Okay, instead of whinging about the drop off in reviews (was it something I said?!) I will simply say who's ready to get this case started for real? Hmmm? Oh, and a heads up… I don't think I was overly graphic on the details, but be aware that this is a trial for murder so there will be discussion of gruesome… things. Now…

Onward!

III

"Of course, your honor. The prosecution calls Detective Alexander Mifroid to the stand."

Christine didn't know what she expected. Most of the police officers she had seen were the ones dragging runaways back to the group home, young, harried looking men and women with scowls on their faces for having to be back again to a place that anyone would have wanted to escape. She couldn't quite explain it but they had frightened her. But then, she was frightened of most things in those days—girls who envied her hair, her shoes… anything at all really. She especially hated having to pass the boy's hall on the way down to breakfast and having to hear all sorts of terrible things if any of the older ones caught sight of her.

Not all of them were so bad of course, especially the little ones. They had their own separate floor that was supposedly more appropriate for their age. Even through the haze of her own grief Christine could see the true purpose for the separate and barred sleeping arrangements. Many of the other children were not merely orphans, they had been taken from abusive homes. And clearly the staff feared that if left alone with younger, more vulnerable children, they would seek to do harm.

And those little ones had been so sweet. While the staff did their best to ensure their charges were safe and relatively contented, there was not enough love and affection to go around. None of the children were younger than five, and during free hours Christine would often sit with some of them, reading stories and giving hugs. It might not have soothed her own heart, but judging from some of their hopeful faces it eased some of their burdens, if only for a while, so she was happy to do it.

The officer that entered the courtroom was not young, but wasn't old either. And while the others in her experience had scowled, he merely looked… grim.

The bailiff approached had made the man swear to tell the truth, and there was something almost nonchalant in the way he raised his hand and made his vow. Obviously this was a man who had testified many times—so often that the reverence and nerves had all but dissipated.

Christine wondered if by the time the trial was finished she would be able to relax in her chair instead of holding her muscles taut, afraid that even the slightest slouch would result in a chastisement from the bench.

Mr. Sorelli rose, adjusting his tie briefly before approaching the witness stand. While the box itself had always been stationed near to the jurors, she had not really considered how close it truly was. Even though she was seated in the back row, they were almost too near—she could smell the cologne of the prosecutor, and she could see a few crumbs on the witness's uniform, evidence of a snack hastily consumed before court.

She wished she had been able to afford such a thing and she glanced down at her watch. Lunch would be called soon…

"Good morning, Detective Mifroid. For the sake of introductions would you mind telling the court how long you have been in homicide?"

The detective shifted slightly in his seat. "Fifteen years now."

"So would you say you are well educated in telling the difference between a suicide and a homicide?"

Mifroid looked mildly exasperated. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I couldn't tell that."

Mr. Sorelli smiled placidly. "Granted. When you were first called to the Poligny home on April third…"

"Fourth. The wife discovered the body the night of the third but I was not called to the scene until after midnight. That would make it the fourth."

Christine thought the prosecutor looked mildly annoyed at the interruption, but she rather appreciated the detective's attention to detail. She scribbled a little note on the legal pad clutched tightly in her hands.

"Very well, on the fourth of April you entered the Poligny home and what did you find there?"

"The wife was crying in the living room and one of the first responders was attempting to calm her down. The victim, sixty-one year old Edgar Poligny was found dead in his study, a single gunshot wound to the head. COD was confirmed later by the coroner."

Mr. Sorelli went to his desk and picked up a manila folder. "Exhibit A, your honor. Coroner's report after full autopsy was performed."

The judge accepted the document, quickly glancing at it. "Proceed."

"Did you notice anything unusual about the scene, Detective?"

Mifroid nodded. "The gun was positioned strangely in the victim's hand, and the fingerprints were a little too pristine. Usually when a gun undergoes normal cleaning and use there are many prints over the barrel as well as the handle, but this one only had a partial thumb and pointer."

"And those were consistent with Poligny's fingerprints?"

"They were."

"Was there anything else suspicious about the wound?"

"The angle had a slightly downwards trajectory. Typically when someone commits suicide they hold the gun at an upwards angle, either through the mouth," he demonstrated by putting two fingers to his lips, "or at the temple." This time he placed his fingers to the side of his head and mimicked pulling the trigger.

Christine flinched.

"For the bullet to enter from above is awkward in a self-inflicted wound, atypical in a suicide."

"At which point you began investigating it as a homicide?"

"Yes."

"Tell the court about the gun. Was it Mr. Poligny's?"

"That was when suspicions started getting confirmed. The gun was purchased by the victim almost three years ago. The wife told us that he had started receiving threatening notes and feared for his life."

Mr. Chagny rose. "Objection, your honor, hearsay."

The judge cleared his throat. "Did she see these notes herself?"

"Yes, your honor."

"The prosecution enters Exhibit B into the record, notes given to the police by Mrs. Poligny."

Richard leaned close to her and although she wanted to move away and scold him thoroughly, she could only stare straight ahead and hope he realized she did not want to be party to his disregard to the judge's previous reprimand.

"Do you think we'll get to see this stuff at some point? The judge just keeps taking it."

She shrugged ever so slightly. She did not own a television so she did not even have fictional courtrooms to help guide her during the trial.

"Very well, overruled. Sit down, Mr. Chagny."

He appeared a bit disgruntled but obeyed.

"What did these letters indicate to you?"

"Extortion. And in my experience, blackmail often leads to a death. Either the blackmailer offs the victim when they no longer choose to cooperate, or one day the victim has simply had enough and commits suicide. Either way, someone ends up dead and I have a case to solve."

The prosecutor turned to his desk and flipped through a legal pad of his own before turning back to the witness. "What led you to suspect the accused?"

The detective shifted in his chair, and Christine caught a brief glimmer of discomfort on his otherwise stoic features.

She made another scribble in her notepad.

"He was a hard one to track down. There weren't any unidentified prints in the victim's home, and while we had the letters and a sketchy looking suicide, there wasn't a lot of evidence of who could have actually committed a murder. Naturally we investigated the wife," his gaze flickered to the jury but he quickly righted his attention to the prosecution, "as you know, it's almost always the spouse, but we couldn't find much of a motive. And she would have had to overpower her husband and she's a slight little thing—didn't think it was likely given the crime scene."

Mr. Sorelli waved his hand to continue. "The accused."

"Ah, right. Well. Like I said, there wasn't much to go on, 'cause it's not like one of those damn TV shows where a hair fiber shows up and the case gets blown."

He paused, almost as if waiting for commiseration from the prosecutor who merely cocked an eyebrow at him in response. "Anyway, we were approached by a private investigator—Middle Eastern guy who suggested we take a more serious look at the victim's business affairs."

The judge interrupted. "Just to save Mr. Chagny the objection, this is the same investigator we will be hearing from later, correct? A Mr.… Abdul Nadir?"

"Yes, your honor."

Christine couldn't be sure but she thought the prosecutor sounded rather annoyed at yet another disruption. Wasn't it the judge's job to moderate a questioning? She wished she had some frame of reference on how all of this was supposed to work.

The detective cleared his throat after Mr. Sorelli bade him continue. "He said we'd have better luck finding our perp if we made some enquiries about the theatre as some… rumors often had a kernel of truth."

He said this with a tone of disbelief and an air of impatience. "Honestly, I thought it was a load of baloney but we had no other leads so I went over there with a couple of uniforms to interview some of the staff."

"There being the opera-house owned and operated by the late Edgar Poligny and his partner, Claude Debienne?"

"Correct."

"And what information was gathered at by your interviews?"

The detective's lips thinned. "These were theatre people if you get my drift. They gave lots of stories about ghosts and Death wandering the halls, and while they tried to look fearful, they so obviously thought it was all very funny and added to the overall excitement of their work. I was about to dismiss the whole thing and go back to the station until…" He hesitated, and Christine thought that underneath the gruffness, something about this case genuinely had disturbed him.

"Until?"

"Management had put up security cameras throughout the hallways and offices, hoping to catch whoever was dropping off the threatening letters. We reviewed the footage and there was nothing. One moment the desk would be clear, the next there was a letter, ready and waiting to be read."

"And what were the content of these letters?"

"Nothing much to anyone not involved in the theatre. Tweaks to the cast, choreography, things like that. But unless they were carried out, the ghost as he called himself, threatened numerous disasters."

"Nothing specific?"

"Not within the letters no, but the intent was fairly obvious. The staff was sure to regale me with all the accidents that had occurred since their new production started. It's hard to sift through normal mishaps and something more… intentional."

"But something eventually led you to suspect that someone was involved."

"Yes, a video. Apparently one of the chorus girls was frightened and got her boyfriend to film the rehearsal. It's grainy, but you can clearly see…"

The prosecutor stopped him. "Exhibit C, your honor. A clip shot by a Mr. Marcus Leibovitz on the twenty-second of March. We would like your permission to play it for the court."

Christine had not paid much attention to the large television on the far side of the room. It was quite expansive and she watched with interest as one of the bailiffs extended it from the wall to be more easily viewed by the jury.

The footage was grainy, and for a minute the clip was solely of the newest opera, and Christine forgot that they were attempting to identify a potential killer. Instead she tried to remember the pieces that her father had played, seeing if she could recognize which opera they were set to perform.

The music was beautiful, spritely and lively, and for a moment Christine wished she could have followed in her father's example and joined a company of her own.

But all too suddenly one of the elaborate backdrops plunged to the stage, and while the chorus screamed and the lead got caught beneath the stretch of heavy muslin and wood, amongst muffled expletives the boyfriend wildly scanned the upper registers for anything suspicious.

Until a figure all in black filled the screen, his body long and impossibly lean, a mask covering his face as he watched the chaos below.

The television switched off abruptly.

"So you're shown this video, but how did you know that it was actually the accused? After all, he is wearing a mask."

The detective was quiet for a moment. "The PI, Nadir, he… showed us where the defendant was apparently living. The mask from the video was there as was… he."

The way he hesitated, the way he resolutely refused to look at the man being accused, suggested to Christine that there was more to the situation. Her attention drifted to the defendant. His head was slumped as were his shoulders, and she could just make out the firm grip of his hands held within his lap.

Yet the prosecutor did not press for more information but instead sat down, a satisfied look on his face.

"Mr. Chagny, I'm afraid cross shall have to wait until after lunch. Hungry jurors don't make the best listeners so we shall reconvene in one hour. I will remind all of you that speaking about the trial is strictly prohibited outside of the jury room, so keep your opinions to yourselves. Court is in recess until then."

Christine had kept the top sheet of her legal pad blank so that she could be sure that no one could see her notes unless she offered them, and she set the papers to rights and stuffed it into her purse.

"Got any lunch plans?"

Christine pursed her lips as Richard addressed her, still slightly annoyed that he had continued to whisper to her during the trial.

"Yeah, I do. See you back in an hour."

She felt bad about being so curt as she hurried out of the courtroom, but she didn't know how to avoid talking about the case and she certainly couldn't afford any of the restaurants around here that he might want to try.

She went up one flight of stairs to avoid any of the personnel who might recognize her and fished her phone out of her purse.

It wasn't anything fancy, just the cheapest option she could find. It didn't do any of the newfangled things like she often saw patrons using, and she wouldn't have it at all except for when she realized that job applications required a provided phone number.

She flipped it open and turned it on, and to her great relief there was a message from the restaurant. She was nervous as the automated voice spoke into her ear, but the dread quickly released to almost hysterical relief.

"Hi, Christine, it's Ewan. I talked with Carlotta and while she isn't happy about the arrangement, she's willing to give you a try on dinner service. You'll have to be here at six sharp and you'll work 'till closing, and your performance slot is at eight. You're a good worker, Christine, and I hope this will help you out. Just… don't be late and try your best. I want this to work out for you."

Christine was ashamed to feel tears prickle at her eyes. Dinner provided the possibility of more tips as husbands and boyfriends treated their dates to expensive wines and desserts that were otherwise passed over during lunch.

There would be little time for anything else over the next few weeks between getting to the courthouse so early and going so quickly to work afterward, but it would be worth it. She would still have an income and that thought alone comforted her enough to traipse to a small sandwich store a few blocks away as she treated herself to one of the tasty looking options.

It felt good to have a few moments to herself to collect her thoughts. Her own troubles temporarily aside, she couldn't help but go over the bits of the trial she had seen thus far. There was something off about the detective, something that she hoped the defending attorney would uncover. They had been told the day before to focus only on the evidence put before them and put aside information that was skipped over or denied to them, but she didn't understand how she could form a proper conclusion when something was so obviously wrong.

She wanted to save part of her sandwich for later, but she knew that the meats would not hold up well to several more hours hidden away in her purse so she forced herself to eat until she was overly full, her stomach almost protesting the heavy feeling. But still, she was grateful for the meal as well as the brisk walk in the midday sun that staved off the crisp autumn air.

The court was late to begin yet again but it gave her time to give Ewan a quick call and thank him profusely for helping her.

Christine had thought that the quick walk back to the courthouse would have occupied her legs enough that she would be happy to sit for the rest of the afternoon. Instead she found the opposite to be true. She felt antsy and restless and she was almost grateful when the bailiff finally appeared and ushered them back to their seats, hopeful that the trial would distract her from her disquiet.

And then she felt horribly guilty for using a man's trial for murder as a distraction from her own impatience.

The defendant was still seated at the desk, his attorney beside him rifling through a large stack of disorganized folders. She wondered what he had for lunch. The accused's frame would suggest that he did not eat much and she found herself wanting to know if that was by choice or simply a lack of opportunity. Compassion swelled within her at the thought and she bit her lip against it, remembering the warning the prosecutor had given them about allowing empathy to cloud the facts.

She couldn't dream up a history for this man. She didn't know him or his past and making assumptions about it based on her own fantasies was wrong.

Christine pulled out her notepad and doodled about in the margins, wiling away time until the judge returned to resume the proceedings. Her drawings were typically dreadful, but she found that with enough strokes of her black pen lines that vaguely began to resemble flowers would eventually appear and she found them rather pleasing to look at.

Before long however she felt the prickle of someone watching her and she glanced at Richard from the corner of her eyes, thinking he wanted to speak to her again. But his attention was on the paperback crime novel resting in his lap, the only noise the gentle turn of the page every so often.

Her gaze returned to the accused—to Erik. No matter what the prosecutor said, it couldn't be wrong to remember he was more than a judicial identifier. He was a person with a name and conscience. He was a man, just like any other, if she lost sight of that then how could she hope to reach the proper conclusions?

His attention made her nervous and she quickly looked back at her doodles, but no matter how she told herself to ignore him—surely he would lose interest eventually—she found herself peeking upward to see if he still stared.

And every time he was.

He had placed his elbow on the table and held his head in his hand, peering at her with his strangely colorless eyes. While at first she had thought that his eyes were simply missing in the sunken nature of his skull, she realized now that they were merely heavily shadowed, making his stare all the more unsettling.

Her heart began to race from both nerves and curiosity, and although she reminded herself firmly that he was on trial for blackmail and murder, she felt her lips rise ever so slightly at the corners, a soft smile sent his way.

He made an awkward lurch as he forcefully turned away from her direction.

The judge entered the courtroom and after they once again rose in deference to his authority and returned to their seats, he bade the trial continue.

The detective returned to the witness stand and Mr. Chagny followed, standing directly before the officer.

Christine thought his tie was even uglier up close.

"Detective Mifroid, you say that the very mask from the video was discovered in my client's possession."

"That's correct."

"And how do you know that was the mask worn during the incident at the theatre?"

The detective's eyes narrowed. "The mask was fairly unique. The manufacturer is a high end designer and only makes a few of them a year."

"A few of them… meaning that other individuals in the country could have one."

"Not as many people in the country have as good a reason to wear one."

Christine's eyes widened and she was glad to see Mr. Chagny's deep frown. "I will presume you are referring to the fact whoever was in that video was in the process of trespassing and wished to conceal his identity, and not suggesting that my client should be forced to hide his disfigurement."

The detective shrugged. "Take it however you want; I think we all know the truth." He glanced briefly at the jury and Christine wanted to retort in indignation that she would not make a foolish decision based solely on his appearance, but she forced herself to remain silent.

"So merely because my client possessed a mask from this manufacturer, you determined that he terrorized the opera house. And by extension, you presume that because of this alleged involvement, he was the one to enter the Poligny's home and dispatch with one of the homeowners."

"Objection, your honor, does Mr. Chagny have a question for the witness or is he wanting to testify himself?"

He looked ready to protest but the judge shushed him with a wave of his hand. "Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. Chagny or save this for closing arguments."

He grumbled something inaudible before returning his attention to the detective. "Is there in fact any direct evidence that my client was the one to kill Mr. Poligny?"

The detective scowled. "Sometimes a case isn't wrapped up in a neat little bow. Sometimes you have to infer what happened from what facts are available."

Mr. Chagny smiled thinly. "Answer the question, Detective Mifroid. Is there any direct evidence or is it merely circumstantial?"

"I suppose if you're going to use those exact terms, the evidence in this case is more circumstantial than direct."

Mr. Chagny's smile became far more genuine, and Christine briefly thought him handsome. "Thank you for your honesty, Detective. I have no further questions for this witness."

A clerk rose from her small desk and quietly climbed the steps up the judge and whispered in his hear, a sticky note in her hands.

He looked rather surprised before clearing his throat and addressing the room. "I am terribly sorry but I have an emergency that requires we stop for today. We shall convene again tomorrow at nine. Court is in recess."

And with that he hurried from the room, leaving a single bailiff to shuffle the rest of the bewildered occupants from the courtroom.

But as Christine shuffled past the defense table she couldn't help but glance once more at Erik, and this time he met her gaze, a small smile on his own lips that looked terribly rusty and unsure.

And she could do nothing but offer one in return.

Sooo… a smile! That's a start at least, right?

Do you think that was Erik's mask? Do you think it's fair that he isn't allowed to wear one during the trial?

I probably should have mentioned this before, but reviews get a snippet from the next chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts!