"Ian Vice."

The gray-haired prosecutor gave me a sideways glance. The man looked so much different, and yet, he appeared so much the same. His eyes returned to the man he was conversing with, a handsome man with short blond hair and blue eyes. He changed his hairstyle since I last saw him, it was short now, and spiked forward in the front. He was, perhaps, the only person whose gray hair made him appear younger. His suit was also gray, a deeper shade than his hair, and his plain black tie enhanced his vicious aura. The man I was going against was the most feared prosecutor in New York. I stood at my counter, straightened the papers on my desk, and laid them flat, slapping my desk as I did so, attempting to gain the man's attention.

He finished talking to the blond man, and, disregarding my presence, walked to his desk, and stared through me.

I watched as the audience filed into the courtroom. Bald men, bored women; nobody I knew. I had the faintest recollection of standing up on stage, in a wig, mouth hanging open, lines long since forgotten. But this was a trial, there was no script, I was always better at improvisation anyway.

Lost in my own thoughts, I almost screamed when I heard the judge's mallet swing down.

"Calm down, buddy." Benjamin said from the corner of his mouth. He tugged at my suit. "And sit down, you look like a retard."

I fell to my chair and looked behind me. I must have been the only one still standing. I blushed; then hid my face with a tissue from my desk.

I took in the aura of the courtroom. The desk where I was seated was made of fresh-red mahogany, as was the chair. Benjamin sat to the left of me, partially blocking the view of my client, who had began studying his shoes intricately.

"You're easily distracted, aren't you Gordon?"

"Mmph?"

"Tell the judge you're ready."

I looked at the judge. He had a thick white-gray beard that almost looked like a bib. He would have been rather funny looking if he wasn't staring blades in my direction.

"The defense is ready your honor." I managed.

Before I could stop my self, I laughed.

"Being unprepared for a simple question isn't what I'd immediately call ready Mr. Truth," said the judge.

I crossed my arms and chuckled again. "Aww, c'mon, I'm new at this, give a guy a brake."

Benjamin punched my shoulder. "Don't be stupid, you're a white-collar lawyer. Act like one."

"I'd appreciate it if you ceased this meaningless back-talk Mr. Truth." The judge pounded his gavel. "Anyway, if we're all ready, I'd like to hear the prosecution's opening statements."

"Thank you your honor."

Ian's voice was no different. It was deeper, of course, but the tone retained its pompous wave. His voice almost made it seem like he had an accent, but when you paid attention, you would find it had all the right emphasis of modern American English.

"Today, the prosecution is going to prove the guilt of a Mr. Ken Cline, who shot and killed the victim, Owen Slotts, on the evening of June 4th. Of course, the prosecution will provide decisive evidence and testimony. But, the prosecution has a slight request."

The judge looked surprised. "What? What kind of request?"

Ian's smile grew even larger, if that was even possible. "The prosecution would like to request an additional ten minutes before the evidence and testimony is given, I need said amount of time to finish preparing my witness."

The blond man by his side suddenly came to the center of attention. He wore a blue scarf and a white T-shirt. His hair was short and spiked, and he looked nervous. This must be the witness to the crime, obviously.

"It's definitely unlike you to be unprepared, but of course, no trail can succeed if a party is not ready." He pounded his gavel, "A short recess is in order, ten minutes. We will continue afterward."

Ian left the room, along with his witness. Someone tapped my shoulder; I turned around and saw Ken leaning to me.

"What is it Ken?"

"That witness, did you see him?"

"Yes, I think we all did."

"That's him."

I turned to see if anyone was listening in. "What do you mean?"

"That's the killer. He's the one that shot that guy."

-------------------------------------

The trial had resumed. The judge slammed his mallet again. "Now, I would really like to hear the prosecution's opening statement, so we can get this over with."

"Not to worry your honor, the prosecution is ready."

"Is the defense ready as well?"

I looked at the judge and shrugged, "I dunno, if it were up to me, I'd much rather be laying home in bed…"

Benjamin covered his face with his hand. "This isn't a comedy club, Gordon, it's a trial. You're acting unprofessionally. Get your act together."

"I'd take my advisor's advice if I were you Mr. Truth." The judge looked furious.

My eyes darted left and right and I tapped the desk nervously. "S-sorry your honor, it won't happen again."

"It had better not."

"Anyway…" Typical Ian Vice, stressing the word 'anyway' like that, "If the defense is finished stalling, I'd like to begin."

"Please, go ahead." The judge sounded bored.

"As I said before," That stupid smile never faltered, I really didn't like it, "The prosecution has decisive evidence and testimony. Before we begin with my witness, however, I'd like to present some evidence to the court."

Finally, we're in business.

He pulled a black-leather glove out of a plastic bag. "This is a torn glove with bloodstains of the victim's."

The judge looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Yes, I was informed of this new evidence, is there anything special about it?"

Ian Vise shook his head. "Nothing at all, your honor; it is completely irrelevant. I have received test results on it. It contains the blood of the victim, and the leftovers of an unknown substance. Besides that, there is nothing. There are no skin cells or DNA-testable material on this glove. By speculation, one can only conclude that the victim recently bought it, and was carrying it with him when it was murdered."

"The defense requests more information about this glove."

Ian's smile disappeared for a split second.

"What?"

I looked at him with squinted eyes. "Your description was vague. I for one would like to hear more about this evidence."

"Objection your honor," said Ian, "I've already looked into this glove and-"

"OBJECTION! All evidence needs proper analysis for it to be presented in the courtroom."

Ian sneered. "Whatever."

"Wait, doesn't anyone want to know my say in this?"

Everyone in the court looked to the judge.

The judge blinked, taken aback by the sudden attention. "It is true that all evidence needs to be analyzed. Ian, answer his questions."

Ian laughed, "Fine, your honor, but it will only succeed in wasting time. Well, what are you waiting for defense? Ask your pointless questions!"

I rubbed the bottom of my chin. "Well, for starters, how much blood is on the glove, and in what specific areas?"

"The blood is on the bottom of the glove, mostly on the fingertips. So, it would obviously be very little."

"The glove is supposed to be torn, right? Could you explain this in a bit more detail?"

The prosecutor sighed. "The rip is at the top of the glove, where the back of one's hand would be. The rip is large, spreading nearly from one end of the glove to the other."

That's a big rip.

Wait a minute, why would the glove be torn on the top, but blood be found on the bottom? No one ever wore it; and this is proven, but how is a glove not even in use torn like that? And how did it get those bloodstains?"

"Hmm. Where was the glove found?"

Ian flinched, and lost his smile. "It was found in a dumpster at least 20 yards away from the crime scene."

The audience began to mumble. I think I have something here.

"And why is that? Why was this glove, which you say is irrelevant to the case, found in a dumpster yards away from the initial crime scene. I can think of only one reason!" I balled my hand into a fist and punched my desk. Ow, that hurt. Don't touch it though; you're on a role here.

"The murderer tried to conceal it! This fact makes this piece of evidence more than beneficial to the case!"

Ian laughed at my strained attempt to keep myself from holding my arm in pain. "What if someone picked it up, thinking to keep it, then threw it away after finding the rip and bloodstains?"

"Picked it up from where, the crime scene? The crime scene is blocked off from the public! ALSO! You just stated that the glove has no record of DNA material on it."

Ian flinched, this time it was obvious. Score one for Truth!

"What if the person who found it was wearing gloves?"

"IT'S THE MIDDLE OF SUMMER!"

The judge pounded his mallet. "After hearing both sides of this argument, it's obvious the prosecution's argument holds no water whatsoever. This must be important evidence if the murderer tried to conceal it. Ergo, this evidence will be added to the court record."

Ian really fought to keep that evidence off the record, what must he be hiding?

He cleared his throat. "Well, of course, this isn't the only evidence the prosecution wants to present, we have the autopsy report here…"

"Oh yeah," Benjamin slid a manila file to me, "Forgot to hand this over, good job with the glove by the way." He flashed me a wink and a thumbs-up.

Double-score for Truth!

I opened the folder and quickly read the documents as the judge and prosecutor were having a discussion on what a 'printer' was. Owen Slotts: rich man, gambled a lot. Frequently wears a white tux. Shot in the forehead, slight head trauma and massive bleeding prompted death within twenty minutes. Yummy.

Ian Vice held his forehead in his hand. "If we're all up-to-date on the pre-modern inventions, I'd like to continue."

"Yes, quite," said a more-than-a-little-embarrassed judge. "Let's continue."

"This is a red leash found at the scene of the crime. It bears fingerprints of the suspect and my witness, and the latter will explain it in more depth in a few moments. Also, I have here my most decisive piece of evidence, this gun." He pulled out a simple modern pistol. "The ballistic markings match the bullet that killed the victim, and the handle bears the fingerprints of the defendant."

The court burst into murmurs at this statement.

"That surely is incriminating," said the judge.

"Alas, that brings an end to all the evidence I have to present, your honor." He smiled wide. "I'd now like to call the detective in charge of the investigation, up to the stand for a quick word."

"That all seems in order," said the judge. He swung his mallet. "Very well, bring the detective in charge of the investigation to the stand."

The doors to the courtroom opened. In stepped a thin, timid-looking man. He was slightly balding, with huge glasses, and carried a solid brown briefcase.

"Oh my God." I said out loud. "It's Terry Scours."