6

Chapter Five

[Three Weeks Later]

"Here we are, pastrami on rye!" Two plates slid onto my table: one with a sandwich piled so high with pastrami that I'd have to take off half the meat just so it would fit in my mouth, the other with a few extra slices of rye bread. "I'll be right back with a go bag for whatever leftover you got."

"Thanks again Becka," I told her, sliding two singles across the table to the woman who'd brought my food over, which she slipped into a pocket in her apron in a single practiced movement.

"Just make sure to actually eat this time, you're too skinny, I can see your arm bones! I swear Noa, how you don't freeze in the winter I'll never know." And with that the neighborhood yenta, Rebecca Kaplan, went back behind the counter to annoy her husband. I just smiled to myself and went about setting up my sandwich the way I liked it, glad that for once she hadn't tried to recommend another local "nice Jewish boy". Was it annoying? A bit, sure, but finding a Jewish deli with an attached diner, particularly one that was open at the hours Kaplan's was, had been a godsend for my sanity.

After all, where else could I go at three am on a Thursday to get actually good matzah ball soup with kreplach?

But today wasn't Thursday. Today was Sunday, and I was taking a day off.

It seemed irresponsible of me to not be doing anything while my client sat in juvie, waiting for the day that would determine the course of the rest of his life, didn't it? Well, when I first started out as an attorney, I would have agreed with you. It's very easy to let the job become your life, to let the duty you owe to your clients consume everything else.

This lasts about as long as it takes for you to miss a very obvious argument or piece of evidence that you overlooked because your eyes glazed over, and makes having it pointed out by your supervising attorney just that much more embarrassing.

One of the hardest things to do in the profession is to let yourself take a step back. Yes, your work is incredibly important. Yes, people are counting you. But you can't do your best work if you're firing on all cylinders all day, every day, with no breaks. If you want to stay in peak form, you need to take some time for yourself occasionally. More than that, stepping away for a bit gave you enough time away from whatever you were working on that you can look at it with (relatively) fresh eyes.

And in an internet-free world, there were a hell of a lot more obligatory social activities. Trivia nights, amateur sports leagues, book clubs… and I was getting tired of having to rewind the tapes on my answering machine.

And so it was that I occasionally left my pager at home, told the firm to let any callers know I'd be back in the next day, and gave myself twenty-four hours to myself.

This was that day for me to recharge my batteries, and it was well-earned. A talk with the bodega owner, one Alejandro de Soto, confirmed St. John's account of what happened. Moreover, Mr. de Soto confirmed that the four thugs that jumped my client had a bad reputation in the area, which meant that between him and St. John, I could slip that fact into the record with little to no difficulty.

(I also left the bodega with an amazing cubano, which I genuinely felt guilty about enjoying when I passed by the synagogue on my way back to the office… sorry Rabbi Rivkin.)

Beyond that, the lab we worked with for handling physical evidence finished processing the bottle we found. Sure enough, the dried blood on the bottle was the same blood type as St. John's, and the fingerprints were the victim's. Unfortunately, I had to share the report and hand the bottle over to the prosecution for processing, so I had no idea what changes they would make to Mick Samuelson's testimony based on that bit coming to light.

What I did know is that I would be raking him over the coals for leaving it out of his initial interview. That, and grilling him on where his clothes allegedly got lit on fire; we'd finally received that bit of evidence for ourselves yesterday, and I sent it out for testing.

Waiting on that to come back left me in a bit of a "hurry up and wait" scenario. So, rather than think myself into the ground with six more weeks to trial… I decided a day off was in order.

"And Spider-Man has defeated the Vulture once again!" My gaze shifted to the TV mounted in the corner of the diner, a bulky 10-inch CRT sat on an alcove that looked to have been carved out specifically for it. "Spider-Man, over here! Spider-Man, that device you used to stop Vulture from flying, who did you get it from? Iron Man? Mr. Fantastic?"

I'd thought the hero would just swing away, but much to my surprise, he actually made a picture-perfect landing right next to the reporter, whose lack of flinch made me realize this wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Adding to my surprise was that Spider-Man's suit was red and black, not red and blue.

Wow, I really needed to watch the news more, didn't I?

"Oh, that thing?" Spider-Man shifted, his body language exaggerated, but clearly reading as bashful. "I built that myself actually. It took about three days, little embarrassed about that, but hey! At least it worked!"

"Well I'd say it worked pretty well, the Vulture dropped like a rock!" The reporter, a pretty little redhead, said this with a titter. Spider-Man, for his part, looked more than a little uncomfortable. "While I have you, anything you'd like to the people of New York?"

"Oh! Uh, well! Stay safe, don't do drugs, go Mets! Alright gotta go bye!" An instant later Spider-Man was gone, and the report on the Vulture's shenanigans in Harlem continued. But the good-natured booing from almost everyone else in the Manhattan diner remained.

Personally, I thought as I finished the first quarter of my sandwich and flipped open my copy of the Times, I thought he had it right. Let's go Mets.

Captain America Joins Avengers!

I had a feeling this cover story was coming sooner rather than later, but it was still fascinating to read. Though the reporter could absolutely have done without trying to set up a rivalry narrative between the Avengers and Fantastic Four. Really, they couldn't just let the Avengers have their day in the limelight, could they? Seriously, when you can live out the rest of the news cycle in the shadows of the Baxter Building and still wind up with something second- or third-page worthy every day, you can save manufacturing a rivalry for tomorrow's—

"You look like you could use some company."

I looked up from the newspaper to see a familiar man standing beside the booth, an amused expression on his face. More of his hair was silver than when I'd last seen him, which meant I still couldn't tell whether he was dying his hair brown or actually going gray. He slid into the other side of the booth with a mostly-suppressed wince, helping himself to the back half of my Sunday paper.

"Hello again Erik," I said, looking up at him from over the top of my newspaper. "Why yes, take a seat, please. Of course you can have that half of the paper, thank you for asking. Oh, lunch is your treat, you're such a gentleman."

"Ah, Noa," he said with a smile and a put-upon shrug of his shoulders. "Moments like this I wonder why I continue to put up with you." A waitress in the diner came over with a menu, which Erik accepted with a polite thanks. "You've been busy these past few weeks, I see."

"If you came to New York just to bother me, please leave," I told him, reaching for my sandwich. "This is the only day off I've allowed myself in the past three weeks, and if it's all the same to you I'd rather at least try and relax."

"I do need a brief bit of your help again," he said, folding the half of my newspaper he'd claimed and draping it over his right leg. "But I mainly came because it is my turn to do you a favor."

I frowned, and followed his actions. "Right leg?"

"Knee," he confirmed.

I sighed, but reached my hand under the table and beneath the newspaper to rest my hand on his knee, catching the wince on his face when my fingers found their mark. Then, with a deep breath and sharp focus, I pulled at my magic, and let it flow from the center of my being.

Light flowed from my fingertips, hidden from prying eyes by the newspaper, and entwined in strands around Erik's leg before sinking beneath the fabric of his slacks. I let the magic permeate his flesh, allowing it to heal him without trying to control the process. The spell already followed my intent; trying to control the exact course of the sorcery would only weaken the end result, according to the good doctor. So instead, I just allowed it to happen.

And moments later, Erik's knee was good as new. I withdrew my hand and leaned back into the booth, eyes closed, doing my best to ignore the sharp increase in my hunger. Using magic without a focus always took a lot out of me, but it was a lot more flexible and discrete. That, and the current downside was easily mitigated, as I picked up the larger half my pastrami sandwich and tore into it, letting Erik sit in silence as I ate (though he did order a sandwich of his own).

"So what's the excuse this time," I asked once the waitress left to put in his order. "Alpine skiing? Whitewater rafting?"

"Trying to fly through a tornado," he said, his expression totally neutral. I raised an eyebrow at him in as derisive a manner as I knew, to which Erik scowled. "Not my finest moment."

"And somehow all you got from that monumental display of stupidity was a bum knee," I said with a smirk. "Consider yourself lucky."

"More so than you have been of late." This time, it was my turn to scowl. "I do try to pay attention to the news beyond just the first page, Noa."

"Well then I'm not sure what you want me to tell you," I said, fingers circling the rim of my water glass. "I can't tell you what I know you want me to. If I do, that voids the attorney-client privilege. And if that happens… well, suffice to say I can't let that happen." I looked up from my water to look Erik in the eye. "Go ahead and ask. I'll answer what I can, but don't press your luck."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Erik said with a smile.

And so, he began to ask. His sandwich arrived, I bagged mine, and through it all, I kept having to repeat a familiar refrain: "I can't answer that."

For twenty minutes this went on. Twenty minutes of watching the disappointment spread further across Erik's forehead, of having to put a hand on my silverware to keep even the subtle rattle he managed to keep it from becoming audible.

"I don't know what I expected," Erik said, his plate cleaned (and my own leftovers hidden in a takeaway bag on my side of the booth). "But I dare say I expected to get a little more than this."

"You shouldn't have," I scolded. "I am a professional, Erik, and professionals have standards we need to follow. Everything I told you just now, you could have gotten by going down to the courthouse and paying a nominal fee for publicly-available documents."

"And you are certain that—"

"Yes, Erik." I interrupted him immediately, refusing to let him get any further down that line of thought. "Look. I understand why you see things the way you do," I said with a meaningful glance at his left arm.

"Then you must see that I am right." His voice came out in a hiss, low and dangerous.

"I think that you're cynical," I fired back.

"I have always been optimistic about mutantkind's future," Erik said, sitting up straighter in the booth. "Always. Even at the most dismaying of times."

"Then put your money where your mouth is and prove it," I challenged. "Right now, this is my battle to fight. If you want to help, fine. But you play by my rules, not yours." I slid out of the booth and picked up my leftovers and purse. Erik rose with me, instinctively grabbing his hat, as well as both our checks. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have roller derby tonight, and I'd like to enjoy the rest of my one day off for the next two months."

Character evidence is a very tricky thing. In a he-said she-said matter, the jury is going to believe whoever they find to be more trustworthy, and character evidence is one way that you can establish somebody is trustworthy. Normally, I wouldn't even bother with character evidence in support of my client – in a self-defense case, you're allowed to offer reputation or opinion evidence regarding the victim, which can be used to explain why the defendant felt the need to fight back. That wasn't a problem. I didn't have to fight to get that on the record.

The problem here? We had a mutant defendant and a human victim.

At the current time, there existed no binding precedent regarding how a mutant power is to be viewed in the eyes of the law. California, DC, and upstate New York all considered the actual effect of a mutant power before determining whether to class it as a deadly weapon. Meanwhile, multiple states in the south all viewed them as deadly weapons unless the defendant can prove that it was impossible to use as a weapon – such as if somebody's mutation was just the ability to see in other spectrums of light.

These were not binding precedent, however. There were no higher court rulings in the state of New York to give me a definitive answer regarding how you view a mutant power. And worryingly, all of the persuasive precedent argued against St. John.

All of this meant that if we didn't get somebody willing to stand in St. John's corner, then unless I put him on the stand – and believe me, you do not put the defendant on the stand in a case like this except as a last resort – nobody would be able to explain how St. John was most likely to use his powers in any particular circumstance.

So, during a visit with St. John, I asked him if he had any friends who knew he was a mutant, who he had used his power around, and who he thought would be willing to go to bat for him in court.

He gave me a list of twenty names. And after phone calls and preliminary interviews with all twenty of them, I could indeed confirm that yes, each and every one of them would gladly stare down a jury for him. In all fairness? I should've expected this response.

I was, after all, a theater kid myself.

Unfortunately, much as I would love to have twenty witnesses all get up on the stand and explain what kind of person St. John Allerdyce was, and why it was patently ridiculous to assume he'd actively assault somebody… I couldn't do that. Given that I was trying to exclude two of Mick's three fellow thugs under Rule 403, the exact same would be used against me. Knowing this judge, I could get at most two character witnesses, and that was being optimistic.

I wasn't paid to be optimistic. So I gave myself one character witness. And that's where it got hard.

See, the theater crowd is often made up of the misfits, the outcasts, the oddballs, the 'quirky kids' that don't fit in anywhere else. This was based on a number of factors, yes, but the one that worried me the most was appearance. A person's appearance is the first impression the jury gets, and if they thought the witness looked like a misfit or a rascal, there was a real chance my witness's testimony got disregarded entirely. I needed somebody whose appearance wasn't threatening, someone who looked immediately respectable.

So with this in mind, I settled on the one that reminded me of myself: a nice Jewish girl from the Midwest, come to the big city on an opportunity. She came in accompanied by her grandfather, a kind old man who, like Erik, wore long sleeves even on a summer day.

I was very glad I could convince him to stay outside for the mock cross.

"You've only known the defendant for two years," Matt said, pacing. He was on the far side of the well of the firm's moot courtroom, opposite both the jury and the stand. I had to hide a smile at his technique; this was exactly what you were supposed to do on cross examination. During a direct, you stand directly in front of the jury box, so the witness is looking at the jury when they answer. On cross, however? You stand on the far side, so the witness has to turn away from the jury to answer you.

"Why does that matter? He's still my friend!" Our character witness, with whom Matt was conducting a mock cross examination, on the other hand? Well... remember how I said she reminded me of myself?

As it turns out, this was in more ways than one.

"The witness will answer the question," I admonished, serving the role of the judge for the moment.

"Wha—fine, yes! Okay?"

"And you have only been friends for less than half that."

"Why do you care how long we've been friends!?" She slammed both hands down on the stand and stood up from her chair. "What, is it not allowed to just be his friend!?"

"Shit," I murmured under my breath, and slammed the gavel down on the bench. "Alright, everybody calm down, we're taking a break." Our teenage witness threw herself back in her chair with a huff, arms crossed over her chest, giving Matt the nastiest glare she could manage before spinning the chair to face the wall. "Mr. Murdock, could you give us a moment alone? Maybe update her grandfather on what's happening?"

"I can do that," Matt said with a nod. He made his way out of the room, and I barely heard him address the elderly gentleman just outside before the door closed.

I stepped down from the bench, and leaned against the counsel's table.

"Katherine," I began, "if you don't think you're cut out for this, there are a few backup candidates I can ask."

"No, I can do this!" Katherine stood up from the witness's seat and stepped down from the stand, then took to pacing the well of the moot court with a frantic, nervous energy. "It's just, that was horrible! He's just parroting what I said back at me, but it all sounds wrong!"

"That's what a cross examination is like," I told her, sighing. "The other side has listened to your testimony, and is now going to try and poke holes in it. He's going to imply that you haven't known John long enough to defend him, or that maybe you don't know him as well as you thought you did, or any number of other things. They want to try and trip you up, get you to go back on something you've already said, and look like a liar on the stand."

"And I'm just supposed to sit there and let him?" she asked, glowering.

"You? Yes. Me? No." I picked up a small booklet and tossed it to her. "These are the federal rules of evidence. This is the rulebook. If he breaks the rules, or even gets close to it, I get to interrupt him. I will do this as much as I can, but in between objections, I need you to keep your cool."

"So I just have to take it?" Katherine asked. "I have to just sit there and let them say that my friend's a monster, and I have no choice but to let him twist my words and hope people still believe me?"

"That is exactly what you have to do," I told her. "The judge may have granted my motion, but John still has two people who are going to try their level best to make him look like a demon out of hell. And I guarantee that there will be at least four people on that jury who will believe them, for no other reason than that your friend was born a mutant."

"But that's not fair!"

"You're right," I told Katherine. "It's absolutely not fair that he's being judged because of what he was born as. And guess what? You get to experience some of that too. If you respond in any way that's not unfailingly polite, at all, the jury will stop caring about what you say. They'll say you're hormonal, or you're irrational, or that the witness stand made you fall into hysterics."

"They what?" Katherine asked, utterly aghast. "But, but that's so stupid! Anyone would get upset if they were treated like this!"

"It is stupid," I said. "Believe me, I would know, because it's even worse when you're the attorney."

"But why!?"

I sighed, and walked over to the moot court stand and bench again. She probably didn't realize it, but Katherine had asked a rather insightful question, one that really didn't have a right answer, let alone a good one.

Why was it so hard to get people to respect you for who you are, as opposed to what?

"Because for a long time, society decided where we fit into it, and even now that we're able to make our own places, there is still pressure to let ourselves fall right back into that niche they've carved out for us. If you want to get anywhere, it's not enough to just be among the best. You also have to carry yourself with dignity and poise, maintain perfect behavior, make yourself unassailable."

I sighed, unable to keep the frown from my lips.

"Trust me when I say this. I've fallen afoul of this problem more than once. I'm sorry to have to introduce you to this side of the world while you're still a teen, but if John is to have a chance, any chance at all, he's going to need you at your absolute best."

Katherine sat down on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest.

"... how do you do it?" Katherine asked, her voice quiet, confused. "How do I get them to listen to me?"

"You remember exactly one thing," I said, favoring the girl with a smile. "Deep down, they are afraid of the potential societal change we represent. And you want to prove that fear right."

Katherine looked up, and after a few seconds, she met my smile with a shaky one of her own.

"Now, you're stuck with me for a bit more time," I told her, leaning back against the table. "You ready to give this another go?"

"Um, before that," Katherine started, voice hesitant. "You, uh… look, I don't want to be rude here, but you're really okay with John being a mutant, and that's… kinda weird?"

"Is it really?" I asked. I raised one hand up, and with a snap of my fingers, my glamour shattered into prismatic shards, and I was treated to the sight of Katherine's eyes growing wide as saucers.

"Whoa," she whispered.

"Mhmm." I flicked out one hand, light shimmering in my palm, and twisted it back around myself. Moments later, I resembled a baseline human once more. "Does that answer the question to your satisfaction?"

"Y-yeah," she stammered. "S-sorry, that was… super cool, oh my god—"

"Focus, Ms. Pryde," I admonished. "I'm about to call Matthew back in. Are you ready?"

"Sorry, sorry!" Katherine put a hand to her chest, closed her eyes, and took a slow, deep breath. "Alright, yeah. Ready."

"Excellent." Once Katherine got up and took her place on the witness stand once again, I walked over and opened the door to the moot courtroom. "Break time's over, Matthew. Let's go another round."