"That was sixteen years ago." Matthew Michael Murdock said, sitting in his dimly lit office. It was an unremarkable space, relatively small, and filled with stacks upon stacks of file folders. A few yards away from him, at an opposite, and similarly furnished desk, sat his legal partner, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, who wore a look of considerable angst on his face. At Matt's feet sat an empty, brown paper bag. The contents of the bag lay on his desk: a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Franklin had a similar bottle of the drink, sitting on his desk, also purchased by Matt. Matthew saw what alcohol had done to his father, but, on a night like this, with rain angrily lashing against the windows of his office, he couldn't help but drink. Unlike his father, Murdock was an occasional drinker. He may have spent every day of his life swearing off of the stuff, but Matthew had to face facts and be a realist: sometimes a guy just needed a drink.
"My god, Matthew." Franklin said, quietly, from across the office. "I'm...I don't know what to say."
Franklin's booze had only been drunk down to the bottom of the neck that led into the square frame of the bottle.
Matthew's was half-empty.
"I'm sorry."
Matthew smirked, clinching the bridge of his nose with his left hand, and the glass of whiskey and ice in his right. Franklin was a really decent man. In this life, Matthew knew just how rare of a thing that was. From the scent of his friend's skin, to the rhythm of his heart, right down to the depths of his breath, Matthew knew just how sincere Foggy was.
"Don't feel sorry for me, Foggy." In the distance, thunder howled
, "I've learned to live with it. Feel sorry for our client."
The Law Offices of Nelson and Murdock had actually developed something of a reputable name in Hell's Kitchen. As skilled attorneys, Matthew Murdock and Franklin Nelson had been able to skillfully help district attorneys in their investigations, got reasonable plea bargains for their clients, and weren't eager to bring their cases before juries. In fact, of all the local law firms, Murdock and Nelson were the only practicing attorneys who weren't looking to make a quick buck. With crime in Hell's Kitchen on the rise, shootings, accidents, and economic blights were growing more and more readily apparent. It seemed that a new, fresh face emerged from law school ready to lift the downtrodden in Hell's Kitchen to the upper levels of society by suing the state or another well-funded entity.
Not Murdock and Nelson, though. Despite the fact that they were worlds better than the ambulance chasing lawyers that prowled through Hell's Kitchen's hospitals, each had a degree in law from Columbia University's elite law school, Murdock and Nelson seemed truly dedicated to upholding the legal ideals of jurisprudence.
"Why would I feel sorry for her, Matt?" Foggy asked sympathetically. In truth, he was a bit worried about the case himself. But he had always deemed Matt as the more intuitive of the two of them when it came to the fact finding aspects of practicing law.
"Foggy!" Matt declared, as if Franklin had missed some key detail in the bigger picture,
"She's a twenty-something from the projects. We're in court one day and happen to get assigned to her case as a part of the public defender's program. We don't know her!"
Before Franklin spoke, he poured himself another glass of whiskey and watched carefully as the amber liquid glazed over the five or six ice cubes in his small glass.
"Matt." He said, coolly addressing his legal partner as he slowly sipped his drink, "She has been charged with robbery. She's got an alibi, and we're going to be able to call witnesses to the stand who can state they saw a male running from the scene, not a female."
Murdock leaned backwards in his chair and turned his head towards Foggy. Despite the red, dull lenses that reflected back at him in the shadows, Franklin was almost positive that Murdock was looking right at him.
"Foggy." Murdock said, taking another long drink,
"This is our first jury trial. All of our other cases have been settled before court. Tomorrow, we're going to be expected to object. We're going to be expected to deliver an hour-long, or more, opening statement, where we explain every aspect of our case to 12 strangers. Then, we're going to have to watch as the prosecution calls their witnesses. We're going to have front-row seats as District Attorney Marksfield brings forth Officer Jenkins and the store owner, and we're going to have to sit there while they condemn our client."
He leaned forward, refilling his empty glass. As he drank, he cringed. Franklin assumed it was because of the whiskey's strength. Murdock, however, could taste every different type of grain that went into the bottle's production. He could taste the tiniest particles of metal left over from the grinders that mashed the barley. He could even taste and smell the unique sugar maple charcoal that had been used in the Tennessee whiskey.
"If we're lucky, we'll have good cross examinations. If we're not, she'll only get shredded more. Then what, Foggy? Then we get to call our defense witnesses. We have to call a 64 year old woman who says she was in the store at the time of the incident, but, unfortunately, didn't know what store it was when she was questioned by police." He took another large gulp,
"Then we have to call our defendant's alibi: her mother. Because mothers have always been the shining example of trust when it came to legal defenses. After the prosecutor shreds our poor witness, we're going to have to call the defendant to the stand, because she's decided to waive her fifth amendment right against self-incrimination. We have to prove to 12 people who don't know this girl that she didn't rob a convenience store, when everyone the jury wants to trust will say she has."
Matthew took another drink of the liquor and cringed. Outside, rain slammed on a manhole, a taxi cab picked up a young man who wanted to go to Radio City, and a high-schooler was sitting with his girlfriend on the roof of an apartment building. Matt heard it all, and drowned it all out as he drank again. He stood up from his seat and looked out the window, a relatively pointless gesture. Placing his hands on his hips, he spoke once more, listening as the sound echoed throughout the office, bouncing off of the cold glass in front of him.
"Tomorrow, it all counts, Foggy. How we dress... our objections... how our client looks... the color of my sunglasses... the eloquence of our statements... the ferociousness of our cross examinations..." He slumped himself into his chair and rubbed his temples with his free hand.
"It all counts tomorrow, Foggy. And I don't want to let this girl down."
Franklin sipped, too, and leaned back.
"How many years did we go to law school together, at Columbia, Matt?"
Murdock sipped as he spoke from behind his glass,
"Three."
Foggy nodded, "That's right. And how many years did you spend in Moot Court competitions in college and when you were getting your degree?"
"All seven." Matthew responded.
"Bingo." Foggy agreed. "How many attempts did it take for you to pass the Bar exam in New York City?"
"Once." Murdock said, adjusting himself in his chair.
"Yep. Once. One time. It takes some attorneys years, Matt. Years. And you're forgetting the most important thing."
"What's that, Foggy?"
"Is she innocent?"
"Foggy," Murdock said snidely,
"You know as well as I that even if a defendant is innocent, that doesn't guarante--"
"Matt," there was something in Foggy's voice that calmed the young attorney down as he continued to drink, "is she innocent? And do you believe that she is innocent?"
"Franklin, I know she's innocent." Murdock acquiesced.
"Then you just have to show that to a jury." Foggy said, smiling slightly.
Murdock poured himself another drink and listened to the rain as it hammered outside. As much as he didn't want to admit it, there was a part of him that was confident for the trial that was coming for him tomorrow. He knew the law better than most of the other attorneys south of Harvard. In his stomach, though, he couldn't help but feel nervous. He had successfully negotiated the dropping of charges on some of previous clients, and had gotten fair sentences for the guilty men and women he had represented, the following day would prove to be his first trial in front of a jury. The twelve people in the jury box would be passing judgement on his client, but they'd be doing so being influence by him. The tie Murdock chose, his demeanor during examinations, the language that he chose as he spoke, all of it would influence the jury. It was more than enough pressure to justify Murdock's gulping from his glass of whiskey.
As the strange silence passed between the two lawyers, Foggy drank again and began sifting through a stack of folders and resumés on his desk.
"We're going to have to review these resumés and pick an assistant soon." He said, quietly.
"How many applications are there?" Murdock asked, refilling his glass, despite the fact it was still a third full.
Foggy rummaged through the papers.
"Sev--No, eight." He said.
"How many of them have degress as paralegals?"
Nelson glanced at the pages again, "Three."
Matthew nodded, tilting his head to the side and running his finger along his eyebrow.
"And the rest have secretarial degrees?" Matthew asked.
"Yeah, I think so." Foggy said, searching through the papers.
"We need a paralegal here. What schools did they go to?" Murdock said, rolling his chair back so it was square with his desk.
"One went to Hofstra, one went to a community college just south of Syracuse, the other went to Long Island U."
Murdock thought for a moment and poured himself another drink. He sat still for a few seconds.
"We'll get the one from Hofstra. Long Island U is a good school, so keep that one on file. Toss the rest."
"When do they start?" Foggy asked.
"Monday."
The tone with which he spoke had a note of finality, and Franklin took the cue to stop talking about work. Murdock rose to his feet and took the bottle up in his hand. The liquor had started getting to him. He could feel his temperature increasing as each minute passed. The glass and bottle clanged together as he held them in the same hand. He pulled off his blazer and tossed it into the chair he had left behind him. He made his way to the stairs at the back of the building with a bit of difficulty, but managed to pull himself up the five flights that allowed for roof access.
The building was close to the ground, only about 150 feet off of the pavement. Murdock loosened his tie as he made his way to the edge of the roof, where a border of brick enclosed the top of the building. He removed his glasses quietly and placed them on the brick, and did the same with the bottle. The glass he kept in his hand and continued to sip from.
Gazing into Hell's Kitchen was like looking into an oven. He knew that the neighborhood had the potential to be great, but it had hit a slump. Matt stood on the roof and let his thoughts wander, thinking about whatever came to his mind. Nothing of much relevance made it's way to the forefront of his brain, but he continued to stand, listlessly staring out at the city. A tire squeeled three blocks west.
Murdock heard Foggy slowly make his way onto the roof, standing in the doorframe of the stairwell door with a pitcher of water in his hand.
"If I go out there tomorrow and I fail that young woman, I'll be just as much of a failure to her as I am to him."
After spending seven years together, being dormmates, and starting a law practice, Matthew Murdock and Foggy Nelson had become best friends. Not a day went by when the two didn't see each other. The relationship he had with Foggy Nelson was one that Matthew Murdock prized more than any other. The two had seen a lot together, metaphorically speaking. And, when Matt spoke brought up an unexplained "he" in conversation, Foggy knew just who Matt meant.
"He'd be proud ouf you, Matt." Foggy said, putting an appreciative hand on Murdock's shoulder. Rain beat down upon the two of them, and Matt looked Foggy in the eyes.
"I know he would be." Matthew took a long swig from his glass and breathed deeply after doing so,
"But I can't shake the feeling that if I go in there tomorrow, and the trial comes to a close a few days from now, and our client is convicted... well... then maybe it will all have been for nothing. After all, what is a lawyer if he can't argue a case in front of a jury?"
"Hey, come on." Foggy said, doing his best to keep Matt's spirits high. The amber drink Matt held firmly in his grasp seemed dead-set on counteracting all of Foggy's work. "He'd be proud of you for what you've done already. Don't go in there tomorrow thinking that we're going to lose. With that mindset, our client will already be guilty. And no matter how many witnesses the district attorney may put on the stand, we have the truth on our side. All we have to do tomorrow is put it in that jury box."
"I wish it could be that simple." Matthew said, looking at Foggy. With the rain illuminating the world around him, Matthew for the first time noticed that Foggy wasn't wearing a tie.
"Juries are complicated, though. They'll be expecting men in Armani and high-priced cars."
The very tone that Matt spoke with, Foggy assumed, had to be a product of the alcohol he was drinking. Despite his deadened eyes, Foggy could always tell when Matthew was impassioned and ready to take on the world. Since law school, Matt never seemed rattled. There were days when it seemed that not even his disability got to him. During moot court rounds, it didn't matter to Matt who sat on the scoring panel, who the opponent was, or what the case materials included, he was always confident. More impressively, though, he always won. The alcohol was revealing an entirely new side to the young attorney who had, in law school, been nicknamed "The Man Without Fear."
"They'll have to make do with us, then, won't they?" Foggy asked with a smirk.
Murdock chuckled as he took another large sip from his drink. His thoughts about the day that was coming. He knew he was prepared. There wasn't a deposition he hadn't reviewed, a procedural rule of evidence he didn't know backwards. But, even still, he had a knot in his stomach. Nerves, anticipation, and excitement had all rolled themselves up into one big bundle.
"I'm going to head home." Foggy said, looking at his watch. "The clerk wants us there at 10:30 to go over pre-trial evidential matters, which means we have to arrive at the courthouse at 10."
Matthew nodded and felt his own watch. It was 10:48 PM.
"I'll see you then." He said.
"You don't want me to stay and get you home?" Foggy asked, ensuring that Matt knew what he was doing.
"I'll be fine, Foggy." Matthew said. Somewhere in the Upper East Side, thunder clapped in agreement.
"Alright. Tomorrow. 10 AM." Foggy said, placing the pitcher of water on the brick wall next to Matt's glasses. "Figured you'd need that eventually."
Matt nodded and patted Foggy's back as he walked back into the stairwell. With Foggy gone, Matthew leaned on the wall, staring out into the city. It was cold, mechanical, and heartless. Somehow, though, it was alive.
Murdock raised his glass as he watched Foggy leave the building and hail a cab.
"To you, Mr. Nelson." He said, toasting his partner, as the cab rolled away.
Murdock felt water rolling down the side of his face and blew away a few drops that were just on the edge of his upper lip.
In this life, Murdock knew, people have three choices: they can be good, they can get good, or they can give up. He had refused to do the third, despite being given plenty of opportunity and justification to do so. As for the first two, only the verdict could determine that. They say every man must have his day in court. In under twelve hours, Matthew Michael Murdock would get his.
