Phoenix slept before second days of trials -- waking up was the catch, his thoughts racing before he even jerked awake. If his mind was going to mull over the case without him, it could at least share its findings.

 

          Gathering in the defendant's lobby -- circled with Maya and Stewart, Foxx electronically by their side -- was beginning to feel normal, at least.

          "So," Maya said, fists up like she was set to wrestle the courtroom into submission, "We're going to get to the bottom of this today, right?"

          "I hope so." Phoenix shifted his briefcase to his other hand -- the Agency notes kept getting heavier, but his own jotted writing made more sense with each review. "As long as we can find out how Cherry fits into all of this."

          Carrying on scratching his head, Stewart wondered, "You guys really think she's involved? I figured I'd recognize her rhythm if she was tied up in this, I check on her an' Dempster all the time..."

          "She could have been calm at the time," Foxx said.

          Were they talking about the same person?

          "Maybe you just didn't notice because you were focusing on other things! I do that!" And Maya poked Stewart's elbow, chirping, "Hey, did you catch fleas in the detention center or what?"

          He paused, and gave a sheepish grin, very deliberately hooking his thumbs into jean pockets. "Nah, this ... civilian thing's just startin' to weird me out, you don't realize how much you miss hair gel 'til you don't have any. Y'know what I mean, don'tcha, Mr. Wright?"

          Someday, the court would have to try The State versus Wright's Hair. Defendant pleading innocent of all charges.

         

          "Hey, Mr. Wright!"

 

           Detective Gumshoe was a familiar sight, weaving around the lobby throngs, huge and beaming. Phoenix and Maya stepped back to add him to their conference circle -- Gumshoe looked around at the three of them, momentarily baffled, like it was an honour.

          "I got your analysis, pal," he said, shoving plastic bags full of side rags into Phoenix's hands, quickly followed by a bent sheaf of printed charts, "There wasn't time to check everything, so I just had them do the food traces you had no ideas on."

          "Find anything interesting?" Maya asked.

          She had no reason to light up like that -- the food they were talking about had long since ceased to be edible.

          "I learned what a kumquat is?" Gumshoe scratched his head. "I guess there's a whole world of delicious treats out there! Oh, but there was a weird one. That green smudge wasn't food at all, it was ink."

          "Green ink?" Phoenix rubbed his chin. He had never found that colour while tearing Wright And Co. Offices apart for a working pen.

          "Yeah, and not just any ink, pal. This was soy-based ink, the kind they use to print newspapers. You wouldn't find it in any old ballpoint pen!"

          "But why would that be in a restaurant?" Phoenix wondered.

 

          Foxx hummed, and began typing at a quick, clattering pace.

         

          "Beats me, pal." And with a glance around him, Gumshoe lowered his voice. "But Mr. Edgeworth has some leads. Bring up the ink during the trial and he'll tell ya how it relates to Morna Beasley."

          Since when did Gumshoe try to be cryptic? Phoenix blinked, and looked to Maya -- she was as surprised as he was.

          Gumshoe chuckled.

          "How's that for a clue? Like in the movies!" He sobered, and said, "I know I'm not supposed to be helping you, but when I had to tell Mr. Edgeworth I didn't have the microphone ... He wasn't mad. He wasn't even surprised! I think he wants you to know what he knows now, Mr. Wright."

         

          And Phoenix could imagine the wry smirk, the sidelong gaze: they were in this together and the two of them could finally admit it. If only Phoenix could share what he knew.

 

 

          He didn't need to wait long for Foxx's answer -- only until court began filing to order.

          "Soy-based ink," she said, through the courtroom's settling hum, "The detective was right, Phoenix, it's mostly found in large quantity in industrial applications. But there's some use in environmentally-friendly and other specialty office supplies, so don't rule that out."

          "Specially-ordered pens, maybe?" He picked up the customer side rag from the defense stand, turning it over to find the thin green smear, "The ink here does look like a pen leak, wiped up with the rag."

          Phoenix glanced to Stewart, who shrugged -- no help, and sorry for it.

          "I don't know, Nick," Maya wondered. She slowly scratched her temple. "Cherry takes her fancy food seriously, but I saw pens scattered around her kitchen, they're the same cheap blue kind you use. Do you really think she'd have a special pen? Or Barley would?"

          Those two did seem to have bigger worries than the type of ink they took down recipes with. But there was no ruling it out -- not yet. Phoenix adjusted his parade of notes and evidence before him, and glanced across to Edgeworth doing the same.

 

          The Judge swept in, took his place at the head of the courtroom, and brought silence with a hammering of the gavel.   "The court is now in session for the trial of Mr. Stewart Lowe," he began.

          "The prosecution is ready, Your Honour."

          And Edgeworth shot a look at Phoenix, cool across the court's distance: I hope you are, as well, Wright.

          "The defense is ready, Your Honour," Phoenix answered him.

          The Judge hummed thoughtfully. "Your opening statement, Mr. Edgeworth?"

          Edgeworth looked back to the judge -- Phoenix hadn't noticed the tension tightening his own body until it was gone.

          "As the case stood yesterday," Edgeworth said -- his line was crisp and rehearsed, "There were many unanswered questions, such as the events leading up to the victim's murder, and the whereabouts of the weapon used. The prosecution will ensure that these questions are answered."

          He paused slightly.

          "I would once again like to call Detective Gumshoe to the stand."

 

          Same scene as before -- Gumshoe taking the stand, standing tall and proud and bearing information.

          "Detective," Edgeworth said, "If you would share the updated test results with us."

          "Yes, sir!"

          Gumshoe straightened even prouder. The baliffs milled, and Phoenix accepted new sheets -- forensic analysis, it looked like, and he stuffed them in with the autopsy and returned his attention to Gumshoe.

 

          "We did some more detailed analysis on the victim's head injuries. She was struck with a blunt object, something about three inches in diameter. The angle of the wound shows that she was hit with an forceful stabbing motion. And, well, we already said she was attacked from behind."

          No mistaking it -- Ms. Beasley's assailant crept up on her, and meant to hurt her.

          "Did the blow break skin, Detective?" Phoenix asked, leafing through the report.

          "No, it didn't." Gumshoe deflated. "All the bleeding was inside her head, poor lady ... That's how we know the murder weapon was something with rounded edges."

 

          "No wonder Mr. Edgeworth had the microphone tested," Maya murmured, hands twined against her chin.

          The weapon wasn't the microphone, but something much like it. Phoenix underlined points in the autopsy: the single blow, several hairline fractures in Ms. Beasley's wrists, the bruising on her forearm. And then he looked to Gumshoe, and rubbed his chin.

          "So you didn't find the murder weapon?"

 

          "Phoenix--" Foxx's voice, sharp with warning.

          It was risky, he knew that and anticipation surged through him--

 

          A pause hung uncomfortable. Gumshoe glanced to the prosecution; Edgeworth stood with folded arms and one calm-tapping finger.

          "We didn't find anything likely, no, pal," Gumshoe finally said.

          "Based on the premeditated nature of the attack," Edgeworth added, "I would guess that the attacker carried the murder weapon away from the scene of the crime, for disposal elsewhere."

          "That's reasonable," the Judge agreed. He stared thoughtfully into space, turning his gavel slowly back and forth. "It always pays to think a plan all the way through, I've always said!"

          Why did the Judge sound like he knew this from experience? Did Phoenix want to know?

          "Err, anyway ..." Phoenix tried, and looked to the reports like they'd help, "The victim had other injuries, didn't she, Detective?"

          "Mild fractures in her wrists, and a bruise on her arm," Gumshoe recited, and scratched his head. "Because of her age, we can't be sure how she hurt her wrists, maybe from falling--"

          Or from battering Tucker.

          "--But the bruise on her arm's definitely from somebody grabbing her, pal. Her sweater cushioned it so there was no clear hand mark, and wool doesn't hold prints, so all we know is that it was a hard grip. Whoever grabbed her meant it!"

 

          "They meant it, or they were worked up at the time," Phoenix muttered at his stand.

          "But if the attacker were upset or angry, enough to kill someone," Foxx mused, "J would have noticed them before or during the murder. Phoenix, this doesn't line up."

          He pulled the sketch of J's flight path from his notes, passed it to Maya, and silently asked for her thoughts. She nodded. And Phoenix had to keep pressing -- that was all he ever could do.

 

          "So," Phoenix tried, turning to the court, "Were there any other tests run on the victim?"

          Edgeworth lifted a sheet with a flick of his wrist. "Analysis shows leaf litter on the front of the victim's sweater, which is to be expected when she fell down in the forest. There were also traces of ink on her sleeves."

          Now they were getting somewhere. But where had--

          "Naturally," Edgeworth smirked, "I had a thorough analysis conducted. The ink was soy-based variety typically used in commercial printing -- dark green, although there was barely enough to be visible to the naked eye."

           "Printing ink?" Phoenix set his palms down hard -- this was it, the link to Cherry and the Orchard, "And where would that have come from?"

          "I'll oblige the defense with evidence, of course." 

          And with a flourish, Edgeworth produced an evidence bag: clear plastic suspending not a pen, not an ink cartridge, but a green-patterned fan of cards.

          "The ink on the victim's sleeves matches these playing cards, used by her bridge group several times a week. And since the cards are of a very cheap, common variety, it's not unreasonable to suppose that the ink smudged onto the victim's clothing."

          "W-What?!" Phoenix choked.

          And Edgeworth swept a hand to his midriff, that mocking bow that always made Phoenix's teeth itch. "I apologize if you were expecting something more entertaining, Mr. Wright."

          The Judge cast a suspicious eye over Phoenix. "Does the defense object to that theory?"

 

          "But if the ink didn't come from Cherry," Maya hissed, fishing in Phoenix's briefcase for who knew what, "How's she connected to the crime scene?"

          And what had Cherry actually seen, and what did she know, and flocks more questions. All Phoenix had to go on was a table-cleaning rag and he looked to it, to its green smudge under plastic's reflective glare. He needed to hold on to his ace.

         

          Phoenix straightened.

          "No objections."

          "The court accepts the playing cards into evidence," the Judge said, and returned to watching Edgeworth. "Where were these cards found, Mr. Edgeworth?"

          "These cards were the most recent ones used by a ladies' bridge club, one very closely tied to the defendant. Ms. Beasley had no close family and had identified her card-playing companions in her will as next of kin."

          Blinking, the Judge wondered, "Why, that's nice! They'd never give her up, or let her down!"

          "It would seem so, Your Honour. However." And Edgeworth laid a palm on his stand, "I considered all possibilities in this investigation. Despite her well-kept appearance, Ms. Beasley was on fixed income, and her assets spread amongst the seven other bridge club members would amount to very little. There was no significant monetary motive to kill Ms. Beasley."

          Whoever killed her must have had a grudge, a hate-fiery motive. Well, they already knew that.

          "Mr. Edgeworth." Phoenix said, "If the bridge ladies were so important in the victim's life, they must have more to do with the case than a smear of ink on the her clothes!"

          "This matter was thoroughly investigated," Edgeworth said, an undercurrent of irritation forming , "Two of the associated women are currently vacationing in Cancun, three are involved in a regional craft fair and can prove their whereabouts for the past several days, one is wheelchair-bound and one has severe arthritis that is allegedly acting up. The bridge club has many and varied alibis, and more importantly, none of the women match the park footprints or witness accounts in any way."

 

          "It sounds like he spent a lot of time researching a dead end," Foxx wondered.

          And not that Phoenix didn't sympathize, but he had bigger fish to fry, and Edgeworth had just given him a pan.

          "He's ruling people out," Phoenix muttered -- that was good and bad.

 

          Louder, he spoke for the court, "Witness accounts? The only witness brought forth so far was Mr. Vanderspiegle, and his account proved nothing!"

          Edgeworth's smirk lacked its usual nastiness.

          "Actually, Mr. Wright, another witness has come forward, and is quite ... insistant--"     He said the word like holding a writhing centipede at arm's length.

          "--That her testimony be heard. She was present in the Orchard bistro at the time of the murder, across the street from Foster Park's south edge. She has an intriguing take on the time of the murder."

          And what an intriguing way to phrase it.

          The Judge nodded. "Then call your witness, Mr. Edgeworth."

         

          "Come on, Nick," Maya murmured hard, "Make her spill!"

          Maya passed back the sketch -- sickeningly yellow highlighter now wobbled across the street, a triangle beginning at the scene of the crime and broadening toward the Orchard's alley. But what could that mean?

          "She has to know something helpful, whatever she did or didn't do," Foxx said, and didn't need to add that she was poised over her keyboard, ready.

          This was it -- the rematch, and this time on Phoenix's turf.

         

          "The prosecution calls Ms. Cherry LaFlamme to the stand."