"This trial has dragged on long enough." Ben was pacing in the defense lounge. I took my chair near the vending machine, and Ken took Ben's place on the couch. "It needs to end, and the only way it can end is with Mr. Mortercycle Runway behind bars for murder."

"It's so obvious the mafia had something to do with this. A man in serious debt is dead; a casino was rigged for him to win every bet on the 2nd, a motorcycle gang cornering the victim? I should have seen the New York Mob's involvement in this sooner."

"Hey man." Ken looked up from his restful position on the couch. "Don't freak out, I know how much you hate the mob, but this is Gordon's case, let him see it through."

"I should have KNOWN!" Benjamin slammed into the vending machine, almost toppling it over. "No wonder that scum-bag of a prosecutor is heading the trial! He's a mob underling! Paid to protect 'the family' or whatever the hell they are!"

"Whoa, whoa." I stood up. "There's enough of a commotion outside without you adding to it. We just need to make sure the blame ends up on Mr. Mobster, and we'll pull out of this fine."

Benjamin sat down. "You're right. I apologize for losing my temper." He buried his head in his knees. "I just wish this day were over."

"Gordon," Ken faced me. "I'm counting on you; you've been doing great so far. We need just a little bit more, just hang on to the truth, see this through, please."

I looked my friend in the eyes. "I promise, in an hour you'll be a free man."

He smiled. "That's the Gordon Truth I know. Welcome back, buddy."

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

Finishing the day was on everyone's mind as we re-entered the courtroom. I noticed there were many more police officers this time around, and the bailiff looked scared out of his wits. Mr. Runway was escorted back to the stand, I had the feeling that even if we lost the trail, the witness wouldn't be off scot-free, I had made sure of that.

"I believe there is some explaining for the witness to do. Mr. Runway, do you understand what your next testimony should include?"

"I'm…. I'm ready to begin your honor." Mortimer closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"This is it Truth," Benjamin smiled beside me, "he's been hiding this mafia personality from the beginning. He's about to go down."

Mortimer straightened his back and began to speak. "Yes, I am part of the mafia. And I know Mr. Slotts from what I've heard of him in the mob. Apparently, as a last resort, he begged us to fix the casino for him so he would win money to pay off his debts. Of course, this service comes with a price. Let's just call it a large loan. When all is said and done, we need the money back, it was part of the deal. Two days ago, I went to the casino and placed some of my men there. After persuading the casino owner, everything went according to plan. But as it turns out, Mr. Slotts thought he'd pay off other debts first, he went back to the casino the next day expecting the same service he had the day we fixed the attractions. He managed a little win, but he still didn't want to pay us back yet. … But, that's all I have to say. I'm not admitting anything, I'm tired and I want to go home."

The judge pounded his gavel. "So, I guess this case was a smidge more complex than we all expected it to be. Now we have the mob involved. Mr. Truth, care to make a cross-examination?"

"Yes, your honor."

Once again, I stood and paced in front of the witness.

"I think we're all familiar with the mafia's version of 'persuasion'. Perhaps this is what caused you to mix up the dates of the murder. Perhaps you got the 'persuasion' confused with your attempt to make your customer pay back his debt?"

"Ack!" Mortimer jumped.

"Objection!" Ian Vice pointed across the courtroom, "There is no evidence for the defense's claims! This line of questioning is nothing but speculation!"

"Oh, I don't disagree, it just happens to…" I glanced at the witness, "make sense."

I came closer to the man on the stand. "And now you're saying this has nothing to do with the murder? You work for the mob; Owen Slotts owed the mob money. It only makes sense they'd send a goon to take care of the job."

I could feel the objection sitting on the tip of Ian's tongue, but luckily he must have decided against it.

"The murder weapon has the defendant's fingerprints on it, not mine. So what if I'm part of the mob? That doesn't change what I saw."

"No, but it gives you more than enough motive. And you were pretty keen on keeping your relationship with the mafia hidden from the court."

"Of course I was! I didn't want anyone to find out! You see the policemen in here; just think what they're going to do to me when this is over."

"Sir, my client told me something interesting before the case."

He raised a brow, "and what was that?"

"If it pleases the court, I know that I cannot prove what my client says is true, but he told me that a man wearing gloves threw the pistol at him, and he caught it with his free hand."

"And you're saying that I was that gloved man?" He was keeping cool, but I knew he was tensing up.

"Yes I am. We know that a dog that hates loud noises was at the scene of the crime. One shooter, one torn glove, only one outcome."

"But you forget, that glove had no DNA inside or outside of it besides the blood of the victim. How could I wear it?"

There is was again, the last roadblock I had to maneuver around. I'm so close to breaking this case! Think… how is this possible?

There are three possibilities. Either the forensics on the glove are a sham, the glove itself is irrelevant, or, and this is puzzling; is he telling the truth?

"Mr. Truth!" the gavel fell once again. "Please share your thoughts with us. What is the meaning of this glove?"

I rubbed my chin. "Even though I believe Ian's reputation isn't as spotless as it could be, I doubt he could fabricate forensic testing. The glove is certainly relevant, not only did the murderer try to hide it, but it's basically the mark of the killer, whoever was wearing the glove that night is the guilty party…"

"And that means?" The judge, along with everyone else in the courtroom, was on the edge of their seats.

I faced the witness. "…Say, Mr. Runway. Ever get into any accidents on that Motorcycle of yours? Any 'misfires' on the job?"

"Wha-What are you insinuating!" He was sweating bullets now.

"I'm saying... that you're pretty good at your job… for someone who is handicapped."

"W-w-w-w-wh-wh-wha-whaaaaaaat?" Everyone held their breath.

I pointed directly at my victim. "I can see it as we speak. The hand on your left arm is not made of flesh and bone. You have a FAKE LEFT HAND!!!"

"W-w-wh-wh-n-n-n-n-no-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Again, he threw his hands in the air and flailed. For more than five minutes he flailed. Ian was on the verge of fainting, and I felt almost the same way.

"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGHHH!!"

And with one last burst of anger, he slammed his porcelain hand onto the stand, where it slowly began to crack. It cracked until it shattered into a thousand pieces. He laid his head down on the stand and stayed there until the police escorted him away.

"Mr. Vice, where is Mr. Runway?"

"H-he's in the witness lounge, awaiting arrest and upcoming trial."

The judge shook his head. "This was certainly one of the most outlandish cases I've ever presided over. But some questions remain; what exactly happened the night of the murder?"

"Allow me to summarize." I snapped my fingers in triumph. "Owen Slotts was shoulder-deep in debt to banks all over the country due to his gambling addiction. In a last cry of desperation, he got the mob to fix all of his winnings at the local casino after again losing a large amount of money the day before. Happy with the outcome, Owen was quick to pay off his growing bank debts. … But it still wasn't enough. Not only was he not completely out of debt, but he had a new debtor, the New York Mob. Unaware that he had already spent all of his money repaying debts, he was unable to pay back the loan from the mob. The mob sees that this pitiful man will never get back on his feet in time to repay, so they send a goon to take him out. After a night at the casino, the victim is cornered in an alleyway and shot once fatally with a pistol. But what our goon didn't count on was a witness." I presented the dog leash. "Ken Cline was out walking his dog after coming home from the same casino. Not only did he witness the crime, but his dog reacted aggressively to the near gunshot and began to attack the murderer. He bit at his left hand and ripped the glove, and most likely that fake hand itself, clean off. The dog most likely dropped the hand near the body of the victim as he ran away. The goon, surprised, threw his pistol at the witness and yelled 'catch!' in a somewhat successful attempt to blame the murder on someone else. When Mr. Cline dropped the pistol and ran in fear, Mr. Runway, our goon, picked up his fake hand and, seeing the rip on the leather glove, deposited the glove in a nearby dumpster."

I saw every eye on me. For a moment, my mouth hung open and I suddenly lost my train of thought. After a moment I regained my composure and concluded my deduction.

"That is all, your honor."

That was it, my case was won. I emerged from my first case not only alive, but triumphant.

"Well, this case has taken many turns. Mr. Truth, let me congratulate you on your performance today. I doubt anyone but you would have been able to prove this man innocent, which is something you have done admirably. If we are all done here, I would like to pass my verdict."

The gavel slammed.

Two words were said, "Not Guilty."

I am victorious.

I am on top of the world.

I am Gordon Truth, Ace Attorney, and this is my story.

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"Sir, I have some news…"

"Coming from you, Ian, I'm expecting the good kind."

"Well, um… not this time, sir."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sir, the case fell through. Mortimer Runway was found guilty for the murder of Owen Slotts."

"…"

"Sir? Please respond!"

"Ian Vice?"

"Yes Sir!"

"This is the first time you've failed me. So for this, I will let you learn your own lessons. However…"

"… Yes sir?"

"… Fail me again, and I won't be so merciful."

"O-of course sir. Understood."

"One last thing…"

"Anything sir!"

"Who was the defense attorney?"

"The defense attorney?"

"Yes Ian, tell me."

"It was… Gordon. Gordon Truth."

"…"

"Sir, I know it's… strange…"

"This is getting too complex and uncomfortable. Gordon Truth was a nuisance before and I don't want him becoming one again. Next time you face him in court, make sure you win."

"Y-yes sir."

'Click'

Greg Violet crossed his palms and wheeled his chair around to stare out the window. People asked him why he had a window built in his office, seeing as it was almost a mile underground. But he enjoyed staring at the uneven levels of earth. It soothes him.

The speaker on his desk switched on. "Boss, you're needed at location C, we're commencing the first part of our plan."

He pressed the button of the speaker. "Not now Sava, leave me be. I have things to think over." The speaker made a dull beep, indicating the discussion was over.

So, Gordon Truth, you come to ruin me again. Why do you try? You will never succeed. … I am looking forward to meeting you again, for the last time.