Casper entered the courtroom, looking horrid. His previously pristine arm was now tied up in a cast, his cheek was bruised — almost turning purple.
He could feel a few of his ribs being broken, likely, from Swver's kicks; his cheekbones were definitely broken without a doubt. Even moving his head made him grimace.
Cole looked at him amusingly, "Wow, you look dashing," he commented.
Casper spared him a glance and dryly said, "I fell from the stairs."
Cold nodded, "Without a doubt!"
Even Eberton seemed curious about his condition but refrained from asking, although he did glance at him from time to time.
Judge Morton took his time, after ten minutes, he finally entered the court.
"All rise!"
The courtroom obeyed without question. Casper pushed himself up a fraction slower than the rest, pain flaring sharply along his ribs. But he masked under a facade of indifference.
Judge Morton scanned the room and quickly declared, "We are reconvened. Prosecution, you may proceed."
Eberton rose at once. His eyes flicked to Casper and gave him a thin smile.
"Your Honour," he began smoothly, "before continuing, the People would like to enter additional testimony into the record."
Judge Morton inclined his head. "Call your witness."
Eberton turned slightly. "The People call Mrs. Eleanor Whitcombe."
A woman was escorted to the stand. She was thin, wrapped in black, gloved hands and wore a simple blue dress.
"State your name for the record," Judge Morton said.
"E–Eleanor Whitcombe," she replied, voice trembling.
Eberton softened his tone. "Mrs. Whitcombe, were you present inside the bank during the incident?"
"Yes."
"With whom?"
"My husband," her breath hitched as she added, "Charles."
Eberton paused, letting her words settle over the jurors. "Can you tell the court what happened?"
Mrs. Whitcombe swallowed hard. "They told us to stay on the floor. There was shouting—guns. I couldn't see much." Her hands began to shake.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the stand as she continued.
"There was arguing. Someone shouted near the vault. Then—" Her voice cracked. She drew a shaky breath. "Then there was a gunshot. Just one. Loud. So close."
A tear slipped free, trailing down her cheek.
"I turned my head and he was… he was still there, but he wasn't moving anymore." Her composure finally gave way. "I tried to shake him. I kept calling his name, but—"
She covered her mouth, a sob breaking through despite her effort to restrain it.
The courtroom remained utterly silent.
After a moment, Eberton spoke again, gently. "Mrs. Whitcombe, did you see who fired that shot?"
She shook her head weakly. "No. I was too afraid to look up."
"Did you hear any instructions after that?"
"Yes." She nodded faintly. "A man spoke. Told us not to move. Said if we stayed down, we wouldn't be hurt."
"Could you tell where his voice came from?"
"Near the sewer door," she said after a pause. "Behind us."
Eberton let that answer hang. Several jurors exchanged brief glances.
"And did that voice sound panicked?" he asked.
"No." Her reply was immediate. "It was calm. Like… like he knew exactly what was happening."
Eberton inclined his head. "Thank you, Mrs. Whitcombe. No further questions."
Eberton sat down slowly, satisfied.
Casper flipped open his pocketwatch and glanced at it intensely, after a moment he closed it and stood up.
"Your honour, I have a witness the defence wishes to call," Casper said slowly.
Eberton's head snapped up. "Objection. The defence did not disclose the witness."
Casper didn't look at him. "Circumstances changed with the introduction of additional testimony. This witness directly rebuts the implication just raised."
Judge Morton rapped his fingers and asked carefully, "You're cutting it close, Mr. Walsh. Is what Mr. Eberton saying right? Was this witness disclosed?"
"No," Casper replied, "But his testimony is valid, you honour."
Judge Morton exhaled slowly. "You're asking for a great deal of latitude."
"I know, your honour." Casper muttered and suddenly raised his voice, "But all I'm asking is for five minutes."
"Very well," Judge Morton said at last. "One witness. If this is a delay tactic, I will hold you in contempt. Call them."
Casper turned slightly toward the doors — then paused.
After several seconds, Judge Morton frowned. "Mr. Walsh?"
Casper inclined his head. "Your Honour, my associate is bringing the witness in. He's… persuasive, but punctuality is not his strength."
A sharp huff of laughter escaped someone in the back before being quickly stifled.
One minute passed. Then another.
Judge Morton tapped his gavel once. "Mr. Walsh, this court's patience—"
The doors at the rear of the courtroom opened.
Making an appearance was a tall yet stout man, he had alabaster skin and dirty black hair which fell to his eyes. The man met Casper's gaze with an infuriated expression.
Judge Morton raised an eyebrow, "Mr. Casper, care to explain who your witness is?"
Casper nodded and started explaining, "This man is here because the prosecution has repeatedly implied my client exercised authority during the incident."
He turned slightly, meeting the leader's eyes.
"This witness will testify who gave the orders inside that bank — and who did not."
Eberton scoffed, "Your honour, how would this random man know what transpired in the bank? It's not like he led the heist."
Casper shook his head, a faint smile playing on his mouth. "He knows what transpired in the bank because he was the one who led it — meet Victor Creel, your honour."
"..."
Judge Morton sized up the man before nodding in acknowledgement, "I'll allow it."
Eberton's composure cracked for the first time. "Your Honour—"
"Sit down, Mr. Eberton," Judge Morton said sharply, "The court will hear him."
Creel was escorted to the stand but not before being put in handcuffs — for good measure of course. Yet he did not look at the jury. His gaze remained locked on Casper, burning with restrained fury.
'It seems that bastard revealed to him that I was the one making him testify,' Casper thought as he gazed at Victor.
"State your name for the record," Judge Morton ordered.
Victor's lips curled. "Victor Creel."
"You understand you are under oath?"
"I do," he answered casually.
Casper rose slowly, "Mr. Creel," he started slowly, "were you present inside the bank during the robbery?"
Creel let out a low breath, glaring at him. "From start to finish."
"And what was your role?"
"I planned it. I led it. Every order given inside that bank came from me."
A sharp intake of breath echoed from the gallery.
Casper nodded once. "Did Cole Abbot,"he gestured briefly toward the defendant, "hold any authority over the hostages?"
Creel's eyes flickered towards Cole, then away. "...No." He stated, curling up his fingers, "Matter of fact, the name Cole doesn't even ring a bell — he was not part of our crew."
Judge Morton upon hearing that, said seriously, "Mr. Creel, you do know you're under oath?"
"I do."
"Then do you want to retract your statement?"
"Nah," the man answered uncaringly, "I stand by it."
Eberton was already on his feet. "Your Honour, this witness is an admitted criminal attempting to shield an accomplice. His testimony—"
"—will be weighed accordingly," Judge Morton cut in.
"Sit down."
Eberton obeyed, gritting his teeth.
Casper inclined his head slightly toward the bench, then returned his attention to the stand. "Mr. Creel," he said evenly, "you testified that Mr. Abbot was not part of your crew."
"Yes."
"Yet he was inside the bank."
Creel snorted. "Plenty of people were."
Casper took a careful step forward. "Then why was he near the sewer access when officers entered?"
Creel's jaw clenched. "Oh so he's the sewer guy?!" He said in surprise, "I didn't know. I ordered a guy to watch over the sewer."
A murmur stirred again.
"You ordered him there?"
"Yes."
"For what purpose?"
"To make sure the passage stayed clear. Someone had to watch it."
Casper nodded. "Did that task give him authority over anyone?"
"No."
"Did you ever instruct him to give orders to hostages?"
"No."
"Did he plan the escape route?"
"No."
Casper paused, letting the silence stretch. "Who did?"
"I did."
"And when a gun was fired near the vault," Casper continued, voice steady, "did Mr. Abbot fire it?"
Creel's eyes hardened. "No."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
A long pause followed.
"One of mine," he said at last.
A soft gasp escaped somewhere in the gallery.
Casper straightened. "No further questions."
In the end, Eberton could offer up no rebuttal and hence waived his right to question the man.
Creel on the other hand was dragged to face his own trial after admitting to robbery and being an accomplice to murder.
The jury soon retreated into their chamber to decide upon the verdict. After half an hour, they returned.
The foreman stood once the jury was seated, a folded slip of paper in his hand.
Judge Morton turned towards him and asked earnestly, "Has the jury reached a verdict?"
"We have, Your Honour."
"Proceed."
The man cleared his throat. "On the charge of conspiracy to commit armed robbery — " he paused briefly, his eyes flicking toward Cole, "...we find the defendant not guilty."
A stir rippled through the courtroom.
"On the charge of murder," the foreman continued, voice firm, "we also find the defendant not guilty."
And with that Cole became a free man.
And Casper also digested a fourth of his potion.
He deduced that the feedback could've been higher if he had used a legal loophole instead of forcing a person to cause perjury — the Lawyer pathway was more about exploiting loopholes and not deceit.
If this had been the Marauder pathway, Casper would've surely digested at least a third of his potion.
…
At exactly eleven, in an unremarkable street.
Cole Abbot walked with pride in his stride, stretching his arms with a prideful smile. It took some time to finish processing everything but in the end, he was finally free!
"Finally got them fuckass chains off. God I've missed this feeling."
His eyes quickly landed upon a "Help needed" sign before walking past it. He considered it for a moment, then lowered his shoulders in defeat.
Although his greenhorn lawyer seemed quite kind — he was a demon when it came to matters related to money — a penny pincher if he had to say so himself.
The man drained him off all his money and then fled just as quickly.
Thinking about that, he couldn't help but let out a remorseful sigh.
Suddenly, a bright red balloon caught his attention.
The balloon drifted lazily down the street, tugged by an unseen current, its string trailing just above the ground
Cole snorted under his breath. "Huh."
He took two steps forward, then stopped. Backlund alleys were not places you followed strange things into. Especially not alone. Especially not on the same day you walked free from a murder charge.
The balloon bobbed once at the mouth of the alley, as if waiting.
"…Tch."
In the end, his curiosity triumphed over his rational thoughts.
Cole shoved his hands into his pockets and followed.
The alley was narrow and dim, hemmed in by tall brick walls. Trash lay piled along the edges, and the air smelled faintly of rot and damp stone.
Soon, the string of the balloon was grasped by a clown dressed in white — a baggy silk suit of silver with orange pompom buttons down the front, a collar ruff and a blue necktie. He had orange hair and two red streaks starting above his eyes, streaming down the cheeks, and ending at the corners of his mouth.
Seeing the clown, Cole suddenly had a bad premonition. He instinctively took a step back but before he could retreat.
Bang!
A bullet was embedded into his thigh, blood spewed out as he tumbled back.
His hands flew to his thigh. Blood poured through his fingers, hot and slick, soaking into his trousers. His breath hitched violently as shock set in, vision blurring for a split second before he let out a roar of absolute pain.
The clown tilted his head.
"Ah," he said lightly, his voice cheerful and eerie, echoing down the narrow alley.
Cole gritted his teeth and dragged himself backward, boots scraping uselessly against the slick ground.
"Why are you doing this!"
Cole demanded, clutching his trembling leg.
The clown tilted his head and repeated in a confused tone, "What am I doing? I'm just dealing out the judgement you evaded."
Cole had a feeling that fate was playing a cruel trick on him.
But before he could crawl further, another shot rang out.
Bang!
This time hitting him in his spleen.
Cole recoiled, letting out a guttural roar.
His body convulsed as he slammed into the wall, his fingers clawing uselessly at the brick. His vision fractured at the edges, tunneling in and out.
The clown sighed.
"That one," he said mildly, lowering the gun, "wasn't strictly necessary. But you were trying to leave."
"Plea — please, stop!"
For the first time, Cole felt fear, true fear.
"What an odd creature," the clown referred to him, kneeling down to meet his gaze, "you have taken so many lives. I know those murder charges in court weren't your first nor were they going to be the last.
"How many people did you kill Cold? How many people begged you to spare their lives? How many clutched your feet," the clown continued softly, "screaming, bargaining, promising you the world?"
His painted smile widened just a fraction.
Cole shook his head weakly, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.
"You're a hypocrite, Cole. Do you really think you can run from your crimes?" His voice suddenly dropped low as he spoke seriously and amusingly, "You kill people as if it were a common occurrence and regard them with value lesser than that of trash and yet you ask for mercy when you're put in a similar situation. What a hypocrite."
He commented emotionlessly.
Saying that, he dropped his gun and pulled out a carving knife before immediately pressing it into his forearm.
Cole screamed as the blade carved into his forearm, slicing away a thick strip of flesh. Blood poured instantly, splattering the brick and soaking the clown's glove.
But he didn't seem to care much, instead he let out a soft laugh.
"Too much fat," he muttered. "Let's try again."
"Nob— NO — PLEASE!" Cole sobbed, thrashing weakly, heels scraping uselessly against the ground.
The clown stepped on his wounded thigh.
Cole howled.
"Hold still," the clown said sharply, annoyance slipping into his voice for the first time. "You're distracting me."
The knife went down again.
This time into Cole's shoulder.
The blade sawed, slow and deliberate, peeling flesh away from muscle. His mouth opened wide in a silent scream before sound finally caught up, tearing out of him in a broken rasp.
The clown severed the piece cleanly and let it fall to the ground.
Cole was shaking uncontrollably now, his teeth chartered as his breath dropped. "I'll — I'll do anything—"
Yet, the clown didn't answer.
The clown's grin unmistakably widened, twisted and gleeful.
Without warning, he pressed the knife into Cole's eye. The pressure, sharp and precise, was excruciating. Cole's body convulsed violently. Blood poured down his face as he hit his head against the cobblestone road, trying his best to put himself out of the misery.
After staring at him for a moment and inspecting him thoroughly, the clown nodded in satisfaction.
"If you survive this one, little Cole, you've paid your penance. I was originally planning on killing you and leaving immediately, I'm not big on this torture thing. But for some reason, you really pissed me off and that's why I had to do this… unsavory stuff."
The clown explained and then got up, he stretched his body and muttered in a low tone. "Ah, I better leave before the Nighthawks arrive."
Cole's vision dimmed, his remaining eye was fixed on the vague silhouette of the clown.
His body sagged against the cold bricks, his remaining eye flickering as tears mingled with blood. Pain radiated through every nerve; even a shallow breath felt like breathing in knives.
And yet, as his mind slipped, he couldn't help but think that the clown looked really familiar.
___
A/N - Lowk not good at these torture shenanigans, so did I do well?