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***
Avocados at Law. The misnomer still made Matt grin. They had a real sign now . He walked to work with a bounce in his step, the weight that usually rested on his shoulders felt lighter. He was almost back to enough fighting shape to return to his nightly patrols.
The scent of espresso beans wafted in the air from the fancy place on the corner; the hairdresser who lived above the store was sipping coffee from her porch, the hydrogen peroxide from her dyed hair only a day old.
Donnie was setting up his hotdog stand for the day. “Morning, Mr. Murdock. Or is it early afternoon, eh?”
Matt grinned. “It’s late morning.” The bronchial tubes in Donnie’s lungs were more swollen than usual. “You know, it’s supposed to rain later. You might want to go inside; protect against that cold.”
“Meh. It rained yesterday, too. I didn’t have my lunch crowd, so I need to make up for it today.” Donnie pulled out something to dab at his sweaty brow. “It’s been so hot lately; when it rains, it’s more like a damned steam bath.”
Matt stopped next to the stand, ignoring the mixing scents of cooking sausage and beef. “But if you’re home sick then –”
“Don’t worry about me, okay?” Donnie patted Matt on the shoulder. “Besides, I should get a good crowd from those reporters hanging around your work.”
“Reporters?” Matt asked.
“Yep. And I hope them standin’ around has made them hungry.”
White-knuckling his cane, Matt focused on his breathing, taking long, steady inhales and exhales to keep his mind and body calm. They could be waiting around for anything.
Donnie began whistling as Matt walked toward the office.
***
Five reporters – three male, two female – paced outside the steps. One of them owned cats, based on the amount of hair that covered his pant legs.
All five heartbeats increased as soon as Matt rounded the corner to his building, a collection of leather soles and heels clacking against the sidewalk.
“Mr. Murdock, Mr. Murdock,” they hollered, approaching him en-mass.
Matt came to a stop in front of the group, clasping the end of his cane with both hands and twisting his palms around the handle.
A woman wearing a cotton dress moved to within inches of him. She pointed something in his direction, probably a recording device. Her skin smelled of sandalwood oil and sea kelp soap.
“Mr. Murdock, I’m Lindsey Collins with the Daily Bulletin. Could you comment on the police leak from this morning in the Wilson Fisk case?”
Matt hadn’t known what to expect from the gaggle of reporters, their excitement a mix of endorphins, adrenaline, and sweat. Anxiety from the unknown had increased his own pulse, but given his recent secrets, this wasn’t the worst possible outcome.
While he never thought his and Foggy’s involvement would remain under wraps, it was a little confusing to see it garner such enthusiasm.
Ms. Collins wasn’t deterred by his silent contemplation. “How did you and Mr. Nelson come in contact with Detective Carl Hoffman? How long were you aware of his damaging information on Mr. Wilson Fisk?”
Days. Hoffman had been the key to Fisk’s downfall; the NYPD detective helped cover up Fisk’s illegal activities in exchange for bribes. Owlsley had been smart to hide him for insurance. Good thing Matt had found him before Fisk had him killed.
“No comment,” Matt replied.
Snick, snick.
The vast majority of camera sounds came from mirror movement, the shutter generating the second loudest by a significant margin.
“Were you aware of the corruption in the police department?” Another reporter shouted.
Snick, snick.
Aperture adjustment, image stabilization and focusing depended on the lens, but they were virtually silent on a good modern camera. The guy next to her must have had a really expensive one, maybe a Nikon D340.
Snick, snick.
Reporters generally lacked a regard for personal space. Matt turned his face in the direction of Expensive Camera Guy and the female reporter standing next to him. “I can’t comment on an ongoing police investigation.”
Ms. Collins stuck the recording device even closer to his mouth, if that were possible. Her fingernails had a recent coat of cheap top polish.
“How could two lawyers who have only been practicing law for a few months build a case tight enough for a federal indictment? Let alone have the resources to –”
Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Matt would recognize that heartbeat anywhere.
“Our vision at Nelson and Murdock is to provide our clients with skilled legal advice in a timely and efficient manner,” Foggy announced with glee. Matt could imagine the wide grin across his face. “We strive to handle each matter with accountability and responsiveness, as if we were representing ourselves.”
Snick, snick, snick, snick, snick, snick. The photographer was having a field day.
Foggy’s shoulders brushed against Matt’s as he stood beside him, the reporters angling around him.
“What about the attempt on Detective Hoffman’s life?” Ms. Collins asked, shoving her recorder at Foggy. “Were you involved in hiding him or were you in contact with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? Did he –”
“We can’t discuss an ongoing investigation or do anything that could violate client confidentiality,” Foggy interjected. “Feel free to forward your questions to our office manager, and we’d be glad to provide written answers to your questions.”
Foggy took Matt’s elbow, and Matt followed his lead toward the front door of their building, holding his cane out in front of his body. The reporters almost tripped over each other in their attempts to make a path.
Expensive Camera Guy turned around, bumping into Ms. Collins with his shoulder. The camera wobbled in his hands and he almost dropped it. Matt could have caught it as he walked past, but he continued with Foggy.
“Did you have any clue about them?” Matt asked once they were inside.
Foggy’s heart thumped in a strong, steady rhythm. “Not at all, but, dude. This is awesome! Who could ask for better free publicity? We might keep the power company from turning off the lights.” He slapped Matt on the arm. “We may even be able afford to drink something other than expired instant coffee from the Chinese store on the corner!”
The ends of Matt’s mouth curved into a grin. “Why stop there? Let’s shoot for Folgers on the clearance shelf at Costco.”
“Folgers? Dude, I’m thinking at least…Dunkin' Donuts!”
Foggy pumped a fist in the air before he unlocked the door, chanting, “America Runs on Dunkin'" in excitement.
***
There were no reporters waiting on them after the weekend, but Foggy had bought a picture frame and was in the middle of hanging the newspaper article that had run in the Friday Metro Edition.
“This is only the first of many articles, I can feel it,” he said in delight.
Matt was used to various ringtones and the constant clicking as people texted each other instead of speaking face-to-face. But it was still odd to hear the phone ring. It was nice to get calls that weren’t from a bill collector, solicitor, or someone who wanted them to find their lost pet.
They even had a meeting with a client later that day.
“Good afternoon; thank you for calling the office of Nelson and Murdock,” Karen answered.
It was the sixth call since lunch.
***
Sometimes a person was in the wrong place at the wrong time; but bad luck shouldn’t result in incarceration and a criminal record. And it certainly shouldn’t result from piss-poor circumstantial evidence.
Matt listened to the officer’s testimony against his client, vague answers to the DA’s questions, the officer’s heart rate jumping during his account of the bust.
Officer Davis was a liar and Matt didn’t need his senses to be sure of it. Foggy sat next to him, his body heat increasing from an adrenaline rush.
Matt rose to his feet, tapping his cane once as he approached the stand. “Officer Davis, were you the first person on the scene?”
“Yes.”
Not according to their client, but the NYPD didn’t want a rookie with two write-ups in court.
“And as the arresting officer, you witnessed my client grab several prescription pill bottles from the coffee table?”
“That is correct.”
Matt brought the top of his cane to his chest. “Are you testifying from memory or from the police report?”
“From memory.”
“Are you sure that you have an independent memory of the incident?”
“Yes.”
“What was the type of door to the apartment?”
Davis shifted in his seat. “Excuse me?”
“The door, what was the type?”
“I don’t know.”
“What color was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was the floor material inside the apartment?”
Davis continued fidgeting in his seat, displaying his frustration for the jury. “I don’t recall.”
“What were the walls made of?” Matt asked.
“I don’t recall.”
“What was the layout?”
“Objection!” the prosecutor yelled. “Relevance?”
Most of the chairs in the jury box squeaked from their shift in weight as they subconsciously leaned forward… waiting on Matt.
“My client was arrested for possession based on what Officer Davis witnessed when he entered the scene. Given his testimony is based on his memory, I’m establishing a baseline for it.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.
Matt returned his attention toward the witness stand. “Officer Davis, how many pill bottles were there?”
“Many.”
“What is many?” Matt waved a hand at the jury. “Help us out please.”
“Maybe twenty.”
“Where was my client when he was ordered to the ground?”
“In his living room.”
“Where exactly? By the sofa, the recliner? Next to the TV?”
“I don’t recall.”
Matt looked in the jury’s direction. “You don’t recall much, do you?” Then he turned his head toward the stand. “Thank you Officer Davis that is all I have.”
He turned around and walked back to his chair; knowing he’d exposed that Davis had no real independent memory of the event. Matt kept his smile to himself.
***
There was a single-window air conditioner for the whole office, and one of the loose fan blades made a horrible banging noise. Matt could barely feel the relief it provided from where he sat in his office. The heat wave brought record-high temperatures and humidity with all the smells of urban living.
Underneath the aromas drifting up from near-by restaurants and rotting garbage was a hint of Murphy’s Oil Soap. It reminded Matt of the time he polished church pews as a kid.
He loathed this weather, sweat tricked down his back and neck like hot soup, the thin cotton gluing to his skin. It made him want to rip his shirt off. But he removed his glasses instead and wiped at his face with his gym towel, the atmospheric pressure in the morning tipping him off of what was in store for him today.
They had two appointments in the afternoon, and three for tomorrow morning.
Karen had interviewed all five clients, and Matt planned to vet them further before their meetings. One could only be so careful after one of Fisk’s right-hand men had tried to put them on retainer.
Karen groaned and muttered a lot when she was hot, and Foggy talked about swimming pools and the need for a walk-in freezer more than what was healthy.
Matt had a small portable music player on his desk so he could play audiocassettes. He turned on National Public Radio, because talk shows provided him with a type of white noise against thousands of sounds from the city.
“…And if we don’t get those funds for upgrading the bridge, then what?”
“And that’s the big question, isn’t it. Well, listeners. We go from local politics to local heroes. Let’s talk about Franklin Nelson and Matt Murdock, two young lawyers with a pivotal role behind the arrest and incarceration of Wilson Fisk. Diane, let’s start with you.”
Matt quirked an eyebrow at their choice of topic.
“What’s not to like about this?” Diane asked, jubilant. “Both Murdock and Nelson were born and raised in Hell’s Kitchen, and both graduated law school with high honors. They interned at a prestigious law firm, only to set up shop in their old neighborhood.”
“And let’s not skip one of the most remarkable parts of this feel-good story,” the other host said. “Matt Murdock is not only the son of a local boxing legend, but he was injured in a car accident that resulted in his being blind.”
Matt turned the volume down.
“Oh, come on – they were just getting to the gooey middle of their candy bar puff piece.” Foggy wandered over and rested a hip on the edge of Matt’s desk. “Don’t you want to hear them start talking about how amazing it is that you could possibly achieve anything in life with a disability?”
Karen snorted. “Oh, I don’t know, they might surprise us. It could lead to a segue about how many buildings lack improper ADA compliance or –”
“Or how Matt and I are two of the most eligible and good-looking bachelors in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Matt chuckled. “I think they forgot your amazing singing voice.”
“Not to mention the two most broke lawyers in the city,” Karen added.
“Hey, I told you, we’ll be drinking Dunkin' Donuts coffee very soon. Speaking of…” Foggy turned the volume knob back-up on the radio.
“…Not only did they get murder charges dropped from their first client, then turned around and hired her.”
“Then they jump from their very first case to helping to build a federal indictment against one of the most respected local business men in the city. Talk about jumping the career ladder –”
Karen was the one to click the radio off. “Yeah, stellar journalism.”
“No, free advertisement,” Foggy said with gusto. “Hell, that might as well have been an infomercial for our prestigious and ever-growing law firm.”
***
Matt thought no one listened to the radio anymore, but plenty of people streamed morning talk shows online. He walked in behind their new client, a middle-aged man who worked in a meat factory, based on the stale blood that lingered on his skin.
Foggy pulled up the chair beside Matt and took a seat next to him, flipping open a legal pad and scribbling on it. Matt turned on the voice recorder he used during interviews so he could take notes later.
Matt rested his palms on the surface of the table. He could hear the phone in the other room ring again. “Mr. Raymond. You told Ms. Paige that you were seeking counsel regarding possible discriminatory hiring practices at the place of your employment and a blackmail attempt made in retaliation. Could you elaborate on that?”
“Yes!” Raymond shouted. “I was moving some file boxes at my work and accidently knocked them over. When I started putting them back, I got nosey, and started reading them,” he continued loud enough to rattle the windows.
“Mr. Raymond, there is no need to raise your voice; my ears function perfectly well.” Matt cleared his throat. “Please continue.”
***
Despite the awkward interview, Matt felt like they had enough circumstantial evidence to approach the police regarding the blackmail. Mr. Raymond had taken pictures of all the incriminating files with his phone. Luckily, Matt had paid his cell phone bill; he’d needed his OCR application that turned images into text so he could hear it played back.
He was grabbing his headphones from his laptop when he heard Karen talking with someone on the phone.
“Yes, I understand, Mrs. Hoffman,” Karen said. “But Mr. Nelson and Murdock require a retainer upfront to cover out-of-pocket expenses.”
Karen swallowed, her body heat increasing as Mrs. Hoffman started telling her about the bank foreclosure on her house and how the auto dealership had repossessed her car that morning. Tightness squeezed Matt’s chest.
Karen’s voice cracked when she spoke. “Yes, Mrs. Hoffman, some lawyers do take a contingency fee, but that usually involves law suits.”
Guilt was a deep ache that could never be soothed or pushed to the side; it grew into a deep hole.
Matt grabbed his cane and walked out of his office and held up his hand at Karen to get her attention.
“Um, hold on, Mrs. Hoffman.” Karen moved the phone away from her face. “What is it, Matt?”
“I, um, couldn’t help overhearing things, and if this client sounds like they really need our help, then go ahead and make an appointment for tomorrow.”
“Are you sure? She doesn’t sound like she has any money….” Karen’s tense posture began to ease.
“Yeah, tell her…tell her we’ll figure something out.”
Matt didn’t bust his ass in law school so he could turn away people victimized by the system; those were the very people he wanted to help.
He started walking back toward his office when he noticed a familiar scent of cleaning oil and heard the creaking of floorboards from the hallway. Curious, Matt started toward the front when Karen called his name.
“Hey, Matt. We need to talk about our lack of accounting software….”
Whoever was standing outside their door turned around and started walking away.
“Matt?” Karen called out.
Working his jaw, Matt turned back to Karen instead of investigating further. “Coming.”
***
During their dorm days, Matt would tune out Foggy’s habitual pacing. Right before Torts, finals, or an hour before going on a date, Foggy Nelson would bleed out energy and wear away layers of carpet fibers with his circuits back and forth.
“Seriously, dude, we can’t keep accepting clients who are as poor as we are.”
Matt leaned back in his office chair. “People without money need representation too, Fog.”
“Yes, and I’m all for sliding scale, maybe even some pro-bono work.” Foggy stopped pacing for a moment. “But after we get some income rolling in to pay the bills and, I don’t know, draw a paycheck.”
“This is the reason why we started this.” Matt waved his hand to encompass the room and winced when it pulled a sore muscle in his shoulder.
“Yes, and I agree with you. I seriously do. But we can’t help people out of a cardboard box. Once people begin telling their friends that we work for free, it’ll be instant coffee again.”
“We’re still drinking instant,” Matt reminded him.
“Way to kill the dream, man.”
Matt snorted, and Foggy crossed his arms, clearing his throat. “So, have you been, you know…going out at night?”
“Do you really want to know?” Matt didn’t think Foggy would enjoy hearing about how he dangled a guy off a roof the other day.
“No, I think I’ll stick to deniable plausibility.”
That was pretty much a ticket for avoiding an argument, and Matt took it. His work-life balance was running on all cylinders; he felt good about his choices. Better than good, he felt invigorated.
***
“This is one of those times when I wish you could see this.”
Matt frowned when Foggy shoved a phone into his hand; Matt rubbed a thumb over the screen. “Care to elaborate?”
“We’re a topic on twitter. I can’t believe it.”
“Twitter?” Matt knew it was a social media application with text messages and pictures.
“Yes, and that Mrs. Hoffman? She has a niece with like thousands of followers and her tweet about us helping her aunt for free has been retweeted…” Foggy’s heartbeat jumped. “It’s been retweeted over three hundred times.”
“Hey, what was it that you were saying two weeks ago? Nothing wrong with a little free publicity?” Matt said without much concern.
They were doing a hell of a lot of good out there.
***
Foggy had called Matt in the morning and asked him to meet him at the café across the office. He found a table with one of those umbrellas to protect them from the heat. It was going to be another scorcher; maybe he should order an iced latte.
Donnie rolled his cart into his usual spot, one of the wheels squeaking in protest. It didn’t take long to recognize Foggy’s gait and insouciant rhythm.
But a familiar scent made all the hair along Matt's arms stand on end, a mix of rubbing alcohol and Murphy Oil Soap. Matt focused on a woman’s rapid breathing and heavy rate of perspiration: all signs of anxiety.
“Hey, thanks for meeting me here,” Foggy said, coming over and taking a seat next to him. “We’ve got to talk about the recent merry-go-around we’ve found ourselves stuck on.”
“What merry-go-round?”
“The merry-go-around of philanthropy, which by the way usually requires a certain level of extreme wealth.”
“We’ve had twenty paying clients in the last four days, that’s five per day –”
“Of which six have paid us in food, five in various forms of arts and crafts, one who is trading us for automotive repair which would be great if either of us owned a car. And yes, eight people are paying us with money, in installment plans.”
“Installment plans are a thing.”
“Matt….”
“Three weeks ago, we didn’t have any clients, now we have a steady stream. And while I’m aware of the negative cash-flow problem, it’s only a matter of time when that, too, increases into actual revenue.” Matt rested his hand on Foggy’s arm. “Progress is a continuing development to a more advanced stage.”
“Wow, you’re really enjoying that word of the day calendar I got you for your birthday.”
“I enjoy improving my vocabulary by someone in an Australian accent.”
“That accent is so hot.”
Matt smiled despite himself, his grin interrupted by the persistent scent of antiseptic and wood cleaner. “Hey, Foggy. Do you see that woman standing a few feet away?”
“The one with the sunglasses and a very large sunhat?”
Matt wasn’t aware of the hat or glasses. “Yeah. Have you seen her hanging around the last few days?”
“Yeah, I have. Do you think she’s trouble?”
“No, I think she’s in trouble.”
Her heart rate shot up.
“Well, she’s bolting.”
Matt got to his feet, but the screeching of a car horn told him she ran across the street in the middle of traffic. “Damn it.”
“Hey, whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll be back. I think this is the third time I’ve spotted her.”
Nodding, Matt adjusted his tie. “Yeah, if you see her again, maybe ask Karen to talk to her. Whatever's bothering her, she’s scared.”
“Okay, no problem. Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”
And if Foggy didn’t, Matt had other avenues he could pursue.
***
Matt always paused in front of the jury box, cocking his head to the side to draw their attention and speaking with a voice of casual authority.
“It was a hellhole in there, in that house, a house of repeated abuse. If only those walls could talk. If those walls could talk they’d show you the anger, Adam Preston’s rage, the control he had over every single person who lived there.”
Matt walked slowly in front of the jurors.
“You didn’t want to disappoint him. You didn’t want to challenge him. The evidence will show exactly what happened when my client did. If those walls could talk they would describe the pain of mental and of physical abuse that Debra suffered. Disappoint him and get slapped. Challenge him and get punched or get dragged around the house by your hair. Debra was the true victim here….”
He could always tell when he pulled them into the narrative, put them into the shoes of his client, and made them feel what he intended them to.
As he continued his opening statement, Matt detected a whiff of Old Murphy soap in the courtroom.
***
When they adjourned for the day, Matt followed Foggy into the lobby, feeling optimistic about their case. Karen was waiting for them and she wasn’t alone; the woman who’d been hanging around for the last week stood next to her.
“Matt, Foggy, this is Zuly Almeida.”
Ms. Almeida moved closer, her skirt swishing against her legs. “I listened to your opening statement, Mr. Murdock. I know what it feels like to live in fear. Except…if I don’t do exactly what my husband tells me to, he does far worse things.”
***
All four of them stood outside in the back parking lot of the courthouse. Matt listened as Zuly Almeida described her hellish situation; a prisoner in her own home, with days lived walking on eggshells. The antiseptic smell came from a set of recent lacerations from a steak knife, the Murphy’s soap from the wooden floors that needed to be scrubbed on a daily basis – or else. He didn’t need to see to know what the sunglasses were for.
Matt listened as her voice shook from fear and he listened when it broke into shouted words of anger and helplessness.
He stood by while Foggy promised her she would get the best representation from Nelson and Murdock and gave her the address to a women’s shelter to go to that night.
Karen hovered, her heart going a million miles an hour.
Taking a shuddering breath, Mrs. Almeida squared her shoulders, her voice firm, relieved. “Thank you, Mr. Nelson.”
“You took the right step today,” Foggy told her. “Matt and I will do everything in our power to make sure your husband never lays a hand on you again.”
Foggy poked Matt in the shoulder, but Matt had been focusing on the scent of cigarette smoke drifting from around the block, and the heavy breathing of the man who’d been standing there for the last ten minutes, his heart rate racing.
***
After leaving the courthouse, Matt followed the man who had been watching them to his apartment. After the sun went down, Matt scaled the back fire escape and climbed on top of the roof, honing in on the heartbeat he'd memorized and the perspiration secreting alcohol and high amounts of cortisol.
Matt listened as the guy opened the fridge and took out more beer and popped open another can. If he drank it fast, Mr. Almeida would finish it in five or six minutes. Using the rooftops, Matt could get to his apartment, change, and return in under eight.
***
It wasn’t hard for Matt to track a man bent on rage and violence. Almeida was a heavy-set man with a bad knee; his skin stank of booze and old sweat. He stormed out of the back exit of his apartment building with a butcher’s knife gripped in his hand.
Matt stood on the rail of second-story fire escape, the end of his billy club in his right hand. “Freeze, Almeida.”
Almeida staggered to a halt, his diaphragm muscles contracting and expanding rapidly. “What…what the hell do you want?”
Jumping to the ground, Matt strode toward Almeida; the other man’s pulse started racing. Good.
“What are you doing with the knife?” Matt demanded.
The butcher knife wavered in Almeida’s hand. “None of your –”
“Answer me!”
“I’m going to cut my bitch wife into little pieces, starting with her damn head.”
Rolling his neck side to side, Matt tightened his fingers around his baton, focusing on the weak points in the man’s ulna and radius. “Yeah, no, you’re not.”
***
By nine in the morning on Monday, it was already hot enough for the heat to rise from the pavement in waves. By the time Matt reached the office, his shirt was sticky with perspiration. It was going to be another long week. He shook out the soreness in his hand from a productive weekend.
Mr. Almeida was a guest at the local ER with two broken arms and a restraining order. He wouldn’t be touching his wife again unless he wanted two broken legs to go along with it.
As he approached the door to the office, Matt detected eight different heartbeats and the sound of a dog barking inside. Confused, he opened the door and moved his cane back and forth as he entered.
“Thank goodness,” Karen mumbled under her breath.
People sat in chairs lining both sides of the room. Matt wondered where the extra seating came from. Taking his elbow, Karen led Matt to Foggy’s office and practically pushed him inside. “He’s here.”
Chair legs scraped the floor as Foggy stood up, the office door closing behind Karen. “Hey, you’re late.”
“Like two minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah. We need to divide and conquer our clients this morning.” Foggy handed Matt a set of papers. “Karen already ran the representation agreements and judicial council forms through the braille embosser.”
Taking the paperwork, Matt furrowed his brow as Foggy brought over a mug, the aroma of coffee drifting from it. “That smells fresh brewed…in fact, it smells like….”
“Starbucks.”
“We can afford Starbucks now?” Matt set the forms down on Foggy’s desk and breathed deeply. “What happen to our Dunkin' Donut goals?”
“Sometimes, Matt, we need to expand our horizons.” Foggy wrapped an arm around Matt’s shoulders. “Do you hear all that hustle and bustle out there? Those are our clients. Our practice. Payment installments and all.”
Matt draped his arm around Foggy in return, basking in mutual pride and accomplishment. “Yeah, they are.”
“Avocados at Law, buddy. The best damn firm in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Beaming, Matt grinned, savoring the moment. “Avocados at Law.”
***
Fini-