Out of Order

CHAPTER ONE: TWO SIDES, SAME COIN

Josiah closed his eyes as the verdict was read, not wanting to see his client's face. He already knew what it was, having seen it in the jury's faces when they sat down and focused their attention on his defendant. You could always tell. The judge was speaking now, her tones a low monotone across the plain wooden courtroom.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

"Yes, your honor."

He felt his client grip his arm under the table, the man's shaking causing the public defender's arm to shake as well.

"And how do you find the defendant?"

"Guilty, your honor."

The grip on his arm suddenly jerked, then released, and the nineteen year old boy's cry echoed through the chamber.

"But I didn't do it!" he screamed, jumping to his feet. "I wasn't even there! She was lying! I never stole nothin'! I didn't—"

Josiah was on his feet now as well, gripping the boy, trying to pull him down. The judge was hammering her gavel, ordering quiet, and Josiah grimaced at the bailiffs as they took steps to close in on his hysterical client. Eventually, he got the boy calmed down and crying on his shoulder. After a moment, when he was calm enough, Josiah nodded to the judge, and she pronounced the boy held over for sentencing. Not that it meant much—Grand Theft Auto had mandatory sentencing guidelines. The bailiffs approached, the taller one unlooping the handcuffs from his belt….

+ + + + + + +

Josiah was sitting in the small coffee shop up the street from the criminal court house, letting the steaming mug of black coffee grow cold as he poured over his notes from the trial. In another day, he'd have the transcripts, having already placed in the rush order. His pressed the black felt tip pen on the legal pad, watching as it formed a black ink stain that spread across the paper like blood from an open wound.

It had come down to the usual case of 'he said, she said.' There were no errors that he could see, nothing obvious that he could appeal. The facts had been decided upon, and it came down to the fact that the girl had sounded better on the stand, had the better evidence, and, most importantly, had more people sitting on her side of the courtroom….

And yet, Josiah had believed his client. Believed the scared boy was as innocent as he appeared.

There has to be something here, he swore to himself. Something to change this….

"Hey, Sanchez," a quietly confident voice called, causing the public defender to look up. He found himself looking into the handsome brown eyes of A.D.A. Stephen Travis. The young man grinned.

"Can I join you?"

"Oh," Josiah looked at his legal pad, saw that the ink blot had filled about a square inch, and lifted it off the paper. "Yeah, sure. Of course." He smiled up at his friend, "It's good to see you. Been a long time."

"Yeah," Travis sat, placing his mug of the same black coffee on the table. This coffee shop was one of the main hangouts for the lawyers and civil servants working down on Center Street, and they sold more mugs of burnt-tasting black coffee than anything else. It was more popular than breathing amongst the clientele. The stuff could peel the paint off a Buick, but it kept them all going.

Josiah continued to smile, "How's your dad?"

"Ornery as ever." Travis took a sip of his coffee, grimaced for a second, then took another. "Swears he's retiring soon."

"Orrin?" Josiah chuckled, capping his pen and putting it away. "That'll be the day. The great Judge Orrin Travis, playing golf in Florida and wearing plaid pants? I just can't see it."

Stephen laughed, nodding, "Me neither." He took another sip, then lowered the mug, glancing at the legal pad Josiah was flipping closed.

"I heard about the Madison kid," he said conversationally. "I'm sorry."

Josiah just shook his head. He had lost cases before. Hell, to be honest, he lost on average about a quarter of the cases he tried, which was better than most, but it still stung to lose one when you were dead certain the client was innocent. In the rest, when he knew the client was guilty, if he couldn't plea them out, he would steer the trial towards the sentencing. To give them their fairest chance. Here, with no family or friends to back this kid up, and the weight of the mandatory guidelines curtailing the judge's ability to act equitably, he knew the sentencing was going to be hard.

"You do your best, and that's all you can do," Travis said. "Lord knows…on my side of the table we lose, on average, what, over half of all our cases? I mean, I had a guy last week I was certain was—"

"Stephen," Josiah sighed, "let's not talk about it."

Travis smiled grimly, and nodded.

"No problem. Then, how about on to happier subjects? I hear, for example, that you're thinking of hanging up your own shingle?"

Josiah couldn't resist. He had to smile at that one. He was up for mandatory retirement in a few months, with a nice pension coming to him and some real time off.

"Yup," he took a sip of his coffee, grimacing a little to find it mostly cold. "Found myself a small office space in the 4C building over on 42nd. Got Mitch Sachs negotiating a lease for me. If it all works out, by September 1, I'll be Josiah Sanchez, P.C."

"P.C….impressive. Going to hire on any associates?"

"What? Hell no. Just me, a secretary and maybe a paralegal, if I can afford one. Don't want to be the one running around filing papers and sitting in the waiting room, trying to push motions if I don't have to. Too old for that."

"And you've got the capital?"

"With my pension from here, yeah."

"And clients?"

Josiah pursed his lips, then nodded, "Of course."

Travis arched an eyebrow at the flippant response, then narrowed his eyes, "Paying clients?"

Josiah watched him a moment, then looked down. "I'll find a way." He was going to be a defense lawyer, of course, which was nowhere near as well paying as being a plaintiff lawyer. He'd be paid "reasonable" attorney's fees if he was successful, per court order. If he wasn't…well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Travis shook his head, smiling sadly at his friend. He knew what his friend was thinking—stubborn, romantic fool. He took another sip of his coffee, put it down and leaned forward. Josiah was staring down at his legal pad again, getting distracted once more by the case from this morning.

"Hey," the A.D.A. said, tapping the table in front of his friend to get his attention. When Josiah's blue eyes lifted, Travis smiled, "Did you know Standish's case is back?"

That immediately piqued the older lawyer's interest. Ezra Standish wasn't even thirty, and yet was already one of the top litigators at a large downtown firm, Farron & Lightfoot. They had him trying cases when he was a second year, which was practically unheard of at a large firm, and now, after five years with the firm, he was one of their aces, if not the ace. The boy was born with a silver tongue in his mouth and, to the minds of pretty much everyone who had ever seen him in court, would probably someday rank as one of the greatest litigators of his time.

"The Duvall case? I thought they were going to plea?"

"Couldn't come to an agreement. Standish is sure they're going to win. He walked out on the D.A. Can you believe the gall?"

Josiah's eyes were bright as he answered, "Standish can't be serious. I heard the facts. That'd be like trying to prove the sky is red instead of blue."

"Totally, which is why the D.A. took a hard line, but Standish wouldn't budge. To be honest, it makes me glad I'm not the one facing him. He's got to have something."

"But your boy Meyers still thinks it's open and shut?"

"Yes. I mean, it should be, but, with Standish defending that lowlife…." Travis trailed off, lifting both eyebrows.

Sanchez nodded, "So…when's it start up again?"

"Actually, a couple of days ago, but Meyers is bringing up his best witness tomorrow—the neighbor. I was going to go watch for a bit, see some of the show. Standish should be in rare form. Care to join me?"

Josiah stared down at his pad again. He wasn't going to get anywhere without the transcript, which wouldn't be ready until tomorrow afternoon in any event. After a moment, he nodded and looked up.

"What time?"

+ + + + + + +

The courtroom was crowded, but, as both Stephen and Josiah were well known fixtures of 100 Center, they were able to sneak in the secret door on the side of the gallery and grab some space at the end of an aisle. The room was one of the larger ones in the criminal court house--two stories high with a balcony, which is where they were sitting, affording them a bird's eye view. They arrived not long after the judge, an older, conservative man named Lippert, had called the court to order and A.D.A. Meyers called up his witness—the fourth one he'd called since the trial started, delayed only by a day for the plea bargaining—but the one he considered his ace in the hole against Duvall.

Lester Duvall was a corporate giant, an investor who had made a killing on the stock market by investing vast sums and, to the minds of a handful on Wall Street, getting very lucky. Duvall, of course, attributed it to savvy, which, considering how much he made and continued to make, was probably more accurate. He was not a stupid man, which was why, when he got into this "little trouble," he went straight to Farron & Lightfoot and demanded to be represented by Standish. The man did his homework.

Of course, this "little trouble" was a double homicide. His wife and her lover, murdered in his apartment—while Duvall was there. He admitted as much, but still swore he had nothing to do with it. Duvall, who was close to six foot three and built like a linebacker, had insisted he had been sleeping blissfully unaware in another room, wearing earplugs, when they were killed in the massive apartment he owned facing Central Park. The walls were too thick to hear either the adultery or the robbery, so he insisted, and with the earplugs….

It was a ridiculous case. Of course he was guilty. Everything pointed to it. Even Duvall's neighbor had come forward to describe the argument he had heard beforehand, and the subsequent shots. Who else could have done it?

Ah, that's where Standish came in. Standish could make even the obvious appear…doubtful.

And he was in fine form today.

Josiah leaned forward, like everyone else, his attention rapt as Standish started to cross examine the neighbor on the stand. It was like watching a play. His questions were reasonable, understandable, and straightforwardly…quixotic. The neighbor would say "no," meaning "yes," would stumble with the realization, then stumble some more to try and explain. But Standish was too quick, moving on, leaving doubts where once there had seemed solid facts. Could the neighbor distinguish the voices? What were they saying? Could he even tell the gender? Was he sure of the time? And weren't the walls supposed to be soundproofed?...It was like watching someone pull apart a building, stone by stone, until there was nothing left but rubble.

Meyers began to turn red. He was getting frustrated.

He stood from time to time, yelled "objection"…but didn't have anything to object to. Overruled. The judge might as well have said, "dismissed." Meyers got redder, staring daggers at the back of the smooth talking litigator from the big, rich New York law firm who was ruining his witness. Without this testimony….

Hell, if Standish knocked this testimony down, then what else could he do?

Meyers snapped a pencil in half, his eyes narrowed. Fact was….

Standish owned the courtroom. He owned the jury.

Hell, he probably already owned the verdict.

Josiah leaned back, feeling the winds change, and…started to get angry.

He knew as well as Meyers did, and most of the rest of the room did, that if Standish kept this up, Duval would get off.

And so he got angry. He didn't mean to, but it was like an unwanted burn inside his chest, a throbbing pain at the back of his head. The more he listened to Standish change the course of the case to his favor…the angrier he became.

Every word out of Ezra's mouth rang like fingers on a chalkboard in his ears. A sour taste upon his lips. A rotten smell inside his nose.

He couldn't stop the well of ill-will he was feeling, couldn't stop the rage boiling up inside. Soon, he wasn't merely angry—he was furious.

And not because Standish was winning.

But because he was jealous of him. Jealous because he had failed to save an innocent boy…and Ezra Standish was going to get a guilty man OFF.

His hands gripped themselves into fists. A vein started to throb in his forehead. The blue eyes narrowed.

Stephen Travis had been leaning forward as well, enthralled, like everyone else, in the dance Standish was leading below, but even then, he still felt the shift in the stance of his friend sitting next to him. The A.D.A.'s brown eyes slipped down, saw the clenched fists, then lifted to Josiah's bilious face. Suddenly, the case seemed unimportant.

"Josiah?" he whispered, worry lacing his tone. "Are you­ okay?"

"I need some air," the older lawyer hissed, standing up abruptly. Josiah was not a small man, and, even despite his position on the side of the balcony, the sight of his broad, powerful figure standing up caused the eyes of the judge, witness and bailiff's to look up.

It was like a ripple effect. Everyone turned to see what they were looking at—jury, runners, audience, attorneys….Ezra had been halfway through another question when he saw the witness distracted, and he turned around, lifting his gaze towards the public defender in the balcony. For a brief moment, Josiah's blue eyes met the young man's pale green ones.

And then Josiah was moving, sliding past some onlookers crowded along the wall, he reached the side door and left.

The moment gone, Standish smoothly resumed his questioning, as if nothing had happened. It was quickly forgotten, and the play continued.

Up above, Stephen Travis frowned, concerned for his friend. Once he was sure that the courtroom below had resumed its normal pattern, he very quietly slid out of his seat and followed Josiah out the door.

But when he reached the quiet marble hallway, there was no one to be seen.

CHAPTER TWO: SEEKING SOLITUDE

The Criminal Court House at 100 Center Street is a study in Art Deco. Tall, rectangular, and imposing, it smacks of the era it was built—the elegance and art of the forties. Hidden details, simple but beautiful touches, counterpoised with a fortress-like structure and a forbidding presence. Inside, the burnished brass fixtures, cool marble floors and dark wood walls cause chills in the hardest criminal, promise retribution to the most vengeful plaintiff, and leave even the most confident witness a little unsettled.

But most obvious of all are the ghosts that haunt its halls--both dead…and alive.

Josiah strode down the marble halls, walking past the many scattered people sitting on the benches, standing leaning against the walls, waiting for whatever it was that they were waiting for. He passed police officers standing at attention, guarding cuffed prisoners, and police officers simply looking bored, drinking coffee out of paper cups, waiting to be called into the courtrooms as witnesses…or as defendants. He nodded perfunctorily at the suit clad lawyers whispering in corners with clients, or talking with other lawyers, or pacing outside of chambers, waiting to speak with some judge or other. He stepped out of the way of assistants, clerks and paralegals running down the halls, carrying files of briefs, trying to add that final piece of evidence clutched in their hand.

When he finally reached the stairwell he wanted at the farthest point away from the main halls—a worn marble spiral staircase that had seen better days—he breathed a sigh of relief.

Many used these stairs between the ground floor and the second floor, but no one used it between the ground floor…and the basement floors.

Josiah didn't even look up as he past the ground level, he just kept moving down.

Past the basement.

Past the first sub basement….

Until, finally, he hit the bottom. Sub-Basement Level 2.

The halls were deathly quiet down here, a complete change from the tension and noise of the other floors. It was a storage floor, where old files were kept and things were forgotten. While someone obviously mopped the marble flooring every so often, it still smelled of dust and disuse. As if the whole floor belonged in an old movie, stuck on a reel that no one had looked at in fifty years.

It was exactly what he needed.

When he left that courtroom, he'd wanted to put his fist either through a wall, or through someone's face. More than that…he wanted to drink. He'd wanted to drown himself in whiskey and bourbon and forget that anyone else ever existed. Especially the perfect, winning, flawless Ezra Standish.

He moved with a steady stalk down the hall, then turned sharply at the first corner, aiming for the doorway he saw at the far end.

As he got closer, and saw the welcoming sign on the door, he almost smiled.

He already felt calmer for seeing it.

And all it had on it were three little words:

"Out Of Order."

+ + + + + + +

He'd found this place years ago. He couldn't really remember when, exactly, but it had been at least as long as ten years. Probably longer. He'd gotten lost. The elevator he'd been riding in had gotten stuck—as they often did in this building—and, after pushing lots of buttons, yelling for help, and finally jumping up and down, the whole carriage had shuddered and started to move slowly down. When it hit SB2, the doors opened. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Josiah had jumped out of the rickety contraption and headed down the random hall, looking for a stairwell…and a men's restroom.

He'd been on the elevator a while.

He saw the restroom first. Down at the end of a longish hall, the green door at the end promising salvation. Every floor had restrooms in the same place, so he didn't even think to question as he strode towards it.

That is, until he reached it, and saw the "Out Of Order" sign hanging from a rusty nail over the sign for a "Men's Shower Room."

His first thought had been, 'showers? 100 Center Street has showers?'

The second thought has been about the "Out of Order" sign—in particular, at the fact that it looked ancient. The edges were brown and curling, the laminate had cracked, and the paper itself was that sort of faded creamy brown color one thought of when imagining first editions of books. It even smelled old.

After a few moments, he had sighed, turned and moved away, eventually finding the marble stairs to take him back upstairs, and to a working restroom.

A couple of months later, he'd returned. He had wanted to see what the shower rooms looked like.

The "Out of Order" sign was still there. It hadn't been disturbed at all.

That, he hadn't expected. The City of New York was lazy sometimes…but it wasn't usually that lazy.

At this point, Curiosity had gotten the better of Josiah, and, so, he had tried the door.

The handle rattled, not budging. Locked.

For a moment, he'd stood there, staring at the simple locking mechanism keeping the door shut. Every rational thinking bone in his body told him to forget it. Go back upstairs, back to the rest of humanity. It's just a disused shower room, one which was probably manky and ugly.

Problem was, Josiah also had a strong irrational side of him. And it was that side that pulled out his wallet, grabbed the hard, laminated bar membership card, and used it to jimmy the lock open. Better than a credit card, Josiah had smiled as the door opened.

And that's how Josiah had found his secret haven.

+ + + + + + +

As he had done many times since that first time, all those years ago, Josiah pulled out his wallet and removed the latest version of his bar membership card. The laminate was scratched from just this very kind of abuse, but he didn't care. Sliding it between the frame and the lock, he fiddled for a couple of moments before hearing the lock click.

The sense of calm this room afforded him was unbelievable. He felt the anger and jealousy draining away, even before he crossed the threshold.

The inside of the room was as it always was. At first view, it looked like any other men's lavatory. On the right hand wall were four ceramic sinks, over which four mirrors hung (one of which was missing the glass). On the left were four stalls, painted a leafy green color that had peeled in places to reveal the whitish, rusty metal underneath. On the far wall, straight ahead, were the urinals. Above them, four rectangular "windows" slanted up towards the ground, and somehow allowed real sunlight to filter down into the room. A clever trick of architecture. The color scheme was predominantly cream and yellow, with hints of green, like the stalls. When the sun was bright, like today, it added a sort of sepia quality to the atmosphere.

But the best part was not obvious.

Josiah shut the door behind him, hearing the lock click back into place, and thought for a moment before hitting the light switch. The sun shed some a nice, diffuse light, and there was enough emergency lighting to avoid turning on the main lights. He himself had replaced the bulbs in this room several times, so he knew they all worked, but it was a pain doing it, so he avoided turning them on when he didn't need to. Like now.

Walking down past the stalls, but before reaching the urinals, the room suddenly opened up on the left, to another long room that ran parallel with this one, just offset a little. Together, both rooms were shaped approximately like an "h", with the showers in the smaller part. There where four shower stalls in there altogether, along with two long wooden benches.

Moving almost habitually, Josiah slipped past the edge of the stalls, turned left through the large open door and into the shower room. Sunlight filtered in here as well, from the slits above the benches. Feeling calmer, he sat down on the first bench, swung his legs up, and lay down on his back, with his hands behind his head.

For a while, he just stared at the ceiling. His thoughts that, until recently, had been swirling like a cyclone around the image of Ezra Standish, began to fade. And, before he knew it….

He was asleep.

CHAPTER THREE: SHATTERED IMAGES

Josiah's eyes flew open, and for half a second, he was horribly disoriented, staring up at the white, peeling ceiling above his head and trying to remember where he was.

A moment later, he was sitting up off the bench and rubbing at his dry eyes, shaking off the nap he hadn't meant to take and trying to recall both what had woken him so abruptly, and why he had come down here.

Oh right...Standish.

He could tell from the shift in the rectangles of sunlight across the floor that some time had passed—probably several hours considering it was now a lot darker in the room. Lifting up his watch, he was trying to make out the time when he heard it.

Someone was fiddling with the lock on the door.

A sudden, irrational nervousness caught at his throat as he realized that the rattling handle was probably what had woken him up. Now, he stood up and pressed himself up against the wall next to the entrance to the showers, holding his breath as he heard the lock click...and the door to the hallway opened.

Fear gave away to annoyance as he heard the sound of someone stepping into the main room, and the door shutting behind them. From the click of the shoes, he knew it wasn't a maintenance worker or a security guard-it was someone else. Someone who was invading his space. A moment later, he heard the click of the switch, and he had to cover his eyes a little at the sudden glare as the lights were turned on. Blinking up at the overly bright bulbs, he grimaced, covered a soft sigh, and tried to decide whether to make his presence known or not.

A large part of him didn't want to. This place was his. He didn't want to share it.

Some of the anger from earlier bubbled again inside his chest. He was feeling intruded upon, as if some stranger had just walked into his house without asking, and it was only through a great effort that he forced himself to calm down. After all, technically this place wasn't his.

Technically.

Still felt like his though.

He peered around the corner, using the third and fourth mirrors, both of which he could see from his position, to see who it was.

The man had his head down, reaching the third sink and placing his hands on both sides of the ceramic bowl. He leaned forward, putting his weight on his arms, his shoulders slumped, head bowed forward so low that Josiah could barely make out the dark brown hair.

Then, slowly, the stranger raised his head to look in the mirror.

Josiah nearly choked when he saw the face reflected back, quickly retreating back behind the wall, pressing the back of his head against the cool tile.

It couldn't be! Him! Of all people! His eyes drifted upwards, peering up through the ceiling, unable to avoid wondering if this was all some kind of cosmic joke! If it was…it was an incredibly cruel one.

Standish!

That rat bastard! How dare he be here!

Damn it! Josiah felt his rage returning, his hands gripping themselves into fists again. He pushed away from the wall, planning on turning, walking in there and giving that whelp a piece of his mind. He would not let Standish ruin his….

The sudden explosive shattering of glass startled the older lawyer so much he nearly jumped out of his skin. He fell back against the wall, mouth wide open in surprise, and peered around the corner again.

Ezra was standing still before the third sink, breathing heavily, staring down at his right hand, which was quite quickly growing redder and wetter as blood pooled out from the cuts on his knuckles. Above him, the third mirror was completely shattered from where the young man had obviously tried to drive his fist through it.

Dumbfounded, Josiah watched as Ezra blinked a few times, almost drunkenly, still looking at his bleeding hand.

"Well," the young lawyer said softly to himself, his voice quavering slightly, "that was stupid."

And that's when Josiah realized…Ezra was hurting. Really hurting. Pain was etched clearly in every line of the young man's normally smooth face. And not just because of his hand. The older man closed his mouth and pressed his lips together tightly, not even noticing that all his anger from earlier had completely disappeared.

Now he felt like he was the one intruding.

He watched as Ezra shuddered slightly, then looked at the fourth sink. Moving over to it, he turned on the hot water faucet, and Josiah realized something else. Ezra had obviously been here before. The fourth sink was the only that actually had hot water. The rest just spewed cold water, if anything at all.

The young lawyer's bleeding right hand was shaking now, as he gingerly placed it beneath the water. He appeared mesmerized by the red water pooling and running down the drain. Almost as if he wished he could wash his entire self along with it.

It was too much. One thing Josiah Sanchez could never do—he could never ignore anyone in pain.

Turning, he walked a little deeper into the shower room, to the small cabinet there, and withdrew a towel. He had about half a dozen in there because, believe it or not, one of the showers actually worked.

Putting the towel over his arm, he squared his shoulders and turned around. Without necessarily meaning to, he walked almost silently into the other room and stood a few feet behind the other man. Ezra was leaning against the sink now, his eyes closed, the still bleeding right hand no longer under the water but resting against the side of the sink, staining it.

"Son?" Josiah called softly.

Ezra frowned, and opened his eyes, as if not sure he had just heard a voice. Slowly, his eyes drifted up to the mirror over the sink…glanced at himself, then shifted and focused on Josiah.

It was like someone lit a fire under him—suddenly, Ezra leapt back about three feet towards the door, his eyes wide and a little wild, feet scrambling to move quickly. He had pressed his right hand to his chest protectively while the other was raised up in a warding off gesture.

"Jesus Christ!" Ezra shouted, panting through the adrenalin rush, anger, fear and shock all warring for control of his features. "Where the hell did you come from!"

Josiah gave a sheepish smile, "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." He shrugged, "I was already here when you came in. You actually scared the crap out of me first."

Ezra stared at him a moment longer, absorbing this without blinking. It was interesting—Josiah could see that the other man wanted to put his mask back on—the one that had made him the legend he was in the courtroom—but he was clearly unable to do so…yet. It meant Josiah could still clearly read everything that was going on inside the younger man.

After a moment, Ezra closed his eyes, put his head down, and took a deep breath. When he looked up again, he seemed to be back in control, though the poker face was still eluding him.

"I…apologize," he said, swallowing thickly. "I…did not think anyone else would be in here."

"Ditto," Josiah replied. Then he looked down at the bleeding hand, which was still shaking a little. He held out the towel, "Here. Wrap it in this."

Ezra looked at the towel, frowning a little. And Josiah chuckled, quickly guessing what the younger man was thinking—how old was that towel?

"It's clean," he promised. "I take them home and wash them. Trust me."

Ezra looked up again, meeting Josiah's eyes. The last two words had done something to him, causing the young man's brow to furrow slightly. After a moment, he stepped forward and took the proffered towel. With a nod of thanks, he started clumsily to wrap it around his hand.

"Here," Josiah said, "let me."

Ezra continued to watch him warily, but didn't stop him as Josiah pulled the right hand towards him and examined it.

"There's still some glass in here," Josiah said, turning the hand a little in the light to see the cut knuckles more clearly. "I've got a swiss army knife with tweezers. I think I should try to clean this for you first, before we wrap it." He looked up, seeking permission in the pale green eyes.

Ezra still hadn't managed to hide his emotions, his wariness barely covering his obvious unease, so Josiah smiled.

"Come on," the older man said, pulling Ezra with him towards the other room. Pushing him down onto one of the benches, Josiah pulled out a swiss army knife from his jacket pocket. Ezra arched an eyebrow.

"They let you through security with that?" he asked.

Josiah grinned as he pulled the tweezers out of the tip, "No. I put it in the bin…and then George gives it back to me on the other side."

"George?"

"The security guard with the dark brown hair and black framed glasses? Calls every man he doesn't know, Joe-Bob?"

Ezra had to smile, "Oh…him."

"Yeah. He's been here almost as long as I have."

Ezra smiled again, then hissed as Josiah attacked a splinter sized piece of glass he found embedded in the skin with the tweezers. After that, he didn't make another sound until Josiah was finished. When the older lawyer put his swiss army knife away, he got up and took the towel.

"Stay there," he ordered. Ezra nodded, leaning back against the tiled wall and letting his stinging hand rest on his leg.

Josiah headed back over to the fourth sink, doused the towel in warm water, then returned. Gently, he picked up Ezra's hand, cleaned it, then began to wrap it. The towel was big and bulky, but it was better than toilet paper, and would do the trick until Ezra could get a proper bandage.

"You'll probably need stitches," Josiah informed him. "You should go to the hospital, get this looked at."

Ezra had closed his eyes again, and, at the statement, sighed.

"Thank you, Mr. Sanchez, but I'm afraid I can't. I need to return to my office, to prepare for tomorrow."

Josiah stopped in the middle of wrapping the towel up the man's arm, turning his questioning eyes on the younger lawyer. Ezra felt the change and opened his, and the smallest of smug smiles graced his features.

Josiah almost smiled back, unable to resist such a cheeky smile. "So," he said conversationally, "you know who I am."

"Of course," Ezra almost sounded bored as he took the last bit of the towel from the other man, in order to finish the wrapping job. "Josiah Sanchez, public defender, nearly twenty years of service and retiring at the end of this year." He smiled, "the City is about to lose one of its greatest assets."

"Hunh," Josiah shook his head at the compliment, assuming the other man didn't mean it. "Sure they are."

"Actually," Ezra looked up, and Josiah was surprised at the sincerity there, "I'm not kidding. The City really will suffer without you. You’re," he shrugged, "probably one of the best lawyers it has. One of the best in the city, truth be told."

Josiah's eyebrows scrunched together, examining the man's face, trying to find the joke. He appeared nonplussed when he couldn't find it.

Ezra smiled again, brightly. "That's all right," he assured the other man, "you don't have to believe me." He looked down at the massively bundled right arm and laughed, "Well this is going to be interesting to explain to the guards. They'll think I'm smuggling some vital piece of evidence out." He laughed again, "No sir," he mocked, lifting up the arm, "there's no Exhibit A bloody knife hidden in here. I just felt like cocooning my arm for the evening. It feels the cold more than my left hand and with the winter we're having…." He trailed off, his smile fading slightly as he stared down at the towel. After a moment, he was serious again, and the mask finally fell into place. Josiah swore he almost heard it 'click.' When Ezra looked up and smiled brightly at Josiah, it was the smile of the self-assured, slick, rich law firm lawyer that had made the public defender so furious earlier today. But this time, Josiah realized just how much was hidden behind it, and he felt nothing but sorrow.

"Thank you again, Mr. Sanchez," Ezra said, standing up and backing towards the entrance. "I very much appreciate your help. I'll replace the towel and," he looked into the other room, "the mirror. I also, of course, won't intrude down here again. I did not know that someone else," he waved his left hand around a little, "used it as I did. Though, I did wonder how, in three years, none of the lights ever burnt out." He looked up, smiling at the bulbs overhead, as if pleased to have one mystery solved in his life. "Now I know."

Josiah's own smile had disappeared from his face, watching with expert eyes as Ezra continued to back away from him. His scrutiny was clearly disconcerting for the other man, because his backpedaling began to increase in speed.

"In any event, you obviously would like to return to your…solitude. Thank you again." And he turned, headed swiftly into the other room and straight for the exit.

Josiah sprang to his feet and followed him, frowning as Ezra reached the door, feeling a mess of conflicting feelings inside. He couldn't let the younger man just leave like that, still in so much pain, but at the same time, what right did he have to interfere with his life? Confused, he watched as Ezra's left hand touched the handle, and paused. Clearly, Josiah wasn't the only one having a fight with himself. Finally, with a defeated sounding sigh, Ezra depressed the handle.

"Wait," Josiah called, still not certain he was doing the right thing, but not ready yet to let this moment pass by. "Hold on. Don't leave yet."

Ezra didn't move, he just lowered his head and glanced over his shoulder at the older man.

"I, uh," the mask slipped, pain showing in those green eyes again, "I need to go, Mr. Sanchez."

"Not right now you don't."

A fake smile graced the younger man's expressive face, "I have a great deal of work to do. If there is something you need, I'm sure you can call my office and—"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

That shut Ezra up. The jaw tensed and loosened. He attempted another smile and looked more fully back at Josiah.

"About what?"

Josiah glanced at the shattered mirror, "About why you felt the need to destroy public property."

Ezra opened his mouth, as if to argue that he had done no such thing, but the words appeared to die in his throat. He released the door handle, allowed the door to lock back into place, and turned. He stared openly at Josiah, no longer bothering to hide the agony roiling around inside him.

And Josiah nodded. He was staring at a guilty man. Guilty of what, he didn't know, but there was no questioning the younger man was drowning in it.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly.

Ezra just continued to stare at him, his breathing steady. After a moment, his eyes drifting down to the tiled floor and closed.

"Ezra," Josiah took a step forward, "you can trust me."

The green eyes opened, squinted a little, then looked up. There was something akin to surprise in them, even as the soft voice admitted, "I know."

"So…tell me."

Ezra sighed softly, then straightened his shoulders, obviously having reached some kind of decision. "I can't." The chin lifted, "Not unless you take me on as your client."

Josiah's eyes widened a little, "What?"

"Will you take me on as your client?"

"Ezra," Josiah shook his head, "I'm a public defender. I can't just—"

"Mr. Sanchez," Ezra drew the bound arm closer to his chest, "Please."

Josiah sighed, "Look, let's just talk about this for a minute. I give you my word that I will not betray any confidence you give me. But I can't just take a case, knowing nothing about what it entails, or what interests may be involved. You know that." He licked his lips, "Can't you just give me an idea?"

"Am I your client?" Ezra asked again, his voice insistent and a little strained. Josiah realized he was staring at a man on the edge of the precipice, about to jump, but willing not to if someone would just take his hand and pull him back. He had seen it before, in clients who were desperate for someone to save them, keep them safe and free, but unable themselves to see any real chance of salvation. Most of the time, they just needed someone to stand at their side, even if it was only to see them fall. The look in Ezra's eyes was that of a man already lost, but not wanting to be out there alone.

Oh God, Josiah shivered. He was too old for this. Too old, and, Lord, did he want a drink. And a way out of this. He couldn't accept Ezra's plea. Not now. Not when he was so close to escaping this whole depressing world. He couldn't afford the time or the energy…or the possible danger that he knew, just knew, Ezra would put his career in. He had to say no….

Something in the older lawyer's eyes must have reflected his thinking because, suddenly, Ezra was smiling. A full, slightly nervous but understanding smile. The young man chuckled softly, shook his head and sidled back to the door behind him.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I really did not mean to put you on the spot like that. I don't know what came over me." He shook his head, holding the towel wrapped arm closer, still smiling and resting his hand back on the handle. "It was a silly idea. I don't need..." He laughed again, shrugging. "Silly. As I said, what I do need is to get back to my office. I've a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and I need to look over my notes before—"

"All right," Josiah said quietly. "I'll be your attorney."

Ezra's smile fell instantly. He blinked for a moment, then, softly, "Are you sure?"

Josiah smiled back at him. It was a strange thing, but he was sure. All his previous doubts had suddenly seemed superficial and cowardly when he saw the spark of hope die in Ezra's face a few minutes ago, thinking the public defender was turning him down. One of the most intelligent, talented young lawyers in New York had asked for his help—his help, of all people, out of the literally thousands of other attorneys in New York. How the hell could he turn that down?

"Yes," Josiah stood up and indicated the shower room again, "Step into my office, Mr. Standish, such as it is. You are now protected by attorney-client privilege. Now tell me why you just drove your fist through your reflection like a man possessed?"

CHAPTER FOUR: SUBBASEMENT CONFESSIONS

Ezra stared at him for a moment, then, slowly, his lips lifted into a truly grateful smile. Josiah just gave him a sincere nod back. Tentatively, then more confidently, Ezra walked back into the other room and looked down at the bench. Josiah followed him and magnanimously gestured to the hard wooden slats.

"Sit."

Ezra did, his back straight, clearly still uncomfortable.

"Now talk," Josiah commanded, sitting down next to him.

Ezra took a deep breath, looked at Josiah, then looked away.

"Lester Duvall," he said, blinking his eyes slowly, "is guilty." As he said it, his shoulders slumped, as if a massive burden had just lifted.

Josiah's eyebrows perked up, and he couldn't resist a small smile at the simple statement.

"Hell, son, I know that. So does the D.A.'s office, the judge and almost everyone else in this city. The only people who don't are that jury you so carefully picked."

Ezra's jaw had tensed a little at the flippant response, sharp eyes catching the other man askance. When Josiah was finished, he sighed.

"First," Ezra frowned a little, "please don't call me 'son.' Second," he swallowed, ignoring the strange look that crossed Josiah's face at his first statement, "You misunderstand me." He pursed his lips briefly, then shook his head, "I don't just know my client is guilty, Mr. Sanchez, in the same way that you and Meyers and the rest of the city know he's guilty…." He swallowed, his eyes now focused on a small pale yellow tile with a black scratch on it, the flaw pulling his attention. "I know he's guilty."

Josiah's brow furrowed darkly, taking the meaning. "Are you saying he confessed to you?"

"Not to me, no, and not in some many words," Ezra replied, the disgust in his tone clear. "Duvall is not that stupid." He looked at Josiah more clearly, "I overheard a conversation he had with Farron."

"The managing partner at your firm."

Ezra nodded. "Duvall didn't come right out and say he had killed them, but that is what he implied, with all the subtlety of a Will Farrell comedy." Ezra blinked slowly again, muscles rippling across his jaw. "Hell," he cursed, disgust lining his features, "I even heard them laughing about it. As if it were some big joke. Duvall was so certain, so confident that we would get him off. How could anyone be that arrogant? It's a murder trial for Christ's sake!" His free left hand slapped the bench, and his face winced a little at the pain he'd caused himself.

"You're still his lawyer," Josiah cautioned lightly.

"So they tell me," Ezra agreed darkly, blowing on the stinging palm of his left hand before resting it on his thigh.

"If you're so certain, and so upset about it, why don't you withdraw from the case?"

Ezra didn't answer that question, continuing to stare intently at the tile, as if it held the secrets to the universe inside the flaw.

"The worst part," the younger lawyer spoke, as if Josiah had never asked his question, "is that I'm facing Meyers." He sighed, shaking his head, "Why couldn't it be Travis? Or Liang? Or Weir? Why did the prosecutor have to be Meyers? What was the D.A. thinking?"

"Meyers had the seniority and the experience," Josiah noted simply.

"Meyers is…is….!" Ezra cut himself off, clamping his teeth down with an audible click. He leaned off the wall, his left hand gripping into a fist as he shifted his weight forward on the bench, demonstrating both his irritation with Meyers and his frustration with the situation at the same time. Finally, instead of finishing his statement, he just shook his head. "It shouldn't be Meyers. Christ, the man shouldn't even be a lawyer! How the hell he's lasted so long I'll never know."

Josiah didn't respond. To be honest, he completely agreed with the man next to him. Meyers lost more cases for the D.A.'s office than was healthy—he was terrible at the job. Such a liability should have been cut years ago, and yet, somehow, Meyers survived. Still, Josiah wasn't going to admit that out loud, especially since Meyers was, sort of, a friend of his. What would be the point?

"Okay," Josiah shrugged, "so Meyers may not be the best that the DA's office has, but that doesn't mean he—"

"See, here's the thing," Ezra was staring at the shower room floor now, finding more flaws in the cracked tiles to trace with his eyes. "I…I've been feeding Meyers with information."

Josiah nearly fell off the bench, his surprise was that great. "What?!"

"I've given him more than half the evidence he's got. And more…many of which are things he still hasn't introduced as evidence. I gave him the name of Duvall's mistress, who was scared to death when I talked to her about what Duvall might do to her, but I haven't seen any mention of her in the files. I've given him the name of Duvall's gun teacher and the person who sold him the gun. I also gave Meyers the name of two other neighbors. Neither were home the night of the shooting, but both have been witness to acts of violence by Duvall against his wife, acts which had increased in ferocity recently. But he hasn't even been to see them…."

Josiah was still several steps behind, still stuck on the fact that Ezra had admitted to violating the rules of professional responsibility and to behavior that was blatantly criminal. The lawyer had violated the most important oath of his profession….He realized now that this was why Ezra had insisted on becoming his client. Josiah would have been compelled to go to the disciplinary committee, and they would have pressed charges. Disbarment would be the least of Ezra's worries if this was known.

Josiah's teeth were gritted, trying not to show his disapproval, "And how, exactly, have you been providing this information?"

Ezra shrugged, as if the answer wasn't important. "Manila envelopes under his door, delivered by messengers who have no idea who I am. Crude, but effective."

"And your name isn't on the envelopes anywhere?"

"Of course not."

Josiah nodded, swearing inwardly at himself for, once more, agreeing to take Ezra as a client. He could withdraw, he supposed, but he still couldn't reveal any of this conversation to anyone.

"Why, Ezra?" he demanded finally. "Why risk your career…your freedom…for this one case? You know what you've done is reprehensible! You should have withdrawn!" He grimaced, ignoring the way Ezra flinched slightly at his angry tone. "Surely, you've represented criminals before, knowing they were guilty? Hell, even in my limited knowledge of your career, I know you've defended gun companies, drug traffickers, big tobacco—"

"But," Standish interrupted coldly, "never someone like Duvall."

"So?" Josiah leaned forward, trying to see more of the younger man's face. "What makes Duvall so different?"

Ezra blinked slowly again. It seemed to be his way of gathering his thoughts before he spoke. And when he did speak again, it was softly.

"Because I have never defended anyone as…inhuman…as Duvall."

That confused the public defender, and he waited a second before repeating the word.

"Inhuman?"

A single nod. "The people I've defended, even the worst of them, were still always just men and women who were seduced by money, or love, or power, or something else that I could understand. And they were always terrified, beneath it all, of what would happen to them or to their loved ones. But Duvall…." He trailed off shaking his head.

Josiah looked down. He'd obviously defended a great deal of scum in his lifetime, but never someone like Duvall. The rich didn't use or need public defenders.

Ezra spoke in almost a monotone now, "Duvall didn't just kill his wife, Josiah." The green eyes turned to focus on the older man, "He tortured her."

That got Josiah looking up again. "What?"

Ezra's fist unlocked as he explained, his voice soft still, "I had the feeling Farron wasn't telling me everything about Duvall. Their relationship is too familiar. So," his eyes narrowed slightly, "I broke into Farron's office and checked his safe…." He ignored the lifted eyebrows the other man gave him, continuing, "I found his file on Duvall. Farron had…. They are old friends. Farron's file on Duvall is extensive."

"Extensive."

"Including a number of medical files."

"About Duvall?"

"Yes. And…" Ezra paused again, then took a deep breath. "About his wife."

"His wife? You mean her medical history?"

"That, and," a tiny smile graced Ezra's face, "her autopsy report."

"Her autopsy…," Josiah frowned. "So? It's part of evidence. I mean, the M.E. is going to testify, isn't he?"

"No," Ezra's eyes were glassy, "It's not in evidence. And yes, he is, but," the jaw flexed, "he's going to lie."

"Ezra," the older lawyer leaned forward, so he could see more of the man's face. "What are you talking about?"

"The court file says she was beaten and then shot. That's not true. She was shot," Ezra shifted his eyes to meet Josiah's, "then beaten. The autopsy in Farron's files states that cause of death was a gun shot wound to the chest, but death wasn't instantaneous, as stated in the file submitted to court." Ezra's eyes were terrible to behold, "She was beaten as she bled to death, Josiah. It took her at least half an hour to die, and Duvall wailed on her face and body for a good long time while she did." He leaned forward, still staring hard at Josiah, "Now do you see why I need to stop him?"

Josiah just stared at him, his eyes wide open.

Ezra nodded, recognizing the same shocked expression he had worn when he first read the file. "Fact was, he beat her repeatedly. He put her in the hospital twice, once in near critical condition." He licked his teeth, taking another deep breath before continuing, "And she wasn't the first one."

Josiah didn't hide the puzzlement, and so Ezra explained.

"He was married before."

"Lord," Josiah's eyebrows rose, "you mean an ex-wife?"

"Yes. And he did the same to her."

"Oh my God," the older lawyer breathed. "You mean he—"

"No. No, he," Ezra shook his head, "he didn't kill her. Just put her in the hospital for six months. She ended up permanently disfigured, and so he paid her off to get rid of her—an obscene amount of money. Changed her name, sent her away. I don't know much about her, except her story and…where she is now. I've been…I've been…." He shook his head, looking away to stare into space again. "Anyway, point is, I copied the information. All of it—the autopsy, about the hospitalization of his dead wife, about the ex-wife, about everything. I put in an envelope…." He trailed off.

"And given it to Meyers?"

"No. Not yet."

Josiah stared at him, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Why not?"

Ezra's jaw flexed, and he looked at the other man, steeling himself by meeting the other man's eyes as evenly as possible.

"Because," he licked his lips, "Because I don't trust him anymore."

Josiah recoiled at that information. Ezra saw it and blushed a little, but didn't lower his eyes from Josiah's. The naked honesty in them was making the public defender increasingly uncomfortable.

"Ezra…."

"I found other things as well, Josiah, when I looked in Farron's safe. His files are…impressive. I only saw a small piece of them, but it looks like he has files on everyone." He shook his head, "And it made me wonder if he had one on Meyers. I was going to check, but I ran out of time—was interrupted by a security guard. But though I haven't seen it, I'm sure it's there."

Josiah shook his head, "Ezra, that's one hell of an assumption."

"Perhaps." Ezra looked away.

"You don't know."

"No. Just…some of the information I gave him, he should be using. But he hasn't. I don't understand why. Unless…of course, Meyers really is just an idiot. A bad lawyer. In which case…." He shook his head.

Josiah frowned, the statement reminding him again why Ezra had come to him in the first place. It also brought up the question that Josiah had first asked…and that the younger man had not answered yet.

"Look, Ezra, even if your reasons for wanting to stop Duvall are good, that still doesn't excuse you, and you know it. Right now, you are still his lawyer. You should have withdrawn from the case the moment you felt you couldn't defend Duvall. And while I know why you did it, providing that information was still a breach of everything we are supposed to—"

"I know."

Josiah stared at him, then tilted his head, "No, you don't. Not if you still breached your—"

"I said," Ezra repeated, speaking through clenched teeth, "I know."

Josiah stared at him a moment, then nodded, "Fine. Then why didn't you withdraw? Why are you still defending him?"

"Because they won't let me withdraw."

"They?"

"Farron and Duvall. I went to both of them. Neither will let me drop the case. They know I'm the best," he said it like it was a curse, "and they both told me they wouldn't accept either my withdrawal or my resignation."

Josiah's jaw steeled, "Damn." He frowned, "Still, you could still go to the judge."

"I did."

That surprised Josiah, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, "You did?"

"He asked why I needed to withdraw. When I told him it was because I did not believe I could defend Duvall effectively, he asked why. When I did—without, of course, being able to reveal to him what I just revealed to you about Duvall's background—he told me it wasn't good enough. I admit, I've never tried to withdraw from a case before, so I may have gone about it all wrong, but the harder I pressed and the harder I insisted, the more the judge rebuffed me. I left feeling even worse than I did when I entered his chambers." Ezra shook his head, dragging is left hand down his face.

Josiah looked down, "Oh."

"So, I decided…I'd run. I'd just disappear. Face charges of withdrawing without leave, accept disbarment even…the end of my career. But then," he licked his lips, "I realized that…Duvall would just find someone else. And he'd probably still get off. And I didn't want him to get off. So," Ezra looked off to the side, away from Josiah, "since I decided I was screwed either way, I started providing information to Meyers. Information that couldn't obviously be from Farron's files, so Farron wouldn't think it was me."

"I see," Josiah intoned, his voice thick.

"And, yet," Ezra snorted, a half laugh, "somehow, I'm still winning."

"Yes," Josiah noted softly. "You are." Any jealousy that might have colored that statement was gone. "Why, exactly? Why not tone it down a little?"

Ezra shook his head, looking up at the ceiling, "Damn it! If Meyers would only use the information I provided him! I am aware it's not conclusive, but—"

"Even if he did, you'd talk circles around him."

"Well," Ezra sighed, "yes…probably."

"But you don't have to. You could…do a less than perfect job, you know."

Ezra continued to stare at the ceiling, not responding.

"But if you can't for some reason," Josiah licked his lips, "maybe…."

Ezra lowered his gaze, and turned to look at Josiah, his eyes looking for salvation. Josiah grimaced.

"Well," Josiah shrugged, "you've gone this far, Ezra. Provided a lot of information to Meyers. At this point, adding to the pot is not going to make it any worse….right?"

The tiniest smile lit at the edge of Ezra's lips, self-deprecating and amused at the same time. He knew he liked Josiah Sanchez.

Josiah pushed on, "And if Meyers is corrupt, which, I suppose, is possible, so what? He tells Farron, and Farron—"

"Has me killed."

Josiah nearly choked at the statement, and had to cough a little. Ezra was deadly serious.

"Killed? What are you talking about?"

"He'll know I've been in his files, Josiah. He'll know what I've seen. He can't let me get away with that."

Josiah's eyes narrowed, "And what have you seen? Besides the information on Duvall, I mean."

Ezra shook his head, "Enough to know that he has had people killed before, for less."

Josiah stared at him a moment, looking for the lie, the exaggeration.

All he saw was a scared young man, who utterly believed what he had just said.

"Good lord."

"And I only saw one quarter of his files, Josiah. But some of the names in there…the information….the paid off M.E. is just the tip of the iceberg."

"Christ."

"Yeah." Ezra looked away again, leaning back against the wall. "I think…I don't know what to do anymore. I feel like Shoeless Joe Jackson in the 1919 World Series. I can't win this case, Josiah, because I can't let that man get off. And I can't lose it, because Farron will know why. If I do a less than excellent job…or if that information about the autopsy gets into the trial, he'll know. And he'll kill me before….I just…I don't know what to do." He closed his eyes. "So I broke a mirror," he chuckled softly. "Maybe…I should do more than that. If I'm in the hospital, they can't—"

"Don't talk that way."

Ezra closed his mouth, not replying to the statement. Josiah stared at the young man's profile, seeing the pain etched in the lines around his eyes. It made Ezra seem older. And Josiah felt oddly younger in comparison.

For a few minutes, neither man spoke. They just sat there with their thoughts. Ezra, probably wondering if he could walk in front of a cross town bus without dying, and Josiah thinking about….

Meyers.

The older lawyer frowned, looking down at his hands.

Slowly, surely, thoughts coalesced in his mind.

"I should leave," Ezra said finally, opening his eyes. "I need to get back. Farron will be looking for me. Tomorrow we—"

Josiah interrupted him. "You say you think Meyers is taking a pay off?"

Ezra sighed, closing his eyes, expecting a tirade of righteous indignation again.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sanchez," he replied, trying to keep his voice calm, "but I would be a fool to think otherwise. I provided information to him that should be in his brief, witnesses that should be in the list…." He swallowed, opening his eyes but keeping them lowered, away from the other man's scrutiny, "I realize he is a friend of yours, sir, but I can not otherwise explain—"

"How long do you think it's been going on?"

Ezra hesitated a second, unable to hide his surprise at the question. He'd been expecting Josiah to defend the A.D.A., to argue that he must be mistaken, and that he should go ahead and provide the information. Instead….

"Because," Josiah added softly, not lowering his intense gaze, "I have a feeling it's been a long time."

Ezra turned, staring openly at the man next to him. He found himself staring at a man who was disappointed, but not in Ezra or himself, but in someone he had considered a friend.

"It makes sense," Josiah sighed, his shoulders drooping a little more as he leaned back and away from the younger man. "Some of the larger cases he lost," he shook his head, "I often wondered how he could have bungled them so badly."

"Yes, well," Ezra tried not to let the relief he felt at being believed show too much in his voice, "I don't think he's the only one. Although, at the time, I wasn't looking for Meyers' name, when I was rooting through Farron's files…." he trailed off, licking his lips.

"You found other names?" Josiah's voice had steeled. "Other than the M.E. of course."

Ezra just nodded, "Judges, bailiffs, cops, politicians, other lawyers, and, of course, criminals….and that was just in the files marked A-E." He gave a weak smile, then shook his head again. "It's frightening."

"But," Josiah mused then, a strange new tone in his voice, "potentially useful."

That got the other man's attention in another way. Ezra's back straightened on the bench, and he found himself looking at Josiah speculatively, real hope in his eyes for the first time. He tilted his head.

"Useful?" His eyebrow lifted, "What are you thinking?"

"If Farron has that many people that he can lean on, or bribe, then," Josiah quirked a smile, "he's probably had to keep records of what he's paid and when."

Ezra's eyes narrowed.

Josiah continued, "Farron couldn't keep all that in his head. Paying off a few people, that's nothing. Paying off a number as large as you've suggested? You'd need to have that written down. Why else have the amount he's paid the M.E. in Duvall's files?"

"And Meyers might be one of them."

Josiah nodded, "And maybe, we can kill two birds with one stone."

"How?" Ezra's eyes narrowed.

"You don't just want to withdraw, son, you want Duvall to pay for what he's done. Correct?"

The other man just nodded.

"And you want to stay out of jail and keep your license…not to mention, save your life…."

Ezra just raised his eyebrows, giving a look that said, "that's obvious."

"Then you need something to hold over Farron, to prevent him from continuing to protect Duvall, and to stop him from harming you. And," he shrugged, "something to get rid of Meyers."

"What are you thinking?"

"Steal Farron's files. All of them."

Ezra blinked, "All of them?"

"Copy them, hide them, and use them as your lever."

Ezra looked away, his eyes darting around as he considered the import of the other man's suggestion.

"Once you have them safely stowed, tell Farron you've got them. Tell him that you are going to provide the information about Duvall to someone you trust—and that you are going to withdraw from the case. If he tries to threaten you, say you'll go public with all the files, and that, if you are harmed in any way, that you will make sure that they are delivered to every major newspaper on the east coast, not to mention the FBI. You have contacts there, I presume?"

Ezra just nodded dumbly, watching Josiah intently.

"But don't tell Duvall," the older lawyer cautioned. "And don't let Farron tell him either."

"Why not?"

"You can't use Farron's files against Duvall in the same way. If Duvall finds out you've been providing information to Meyers, he'll seek to have you disbarred and arrested first, and any information you provide will be tainted. He'll say you found it out through illegal means and shed doubt on their authenticity…."

"I get it," Ezra nodded.

"When the information about the autopsy and Duvall's ex-wife come to light, and is used against Duvall, he might realize it was you, but Farron won't be able to tell him that, and so he won't be able to go after you. He won't have any evidence."

"And I can withdraw."

"Yes. Though…obviously, it will be without leave."

Ezra nodded, "What if, uh…what if…I don't want to withdraw. What if I can get Farron to fire me, which shouldn’t be hard," he laughed without humor, "and—"

"Would Duvall fire you? If he doesn't know why you were fired? You're still you, Ezra."

Ezra stared at the floor, "I don't know."

"You can't keep defending him, Ezra. One way or another, you need to withdraw. If Duvall doesn't fire you, and the judge won't either, then you must withdraw without leave. Claim that you can't defend him knowing what you know about him, now that the autopsy has come to light. I will defend you, and I'll do my best to keep you from losing your license."

Ezra's eyes softened, and, quietly, he started to laugh.

"Well," he shook his head, "I guess it's less painful than stepping out in front of a bus."

"It is." Josiah patted his leg, "It'll be all right, son. I promise."

Ezra looked down at the hand, watched as it lifted away and then looked over at Josiah. He'd called him "son" again…but this time he didn't object. For some reason, he found he didn't mind it, for the first time he could remember. Instead, he smiled.

"Josiah," his eyes smiled as well, which caused his whole face to look suddenly much younger, "thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," the older lawyer said. "Let's just see if it works first."

Ezra's smile just broadened. Then, slowly, it faded.

"But, who do I give the information to, if I can't give it to Meyers, and I'm not sure," he inhaled a quick breath, "that I trust the D.A. himself either?"

"Leave that to me," Josiah said. "There are still a large number of honest, good people in this City, and I know a few I would trust with my life. They'll help us, trust me."

Ezra nodded, then smiled again, "At this point, Josiah, I don't think you need to question whether or not I trust you anymore. I really don't have any choice in the matter."

Josiah just smiled back, "Well, it's a start."

CHAPTER FIVE: HEADLINES

The next morning, A.D.A. Stephen Travis found a package sitting on his desk in his office. Frowning, he picked up the manila envelope, looking for any distinguishing marks or evidence of the name of the messenger service that had delivered it. Finding none, he grabbed a letter opener and slit the manila open.

Tilting the package down, he let the heavy file fall into his hand, frowning a little as he turned it over and saw the name on the lip.

"Andrew Meyers, Assistant District Attorney."

Frowning more now, he sat down behind his desk and flipped the file open.

Fifteen minutes later, he was on the phone with the District Attorney and the Attorney General, his face red with fury at discovering a snake in the woodwork. Derek Liang and Elizabeth Weir paced in his office, the two young prosecutors both flipping through pieces of the same file Travis had already run through, similar expressions of shock in their faces. Travis met their eyes from time to time, nodding. Fact was, none of them had really liked Meyers…now they knew why.

Less than an hour later, the judge was forced to call a recess in the Duvall case, and, not much later, a mistrial, as A.D.A. Meyers was arrested for soliciting and accepting bribes.

Ezra Standish, the picture of confused innocence, tried to explain to his client that it was only a small setback. That they would be back on track with a new trial quickly….

And the evening edition of the New York Post ran a new headline, together with a large color picture of Meyers in cuffs:

"CORRUPTION ON CENTRE STREET – Evidence of bribery rocks the District Attorney's Office."

+ + + + + + +

Later that same day, a captain at a precinct on the upper west side was handed a file from two of the City's best detectives – a homicide detective named Larabee and a vice detective named Wilmington, both of whom had been delivered identical packages concerning the Duvall case. Neither would tell him who had been the source of the information. And, inside the package, the captain found the real autopsy report for Duvall's wife. He was dialing the D.A.'s office even before finishing the file, and yelling orders for someone to go and arrest the M.E.

The already strained D.A.'s office suddenly got even busier.

And the papers got a new front page news story for the next morning, to share with the corruption story, sending circulation through the roof. The Daily News used pictures of Duvall, his wife, and a partial copy of the fake autopsy report beneath its large print headline.

"DUVALL WIFE'S AUTOPSY REVEALED AS FRAUD – Medical Examiner on case arrested for forging results."

+ + + + + + +

That same morning, Ezra Standish explained to Lester Duvall that he had quit Farron & Lightfoot, LLP, due to irreconcilable differences. He also mentioned that, if Duvall wished to fire him, he would understand. He refused to give Duvall an explanation, telling him only that it was personal.

Duvall, still reeling from reading about the autopsy report and the arrest of Meyers, immediately called his old friend Farron. For the first time, the great Lester Duvall didn't know what to do.

But he got no answer. Apparently, Mr. Farron had suddenly decided to go on vacation. To the Himalayas. He would be unreachable for two weeks.

Frustrated, Duvall commanded Ezra to stay on the case while he used all the sources at his disposal to find the managing partner.

+ + + + + + +

Not far away, at the New York Times, a reporter was opening another manila envelope that had been sitting on her desk when she returned from lunch. Puzzled, she sat down with the manila folder and started to read, pushing the blonde hair away from her face as she did so.

The following day's NYT headline was a wonder to behold:

"DUVALL EX-WIFE FOUND – Former Mrs. Duvall paid to keep silent."

+ + + + + + +

Ezra sat back in his apartment, smiling at the front page of the paper. Sipping his tea, he looked up at the clock and took stock of the time.

Sighing, he stood up and prepared to go meet the judge.

One way or another, he was washing his hands of Duvall today.

+ + + + + + +

Reporters mobbed Court Street, looking for photo ops. Lester Duvall did not disappoint, exploding at his attorney, the now infamous Ezra Standish, who quietly took the abuse heaped upon him. Ezra had quit the case, leaving without either leave from the court or from his client. And Duvall was furious. Accusations of leaking information to the D.A., the cops and the newspapers were clearly heard and taken down. Standish, of course, denied it all.

Finally, the linebacker-sized Duvall decked him, leaving Ezra sprawled on the sidewalk with a bloody nose.

The attorney's picture, staring up furiously at his former client, blood trailing down his upper lip, was on the front page of all of the major papers the next day, next to a picture of the large Duvall being dragged away by the NYPD, still obviously screaming abuse at his former lawyer.

"STANDISH QUITS. DUVALL CLAIMS CONSPIRACY."

+ + + + + + +

By week's end, several things had occurred.

Duvall had hired new lawyers to defend him in his murder trial, using a different firm, since Farron had never reappeared. Duvall also filed a multi-million dollar suit against Farron & Lightfoot LLP, which many thought he would lose. Meanwhile, new briefs were filed in Duvall's case, and A.D.A. Derek Liang was the new prosecutor, the young man being next in line for Meyer's senior position among the staff. His witness list was twice as long as Meyer's had been, and plenty of new evidence had been documented and prepared for entry into the court files.

Several arrests, including a handful of cops, the medical examiner on the Duvall case, and former A.D.A. Andrew Meyers, were all consistent front page news….along with the arrest of Duvall's former defense attorney, Ezra Standish. They were all charged with intent to obstruct justice, to wihthold evidence pertinent to the case, and for conspiracy.

Ezra was the only one released for lack of evidence. His lawyer, Josiah Sanchez, worked tirelessly for the young man.

Many thought Sanchez a gullible fool, defending someone who was obviously scum.

In the end, Ezra only had the disciplinary hearing before the bar association to prepare for. There was a strong push for his license to be revoked, and that he be permanently barred from practicing.

Not that it mattered. No firm in town would touch Standish with a ten foot pole now. Despite his reputation as a great lawyer, he was now far more famous for his part in the fall of Lester Duvall.

Only one man didn't give up on the young lawyer. And Josiah Sanchez never regretted his decision for a moment.

The best news, though, was that the newspapers in New York City enjoyed a surge of profits they hadn't seen since Martha Stewart was arrested. It was a good week for headlines.

CHAPTER SIX: PUTTING THINGS BACK IN ORDER

Ezra sat in Josiah's small office on Thomson Street, in a tiny corner of the Legal Aid offices, wondering a little at the chaos. The room was about the size of a large linen closet, with a smallish desk, an ugly office chair that had seen better days, the wooden chair Ezra currently sat in, and reams and reams of paper. It was the most disorganized, cluttered office he had ever seen, and it smelled a little…well, rank would be the polite term. The boxes of Chinese food, thankfully empty, were propped up next to empty pizza boxes, black plastic sushi containers, and several dozen scrunched up brown bags typically handed out by delis. It was if the man never threw anything away. The first time he had been here, he had actually questioned the man's sanity—Well, to be honest, he'd been questioning that since Josiah had agreed to take him on as a client last week—but he'd sort of gotten used to it now.

He'd been "hiding" in Josiah's office since Friday, afraid to go anywhere but home, and then only late at night. Not that he didn't believe that Josiah had been right—that Farron wouldn't take the risk as long as he had those files—but between Farron's threats and the reporters….

Fact was, he felt safe here. Which was odd. He'd never felt safe anywhere but the disused shower room under 100 Center Street and his apartment at the Westmoreland, and that was because the shower room was hidden and the Westmoreland was a fortress. This was a dingy office on the fifth floor of an open building, where random people came and went all the time. Yet, because it was Josiah Sanchez's office….

It was a new feeling for the young man. He'd never known anyone like Josiah, someone he had trusted implicitly the moment he had met the man. It was disconcerting, and so unlike him, that he wondered if he had been blinded by his desperation. But now, as he looked back, he was glad for his decision. He'd acted impulsively for the first time that he could remember, and…it had worked.

So far.

On Sunday, his second day hiding in this office, he did realize that Josiah had a sort of system. The piles meant something to the older lawyer, though Ezra really had no clue how it was possible. Still, whenever Josiah needed to find something—a volume of McKinney's forms, a copy of the Rules of Civil Procedure, a telephone number, a pencil—then the big man would just put his hand down and, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, would pull exactly what he needed out of the paper mountains. The books were the most impressive—Ezra had looked, and hadn't been able to find them anywhere inside the man's desk. Perhaps it really was magic.

The image made Ezra smile as he scrolled down the brief Josiah had written for him to review on his laptop, absently correcting grammatical errors here and there. Josiah the magician. Seemed oddly fitting, considering all the rabbits the older lawyer had pulled out of the hat for him this week. And if he still ended up losing his license, well, if it meant Duvall went to jail for life, it would be worth it. No question. Of course, he knew that Duvall's new law firm was filing a suit today against him claiming he was complicit in the leaking of evidence against Duvall to the D.A. and the press. That could mean a jail sentence. Would it still be worth it, if he went to jail?

Ezra's jaw flexed, his hands lifting up off the keys for a moment. He wished he could say yes. But he was not that strong. He didn't want to go to jail.

He just wasn't that heroic.

Pursing his lips, Ezra sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

Looking up, he looked at the manila envelope on the top of one of Josiah's piles. It had arrived this morning, Monday, dropped off by a clerk. Josiah had thanked the bookish boy, placed it to one side, then disappeared to talk with some friends of his on the review board about Ezra's situation.

His fingers curled, and he lifted them away from the laptop. A moment later, he lifted the computer off his lap and placed it atop one of the many piles on Josiah's desk. Standing, he stretched then leaned over to look more carefully at the manila envelope. Transcripts, he realized, recognizing the stationary. He turned it over, and read the file name. People v. Theodore Madison—decided last Tuesday. Josiah had apparently been the boy's defense lawyer. Ezra frowned, guessing that the boy had been convicted.

A moment later, he had it opened and was reading through the case. After all, transcripts were public records, it wasn't like he was reading the man's mail or anything….

+ + + + + + +

Josiah sighed, moving through the halls to his small office like a man half asleep. It had been a long day. Everyone he spoke with had been plain—Ezra was going to be hung out to dry by the Bar Association. He'd deserted his client when Duvall had needed him the most, and that had to be punished. Plus, everyone had heard about the suit Duvall's new lawyers filed today against Standish. If he had, in fact, been breaching client confidentiality in order to intentionally harm his client, then….

It was going to be a long, ugly fight.

Worse, Josiah had been warned by several members of the Board that the Office of Legal Aid would not support his representation of Ezra, and that, in fact, if Josiah continued in his representation…that they would be consider it a breach of his duty here. Josiah's surprise must have show on his face, because they quickly tried to explain. Ezra could obviously afford to pay for his defense, they said; he didn't need Josiah, and Josiah's time could be better spent serving an indigent client. After all, that's what Legal Aid was for, and what Josiah was paid for. And, while it was true that a number of public defenders also had private practices…well, Ezra also brought publicity the Office didn't like, the stain of corruption, and it was something they could not condone or afford. Fact was, they thought that Ezra was trying to use Josiah and Legal Aid as a shield—the sinner hiding behind the saint's robes—and Josiah needed to extricate himself and them before they were all brought down with the boy. So, veiled threats about Josiah's job and his pension were floated about, with clear demands that he tell Ezra to find someone else to represent him or face the consequences….

Damn it.

Well, Josiah had never given up on a client yet. He knew Ezra would not hesitate to let him go if the older lawyer simply asked, but he wasn't going to.

Because Ezra wasn't just a client.

Josiah did not quite understand it, but he felt a real kinship with the younger man. As if he'd found the yin to his yang. For years, he'd been seeking a sort of destiny for himself, for he'd often felt that he was somehow meant to be a part of something more than what he was, and for the first time he felt…he was finally on the right road.

In other words, he'd told the Board members to stuff it.

And if they followed through on their threats, which he was pretty sure they wouldn't, he'd sue them.

The thought made him smile.

Perhaps a little of Ezra was rubbing off on him already.

Straightening his shoulders, he strode a little more confidently towards the one lit office. All the others were dark, it being well after 9:00 at night. He knew Ezra was inside, probably working on his brief still, or working on drafting his response to whatever Duvall had filed today, or working on some other aspect of his case.

Walking a little more loudly, to announce his presence, he reached the door and knocked lightly before entering.

"It's me," he said, pushing the door open. "I have some…." He stopped when he found Ezra sitting on the floor, a highlighter in his mouth, a red felt tip pen behind one ear, a pencil in his left hand, and….

Court transcript sheets all around him.

Josiah's mouth fell open, spotting the name at the top….Madison.

Ezra was staring up at him with completely innocent eyes, and he pulled the highlighter out of his mouth. He tried to smile, but it fell when Josiah didn't smile back.

"What are you doing?" Josiah demanded, walking around the younger lawyer to look over his shoulder. Ezra had written notes in the margins, highlighted points and put red marks next to others. A yellow legal pad with notes in both pencil and red pen on it was to his right.

"Um, hold that thought," Ezra said, finishing whatever it was he was writing in pencil on the transcript with his left hand. Then, switching the pencil to his right hand, he quickly wrote something on the legal pad. The pencil went back to his left hand, and he looked back up at Josiah. "Sorry, just wanted to get that down."

"I repeat," Josiah said, a little less kindly, "What are you doing?"

"Oh, well, um," Ezra looked around him, "Your transcript came. And I've…well, I've been….you know, you've got a very good case for appeal here. The boy was innocent, right? Well, I found at least four legal errors that the court made, not the least of which was in the instructions to the jury. You got screwed, though you probably didn't notice, because you were against Russell Staines, and he tends to railroad judges if they don't shut him down from the get go. He had this one snuffed from the start—she just isn't that good of a judge." He flipped the pages, "I mean, look here. She didn't allow you to bring in prior acts for the girl. What the hell was that? She had clear priors that went to the girl's credibility as a witness and the judge didn't allow—"

"They weren't recent enough."

"Ah, see? There you go—that's old thinking, the sort in which Staines excels. But there have been some recent cases where—"

"Wait, wait," Josiah stopped him, "you still haven't answered my question, Standish. What do you think you're doing? This isn't your case. It's mine."

Ezra stared at him, then looked down at his notes. He jaw steeled. "This is a public record, Josiah."

"Yes, but—"

"And if you're worried about the cost, I will pay for another one, if you feel it necessary."

"That's not it, Ezra, and you know it. Madison is my client, not yours. Don't pretend that—"

"Please," Ezra begged quietly, his eyes pinching shut, the belligerent tone completely gone. "Please, Josiah…let me help. I can help you save this boy, if you let me."

Josiah stared at the top of Ezra's head, not speaking for a moment.

The younger man tapped the pencil on the transcript nervously when he didn't get an answer, and tried again. "Look, I can have an appeal filed tomorrow. You only have ten days, remember. And it's day seven tomorrow."

Josiah still didn't answer.

"Four legal errors, Josiah, at least. More than enough. And if we can bring it back down, and get that girl's prior crimes on record for the jury to hear…."

Josiah looked out the dingy window at Thomson Street, listening to the traffic winging past. Sirens blared in the distance. Color in the night. When he looked back down, Ezra was looking up at him again.

"Well," Ezra asked him, "What do you say?"

Josiah frowned, the sighed. "Did you say," he finally met Ezra's eyes, "four legal errors?"

"At least," Ezra smiled crookedly, arching an eyebrow, "and I'm not done yet."

Slowly, very slowly, Josiah matched the smile. "Well, hell, can't really argue with that can I? All right. Write it, and show it to me. If it does what you say, we'll file it tomorrow."

Ezra's grin was huge, flashing a hint of a gold tooth that Josiah hadn't seen before, and he quickly got back to work.

Josiah shook his head, watching as Ezra did that trick again of writing with both hands. He opened his mouth to remark on it, then decided there was no point, and slid around some of the paper stacks to get to his desk chair. Settling his briefcase on a pile, he sat down and immediately lost sight of the other man. Ezra was hidden now, still on the floor on the other side, but Josiah could hear him industriously scribbling away.

Blinking a few times, Josiah leaned over and pulled Ezra's laptop towards him, where it was sitting on top of one of his piles. He didn't really like computers, but Ezra had insisted that they work this way. Brushing his hand over the little black space Ezra had told him was the mouse, he watched the screen light up, and the brief he'd asked Ezra to look over appeared. It looked like Ezra had barely gotten a third of the way through it.

Shaking his head, the older lawyer started editing it himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN: ENDS AND BEGINNINGS

Three weeks later, Josiah was watching Ezra argue before the appeals court on behalf of Theodore Madison. Ezra had his disciplinary hearing in a few days, but the younger lawyer had been obsessed with getting the Madison kid off first and foremost, meaning he had left his own case squarely in the hands of Josiah. It either showed great faith or great foolishness—but, oddly, turned out to be the best thing for the Madison boy.

The whole time, the appeals court judge was watching Ezra intently, as if trying to find flaws in the man's reasoning, to see him trip up. Russell Staines also watched him, as if he were a curiosity, too distracted by the infamy of the man to pay as much attention as he should to Ezra's arguments. After all, everyone knew who Ezra was now…and they were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely, Ezra couldn't keep this up. Not with his license about to be taken away from him. Surely, he couldn't still be at the top of his game. At some point, Ezra was going to fire and miss…wasn't he?

Josiah couldn't help smiling.

It just showed they did not know Ezra Standish.

Ted Madison sat next to the older lawyer, his eyes darting between Josiah and Ezra. When Josiah began to smile, the kid wasn't sure what to make of it.

Until he saw the judge begin to nod at something Ezra was saying, apparently in agreement.

Josiah reached under the table and gave the kid's hand a squeeze. Yes, he told his client silently, we've won the appeal.

And the boy began to smile as well, hope in his heart for the first time.

+ + + + + + +

A week later, Ezra stood at attention, watching as Judge Orrin Travis sat silently in judgment, waiting for the older man to speak. Judge Travis was chair of the review board, and his stern expression and dark eyes felt like they were drilling into the young lawyer's heart.

"Well, Mr. Standish," the judge's gravelly voice intoned quietly, "You're a very lucky man. We're going to let you keep your license…."

+ + + + + + +

Lester Duvall's cases against Farron & Lightfoot LLP, and Ezra Standish, Esq., were both dismissed, for lack of evidence.

Later, he would be sentenced to three life sentences, for the murders of his wife and her lover, and for the attempted murder of his first wife, not to mention multiple counts of assault, battery and just about everything else that Derek Liang felt they could pin on the man.

He was later killed in jail by another inmate. No one mourned.

+ + + + + + +

A month later, Josiah found himself calling Horace Conklin on the phone, waiting patiently for the man who would soon be his landlord to pick up. When Conklin finally did, Josiah smiled.

"Horace," he greeted, "It's Josiah Sanchez….Yes, yes, I understand our lawyers are close to a deal on the lease, but, thing is, I have a problem….No, now, don't get agitated Horace. I'm not backing out. I still want to be in the Four Corners building. Thing is, I need more space….Yes, you heard me right….Two offices instead of one….Yes….correct….the seventh floor? Sure, that sounds fine. Can I drop by later and see the space?....Great….A doctor's office down the hall? Sure, that sounds like a…No…. No, you don't understand. I do defense work, Mr. Conklin, not….It means I am not, as you so cleverly put it, an ambulance chaser, but I, uh, suppose I appreciate the thought….No, I'm not trying to mock you, I….Right….Sure….Great, okay, then, 2:00 sounds fine. Oh, and Horace, another thing….Yes….I need to change the name on the lease. It will no longer be Josiah Sanchez, P.C….Correct….Sure…I'll hang on so you can get a pen…." Josiah looked down, and picked up the piece of paper on his desk, smiling at the certificate proclaiming the new entity he had just formed. Looking up, he peered across the room, to where Ezra was standing, staring out the window of the little office, his hands clasped behind his back. The young man was pretending not to listen, but wasn't succeeding. Josiah almost started to laugh.

On the other side of the line, Conklin got back on the phone, asking for the new name. Josiah quickly refocused.

"Yes, of course, the new name?" Josiah's eyes met Ezra's across the room, as the younger man finally turned to face him, "Sanchez and Standish, LLP."

The End