Per legem terrae
They lead her through the corridors towards the courtroom by spoken instructions, and that would be comical if it weren't so frustrating. Her wrists are shackled to her waist and she walks carefully despite the corrections officer behind her urging her to move faster, an impatient hand on the small of her back shoving her forwards now and then in little pushes, reinforcing whatever useless directions he thinks he's giving her. This is a dangerous position, she knows; if she walks any faster she'll topple forwards like a badly balanced bowling pin. The shackles are short and uncooperative, the pushing isn't helping and her hands will have no way to break her fall if she tumbles. Uncharitably, she wants to whack the CO and his futile directives on the mouth.
They luckily get to the courtroom with no incidents and Cecilia isn't really alarmed to enter and find it nearly empty. She isn't fooled about what a courtroom must look like, and surely, there is the prosecutor sitting by the table on the left, slightly annoyed to be here at such hour (it is late) and there is the courtroom clerk, waiting for the judge to announce the proceedings for the arraignment. (He looks bored and marginally sluggish; somebody must have taken him out of a nap for this). However, the sensation of emptiness should be startling for the fact that the table on the right is empty, bereft of young, semi-benevolent, pro bono attorneys.
She isn't shocked, she isn't even surprised. They killed Ford, the public defender, fairly quicker and she hadn't even toyed with the idea of letting him into those two little words. He'd had no clue of what he was walking into for a slim paycheck and she accepts the fact that her word of warning is what rendered the defense table empty now. Cosa Nostra, she had whispered, and expected them to either be incensed by that piece of information or, if they really were smart, to run, run away, to a very, very far place from her. Something had ensued.
Then again, there is the fact that the table is empty, and she reflects if she should be feeling something about this, even if she is the one who made sure this would happen. Nothing arises, though. Cecilia stares at the empty table with distant coldness, the common detached bareness of her world, and when the CO pushes her again she doesn't even want to lash out at him anymore, simply walking and sitting down on one of the chairs by the defense table. Serenely, agreeably, on her own volition.
The prosecutor eyes her for a second with his eyebrows furrowed, probably wondering where her lawyer is, and she gives him a bemused quirk of lips for that. Years gone by the fact that all Americans apparently have this democratic belief that everyone deserves to be defended still surprises her. With this amusing idea what they end up getting are people who grow totally confused when they have nowhere to turn to.
Have a little faith, the blind one had said, and she does snort now. She'd once prayed and hoped to be listened to by someone she could not hear, but there is no all-hearing God for which to bestow the lawyer's blind faith upon.
There has never been one.
…
The chief does not want to hear him.
He argues, he yells, he despairs, but Captain Reuss is as set as stone: adamant and unyielding. We're not jumping to wild conclusions, officer, is what he says, but he doesn't understand there is no time for that. Time is of the essence, time is the key to all things, because if Willis waits a second more Brett will die. So he does the last thing he can do: he draws the badge and the law, for little chances has a men marked for death and these are the ones that exist.
He needs Franklin Nelson and he needs Stacy Dolan.
May God have mercy.
…
It's not every day that you have two passages through Manhattan Central Booking, less than three hours of sleep, a late call for an arraignment, and your best friend and business partner –who is the most capable person to take pain without a flinch that you know – keeling over the floor in front of you.
Foggy's eyes, which are already wide with the news Willis just gave him, go impossibly wider when his wrecked train of thought is overrun by the most powerful of the best-friend-instincts, engraved into his genetics through generations. Before he can detect which part of his brain is responsible for this reaction, he speeds towards Matt to break his best friend's fall. Not that he's exactly successful, though. Matt face plants on the polished floor of The Tombs, his upper body subsequently jerking in horrible spasms as he heaves and seems unable to lift himself. Foggy's mind is too terrified to act on anything other than pure instinct, and he quickly kneels and hauls his friend's torso from behind, pulling Matt's back against his chest, mindful of the gush of disgusting vomit that's spewing through his friend's lips.
Matt convulses against him, gasping shallowly, and Foggy has to hold nearly stronger than he's able in this difficult position, or Matt will soil both of them. The glasses fall, landing on the vomit. Whoever is going to clean them will take great pleasure in it (he has the passing feeling it's gonna be him), his mind is in overdrive and he can barely register the words that are tumbling out of his own mouth, a stunned sequence of oh-my-God-Matt-what-the-hell-Jesus-Christ-shit-shit-shit.
The fit is sudden and violent but quick. In a matter of seconds the bout of vomit ceases and Matt abruptly shakes himself free of Foggy's hold, tumbling to the side precariously, his hands on the dirty floor barely supporting him while he gags in between hacking coughs that don't belong inside him (as if it's mandatory that he steadies himself on his own). Foggy stares at the repulsive floor and then at him, open-mouthed, hands hanging in the air ready to catch if he's needed.
"The… the arraign-" Matt mumbles inarticulately, the color leaving his face, still nauseated but straining to keep it down. "We have… we have to…" he makes a low croaky sound with that, covering his mouth with a filthy hand, but for a moment Foggy just stares because this has been indeed a very, very shitty day and what the fucking hell.
"The arraign-" Matt tries again but chokes around the word once more, which finally sets Foggy into practical, business-like motion.
He picks the pair of sunglasses by one of the temples with the tip of his fingers, shaking it to dispel the vomit. The result is a little more disgusting than he expects, but cleaning his little sister's baby reflux hardens a guy, so he just folds it and pushes it inside his suit pocket without a second thought. Matt is still trying to say something but he ignores it, and next goes the cane, as he collapses it and ties its string to his belt with the practice of a pro. At last, he catches Matt by the elbows and draws him up on his feet, having to support him instantly, as the motion brings another wave of expected queasiness.
"Foggy?" Matt asks, being gently held now and steered down the corridor where they came from by kind but efficient hands. "The arraignment," he finally manages the word, and Foggy makes a face.
"No can do, buddy. I'm calling a cab and we're going to the hospital right now."
Matt goes rigid on him and tries to set his foot to halt the walk, which almost sends them both stumbling. "I'm fine," he says, in a very definite and ridiculously stubborn voice, all pale face and vomited suit, and Foggy loses it.
"Oh, of course! This must surely be a new and strange usage of the word 'fine' that I haven't been previously acquainted with!"
"You're yelling," Matt mutters and shuts his eyes tightly, tipping forwards and dry heaving again, but there's nothing else to vomit. Foggy rolls his eyes, holding Matt tighter to keep him upright, marginally inclined to shake him into common sense.
"We're going to the hospital. This is not up for discussion."
Matt breathes deeply through his nose, clearly controlling his nausea but stubborn as a dog that chose his favorite place to piss, resisting being dragged. "Rule 1-16 of professional conduct, Foggy," he says, breathing deeply once again. "Do no harm."
Foggy snorts, the urge to shake him growing. "I'm pretty sure that's the Hippocratic Oath, pal."
"…upon termination of representation, a lawyer shall take steps-"
"-to avoid foreseeable prejudice to the rights of the client. I know, Matt. Don't be an ass."
Matt pauses, filthy and white as a dirty sheet, and Foggy tries to move him once again, but he might as well be made of stone.
"She didn't kill- those… those people," Matt starts to slur, shutting his eyes firmly. Foggy is nearly bearing the full of his weight and he doesn't stop arguing, the obstinate idiot. "We can't leave her."
And surely, can they? Foggy himself told the woman they would go back for her just some hours ago, her eyes shooting daggers at him with distrust. Somewhere in the building an arraignment is starting, his best friend is dry heaving on his arms and a woman, not a murderer, is facing a long jail time if he doesn't go.
But without trust, can there ever be betrayal?
…
The name of the wine bar is Osteria Cotta. The building is made of brick and brownstone, with discreet Italianate details, some cast terracotta, courses of angle-laid brickwork and ornate tin cornices. The neighboring buildings are separated in mid-block by the narrowest of access alleys, giving glimpses of foliage in between. The passage is so narrow it is clearly impossible to run through it without bumping, a single line corridor, and the place reeks of smoke. She frowns, closing her umbrella and stepping inside.
Stacy looks at the crime scene dejectedly. The forensics team has left the place hours ago and the marks on the entry are an ugly white, the yellow tape calling passersby's attention. There isn't much to be done about human curiosity whenever something happens in such a place, a well-known bar in the heart of Upper West Side isn't exactly an inconspicuous location for a crime scene.
She takes the place into account. The bodega is clearly a nice location for intimate meetings, dark, cozy and lit with candles, the type of ludicrous place you have to make a reservation to have a drink. The dining area is large and sectioned into rustic rooms and nooks, the decor made of wood, glass, vintage wine bottles and pretty crystal chandeliers. Unlike most New York City eateries, there seems to be plenty of space between tables.
The place is deceptively clean for a crime scene. There are no chairs or stools thrown haphazardly against the floor, no shattered glass or stained walls, nothing appears to be broken. The entry point of the bullets and the bodies' outlines are neatly hidden in the illusive dark of the space, only possible to be noticed by the sign marks left by the CSI. She has no idea where the burnt smell must be coming from. Mason makes a wearied noise behind her, and Stacy wonders, for a minute, what the hell she is doing here.
Approaching the bar counter she places a manila folder over it, listing her right hand softly over crinkled paper, delicately smoothing out the uneven previously wet surface.
The CSI photos show the original murder scene. The body of Cesare Violi on the left and the marks of where the other two men were before the paramedics had taken them on the right. One of them had been shot in the chest with a .32 caliber handgun, and the other, who had been at the end of the bar to the rear, had been shot five times.
At last, she looks at Violi's picture. He's sitting on a stool slumped over this very counter, looking just like many other dead men she has seen before. Late-fifties to mid-sixties. Light brown – maybe dark-blonde? – hair slick with blood and white matter. Average height. Dark, rich clothes. Very dead. From the picture it's easy to see Violi's spinal cord was severed by a shotgun blast, killed on the spot. She wonders, for a moment, if he looks like his brother. She needs to visit little Rocco, it seems. And Metro General.
With that in mind, she moves the photos out of the way for the next couple of pictures, which show where the fire licked the structure and the documents of forensic evidence collected so far. Time of death between two and three in the morning, while the bodega had already been closed and the movement in UWS dwindling for an uneventful Tuesday. She files it all away, pulling other pictures from behind. Mug shots, four in total. Her eyes flit rapidly from picture to picture as she takes a step back to place her hands on her hips. Her mouth is set determinedly and her brows knit tightly together, the slightest expression of discontent gracing her mild features. She shuts out the noise from the outside: the whoosh of cars passing by, horns honking at traffic and the occasional wailing of a siren in the distance. She blocks it all out to concentrate solely on the faces displayed before her.
Suspect one. Male, late-thirties, slightly overweight, goatee, shaved head and a leather jacket: the archetypal thug. No, too obvious, not suited to this sort of crime.
Suspect two. Male, young, mid-twenties, brightly colored hoodie and slightly tilted cap. No.
Suspect three. Male, late-twenties, gelled hair, red-rimmed glasses, shirt a crisp light blue, shiny earring twinkling in one ear. No, too eye-catching for this sort of stunt.
She could not have a more stereotypical array of suspects if she actively tried. She takes the last picture, eyeing it with a frown.
Primary suspect, Cecilia Valente. Female, early thirties, dark hair pinned back and dressed in white pajamas, steely gaze that Stacy can't read from an image alone. Taken into MCB's custody for arraignment and reported in flagrante delicto: murder weapon covered in her fingerprints, skin tissue under her nails, the deceased's blood splattered on her clothes. Stacy stares at the picture for a long time, keenly trying to make sense of this. For some reason something rings her wrong every time she looks at this woman's photo. As if something is very definitely not right and she should have understood what by now, because she's sure she's seen this before.
Indoors shooting, attempted triple murder, suspicious fire, an officer and a public defender missing. All this done by a deaf woman dressed in white pajamas wielding a shotgun and a .32? Her brain can't reconcile these things with the picture of the disabled petite woman with unwinding hazel stare, but Stacy knows more than most that physical frailty doesn't mean she's not a killer.
"Dolan," a voice calls over her thoughts, "You worked your thing yet?" Mason asks, after apparently having negotiated with himself it is time to tell her she's not Sherlock and this will amount to nothing. He crosses the open space to where Stacy has taken her files. The corners of Mason's brown eyes are crinkled in a jovial sort of manner, trying not to show how bored he really is. Stacy raises her arm to run a hand through dark hair before answering, swiping back her messy mane with a sigh.
"Not yet," she says, eyes still fixed on the images against the counter, searching.
"Well, Sergeant Mahoney isn't officially missing yet," Mason's voice lilts upwards on 'officially' and he rocks forward slightly with the motion of the word. "We should give the appointed team some time before we start looking ourselves, don't you think?" he suggests, lightly.
"Yeah," Stacy agrees, distracted and only half listening to her partner. She takes a breath before finally deciding to close the file and turn to collect the reports and pictures strewn across the counter. Mason makes his way over waiting for Stacy to assemble the stack.
"There is something in your mind…" he trails off, probably waiting for her to admit before he comments on her frustrated body language, and she caves, because he's too good at this.
"This isn't right. There's something the CSI missed in this crime scene, there's something Brett missed when he arrested her, there is something they all missed. And I'm missing it too, it seems, and it's frustrating, because I have no idea what it is but I know it's here."
"They only need the trifecta, Stacy," Mason points out, counting on his fingers for her benefit, as if she doesn't know it by heart. "Physical evidence, murder weapon, crime scene. They have it all."
"It's enough to take her to trial," she concludes what he wants, deflating.
"It's enough to take her to trial," he repeats, complementing, "and to convict without further investigation."
Stacy takes that into consideration, her eyes on Valente's paper ones. "You knew her, didn't you?"
Mason doesn't take long to answer, shrugging and smiling good-naturedly. "I might have."
There is silence for a moment while she finishes pushing everything back to the folder. The speed in which the chief said the case was closed just because they got hold of Valente. The reticence in the case of her missing lawyer. The resistance to pronounce Brett missing.
This has got nothing to do with you, Dolan, back off, the chief had said when she called upon Willis' terrified testimony. She scowls to the emptiness.
"I won't let anyone take Brett from me too, Mason," Stacy avows with a tight-lipped smile, looking over her shoulder. "Not like I let when they did it to you."
Mason pauses for a moment, eyebrows raised at her in the cozy dark of Osteria Cotta, before a shark-toothed grin breaks out across his face.
"That's my girl."
…
"This is bullshit, you know? The Devil won't come here, he's not stupid."
"You think he knows we're waiting for him?"
"I do. They say he's not human and he's got superpowers. Who's to know?"
"…"
"Don't laugh at me, stronzo."
"I'm not, it's funny, though. He's not a superhero, Bianchi, he's just an idiot in red tights with a huge hero complex. He'll show up soon enough and take the dive of his life. He doesn't know he's dealing with the Bonanno, not Fisk's little gang."
"Hm. Right. How's the woman?"
"The process is moving forwards."
"That's it, isn't it? Fattorelli always gets what he wants, that testa di cazzo."
"Don't say his name, idiot."
"E allora? You think this guy is super powered, then? You're all shitting your pants because of him and he isn't even boss yet."
"Basta, Bianchi. You don't know what the fucker did to Rigoletto. You're pissing up the wrong fucking tree."
"Fine, fine. Forget about it."
…
"Case number 8675342. The People v. Cecilia Valente," she lip-reads with full concentration, as the courtroom clerk calls out. "The charges are First-degree Murder, Manslaughter, Arson with a disregard for human life and two counts of Attempted Murder."
The judge looks at her with his brows furrowed, looking then at the prosecutor. "Lot of charges here, Mr. Devere. I hope you aren't trying to substitute quality for quantity."
Devere looks at her and answers. "Your honor, the defendant is a dangerous criminal who's made three victims and endangered a whole community."
She doesn't say anything, looking back at the judge, who considers her solemnly. "How do you plead?"
This is, indeed, a funny question to be asked. As if anyone is willing to believe her.
She's about to answer when, suddenly, there seems to be some sort of commotion on the back of the room, because all those present look behind her. When she turns to see what's happening there comes the blond lawyer, jogging until he gets to stand by her, doubling over and supporting himself on his knees, catching his breath. She widens her eyes, because, really?
"I told you I would come," he seems to say, and she looks at him as if he's grown a second head. He turns to face the judge and says something that is impossible to catch. It's unviable to understand anything anybody says when they speak without facing her, so she stands quietly at the silence of her world, waiting as he speaks. He came back for her and she has no idea what to do with that.
Have a little faith.
…
Karen looks at him with concerned eyes. He's half-sitting, slumped on the examination table beside her, clammy and breathing raggedly, mouth a line of tension and not terribly coherent. She wets her handkerchief again on the water tap of the clinic room and cleans the last of the vomit from him as they wait for the doctor. The call from Foggy had come when she was preparing herself to sleep, and she'd moved so fast to get to Matt and to the hospital it is a wonder she isn't dressing her pajama pants.
Matt squirms on the examination table, pale and uncomfortable over the crinkly paper, and Karen tries not to look at the door and will the doctor in again. At least the triage nurse had taken them quickly to the clinic room, and she tries not to think of what this means.
Matt chuckles, deliriously, and she looks at him, his face lined with pain. "This- week…" he slurs, breathing sharply around the last word, "it can be cancelled. Tell them I'm- I'm indisposed."
She smiles, strewing away from his forehead hair wet with cold sweat. "I'll make sure to tell them." Whoever they are.
The door blessedly opens and the doctor enters, a tall middle-aged man with tired eyes and heavy steps. He looks at the file on his hands and approaches them. "I'm Dr. Walker. What can I do for you, Mr. Murdock?"
"I fell," Matt instantly says, and Karen draws her eyebrows up, "on the stairs. Howard helped me up. He fought Viet Congs."
"I see," the doctor replies naturally, shining a light on Matt's eyes with the efficiency of routine. Karen sees when his expression goes dark and decides to intervene, because apparently reading medical histories are for the weak.
"He's blind, doc. No light perception," Dr. Walker almost sighs with relief. "He hasn't been... very coherent, though."
"How high did he fall from? Miss…" He asks, searching Matt's head for injuries and taking note of his face bruises. Matt slaps his hand away and grunts he has a headache and that Valente needs representation because due. process. of. law.
"Page. And I... don't know."
The doctor looks at her briefly and then at Matt again, who is rambling softly about Vietnam, justice and hails of fire. His hand goes to Matt's forehead, taking in his temperature, and Matt squirms away again, crinkling and tearing the paper under him, saying he doesn't want to go to school today, Daddy. Karen sighs, a permanent frown on her brow.
"The triage says the symptoms are strong headache, nausea and dizziness. Anything else?" Dr. Walker asks her, gently pushing his patient, who is trying to get up, back to the table.
"I… don't know for sure?" Karen answers, feeling incompetent. "Our friend was with him, but he had a professional emergency. I've been with Matt for the last hour, he was already in pain and nauseated but more alert; he's been incoherent for about fifteen minutes now." Matt grunts again, squirming, and she remembers. "Oh. He said his back hurts."
"I see." Walker redirects his attention to Matt. "Mr. Murdock, can I check your back?"
Matt cocks his head, straining to focus. "I have a- headache," he answers, unhelpfully, screwing up his face. "This smells… like hospital."
"It does, indeed," the doctor concedes, propping him up with little resistance and gently patting along his spine. "Does this hurt?"
"Ow." Matt says, without inflection, and Karen sees as Dr. Walker accepts that as a yes. He lies Matt back on the examination table and Matt reaches for Karen, saying the smells are too strong. Karen holds his hand, awkwardly, agreeing. They say we should always agree…?
"I'll ask for some blood work and for an X-ray. A nurse will come in shortly for the blood sample and to take him." Walker says, leaving the room before she can ask how long this will take.
Matt is staring off into the distance, more unfocused than usual, anyway, and his hand goes limp in hers. She shakes it a little, alarm building in a crescendo. "Matt?"
He doesn't show any signs of hearing her for a whole minute, until he suddenly perks up, lifting his head. "Cosa Nostra," he says, and Karen instantly goes cold.
"What…?"
"She's talking- it's about our case," Matt mutters between his teeth, still looking dazed, "she's talking about Valente."
"What is she saying?" Karen asks, half mystified and half terrified, having no idea who 'she' is or what's going on.
"'She's a scapegoat for something a lot bigger. This is Fattorelli's doing, I'm sure.'" He says mechanically, as though he's really repeating after someone else word by word.
Karen's blood stops running and her lips go numb. La Cosa Nostra.
Mio Dio… No…
…
She flashes the badge at the officer standing in front of the hospital door, "Detective Stacy Dolan. I came here to see Johns Doe and Roe of the Valente case. I suppose this is one of them?"
The man gazes at her with boredom, just stepping aside and letting her enter the small room. Stacy shrugs to Mason as they go in, stopping beside the bed then, looking at the near-dead man with cold eyes.
"Never seen this one before in the OCCB files. Have you?"
Mason crosses his arms, looking pensive. "Something with the Feds… He might've been one of Vincent Asaro's men, but I can't be sure. You don't actively remember me telling you about him."
Stacy goes quiet, feeling the cogs turning in her head, the pieces trying to connect but failing. Mason's voice touches her perception.
"You think this is something bigger, don't you?"
"I do," she answers, with no hesitation.
"What's on your mind?"
"Brett was last seen arresting this woman. Her public defender is missing and I won't be surprised when they find him dead in a dumpster. Valente's arraignment was strangely delayed and then set to motion in the middle of the night to disallow a proper defense. Don't you think something is off?"
Mason shrugs, noncommittally. "You don't simply believe this chick is a bad luck magnet, I take it?"
"Hell, no. Someone is pulling the strings. She's a scapegoat for something a lot bigger," Stacy looks at the man's face, trying to see through his unconsciousness. "This is Fattorelli's doing, I'm sure."
Mason gives her a wearied sigh because she deserves it. "Not everything is connected to the Bonanno, Stacy," and she can feel her temper rising either way.
"Don't preach at me, Carter. I know that."
Some silence, until Mason breaks it again. "What do you have on Violi?"
"Nothing much yet. Emigrated from Italy in the eighties, opened two restaurants and the wine bar about ten years ago. He's been here and there undertaking different projects in the city. Rarely seen amongst the clientele. Something is intriguing, though."
"What is?"
"He immigrated with his baby brother," she smiles, looking at her partner over her shoulder. "I assume you remember Rocco?"
"Rocco Caruso?" Mason asks, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.
"The one and only. We just didn't know 'Caruso' wasn't his last name. Turns out little Rocco is actually Rocco Violi," Stacy's smile grows a tad more. "Will you continue to tell me I'm seeing shadows where none exist?"
"Never again, cross my heart." Carter answers, as always oddly amused to find out he's wrong. "Something happened with Rocco?"
Stacy nods. "Recently arrested with his men."
"By whom?"
She snorts a little. "Daredevil."
Mason laughs too, albeit a lot more loudly. "Does he intend to shatter every mob rule?"
"God only knows, but I'm not complaining," she looks at the man on the bed and then at Carter again, rubbing her hands together. "How about we go for a close encounter of the third kind?"
…
Foggy feels Valente looking at him as if she can't imagine what in the world has caused him to return, the judge is talking and the prosecutor is saying something, but his concentration is far from the courtroom. He can't do a thing other than worry incessantly about people that are not on his reach, so he can't help seeming more interested in checking his cell phone intermittently for one of Karen's messages or for anything that Willis has to say. It's all very sensible, really.
The judge doesn't seem to agree, though, glaring at him when he admonishes, "Mr. Nelson, unless your wife is giving birth at this very moment or you've just learned your house is on fire, I suggest you put your cell phone away and concentrate on helping your client before I hold you in contempt of court. Then you'll be free of your distractions and have plenty of time to get her case ready, when you spend the night in an analogous position in a jail cell."
"I apologize, your honor," he offers, shoving the phone in his pocket, sounding more tense than apologetic. Only then he realizes the tink sound was it connecting with Matt's glasses. He looks down. The cane is still folded against his leg. Oh, damn.
"I won't repeat again, Mr. Nelson. How does your client plead?"
Foggy almost whines. "My client pleads not guilty to all charges."
No surprise here. The judge redirects his eyes to the prosecutor.
"Mr. Devere?"
"The People request remand."
"What?!" Foggy interjects, and the judge narrows his eyes at him. Devere doesn't give a shit, going on with his monologue.
"The defendant has displayed quite a talent for trickery, coercion, and bloody homicide, judging by the use of proximity to kill her victims. She has no official identity, lacks community ties, and is an extreme flight risk."
"This is preposterous, your honor. Miss Valente has no criminal record and no funds to endeavor this grand escape. Keeping her locked up without reasonable motif is an effrontery to all common decency."
"As I said, because of her lack of identity and ties to the community she has motif and opportunity to flee. And the defendant is charged with heinous crimes, Mr. Nelson." Devere says, smiling at him. "These are enough charges to be concerned."
Foggy bristles. "Apparently the People forgot the principle of Presumption of Innocence. My client has no history of violence and has never been charged with a crime."
"Your client has no identity, we have no idea what she did or did not do. She might've slept with Mr. Violi to get close enough to kill him for all we know, if we are to consider her state of dress at the time of the arrest."
"Objection!" Foggy yells, and he doesn't even know on which grounds he's objecting, really, but he is. On the grounds of this whole fucking day, maybe. God, why am I not on my bed?
The judge pounds his gavel. "That was a nice try, counselor. Don't do it again."
"My apologies," Devere says, and Foggy wants to punch him. "Here is the statement that supports my claim to ask for remand, your honor," the prosecutor puts a file over the defense table and another goes to the judge's hand. Foggy gets the paper and looks over it as soon as he can, mentalizing, for the ninth time on this day, a what-the-fuck. "In this file the defendant confesses-"
How did this even happen?!, he thinks, when Cecilia's handcuffed hands rest against his arm. "What happened?" she asks, and then he realizes. She has no idea what is going on. They didn't arrange for an ASL interpreter or for any kind of aid so that she could understand the process. And an idea forms in his head and he almost smiles from the sheer brilliancy of it. Almost.
He throws the statement over the defense table and squares his shoulders. "I object."
Devere looks at him as though he's lost his mind, but Foggy continues.
"This process has been badly conducted so far, your honor. The police officers must administer the Miranda warnings fully and effectively in accordance to the Supreme Court's decision in Miranda v. Arizona, if they want any of the statements they acquired to be valid."
"Don't preach to me about the law, Mr. Nelson. Get to your point."
"If the police wants to question a deaf suspect, they must establish communication. If they press charges, they must inform the deaf suspect of the nature and cause of the accusation," he looks at Valente, and she furrows her eyebrows. "Because Ms. Valente is physically unable to fully understand spoken Miranda warnings and spoken questions, a language interpreter must be provided upon arrest, questioning and arraignment, and this hasn't been done."
The judge's voice goes a tad hotter. "Are you saying this is enough to call for the lack of Miranda warning, counselor?"
"The Miranda v. Arizona dictates that suspects must be adequately and effectively apprised of their rights to permit them the full opportunity to exercise the right to remain silent. The warning is essential to ensure they know of their privilege against self-incrimination. Any and every statement the officers have gotten from my client cannot be taken into account as evidence if that is so."
Devere prickles at that. "This is ludicrous, your honor. The woman can understand the officers just fine. She is remarkably good at lip-reading."
Foggy controls himself not to glower as he finishes his point.
"What the prosecutor fails to see is that the constitutional rights guaranteed by the fifth and sixth amendments must be protected at all stages of the criminal process. This hasn't been done for my client, and I fail to see the system working properly on her behalf if a bail bond is not set and she has to remain in custody."
"Don't embellish it, Mr. Nelson."
The judge is not happy but Foggy won't concede because he too can be a little shit. "With all due respect, your honor, due process of law. The system hasn't worked so far for my client."
The judge hums under his breath, looking at Cecilia, and finally assents. "That's an issue for your trial judge. I'll add on the lesser charge and hear the People as to bail."
Devere isn't pleased so he mouths it with distaste. "A million."
Foggy nearly giggles with disbelief. "That is excessive, your honor. My client doesn't have as much as a parking ticket!"
Devere snickers. "I'm sure if she did, she'd just off it along with her victims."
"Oh, all right. That's enough out of both of you. Bail is set at a hundred thousand, cash only. Post or enjoy Rikers hospitality," the judge says, and bangs his gavel again. Cecilia looks at Foggy, a question in her eyes, as the CO comes from behind her and takes her again.
And Foggy doesn't know how to explain in a way she'll listen why he failed her.
He doesn't even try.
…
He is almost sure his dog is allergic to Royal Canin. There is no other good explanation why Moses would be throwing up his favorite food on the carpet, he doesn't think. Deciding to change Moses' diet, Phillips yawns and shakes his head, looking back at the X-ray images.
Scrutinizing heads has never been his favorite chore. Granted, he's a radiologist, so it shouldn't come as such a surprise he'd have to do this virtually every day, but Metro General's recent policy of cutting back expenses has all but driven him mad: what with the crazy demands that his team diagnoses all kinds of trauma by simple flat images.
Walker is leaning against the wall, supernaturally capable of napping while standing and managing to side-step all extra ER work by pretending he needs these results as fast as possible. Phillips narrows his eyes at him and is swiftly ignored. Back to the radiography images, then.
A real head injury analysis would at least depend on a proper CAT scan, maybe including some dye or even an MRI, which he can't use unless someone is dying. So he props himself against the table and stares at the images, trying to find a proper diagnosis that won't cost them their license. Walker chooses this moment to come back to the world of the living.
"Done with your magic yet?"
"You know this is quite impossible. I'm not Harry Potter, can't just wingardium leviosa this shit and all will be well when it ends well."
"I feel for you."
"Shut up, Walker."
Walker yawns, coming closer, and Phillips sighs. "What have you got?"
"You tell me. It can be nothing, it can be everything. He might be okay tomorrow or dead with a severe hemorrhage that we just won't be able to see in a flat X-ray unless I'm staring at a pool of internal bleeding."
"You're bitter."
"Of course I'm bitter. The Dean wants me to Merlin up image diagnosis like I'm Gandalf's little brother."
"I'm sure you've mixed up pretty much all the magician stories I know just there." Phillips raises his hands and Walker shrugs. "Since you're in such a bad mood, I might as well inform you the patient is a lawyer."
Phillips rolls his eyes. "Oh, the joy. The man will sue our asses to the ends of the Earth if we give him a diagnosis that even hints at 'I don't know but let us call it this'." Walker nods, grim. "What do you have?"
Walker sighs, crossing his arms. "He says he fell, so it's certainly a blunt trauma. Some minor spine bruising. Considering the dark circles under Murdock's eyes, I'd also tick lack of sleep."
"Any loss of consciousness?"
"Nope, but a disoriented state."
"What else?"
Walker shrugs again. "The canon symptoms of head trauma. Headache, nausea, drowsiness, dizziness... Lack of concentration, mood changes."
"It's all consistent with a mild TBI."
"That's what I was going for. Tell me you can see it in there."
Phillips huffs a sarcastic laugh, shaking his head. "I can see elephants in clouds more clearly. But sure. Why not?"
…
Lorenzo Fattorelli looks out the window; the dark skyline of Manhattan is stricken with rain. The prime of New York City. The most delightful of the territories; not because it is beautiful, but because he wants it.
One is gone, three more to go.
…
When the doctor returns, Karen feels so cold she knows if she starts shaking she'll never stop. Matt is blessedly asleep on the table, his fingers entwined with hers as a little boy's would, having repeated to her, word by word, the most peculiar of the one-sided conversations. At some point she'd left him speaking, opened the door and looked around, but the person he was listening to was nowhere to be seen. This is how he does it, then, she thinks, looking at him frozen and detached, real blindness but super-hearing.
"Miss Page?" Dr. Walker calls, claiming her attention, and she tries to give him her full mind (or the most she can). "The results are back."
"Yes?" She croaks out, her voice as dry as her eyes.
"The blood tests returned normal, but the X-ray results show some disturbance consistent with a mild TBI. Nothing very concerning, but I'd like to keep him for 24 hours just to be sure."
"TBI?" Karen repeats, muddled.
"Traumatic Brain Injury. You've probably heard of it by the name of concussion."
She licks her lips, her throat also dry. "I see." Matt's fingers twitch on hers. "Isn't this… concerning?"
Walker doesn't flinch, but his casualness looks strained for some reason. "Most mild TBIs heal quickly and with no lasting symptoms, but we'll, of course, continue monitoring. He'll be as good as new in a few." He changes subjects quickly. "Are you Mr. Murdock's health care agent?"
"Huh… no," she replies, blinking rapidly. "Our friend I mentioned is. I will… I'll call him."
…
It's raining, the wind is freezing and his umbrella has just died on him. His amount of luck is so gigantic right now Foggy might as well wait for lightning to strike him down. He hails a cab but the son of a whore not only ignores him, but also splashes all the water on the asphalt on him, bless his soul. The amount of tiredness that his body contains right now shouldn't be able to fit in one man, so he wonders, for half a minute, if it would be too undignified to lie down on the wet curbside and take a nap. That is, until his phone vibrates inside his pocket, tingling louder against Matt's glasses.
Shit! Matt! In the haze of his failure and the tiredness of his brain he'd nearly forgotten. Foggy has to type his password twice before he gets it right and unlocks the phone. As expected, it's a message from Karen: Results are back, it's a concussion. Doc recommends a hospital stay. Need you here for forms ASAP.
A hospital stay? He feels marginally bad for having left this task to Karen, Matt can be a pain in the ass with anything related to professional health care and hospitals. (He won't ever forgive that one time he had to drag Matt across the campus because of a pneumonia, even after he'd made Matt read twenty full articles entitled 'Common Illnesses that Still Kill People in the 21st Century', heh.) He slides the phone back inside his pocket (avoiding clicking it against the glasses again) and turns his full concentration on finding a cab-
The weirdest of the sensations envelops him. He widens his eyes a fraction, feeling all the hair on his body stand on end. A distinct sensation of being hunted encases his senses and he stops moving instantly, sucking in a sharp breath, stunned into stillness. He has no idea where this is coming from but it's a feeling impossible to be ignored. A detached part of him wonders if this is anything similar to what Matt feels all the time.
There is something in the farthest edge of his field of view but he can't quite identify it. He licks his lips, his eyes moving quickly around him, assessing anything possible to become a weapon, when he remembers the object dangling on his side, attached to his belt. With slow, careful movements, Foggy unfastens the string and unfolds the cane, extending it until its tip touches the floor. The white cane is a little more than 5 feet long and a lightweight, which means it wasn't exactly made to hit people with (he's never asked if Matt had ever had to resort to that). It will have to make do.
The shadow looms and he rises his weapon.
…
Cecilia Valente looks out the window; the dark skyline of Manhattan is stricken with rain. The prime of New York City. The most dreadful of the territories; not because it is frightful, but because he wants it.
One is gone, three more to go.
…
There is no such thing as hope for the wicked; banished from the Garden of Eden, they are supernovas crashing into purgatory.
He is wrong: faith is a shovel. It buries you with no coffin bell to ring.
…
…
…
A.N.: Thank you so much if you've read it so far! I'd love to see what you're thinking about this, so... if you have some time, please type me something! Even if it's just to comment on how cute is little Matt sleeping on an exam table. Hugs and see you next chapter!
Guest on July 15: Thank you so much! I'm glad you like Cecilia, I'm trying to make her interesting, since her case is the one our favorite avocados are working with. We'll have more on Claire soon.
Konos77: Your account doesn't allow PMs, so I couldn't reach you. Thanks so much for the compliments! Yes, it might be some form of PTSD, who knows? Hahaha Yes, Howard will still be mentioned here and there (I hope you've liked him!)