Chapter 10

"Nick!" Maya pounces on me the instant I walk through the door, and I almost have a heart attack.

"Christ, Maya!" I clutch my chest, sagging against the doorframe. "Don't do that!" It's not entirely fair to blame her for my shattered nerves, but the least she could do is greet me like a normal person and not a sugar-infused five year old.

"Look!" She excitedly thrusts her tablet under my nose. She's on Witter again, naturally, and her feed is filled with poorly-lit, unfocused photos of people dancing and drinking, in various states of undress.

"What am I looking at?" I say, thoroughly unimpressed. But then something familiar catches my eye. A twisted pine tree, Noh theatre style, painted on a wall. A grotesque painted face leering from the ceiling. "Wait, is that the Hannya club?"

"Took you long enough!" Posts whiz by in a dizzying blur as Maya scrolls through her feed. "The Hannya's been trending since the fire, with people posting pictures they took there. Then last night I had this amazing idea. Are you ready for this?"

I doubt I'll ever be ready, but I swallow my trepidation and say, "Hit me."

"What if we could get people to post photos of the last night before the Hannya burned down? Maybe there's a clue that we would have missed otherwise, since the security cameras got destroyed." There's a pause as she peers around her tablet at me. I realise I'm gaping at her. I pull myself together and snap my jaw shut.

"That… might be the smartest thing you've ever said," I say weakly. Maya narrows her eyes at me, trying to decide if that was a back-handed compliment. "No, I mean it," I insist. Then, more hesitantly, "So how do you get people on the internet to do that?"

"Duh, you make it a thing, of course!" she says smugly, as if that even makes sense. "I reached out to my followers-"

"You have followers?" Okay, that sounded bitchy, I'll admit. The look she hits me with could strip paint.

"First of all, rude. Second, you'd know if you ever paid attention." She sniffs and does something to her tablet screen, switching to a profile page with her smiling photo and username.

"Mystic Maya, spirit medium, legal aide, food critic, Libra," I read. Then I see the number beneath her name and my eyes almost bug out. "Thirty thousand followers?!" I splutter.

"Yeah, the number kinda shot up over the past two weeks. People can't get enough of this case." I'm starting to feel a little dizzy. "But #RIPHannya is blowing up! All of these pics are from that night. There must be something we can use!"

Well, it's not as if I have any other leads, and I'm still impressed by Maya's creative thinking, so we settle in on the couch with coffee and her candy stash. It turns out to be mind-numbingly boring work, as selfie after bleary-eyed selfie fills my laptop screen. Is it a logical response to hate every single person in these photos? It sure feels like the only appropriate reaction.

At least Maya seems to be having fun. "Hey, check it out!" She flashes her tablet at me. "It's Manuel!" It certainly is. He's wearing a tight-fitting red t-shirt, awkwardly side-eying the camera as he serves drinks off a tray, surrounded by what can only be a bachelorette party. The comment section is a predictable mix of racism, thirst, and unfunny jokes about poisoned drinks. Poor Manuel.

If there are any actually useful pictures out there, they've apparently been buried. As the afternoon wears on my mood gets darker, until I want to throttle anyone who has ever felt the need to photograph their drink. I mean, why?
I'm legitimately ready to throw my hands up and admit defeat when a caption at the bottom of my screen catches my eye. The forgotten victim of the Hannya Four, lol.

I shouldn't look. It will only piss me off. It's probably just a dumb meme. Not worth the aggravation.

I scroll down.

It's a re-shared video, dated June 25th. Wouldn't be a night out in LA without someone getting punted. RIP Hannya. My pulse quickens as I click the play button.

The video is shaky and grainy, the phone camera struggling with the club's poor lighting. The oversaturated EDM would be awful to listen to even without my crappy laptop speakers. But, if I squint, I can make out what's going on amidst the crush of bodies. It looks like a fight - and judging by the jeers I can hear above the pounding music, I figure that impression is correct.

"Daaaaamn," someone drawls, right into the microphone. "Bouncer's not messing around." There's more drunken burbling along those lines, but I'm no longer paying attention. I'm fixated on what's happening on-screen. Fred pushes through the crowd, unmistakable with his tattoos, and he's manhandling a guy in a suit. And not just any guy, either.

Yanagida isn't putting up much of a struggle - in fact, he's gone limp, as Fred drags him out of frame. The video ends, and I immediately hit play again.

"Is that…?" Maya is hovering over my shoulder, eyes wide.

"Yanagida?" I smile grimly. "Yes, yes it is."

"Are you sure?'

I could dig out the photo Sunglasses gave me and show her the obvious, but there's no need. "See this?" I say, pointing to Yanagida's side. There's a white object bundled in his hand. When I click play, he shoves it into his pocket as Fred drags him out of the frame.

Maya frowns. "What was that?"

"Do you still have that photo you found of Manuel earlier?"

"Sure, I took a screenshot. Hang on." A few seconds later, she has the picture open. Just as I remembered, a long white and red shape hangs from his jeans pocket. "Manuel's lanyard. That's where he kept his access card. That's what Yanagida was after that night, and why Fred kicked him out for harassing Manuel."

"So this proves Fred's story!" Maya gasps. "Nick! We did it! This is how we win!" She leaps to her feet, almost upsetting the candy bowl in her excitement.

"Wait! Waitwaitwait-" I hurtle out of my seat and catch her arm before she can get too carried away. "We can't celebrate yet. We still have to get through Fred's testimony, and Miles will fight me on every little detail." And then there's the problem of Sunglasses and his buddies. What will they do when they realise Yanagida could well be the murderer?

I can't think about that now, or I'll lose my nerve, and I'll never forgive myself for letting Fred, Ria, Manuel and Carrie down. I really hope I'm not going to regret this.

···················

My mood on the morning of a trial usually falls somewhere between nervous excitement and grim determination. Today, I'm filled with an impending sense of dread. It saps my energy, leaving me heavy-limbed and sluggish. Or maybe that's because I woke up at four in the morning with the little hamster wheel in my brain spinning full tilt, and the little fucker hasn't stopped since. The atmosphere in the courtroom crackles with tension, but for once it's not the kind that makes me want to drag Miles into a broom closet somewhere and kiss him stupid.

Because he's not here.

I've never, not once in my career, seen Miles Edgeworth arrive late for a trial. He told me once that there's no easier way to disarm your opponent than to appear perfectly at ease while they're still scrambling for their seat. You should give it a try sometime, he'd added with a smirk, knowing full well that I'm as capable of arriving anywhere early as I am of sprouting wings and flying.

I'm considering whether I should risk getting up to go find him when I catch his brisk footsteps approaching. He appears flustered, his briefcase in one hand and a slim folder tucked under his other arm. To my surprise, he stops at my desk, not his, and holds the folder out to me.

"I'm sorry," he says, catching his breath. "This is last-minute, but I couldn't get it to you before now. I only just managed to get it accepted as evidence."

"Is this-?" I take the folder and leaf through its contents. The analysis results I'd asked for. I'd assumed the lab hadn't been able to do the test on such short notice. "Have you read it?"

He lowers his voice. "In short, there was Rohypnol in the bottle. A rather large quantity, in fact." He side-eyes me, his gaze searching. "I'm sure this means something to you. I hope you're ready to defend your theories. Vigorously." He's on form again, leaving me sitting here in dread, wondering whether he's figured out what I'm up to or if he's merely posturing. I decide to assume it's the former. If I've learned anything it's never to let my guard down around him.

Judge Acato sweeps into the room, her expression particularly sour. We rise and sit dutifully.

"Mr. Wright," she says, as soon as the formalities are out of the way, "you raised the possibility of another person being present at the club the day of the fire. I hope you have brought sufficient evidence to back up your claims."

"Tell me I'm not about to make a huge mistake," I whisper to Maya out of the corner of my mouth.

"It's too late to change your mind now." I was hoping for a more reassuring response, but fine. I get to my feet. Across from me, Miles sits ramrod-straight in his seat, twisting his pen over and over between his fingers.

"I have, Your Honour. Today I will present testimony and evidence that will shed light on what exactly happened at the Hannya club the day of Mr. Blacklock's death. First I would like to call Mr. Fred Ashby to the stand." Miles drops his pen with a clatter. I'm aware that everyone is staring at me, and my neck prickles with discomfort.

Eventually, after a pause that feels far, far too long, Acato clears her throat. "Mr Wright, your witness will behave himself during his testimony and cross-examination, or I will be forced to hold him in contempt. Again. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Honour. My client is well aware of his obligations." Aware, sure, but as for whether he can handle the pressure, I can only cross my fingers and send a silent prayer to whoever might be listening.

Fred is brought to the witness stand and sworn in. He's tense, like a caged wildcat, and I can sense him bristling under the attention of everyone in the gallery. Only I can tell his hands are shaking. Focus on me, I'd told him during our practice. Don't think about the prosecution. Don't think about the rubberneckers.

"Before we begin," I say, turning to Judge Acato, "my client wishes to apologise for his regrettable conduct. He is deeply ashamed of his actions." This was my idea, obviously. When I first suggested it Fred's feedback was short, sharp and definitely not fit for the courtroom. Even now he's making a face like I've suggested he get all his teeth pulled, but he nods stiffly with a muttered 'I'm sorry, Your Honour'. Acato sucks her teeth, clearly not buying what I'm selling.

"Thank you, Wright," she says drily, "The court accepts your client's apology." Phew. It might not have achieved much, but a sliver of goodwill is better than none.

I force a smile. "Now then, Mr. Ashby, would you please tell the court what happened on June 24th?"

To his credit and my boundless relief, Fred seems to remember everything I taught him. He keeps his sentences brief, his voice steady. It's not until he shifts his posture, clasping his fingers loosely in front of him, that I realise he's imitating Manuel. Smart move, I think approvingly. He doesn't even curse once. I can't help myself; I snatch a glance at Miles when Fred tells the court how Blacklock already had a drink poured for himself. He's resting his chin atop his steepled fingers. I know that look. He's searching for a crack he can use to fissure Fred's version of events apart.

Titters reverberate through the gallery as Fred describes grabbing the liquor from behind the bar on his way out. His jaw tightens, but he carries on as if he hadn't heard them. Acato's sharp glance in the direction of the noise is enough to settle them down.

"An' that's why the door never locked behind me," he finishes sullenly.

"How can you be sure the lock didn't engage?" I prompt him. I can't leave this part up to interpretation - it's the most important part of his testimony, and I won't let Miles gloss over it during his cross examination.

"It usually beeps, and the light goes red. I didn't hear it."

"How hard would you say you have to push the door to make it close properly?"

"I usually give it a good kick."

"Thank you." I flash him a reassuring smile. I'm sweating through my shirt, but he doesn't have to know that.
"My client's testimony clearly contradicts the prosecution's version of events," I say, turning back to Acato. "When Mr. Blacklock invited Mr. Ashby to have a drink with him, he had already poured his own shot, while Fred was outside."

Acato is quiet. Ominously quiet, actually, and suddenly my mouth has gone drier than the Sahara. I wasn't expecting Fred's testimony to flip the whole trial on its own, but something is wrong here. I've got the analysis results Miles gave me right there in my hand, but my gut tells me not to bring them up. Not yet.

When Acato eventually speaks, it does little to reassure me. "Does the prosecution have any questions for the witness?"

"Yes, Your Honour." Miles rises and approaches the witness stand, and I retreat to the safety of my desk. My hands are shaking as I pour myself some water. Maya tuts and takes the jug and glass from me before I embarrass myself further. In comparison, Miles is utterly calm, at least on the outside.

"You stated that Blacklock asked you to meet him. When did he do this?"

"The night before, while I was on break," says Fred.

"And how did he ask you?"

"To my face."

"Do you remember his exact words?"

"No."

I feel the tension in my shoulders recede a little. This is exactly the way I'd expected the cross-examination to go. On the rare occasions Miles gets to question witnesses, his approach is always the same; rapid-fire questions designed to put them on the defensive and make them stumble. But all our preparation has paid off - Fred's giving nothing but direct answers, just like I told him. When he doesn't elaborate, Miles' brow furrows.

"...you don't recall what Mr. Blacklock said to you that night?"

Oh, he wants to nitpick? Two can play at that game. "Objection! Asked and answered!" Is that frustration in Miles' expression? Or wishful thinking on my part? In any case, Acato seems to be on my side, for now at least.

"Sustained. Move it along, Mr. Edgeworth."

"I-" he clears his throat, biting back a protest. "Fine. According to your testimony, you arrived at the club the next day before Mr. Blacklock, and waited for him in his office. What did you do while you waited?"

"Sat on the couch. Checked Witter. Rolled up a light."

"You didn't touch any of the liquor bottles in the club?" There are more titters from the gallery.

Did Fred's eye just twitch? Come on, you can do this. "Not at that time." Damn it, Miles. If he keeps pressing, Fred will either blow up or shut down completely. Then Acato will kick him out of the courtroom and everything he's said so far will be stricken from the record. His eyes flicker towards me. Trust me, I tell him silently, wishing he could hear me.

"How long does it usually take you to smoke a cigarette?"

Fred hesitates. "I… dunno." He shifts uncomfortably. "Five, six minutes?"

"Let's say six. How long were you outside smoking until Mr. Blacklock arrived?" Again, Fred doesn't answer. The seconds stretch out as my heart drops into my stomach. "Mr. Ashby. You know you're under oath."

"I guess… a couple of minutes."

Which would leave Blacklock hardly any time to grab a bottle, pour himself a drink and drug the bottle before Fred went inside. This is bad. Worse than bad. He's figured out why I ordered the analysis results, and he's going to scupper my argument before I can even bring it up. His gaze meets mine, and my nails cut tiny crescents into my palms as I ball my hands into fists.

"And you did not drink anything he offered to you?"

"No, I didn't."

"I see. I have no further questions." Miles clears his throat and raises his head to address Acato directly. "Testimony notwithstanding, the facts of the case remain unchanged. Mr. Ashby was alone in the building until Mr. Blacklock's arrival. They were the only two people present during their meeting. And Mr. Blacklock was drugged and unconscious when the fire ripped through the Hannya club."

The gallery erupts into furious whispering. What the hell do I do now? Miles has salted the earth ahead of me bringing up my argument that the Rohypnol was intended for Fred. Sure, I can ask Fred to testify about the way Blacklock had been treating him, but we have no hard proof and it will seem as if he had a solid motive for murder.

Beside me, Maya has her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling with slow, deep breaths. I assume she's trying to stay calm, until I notice the pen in her hand. She's gripping it tightly, the way a child would, and moving it slowly in loose spirals across the page.

"Mr. Wright, do you have anything else to add?" Acato's voice dimly registers as the pen nib moves almost hypnotically round and round.

"Maya," I hiss, nudging her, "what are you - hey!" I snatch my hand away. Despite the stifling summer heat, her skin is icy cold and clammy. Acato says my name again, sharper this time, but I'm no longer listening. Maya's hand moves faster, the paper threatening to tear beneath her pen.
"Maya!" I don't care about being discreet anymore. "What's wrong with you?" She can't hear me. Her head lolls forward, and the pen clatters to the floor as she slumps over in a dead faint.

···················

To my relief, Maya comes around straight away. She keeps rubbing her forehead, though, as if she has a headache. Acato calls for a short break, and a nurse in the gallery comes to check her over. After a few questions, and checking her pulse and temperature, he recommends she drink a can of soda and lie down for a bit. She takes the soda but stays right where she is. Despite the fright she gave me, I suspect she's secretly enjoying the fuss. Admittedly, the nurse is quite handsome.

There was more to Maya's fainting spell than low blood sugar, though. For one thing, there's the paper she was scrawling on. I managed to snatch it before anyone else caught a glimpse, luckily, because it's bizarre and creepy as shit. There ar e words among the shapeless scrawls, but not in Maya's familiar chicken scratch. Instead, a loose cursive resolves out of the mess, then devolves into scribbles.

Looking… wrong… angle. That's all I can make out. If there's anything else, the rest is illegible. I stuff the paper into my pocket, and as soon as the nurse has backed off I go and take a seat next to Maya.

"Hey," I say gently, "what was that about?"

She drops her head, her cheeks reddening. "I'm so sorry, Nick. Mia and I have been practising spirit writing because it's less exhausting than a full channelling. I really thought I could do it… but holding two souls in the same mind at once is like shutting two angry cats in a cardboard box."

"Spirit writing?" I think of the cryptic words. "You were trying to get a message from Mia?" She nods, and I sigh. "You don't need to do that to yourself for my sake, okay? This isn't your mess to fix."

"But we've come so far, and-" Maya trails off with a scowl, looking over my shoulder. "Oh, look who it is."

I turn to find Miles standing over us, a granola bar in his hand. He's biting his lip again, the absolute tease. "You should eat something," he says, offering her the granola bar. "You don't want to end up fainting again."

"You've got some nerve," Maya mutters darkly, though she takes the snack and tears into it anyway.

I can't hold back any longer. I straighten up so we're face-to-face. "Why did you do it?"

Miles has the grace to drop his gaze, scratching his cheek. "You can't put forward half-baked theories at this stage, Phoenix. Especially not in front of Judge Acato." I feel as if I'm being scolded, and it's making me tense.

"You didn't even let me bring up the analysis results! Why go to all that trouble on my behalf if you're just going to block me?" I love the man, but my righteous indignation makes my voice harder than I intended.

"I did you a favour!" Miles retorts. He folds his arms impatiently. "Fine. Let's say you brought up the analysis of the bottle. What does it prove?"

"Well, along with Fred's testimony, it-"

"-And how can you be so certain Mr. Ashby is telling the truth? He's proven himself to be a liar, and a petty criminal. Why do you put so much faith in him?"

Because someone has to, I think. But that won't cut it, not with Miles. I fumble for the right words, "Because… because he's my-"

"Because he's your client," Miles finishes for me with a sigh. "I thought you'd say that." People are filing back into the courtroom now. He leans in close and says, his voice pitched low, "My closing arguments will be that Fred Ashby drugged Blacklock, but Carrie Jannsen started the fire. That's a manslaughter and murder charge, respectively. Ria Kobayashi and Manuel Jacobs will most likely go free, thanks to your efforts. You haven't failed. Far from it, in fact."

"I understand you're trying to make me feel better," I tell him, pulling away. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fred being escorted back to the witness stand. "But I don't see it that way."

"No," Miles says sadly. "I didn't think you would."

···················

Court is in session once more, and Acato immediately starts in on me. "Mr. Wright, the court has heard Mr. Ashby's testimony, but you have yet to explain how it changes anything. Are you ready to release the witness from the stand?" Ugh, I was really hoping I wouldn't have to do this. But I guess I don't have a choice anymore. Miles has forced my hand.

"Not quite, Your Honour. There is one more thing I would like my witness to testify about." I gather the screenshots Maya and I gathered last night. I flip straight to the one of Fred wrestling Yanagida out of the club. We haven't practised this part, so all I can do is hope that he remembers everything I told him.

"Careful," Maya whispers, but she doesn't have to remind me. I can't casually bring up that Yanagida is Yakuza, not unless I want a whole lot of trouble coming down on my head. But there's no escaping where this road has led me. When I approach Fred, he stares at me with open suspicion. That's entirely my fault - I led him to believe that his testimony would turn things around, and see where that got us.

"Please look closely at this picture," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Do you remember this man?"

Fred's eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah, that's the creep who- uh, I mean," he digs his fingernails into the barrier between us. "The night before the fire, I had to throw him out for harassing Manny. He was following him around, puttin' his hands on him. That sh-" he cuts himself off with a sheepish glance at Acato. "That doesn't fly at the Hannya. If someone touches the staff, it's my job to kick them out."

"Can you tell me what this is, sticking out of his pocket?" I hold up the screenshot. It's not the best quality, but Fred knows what he's looking at.

"Yeah, I do! That's Manny's lanyard!" he says, as if he's grasping a lifeline.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. See those red spots? Those are Hannya masks. That's the club's logo." Okay, I have to admit that the image is so pixelated, I'd assumed the red bits were artefacts from the video. But now Fred points them out, they are rather uniform. Then I remember the picture I have of Manuel.
"Yeah, see?" Fred says when I show it to him. The mask pattern is clearer in this picture. "It's the same."

"Does Mr. Jacobs keep his access card on his lanyard?"

"Yeah, we all do." There's rustling amongst the gallery at this, but I can't stop to see what's going on. I'm almost there.

"So, would you agree that if this man took Mr. Jacobs' lanyard, he could access the building whenever he wished?"

"Mr. Wright." I shrink under the weight of Acato's stare. "We have already ascertained - multiple times - that Mr. Jacobs' access card was not used on the day of the fire."

"Yes, Your Honour." My mouth is suddenly dry again. "But that leaves out a critical piece of information which we have only learned today. The door was left unlocked for up to an hour between Mr. Ashby's departure and Ms. Jannsen's arrival." Acato doesn't immediately shoot me down, so I hold up the picture of Fred and Yanagida. "If this man intended to enter the Hannya club outside of its opening hours, he would have no reason to expect the door to be left unlocked. As it happened, it was, so he didn't need the card."

"You seem awfully certain of who this man is and why he's significant to this case. I hope you're ready to share this information with the rest of us." Brr, there's no mistaking the vein of ice running through Acato's words. She's clean out of patience, and I'm out of chances. It's time to show my hand. I have to pray it's convincing enough.

"This man is Takeshi Yanagida, a debt collector. He went to the Hannya Nightclub on June 24th to meet Bennett Blacklock." I fetch the profile Gumshoe sent me and hold it up for emphasis, Yanagida's sneering face rippling on the page. "Carrie Jannsen heard Blacklock and another person arguing in his office between 1.46 and 1.50pm. The other person was slurring his words and demanding money from Mr. Blacklock."

"A debt collector," Miles interrupts flatly.

"Does that really surprise you?" I round on him. "Blacklock's behaviour during the months and weeks leading up to the fire was erratic at best, and at worst downright unethical. He failed to pay Canopy Security Consultants for the security enhancements they installed at the club. He repeatedly harassed the daughter of the COO of that company. He helped himself to alcohol from the club without paying for it. And he was regularly skimming money from Mr. Ashby's pay. Do these actions indicate a man who was mentally and financially stable?"

"That's purely speculation!" I mean, he's right. I don't have any way to prove Blacklock was in debt.

"Do you have another explanation?" I retort. Ooh, that was a mistake. Miles' lips purse disapprovingly.

"The burden of proof lies with the person making the claims. You know this."

"Enough!" Judge Acato slams her gavel down, stunning us both into silence. "I cannot believe I have to tell you this, Wright, but would you kindly stick to the facts? You posit that this… debt collector met with the victim at the club on the day of the fire. So far you have proven that he could have done so, not that he was actually there."

"I…" am screwed if I can't come up with something to prove I'm correct. Come on, Phoenix. We're so close. Then I remember my timeline. Galvanised, I turn to Miles. "The camera in the alley showed my clients as they came and went. According to the evidence list you also have the full footage."

"I do." Miles retrieves a CD in a sleeve from his briefcase. "But it's a long video." He has a point. Acato will hardly allow me to play the footage in its entirety.

"That's fine, I know which time-stamp we need to start at." Thanks to my timeline of events. "If Yanagida arrived after Fred left and before Carrie's arrival, he must appear on the alley camera sometime between 12.47 and 1.46pm."

Acato raises an eyebrow. "Very well. Mr. Edgeworth, kindly play the footage." I can hear what she's not saying. This had better not be a waste of time. I stagger back to my desk and gulp more water, partly to give me something to do with my hands but also because my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth.

The courthouse's ancient television is wheeled in on a trolley and set up, with some difficulty and muttering about a lack of HDMI ports. After what feels like years, the screen flickers to life and Miles feeds his disk into the brick-like DVD player on the trolley. He fast-forwards through the footage to the right time and lets it play.
The courtroom is silent, everyone craning their necks, waiting for the moment I triumphantly yell 'stop!'. I almost do a couple of times; every time a stranger walks into view, my heart jumps into my mouth. But none of them are Yanagida. Finally, Carrie appears, her familiar blonde undercut giving her away, and Miles pauses the footage. I can feel the wave of disappointment ripple through the room.

No one speaks.

Except for me. "Play it again." Miles is about to argue, but I cut him off. "Play it again," I insist, and he snaps his mouth shut and rewinds the footage wordlessly. It's no use, I know it already, even though I don't want to admit it. I shove my hands into my pockets to hide my clenched fists. Mia's wadded-up message crunches against my knuckles. Wrong angle.

Shit.

I scour the screen for anything I might have missed, but there's nothing, no one. Carrie appears once more, and Yanagida is still absent. Beside me, Miles lets out a barely audible sigh. He actually looks sorry for me, the git.

"The alley has two exits," I say weakly. "Yanagida must have come from the opposite end…"

"Or perhaps he was never there," he says gently.

"But Carrie's testimony-"

"-Was a lie." Miles shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Phoenix. I know this isn't the way you hoped this would go."

"Well, if the defense has seen enough, then it's time to move on." Acato's brisk voice cuts into our whispered conversation.

"No!" I shoot forward and stop short of wringing my hands - I've humiliated myself plenty today, after all. "Not yet, Your Honour, please." God help me, I'm actually begging for another chance. Miles makes a quiet, strangled sound behind me.

Acato looks as if she wants to take me out back and put me out of my misery, but she glances at the clock on the wall and sighs heavily. "Very well. We will take a twenty-minute recess and resume here at eleven o'clock." My knees almost buckle in relief, but she pins me with a needle-like stare. "There will be no more breaks after this, Mr. Wright. I suggest you use this time to go over your closing statements."

···················

After the amount of water I've been gulping down, I practically race to the men's room. Lucky for me, I spend enough time here at the courthouse that I know exactly where to go to avoid the rush. The first-floor bathroom is empty, which is convenient because I could use a minute to myself to think.
I'm in the middle of washing my hands when the restroom door slams open. The reflection in the mirror makes my blood run cold; it's Sunglasses, and he's pissed.

I spin around to confront him, but before I can get a word out he punches me square in the face. Pain explodes in my nose as my head snaps back, and I drop to the floor like a sack of rocks. I clutch my nose, my mouth filling with the coppery taste of blood. I'm blind and gasping for breath, but through the haze I'm vaguely aware of Sunglasses squatting down to my level. A whimper escapes my lips as I press myself against the wall, trying to put as much space between us as possible.

"I guess it's true what they say about lawyers. Can't trust a goddamn word they say," he says disgustedly.

"You- my nose!" I manage to choke out.

"Don't be such a baby. It's not broken. Probably." I manage to clear my streaming eyes enough to make out the man's face. He's rubbing his chin as if deciding what to do to me. "Wright, Wright, Wright," he says, tutting. "I did fuckin' warn you. You had one job!" his voice bounces off the restroom's tiled walls as he throws his hands up in appeal to an invisible crowd. "What did I ask you to do? Find Yanagida. You've failed, and even worse, you've turned him into some kind of pervert!"

I'm trying (and failing) to stop my nose from bleeding all over my suit. I pinch it between my thumb and finger, a fresh wave of pain making me feel sick. "He stole-"

"Shut it." Sunglasses snaps. "I can't believe you tried to name him as your top suspect. What did you think would happen when the cops start sniffing around, trying to find out who he works for?" He shakes his head. "Just know that what happens next is on you."

My blood goes cold. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the consequences of your actions, you dumb piece of shit. So, who gets to pay the price for your fuck-up? Your pretty boyfriend? Or maybe your little fainting flower, eh? She won't look so cute once we're through with her, you mark my fucking words." No, no, no. This can't be happening.

"Don't," I croak. "Do what you want to me, but leave Maya alone. Please."

"Huh, so you've finally grown a pair." Sunglasses leans in closer, his hand closing around my throat. My only consolation is that, with all the blood, I can't smell his hideous aftershave.

Maybe it's my brain's last-ditch effort to keep me alive, or maybe I've lost it completely. But Mia's spirit message crinkles in my pocket, and I almost want to laugh. I'm seeing things from a different angle, alright - the last thing I see may very well be Sunglasses' ugly mug from the bathroom floor. Then a memory dislodges in my brain, crashing through the haze of pain and making me gasp.

"Yanagida has bad breath," I blurt. It comes out as a hoarse whisper, and Sunglasses' grip falters as he tries to decipher what I'm saying.

"What?"

"You said Yanagida has bad breath," I gasp, "the night you came to my office." The man lets me go, and sensing a lifeline, I grab the sink and pull myself upright, bloodied fingers scrabbling on the porcelain. "Did he ever mention what caused it?"

I can't read his expression behind his glasses, but I suspect he's trying to figure out what my game is. "Some weird dental thing," he says eventually. "Mandala-something."

"Mandibular Tori." Oh my God. I've been looking at this all wrong. "Listen," I say urgently. "I know where Yanagida is - he's not a suspect, and I can prove it. I just need one more chance!"

For a sickening moment I'm sure Sunglasses will laugh in my face, or smash my face into the sink, or both. From the way he freezes, I can tell he's weighing his options. Then he sighs and stands, straightening the cuffs of his suit.
"Y'know what? Fine. One more chance." He pauses with his fingers on the door handle. "But for your assistant's sake, do not fuck me over." Then he's gone, the door swinging shut in his wake, and I let my head fall back against the tiled wall with a thud.