“What in Tartarus?” Milo Coltfax squinted in the early dawn light at a compact, bulldog of a stallion standing in front of his client.
Quill regarded the strange earth pony with all the attentiveness of a bird of prey. “What do you think he wants?”
“Trouble,” Milo growled. Without ceremony, he pushed passed the ponies gathered in the marble antechamber and made his way over. “Alto, I didn’t think you’d be here so early.”
The peach pegasus nearly leapt skyward, squeaking with surprise. “Mr.—Mr. Coltfax. I . . . I . . .” Her pale blue eyes fell to the stranger’s muddy ones. “This gentlemen was—”
“—Just offering a helping hoof,” the pony—he almost could have been called a dwarf—shot him a smile that conveyed a little too much geniality to be genuine. “Name’s L. Orviston, but do call me Orve.”
‘Orve’ could not have been any more professional if he tried. Suit starched until the creases could cut paper, brand new designer suit, expensive silk tie, and to top it off a briefcase with glistening bronze clasps. Milo pushed the initial assumptions aside to assess this latest development. “So, what business do you have with my,” he stressed the word, “client, ‘Orve?’”
He gave a low, false laugh that made Milo’s skin crawl. “Oh, dear, did you not inform Mr. Coltfax, Alto?”
“I uh . . . no,” she squeaked, avoiding Milo as if he might snap at her. “Mr. Orviston contacted me last night after I picked the kids up from school. He—his company has offered to pick up the trial and attorney expenses.” She fidgeted with the black shawl around her shoulders. “I do hope you understand, Mr. Coltfax.”
Pick up the expenses? Milo glowered at the stallion, searching his eyes. Something’s up. Normally, he would understand and accept his client’s choice in picking a different lawyer. However, for one to come to them and offer to pay all the fees, though not unheard of in Manehattan, felt entirely off given the situation. Those companies only went after clients with big cases and large payouts. This? This was nothing.
Still, he could not argue his point here. He shot her an encouraging smile. “Very well, Alto. I hope it all works out for you.”
Milo regarded the pair as ‘Orve’ shepherded Alto towards a side hall. Then, just as he turned the corner, it hit him. The pin in his tie. That’s what had thrown him off! Now it all made sense. He motioned Quill forward. “What court number?”
“Sir, I don’t think she needs—”
“What number?” he pressed through gritted teeth.
“Twenty-five.”
Milo nodded, staring at the corner the pair had just rounded. “We’ll stick around to watch it.”
Quill rolled her eyes. “But we aren’t needed anymore, sir. Wouldn’t it be better to go back than stick around here?”
“No.” Milo pinned his ears, stamping a hoof. “He’s up to something.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then it shouldn’t take more than two hours.” With that, Milo started walking towards the nearest hallway. They wound their way systematically through the maze of offices, courtrooms, and the occasional lounge until they reached the appropriate door. A sharp, unpleasant voice broke through the otherwise silent hall.
“And you think I care?”
Milo groaned. “Celestia not him . . .”
Quill stamped a hoof irritably. “Prescott.”
“Yeah.” After taking a deep breath, he made his way towards the all-too familiar source of the commotion. Sure enough, Prescott stood by the end window, snarling at none other than Rory Scribe.
Milo felt the ever-present urge to kick the stallion senseless. How did he consistently get away with treating the kid like complete trash? He watched the latest display of disrespect, debating whether or not to cut in. No, better to let it rest. Rory practically went into a tirade whenever he stuck his muzzle into his business. Typical stubborn kid. Just like me I suppose.
Shaking his head, Milo turned back to the courtroom only to run head first into a pony. “Sorry about that—” He froze, taking in the familiar business attire and pink coat. “Pinkie? Good to see you again.”
“Oh, Milo. Sorry, I uh . . .” She leaned around him, staring at Rory as if expecting him to explode. “I was . . .”
Milo took a step back, raising an eyebrow. “Was what?”
The mare began to paw at the floor, looking at Quill. “Was . . . was . . .”
Why’s she so nervous?
Quill stepped forward, placing a hoof on Pinkie’s withers. “Is everything alright, Pinkie?”
She shook her head, threatening to dislodge the pencil wedged precariously in her bun. Her voice lowered until it was barely audible, “Mr. Scribe said I’m not supposed to talk to you before the case. Something about ‘interfering with the proceedings.’”
So that’s it. Milo chuckled. “No need to worry about that, Pinkie. I’m not on the case anymore.”
“What?” Her eyes searched his. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” Quill added, removing her hoof. “Were you looking for us just now?”
“No. I,” she gulped, looking back at Rory. “I was kinda . . . Oh, I’m not supposed to be doing it. But I felt so bad.”
Now she had him intrigued. “Doing what?”
“Getting special accommodations,” she breathed.
Milo followed her gaze to Rory’s legs and froze upon noting the bound limb. He broke his left leg? A pang of empathy shot through him. Celestia, he must be in agony.
Quill’s voice broke his trance. “So, you wanted to make sure he didn’t have to stand?”
“Yes.” Pinkie sighed heavily. “It’s not fair. The Boss didn’t want to do this in the first place. He wanted to give the mare the money right away and have done with it.”
Milo’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?” I thought he was the one who fought it . . .
“Yeah. But that . . . that,” she snorted loudly, “insisted on maintaining the company’s ‘pride.’ He wanted to do this just to see the Boss suffer.”
“The boss?”
Pinkie jerked her head over to Rory. “I am not calling him by that bastard’s name and he hates his first name. So I call him Boss now.”
Though he should have responded, all Milo could think about was her second point. To think all this time he had been calling him ‘Rory’ imagining it would put him at ease when the exact opposite was true. “He hates his name?” The words came out before he could stop himself.
Both Pinkie and Quill looked at him as if he lost his mind.
Quill took a small step towards him. “Sir? Is everything okay?”
“I—I—Fine,” he snapped, feeling his legs shake underneath him. “Just didn’t realize . . . It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, okay then.” Quill’s focus turned back onto Pinkie. “So, what kind of accommodations—” Her sentence was cut off by Rory’s icy voice.
“Miss Pie! What did I tell you? Get your sorry ass over here!”
Pinkie fliched, lowering her ears. “Sorry, Milo, Quill, gotta run.” With that, she tore over to Mr. Scribe, receiving an irritable lecture Prescott would be proud of.
Quill sighed, shaking her head. “Ready to go in, Milo?”
Milo could not help but stare at Rory. If circumstances had been different . . . No, it was better not to dwell on stupid mistakes.
“Sir?”
“Huh?” Milo turned back to her, seeing the concern in her eyes. “Yes, let’s go then.” He took a step towards the courtroom, but Quill stood in his way. “What now?”
Quill’s eyes shone with that unnervingly understanding look again. “You need to tell him,” she breathed, smoothing his forelock with a hoof.
“I—I can’t, Quill. Not after . . .” Fury, guilt, regret all fought to escape him at once. He bit his lip, trying his damndest not to cry out in frustration. “I can’t,” he reiterated through gritted teeth. If I did . . . they, he . . . Celestia forgive me,” he moaned, burying his face in his hoof.
The familiar pressure of Quill’s hoof on his shoulder slowed the ever-rising panic in his chest. “Hush, Milo. It’s in the past . . . focus on the present.”
“I’ll try, I’ll try . . .”
Rory could not have been more appreciative of Pinkie. Despite his having harangued her for weeks on end, she still had the initiative and guts to request an accommodation for his leg. Now, rather than standing for the trial, he had been allowed to sit. Though still more painful than lying down, it helped immensely.
The new lawyer, Orve or whatever the hell he called himself rubbed him the wrong way. He barked as loud as Prescott, but backed off at all the wrong times. As this entire scene had been choreographed and the judgement decided before they even entered the courtroom. The worry continued to mount as Orve’s points crept closer and closer to the suicide. What? Was he going to claim that he pushed Farthing off the roof?
Orve’s next question broke his trance. “So, you claim that my client is somehow responsible for her husband’s death? That we should blame Alto and not the pony who ruined Farthing’s life?”
Prescott opened his mouth, but Rory's inborn guilt kicked in before he could stop himself. “No! Don’t blame her. If it’s anypony’s fault it’s mine.”
Orve gave a triumphant snarl. “And so he admits it at last!”
Admits what? It’s a suicide! Rory made to speak, but Prescott rounded on him, hissing. “What do you think you’re playing at?”
“I . . . I . . .” Between the growing pain in his limb and the rapt attention of the audience, he could not bring himself to force the lie. At that moment in time, he simply wanted to tell the truth and to hell with his father’s consequences. “I was forced to fire Farthing as punishment.”
“Shut the hell up, Scribe,” Prescott growled.
Ignoring the weasel, he continued, staring at Alto as he spoke. “I . . . I got sick and almost passed out at a trial. Father . . . Father told me I had to fire him as punishment. I didn’t want to!”
Orve’s cold laugh made his skin crawl. “So he admits it!” His hoof swept over the room to point at the judge. “Your honor, here is the proof.”
The ageing mare gave him a fed-up glare. “The proof of what, Mr. Orviston?”
“That Mr. Scribe’s actions led directly to Farthing’s untimely demise.”
Rory almost snorted. ‘Untimely demise?’ For Celestia’s sake, get off your soapbox!
Prescott rolled his eyes, “Hardly a ‘direct’ path, Mr. Orviston.”
“Is it?” His voice raised to a near manic pitch now. “I have evidence to prove that Mr. Scribe’s actions led to my client’s husband’s death.” With a flourish to rival that of a stage actor, he slammed an envelope in front of the judge. “Presenting evidence A and there’s more where that came from.”
Evidence? What kind of idiot is he? Still, Rory could not help but eye the judge as she paged slowly through the papers. Then, with a small nod, she looked up. This time however, her glare was directed at him. “Mr. Scribe, care to elaborate on these ‘letters’ of yours?”
“Letters?” Rory looked at the pieces of parchment held suspended in the mare’s pale pink magic. They were unfamiliar and yet . . . The writing looks like mine. How? Forgery? But why! What did they say? “Your Honor, I’ve never seen these before in my life. I—”
“Enough. This . . . blackmail is quite the serious matter, Mr. Scribe.”
Blackmail? He glanced towards Pinkie who looked every bit as lost as he felt.
The judge sighed, setting the papers down in front of him. His heart dropped as he read. Words written by him and yet ones he never saw. The forger had to be just about perfect at his job. As he read, the significance of their contents sunk in. Farthing, Rolls, Willowbrooke, and the list went on. All ponies his father directly commanded him to fire for various “incompetencies.” Letters to them filled with incriminating evidence of blackmail, extortion, and even death threats.
Rory recognized a few of the names as those his father had “bent” at one point or another. Some had even been silenced for their outbursts against him. The room blurred as the significance took hold. A set-up so elaborate, so interwoven into the fabric of politics that even he had missed it. His promotion, the odd business trips to research facilities, the hours of meetings to distract him, and even his very presence at Scribe Incorporated had been nothing more than preparation for this moment. How could he have been so blind?
“Mr. Scribe? What have you to say in response?”
“I didn’t write these! I wouldn’t have written them. You have to believe me.” Though, judging from her icy stare, that could not have been farther from the truth.
She sighed, turning to Prescott. “Am I to assume you had no knowledge of this?”
“None whatsoever, Your Honor.”
Like hell. You choreographed the case with that snake from the start.
“Will you be serving as his attorney in the criminal proceedings?”
Criminal? “I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .” The entire room blurred as they continued.
“Celestia, no. I’ll have nothing to do with him.”
Like I ever wanted you in the beginning. Good riddance!
“Very well then. Mr. Orviston? What are your thoughts?”
“Well, I’ve contacted a number of the ponies in those letters, and they all would like to press charges . . .”
“Hmmm. Seems we have quite the case on our hooves.”
Rory stopped listening, staring instead at Pinkie. She at least remained loyal. Though she looked terrified, staring back at him with wide eyes. Yes, it’s a set-up, but what am I to do about it?
Before he could even attempt a response or plea for understanding, the sound of the gavel striking broke his trance. He looked up at the judge as she spoke. “In light of this new evidence, this case will be taken to criminal trial a week from now. Bailiff, please escort Mr. Scribe to the holding facility.”
Rory walked alongside the officer, doing his best not to limp. He shot Pinkie a weak smile in passing. “It’ll be alright.”
“O-okay,” she squeaked.
Just as he had nearly left the courtroom, he noted an all too familiar figure by the door. Milo. What in Tartarus did he want? Apparently the balif had the same idea because he held out a hoof. Milo started back a step, but continued to stare at him from behind the guard. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
The question itself did not surprise him nearly as much as the tone. A soft, almost fearful one Rory had never heard him use before. He could not bring himself to snap at the prosecutor, not this time. “No, no I didn’t.” As he was led away, he looked back at Milo. “That would be a piss-poor way to achieve my objective, Mr. Coltfax.”
Indeed. And because of his failure to judge his Father’s true intent, that bastard would walk free and he might likely be condemned to life in prison. Rory shook his head. No, he would find a way to off himself long before he wasted away like that. For the present moment, he supposed he should be grateful. Now at least he would get some much-needed sleep and rest. With one last glance at the courtroom, he followed the stranger to what he hoped would be a far pleasanter place than the one he left behind.