself sweat and scratched his head, running through everything he had learned during the past two days. Suddenly, however, one of Tharja's remarks sprang to mind, "Objection!"
"What's the matter, Mr. LeBlanc?" inquired the judge.
"Ms. Anderra," Robin paused, "she gave me some information this morning that contradicts what Detective Fletcher just told the court."
"I did?" her eyes widened.
"And what was this information, Mr. LeBlanc?" the judge demanded after banging his gavel.
"Ms. Anderra," the attorney passed it off, "what did you tell me you did yesterday?"
She cocked an eyebrow, "I went home feeling sick, went into my room, cracked a window, and went to bed."
"Where is your contradiction, Mr. LeBlanc?" the judge seemed a bit irritated, but more curious.
"The defendant says she 'cracked a window,'" he began. Colm suddenly gasped in shock. "Detective Fletcher seems to understand: if the defendant opened a window, then someone else could have entered her room over night."
"B-But!" Virion Canarde shouted, "The defense has no proof that anyone entered the window!"
"And besides," Colm grunted, "that window was closed when we got there, I know it!"
"Well, I have the sworn testimony of the defendant, who said she did open it," Robin rebutted, "So I guess we can't reconcile this dispute. Er... Your Honor, how should we proceed?"
"Ho ho!" Virion laughed, apparently having recovered, "but M. the Attorney is so utterly mistaken!"
"Do you mean to say you can resolve the question of the window, Mr. Canarde?" the judge's eyes widened.
"I can," he bowed, "or rather, I can present someone else who can. You may step down M. Detective, your performance was génial."
Colm Fletcher glared at the prosecutor, but complied and stepped down from the witness stand.
"The prosecution would like to call the victim's own wife, Madame Isadora Gaetz!" a grandiloquent Virion shouted, waving his arms.
"That will do, thank you Mr. Canarde," chuckled a woman's voice. A tall, slender, middle-aged woman strode up to the stand, long sapphire hair flowing behind her. She curtseyed daintily before the gallery and the judge, granting them all a small, polite smile.
"We will excuse madame for revisiting her grief," the prosecutor announced, frowning sympathetically, "but our intrepid attorney has insisted upon it."
"Me?" he doubled back, "You're the one who called her! A-And anyway, Mrs. Gaetz, my only object is to find the truth. I won't let your husband's murderer get away with it."
"Thank you," Isadora frowned, "but I'm afraid I'm relatively convinced of what misters Fletcher and Canarde have said so far today. I don't think it's possible for anyone other than Tharja to have killed my darling..."
"Then allow me to try to convince you otherwise," Robin answered.
"Your name and occupation for the record, madame," Virion urged.
"My name," she sighed into a smile, "is Isadora Gaetz, wife to Harken Gaetz. I used to be a sergeant in the Ylissean Light Infantry, but I retired a few years ago."
"Mrs. Gaetz," commanded the judge, "would you please tell the court what, exactly, you observed on the night of the murder?"
"Certainly," she folded her hands neatly, "It was a rather typical day, nothing much out of the ordinary, until Tharja came home from classes. Usually, she stops in around four, changes and puts her things from school away, and then leaves to consort with some of her friends during the evening, returning around nine or ten. That afternoon, however, she showed up at the door ashen-faced, with her eyes all sunk in; she looked exhausted. She said she wanted to just go lie down, and neither Harken nor I stopped her. Harken and I had dinner with a guest that evening, and then we watched TV for a while. Harken gets very into his sports." She paused to chuckle fondly, then frowned, "At any rate, I think I dozed off watching with him until about ten o'clock. At that time, I found myself awake and aware again, and saw that Harken had fallen asleep, too. I decided not to wake him, he always comes up to bed eventually, and so I shut off the TV and went upstairs to bed. A few hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, I thought I heard someone walking around. It sounded like he or she was on the stairs, so I assumed it was Harken, coming up to bed, so I fell back asleep. Not long after, however, I woke back up and heard the same sound. I also found that Harken wasn't yet in bed, so I wondered if maybe Tharja had woken up and was going to the bathroom or getting a glass of water, something like that. It made me a little uneasy, to keep hearing all these footsteps, though, so I got up and looked, but when I checked Tharja's room, she was in bed and seemed to be sleeping soundly. When I went downstairs, well... you know what I found."
"Could you proffer us a favor, good madame," Virion smiled slickly, "and essay your very best to remember the state of Mlle. Anderra's room at the time of your inspection?"
"Well," she put a finger to her lips, "I don't know how much I remember exactly... the room looked pretty normal... I think, maybe I'm filling things in, but I think I noticed that something was missing from the wall. That would be the murder weapon. Otherwise... it was, drafty, I think. I got kind of an eerie chill on entering."
"Mr. LeBlanc, your cross-examination," the judge ordered.
"Well, what about that?" Robin supposed, "Mr. Canarde, don't you find the witness's description interesting? She said the room felt 'drafty' and 'chilly.' If you went in that room when the window was shut, it would have been much warmer."
"That is hardly proof!" Virion argued, "Perhaps it was the evil aura of that melancholy girl that disturbed her." Tharja stared daggers at the prosecutor, who recoiled in fear.
"While Mr. Canarde's judgments are, perhaps, a bit heavy-handed," the judge looked at the shriveling prosecutor, "I must agree that the witness's statement does not constitute proof that the window was open."
Robin nodded, "I did have another question for you, Mrs. Gaetz."
"Yes...?" she smiled.
"You said you had dinner with a guest... who was that?" the attorney watched carefully.
"Oh," she recalled, "there was a young man, a writer, he wanted to write a biography about my dear Harken. He sent us a letter about a week ago, asking of he could meet us for dinner. We agreed, and so he stopped by that day to ask some questions about Harken's personal life and how he met me. Sweet little fellow."
"Do you remember this gentleman's name?" Robin pressed.
"Oh, I think it was something funny, lots of syllables... Fomortiis. Fomortiis Vigarde," Isadora answered with some difficulty.
"And when did M. Vigarde leave you, madame?" probed Virion.
"Oh, I'd say about eight," she shrugged, "not much later."
"So you see, M. the Attorney, that your suspicions are meaningless: the young man departed long before the murder was ever conducted," Virion Canarde smirked proudly.
"Mrs. Gaetz," Robin's face remained critical, "this is important: when did you go to bed and see your husband sleeping?"
"It was just about ten o'clock," she reiterated.
"And you said you dozed off just a little before then, is that right?" he insisted.
"Yes, I lost track of time while I was watching with Harken, and I suppose I just sort of slumped onto his shoulder. I wasn't really asleep, but I wasn't exactly conscious, either, you know the feeling," the woman described, hoping she was correct.
Robin LeBlanc nodded, "I think I do. And I think I've stumbled onto something that changes this whole case."
The judge banged his gavel, "Well, go on, Mr. LeBlanc, what are you getting at?"
"Think about it: this whole time, the prosecution and Detective Fletcher have been asserting that there was little to no blood at the scene due to the precision of the stab, but that doesn't make any sense," Robin shook his head, "If Mr. Gaetz's heart were pumping blood at the moment it was stabbed, then one would expect at least a few ounces to spill out, even if the the blade was plugging the wound, the force of the beating heart would cause at least some blood spatter, it's a certainty."
"Que dites-tu?" Virion scowled, "It does not matter what should have happened, M. LeBlanc, only what actually occurred, and the fact is that there wasn't much blood, end of story! Do you mean to dispute how much blood there was? What a trivial detail!"
"No, Mr. Canarde," Robin smiled, "what I mean is that Mr. Gaetz's heart was not beating at the time of the murder!"
A wave of shock ran through the courtroom, followed by the anguished growl of the prosecutor above sets of whispers, "W-What idiocy...! How could Mr. Gaetz's heart not be beating?! That would mean he was already dead!"
"Exactly," the attorney folded his arms.
"B-But he was murdered that evening by the dagger! C'est ridicule!" Virion shouted.
"I'm afraid I also don't follow, Mr. LeBlanc," conceded the judge, "How could Mr. Gaetz have been dead before he was murdered?"
Robin tapped his index finger on his forehead, enjoying the attention, "It's simple, if you force yourself to think about it in a different way: Mrs. Gaetz doses off watching sports with her husband just after dinner. When she awakens, she sees he's asleep too, and goes up to bed. But her husband never comes back up with her, and the next time she sees him, he has a dagger in his body. What happened?"
"He was stabbed overnight, obviously!" snorted Virion.
"No," Robin shook his head, "When Mrs. Gaetz thought she saw her husband sleeping... He was already dead! Poisoned, specifically. In fact, the real murder occurred hours before Mr. Gaetz was stabbed!"
"What?!" the prosecutor pounded his desk as more murmurs erupted through the court, "That's absurd! There was no mention of poison in the autopsy!"
"That's because the coroner didn't know he was looking for it," Robin countered, "Knowing this, I bet if he performed the examination again, he'd find it in a heartbeat."
"So then tell me this, M. the Attorney," Virion Canarde was grinding his teeth, "Why would anyone go to the trouble of stabbing a man who was already dead?"
"Why, to frame Tharja Anderra, of course," Robin smirked.
"Objection!" Virion cried, "Folly once more! You persist in saying that Mlle. Anderra was not the murderer? How could anyone else have killed M. Gaetz?"
"Weren't you listening, Mr. Canarde?" the attorney asked, "The Gaetz family had a guest that evening, one who was there for dinner, and thus had a reason to slip in and out of the home quickly."
"P-Proof!" Virion slammed his desk with his fist, "Prove your silly allegation! How can you be certain that M. Gaetz was poisoned at dinner?"
Robin recalled and nodded, "In the Gaetz home, on the tablecloth, I noticed a series of dark stains, down near the end, where the cloth tapers over the top-left corner of the table, almost as if they landed there while someone was trying to conceal something."
"Those spots could be from anything!" the prosecutor assaulted his desk again.
"True," Robin shrugged, "but I'm willing to bet that if we tested the tablecloth, we'd find the same substance that's inside Mr. Gaetz!"
The sounds of murmuring and whispering between members of the gallery and jury began to overtake the courtroom, leading the judge to bang his gavel loudly, "Order! Order! Very well, Mr. LeBlanc, you have made an interesting observation, and have supported it with evidence that leads to a valuable deduction. Since the prosecution has no apparent means of refuting your claims, I have no choice but to grant your request: a new autopsy will be performed, along with a chemical analysis on the dark spots on the Gaetz's tablecloth. As such, I will declare a one-hour recess." The judge banged his gavel and began to gather his affairs. Robin breathed for what felt like the first time in hours and supported himself on his desk as he nearly fell over. He had done it. The trial wasn't over yet, but he had fought hard enough to force a recess. In his rookie attorney's mind, this was already victory enough. Virion Canarde threw him a spiteful glare as he exited the courtroom.
[Blacklight Turnabout ~ Day 1 Trial Former-End]