The competing defense contractors' angle wasn't hard to read. They wanted to kneecap a rival. Stark Industries had dominated the market for years and nobody said a word—fine, we accept that. But now Hammer Industries was muscling in? Unacceptable.
Anyone who'd watched Justin Hammer try to stage his product showcase at the Stark Industries complex already knew the man had an extraordinary talent for making enemies. He'd turned nearly everyone in the industry against him; the difference was they'd previously written him off as a clown. No one had bothered to take him seriously. Now that had changed.
The media and the lawyers, for their part, needed no special motive. The bigger the fire, the happier they were.
To manufacture a viable legal argument, a cross-section of social commentators put their collective minds together and produced two arguments: first, who should and should not have the authority to pull a trigger; and second, whether machines could be trusted at all.
Daisy had been managing the Helicarrier construction on one front and steering Hammer Industries' Mark 2 drone design on another—and now this. She'd had a decent week up until the moment these people decided to ruin it.
The case attracted enough noise that she had to show up in person. She dressed for the occasion—a relatively severe suit—and took her seat at the defense table. The Army Chief of Staff sat on one side, Captain Stacy on the other. None of the three were treating this as a serious threat. They spent the time before proceedings trading observations on unrelated subjects.
The lawyers had been loud in the press and silent when it counted. The maid had a reputation that preceded her in legal circles—rivals had a habit of disappearing, and while nobody had proof, the stories circulated. Now with the backing of a major defense contractor, the deterrent effect had amplified considerably. Not a single experienced attorney was willing to take the plaintiff's brief. The entire Manhattan bar had gone collectively quiet.
The court was livid—and ultimately handed the plaintiff's brief to two law students who hadn't graduated yet.
Daisy watched them take their seats—a man with a white cane, dark glasses, and a round-faced companion hovering at his elbow—and felt a flicker of recognition. She turned to the maid. "What are their names?"
The maid was already a senior figure in New York's legal world. She didn't personally know two students who'd just cleared the bar exam. She turned to her assistant, who asked another assistant, who asked the assistant after that.
The answer traveled back through six or seven people before it reached Daisy: "The one with the cane is Matt Murdock. He's currently completing a Juris Doctor at Columbia University. The other is his classmate and assistant—Foggy Nelson."
Daredevil. Not yet. Daisy took a second look. A blind man who would someday run across rooftops in the dark like it was nothing, who would make the Marvel criminal underworld lose sleep—it had to be said: when God closed a door on Matt Murdock, the window He opened in return was unusually large.
"That blind man is a powered individual. Don't say anything sensitive near him." Daisy covered her forehead with her right hand as she relayed this to the maid through a psychic channel.
The maid kept her reaction contained—no glance back, no change in posture. She pulled up Murdock's file again and ran her nail along the line about his childhood accident. A questioning look in her eyes. Daisy caught it and gave a small nod.
Matt's hearing was exceptional, but he couldn't eavesdrop on the psychic channel. Asking about opposing counsel was completely routine—nothing here would ping his radar.
He tapped his cane a few times, found his bearings with Foggy's help, and settled into the plaintiff's seat.
Foggy was visibly anxious. He genuinely hadn't understood why his best friend had taken this case. Their side had: one middle-aged plaintiff who seemed borderline unstable, and two lawyers who hadn't technically graduated yet.
The other side had: a prominent arms dealer with an excellent public reputation, New York's famously clean-handed police chief, and the Army Chief of Staff. Plus the maid—whose mere presence could silence the New York bar. Any judge with half a brain would know which direction to lean.
"We have a real shot. The jury will back us," Matt said, giving his friend an encouraging nudge.
Foggy was skeptical. A random dozen members of the public would personally prefer looser policing—that stood to reason. But judges weren't always bound by jury sentiment.
Matt got me into this. Foggy did not feel optimistic.
The hearing opened. As plaintiff's counsel, Matt went first—
"Machines have no law-enforcement authority. How can we place that authority in the hands of machines? Hammer Industries has proposed remote human operation as the answer. On that point, I'd like to ask Ms. Johnson—what happens when an operator makes an error? Who bears responsibility for the casualties that result?"
"And consider this: suppose an operator harbors a private grievance. Suppose that same operator has access to a Hammer Drone. while exercising that authority, he directs the drone to commit murder. How does the law classify that act? Premeditated homicide? Negligent homicide? Mechanical malfunction?"
"I also have a question for Captain Stacy. Officers operating drones remotely reduces their own exposure to harm—I'm glad of that, and I have nothing but respect for the NYPD. But does an officer then possess judicial authority? How many citizens are wrongfully injured by officers every year?"
Matt Murdock's delivery was deliberate and level—the bearing of a young man who'd made something of himself against every obstacle, who took the law seriously and took himself seriously in equal measure.
If Daisy hadn't been the defendant, she'd have applauded him.
The problem was that the arguments, however well-delivered, were built on hypotheticals. The maid knocked them aside one by one—"this premise is unestablished," "there is no evidence to suggest the scenarios described by Mr. Murdock would materialize"—and the logic collapsed.
Despite Matt's considerable effort, the hearing generated nothing new. The plaintiff had come for the spectacle as much as the verdict; the arguments on both sides sounded reasonable in isolation; neither landed a decisive blow.
Bang bang. The judge's gavel came down. Recess. When proceedings would resume—the judge had no idea.
The parties filtered out of the Manhattan courthouse. Everyone had somewhere else to be.
"Mr. Matt Murdock—I'm doing something good here. What you're doing makes you an accomplice to those arms dealers. You helped them go after my company, and the only result will be to make this market even more chaotic. Your position today was wrong. If you want to actually help ordinary people, that's where your focus should be." Daisy said as she passed him in the corridor, voice at normal conversational volume.
Matt tilted his head fractionally, listening. He held the angle even after her footsteps moved away.
Foggy tugged at his sleeve. "She's long gone. Come on, let's head back."
Matt was still for a moment, something working behind his expression. Then he turned to his friend. "Was that Ms. Johnson who just walked past me?" He paused. "Is Ms. Johnson especially... solidly built?"