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Three : Welcome to the circus

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The men milling about warehouse 64 were divided into two kinds. There were muscle men, and then there were more muscle men – but even amongst muscle men, there exist differentiation in status. The first kind of muscle men, whom are infinitely superior to the second kind in both appearances and weaponry, are outside the warehouse. Most of them are cloaked out with coats, thick bulky ones that hid an almost infinite amount of firearms underneath it.

These walked around the dead bodies, which are littered about the area so carelessly that it was almost artistic. Certainly it resembled a lot an overturned bin. The dead members of the Cadaverinni family is all over the place – like someone's discarded tissue waste – and the former of the muscle men are responsible for these. They had rushed in when the guard seemed most relaxed, and had wiped them all out with a few casualties on their own side. The men had been on their toes, nervous that their Lady V is no longer around, and that made them panicked like little jittery mice.

Now these muscle men walk amongst the dead they had killed. You reap what you sow. Now they are reaping their rewards from their victims – taking their watches, their wallets...Anything that can be of value. This might be a desecration against their code of honour, but no one is there to correct them now. Diego Armando would normally shout at them for behaving like this – but he's in there now, with their new boss, and they couldn't care less if their men out here are misbehaving or not.

No, they were more preoccupied with the other kind of muscle men – who were piling boxes after boxes of things more valuable and far more priceless than any jewelry you can name. They're all over the place, so common in the warehouse you can almost believe it's the same on the streets – in brown, nondescript boxes. They're nameless, faceless boxes, and so is their contents.

One of those men, he carries one of these boxes and deposit it in front of Phoenix. Phoenix nodded at it, and the man pulled out a blade, slicing through the midsection of the box. The brown tape comes apart, springing away in fear of it's own contents, and the box opens up to reveal what was inside it.

"Hmm."

"Looks like it," Armando growled, his deep voice reverberating in the warehouse. "Do we..."

Phoenix leaned down and picked a little of the powder. He holds it up to take a closer look at it, but he doesn't sniff it, just look at it with slightly narrowed eyes This is crack. It doesn't have name tags that come along with it, shouting 'Crack!' at you – so he can't tell what it is, or at least, not yet. He turned around and called out to the two thicknecks standing beside the metallic texture of the warehouse.

"Lift the thing up. Get that man."

The metal gate, it goes up with a big clash and bang, an orchestra of one. No one hears it though, because the warehouse is all the way by the sea, on a pier. A few hundred miles down the shore, and maybe you'll come across celebrities or rich folk sunning themselves by the sea, but here it's more urban. A little more gritty, a little more sordid – and if you open warehouses that don't belong to you here, people turn up their blinds and pretend they don't see. No one wants to get into trouble with the likes of the two men who walked out to the van parked outside the warehouse, and dragged the babbling man in.

"Good," Phoenix noted tonelessly as they deposit the man in front of him. He's a nondescript sort of man too – like those boxes stacked up on the containers right there – but they all know who he is. Gossip travels, you see. This man, he's a smart man, or so he would like to think. At eight last night, he appeared on Phoenix Wright's townhouse's threshold, peddling information on Kristoph Gavin's modus operandi. Phoenix hadn't taken kindly to it.

You see, even in this kind of world, Phoenix likes to pride himself on having a little of that – pride. He doesn't need this kind of little shits running about with information for him. If he wanted to bring Kristoph down, he rather did it on his own, with his own hands – and people like these, who turn around and betray their poundmasters at the slightest provocation, they disgust Phoenix. He has standards, he has virtues, and even if they're a little tainted and a little sordid and a little gray, they're still there – and these people are still on his hit list, so to speak.

Armando looked down at the man with his one eye. He had taken one look at the box of cocaine and a gleam had entered his eye. There was greed, no one needs to be told that. And then there was fear, fear for what they might do to him, and what his presence might indicate.

Armando would have called the men down to watch and take note, except they're already doing it. They hopped down noisily from the containers they were perched on to look out better at what's happening down there, and they're all a little apprehensive as to what will happen. Phoenix's new role as their head is no new business. He's been taking care of the mob in Zak Gramarye's absence, and now that the absence turns out to be permanent, the general consensus is the same – No great loss.

A man who isn't around and a dead man? Makes no difference to them.

Still, it's an exciting prospect, seeing what Wright will do as his first term as boss. It's a little like New Years. You don't get anything but another number to your age, but you still celebrate it anyway. What you're actually celebrating is that you're one year closer to death, but people still do it anyway – and it's the same now. The drug they approve of – first job he does, and it's to haul in big, exciting bunches of green. Now they're waiting to see his policies.

Does he accept little turncoats? Is he like Kristoph Gavinne, the man that ruthlessly cuts down any who crosses his path and isn't beyond the most underhanded of techniques, whichever camp it came from? Who awarded enemies as surely as he awarded his allies – provided that they prove themselves helpful?

Smiling, Phoenix knelt down beside the man and patted him softly on the cheek.

"Good morning. Slept well?" He's forgotten the man's name. If he told him at all.

"Y-Yes—You're very- very hospitable." The man darted a glare at the coke, and Armando growled. That immediately snapped his gaze back down to the floor and Phoenix's crotch – where it should stay.

"Really? I thought it was kind of cold, but don't mind me." Phoenix laughed good-naturedly, smiling at the guy. "Have you had breakfast?"

"No...Not really."

"Gee. Armando, shame on you – how can you have left this guy to starve?"

Armando smirked. "A true man must learn from hardships, shouldn't he? What's a hardship or two along the path?"

Phoenix laughed, and the man – he laughs too. A touch higher pitch than normal, a little shrill, but he laughs all the same. His belly rumbled to argue the motion though, and he looked up, trying to look friendly and helpless and like someone you would be kind too.

"So, where's the nearest grill, chap? Just show me to one and I'll uh – help myself, yeah!"

Diego and Phoenix exchanged glances – and then they burst out laughing hysterically. Phoenix raised his scarf to cover his mouth, roaring into it – and Armando did the same, only less discreet. The man on the floor joined in, because if he does, it seems more like he's laughing with them instead of being laughed at.

When the laughter finally died down, Phoenix stood up, and the two thicknecks reappeared behind the man like magic – not even needing to be told.

"I think the man's hungry. Let's give him a little breakfast, shall we?"

Diego walked around to the back of the man, and with little help from the other two, hoisted the man up. At first, the man had thought Diego was merely giving him a 'helping hand', but then both of his hands got twisted to the back and the grip on his neck became almost painful – and he rethought that.

"W-Wait- What are you--"

The collected men around the containers filed in closer, like sleepwalking zombies in a nightmare show, entranced by that kaleidoscopic pattern on the wall. This is a new administration, a dawn of a new age for their little gang of misfits – and they're intrigued as to what sort of man their new boss is going to be.

The boss in question only grinned – but then the grin slipped off and he lowered his taller head beside the man's ear, and he whispered into it loudly enough for everyone to here in the quiet place. The only sounds in that place was the from the man, now thrashing wildly as Armando dragged him closer to the box of coke. The other guy slits open a packet of the white stuff, and the ripping of plastic is like a very big bell chiming in announcement of some very great thing.

"You see – people like you are what I don't like. If you're going to be in the mafia, the least you can do is obey our rules, mm?" Phoenix patted the man's head. A smile is on his face, because what he's doing is completely justified. It might not be right depending on your point of view, but it's very right to him – because he runs by virtues. Things like sticking up your friends, sappy things like helping the right ones out. In a drama series, or a video game, he might even be a hero – but for how he applied these things.

"You join a gang, you had best be prepared to stick with it right til it goes down in flames. People like you, who turn around at the first opportunity to bite their masters back...Are disgusting." He took off one glove and slapped it playfully on the man's head.

"Stick by your friends – that's one of my rules...Would be what you would say, right, Armando?"

"Brilliant, Trite – glad to see you remember them. Or did you write it down on one hand?"

Phoenix smirked, and then he gestured at the other man – the one who had slit apart the box. "Get some of that ready, if you please? It's time to use the best way in the world to determine how pure the thing is."

The man nods, and in a few scant minutes, a syringe is prepared and filled. When Gavinne's little boy saw what they were about to do, or at least guessed it – he started thrashing wilder. Pushing up against Armando and kicking at the cement floor like a thrashing eel that's been pulled out of the water and thrown onto flat land for some children park's amusement. All of Zak Gramarye's ex-men, they drifted forwards. Some leaned back like spectators, leaning against the containers and smirking little amused smirks, spectators at a gladiator ring.

A few leaned forward, swallowing – because they knew that at some other time, some other place, this is what they would be doing. They would have betrayed Zak Gramarye in a thrice if they knew crack was at stake – and when they look into the fearful eyes of the man about to die, they're looking at their own eyes. Some gulp. Many swallow.

Phoenix leaned down, and with Diego Armando pressing the man flat against the box, he patted around his arm until he found a nice, blue vein. Then he stretched the skin just inside the elbow – and injected the white substance into the man, even as his eyes widened in horror at the sight of the thing entering his arm, so slowly and silently it's almost discreet. His eyes widened as he looked back up at Phoenix, and their collective eyes widened in return as they watch him struggle. His tongue bulges out – first to scream, then to shout, then to choke – or whatever it was you call what he's doing.

Phoenix has a name for that, and he calls it retching. He has no idea if the retching is from the effects of the drug, or because fear has taken over and had stimulated his bile into overworking. He's not a science expert. What he knows is this : when you face true fear, the book's got it wrong – you don't scream or cry or shout, first you turn around and throw up your supper all over the floor. The man hadn't had breakfast to throw over, so what came out was something along the lines of yellowish liquid. Stomach acid? No one could care less – they're all too mesmerized at his little show, and they don't know if they should demand an encore or for it to stop. He's poledancing – beating against the ground with Diego holding him down all the while, gasping - a fish out of water.

Then with one last retch, he's down and out, permanently. Maybe it's the illusion the morning light plays as it sneaks in through the glass panels above, but Phoenix could almost swear that the man looked blue. Azure, like a very...Fishy creature. He snapped his watch shut.

"Six minutes."

"Hmph." Diego let go of the man with a sniff, and the man hit the ground like a sack. No, even lesser than that – because you can carry things with a sack. You can't carry anything with a dead man. "I would guess it's at least 90 percent pure then?"

"Yeap. Would guess so." Phoenix turned around, and raised an eyebrow at his men. "Guys, get back to work, won't you? And oh, let's be dramatic for a minute. Don't let me catch you guys doing what this man did, okay? Or you'll end up the same." He waved a friendly arm, like he's inviting them to poker. "That's all – go on, shoo shoo."

The men nodded quickly and nervously, not meeting his gaze – then they were off, rolling the boxes down carefully and throwing them one to another like a massive chain gang. They worked quickly, and in minutes, the huge truck out there is packed to the brim, a dark green canvas pulled across one side of it to hide what's in there. They dispersed quickly, once they were allowed to – going off to early morning bars to discuss their latest boss. This is a man with a backbone, they'll say. Not like that tree-hugger, Zak Gramarye. This is a man with weesions, or whatever is it those smarty corporate types call it. He's a man that can lead them.

Phoenix on the other hand smirked at the disappearing rear end of the truck, clapping Diego on the back, all manners of friendly.

"There it goes, huh?"

"Yes. I'd say you did a good job, except it might go to your head."

"Ah, but my head, like you often put it, is already abnormally enlarged."

"Stuff it in my coffee beans. What are we going to do with the dead?" Armando jerked a thumb in the direction of the dead men of Cadaverinni, lying about like a massive sleepover.

"Leave, them or throw them over the edge of the sea." He ordered.

"Leave it is then. Throwing takes too much time – you had better remember that, Trite."

"Heh." Phoenix rubbed the back of his neck, a little nervous habit he exhibits sometimes. But his face is serious when he said, "We got the shipment now – but Kristoph should be out by the end of the day. But at least we showed them that we meant business – this whole tree-hugging shit's got to stop. I'm going to be every inch as horrible as Gavinne is if it means dragging the gang up to standards."

No one asks why he's going to do that.

Diego just nods and watch the truck disappear off.


Apollo brushed his hair up into pointy ended bits, which is an amazing feat, considering that both his legs are still cycling. He's so good it hurts though – and this is something he's really proud of – the way he can cycle without his hands on the handlebar. It's the one thing Apollo's good at, and if he runs off to sign up for the Berry Big Circus, he'll probably get accepted right away. He's just that good, pardon his narcissistic tendency.

A car whizzes past, and the bicycle swerves to the side expertly, his hands still busy with his two locks of hair. Behind him, Trucy is looking out, seated backwards with her back facing him. She didn't look too worried either – Polly's good at what he does – and stared out at the blatantly staring passersby. They probably think that you know, they're a performing circus or something. In front, Apollo snapped the mirror shut with a huff, finally satisfied with the way his hair is turning out.

"I'm going to be late if you don't go faster, Polly."

"You're always late anyway," He retorted. "You're always performing by the school gates – and don't think I don't know either. The teacher tells me everything."

"Except apparently, the fact that I bring Mr. Hat to school."

"Yeah, except the fact that you – Wait, WHAT?"

The bicycle swerved violently as another car came running, the puddle splashing up and almost hitting the both of them.

"I'm just kidding, Apollo. Stop being so type A."

"I'm not being Type A, I'm being the concerned guardian."

"The concerned guardian that's about to send me in late, maybe. Go faster, Polly – or I'll whack you."

She clutched onto his files tightly as they go faster, both Apollo's legs going at a speed that looks comical in comparison to how slow they were going. Maybe she should lose weight a little or something – but eventually they get there anyway. El Sereno's High School, otherwise known as the local nun school. Chosen and fixed up specifically because Apollo Justice is paranoid that his little sister will end up with some kind of hippie guy with three nose rings and runs off to be white thrash at the local trailer park.

Trucy disembarks, scratching both feet on the ground to help slow the bicycle down. She hopped off and corrected her hat, then passed the thick bundle of files she had been holding onto throughout the journey.

"There you go, Polly. And good luck with the case later, mm?"

Apollo nodded at her – had told her everything he could about the case yesterday until his throat got sore, and left everything for Trucy to figure out. Trucy's brilliant at predicting things – and if she plays chess, she'll probably beat him soundly at it. As it is, she's far too impatient for chess, but she's a great help when it comes to cases though. You can say she's half the reason Apollo wins his cases, the other half being his own skill of course. Trucy leaned forward and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

"And remember – we're out of milk. You had better get some on the way home, or you won't be able to sleep tonight."

"I think milk's the reason I can't sleep," Apollo retorted. "I'm lactose intolerant, Trucy."

"Don't be silly – milk helps everyone to sleep! Now remember to get it, or I'll be crossed." She looked at his files. "Do I need to write it down somewhere? I have some magic markers."

"NO. Absolutely not."

"Okay, okay. Just remember." With one last playful thwack at his hair, Trucy bounded off and up the stairs to her school, ready to dazzle her classmates with her skills again. She's a natural – and she makes even cheap tricks out of secondhand bookstores look amazing in a way that defies all human expectation. Maybe it's the showmanship – the way you sell it. If you act like it's the most amazing thing on Earth, even tofu can look cool. Apollo lingered there for a moment – looking after Trucy and calculating their budget – before pedalling off once she disappeared.

He made a mental note to stop by Walmart later to cart off some milk, and maybe hit Grifforth up for an advance on his salary. The man will agree to anything for now, while Apollo's taking the case. The last thing the old man needed would be for Apollo to regress on his word and him having to find someone else who's stupid or confident enough to take the Gavinne case. Apollo still isn't sure which one he is. No, he's taking this for one thing and one thing alone. Climb higher. He has to climb higher. They're already at their limit – they can't stretch the budget any further. Any poorer, and they'll be lying on the streets, without anything, least of all milk. He has to climb, faster, higher, and make more money – however.

Apollo cycled all the way to the courthouse – his first and last stop for the day. He rolled the beaten bicycle right up to the slots for the motorbikes and made sure his was firmly behind the bar. If he parks it right next to the obnoxious hogs, some asshole or another will come up with this brilliant idea to roll over his bicycle, and then he'll be left walking home with two sticks where his bike had been. Today, there's a flashy purple one taking a good spot there, and Apollo stuck his in front of the purple hog – where it'll be safe.

He chained it up, looping it elaborately. No one's going to take it because they want it, but it's a new neighbourhood. L.A's not exactly a safe place now, not with the gangs on the rise. Some neighbourhood teen gangsta' might decide it's a good idea to play a prank on him. It'll keep it safe, and it's not like he needs to move the bike any time soon. Apollo had a feeling he'll be staying here for the rest of the day, if he's going to go home before the janitors do at all.

Once he's done, he went up to the courthouse with his files under one arm. The trial for Kristoph Gavinne is set in courtroom number three, and he went there – taking his spot up in the defendant's lobby. Kristoph Gavinne is not there, but then again – he's a mob boss. He probably has a lot to do in his cell, like discussing whose and which limb to saw off. Apollo had better things to do than to wander off to search for him, and with one last look at the time – thirty minutes to the start of the trial, better start reading – he settled on the couch and started flipping through his material.

He didn't have long to wait before the next commotion came.

Exactly sixteen minutes later, a man appeared at the doorway, frowning lightly and looking for all the world like he rather died than be there. Apollo didn't notice him though – it was the envelope on his hands that very much intrigued him. It's brown, light, and recognizably that of the reports from forensics. Those usually get intercepted by the prosecution – God knows why, but they get special treatment in the state offices. It did make sense, in a convoluted sort of way. The state and the law exists for one thing after all – to charge and punish the wrong – and people like Apollo, public defenders, are just there to give the world an illusion that the play is very much fair.

"Are you Justice?" The man snipped out.

"Yes, I am." Apollo answered, rising up. And if you make one pun about by name, I will stick a pin in a voodoo doll of you.

The man's scowl deepened, like the fact that Apollo is admitting to being Apollo is an offensive statement.

"Zylinder. From CA, arson department. This here," He slapped the envelope into his hands. "Is your report for the whole thing. Zak Gramarye's forensics report, as well as the whole take of the place."

"Wow." Apollo unwrapped the envelope like a candy and turned it upside down for it's contents. Sure enough, there is the report...For everything. A strange thing on it's own – usually these doesn't appear for the public defenders unless they go hunting for it, and he voiced it so.

"Klavier dug it up for you. Said you're not going to win even a game of poker on your own without help."

"Klavier?"

"Kristoph Gavinne's younger brother."

Ah, man du irritating.

"Wow, thanks. Tell him I say thank you, won't you? And that I happen to be pretty good at poker." He flipped through the thing. Everything checked out.

"So the cause of death is fire?"

"Ain't it so."

Apollo scowled at him. "Can't you PD guys answer my questions for a change? I might be a public defense, but I happen to work for the state too you know."

A lip went up. "Okay. Here's the deal. Zak Gramarye, at approximately two on the day before yesterday, was at the Borscht Bowl Club. He burns. The reason being that he happened to be cloaked in something – that something being gasoline, from what the forensics been salvaging. No one's telling why there's gasoline all over the man, but there is. The coroner sliced him up like Kentucky's Fried Chicken, and nothing's there to indicate anything's been done to him other than the fire."

"No internal bleeding, nothing?"

"Nope. That guy burned to death, plain and simple. Someone set him on fire, he burns like toast. Then he dies. Amazing shit happens. The forensics guys found one nifty can of gasoline in the kitchen, suspected to be the reason the guy burns like french fries."

Apollo scowled. "But that's..." Who wouldn't notice having gasoline all over you? Apollo's never had much opportunity in life to smell the stuff, but if it's anything like the rest of the petroleum family, then it sure as hell wouldn't be a good smell in the air. The man merely shrugged when he said that though. Apollo's fingers stopped at the page on Zak Gramarye's health report from before his death.

"He has a nose tumour." He announced, sounding somewhat like something's strangling him. That must mean whoever had murdered the man knew about the nose tumour, which narrowed down their list of possibilities considerably. He didn't like where this is starting to go.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Says so here. Thing is. Who knows?"

"Well not me – that's for sure. Some of the other bigshots? Some guy in his groupie?"

Apollo massaged his forehead with one finger – he doesn't like where this is going, at all.

"Hey, strange things happen. It ain't my duty to supply you information on every great wonder out there. Now can I go? There's a game down in the race track I gotta hit."

He nodded, and the man disappeared off to gamble away his day's salary or whatever so quickly he looked like a galloping racehorse himself. Apollo's frown never wavered, and he sank back down onto the couch. Maybe he really shouldn't have been so confident yesterday. The man's looking more and more guilty with every passing minute...After all, the contradictions in the case is so glaringly obvious. At least Payne's the prosecutor for it, so he might survive. Maybe.

He just hoped he can do it, hassle free.


"Court is now in session for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne."

The gavel came down twice, and by rights it should be quiet and solemn and all matters of serious. But this is L.A's court, where people sometimes pay money at the counter and mistake it for the zoo – and it's by no means quiet as the doors slammed shut to allow no one else to enter the courtroom. It's noisy, and the noise, it is uproarious.

Apollo filed into the courtroom. It looks as though half the city had decided to turn up to watch Kristoph Gavinne be indicted, from the amount of people wandering up and down the public gallery. There's a lady at the back with long black hair, putting down a parasol by the benches and peering down interestedly. Beside her, a couple of human beings away – is the recognizable black and maroon of the prosecutor from yesterday – Klavier Gavinne, was it? The clothing's changed, the colour hasn't – and the expression certainly hadn't too. If anything, he looks even more thunderous than he did yesterday.

Well tough luck, old boy. So sorry, but you're stuck with me.

Apollo clicked his briefcase apart, and immediately settled out his files and paperwork all over the table like a carpet of wood. He felt more assured when he's more things to look into. Then with a toss of his head – he's ready. A little nervous, maybe. Killer butterflies are certainly in his stomach as he noted Grifforth and a few other senior at the back of the gallery, looking down in amusement. If he fails this – then that's it. He'll be the laughingstock of the department, forever and ever – and it'll be a long long time, if every at all, that the men learn to forget that he's ever botched up so badly.

Payne's in here too – all five stooped feet of him. He tapped his head as he got up. The court takes another long long moment to settle down, but it finally does, and when it's all quiet and somber again, Payne spoke.

"The prosecution's opening statement is simple, Your Honour, and so is our case. At 2 a.m on the twentieth of April, a man is burned to death – so to speak – in the Borscht Bowl Club. A place for simpler things of life like a game for poker and a bowl of borscht. But it is not so, and a murder is done. The suspect, is of course, none other than Kristoph Gavinne, the local mob boss meeting with him at that time."

The judge's eyes widened. "The mob boss, really!? Kristoph Gavinne?"

Payne nodded, smiling that smile that Apollo's connected to an ape. You know how when an ape pulls it's wrinkly lips back and makes this ooh-ey smile? Yes, exactly like that. Payne doubles are all over the national zoo – God knows he's been enough there with Trucy because they can't afford anywhere else on Sundays. He had to focus though, and he forced himself to stop daydreaming and focus.

"Yes, Your Honour – it is Kristoph Gavinne who cruelly, and heartlessly, set his colleague up in flames, in the hopes of taking over his business. You've seen how it happens in The Godfather, Your Honour! They stab and burn each other, fighting with guns and axes as they roam the city looking for trouble. Vagabonds, all of them!"

"H-Hey! Objection!"

Apollo slammed the table to cut off Payne's tirade, and Payne looked back at Apollo defiantly.

"We've barely started the trial, and the prosecution's already sullying the name of the defendant! In case you're hard of hearing, Prosecutor Payne, we're here to have a trial – not hear you wax lyrical. With absolutely no evidence, I might add." Apollo glared at the prosecutor – whom, need he remind you, he had beaten soundly a few times before – and the man flicked his hair.

"Now see here! They don't call me the rookie killer for nothing!"

"The reason they call you the rookie killer, Mr. Payne – is because that's the only thing you can kill - rookies! Now if you'll please, Your Honour – we need to get back to the case in question."

Or I'll never get out of here to buy milk. Seriously.

His butterflies still wandering wildly in his stomach, he gestured at the bailiff. The judge approves of it with a nod, and two minutes later, Kristoph Gavinne emerged from the defendant's lobby, smiling serenely and sweetly at all present, as though he is a king about to make his debut amongst lowlier mortals. No handcuffs bar his wrists. Perhaps it's an oversight of the authority, but Apollo highly doubt they would have forgotten to handcuff the one man most likely to escape.

The judge blinked down at Mr. Gavinne, peering interestedly at the man like he was a souvenir on display at a gift shop. Kristoph Gavinne flicked an invisible strand of lint off his shoulder.

"My, you're a mob boss. Really? You don't look like one! You look kind of familiar, in fact!"

Um. Yeah, maybe because he used to serve in this court, Your Honour?

"Oh, I assure you I am one, Your Honour," Gavinne replied, smiling graciously in good humour. He nods at all present, and they all nod back at him – exactly like guests to his palatial abode. "Perhaps I should shoot something to prove myself?"

The court laughed at his little jokes.

'Oh yes, please do! Mr. Justice!"

Apollo sighed. Here we go again – an ADD judge and the monkey court, back in business and back for your entertainment. Would you like a ticket sir? No need to pay, it's free entertainment. Better than HBO and Dr. House's seventeenth season.

"No, Your Honour, I am not going let him shoot me."

The Judge frowned.

"It's illegal." Apollo gnashed out.

The judge blinked down. "Well yes, there is that."

Payne interjected here, clearing his throat with a loud 'Ahem!' – annoyed that the conversation swung away from him for even a moment. He reminded Apollo of a certain witch in a series. He took out the case summary, frowned short-sighted eyes at them, and announced, "Yes there is that – shooting is illegal. And it's also illegal to set people up in flames, Your Honour – which this man most definitely did on the night of the 20th."

Apollo folded his arms. The courtroom is really the only place on Earth where he feels truly at home. It may make him nervous, but just like on a stage where you are a performer, even when you are nervous, you must perform. And as you perform, you get more and more caught up in your own world and forget to feel nervous.

"That, Prosecutor Payne, is a statement, and I trust you will have the evidence to back it up...?"

"Oh yes, I do, rookie – and you had better believe that!"

"I will believe that, Mr. Payne, when you give me something to believe."

"Of course the prosecution is going to prove it! The prosecution calls it's first witness..."


Klavier looked down from the public gallery, leaning against the railing and scowling lightly down at the attorney in red. There's a lot he wanted to comment about – from the man's ridiculous hairdo to his blood red suit. Does he always wear the same colour? Pot calling the kettle black and all that, but it's not like Klavier is going to look down at himself and muse on their similarities. Beside him, Grace Espina, stirred. "Ah, look. You seem quite mistaken, Klavier – he seems quite alright after all."

"Huh." Klavier grunted.

"The prosecution calls it's first witness...Miss Olga Orly..."

"I guess. That still remains to be seen, ja? We must see how he defends, not how he carries himself."

"Yes, indeed. And Klavier?"

"Ja?"

"Don't frown so."

Klavier smoothed his forehead into a visibly smoother version of itself. Who's he to deny a pretty damsel her request after all? And pretty is what Espina is – because that is what she's paid to be. One of the finer madames of the city, and a personal friend of his brother's. Across, on the other gallery, a few scowled at them as they noted who they were, but Klavier shrugged it off. He's used to being scowled at now. Being both violin and cello in an orchestra brings trouble sometimes, and here he is, escorting some of the most prestigious people of the mafia into a courtroom to see his brother's trial after all.

The doors slammed apart for a second time, and this time it's the curly headed waitress that's being escorted in – looking timid and completely different from the woman his brother had dealt with...But then he didn't know many of these things. LeTouse had to inform him on every one – and he gnashed his teeth at the fact that he had to be told about his brother's dealings from some other pair of lips.

That man, Justice – he's quick to cross examine though. His strong voice drifted all over the courtroom, and Klavier approved of it. No mousey squeak for this man – his voice is strong and clear. The lady gave her testimony, and the court looked out silently at the two of them going back and forth, trading testimony and nitpicking. They reminded Klavier of a stage show. Even the railing reminds him of the opera – is this how he looks like when he performs in court? Monkeys on the stage?

"So you're saying that you brought the drink into the Hydeout and spilled it all over the man, not knowing what it is?" Apollo called out, and his voice shook Klavier out long enough to concentrate. He should be concentrating – this is his brother's trial after all. And how is he going to ridicule that ridiculous attorney if he can't remember anything ridiculous to ridicule him about?

"D-Da. I do not know. I am waitress, da? I do not make food."

"Really? I say you make something else though – lies."

Klavier smiled.

"Now listen here rookie! You can't just say these things without evidence!"

"I don't need evidence for this!" Justice shot right back. "All I need is logic!"

"And what logic is that, Mr. Justice?" The judged squinted at them. The attorney nodded confidently in return, folding his arms with a smirk.

"It's simple, Your Honour. We have the report here. There's no question about it – the man had been doused with gasoline, and that gasoline had come from the drink, most likely. Certainly he would have noticed if someone took a can and started pouring all over him, wouldn't he?"

The frosty white beard dipped attentively.

"Which makes it a complete lie that she doesn't know about it! How can you carry gasoline around with you on a tray and not notice it? Or are nose tumours an extremely common disease now?" He sneered. The lady cringed a little, and the smirk got wider. Below them, Kristoph Gavinne righted his glasses, and a smile started spreading there that Klavier did not like. It smells like a bad fish.

"Kristoph's up to something again," He hissed at LeTouse. "Look at that smile."

"It's not up to us to judge what your brother does, Gavinne."

"I don't like it," He announced flatly. "There's something here that completely reeks. First my brother murders Zak Gramarye for no reason – now he's staring at that attorney like a pudding he wants a spoon of. Unless he's turned suddenly and inexorably gay – he's up to something."

"Look sharp, Gavinne. You don't want to be caught spewing this sort of thing around."

Klavier frowned, and with one revolving eye around the area in case someone's listening in, he turned his attention back to the court.

"But there you have it, rookie! Tell me, if Kristoph Gavinne did not do it – who did!? Why would this sweet, shy, lady do something like that!?"

Justice shrugged callously. He fingers his paperwork for just a moment, betraying a slight nervous look and collecting his thoughts. Then he's back again, glaring at him.

"We're here for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne. I think it's been established the murder method – he's been doused with gasoline. And who did that? Not him, or Gramarye would have noticed."

"Why not!? He could have tied him up and poured gasoline all over him!"

Apollo was lost for words for just a moment. But it's a moment that betrayed his inexperience, and that just confirms Klavier's own superiority to Klavier. At this, Kristoph sneered and spoke up. "Unless you've developed a method of removing ropes from a burning man, then altering his dying pose – I suggest you find another basis for your argument, Prosecutor Payne."

The man squeaked at the smiling ice pinned on him, turning away. He cleared his throat and pulled at his shirt collar, like the thing's choking him at the very moment with it's fabricated fingers.

'W-Well! I say!" He consulted his papers, then traded whispers with his assistant, a reliable sort of man. Klavier never had any assistants of his own, and he disapproved of them. They make useless prosecutors far too useful sometimes.

"As Mr. Justice there put it..." Payne started when he returned to facet he courtroom. Justice narrowed his eyes at him. "We're here for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne! What Mr. Justice there has established is merely that Ms. Orly may be an accomplice – but we forget one exclusive fact. Who's the one who lighted the man!? The one who set him on fire is the true culprit!"

At this, Justice looked like he had been slapped – and even that hairdo twirled downwards for a moment. Klavier frowned, leaning a little more forwards unconsciously. If Letouse hadn't put a soft hand on his back, Klavier would have plunged straight down from the public gallery, so enchanted he was by the trial. He still leaned forward to the maximum distance though, and frowned.

The lawyers continued trading blows, unwary of his renewed scrutiny.

"The fact remains that she was the who drenched him, doesn't that make her the culprit!?"

"Gasoline doesn't burn itself, rookie! The person who lighted it up is the true culprit!"

"He could have lighted it himself!"

"Not likely, rookie, and I'll tell you why! Here's the report..."


Three hours and one recess later, Apollo is sweating, if just a little. They've been going back and forth, back and forth all day long. It's like a macabre dance of unwilling feet, and even some of the ones on the gallery have lost their interest, rolling their eyes about boredly. They're going nowhere fast, if they're going anywhere at all. This isn't...Why did Prosecutor Payne had to pick the one most important day to be competent!? Goddamned it. It's not often, but the prosecutor does have his moment of merits – cases he sometimes win, even seemingly defying the odds. But there you have it, and Apollo wished to the dearest God up there that it hadn't had to be the one case Apollo's dealing with.

He looked down, shuffling through his paperwork desperately to try and find a gem of information there that can drill him an escape route. The words shuffle past until they became almost a blur – lines of crisscrossing black on white that zoomed pass and they shifted around without revealing anything. A bead of sweat broke out despite his confident demeanor – and Apollo thanked God he wasn't a sweating sort of person, or he'll literally look like a drenched cloak. Not a flattering image to paint.

The last thing Apollo wanted is to fall on his face and prove that the man's words were right – but judging from the slight frown on the prosecutor's face, he realized that they were in trouble too. Maybe he blamed Apollo, maybe he didn't – but his frown was reserved for Payne. How long, Apollo had no idea. He knows he can't lose it though, not this case.

'Well?" Payne challenged, a gloating smirk on him. "How can you disprove it? Kristoph Gavinne set Zak Gramarye on fire! No one else would have done it – not his own subordinates, not this shy little lady!" The lady in question didn't look too shy anymore, slightly gleaming eyes above a steaming bowl of borscht – but Apollo kept silent on that. Pick that egg too far apart, and she'll name her accomplice, which is the last thing Apollo wants. Delaying tactics can only hold for so long, especially since yes, it's a fact – no one but Kristoph Gavinne and the two other subordinates knew about his nose tumour. Certainly not the lady – and she has no motive. So...

"Objection! Not so fast, Payne! How can you prove that the two subordinates bear Gramarye no ill-will? Didn't you just say one of them is his successor? He could be the one who murdered him for the spot!"

"I-Impossible!" Payne screeched. "There's no way!"

"Why not!?" Apollo shot right back. "What makes you so sure that the two couldn't have set the whole thing up and pinned it on Kristoph Gavinne?"

"B-Because--" Payne shuffled through the papers, and when he found the paper he wanted, seized it like a goodwill testament from God.

"Because of this! The two bear Zak no ill-will, and you can call as many of their underlings to prove it--"

"Underlings LIE, Prosecutor Payne. They're their underlings – doesn't that tell you what they'll be willing to do?"

"Ah-ah! But look here! This is a recorded testimony from Kristoph Gavinne himself – he was the one who set up that meeting! Wright and Armando had been informed by Zak only at the last moments. Unless they had been in cahoots – which I doubt even you are stupid enough to insinuate – Kristoph Gavinne would have been the one capable of setting the whole thing up!"

God damn your honest tongue, Kristoph Gavinne.

The crowd on the public gallery roared out their approval and disgust at the same time. The approval from the state employees, the disgust from the assorted mafia heads who had come to see the great Kristoph Gavinne's trial. Apollo panicked – and in his panic looked up at Klavier Gavinne, who scowled at Payne and looked as if he wanted to reach forward and rip his lungs out. Payne had to chose the one day that Apollo had, to prove himself to be competent, hadn't he? Apollo's palm got clammy, and he started flipping through the papers faster and faster, willing an answer to appear.

He looked up at the younger Gavinne, but all he did was scowled. He looked at the older Gavinne, and all that one did was smile in the most infuriating grin towards them. He looked like a spectator at a stadium, as if the verdict is of no concern to him, either way. A man watching another man to be convicted, a man that isn't him. Too bad Apollo doesn't have the same sort of self-control, and he panicked.

All that crossed his head was this simple fact : He can't lose this.

He can't. He simply can't.

It's become a personal sort of thing the moment he took the case from Grifforth. A way to prove himself and a way to hopefully, catch the eye of some high-ranking firm out there. This is such a high-profile case after all, and Apollo would be lying if he said he hadn't crossed his fingers and hoped, hoped that someone would notice him when he won it and the case gets plastered on the newspaper. Then maybe he'll get picked up by another firm – it didn't matter what, anything would be better than working for the state – and he'll get a better job. A better salary – and then every time Trucy asks him to buy milk, he wouldn't have to start counting.

Won't have to start stretching the numbers, start putting his algebra to good use as he calculate how his money can be stretched. If his pennies were stretched any longer, they would shatter entirely – and Apollo's sick. Sick of counting. Sick of looking at Trucy's face as he tells her that no, they can't have that new advertised magic equipment because he's got no budget for it. Sick of asking Trucy if she had anymore from her savings, and watching her break out that hat-shaped piggy bank with that damned happy smile and offering him her money. Sick of having to see his sister look at him – and tell him – Polly, smile, okay? Smile and everything will be fine.

Nothing is going to be okay just because he smiles – this is real life. Faith and smiles and hopes don't get you very far. They're not running a charity show here. Faith? Hope? Put it in the pawn shop please, Apollo's got no use for them – they sure as hell don't pay for instant noodles.

So he does what he does.

You can understand that don't you? He just wants his money. Money money money, that's what we all want, eh? It's what this is all about. It comes down to green bills, and no matter how good you are, no matter how virtuous you are, circumstances make the man, not the other way around.

Apollo's fingers broke right through the document he had been holding, punching neat holes into the paper. Noticing those tiny row of holes, like a bite mark, Kristoph Gavinne's smile became almost savage in it's beauty – almost a snarl. There's a smell in the air, and it's the smile of a predator having found his prey.

"O-Objection, Mr. Payne." Apollo stammered out, willing his heart to stop pounding. He's seen people do it before – but he's never done it himself. He despises people who do it – always looking at them like a specimen of eel. Struggling until the bitter end – disgraceful. But he's got no choice, and this is done in part to preserve Apollo's own pride. He's allowed to have that, isn't he? The last remaining vestige of it. He's the best in the P.D office, and he'll be damned if he goes up in flames like the late Zak Gramarye. Apollo really isn't a proud or vain person, but there are times where even he has a pride to maintain. How will he look into Grifforth's eyes, knowing he's the newest laughingstock in all of the office?

No freaking way.

"Eh, what is it, rookie!? Not so proud now, eh!?" Payne gloated, his voice shrill. Apollo exhaled heavily – locked eyes one last time with the younger Gavinne – why, he does not know, but he's directly above Payne, and it's hard to look over without seeing those blue eyes, is all – he calmed himself.

"Prosecutor Payne, suppose we summarize your arguments."

"Oh yes, please do!" He screeched. "Go on – win my case for me!"

"You claim that yes, Olga Orly may have been the one to pour the gasoline all over Zak Gramarye. You claim that the two other men cannot have prepared it. You claim, in short, that Kristoph Gavinne is the one who set Zak Gramarye on fire."

"That's right!"

"...But where's your evidence for it?"

There's the trump card. Absolute denial.

This is the dirtiest trick in the book. Hold down, clench your teeth, and argue to the very last bitter end. It makes your defendant look guilty without a single doubt – but then no one is doubting Kristoph Gavinne's guilt. This is the face of a lawyer, someone would say – pointing at Apollo – who is like a politician. Deny, deny, deny – deny to the bitter end, in the face of mud, in the face of bad eggs, in the face of all sorts of accusations. With this kind of argument, no verdict can be passed – done correctly of course. The law is perfect – and without perfect, decisive evidence, you cannot pass a verdict. It's like one last struggle. It's a fool-proof argument, but it doesn't make it more sordid. People hated lawyers who did this – think of them as dirty creatures who are just sore losers.

Apollo ignored the roaring of the crowd behind him in the public gallery.

"Goddamned piss-poor lawyer, the fuck?"

"This is ridiculous! Everyone knows he's guilty, he thinks he can pull the wool over our eyes like that?"

Kristoph Gavinne smiled serenely, an untouchable God.

"You have absolutely zero decisive evidence, Prosecutor Payne, that Kristoph Gavinne is the one to do it. All you're giving us is the supposed, conjecture, maybes. There's no decisive evidence – at all!" He had to shout out the last words at the top of his lungs in order to be heard over the uproar. Klavier Gavinne looked at him seriously – and the lady beside her fanned herself, looking amused by their little lawyerly mudfights.

"Come on, rookie! You know you can't base an argument like that!" The prosecutor shout out.

"Why not? If you want to play the supposed game – I'll play it with you. Suppose that Olga Orly has a grudge against Zak Gramarye. Suppose that the gasoline ignited itself. Suppose that Zak Gramarye smokes, and blew himself up. There's so many suppositions in the world, Mr. Payne – and not one of them can be proven!"

"I have proof! The two subordinates cannot--"

"We are playing law here, Mr. Payne, not elimination games! Sure the other two can't do it. Sure she can't either – but then where's your absolute proof that he did it? Do you have that decisive piece of evidence?"

Payne turned red – realizing that there's no way out of this. No CCTV camera on the wall. Nothing. There's no absolute, conclusive piece of evidence that points irrefutably to Kristoph Gavinne. Any one of the other two could have prepared it under short notice, or Olga Orly could be hired by an old acquaintance. The chances are slim, but chances are there nonetheless, and nothing could be said against him – not without evidence. The law is absolute...And convoluted that way. A snake, like that around the heavenly tree – it can swing and bite either way.

"Y-You--"

"ROOKIE! THAT'S JUST RIDICLOUS AND YOU KNOW IT!"

"I don't know anything like that!"

"This is stupid! That lawyer is so deep in denial..."

"I can't believe he's doing that – isn't it obvious that he's guilty?"

"This whole trial is a mockery!"

Apollo ignored all the jabs. He's winning this one, come hell and boiling water. "You have no evidence, Prosecutor Payne, therefore you have no case – and with that --" The crowd rose, and with it, Apollo's voice, shouting above them all to be heard. "-WITH THAT, I REST MY CASE, YOUR HONOUR!" He bellowed out.

The crowd roar, anger bursting forward like a breaking dam. Yes, indeed they hated these kind of lawyers. Sore little losers who cling to that last bitter end, playing that last trump card of denial, even though it's so obvious, so very obvious that it's him. He did it. Why doesn't the judge see that?

That seemed to strike that strange chord – the one that determines if a crowd stays silent or loud. The crowd falls into a hush as the gavel came down simultaneously with Apollo's last words, pinning down the coffin lid on the sound, nailing it shut. He frowned, and growled under his breath, and the collective audience, they leaned forwards to await the verdict. Breathing cannot be heard in the quiet of the courthouse, because breathing has temporarily ceased.

"I ah...I'm afraid, that the court cannot proceed." The judge sighed out at last. He knows too, that the blonde man, he's anything but innocent. But the judge is not the alpha and omega of the courtroom, contrary to popular beliefs. It's the lawyers – and what lengths they're willing to go to to win their verdict. This one just happens to not care if his defendant is really guilty or not, that's all.

One voice broke through the cloud of silence. Kristoph Gavinne unfolded his arms, stepped up, and said only one line, one of the only words he had spoken for the duration of the trial.

"Judicis est judicare secundum allegata et probata, Your Honour."

Oh, and aren't those true words? It is the duty of a judge to decide according to the allegations and the proofs. If Apollo had left it at that earlier, it would have been the end – the Judge would have laid down the verdict, and Kristoph Gavinne would have gotten what he deserved. Only he hadn't, had fought to the dirty end, and now the man is going to get a Not Guilty verdict, to be let loose onto this black and tarnished society to blacken it some more with sooty hands.

"We must have a verdict, Your Honour," Apollo called out, determined and unwavering. He had done a thing. No, not a wrong thing, because there is no wrong thing. He's just doing his job, is all. The intonation, so strong and unmovable, seem to stir the judge out of his reverie, and he sighed – like a machine who must now do what he has been preordained to do, whether he likes it or not. A wheel must spin, a cog must turn, and no amount of wishing on the wheel and cog's behalf can turn them around.

"Very well. No verdict can be passed at present time....I'm afraid." The angry torrent started again, and the gavel came back down. Cold comfort, but at least they stayed hush. "The court will now be adjourned, pending further trial. Trial will reconvened, tomorrow, at nine in the morning. Following the three days allocated, if no resolution can be put forth – then I will...Have to announce a not guilty verdict."

Apollo smirked, even though the muscles were rather...Stiff. He's won. For all practical purposes, he's won. No new evidence is going to come forth – they're going to spend the next couple of days grappling over nothing, and at the end of it, Kristoph Gavinne will walk away a free man. The verdict may not have been announced, but it might have been, for the silence that hung in the air like a velvet drape. Then like said drape, it was suddenly broken off, pulled off, by a loud clapping – issuing forth from the defendant's seat.

"Bravo, Mr. Justice! Bravo!"

He clapped and clapped, chuckling as he did so – rather like a mad man. Then another pair of hands joined his in clapping, and it's the other Gavinne's, though his expression is serious and solemn. They've just been witness to the death of another slice of goodness and innocence in Apollo Justice after all – is that no reason to clap, no reason to be joyful? Another small, dainty pair joined in, the lady beside him, smiling in amusement. They clapped, and then the big man beside Klavier claps too – and Apollo is suddenly struck with the urge to be very loudly sick at himself.

He racked a hand through his hair. He's won, and victory taste like sour plums. Another shuddering breath, and then suddenly Apollo needed to get out of here. Stop staring at the corpse that is the late Apollo Justice, a nice lawyer who doesn't do this kind of wiggly thing. Doesn't sell himself out for pride and status and prestige.

"Excuse me, I need to go."

He pushed pass the bailiff, who tried to stop him, and then he pushed pass the door, who didn't. Then he's running, trying to distant himself from the bad taste in his mouth. He hears, through divine intervention, the words of Grifforth.

Sadly – and this is sad, dear boy, never fall down this path of dark disgrace, because it'll be the end of you--

He's taken that first step, hadn't he? Saved Kristoph Gavinne from the noose because he's got too much danged pride. He loves justice and all, or so he tells people – but first and foremost comes himself. Survival instincts. He's a hypocrite, so be it. He's a human, so be it too. He found a bench on the courthouse courtyard, and then he sits on it like a hen hatching an egg. A red flush all over his face, and maybe he's angry at himself for doing that, or maybe he's embarrassed by himself for doing that – for trying to climb a little higher in the materialistic ladder of life.

Or maybe he's both angry and embarrassed at himself that the first thing he thinks of, is not the justice he has failed, but whether or not this is going to impact his career.


Kristoph's laughter is beautiful – rich and melodious. Most of the time though, what he's laughing at, the thing that he's finding amusing – that is not.

"Oh, Klavier, did you see the look on his face? Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! You must get me a portrait of it – maybe get Espina to paint one. It's quite the magnum opus, don't you agree? It ranks right up there with the Van Gogh!"

"Ach. Is that so?" Klavier said stonily, accompanying his brother down the hallway along with two other bailiffs. He didn't particularly felt amused – he felt like he just watched a kid being crushed between expectations. The kid – man, but Klavier felt like calling him a kid with that kind of expression he had worn – had ran out of the courtroom like a little jilted lover, and now his brother's amusement at it left a bad taste in his mouth. Like a man laughing at people being tortured.

The kid deserves it he supposed...But had he? What had he done wrong anyway, but daring to step up and take his brother's case? Klavier had railed against him, calling him incompetent, but now that the red haze of rage is a little gone, he had to admit – the kid had guts. You gotta give him that. He's done nothing wrong, and he felt shallow, laughing at him behind his back like this. Like a blonde cheerleader flipping her hair over the shoulder and going 'Oh my gawd, he's so dumb,' when he's done nothing wrong at all.

The prosecutor himself had done it a lot of times himself of course – refusing to admit the truth and struggling down to the bitter end and put a 'no evidence' label on it. It always leaves a bad taste, because you know what you're doing is wrong – manipulating the law to suit your whims and fancies. Something so large and intrinsically justified shouldn't be so easy a puppet, but because of that same physicality, it is – but it doesn't make it feel any better when you've just put an innocent man to death – or vice versa in Justice's case.

"Yes, it is – highly amusing. You must collect him for me at once, Klavier. He's too amusing for us to let him up, don't you think?"

'We're not your toys," Klavier stated flatly. "You can't collect people like that, Kristoph."

"Oh, I can. And I will. Collect him for me, won't you, Klavier? Put him in the same firm as Constans and Lee – better yet, make him an offer he cannot refuse. Make him a partner. Yes, that's it – a brilliant plan, don't you think?" He said in admiration of himself.

"I don't think so," Klavier replied honestly. "Leave the kid alone, Kristoph. You could have saved him a lot of trouble today out there – and that testimony you gave...It was all to make trouble for him, wasn't it?"

"Oh no, it's quite the helping of honesty. At least, that is the publicly acknowledged fact."

Klavier said nothing.

'But I digress, Klavier, I digress. He's such an amusing little boy – I think we must have him for our collection at once, don't you think?"

"Nein, I don't think so."

"Why not?" Kristoph asked him, looking genuinely puzzled. "He has such potential, don't you think? Look how it played out today – we bend him a little, put him under duress, and he twisted justice for us. He has that potential to be utterly twisted."

"Because he's useless! What would we need him for – to shoot dead bodies? He's useless in the underworld!"

"But he isn't, Klavier. Some would say in time he might come to be more useful than even you." Kristoph chuckled softly, showing that it was a semi-joke, but that hurt, slicing right up to Klavier's heart and probably severing a couple of veins. But Klavier held his tongue – when his brother is excited, he's like an excitable child. He couldn't care less how many ants he stomped dead for that one ant he wants.

"I don't see the point of having him."

"You don't see many things, Klavier. He's a good attorney – if nothing else – and he's done us all a great service today, has he not? Payne is so wondrous out there he almost dazzles me, and were it not for him and the superb job he did, you will be without a leader now. That must be rewarded, don't you think? And he'll be a great help in bailing out our arrested members." Kristoph nodded at the two bailiffs, and they fell back a little, more like his servants than his guards. "Go Klavier, recruit him for the firm."

"Ja....If you say so."

Wordlessly, Klavier turned away. He doesn't want to face his brother when he gets like this, when he looks do damned...Sadistic. A sadistic bastard who would watch the world burn and stir his wine to it in amusement. He prefers the old Kristoph – who wouldn't say a word against people that's bad - the nice Kristoph. So instead, he walked away, both hands shoved inside his pocket. Then one came out, and he dialed in Jacques Constans number. It rang, and the man picked up – though he might as well not for all he had to say.

"Prepare the firm for a new lawyer."

Jacques wasn't given a chance to answer – the moment he was sure the message got across space time, Klavier snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into his pocket. He passed by a bailiff and stopped him to ask him about the whereabouts of Secretary Boy – has he seen him? No sir, I have not.

He walks.

He doesn't get his brother sometimes. The world is a game. A big fat game of chess that he always wins, because he's the sickest fuck in the whole chessboard. If they're all chess pieces, Kristoph won't be a chess piece – he wouldn't be king. No, they would need to carve a new chess piece for him, one with an attached halo and a pair of horns. Because he can be both the lowliest demon and the saintliest God when the desire struck him to be – as malleable as tissue.

He walks some more. Have you seen an attorney? About five feet five, kind of short by normal standards, with a stupid hairdo? No? Sorry to bug you, ja?

He still doesn't get his brother. He treats people like toys. Treats Klavier like a toy. And now he inexplicably wants to collect this attorney for his collection. He doesn't like this. They won the trial in a day – thanks to Apollo Justice. This makes things move a little quicker, will help clamp the lid down on the deserters, something that Klavier had had to deal with last night, to his great chagrin. He doesn't like that either – questioning capture mice and then sending them off to someone else in their death. They're going to be brought to the big graveyard of L.A, one or the other, doesn't really matter. In the silence of the night, with the waning moon as witness, almost poetic in it's beauty, they are going to dig a hole with a shaky shovel. Then they are going to lie in the hole.

He walks.

He doesn't like that attorney too, come to think of it. There's something about Apollo Justice that he hates. Call it gut feeling. There's something about the man that is just a little too pure – when you look at him, you get this nice feeling about him. The man should be spending his life behind a diminishing desk. Klavier has no business dragging him out of it. He should be allowed, in short, to wallow all his life in paperwork, and grow into a bitter man in a brittle suit, who frowns down at people, who, in a few short years, replace the likes of that Grifforth man.

Yes, Apollo Justice is going to end up on that beaten path, and Klavier shouldn't be intervening in the process of yet another dying man in a dying city. But he does anyway, because there's a bigger picture here that's moving too fast for his liking. Everyone's keeping secrets. Most of all his brother. And if Kristoph calls, you come like a damned dog – woof woof, and off you go. Otherwise, next time this Sunday, you might find yourself hanging upside down from a telephone pole. And if you're his brother? Then cheers for you – you hang all the higher.

Klavier walks, and he walked out to the courtyard. There, he finds his target – the little fishy he's been ordered to reel in. His brother hadn't specific exactly what Klavier should do to the man if he refused, but then again, failing is rarely a stated option in the presence of the very honourable Mr. Kristoph Gavinne. He seems hellbent on adding the little man to his collection though, so perhaps all he'll do is pester the little attorney some more.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Justice."

It's a round courtyard. Tiled. Mosaic and all you know – very big budget from the L.A, since the place's been under the spotlight with the whole new fight crime policy. Pretty soon it's going to stain, with so many footsteps passing through it everyday. But then again, by then – it'll be all over, the election that is – and no one would care less if the tiles now spell BIG FUCK or FIGHT CRIME.

The man looked up, and he looked semi-puzzled. Like he's looking at the tiles and asking them if that was the right thing to do – saving a guilty man – and is now all angsty over it. The tiles will spell no answer for him though – just like nothing in the world could. Something had turned back there, without them knowing of it, and the wheels had all collided and is now a mass of bodies moving somewhere, a destination no one knows of yet. But move it does though, and it's about time it moves.

"Oh. It's you."

"Ach, it is me, ja? You were expecting a pretty girl in admiration of your lovely work in there?"

"Oh, lovely work, is it now? What work? I thought it was the work I'm not up to?"

"You still aren't. You got lucky in there, that's all."

Justice looked up at him, a scowl marring his brow. "I see you're not easily impressed."

"I'm not. Especially not by such a crappy performance. No one is going to ask for an encore of that, ja? You could have done it with more oomph, flashier, more explosive – rocking the court. You just looked like a dancing jester."

"Thank you so much sir, I'll be sure to keep that in mind the next time I decide to play dirty and play that last trump card."

Klavier stood, both hands in pocket. He doesn't ask the man to move aside, even though one whole bench is hardly for only one man. He doesn't want to sit there and play I'm-your-friend with you and pat the man's back. So he just saved a guilty man. So what? Klavier prosecutes innocent people all the time, doesn't he? He's not Justice's friend – in both ways, pun or not – and he's not about to act like one. Hypocrisy is Kristoph's cup of tea, not his.

"You should," He told him pointedly. Then, "No need to mince words then – I came with an offer from my brother."

The man doesn't move, but his spine stiffens just a little. Klavier expects something – a greedy sparkle in his eyes – and he isn't disappointed. There's just that slightest gleam of it, or maybe it was the eyes of a person who's expectations had been met. Klavier knew what that was all about – why he had taken such a big risk of a job in the first place. To climb himself to a higher spot in the universal ladder – isn't that what we're all here for? It wasn't the eager beaver sparkle he expected though – only a spark of recognition instead of the sliminess of an expectant man, and that made Klavier gave just a tiny slice of sorry for the man. He's just another player in their game.

"What does he want?"

"A job. He offers you a job."

The man stays quiet, and Klavier plowed on, reciting it like poetry at his aunt's pink parlor. "A permanent partner in a firm he started for the gang. A ten-percent cut of whatever the firm earns a year, which amounts to ten-percent of whatever my brother pays you guys – because you'll be doing nothing but his jobs most of the time."

'Permanent, that is – until he disposes of me when I've outlast my usefulness."

"A sad fact, Mr. Justice – but then that is the fate of all batteries. When you've finished your charge, you drop off into the bin, nein?"

"Well put, Mr Gavinne. Aren't we the artiste, huh?" He retorted in a bitter tone.

"At least it's better than being a deadbeat attorney with nowhere to go." He replied bluntly.

Harsh, but it's true, ain't it? Klavier's not a babysitter. Why does he have to pull punches?

"As I said. A permanent partner in Constans, Lee, and .co, until as you say – you outweigh your usefulness."

"Why does he want me? I'm pretty sure there are plenty of good lawyers out there." Justice narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him, as though suspecting him of foul play. Klavier merely shrugged.

"I don't know. Guess there's something useful he saw in you." He answered honestly.

"Ah."

"So, Mr. Justice. Will you accept this offer?" The man said nothing, and Klavier got irritated. He had an appointment with a witness in an hour, and he's not looking forward to this game again. He's seen it long enough – play hard to get and all that. It's amusing when it comes from ladies who spread their thighs at the end of it, but if all he's getting is a lawyer's tail end, he rather not play it at all. Instead, he dragged the man out of his reverie bluntly.

"Mr. Justice – let's not play this game. We know you took the job for one thing and one thing alone – to get noticed by the bigshot lawyers. Now you have done it – for all practical purposes you have won the case. You've gotten what you want, a notice. Better than that, you've gotten an offer, ja? Will you take it, or do I have to put it in terms more befitting the new world you're about to enter?"

The man snorted, but his expression was serious when he said : "It really is going into the mob for me once I sign on the dotted line, isn't it?"

"As attorney for the mob, I'm sure they don't make you shoot people. Unless it's the prosecution's witnesses. That I do not know."

Justice smiled a little at that, tweaking one of his antennas.

"Looks like I got what I want, eh? What a twist of irony. Very well then, Mr. Irritating – one last question."

"Do you get a smaller forehead with the job? The answer is nein."

The man smiled, just a tiny quirk of the lips to one side, but it passed all the same. "No, Mr. Gavinne. Do I have to sign on the dotted line with my blood?"

He put down one condescending hand in front of Apollo. Still don't like him. Still too straight-laced for his taste. But he can play nice, right?

"In all honesty, Mr. Justice – I don't know. But welcome abroad anyway to the L.A mafia."

Apollo slapped his hand.

"Deal."