Nolan stepped off the plane with a cigarette hanging lazily between his lips, the smoke trailing behind him in the cool morning air as he descended the stairs toward the waiting convoy. He took one final drag before closing his eyes, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment as though savoring the brief quiet, then exhaled slowly and flicked the cigarette onto the tarmac. One of the men following behind him immediately stepped forward and crushed the ember beneath his shoe before falling back into formation. Brock was already waiting beside the lead SUV, broad shoulders filling out his suit as he opened the rear passenger door for Nolan.
"Thank you," Nolan murmured, climbing inside.
The door shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the airport. Nolan settled into the leather seat and immediately reached for a bottle of water, twisting the cap loose before taking several slow drinks. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes as the convoy pulled away from the airport, the steady hum of the engine doing little to disturb the comfortable silence.
He had barely begun drifting when Brock spoke from the front.
"The meetings with the building owners are set, sir. We have everyone scheduled over the next two days."
"Good." Nolan opened his eyes. "Anything else?"
Brock hesitated just long enough for Nolan to notice.
"We received an invitation while we were on the flight back."
Nolan lowered the bottle. "From whom?"
"Lex Luthor, sir."
His eyes opened fully.
"Why didn't you tell me immediately?"
"You were asleep," Brock explained, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. "And I didn't want to wake you. The hospital visit seemed to take quite a bit out of you."
A faint smile crossed Nolan's face as he looked out the window at the passing streets of Metropolis. "It was a healing experience."
Brock raised an eyebrow.
"That's what hospitals are for, right?"
The bodyguard gave a quiet chuckle, but Nolan had already returned to the matter at hand. "When is this dinner?"
"Tomorrow evening. LuthorCorp Tower. Apparently Mr. Luthor has a private dining room."
"Of course he does."
Brock handed the phone back over his shoulder. Nolan accepted it and began reading through the invitation. The guest list was considerably more interesting than the invitation itself. Executives, investors, developers, political donors, and several men whose names Nolan recognized from the occasional business article were expected to attend. It wasn't quite a formal business conference, but it certainly wasn't an ordinary dinner either.
Nolan's eyebrows rose as he scrolled.
"How interesting."
"You know any of them?"
"A few." Nolan continued reading. "Not personally."
There was something familiar about the gathering, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Pieces of memories floated around the edges of his thoughts, half-remembered fragments of DC's future that never quite formed a complete picture anymore. He remembered Lex Luthor eventually becoming involved with the government, but the details were frustratingly vague. He couldn't remember exactly how it happened, only that Luthor's influence eventually stretched far beyond the corporate world.
Lobbying, perhaps. Political connections. Something involving the Light.
Nolan frowned.
Whatever it was, there was no point pretending he remembered more than he did. With what he did remember he could piece it together sooner rather than later.
"Tell them I'll attend."
Brock nodded. "Yes, sir."
Nolan handed the phone back and settled into the seat again, looking through the window at the Metropolis skyline. Towers of glass and steel rose around them, catching the afternoon sun and throwing it back across the streets. Gotham had always felt like a city that carried its darkness openly, but Metropolis was different. It wore its prosperity proudly, as though crime and corruption were things that happened somewhere else.
Nolan had never trusted cities that looked too clean.
"Tomorrow night," he murmured, more to himself than Brock. "Lex Luthor."
****
I sat in my seat and tried not to fidget as a sweet, almost floral scent drifted across the jury box and tickled my nose. I had become painfully familiar with that scent over the last several days. It seemed to follow Juror Number Four everywhere she went, and despite myself, I had started noticing whenever she walked into the courtroom. I didn't know her name, and I certainly wasn't supposed to be thinking about her during a trial, but that hadn't stopped me from wondering who she was or what she did when she wasn't sitting beside me listening to lawyers argue about organized crime.
I finally worked up enough courage to turn my head.
"Good morning," I said, probably a little more awkwardly than I intended.
She turned toward me and smiled brightly. "Good morning."
That smile nearly made me forget every sensible thought I had been having.
I opened my mouth, ready to ask how her weekend had been, but the courtroom doors opened before I could get the words out. Everyone immediately straightened in their seats, and the judge entered with the same stern expression she seemed to wear every morning. I turned toward the front, trying to look as though I had been completely focused on the trial the entire time.
Then the defendant walked in.
Dre Matthews wasn't the biggest man I'd ever seen, but he was close enough. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that made the courtroom seem smaller whenever he entered it. His shoulders were broad, his expression was calm, and there was something about the way he looked around the room that made me wonder whether he was actually nervous about any of this.
He was supposed to be one of the higher-ups in the Underpass.
The Underpass.
Just thinking about the name made my stomach tighten.
I'd heard stories about them before jury duty, of course. Everybody had. People disappearing from shelters. Criminal operations hidden among homeless camps. Men appearing out of nowhere when someone crossed the wrong person. Most of it was probably exaggerated. At least, that's what I had told myself when I first heard the stories.
Then I got selected for this trial.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Jury duty had sounded interesting when the summons first arrived. I had imagined myself sitting in a courtroom for a few days, listening to lawyers argue, doing my civic duty, and then going home. Instead, every morning I walked into the courthouse wondering whether someone was watching me. Every time I left, I caught myself looking over my shoulder. I had started taking different routes home for no reason other than the thought that perhaps someone was paying attention to the people sitting on this jury.
It was ridiculous.
At least, I hoped it was ridiculous.
I didn't want to be responsible for sending some Underpass higher-up to prison. If Dre Matthews really was as important as the prosecution claimed, then there were probably people outside this courtroom who cared very much about what happened to him. I had a wife and kids waiting for me at home. I didn't want criminals knowing my name, let alone knowing where I lived.
I forced myself to breathe slowly and looked toward the prosecution table.
The prosecutor stood.
"I would like to call the state's first witness."
My attention snapped back to the trial.
A bailiff opened the side door, and a man was escorted into the courtroom. I recognized him immediately from the photographs we'd been shown earlier. He was the owner of the game room where Dre Matthews had been arrested.
This, I thought, was it.
The prosecution had spent the last several days talking about the game room, the Underpass, and Dre's involvement. Surely this man was going to explain what had really happened.
The witness approached the stand and raised his hand to take the oath.
I glanced toward Dre.
For the first time that morning, the defendant wasn't looking bored.
He was watching the witness closely.
And, for reasons I couldn't explain, I suddenly had the feeling that whatever happened next wasn't going to go the way the prosecution expected.
The prosecutor approached the witness stand with a folder tucked beneath one arm, wearing the same confident expression he had carried into the courtroom that morning. I had been watching him for the better part of an hour now, and there was something about the way he moved that made me think he had expected this part of the trial to go very differently. He stopped in front of the witness box, offered the man a polite smile, and began with what sounded like the easiest question in the world.
"Please state your name for the record."
The witness did.
"And you are the owner of the game room where the defendant was arrested?"
"Yes."
"You were present when Mr. Matthews arrived at the establishment?"
The man nodded. "Yes."
I glanced toward the defendant. Dre Matthews sat beside his lawyer with his hands folded in front of him, looking almost painfully relaxed. He hadn't said much since entering the courtroom. Every now and then he whispered something to his attorney, but otherwise he seemed more interested in examining the ceiling than listening to the case against him.
The prosecutor turned a page in his folder. "Mr. Matthews arrived shortly before the police entered the building, correct?"
"Yes."
"And he entered through the rear entrance?"
"I believe so."
"You believe so?"
"I wasn't watching the door."
The prosecutor paused.
"And when he arrived, you spoke with him?"
"Yes."
"What did you discuss?"
The witness shifted slightly in his seat. "Nothing important."
"Nothing important?"
"He asked where the bathroom was."
A few people in the gallery shifted in their seats. I felt my eyebrows rise.
The prosecutor stared at him for a moment before continuing. "You're telling this court that Dre Matthews, a suspected senior member of a nationwide criminal organization, entered your establishment and the only thing he wanted was to use the bathroom?"
"I don't know anything about a criminal organization."
"That wasn't my question."
"It was the only thing he asked me about."
The prosecutor's expression tightened.
"Did Mr. Matthews discuss the operation of the business?"
"No."
"Did he discuss your employees?"
"No."
"Did he discuss the people working for him?"
"No."
"Did he ask you to hold anything for him?"
"No."
"Did he give you instructions?"
"No."
"Did he threaten you?"
"No."
"Did he offer you money?"
"No."
The prosecutor's confidence was beginning to disappear.
"And you expect this jury to believe that he simply walked into your establishment, asked to use the bathroom, and that's the entirety of your interaction?"
The witness looked almost offended by the question.
"That is what happened."
I glanced toward the other jurors. Several of them were watching the witness with the same confusion I felt. This wasn't going the way I expected. The prosecution had spent days talking about the Underpass, about criminal networks and organized crime, about Dre Matthews being some kind of important figure within it. Yet their first witness was sitting there telling everyone that Dre had essentially wandered into a game room because nature called.
The prosecutor walked closer to the witness stand.
"Mr. Matthews remained inside your establishment for approximately fifteen minutes, didn't he?"
"Something like that."
"Fifteen minutes is a long time to use the restroom."
The witness shrugged. "Maybe he had a bad stomach."
A few people in the gallery laughed before quickly quieting themselves.
Even the judge had to hide a faint smile.
The prosecutor did not look amused.
"Were you aware that members of your staff were carrying firearms?"
"No."
"You weren't?"
"No."
"Were you aware that several armed men entered through the back shortly after Mr. Matthews?"
"No."
"Were you aware that those men were associated with Mr. Matthews?"
"No."
"Were you aware that police later found evidence of criminal activity inside your establishment?"
The witness hesitated.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I wasn't in the building when the police searched it."
"But you own the building."
"Yes."
"So you would know what happens there."
"Not every second of every day."
The prosecutor stared at him.
I began to understand what was happening.
The witness wasn't merely nervous.
He was refusing to give them anything.
The prosecutor returned to his table and picked up another document. "Mr. Matthews was a regular visitor to your establishment, wasn't he?"
"No."
"You've only seen him once?"
"Yes."
"And that was on the day of his arrest?"
"Yes."
The prosecutor narrowed his eyes. "You expect us to believe that?"
The witness leaned back slightly.
"You asked me how many times I saw him. I answered."
There was a long silence.
I looked over at Dre, his face was impassive but I could almost feel the mocking intent behind his gaze.