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December 19, 8:27 PM
Maximum Security Prison - Visitor’s Room
The Chief Prosecutor took a seat across from Simon on the visitor's side of the bullet proof glass. The creases in his forehead were deeper than they’d been that morning; it wasn’t hard to guess the reason for his visit.
“I take it the governor’s denied my appeal request.”
“For the time being.” Before the words had a chance to hit, Edgeworth softened them with an exhausted grin. “I’m afraid the best I could manage was a temporary Stay of Execution. My apologies”
Simon shook his head. “Nonsense. You’re as impressive as always, Edgeworth-Dono. I’d heard the blaggards in the capitol were eager for me to dance the gallow’s jig.”
“They are.” Simon snorts; Edgeworth had never been one to pull punches. “But it seems your sister’s hostage-taking has succeeded where politicking failed. The state can’t execute a man awaiting re-trial.”
“Hmph. That farce will be over the moment S.W.A.T. retrieves the hostages.”
“I’d appreciate it if you had a little more faith in me.”
“I don’t doubt your skills at the bench, Edgeworth-Dono. Merely the governor’s willingness to accept a ruling made under duress.”
Edgeworth pursed his lips. “I don’t deny that Ms. Blackquill has created a… unique legal situation, however --”
“I’m not a child in need of coddling. I know Aura’s foolishness accomplishes nothing.”
“Prosecutor Blackquill, if you’re even half the psychology expert you claim to be, you’ll start taking this opportunity seriously.” Edgeworth’s eyes flashed. The temperature in the room, already cool, dropped several degrees. “The Judge selected is one of the most respected men in the state. Both attorney Wright and I posses professional reputations beyond reproach and your sister’s actions have ensured national media coverage. Legality aside, whatever tomorrow’s outcome, the governor will face immense public pressure to uphold our verdict.”
Simon restrained a flinch. Edgeworth’s dressing down stung, but the alternative was equally ridiculous; that after all this time he might go free. That they might find Metis’ real killer, that -- a terrible thought shivered down his spine.
“Athena’s innocent.”
“I’m aware of your position.” Edgeworth gaze was calm, implacable, and without mercy.
“No.” Panic rose, choking him. Simon couldn’t let her become involved with this. He’d given seven years of his life so she wouldn’t be involved. Not again. “I won’t cooperate. I’ll confess. Promise me you won’t accuse her or I swear I’ll confess.”
“Ah yes. And history will repeat itself. You’ll die and the truth will die with you.”
Simon glared, unmoved, and the Chief Prosecutor sighed. “I can’t make any promises, Prosecutor Blackquill. In court it’s my duty to uncover the truth, no matter how terrible. But… if it’s any consolation, neither you nor Ms. Cykes are our primary suspects.”
Simon’s heart skipped a beat. “... The Phantom?”
Edgeworth’s gaze flitted to the room’s security cameras before he inclined his head. “We lack the evidence needed for an indictment, but....”
“You’ve found something.”
“This morning. One of our detectives discovered a tap on Director Cosmos’ phone. A friend at Interpol’s confirmed a match with devices found at other Phantom sites.”
“Do we know when it was placed?”
“Sometime after we began counter-espionage efforts at the center.” Simon’s skin felt tight, prickling with the thrill of the hunt. “Given what we know of their methods, it seems likely that the Phantom’s infiltrated our special task force.”
Edgeworth reached into his briefcase and slid a folder into the visiting center’s pass-through drawer. “I thought you might be interested in a list of parties with access to the Director’s office over these past few months. I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting anyone present during both the UR-1 and HAT-2 incidents.”
Simon retrieved the file and was startled to find that his hands were shaking.
As his execution had drawn near, his failure to track down the creature that ruined his life had been one of the hardest things to accept. He’d been so confident when he took the fall for Metis’s murder; young and arrogant, he’d been sure that if he just applied himself to the problem long enough, even a superspy couldn’t escape his grasp. Preposterous.
Now, flipping through seven pages of names, the old dream unfurled once more. If he could find him, if he could prove…! Simon took a deep breath to steady himself.
The lights in the room blinked out.
Across from him, there was a gasp in the darkness and Simon came to his feet. He could break his shackles if he needed too, and he weighed the benefits of free hands versus using the cuffs’ chain as a weapon.
Deep in the building, a generator groaned. Overhead, fluorescent tubes strobed a jaundiced green.
On the other side of the plexiglass, the Chief Prosecutor looked sick. Dimly, Simon recalled stories of trauma involving blackouts and earthquakes. “Are you alright, Edgeworth-Dono?”
“I’ll be fine.” Edgeworth huffed. Behind him, a door creaked and admitted a guard.
“Excuse me, Chief Prosecutor, but the warden’s called for a lockdown while we investigate the power outage. We need all visitors to clear the area.”
“Of course.” Edgeworth rose, smoothing a hand over his cravat before glancing back to Simon. “Inspector Lang and I will continue following our leads at INTERPOL. If you find something or need anything, I’ve included my personal number in the file.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Almost too kind.
Suspicion, sharp and shameful, tugged at Simon. From the first day that he’d approached him in prison, the Chief Prosecutor had been nothing but helpful. Why? The man had ties to the international community. There had been rumors. Perhaps… Simon smothered the thought viciously. The Chief Prosecutor’s confirmation hearing had been notoriously thorough. If there had been any corruption in the man, then surely years of exhaustive investigations would’ve uncovered it.
“Nonsense.” Edgeworth’s voice brought him back to himself. Guilt flooded him. Years of watching his back had made Simon a paranoid fool. He restrained a bark of self-deprecating laughter; if he survived the next 72 hours, he’d be looking at years of therapy.
The guard cleared his throat and the Chief Prosecutor nodded. As he left, he turned and addressed a patch of wall to Simon’s right. “Prosecutor Blackquill. There’s a lot riding on tomorrow’s trial, and I find that I --” Embarrassment, like the sun through clouds, rippled across his face. “That is, the city and International community will benefit greatly if your Phantom’s involvement can be proved tomorrow. I will do everything in my power to make that happen.”
Simon felt a lump form at the back of his throat. His eyes were bright as he bowed his head. “As will I, Edgeworth-Dono.”
“...I expect nothing less.” The Chief Prosecutor shot him a small, awkward smile. “Good luck, Simon.”
December 19, 10:04 PM
Condemned Row - Cell No. 7
Simon rewound the old footage and played it again. Even on the prison’s antiquated television the image was crude but unmistakable; a man -- hat pulled low to obscure his face, left hand wrapped in a bloody bandage -- slinking down the corridor outside Metis Cykes’ lab.
Since receiving the tape as part of the Chief Prosecutor’s request for aid in his pursuit of the Phantom, Simon had watched it seven times from start-to-finish, and this particular segment more than he could count. He’d played it frame by frame, advanced it forward and back, but in the three and a quarter seconds he appeared, the figure moved with an eerie awareness of the camera; betraying neither distinguishing features nor mannerisms.
Other than Simon and Athena, he was the only person to appear in the hall during the timeline laid out by Metis’s autopsy report, and in his bones Simon knew that this creature was the spy he’d named Phantom. Knew, but could not prove.
Simon paused the image, chewing at the habitual feather dangling from his lips as he turned his back on the television.
The list of Edgeworth’s potential wiretapping suspects lay on his desk amidst other case documents, all but useless. Of the names present during both Space Center disasters, all had alibis for at least one of the murders.
All but Athena.
Simon banished the thought. He’d bet his life and all he believed in on Cykes-dono’s innocence, and he would stand by that decision until the noose closed around his neck. Hmph… perhaps that was the key piece of data he’d failed to consider; he’d faced Wright in court enough times to understand the logic behind the man’s ridiculous turnabouts.
Simon let his gaze blur over the evidence, willing it to connect. The world dimmed and the facts seemed to leap out at him, rising gold behind his eyes.
FACT: Interpol had confirmed the Phantom’s involvement in the HAT-1 sabotage and suspected interference in HAT-2. FACT: the wiretaps and threats from both incidents were identical.
HYPOTHESIS: the Phantom was behind both incidents.
Simon skimmed the reports from UR-1 and the murder of Clay Terran.
FACT: During the Hat-1 and UR-1 incidents, the Phantom had killed Metis Cykes and faked conclusive evidence framing Athena. FACT: During Hat-2, Athena’s fingerprints were found on the lighter Aura had seen in the hands of Clay’s murderer.
Simon’s mouth went dry. If he believed in Athena’s innocence, if he accepted it as fact, then perhaps….
HYPOTHESIS: The fingerprints on the lighter had also been faked.
The fog of the past seven years shattered. If he was correct, then whoever had planted her fingerprints was likely the same person responsible for Clay and Metis’ deaths.
The Phantom did not have accomplices.
CONCLUSION: The Phantom faked Athena’s fingerprints.
The epiphany burned through Simon, leaving clarity in its wake. The lighter had been found in the Space Center’s museum five days after the Hat-2 bombing. In that time, access to the area had been limited and a log kept of all persons coming and going. Simon dug the corresponding document from one of his folders. He clenched down on the feather between his teeth as he cross-checked its names against those at the center without alibis at the time of Clay’s death.
At the bottom of the third page, he found his first match:
Detective Bobby Fulbright.
At first, the idea was so ludicrous it almost didn’t register. That fool? Laughable. Inconceivable. But still, an insidious voice inside him murmured, he was the one who found the lighter.
Prisons at night are never silent, but in that moment all sound seemed to drop away and Simon felt himself alone in a great and terrible darkness. For years a faceless, nameless spy had stalked him and now paranoia had driven him mad; for what sane man saw death in every shadow and enemies in the eyes of friends?
And yet….
A key rattled in the lock of Simon’s cell. It took several long seconds for him to realize that he hadn’t imagined it, and several more to stuff documents back into files and power off the television. The after image was still fading when iron hinges creaked and the heavy door swung open.
December 19, 11:47 PM
Condemned Row - Cell No. 7
“Oh good! You’re up! In Justice We Trust!”
A chill crept down Simon’s back and he smirked darkly; speak of the devil and he shall appear. Or perhaps: Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Silhouetted in the dim light of the hall, Bobby Fulbright peered quizzically between Simon and the television. “Something funny, Prosecutor Blackquill?”
“Hmph. Predictable as always, Fool Bright.” Beneath Simon’s hand, the cooling screen had the tense, prickling feel of built up static. Fulbright tilted his head. Moonlight from the cell’s high window reflected off his aviators, obscuring his eyes.
“Oh?”
Simon tisked, tapping a finger to the side of his forehead. “Why, just a few hours ago, Edgeworth-Dono and I were discussing the probability of your visit.” The lie fell easily from his lips. His suspicions might be nothing; the folder on his desk still contained four pages of unexamined names and, as HAT-2’s lead detective, Fulbright would have been expected to investigate the museum. ...Still. There was no harm in letting the man believe a third-party suspected his whereabouts.
“What? Really?” Fullbright’s trademark expression of surprise was as overblown as ever. “Wow! Here I was worried I might get in trouble for sneaking in so late -- but I guess if the Chief knows it must be okay, ha ha ha! Prosecutor Edgeworth sure is smart. Guess that’s what comes from working in Justice!”
“Silence!” The man was the human embodiment of a headache. “I do not have so many hours left that I can waste them on prattle. Is there a reason for your visit, or do you merely wish to irritate me a final time before the noose?”
“Oh, I never want to irritate you, sir! Actually, I brought you dinner!”
The statement was such a non sequitur that it wasn’t until Fulbright held out takeout bags that Simon processed it. “Are these from… the Wet Noodle?”
“Observant as always, sir! Yup. Mr. Toenido agreed to keep the shop open late and everything.”
“...Fool Bright, you do realize my trip along Hades’ River has been postponed?”
“But that’s why!” Fullbright’s jaw clenched in ill-placed passion. “One of the guards told me they rescheduled your last meal! It’s not right to promise someone a nice dinner, then cancel when its not even their fault!”
Simon snorted. Only Fool Bright could find a way to pity for him for having his death sentence postponed. “Your priorities are as impenetrable as your skull, Fool Bright.”
Oblivious, Fullbright beamed and set about unpacking takeout containers, placing napkins and utensils to the side. Simon’s attention caught on the pair of single-serving transparent sleeves, their plastic forks and knives swaddled safely within. Naive, that Fulbright would bring such things to a man convicted of murder. Incomprehensible, that security had let him.
But that was another mystery, wasn’t it? For all his loud displays of ineptitude, when he chose to be, Bobby Fulbright could be unnervingly competent.
“Dinner’s ready!” The detective stood with his hands on the back of the cell’s single chair, pulling it from the desk in a manner that suggested waiters and high-class restaurants.
It occurred to Simon that if his latest theory were true, if this was the spy he’d been chasing all these years, then the scene before him was beyond surreal. What reason would the Phantom have to serve him dinner; to simper and whine and call him sir? There was the possibility of poison, perhaps, but in the face of Simon’s impending and almost certain death, the risk seemed ludicrous.
Fulbright puffed out his cheeks in a pout. “I don’t suppose… you haven’t already eaten, have you, sir?”
He should have. But the thin gruel he’d been served hours earlier had held little appeal, and he’d barely managed to choke down a couple bites. The smell of fresh soba wafting from open takeout containers was unfairly delicious. Despite himself, Simon’s stomach growled. Fulbright broke into an idiotic grin.
“Haha, I guess not!”
The detective’s arm darted out and Simon let himself be drug to the table, swatting Fullbright alway when he tried to place a napkin in Simon’s lap. “If you’re going to fuss over food, Fool Bright, pour yourself a bowl and cease hovering.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Simon regretted them. Tears swelled at the corners of Fullbright’s eyes. “Prosecutor Blackquill, you r-really want to e-eat with me, sir?”
“Don’t make a production of it.” Simon shoved the soba before him into the detective’s hands. Under the force of his glare, Fullbright sniffed, fumbled out utensils and began slurping loudly. Some of the suspicion curled around Simon’s heart loosened; not poisoned, then.
For a little while, they ate in blessed silence. Simon had nearly forgotten how good food from the outside was. Hot and fresh, it made him feel human in a way he hadn’t in years.
Fulbright’s logic might border on incomprehensible at times, but the gesture had been kind. Simon looked up, steeling himself to say as much, and froze.
On the wall above Fulbright’s shoulder, the usually bright recording light of his cell’s single camera had gone dead. His gaze darted away, then back again. Still dark. Simon wracked his brain; had it been that way since the power outage? He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts of the Phantom that he hadn’t noticed. Stupid. His pulse raced, and he cursed himself for his carelessness. Perhaps the soba was meant to serve as a last meal after all. Perhaps --
“Sir?” Fulbright stared at him over the lip of his styrofoam bowl, with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “What Ms. Blackquill said… are you really -- are you innocent?”
The question threw him. In the year they’d worked together, Fulbright had always talked about Simon’s “rehabilitation” with the fervor of a man for whom his guilt was a given. Until this moment, he’d never asked. “Hmph. What does it matter? Given the chance, any inmate will deny his crimes.”
“It matters to me.”
Something tender shifted in Simon’s chest. He grit his teeth, disgusted how raw even this pitiful show of faith made him. “I.... didn’t kill Metis.” The truth creaked from him, rusty with disuse, and if Fulbright lifted a finger to comfort him now, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from cracking him across the jaw. Thankfully, the detective turned to take in Simon’s scattered papers instead.
“And you think this spy we’ve been chasing, the, what’d you call him -- Phantom, did.” It wasn’t a question. When Fulbright looked back to face him, the moonlight fell strange and flat across his eyes. “How can you even be sure he exists?”
“He exists.”
“Hm.” For an instant, it was as if another man shared the cell with him; distant, intelligent, and impossibly cold. Then Fulbright’s expression brightened and the impression fell away, flaking like old skin. Beaming, he slammed a fist into his open palm. “Then that means you must have evidence! That’s great, sir! We can look into it together! Present it at the trial tomorrow! Your name will be cleared! In Justice We Trust!”
In Simon’s head, alarm bells sounded. Hazy distrust solidified as a motive unfolded; the psych profile Simon had on the Phantom was one of the only pieces of proof they had that the creature existed, and by far the most damning. If the spy were aware of it, if he’d taken Simon’s bait, would he not go to any length, assume any disguise, to retrieve and destroy it?
A touch on his arm shocked Simon from his thoughts and when he looked down he found three white-clothed fingers resting on the back of his fist.
Distantly, he realized that he’d never seen Fulbright without his gloves.
All at once images from the space center’s old security footage flooded him; again he saw the figure that must be the Phantom, hat pulled low, hand wrapped in bandages. The Detective’s own left hand pressed against Simon’s, and it was ludicrous that the hand that might have killed Metis should be so close, attached to a buffoon with gentleness in his eyes.
Excitement prickled up Simon’s spine. Fulbright jerked away apologetically. “Sorry sir, I --”
“Silence.” Simon stood, catching the detective’s retreating palm between his own. Electricity crackled and the air in the room seemed to contract, narrowing to their points of contact. Simon couldn’t breath. His thumb pressed into the back of Fulbright’s glove and when, unable to stop himself, he stroked down he imagined he could feel the ridge of a seven-year old scar.
“...Sir?”
Simon realized he was trembling. He held the truth clasped between his hands, wrapped up and warm like a present. Only the dead eye of the security camera prevented him from tearing at the smooth white leather; if the Phantom knew he’d been found out, Simon had no illusions about his own chances of surviving until morning.
He studied Fulbright’s face, but if the man suspected anything, he didn’t show it. Most copies of the space center’s old security footage had been destroyed years ago, and during Simon’s first trial, the three and a quarter seconds with the mysterious figure had been missed entirely.
Simon’s near-forgotten dream of outwitting one of the world’s most dangerous creatures returned to him and he ached for the possibility of it. His thoughts were clear, blood like lightning through his veins, and it suddenly struck Simon as funny that the threat of death should make him feel so alive now, when for so long it had only done the opposite.
“Is...is something wrong?” Fulbright’s expression was confused and a little nervous. Simon smirked. Yeah. You bet there is, you blood-hungry parasite.
“No. I apologize. It’s just -- ” Simon reached for an excuse. Most people became sloppy when exposed to sentiment; “that is, you’ve been a -- a good friend, Fool Bright.”
As predicted, the detective relaxed into his grasp. Instead of the normal tears or declarations of justice, however, something strange seemed to move beneath the muscles of Fulbright’s face. He took a step forward. For a moment, Simon worried he’d overplayed his hand.
“Oh. Y- you mean a lot to me too.” The words whispered across his skin before lips descended, and Simon tasted wetness and mint and the warm sweep of a tongue. His mouth opened in a gasp that shifted into a groan. Wires crossed and short-circuited as Fulbright’s free hand brushed, searching, up his flank. Heat suffused Simon as he parried back; slipping a finger beneath the edge of Fulbright’s glove to touch wrist and naked skin.
Fulbright reeled back as if burned, and they stared at each other, breathing hard. Adrenaline buzzed under Simon’s skin. There was the possibility of manipulation here, cheap and obvious and tawdry. Simon couldn’t bring himself to care; a little artifice was a small price to pay for the truth he’d sold his soul for years ago.
Simon watched his arms rise from outside himself. Despite the hour, beneath his touch Fulbright’s cheek was baby-smooth and Simon was struck by the sensation of having stared at a word too long and having forgotten it’s meaning; was that how skin was supposed to feel? Was it typical for a blush to never reach a person’s face? What, in all this madness, was normal and how the hell was he supposed to remember?
Whatever the truth, Fulbright did not kiss like an idiot detective. They moved together like duelists, all calculation, aggression, and quick reposts. Fulbright stroked over his sides, chest and back in an absurd parody of a security pat-down before sliding down to palm his cock. Simon batted him away. Fulbright sank to his knees. Time stopped.
In the low light, Fulbright’s lips were swollen and spit-slick. His eyes, beneath their heavy lashes, seemed pale and suddenly, impossibly, blue. Despite himself, Simon’s breath hitched. This was madness. Obscene. He couldn’t even remember being attracted to the man before, but the thought of what he could discover, of his greatest enemy on the floor, gagging around him --
Simon’s legs spread as Fulbright mouthed him through fabric and his fingers tangled in the man’s hair. It was natural, he consoled himself, that he was hard. It had been so very long, and in any case, soon he would know. Oh, and Fulbright was making sounds now, small and desperate, as he moaned and drooled onto the front of Simon’s pants.
Idly, Simon wondered if he were getting off on this. The Phantom’s psych profile indicated the man had little to no capacity for emotions, but perhaps physical stimuli were something else.
Fingers fumbled against his belt buckle and Simon forced himself back into the present. If he were going to do this, he didn’t dare be distracted. Grabbing Fulbright’s left hand, Simon drug him up and flush against him. When he brought white leather to his lips, Fulbright pulled away. “Sir, you don’t have to --”
“Silence.” Burning with shame and something he didn’t care to examine, Simon sucked two fingers into his mouth. Fulbright’s breath hitched. Pupils blown, a strange, hungry intelligence seemed to rise in him. Fingers twitched against his tongue, pressing deeper, and Simon’s moan was only half an act.
His teeth raked the back of the glove, closing on the tip, and as Simon pulled, his hips stuttered against Fulbright’s. Sick and damned though he was, he wondered if he would come like this; on friction and the thrill of victory.
Spitting the glove aside, Simon felt the pads of Fulbright’s naked fingers smear across his lower lip. Magnanimous in his triumph, Simon opened, letting one, then another, then three press inside him to the knuckle. He stroked down the back of the detective’s hand and there…!
There was nothing. He felt again, and again, detected no ridge or dip of scar tissue.
Simon choked, coughing around his mouthful and suddenly mortified.
“Prosecutor Blackquill? Are you alright, sir?” A spit-slick hand reached up to cup his face and Simon flinched back violently. Sure enough, the skin from fingernails to wrist was clean and clear of so much as a mole. Heat drained from Simon and he spared a second to be disgusted with himself for that.
Bloody hell; he’d been wrong.
Mortification washed through him. Remembering his earlier suspicion of Edgeworth, he felt sick. Had he really thought... Fool Bright, of all people? His cheeks burned.
“ -- I apologize, Fool Bright. This was a mistake. We both have a long day ahead of us. You should leave.”
“But sir! Whatever it is, I’d like to help! Maybe we could look at that evidence!”
“No.”
Fullbright’s lower lip trembled. Just minutes ago, those lips had been -- Simon repressed the thought savagely. He’d been paranoid. He’d jumped to conclusions. He’d thought Fulbright was the Phantom and he’d been willing, been eager, to--!
“But sir!”
“Leave. Now.”
Fulbright’s protests filtered to him through a haze of anger and shame. He’d been wrong and there was research to be done. Simon took a seat at the cell’s small desk and straightened his papers. After several long minutes, silence descended and the door to his cell clicked shut. Slowly, unsteadily, he began once more to go through the Chief Prosecutor’s list.
Hours later he finished, with only a dim recollection of when the detective left. A hollow feeling took root in his chest. He’d gone over the names seven times and, other than Fulbright, found nothing.
December 20, 5:23 PM
Defendants Lobby
Freed from the weight of his shackles, Simon’s wrists ached. The judge’s “Not Guilty” verdict still rang in his ears, and the prosecution’s case file felt unexpectedly heavy in his lap. He’d been right. Wright had all but proved it, ludicrous man that he was, and in a few short minutes, the creature calling itself Bobby Fulbright would take the stand.
Rage curled with oily satisfaction in Simon’s gut. The Phantom had been good, had been one of the best, but soon they would have him. Simon would have him. Heat flushed through him at the thought and Simon’s jaw clenched; even in this, the Phantom had tainted him.
Taka cooed soft comfort on his shoulder and Simon reached up to scratch his old friend. The hawk had never liked Fool Bright. That, more than anything, should’ve been his warning.
Across the lobby, Athena, Wright, and Justice babbled loudly. It was well enough; whatever tactic they took, Simon would make sure that his villain was brought to justice.
“...be easy! Remember the footage from earlier? We just make him take off the gloves. When the Judge sees the scar, we’ll have a guilty verdict in no time!” Athena nearly bounced off the courthouse walls, newly energized in the wake of having both Simon and her own name cleared. Simon was hit by a premonition of disaster.
He could see the scene clearly; Wright petitioning the judge. The removal of the glove. The sheer, unbridled chaos when they, when Simon, failed to reveal a scar. The doubts that absence raised might be enough to end their case, and Simon cursed the Wright Agency’s collective naivete for not considering that a man capable of changing his face, who lived and died on the anonymity of his name, wouldn’t employ whatever means necessary to rid himself of any incriminating characteristics.
“Don’t ask about the scar.”
Simon felt Athena’s large eyes on him, and did his best not to think about what her Widget was reading in his heart. Unable to meet her gaze, he addressed his words to somewhere over Wright’s left shoulder. “The Phantom is a master of disguise. He’d never let himself be trapped by anything so obvious.”
Wright frowned, and Simon was once again struck by the attorney’s cool competence when he wasn’t trying to pull one of his egregious bluffs. For a terrible moment, he imagined Wright knew the source of his information and it took everything in his power to restrain his blush. Finally, Wright nodded.
“Good point, Prosecutor Blackquill. If we make a big deal of a wound and it turns out he’s gotten rid of it, it could seriously undermine our case.”
“But Mr. Wright! Just because he’s a spy doesn’t mean --”
“That’s enough, Apollo. We’ve got plenty of other angles of attack without relying on this one.
Besides, given my history, I’d rather err on the side of not presenting bad evidence.” Justice winced.
“Sorry, Mr. Wright.”
“Uh, guys, not to interrupt, but I think the Judge wants us back in the courtroom.” Athena stood with the Bailiff beside the courtroom doors. Wright stuck out his hand. After a long moment, Simon shook it.
“Thanks for the insight, Prosecutor Blackquill.”
“Hmph. Don’t think this means I’ll go easy on you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Though if you could convince Taka to hold off --”
Simon laughed, deep from his belly, and slapped his chest. “Wright-Dono. Taka is his own bird. I don’t pretend to dictate his wants.” An almost comical dejection settled over Wright’s face. As he followed his junior associates into the courtroom, Simon heard the man mutter a low, resigned, “Objection!”
Gathering up his own files, Simon strode to the prosecutor’s stand, chainless for the first time in seven years. As he passed the witness stand, his eyes met those of the Phantom who called itself Bobby Fulbright. Almost, Simon swore, he saw it wink.