Neither Matthew Murdock nor Foggy Nelson expected their first day to be overly promising. In fact, they had spent the majority of their day moving into their newly-acquired office space and unpacking boxes. Honestly, they were fortunate to have the space at all, and while Matt was glad of the opportunity, he knew that unless they started lining up clientele, he and Foggy would be struggling to keep the lights on. The situation wasn't unexpected, though, and time, coupled with successful cases, would surely see their circumstances improved. Given, had they taken the placement and Landman and Zack, the two of them would have this kind of concern, but Matt wasn't willing to make moral sacrifices just to pad his own wallet. And admittedly, neither was Foggy. Of course, that didn't prevent the man from slipping bribes to officer Mahoney in hopes of expanding their client base. Or, rather, starting one. But not even Foggy had thought a call would come in so quickly.
Homicide. And according to officer Mahoney, it was something "interesting."
When he and Foggy arrived at the station, they had been given a brief summary of what was known, and Matt had an immediate feeling of unease. While signs were pointing to a clean case-- obvious murder with only one suspect-- he couldn't help but think that something was off about the circumstances. In the very least, they would need to collect more information from the suspect, who may quite possibly be their first client. As they moved toward the interrogation room, Matt continued sweeping the floor with his cane, an officer stepping aside to give him space to pass. It was an unnecessary gesture, but would always remain unspoken from the vigilante. No one needed to be aware of his abilities-- and especially not after his recent moonlighting in a mask. Those same excursions had left him considerably sore and tired, and he had hoped for an opportunity to rest before going back out this evening, but it was looking as though that would have to wait.
The officer accompanying them pushed the door open and stepped into the room, allowing Matt and Foggy to follow. Before he was even in the room, Matt was aware of several emotions emanating from the young woman-- and he knew his decision had already been made. The woman in question was seated at the table, one thin wrist secured in place by a cuff, and she was terrified. He could hear her heart racing, her breathing uneven-- and her pulse spiked as she spoke.
"That's what I want to know," the officer said bitterly. Obviously, he wasn't pleased with the sudden appearance of two defense attorneys in a homicide case.
"Can we get the cuffs off?" Foggy asked, his tone clearly indicating how unnecessary he found the "precautions" the officers had taken with the young woman.
"Who are you?" the officer repeated.
"We," Matt said simply, "are her lawyers, and we'd appreciate it if you would uncuff our client and give us the room, Detective." His words were firm, and he turned in the general direction of the officer.
Reluctantly, the man stepped forward and unlocked the cuff from the blondes' wrist before exiting the room and pulling the door closed behind him, still obviously displeased.
When then had been left alone, Matt turned back toward the table, reaching a hand out to rest on the back of the empty chair in front of him."Miss Page," he said calmly, "My name is Matt Murdock, and this is my associate, Foggy Nelson. We're defense attorneys." He paused and regarded for a moment. Her heart was still racing, but a sense of confusing seemed to have momentarily replaced the pressing fear and anxiety she'd been previously exuding. "Do you mind if we sit down?"
Foggy leaned over toward him, murmuring. "She gave a vague shrug. I say we go for it."
The two of them took a seat and Matt folded his arms on the table. "We understand you're in some trouble," he remarked, softly. "We may be able to help." The longer he was in the room with her, the more he was convinced of the woman's innocence. Whatever the story, however, he had a hunch that this wasn't going to be a simple matter-- especially not for a first case.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Foggy asked as the two men settled their attention on Karen.
---
It was a factual and fair statement to say that James Wesley was good at his job.
As an executive assistant for a rather large brokerage and investing firm, he made a fair salary. He was fond of maintaining schedules and micromanaging, and had the skill to accomplish any task given to him. He was intelligent, a quick thinker, and a problem-solver-- and he practically ran the firm, never mind that he was only, technically, an assistant.
It was also factual to say that he was, currently, an unhappy individual.
He'd been at the company for just over four years-- and each of those years he thought would be his last, as he wanted little more than to leave the shithole that was Hell's Kitchen. And yet, something always seemed to go wrong-- some hindrance always preventing him from carrying out his plans of leaving the city and settling elsewhere. It seemed that circumstances often worked against him, and each continued year spent in Hell's Kitchen served to weigh him down just a little bit more than the last. This year had been the worst. It was as though all his expectations of himself had collapsed in on him, that he was never going to amount to anything more than a glorified secretary, living out his days in Hell's Kitchen. It was a disappointing notion, especially since the mad had always held himself to stringent standards, but it was becoming more and more difficult to find the motivation to care.
And then he'd gotten a most unusual offer from a very unusual man.
Wesley had encountered Mr. Fisk few enough times that he could count their meetings on one hand; but even in brief exposure, he had found him intriguing. What about him was as such, Wesley couldn't quite pin down. By all accounts, he likely should have found the man intimidating both in a physical and authoritative sense, but his calm demeanor was a counterpoint to his stature. The few times he had interacted with Mr. Fisk, the man had been exceedingly polite, often asking for advice on places to dine and once whether or not Wesley had grown up in Hell's Kitchen. Wesley also knew very little about the rather elusive man; he appeared once every few weeks, supposedly to check in on the company's holdings-- so Wesley could only assume there had been a trading of hands that was being kept quiet for whatever reason. It wasn't really that unusual for a change of higher management to be kept quiet at first, but he couldn't help but suspect something else was at play. The next time he had spoken to Mr. Fisk had been earlier in the day, when the man had discreetly asked for a moment of his time. Wesley was happy to oblige, but was surprised by the absence of the usual and seemingly innocent questions. No, this time was different, and he had been invited to meet with Mr. Fisk following lunch-- to discuss a potential career change. There had been reassurances that he was in no form of trouble, but that his performance had merited what could be a very lucrative opportunity.
Surprised and not entirely sure what to say, Wesley had agreed, and now sat in the lobby of a private office, wondering if this had all been some sort of joke. It was fifteen minutes past the time he was supposed to meet Mr. Fisk, and he hadn't struck Wesley as the type of man to be tardy to any sort of meeting. Why had he even agreed to this? Perhaps he'd agreed because the situation seemed so unusual? Perhaps because he was intrigued by the enigmatic stranger-- or perhaps because he was so desperate for a change, he was willing to take a risk such as this.
He checked his watch then sighed.
Just beginning to contemplate leaving, feeling somewhat foolish and vaguely irritated for having come here at all, Wesley's thoughts were disturbed by the door opening. He was not, however, greeted by Mr. Fisk. Instead, a tall man wearing a black suit and dark glasses stared at him from his place at the door.
"James Wesley?"
"Yes?" he asked, one eyebrow arching in question. What was going on?
"Mr. Fisk apologizes for the delay . We are to escort you to the arranged location. Please follow me."
He should have been concerned at this, should have asked what was happening-- what had cause the delay-- and what other location they were talking about. For all he knew this was some setup that would end with him dead-- or worse. And yet, he followed without question, silently accompanying the man down and into an awaiting car.
Homicide. And according to officer Mahoney, it was something "interesting."
When he and Foggy arrived at the station, they had been given a brief summary of what was known, and Matt had an immediate feeling of unease. While signs were pointing to a clean case-- obvious murder with only one suspect-- he couldn't help but think that something was off about the circumstances. In the very least, they would need to collect more information from the suspect, who may quite possibly be their first client. As they moved toward the interrogation room, Matt continued sweeping the floor with his cane, an officer stepping aside to give him space to pass. It was an unnecessary gesture, but would always remain unspoken from the vigilante. No one needed to be aware of his abilities-- and especially not after his recent moonlighting in a mask. Those same excursions had left him considerably sore and tired, and he had hoped for an opportunity to rest before going back out this evening, but it was looking as though that would have to wait.
The officer accompanying them pushed the door open and stepped into the room, allowing Matt and Foggy to follow. Before he was even in the room, Matt was aware of several emotions emanating from the young woman-- and he knew his decision had already been made. The woman in question was seated at the table, one thin wrist secured in place by a cuff, and she was terrified. He could hear her heart racing, her breathing uneven-- and her pulse spiked as she spoke.
"That's what I want to know," the officer said bitterly. Obviously, he wasn't pleased with the sudden appearance of two defense attorneys in a homicide case.
"Can we get the cuffs off?" Foggy asked, his tone clearly indicating how unnecessary he found the "precautions" the officers had taken with the young woman.
"Who are you?" the officer repeated.
"We," Matt said simply, "are her lawyers, and we'd appreciate it if you would uncuff our client and give us the room, Detective." His words were firm, and he turned in the general direction of the officer.
Reluctantly, the man stepped forward and unlocked the cuff from the blondes' wrist before exiting the room and pulling the door closed behind him, still obviously displeased.
When then had been left alone, Matt turned back toward the table, reaching a hand out to rest on the back of the empty chair in front of him."Miss Page," he said calmly, "My name is Matt Murdock, and this is my associate, Foggy Nelson. We're defense attorneys." He paused and regarded for a moment. Her heart was still racing, but a sense of confusing seemed to have momentarily replaced the pressing fear and anxiety she'd been previously exuding. "Do you mind if we sit down?"
Foggy leaned over toward him, murmuring. "She gave a vague shrug. I say we go for it."
The two of them took a seat and Matt folded his arms on the table. "We understand you're in some trouble," he remarked, softly. "We may be able to help." The longer he was in the room with her, the more he was convinced of the woman's innocence. Whatever the story, however, he had a hunch that this wasn't going to be a simple matter-- especially not for a first case.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Foggy asked as the two men settled their attention on Karen.
---
It was a factual and fair statement to say that James Wesley was good at his job.
As an executive assistant for a rather large brokerage and investing firm, he made a fair salary. He was fond of maintaining schedules and micromanaging, and had the skill to accomplish any task given to him. He was intelligent, a quick thinker, and a problem-solver-- and he practically ran the firm, never mind that he was only, technically, an assistant.
It was also factual to say that he was, currently, an unhappy individual.
He'd been at the company for just over four years-- and each of those years he thought would be his last, as he wanted little more than to leave the shithole that was Hell's Kitchen. And yet, something always seemed to go wrong-- some hindrance always preventing him from carrying out his plans of leaving the city and settling elsewhere. It seemed that circumstances often worked against him, and each continued year spent in Hell's Kitchen served to weigh him down just a little bit more than the last. This year had been the worst. It was as though all his expectations of himself had collapsed in on him, that he was never going to amount to anything more than a glorified secretary, living out his days in Hell's Kitchen. It was a disappointing notion, especially since the mad had always held himself to stringent standards, but it was becoming more and more difficult to find the motivation to care.
And then he'd gotten a most unusual offer from a very unusual man.
Wesley had encountered Mr. Fisk few enough times that he could count their meetings on one hand; but even in brief exposure, he had found him intriguing. What about him was as such, Wesley couldn't quite pin down. By all accounts, he likely should have found the man intimidating both in a physical and authoritative sense, but his calm demeanor was a counterpoint to his stature. The few times he had interacted with Mr. Fisk, the man had been exceedingly polite, often asking for advice on places to dine and once whether or not Wesley had grown up in Hell's Kitchen. Wesley also knew very little about the rather elusive man; he appeared once every few weeks, supposedly to check in on the company's holdings-- so Wesley could only assume there had been a trading of hands that was being kept quiet for whatever reason. It wasn't really that unusual for a change of higher management to be kept quiet at first, but he couldn't help but suspect something else was at play. The next time he had spoken to Mr. Fisk had been earlier in the day, when the man had discreetly asked for a moment of his time. Wesley was happy to oblige, but was surprised by the absence of the usual and seemingly innocent questions. No, this time was different, and he had been invited to meet with Mr. Fisk following lunch-- to discuss a potential career change. There had been reassurances that he was in no form of trouble, but that his performance had merited what could be a very lucrative opportunity.
Surprised and not entirely sure what to say, Wesley had agreed, and now sat in the lobby of a private office, wondering if this had all been some sort of joke. It was fifteen minutes past the time he was supposed to meet Mr. Fisk, and he hadn't struck Wesley as the type of man to be tardy to any sort of meeting. Why had he even agreed to this? Perhaps he'd agreed because the situation seemed so unusual? Perhaps because he was intrigued by the enigmatic stranger-- or perhaps because he was so desperate for a change, he was willing to take a risk such as this.
He checked his watch then sighed.
Just beginning to contemplate leaving, feeling somewhat foolish and vaguely irritated for having come here at all, Wesley's thoughts were disturbed by the door opening. He was not, however, greeted by Mr. Fisk. Instead, a tall man wearing a black suit and dark glasses stared at him from his place at the door.
"James Wesley?"
"Yes?" he asked, one eyebrow arching in question. What was going on?
"Mr. Fisk apologizes for the delay . We are to escort you to the arranged location. Please follow me."
He should have been concerned at this, should have asked what was happening-- what had cause the delay-- and what other location they were talking about. For all he knew this was some setup that would end with him dead-- or worse. And yet, he followed without question, silently accompanying the man down and into an awaiting car.