Date: Saturday, February 16th, 2013
Time: 3:47pm
Location: Courtroom #4, Los Tokyo District Courthouse, Japanifornia
Well, this is it. After so much nervousness and worry about my first case, it looks like me and Diego have secured the win. I know that, as a defense attorney, you must always defend your client, regardless of if they are guilty or innocent, but it gives me some relief to know that my client, Terry Fawles, is innocent after all. Well, of murder and kidnapping anyway. We'll have to await the outcome of his statutory rape trial, though I pray Terry and Dahlia's cursed relationship never went that far.
Potentially exonerating someone guilty is not something I've been prepared to do, even though I'm sure it's bound to happen at some point. As I was taught in law school, everyone deserves the best possible defense they can receive, and the burden of proof must fall on the prosecution. In theory, that is. Sometimes, in this effed up legal system of ours, it doesn't exactly feel that way.
I take a deep breath, preparing to launch into my final attack on that junior prosecutor. He may have had me beat in the first half of this case, that brat, but it's giving me immense pleasure to see his exasperation as I've been pulling out his case from under him. They say he's the new "wonder boy" of the prosecutor's office, but it looks like he won't be able to secure that perfect win record that he's coveting. I'm ready for him, claws out, as Diego would say.
Hmph. I am glad he's here today, if only so I don't have to listen to Mr. Grossberg go on about his hemorrhoids again. "Gross"-berg indeed. Still though, I wish Diego would stop calling me kitten. He's only three years older than me for God sakes, but that nickname just makes me feel like a scared and immature little girl. It's a feeling made even worse by the fact that I can feel my cheeks get hot and I can hardly even look him in the face when he says it. I'd chalk it up to embarrassment at my inexperience, but the way I catch him smirking back at me when I have the nerve to look up, tells me he sees it differently. He says the nickname comes from the expression "a kitten in a lion's den", me I guess for taking on such an impossible case, but I'm skeptical. I don't remember hearing that expression before, as much as he insists it's legitimate.
Technically, I am still a little wet behind the ears. Since joining Mr. Grossberg's firm four months ago, I haven't been on a single court case until today. I've spent the past four months in case review and contracts, piling over thousands of pages of legal documents for various criminal court cases and civil settlements and writing up boilerplate contracts. Wills, mortgages, business agreements, and the like. Grossberg Law Offices primarily deals in criminal defense cases ranging from petty theft to serial murder, although we do our fair share of civil and contract work to help pay the bills of our enormous office space. Judging by all the mahogany, leather, crystal, and fine art scattered around our two-level office space in the heart of downtown, I'd say that Mr. Grossberg has expensive taste.
I've definitely been doing my part in that effort, holing away in the windowless document room for hours past my call time, or filing in and out of meetings all day with clients, finalizing documents and gathering signatures. However, criminal law is why I got into this field, and I had been itching to prove myself in my first case. When I was hired, Mr. Grossberg and the partners assured me that I would be able to represent my first defendant quickly, but it wasn't quick enough for me.
When I've asked Mr. Grossberg about it, he has always said the same thing "you're not ready yet, but soon." But soon never seemed to come. I like to think he didn't mean anything by it; that it wasn't a slight at my skills as an attorney. Mr. Grossberg is a nice man, but he is so absentminded that he probably just forgot about his broken promises. I'm just tired of being stuck in kindergarten with the other junior attorneys on the team.
Meanwhile, Diego has probably presided over 20 cases in that time, a staggering figure only made possible by Japanifornia's insanely unjust three-day trial maximum. He's been pretty successful too, batting around 0.400 on his cases, or so I've heard. I've been told that his win rate is almost unheard of for a defense lawyer. Unlike most prosecutors and their near 100% conviction rates, it's a little harder for us defense attorneys to eke out a win for our clients, guilty or innocent. He's been at the firm for a little over three years and already there have been talks about making him a partner soon. It doesn't seem like that will be another broken promise either. His record has been great for the firm.
Despite being in the same office though, we don't exactly hang out in the same circles. He is typically in his private office on the second level and I'm in the junior bullpen on level one, with my tiny desk and ancient computer, surrounded by the seven desks of my other junior colleagues and law school interns. I guess that's one area where Mr. Grossberg had spared all expenses.
I met Diego on my first day, when Mr. Grossberg paraded me around the office, introducing me to all my 30 or so colleagues and superiors, me trying and failing to remember all their names. I remembered Diego though. When we stopped by his office, he was sitting in his plush red leather office chair, reviewing some papers, and sipping a coffee. Mr. Grossberg introduced me as "the new girl: a recent graduate of Ivy University taking on her first law job."
I waved gingerly, standing crossed legged, supporting my waving arm with my other arm. "Hi, I'm Mia Fey," I choked out nervously. Most people had nodded, smiled politely, quickly introduced themselves, and allowed us on our merry way. However, Diego set his coffee and papers down, wheeled himself out of his desk, and greeted me at his doorway. He extended out his arm and shook my hand. His handshake was firm but not oppressive.
"You must be new; I definitely would have remembered meeting you before," he said jokingly, with a devilish grin.
"Diego," Mr. Grossberg admonished, giving him a severe look.
"Yeah, I just started today. I'm Mia," I said hesitantly, laughing timidly at his joke. Stupid. I had already told him my name.
"Yes, Miss Mia Fey, esquire. Name's Diego Armando." He noticed my mistake but didn't seem to give me a hard time about it, thank God, although with his emphasis on the word "esquire" I wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic. I had only known him for all of ten seconds, but he seemed like he was rather fond of teasing. "Well, I imagine you'll be downstairs in the daycar-, er," he cleared his throat. "The junior associate commons. Is that correct?" He looked at me expectantly, but I wasn't sure where I would be stationed. My coat, lunch, and briefcase were still sitting in one of the boardrooms along with my 500-page welcome binder. Leave it to a law office to have the most extensive contract and employment paperwork package I've ever seen. I turned to Mr. Grossberg for an answer.
"Yes, we have a nice desk all set up for her in the commons," Mr. Grossberg said brightly. "Right by your old crib," he continued, those last words coming out sternly. I guess he didn't appreciate that daycare comment.
Diego grinned. "Yes, yes, the commons are a fine place. I remember my time there fondly." He turned his attention back to me. "Well Mia, I know I'm all the way up here," he glanced sidelong to Mr. Grossberg before returning his gaze to me. "But I'm always happy to help, any time you need it. Welcome to the firm."
"Thank you. I look forward to working with you," I said. Luckily those words came out a little more confidently than my previous remarks, although that wasn't exactly hard.
"Mia, there are a few more associates that I'd like you to meet, and then we can get you settled at your new desk," Mr. Grossberg said brightly. He gestured with his left arm, leading me in front of him to the next block of offices down the hall.
I started walking ahead, looking back at Diego briefly before continuing forward. His head was sticking out of the threshold and his arms were outstretched, balancing on the door frame. He gave me a quick, small wave and flashed another cheeky smile before heading back into his office.
After that encounter, I didn't see Diego much around the office. One floor above doesn't sound like an immense barrier and yet it was like a whole other world up there. The top floor had its own boardrooms, bathrooms, and breakrooms. Other than the occasional meeting with the partners for billable hour reporting, check-ins, weekly team meetings, and performance evaluations, I had little reason to be up there, and he had little reason to be down here.
The only times I saw him were when he needed some files from the doc room. He would strut down the stairway, practically leaping from step to step before gliding through the door. He worked quickly, grabbing files as if he was simply pulling a clothes hanger off a rack. I hoped to be that familiar with the documents someday. Careful labeling and alphabetization be damned, it still took me ages to find whatever I needed. No wonder I practically lived in that room, there would be no point in leaving because I'd probably need to go back and look again for something else.
Sometimes he would try to talk to me there, while I was seated in a cheap vinyl office chair at a cheap laminate table, poring over files. I wasn't much for conversation though. Part of it was determination; if I wasn't going to be in court, I would be the best damn junior associate with the highest number of billable hours. The other part of it was wariness; I hadn't left Kurain Village much until I turned 18 and started college six years ago. In that short time though, I became accustomed to getting looks from men, some friendly, some flirty, and some leering. While I don't like to acknowledge it, I never really needed to in a small village dominated by women, being as well-endowed as I am can attract a lot of attention, much of it unwanted. Diego's glances seem to teeter on that line between friendly and flirty, but I was still wary.
I must admit, he is attractive with his tall muscular frame, tailored designer clothes, megawatt smile, and somehow perfectly unkempt hair. However, the last thing I wanted to do was get involved with somebody at work. Especially since I didn't know how noble his intentions were with me. He must have gotten the hint that I wasn't interested because, as time went on, he tried to engage with me less and less, to the point where he would just smile and wave, politely greeting me by name, before exiting the room and bounding back up the stairs.
It's for that reason that I was surprised when he chose to stand trial with me today. Nobody wanted this case, which is probably how I got it in the first place. While we defense attorneys aren't used to winning the way the prosecutor's office does, everyone at least wants to represent cases they think they could win. This case was considered DOA to everyone in the office. A death row inmate who kidnapped and murdered a 14-year-old girl, and then escaped from prison and killed her police officer sister? That case was practically unwinnable, and nobody was biting.
For me, this was my chance. So what if I didn't win? I would put forward the best case I possibly could for my client, and Mr. Grossberg would finally let me take on more cases. Since no one else would do it, and Mr. Grossberg didn't think I was ready to defend alone, he offered to serve as co-counsel on my first case. Diego had been among the dissenters, but he must have changed his mind about the case because it was him and not Mr. Grossberg there in the defendant lobby this morning. I'm sure Mr. Grossberg was grateful to have someone offer in his stead. It was Saturday after all.
I glanced over at Diego as he stood next to me at the defense stand. He remained steadfast and calm, gripping his coffee cup and sipping regularly. That must be his fifth cup since the trial started and I don't know how he can remain so relaxed. I've been drinking more coffee since I began working at the firm, around two-three cups per day so I don't fall asleep on dozens of pages of case files or dense legal books written in inscrutable legalese. When I drink even that much, I'm prone to sweating, shaking, and heart palpitations. While I still don't know him that well, I had heard that he was a well-known coffee aficionado who dabbled in over a hundred different blends of varying origin, roast, and ground size. Coffee was practically a religion to him.
"There's only one person who can stop it, you, kitten, I think." Diego seemed just as certain as I was that we could exonerate Terry Fawles. We just needed him to tell us the truth about Dahlia Hawthorne's crimes. Despite her young age, being only 14 when her and her 20-year-old tutor Terry Fawles staged a fake kidnapping five years ago, this case has made it apparent that she was the ringleader in all the violence and deceit. She planned the kidnapping ploy, telling Terry to demand a $2 million diamond from her dad's luxury jewelry store as ransom so they could run away together and split the proceeds. Instead, she jumped off that rickety Dusky Bridge and into the rushing Eagle River below, surviving the fall and rapids, and fleeing the country.
Her older sister Valerie, the victim, was in on this kidnapping plot before betraying Terry, shooting him in the arm and testifying that he pushed Dahlia into the river after kidnapping her, never divulging that the kidnapping was staged. When Terry called Valerie and asked her to meet him at the Dusky Bridge following his prison escape, Valerie's guilty conscience finally caught up to her. She told Dahlia that she'd confess everything to Terry. Dahlia, refusing to face justice for her crimes, stabbed Valerie, stuffing her body in the trunk of Terry's stolen car while he waited for Valerie at that fateful bridge where the "kidnapping" happened all those years ago. Dahlia then disguised herself as Valerie, meeting with him, confessing nothing, and allowing him to escape with his stolen vehicle before he was arrested later that evening.
Dahlia's schemes were so convoluted, so improbable, that I wouldn't believe them to be true if they weren't the only possible explanations. Despite how intricate her schemes were, she wouldn't even be a suspect if she hadn't pretended to be someone else. A "witness" to Valerie's murder, alias Melissa Foster, agreeing to testify at the trial today. Once her true identity was revealed, it became certain that Terry did not commit the murders. The more she spoke, the more the chinks in her armor were revealed and her level of suspicion increased.
Prosecutor Edgeworth knew it as well. His smugness had washed away, and he had become increasingly agitated as the trial continued. Terry knew it too, I think. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. I'm still not entirely sure how he became Dahlia's tutor, but even he had to realize that he had been set up by his "teen angel". Yet here he is on the stand, being questioned by me, his own lawyer, the person trying to help him out, and he's giving me nothing. He refuses to implicate her.
"Please Mr. Fawles! This is your last chance!" I exclaimed, completely exasperated, imploring him to tell the truth about Dahlia. "You've already taken the fall once for something you didn't do!"
He remained silent for a moment, before answering. "That woman...it wasn't Dahlia." He looked completely broken as he answered but remained committed to his lies.
"Stop right there! What more needs to be said?" Edgeworth exclaimed. He had pounced, resuming his arrogance at the slightest hint of an opening. If Terry Fawles refused to testify honestly, Edgeworth would get his conviction, and more importantly, his win.
"Hmmm." This was all that the judge could say in response. Despite his years of experience, he never seemed as confident or as competent as I was expecting.
"I know it's obvious, but he's clearly lying," Diego said. He was incredulous, but also somewhat amused. "He's been cursed, by Dahlia Hawthorne. He'll probably go to his grave still believing in her."
"Mr. Fawles," my voice trailed off, pleading with him once more.
"Even if you can show he's lying, the poor guy will still be cursed," Diego remarked, resigned. He took another swig of his coffee. "You'll still have to point out the contradiction anyway. That's the curse of being a defense lawyer, I guess."
I gulped and nodded in agreement. There must be something I could do to force Terry to admit the truth. I looked through my dossier of evidence files and came across the photo of Terry and "Valerie" on the bridge. To make doubly sure that she could pin Valerie's murder on Terry, Dahlia had pretended to be a witness who was only there that day to take photos of wildflowers. In February, the dead of winter. What a load of BS. In reality, she had set up a tripod with a timer on a nearby cliff ledge to capture herself disguised as Valerie, talking to Terry on the bridge, implicating him further in the murder.
Something was unusual about this photo though. Terry claimed to have arrived before Valerie, but she was further down the bridge. There were large sections missing on the other side of the bridge, and therefore no way she could have entered from the other side. Not only that, but Valerie was stabbed in the back. If Terry had tried to attack her and she attempted to flee, her stab wounds would be on her front as she could only flee towards him. Even if she had tried fleeing towards the missing bridge section, surely, he would have pushed her off the bridge rather than stuff her in his car. I think I have it.
I presented the evidence to Terry, and he reacted only with pained grunts. "Umm, Mr. Fawles," I said timidly. I was not prepared for this outburst. "Please don't get so worked up. We just want the truth."
He paused and sighed before answering again. "I got there around 4 o'clock. It's true. I... I had somewhere to go. A special place." Terry remained emotionally shattered but he actually seemed to be telling the truth this time. So, he did get there earlier after all. But how did they end up in that configuration on the bridge?
"Did you go to this special place before you went to the bridge?" the judge asked.
"Yeah... It's an old temple about 15 minutes from the bridge. Five years ago, me and Dahlia...we promised each other...we swore we wouldn't betray each other...she brought a memento...to represent...our love." Terry spoke so brokenly, pausing frequently to collect and then finish his thoughts.
"A memento?" I asked.
"Five years ago, I hid it under base of tree there. It's a special memory for me. This is it...this is what I went to get."
"This little bottle on a necklace is your memento? It's quite charming, but it looks empty." The judge was too easily distracted by the charm of this bottle necklace.
"Your Honor!" I exclaimed. "You heard what my client said. He arrived at the scene at four o'clock. But he then left his car unattended and walked away! He was gone for approximately 30 minutes!" I heard Edgeworth let out a strange noise. He must be upset because he's losing, but I ignored him. "With that much time, Dahlia Hawthorne could have easily hidden the body in the trunk of his car!"
"Nooo!" This further outburst from the prosecution seemed visceral, like it couldn't be stopped. He must really be a sore loser.
"Indeed, there certainly was enough time for it!" The judge agreed with my assessment. I still have a chance to cinch this case.
"Mr. Fawles! There's no mistaking it!" I exclaimed again, confidently. I was winding up for my final arguments when I heard another noise, this time it was the client and not the prosecution. "Huh? Mr. Fawles?"
"Th-That's enough...Please..." Terry seemed panicked, and his voice was gurgling.
"W-Witness?" The judge had become concerned too.
"I-I promised her... five years ago... if it ever happens...that we can't trust each other no more...then...we're supposed to...drink...bottle...Ugh..." Terry's words were starting to trail off, his voice becoming weaker and his words less coherent.
"N-No! Stop the trial! Your Honor! We need a recess!" Edgeworth yelled out again. This time I paid attention to him. Terry had blood sputtering out of his mouth. Edgeworth had noticed before I did. That bottle must have been filled with poison.
"I...I was stupid...couldn't...keep...promise...so I did it...I...drank...this..."
"No!" I cried out. "We are so close! Just a little more...I was going to prove your innocence!"
"No...don't want that...Don't...trust...self...Maybe kill again...Kill sweet Dahlia...again..."
"Mr. Fawles!"
"Mr. Ar...Armando...th-thanks...for the...coffee..." Terry collapsed on the ground. The bailiff rushed over to check him, but he had stopped breathing. The bailiff ran out to call an ambulance.
"Mr. Fawles!" I cried out again, this time on the verge of tears. The coffee. Before his testimony, Terry complained about being thirsty and had asked for something to drink. Diego gave him a cup of coffee. He must have slipped the poison bottle's contents into that mug without anyone noticing.
We all stood there silently, waiting ten minutes until the paramedics arrived. The judge was in a state of shock. Edgeworth was staring at his shoes, and I could see him shaking all the way from the other side of the courtroom. I was similarly worse for wear, a mixture of anger and sadness taking over me. Diego was the only one who wasn't completely bewildered, silently sipping his coffee and looking off into space.
The paramedics arrived at the scene, but it was too late. Terry Fawles was pronounced dead right then and there. They carefully placed his body in a cadaver bag. It was so surreal to see him, this oafish muscle-bound man, once alive and now completely lifeless and easily movable.
Following this horrific scene, the judge declared this trial adjourned. Dahlia is scheduled to stand trial on a later date but, with both witnesses dead, it is likely her case will be dismissed before it goes to court. Slowly, the spectators and the judge filed out of the courtroom. Dahlia left with them, escorted by the bailiff, and I could swear that she smirked at me as she walked out.
Then Edgeworth, still shaking, walked out too. With the courtroom door left ajar, I could see him pacing around the lobby, sitting down, then getting up and pacing again. After a few minutes he walked out, presumably to go gather himself at his office in the Prosecutor's Building next door or in his luxury car. That's what I would do too if I had a car or an office. This left just me and Diego, standing in complete silence in the emptied courtroom.
"Unforgivable, that witch," Diego said angrily. He was agitated, slamming his coffee cup hard on the desk.
"M-Mr. Armando..." I replied, with surprise. He had been so quiet and unwavering that I assumed he hadn't felt as upset as I was.
"We were so close to the truth. It was right there in front of us. You were just a little too soft, kitten."
I sighed. That nickname again. I was really hoping that, after the events of today, after the case I presented, he could treat me like a colleague. An equal. I guess I didn't live up to the expectations that I and everyone else had for me today.
"It's my fault! It's all my fault that Mr. Fawles killed himself!" I said, almost hysterically. I was so ashamed and disappointed that I lost, and saddened that my client suffered the greatest losses he possibly could have imagined today. Dead and his reputation irreparably ruined.
"Don't cry, kitten. You're going to make my coffee all salty," Diego said genially, although he seemed a little taken aback by my distressed response.
"I-I knew it...! I kn-knew I wasn't cut out for this...!"
"Mia..." he said softly.
My name. It stopped me dead in my tracks. Finally.
"Don't you get it?" He slammed his coffee down hard again, then thinking better of treating his sacred vessel that way, picked it up again. "You can't cry yet." He paused and a wave of intensity came over his face as he gripped the cup harder and harder. Finally, it shattered. All that slamming must have done a number on that mug as he crushed it into shards with only his hand, spilling the remaining liquid and cutting his palm, blood rushing out. "The only time a lawyer can cry is when it's all over."
"M-Mr. Armando..."
"You don't have to call me that. Diego is fine," he said matter-of-factly. He continued to look off into the distance, seemingly not at all bothered by what had just happened.
"Um, Diego," I said hesitantly. I had typically called him by that name before, but it suddenly felt inappropriate when he was my co-counsel and supervisor on this case. "Your hand is bleeding. Did you not notice?" I looked around the room for something to help clean him up. Luckily, the court cleaner had accidentally left behind a roll of paper towels and some disinfectant underneath the defense stand. I brought them to him.
"Shit! I'm sorry, I've made a huge mess. I'll clean it up." He wrapped the paper towel around his palm several times until the bleeding stopped and tied the end into a rough knot. Then he took the cleaning solution and began wiping the blood and coffee off the ground. He was trying his best, but his hand was too much of a liability right now. So, I helped him gather and dispose of the shards and do a more serviceable job of cleaning.
"Guess this case affected you too, huh?" I asked, as I put the last of the shards in the trash can. He now seemed quite rattled by the incident, so I tried to keep my tone casual and non-judgmental.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that." He laughed breathlessly. "Sorry again. That was my favorite mug, I don't know what came over me. You shouldn't be cleaning my mess."
I smiled reassuringly. I wasn't used to seeing this side of him. Less arrogant and more amenable. "It's okay, your hand is pretty beaten up. And trust me, I get it. That Dahlia Hawthorne girl drives me crazy. I'm so upset, I feel like shoving her off a bridge myself."
"That's not healthy, kid." Oh, yay, a new nickname. "You really should do something to help cope with your anger." I could tell that he was only teasing me, but I still felt the need to push back.
"Neither is crushing a coffee mug with your bare hand and slicing your palm open," I volleyed back.
"Touché."
"You have to admit, I've got you there," I replied, smirking.
He grinned. "That you do. Spoken like a true defense lawyer." He sighed. "Well, it sounds like we both need to do something to get this case off our minds." He paused for a second, like he was generating an idea. "Wanna go for a drink?"
"O-oh. Ummmm." This question shouldn't have caught me off-guard. I had long sensed that he was interested in me, and yet I wasn't prepared for it. I was torn. On the one hand, a drink sounded great right now. I had calmed down a little bit but was still quite shaken. On the other hand, I don't want to risk this turning into something else. I just had my first trial, and it went horribly. I can't jeopardize my job right now. "Is drinking really considered a healthy coping strategy?" I now had another reason to feel anxious, but I tried my best to sound jovial.
"No. No, not really. But, hey, it's the only idea I've got!" His confident demeanor seems to have returned completely. What mug? What hand? "Hey, if you don't want to, that's okay. I just figured, it's Saturday, it's not that late. There is a bar a few blocks away that's pretty decent. We can have one drink, go home, and relax the rest of the weekend. As much as we can relax, anyway."
"Well..." I know I should say no, but what's one drink going to hurt? "Well okay. Honestly, a drink could really take the edge off."
"Alright then. Let's grab our stuff and head out."
"Sure." I laughed. "Maybe we can find a first-aid kit somewhere so you can bandage that hand."
He looked down at his makeshift bandage. The blood had seeped through the paper towels and the knot he had tied had become frayed, starting to rip apart. He flashed that megawatt smile. "That sounds like an excellent idea."