Chapter 3 : The Lawyer and the Liar
Josie's Bar smelled like decades of spilled beer and broken dreams.
Roy loved it immediately.
He'd done his research. Franklin Nelson—Foggy, to everyone who knew him—was a creature of habit. After long days at the office, he came here. The alcohol was cheap, the atmosphere was dive-bar authentic, and nobody asked questions. Matt Murdock rarely joined him—the blind lawyer had other commitments after dark.
Roy arrived at seven, ordered whiskey, and settled into the end of the bar where he could watch the door. The bartender—Josie herself, judging by the name above the mirror—was a hard-faced woman in her fifties who didn't waste words on small talk.
"Tab?"
"Cash is fine." Roy laid a fifty on the bar. "Keep it open."
She grunted. Poured. Moved on.
The whiskey was terrible. Roy sipped it anyway, letting the burn settle in his chest while he watched the other patrons. Construction workers. Off-duty cops. A woman in scrubs who looked like she'd just finished a twelve-hour shift and intended to drink until she forgot most of it.
At seven forty-five, the door swung open and Foggy Nelson walked in.
Roy recognized him instantly—the slightly disheveled blonde hair, the tie already loosened, the face that seemed perpetually ready to either laugh or panic. He was heavier than the show had made him look, or maybe the actor had just been more fit. Real Foggy had the soft build of someone who survived on takeout and forgot to exercise.
He also looked exhausted. Shoulders slumped. Dark circles under his eyes.
Foggy took a stool three seats down from Roy and raised a finger toward Josie. "The usual, please."
"Rough day?"
"Every day's a rough day, Josie. That's why I keep coming back."
She poured something amber and slid it over. Foggy drank half of it in one go.
Roy waited. Patience was the game here. Push too fast and Foggy would get suspicious—he was smarter than people gave him credit for. Let the moment come naturally.
The television behind the bar was playing sports. Yankees game. The Bombers were down three runs in the fifth.
Roy shook his head. "They're not making the playoffs playing like that."
Foggy glanced over. "Tell me about it. Pitching's collapsed completely. You'd think with the money they spend—"
"Money doesn't buy chemistry," Roy said. "Look at their bullpen. They've got three closers who all think they should be starting, and none of them can work together."
Foggy's eyebrows rose. "You actually know baseball or are you just talking?"
"My—" Roy caught himself, adjusted. "Grew up watching it. Old man was a fanatic."
"Mine too." Foggy raised his glass in a mock salute. "To fathers who taught us to love teams that break our hearts."
They drank.
It was that simple. Two strangers at a bar, bonded by shared disappointment in millionaire athletes. Foggy shifted one stool closer. Roy signaled Josie for another round.
"I'm Foggy. Well, Franklin, but nobody calls me that except my mother when she's angry."
"Roy." They shook hands. "What brings you to this particular establishment?"
"Work." Foggy gestured vaguely toward the night outside. "Office is a few blocks over. This is my decompression chamber." He squinted at Roy. "You don't look like the usual crowd. Nice jacket."
"That obvious?"
"Little bit. Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. Everyone's gotta decompress somewhere."
The second round arrived. The whiskey was still terrible. Roy was starting to think that was the point.
"What kind of work?" he asked, keeping his voice casual.
"Lawyer. Very small firm. Very small cases. Very small bank account." Foggy laughed at his own joke, though there was an edge to it. "We do a lot of pro bono stuff. Helping people who can't help themselves. You know how it is."
"Actually, I don't. But it sounds admirable."
"Admirable doesn't pay the rent." Foggy drank. "Sorry. Didn't mean to unload. Long day. We had a case go sideways and—anyway. What about you?"
Roy had prepared for this question. "Investments, mostly. Inherited some money, trying to figure out what to do with it that isn't completely pointless. Looking for new opportunities. Things that actually matter, you know?"
Foggy's expression shifted—curiosity mixed with the wariness of someone who'd been burned before.
"And you're drinking in Hell's Kitchen because...?"
"Because this neighborhood interests me. Lots of need, lots of potential, and nobody seems to be paying attention to either." Roy shrugged. "Also, I hate the corporate types in Manhattan. They're all trying to sell me something."
That got a genuine laugh. "Now that I understand. My law school classmates are all at firms where the paperclips have paperclips. Meanwhile, I'm defending landlord-tenant disputes and wondering if I made a terrible career choice."
"Did you?"
Foggy paused. Considered the question seriously.
"No," he said finally. "No, I don't think so. It's hard. It's frustrating. It doesn't pay. But when we win—when we actually help someone who had nowhere else to go—that's worth something." He finished his drink. "My partner would say I'm being sentimental."
"Your partner sounds like a realist."
"He's a lot of things." Something flickered across Foggy's face—concern, maybe. Confusion. "Matt's... complicated. Good guy, though. Best guy I know, actually. Just—" He shook his head. "We should stop talking about work. Tell me about these investments."
Roy obliged. He talked about nothing for twenty minutes—vague plans, philosophical musings about capitalism, jokes about yacht-owning trust fund kids. Foggy laughed. Relaxed. Started treating Roy like someone he'd known for years instead of a stranger in a bar.
Around the third drink, Roy mentioned he was looking for legal representation.
"Nothing major. Just someone to review contracts, make sure I'm not getting screwed. I've been meeting with these big firms, and they all make my skin crawl. Talk to me like I'm a walking checkbook."
Foggy perked up despite himself. "What kind of contracts?"
"Property purchases, mostly. I want to invest in the neighborhood—actual investment, not gentrification bullshit. But I need someone local who understands how things work here."
"And you're telling me this because...?"
"Because you seem like a decent guy who actually cares about his clients." Roy met Foggy's eyes. "And because you mentioned you could use the work."
Foggy was quiet for a moment. Processing.
"We're not a big firm," he said carefully. "Two attorneys, one part-time secretary. We specialize in criminal defense and civil rights cases, not real estate."
"Could you learn?"
"Probably. Matt's scary good at research." Foggy chewed his lip. "But why us? You could hire anyone."
"Because anyone doesn't drink at Josie's after a hard day fighting for people who can't afford better." Roy smiled. "I'd rather my money go to someone who deserves it."
He pushed a business card across the bar. His new card—one he'd had printed that morning, simple and clean.
Roy Smith. Private Investments.
Foggy took it. Turned it over in his fingers.
"I'll talk to my partner," he said finally. "No promises."
"That's all I'm asking."
They shook hands again. Roy paid for Foggy's drinks over his protests, said goodnight, and walked out into the Hell's Kitchen night.
The air was cool. September finally surrendering to autumn. Roy walked toward the subway, hands in his pockets, replaying the conversation in his head.
He'd handled it well. Nothing too pushy, nothing too obvious. Foggy would bring the proposal to Matt, they'd discuss it, and curiosity would do the rest. A rich guy who wanted to invest in Hell's Kitchen and hire a struggling law firm? Too interesting to ignore.
Step one complete.
But there was a complication Roy hadn't anticipated.
He'd actually liked Foggy.
That wasn't supposed to happen. This was strategy. Manipulation. Using foreknowledge to position himself where he needed to be. He was playing a game with peoples' lives as pieces—
No. He stopped himself.
That kind of thinking led to Fisk. To seeing people as tools instead of people.
Foggy's a good guy. You're going to help him. Help all of them. That's why you're doing this.
The rationalization settled uneasily in his chest.
Roy descended into the subway station. The platform was mostly empty—late enough that the rush had passed, early enough that the drunks hadn't arrived. He sat on a bench and waited for the train.
His phone buzzed. A calendar reminder he'd set earlier: Research Matt Murdock. Firm finances. Fisk timeline.
He had work to do. Plans to make. A whole network to build before everything started falling apart.
The train arrived. Roy stepped aboard, found an empty seat, and pulled out his phone.
Tomorrow, he'd follow up with Foggy. The day after, he'd meet Matt Murdock—and that would be an entirely different kind of challenge. You couldn't bullshit a man whose senses could hear your heartbeat and smell the fear on your skin.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
Tonight, Roy rode back to Manhattan with whiskey warming his stomach and something he hadn't expected settling in his chest.
Hope.
Maybe that was dangerous. Maybe caring about the people in this story would get him killed. But it was also the only thing that made any of this worthwhile.
The train rattled through the darkness, carrying him toward his borrowed penthouse and his borrowed fortune and the borrowed life he was determined to make mean something.
In Hell's Kitchen, the night deepened. In a building on 48th Street, Foggy Nelson walked into his office to find Matt Murdock sitting at his desk, head tilted as if listening to something only he could hear.
"Something's different," Matt said. "The neighborhood. Something's changed."
"Changed how?"
"I don't know yet." Matt's jaw tightened. "But I'm going to find out."
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