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Foggy took one look at Matt and wanted to punch something, or more specifically someone, to wit: his best friend and law partner—the operative phrase in this case being law partner.
“Did you go out last night?” Why was he even asking? The evidence was staring him in the face.
The one good thing that could be said was that Matt didn’t look freshly injured. His black eye from a few days ago was fading nicely and a glance at his knuckles showed he hadn’t ripped open the scabs there and he wasn’t visibly bleeding through his suit, so…that was something.
But Foggy was, unfortunately, something of an expert witness when it came to evaluating Matt’s physical state, enough to conclude that he probably had some fresh (and very painful) injuries hidden under his suit and he was definitely concussed. The very fact that Matt had chosen a black suit contributed to Foggy’s reasonable suspicion that Matt was, indeed, actively bleeding somewhere.
What else could possibly explain his sickly pallor, the glazed look in his eyes, the sweat beading at his temples, and the way he was leaning so heavily against the doorframe?
Not to mention the way his response to Foggy’s question was just to stare blankly at him. “…Huh?”
Swearing loudly, Foggy grabbed Matt’s arm and yanked him fully into their office—only feeling a little bad when Matt let out something like a whine of discomfort. “I can’t believe you! How many times have we had this conversation! It’s the defense’s case in chief and closing arguments today and you specifically told me you wanted these parts and now you show up concussed?”
“I’m not…Fogs, I’m not…”
“Like hell you’re not.” Foggy shoved him onto one of their crappy reception chairs and plucked his glasses off his face. His pupils were even, so that was something. Next, he carded a hand through his best friend’s hair, feeling for bumps and bloody cuts. “You know how important this case is to the Valencia’s—you’re the one who decided to take it! And now you go out and get beat up right before the hardest part?”
Matt’s eyes had drifted closed at Foggy’s touch. “Can you…be quieter…”
Only years of dealing with this sort of thing—and one guilty conversation when Matt explained just how bad his senses could get when he was concussed—got Foggy to modulate his voice despite his anger. It was just…how were they still dealing with this? The Valencia’s showed up at Nelson and Murdock’s with most of their belongings in trash bags after their landlord decided to go the self-help route to secure a very illegal eviction, and of course Matt immediately pledged to help them, and now here they were.
“You’re the one who prepped all their witnesses,” he hissed. Foggy was never cross-examining a witness without prep again.
“I know,” Matt mumbled with his eyes still closed. “M’fine. I can do this.”
“I’m pretty sure I have an ethical obligation to our client not to let you cross-examine the defense witnesses in an eviction case while concussed.”
“M’not concussed, I swear.”
Yeah, Foggy had heard that one before, and he wasn’t falling for it, not—
“M’sick.”
Oh.
Foggy realized belatedly that Matt’s forehead under his hand was clammy. He considered backing away, getting distance between them. But who was he kidding? He and Matt had been sharing germs like family since law school. If Foggy was gonna get whatever Matt had, it was probably already in his system and just waiting to show symptoms.
Great. Just great.
“Okay,” Foggy said slowly, gathering himself. “Sorry for yelling at you. Just, tell me where your notes are, and I’ll—”
“Notes?” Matt scrunched up his forehead in confusion.
Foggy was trying to be patient but he was also keenly aware that they had to leave in about thirteen minutes unless they wanted to be late to court. “Your cross questions and your notes for closing. C’mon, I need to translate from braille.”
Finally, Matt opened his eyes. They somehow looked determined, despite still seeming glazed. “I told you. I can do this.”
“Um, no, you look like you’re gonna pass out or throw up.”
“Not gonna pass out,” Matt answered, his voice weirdly breathy, “and I haven’t thrown up in…like…five hours…”
“Matt!”
“C’mon, we gotta go.” Matt groped—groped—around until he found Foggy’s hand and started uncurling Foggy’s fingers so he could take his glasses back.
How was this Foggy’s life? He could have been working in a cushy law office where they only went to trial point one percent of the time and settled all the rest of their cases for outrageous amounts of money.
“Okay,” Foggy muttered. “Okay, fine. Let’s do this.”
Foggy was about eighty-six percent sure Matt passed out in the cab on the ride to the courthouse. Matt denied it, obviously, but Foggy knew the signs.
Foggy also knew that arguing with him about it was a surefire way to waste what little strength Matt had left, so he decided to pretend he was the one who was actually sick and this was all just a fever dream.
They made it to the courthouse. Matt stopped dead at the base of the giant outer stairs, leaning hard on his cane, which he held in a white-knuckled grip.
Foggy hovered at his side, holding both their satchels. “Not too late to just go home and get some sleep.”
Matt drew a deep breath. “You can’t read my notes.”
“I’ll ask for a mistrial.”
“You can’t just—”
“Sure I can. My partner’s sick and I can’t read his notes.”
To Foggy’s shock, Matt actually seemed to consider it. He hesitated, wetting his upper lip. Then, suddenly, he shook his head. “It’s Judge Burke. She’d never go for it.”
That was true. Judge Burke was a visiting judge from another county, covering because their normal judge—the judge who had handled every single pretrial motion thus far—was suddenly on vacation. Like most visiting judges, Judge Burke had her own way of handling a case, and didn’t care one bit for the fact that the attorneys were used to anything different. She also, like many visiting judges, was alert for the slightest sign that the attorneys were trying to sneak something past her.
And finally, she was an arrogant jerk who’d already made it clear that she thought any attorney who took a case to trial was an idiot for not finding a way to settle it outside of court—regardless of what was best for the clients.
Matt drew a deep breath. “Besides,” he managed on an exhale, “our witnesses did great. Don’t wanna…have to…redo it all…”
Or give the other side the chance to better prepare. “…Yeah,” Foggy sighed. “You’re right.”
“I’m okay,” Matt said, as if to himself. Clenching his jaw, he started up the stairs.
It took like five minutes. Actually, a glance at Foggy’s watch confirmed that it took six minutes and thirty-five seconds because Matt had to stop so many times, and when they finally got to the top of the stairs and Foggy offered Matt his arm for support, he could feel how sweaty his friend was.
So that was why he’d gone for an all-black suit today.
Foggy gave him about thirty more seconds to catch his breath before half-pulling, half-carrying him through the metal detectors. The sound of the machine going off on the lady in front of them made Matt blanch and swallow hard.
Then they were through the metal detectors and into the nearest empty elevator.
Matt immediately slumped against the wall, drawing deep, quick breaths.
Foggy awkwardly watched the lights on the panel until they reached their floor.
As soon as the elevator dinged, Matt reached for Foggy, his aim off by a few inches. “Fogs…don’t let the Valencia’s talk to me. They’ll worry.”
“Uh…” Foggy glanced down the hallway and, yup, their clients were already outside the courtroom door. “Hate to be the one to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure they’re gonna worry anyway. But sure, I’ll tell them you’re focusing.”
Matt nodded, slight relief lessening the tension in his face that his glasses couldn’t quite hide.
So Foggy stepped in front of him as they exited and set a quick pace, smoothly running interferences. Hey guys, how you doing, ready for the last day of trial, don’t worry about Matt, he’s a bit under the weather today but he’ll do great, you’ll see….
The Valencia’s did not look exactly convinced.
The bailiff was frowning outside their courtroom. She was brusque and business-like, tolerated Foggy, but genuinely liked Matt. “Murdock all right?” she asked. And yeah, under the harsh fluorescent light, Matt looked kinda like a vampire: ghostly pale, the light reflecting on his blood-red glasses, all in black.
“He’s fine,” Foggy lied. “C’mon, everyone,” he added to the Valencia’s, and herded them all through the doors and into their seats in the galley. Then Foggy got to counsel table and started unloading Matt’s satchel for him.
“Thanks,” Matt said, appearing soundlessly. Foggy really should be used to that by now, but he still jumped a little. “Sorry.” Matt didn’t bother folding up his cane, just propped it against the table, which he also leaned against.
Foggy arranged Matt’s notes in what he hoped was the right order in front of him. “Last chance to have me to do this. You can just whisper everything to me—”
“All rise!” the bailiff announced.
Judge Burke appeared in her flowing black robes, settling into her seat at the bench and promptly calling the case and asking if there were any preliminary issues to address prior to bringing in the jury.
“No,” the defense attorney said immediately and loudly, standing up and flashing a toothy smile at Judge Burke.
To her credit, she seemed as annoyed with him as she was with everyone. “Plaintiff?” she prompted.
That was them. Normally Matt would answer the question, since he’d be handling the next part of the trial, but he seemed busy trying to breathe quietly.
“Um,” Foggy said. Matt was going to murder him for this. “Just. Well. My partner, Mr. Murdock, he’s not feeling well—”
Matt’s head whipped around and Foggy could feel his glare even through his glasses.
“—so I’m just going on record saying, if one of us asks for a recess…we seriously need it.”
Burke’s eyebrows crawled upwards on her forehead. “I see.”
Matt’s jaw was clenched so hard, it hurt just to look at it. But he couldn’t exactly murder Foggy in the middle of the courtroom, so Foggy figured he was safe at least until the trial was over.
“If there’s nothing else?” Burke waited a moment, then gestured to the bailiff. “All rise for the jury.”
The bailiff disappeared out a side door, sure to return in a few seconds with the jury in tow.
Foggy stood up.
And Matt…well, Matt tried.
He braced both hands on the table. He took a deep breath. He even shifted his weight forward a little.
He didn’t quite make it to his feet.
Shit, shit, shit. Foggy barely had time to loop an arm around Matt and pull him upwards before the jury came filing into the courtroom. Matt shrugged off him as fast as he could and they both tried to pretend that hadn’t just happened. Foggy winced under the bailiff’s worried stare, the jury’s confused glances.
Not that Judge Burke seemed to care at all.
Once the jury was seated and accounted for in the jury box, everyone else was allowed to sit down. Matt dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. His hand slipped under his glasses to press against his closed eyelids.
Foggy guiltily tried to slow his heartrate, hoping Matt somehow couldn’t pick up on his anxiety.
Judge Burke gestured to the defense. “Your witness.”
“Thank you,” the defense attorney said, puffing out his chest like he thought this was all gonna be aired on TV. “The Defense calls Ryan Widak.”
The Valencia’s ex-landlord was seated opposite them in the galley, dressed impeccably. He entered the well of the courtroom and was sworn in with the general air of someone mildly inconvenienced by the entire proceeding.
Foggy dug out a notepad and a pen. Partly to take notes. Mostly to distract himself from this fever dream. Not like the defense attorney was doing anything important right now, just going over the basics with the landlord.
Until he whipped out a stack of papers. “Mr. Widak, in your experience, have the Valencia’s ever been untruthful with you about their housing situation?”
Matt shot to his feet like he’d been struck by lightning, slamming one hand down onto the table to brace himself. “Objection,” he rasped. “Rule 401, 403, 405b, and 608b. Your Honor, we all know where this is going…and it’s nothing more than a blatant attempt to confuse and mislead the jury and…attempt to improperly impeach the Valencia’s.”
Then he paused and very loudly caught his breath.
Foggy blinked despite himself.
Judge Burke also blinked. “I’ll allow it,” she said.
But Matt didn’t back down. The microphone projected his weak voice: “Your Honor, Judge Carter already ruled on this motion at a pretrial conference…four weeks ago…and Defense knows perfectly well that this line of questioning is inadmissible. Are we to understand, then…that Your Honor…is contradicting Judge Carter’s prior ruling?”
Oh, shit.
Foggy resisted the temptation to sink lower in his chair. This was an awful gamble. If Judge Burke was pissed off—and why wouldn’t she be—
But Judge Burke blinked again. She glanced surreptitiously to her law clerk, who nodded equally surreptitiously.
And the defense attorney wasn’t saying anything.
Because Matt was right. Because of course he was.
Burke’s face became an impassive mask. “Well,” she said, “if Judge Carter has already ruled on it, I will sustain the objection.”
The defense attorney was too professional to scowl, but he did crumple up the papers he’d apparently planned on sneaking in as exhibits, trusting that a visiting judge wouldn’t have time to trawl through the lengthy record he’d created in this case by filing about fifty pointless motions.
As for Matt, he was trembling slightly as he lowered himself back into his seat.
Foggy released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good job, buddy,” he whispered under his breath, too quietly for anyone but Matt to hear him.
Matt quirked his lips in acknowledgement.
Five hours later, the jury was back. The Valencia’s were awarded damages for relocation costs as well as for lost and damaged property. For them, it was just the first step on a long road back to secure housing. But it was a crucial step.
Foggy warned them away from Matt again, and dutifully accepted their tearful hugs. He briefed them on the next steps they should expect, all the while keeping an eye on Matt, who was slouched down on the hallway bench with his head in his hands.
After what felt like another five hours, the Valencia’s finally gave Foggy a few final hugs, gathered their things, and left. Foggy made straight for Matt, who weakly raised his head.
Foggy held out his hand for a fist bump. “You did it, buddy!”
It took about three seconds for Matt to locate, identify, and process Foggy’s fist, before he raised his own to return the gesture.
“Now c’mon.” Foggy grabbed his satchel, slinging it over his shoulder with his own bag. “I’m loading you into a cab and sending you straight home.”
For once in their entire relationship, Matt didn’t argue.