In the prison, Sal Maroni turned around to look at Vernon Wells, who stood respectfully outside the cell door like a well-trained servant.
"Mr. Maroni," Vernon said quietly, "someone wants to see you."
Maroni's expression soured immediately. "Vernon, I should have made this clear already. Don't let useless people waste my time."
"Sir," Vernon said smoothly, "this is the man you asked me to arrange a meeting with. Last week. You specifically requested I bring him when the opportunity arose."
Maroni paused, processing this.
Then memory clicked. He had told Vernon something a few days ago. An instruction about prison surveillance, about finding the right person to compromise, about extending his influence even from behind bars.
"Ah," Maroni said, smile returning. "Then please, ask him to come in."
Three blocks away, in his basement, Harvey Dent raised his hand and glanced at his watch, noting the exact time.
11:47 PM. Independence Day night, while most of Gotham celebrated.
He made a mark on his recording log. The timestamp would be important later for isolating specific segments of audio. This method of collecting evidence wasn't legal—couldn't be used in court, wouldn't survive any competent defense attorney's objections.
But it could still provide valuable intelligence. Names. Connections. Proof of corruption that might lead to legitimate evidence gathered through proper channels.
Harvey adjusted his headphones and waited.
A moment later, a new voice emerged from the audio feed. Adult male. Nervous energy barely concealed beneath professional courtesy.
"Mr. Maroni, I heard from Mr. Wells that you wanted to see me."
"My friend." Maroni's voice was warm, welcoming, the tone of a man greeting an old companion. "I don't just want to see you—you want to see me too. What's your name?"
"Jenkins, Mr. Maroni. Cary Jenkins."
"Oh, Jenkins." Maroni's laugh was genuine, pleased. "I like your name. Strong. Trustworthy. I think we could be friends, don't you think?"
"Of course, Mr. Maroni." Jenkins's voice pitched slightly higher with eagerness. "It should be an honor to have a friend like you."
"Very good, very good, Mr. Jenkins. I, Sal Maroni, never treat my friends badly. My dinner will be delivered from the restaurant soon—Vernon, tell them to send two bottles of that fine red wine we discussed. And the bag as well."
A pause. Harvey could hear the smile in Maroni's voice.
"Mr. Jenkins, how about we talk while we eat?"
"I'd be glad to join you, Mr. Maroni."
Harvey listened to the exchange with an expressionless face, fingers steepled in front of him.
He'd expected this. Had planned for this, in fact. The prison would have extremely limited restrictions on someone like Sal Maroni. The man was a cooperating witness against Carmine Falcone—valuable, protected, given special accommodations to keep him comfortable and willing to testify.
Maroni was probably living better inside Blackgate than half of Gotham's working poor lived in their apartments.
And if it weren't for the need to destroy the Falcone empire, Maroni would never have agreed to enter prison in the first place. This was all theater. Temporary inconvenience in exchange for eliminating his primary rival.
But it doesn't matter, Harvey thought coldly. If Maroni survives Falcone's inevitable retaliation, I won't let him walk away clean either.
Everyone had to answer for their crimes. Sooner or later.
The voice from the prison cell continued through his headphones. Vernon worked quickly—no surprise there, he'd been Maroni's inside man for months. And Maroni's restaurant was efficient. Within fifteen minutes, Harvey heard the sounds of glasses clinking, wine pouring, the comfortable noises of men sharing a meal.
"Jenkins." Maroni's voice took on a thoughtful quality. "You're clearly a talented man. Smart. Capable. So how is it that someone like you dresses so... casually?"
Silence. Jenkins likely looking down at himself.
"Look at your suit," Maroni continued. "Your watch. Your shoes. The money you make working in prison—it isn't enough to support a family properly, is it?"
Jenkins's voice came back quieter. More honest. "I just work in the prison, Mr. Maroni. The salary is meager. Income isn't high. Life is... tight."
"Oh, don't sigh, buddy." The sound of movement—Maroni probably reaching out, patting Jenkins on the shoulder. "Look at Vernon here. He's just an ordinary assistant prosecutor. His life was exactly like yours before he met my friends."
Vernon said nothing, but Harvey could imagine his expression. Dutiful. Obedient. Completely corrupted.
"But since Vernon became my friend," Maroni continued, "he no longer has to worry about money. Look at the suit he's wearing. That gold watch on his wrist. I'm telling you the same thing I told him: Sal Maroni never treats his friends unfairly."
Harvey could hear it in Jenkins's breathing. The shift. The moment temptation took root.
"Vernon," Maroni said. "Where are the things I asked you to bring from the restaurant?"
Rustling. Paper bag being opened. Then a very specific sound—the crisp scraping of paper edges against a thumb, the distinctive noise of someone counting cash with practiced efficiency.
Harvey couldn't see what Maroni had taken from the bag, but he'd heard that sound before. During raids. Busts. Every time they'd caught someone with significant amounts of cash.
Money. Lots of it.
"Brother Jenkins," Maroni said warmly, "consider this a gift. Buy something nice for yourself. Get presents for your wife. Extra money for the family. You deserve it."
"Mr. Maroni, this is—"
"Don't refuse." Maroni's voice was firm but friendly. "Friends should help each other. What's money between friends? It's nothing."
Three glasses clinked together. A toast.
Jenkins accepted the money. Harvey could tell from the silence—no further protest, no moral struggle, just acceptance.
Then Vernon's voice, perfectly timed. "Friends should help each other. But Mr. Maroni has been troubled recently, and I can't help him solve his problems. This is truly unfortunate."
Playing his role perfectly. Setting up the ask.
"Oh?" Jenkins sounded concerned. Eager to help. "What's troubling Mr. Maroni?"
"Well, it's actually nothing major. You know how it is, brother—I'm not someone who likes being restrained. Ever since I entered prison, I see that camera hanging next to my head every single day. Watching me. Recording me. It's really quite annoying."
Jenkins understood immediately. Harvey could hear the relief in his voice.
It's just surveillance. That's easy. That's nothing compared to what I thought he might ask for.
"And then there's Harvey Dent," Maroni continued, voice hardening slightly. "That self-righteous prick who's been threatening me with surveillance, thinking he can intimidate Sal Maroni. I don't like being threatened. I really don't like it."
"Mr. Maroni." Jenkins's voice was confident now. Committed. "A friend's business is my business. I don't think that annoying surveillance camera will necessarily keep working. These systems are old. Circuits fail. Equipment falls into disrepair. Footage gets corrupted."
He paused for effect.
"I promise you, Mr. Maroni—that camera won't bother you anymore. And I'll thoroughly check this entire cell area to make sure there are no other active surveillance devices. You'll have complete privacy."
"Brother Jenkins." Maroni's satisfaction was audible. "You are very thoughtful."
Both men laughed. Glasses clinked again. Expensive wine being consumed in celebration of successful corruption.
Harvey made detailed notes. Names. Promises. Timeline.
Jenkins had surrendered his integrity in less than thirty minutes. Offered a bribe, he'd collapsed immediately. No moral struggle. No hesitation.
Just greed.
In the following days, nothing major seemed to happen in Gotham City.
The Independence Day bank vault robbery became a topic of conversation—watercooler talk, dinner table gossip, something exciting that had happened to someone else while everyone was watching fireworks.
But since no money had actually been stolen and both Scarecrow and Mad Hatter were now safely contained in Arkham, the incident was quickly spun into a positive narrative. Proof of Gotham Bank's excellent security. Evidence of the GCPD's effectiveness.
The marketing department had a field day.
Of course, the citizens of Gotham also discussed the more interesting details—the real story, passed through networks of gossip and speculation.
Batman had been there. Multiple witnesses confirmed it. Passers-by had seen him interrogating the criminals on-site, using his signature "enhanced questioning techniques" that left both villains screaming.
No one mentioned a pumpkin-headed vigilante.
No one talked about mysterious plant-based abilities or ice explosions.
Just Batman. As always. Gotham's dark protector, doing his thing.
Exactly as Batman had intended. Jude remained perfectly hidden, his involvement erased from the public narrative.
However, this news was more important than most people realized.
Because it had significant impact on one person in particular.
In a private office in the Falcone building, Carmine Falcone sat behind his desk while another man paced in front of him.
The man's face was flushed. Angry. Gesturing with barely controlled fury.
"Are you questioning me?" Falcone's voice was cold. Dangerous.
"Your behavior, Carmine Falcone!" The man's voice rose. "I'm questioning your behavior! You hired those freaks to do a job, and it failed! Spectacularly! This is not our policy! This is not how we operate!"
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