the Musical Misfit from a Synthetic Sea

Elle puts her head to one side and gives his hand her frostiest look, and he slowly withdraws it, hopeful smile fading.

“My client’s already entered her plea,” Elle says, through the teeth of her brightest smile. “Not guilty. And we’re going to prove it in court.”

She punctuates that sentence by flipping her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses down off the top of her head onto her face, and moving to walk around the guy.

The guy steps into Elle’s path. This time, when Bruiser snaps at him, she doesn’t scold her dog.

The guy gives Bruiser only the briefest glance. “Unless you have some explosive evidence that wasn’t included in discovery, I think we both know that’s going to be difficult. The prosecution has your client on video committing the murder.”

“That was so not Sophie. She got her nails done just that morning. Mediterranean Blue, to match her bridesmaid dress. We included the receipts in discovery.” Elle scootches her sunglasses back up onto her head just so she can bat her eyelashes innocently up at the prosecution guy. Guys hate it when she does that. “Tell me, did you see Mediterranean Blue anywhere in that footage?”

She pushes her way around the prosecution guy, hip-checking him as she passes when he moves like he’s going to get in her way again.

Elle hasn’t gotten more than about four or five steps before she hears dress shoes hurrying against the pavement behind her. She rolls her eyes at the perfect blue sky overhead. Not quite Mediterranean Blue. Maybe L. A. Lapis?

“What’re you going to try to argue?” prosecution guy says, falling into step beside Elle. “That the murderer was actually someone who looked identical to Sophie, but had different nail polish?”

“It introduces a reasonable doubt,” Elle snips back, without looking over. She’s not going to sink to this guy’s level. And she is not going to consider a plea deal. Especially not now.

Not after Emmett had specifically asked Elle, personally, to take his high school best friend’s fiancée’s maid of honour’s case. Not after the way Sophie had broken down during her first meeting with Elle and begged Elle to believe she hadn’t done it, even though no one else did. Even though every other lawyer Sophie’d spoken to had said she should plead out.

Not after Elle had overheard a couple of people talking in the bathroom during a recess yesterday about how an airhead like Elle Woods couldn’t possibly get so lucky twice.

“And who gets her nails done at ten, gruesomely murders a random stranger at eleven, and then meets the rest of the wedding party for dress fittings and sushi at eleven forty-five?” Elle tosses her hair over her shoulder. “You couldn’t get all the blood off in that time. At least, not to be sure you didn’t have any splashed somewhere you couldn’t see. And then it might rub off on the bridesmaid dress. It’s pure silk! You’d never get the blood out. And do you have any idea how hard it would be to get that gown replaced on such short notice?”

“So you’ve come to the conclusion that, since Sophie’s too fashion-conscious to commit this murder, she must have an evil twin?”

“Reasonable doubt,” Elle reminds the prosecution guy, sweetly. Bruiser’s growling again. Elle kind of feels like growling, too.

“You’re going to have a hard time convincing the jury of a theory that comes straight out of daytime TV.” Elle opens her mouth to offer a witty verbal rejoinder, but the prosecution guy cuts her off. “Which is why you should give this number a call.”

Elle’s aware that her mouth is flapping like an unfortunate fish. Luckily, the prosecution guy isn’t looking at her. He’s scanning the street all around them, frowning suspiciously at every passing face.

He passes over the folded piece of yellow notepaper deliberately nonchalantly, without looking at Elle. She takes it without thinking.

“Tell him Sam Winchester gave you that number,” the prosecution guy says, glaring after a passing dude in a shearling-lined denim jacket. Elle glares a little too, just on principle. So out of season, and in this weather? Well, she’s not the one sweating her brains out.

“I told you already. We’re not interested in pleading out. If you have something new and exonerating, introduce it into evidence. Like you’re supposed to.” Elle stops in her high-heeled tracks and plants a hand on her hip as she stares up at the prosecution guy. She’s tempted to rip his dumb phone number up right in front of him, but Bruiser beats her to it, snatching the little yellow paper from her hand with his tiny sharp teeth. “And I don’t appreciate being propositioned by people who just spent ten minutes telling me why my defense strategy is stupid.”

She has to give the prosecution guy this, he does look like he hadn’t even considered that Elle would assume he’d given her his number. “What? Wait, that’s not -”

Elle cocks an eyebrow. The prosecution guy huffs out an exasperated breath, running a hand through his floppy bangs before he meets her eyes. Bruiser gives Elle eyes like that sometimes when he wants a little of whatever she’s eating. Or belly rubs. Or a pedicure.

“You have a reputation for being brilliant, innovative, and unorthodox,” the prosecution guy says, his puppy-dog eyes all sincerity. Elle bites down on the urge to tell him that she knows when she’s being made fun of. “I’m hoping all of that’s true. For your client’s sake. And who knows how many others like her.”

Elle doesn’t really want to admit that she’s not sure what he’s talking about. If law school taught her anything, it was to never show weakness. Of course, life’s taught her a little differently. But there’s a time and a place, and in front of somebody she’s up against in court tomorrow – and whose taste in ties is so deeply questionable – is neither of those.

Still. If Elle didn’t know better –

“Do you think Sophie’s innocent?” she asks the prosecution guy.

The prosecution guy – Sam – makes a face, a kind of smile without any happiness in it, and looks away.

“Call that number,” he says, instead of answering Elle’s question. “From somewhere private. And – don’t tell anybody that we talked about anything other than your client’s possible openness to a plea deal? I just got this job. I’d like to keep it.”

Elle squints at him. It doesn’t really help her make up her mind.

He doesn’t give her a chance to. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and, uh -”

“Bruiser,” Elle says. Bruiser barks.

“You and Bruiser tomorrow in court, Ms. Woods.”

“Mr. Winchester,” Elle answers, automatically.

The prosecution guy – Sam – nods at her a little awkwardly, and then turns and starts walking back in the direction of the courthouse. Elle watches him go, and considers.

That basic-black suit fits him pretty well, but it’s also obviously not custom. And obviously not new. The carefully brushed and pressed wool gabardine is shiny at the elbows and worn at the slightly-too-short cuffs and slightly-too-tight collar. Same with those nice black leather dress shoes – polished to a high shine, but worn down at the heel. Elle hadn’t noticed a fancy Rolex or Bvlgari when he’d offered to shake her hand or passed her the phone number, either, just a cheap digital Timex. His hair’s obviously cut that way on purpose, but by the way he’d kept shaking it out of his eyes, he’s overdue for a trim. And then there’s that tie.

It all paints a picture of a careful, thoughtful man, conscious of the impression he makes on others, doing everything he can with what he’s got. Maybe with…questionable taste, in patterns especially. But what he said rings true. He probably needs the job. So for him to offer to stick his neck out to help the defense, in what Elle’s suspecting more and more is a not-entirely-aboveboard sort of way…

Either he really does believe in Sophie’s innocence, and he’s got something that proves it that he can’t enter into evidence for some reason, client confidentiality or non-disclosure agreement or who knows, as well as principles of steel. Or…

Or this is a trap.

Well, at least Elle knows one thing for sure. Sam’s definitely not one of Warner’s crowd. They’d rather be caught naked in public than looking so dangerously close to shabby.

“Hm,” Elle says, and takes a long drag of slightly-melted caramel mocha goodness. “What do you think, Bruiser?”

Bruiser yips, once.

Elle nods, and absentmindedly scratches behind his ears. “You know? I think so too.”

…

It’s past nine by the time Elle finally makes it home. She kicks off her seashell-pink kitten heels and peels off her pantyhose with a bone-deep sigh of relief. She’s given Bruiser his dinner, wrapped herself up in her marabou-trimmed blush satin robe, and is just pouring herself a glass of rosé when Bruiser pads into the kitchen with something yellow in his mouth.

“Are you sure?” Elle asks, and Bruiser barks, spitting the folded piece of notepaper to the tile. It flutters over to rest on the little pink nose of one of Elle’s baby-pink bunny slippers.

Elle bends (and snaps, a girl’s got to stay in practice even when there’s no audience around) to pick it up.

Ordinarily, she’d think twice about calling anyone after nine PM. But ordinarily, the prosecution wouldn’t be furtively handing her shady leads outside her favourite coffee shop, either. It occurs to Elle to wonder, as the phone rings in her ear, just how Sam had known to look for her there. Not that it’s exactly a secret, but – something about the thought of him observing her, asking around about her, learning her habits without her even noticing, sends a little chill shivering under her skin.

Before she can think too hard about that, though, there’s a click from the phone and then a gruff, Midwestern accent is saying, “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Supervisory Special Agent Clayton. Who are you and whaddaya want.”

“Um,” Elle says. Of course, a murder case could easily bump into the FBI’s jurisdiction, but. This is starting to scream ‘trap’.

Still, there’s one last card left up her marabou-trimmed bell sleeve, and she plays it. “This is Elle Woods. Sam Winchester gave me this number?”

The silence on the other end of the line is briefly broken by a distant, muffled burst of swearing. Elle waits patiently, gnawing a little at her bottom lip, as the swearing gives way to a heavy thumping sound and then silence again.

A moment later, the Midwestern-accented voice is back, sounding slightly less hostile and slightly more out of breath. “He did, did he. And just who the hell is Elle Woods?”

“I’m a defense attorney in the murder case he’s prosecuting?” Elle didn’t mean it to come out sounding like a question. She clears her throat, shakes her hair back, squares her shoulders, and summons her inner Vivian. “Mr. Winchester intimated that you might have access to vital evidence that could help decide the fate of my client.”

“He did, did he.” Elle thinks she catches a quiet, “Idjit,” muttered away from the phone’s handset. “And what kind of ‘vital evidence’ would that be?”

Elle turns in a slow circle on the kitchen floor, crumpling and uncrumpling the little yellow piece of paper in the hand that’s not pressing the cordless handset to her ear. She’s keenly aware that one wrong word here could easily cost her – and Sophie – the entire case. Fruit of the poisoned tree, and all that. But – if this could help Sophie, Elle has to know. “Are you aware that the murder trial of Sophie Dumont commenced this week?”

“Sophie Dumont?” the voice on the other end of the line says, and then there’s a creaking and a sound like paper flicking and then a knowing, “Oh, Sophie Dumont. Caught on camera skinning some poor bastard alive, wasn’t she?”

“Sophie has entered a plea of not guilty,” Elle says sharply.

“Yeah, I bet she has.” It strikes Elle as a strange thing to say, especially in that tone. She’d have expected sarcasm. But the man on the other end of the line sounds – resigned? Maybe? Definitely some flavour of totally bummed out. “Still. Not sure how I can help, Miss -”

“Ms. Ms. Elle Woods.” Elle takes a breath, and a chance. “We have evidence to support that the person captured in the camera footage is not, in fact, Sophie Dumont. Unfortunately, it’s…limited in scope. And Sophie was alone in her apartment during the hour in which the murder occurred. We’ve as yet been unable to locate anyone who can confirm her alibi, or an eyewitness to the murder who would be willing to come forward…”

She bounces up and down on her toes, crossing the fingers of her free hand hard and squinching her eyes shut as she holds her breath.

“Well, now,” the voice on the other end of the line says. “Let me see what I can dig up.”

Elle lets out her breath in one big gust. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I mean.” She clears her throat, puts on her best Vivian again. “Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated.”

The chuckle that comes down the phone line reminds Elle, weirdly, of how her favourite uncle used to laugh when she showed off one of her tumbling tricks. “Don’t mention it. And I mean that – don’t you breathe a word to anyone that I was involved in this.”

Elle nods before remembering, right. Phone. “Of course, Mr. Clayton. Strict confidentiality is the name of the game.”

“Oh, and Ms. Woods?”

“Yes?”

“The next time you see Sam Winchester -” The voice breaks off, into a frustrated huff. “You tell that boy that next time, he can call me himself. And I ain’t the only one wouldn’t mind knowing he’s not dead every now and again.”

Not for the first time since the man calling himself Supervisory Special Agent Clayton picked up the phone, Elle wonders how he and Sam know each other. But that’s none of her business, of course. Just. Clayton sounds like he hasn’t heard from Sam in ages. Like he was really worried about Sam.

Elle might just have to see what she can find out about what happened there. Whether those are fences that could be mended. After all, one good turn deserves another, doesn’t it?

“I will certainly pass that along,” Elle promises into the phone. “Here, let me give you my cell number in case anything turns up.”

She waits for Clayton to be ready with a pen and paper, then rattles off her cell phone number twice. After she’s confirmed it’s correct, there’s a beat. A moment when Elle feels like there’s something she should be saying or asking, that she can’t quite seem to think of.

Before she can make her excuses and get off the line, though, Clayton clears his throat and asks, a little more gruff than he’d been so far, “Before you go. Who’d Sam tell you I was, when he gave you my number?”

“He…didn’t,” Elle admits. “Just said to call.”

“Oh.” There’s another awkward moment of silence. Elle’s just taking her breath to say her goodbyes when Clayton says, “You’ve seen the footage of the murder. Right?”

Unfortunately, Elle has. “It was included in discovery, yes.”

“And what do you think that is in the footage, if it’s not Sophie Dumont?”

Elle looks down at Bruiser, who’s lying beside her bunny slippers. Bruiser looks back up at her, no help at all.

Warner would probably say something about how that’s not what he’s paid to know or care about. Vivian or Emmett would say it was immaterial, which sounds a lot nicer but means pretty much the same thing. But Elle finds herself unintentionally parroting what Sam had said, back at the coffeeshop. “Her evil twin?”

There’s a snort of hastily-stifled laughter from the other end of the phone line. Elle starts to say, “Well, thank you again,” and moves to end the call, but Clayton interrupts her.

“Tell me, Ms. Elle Woods, defense attorney. Are you currently accepting new clients?”

“Not currently,” Elle says, because a murder trial is a lot for anyone to manage. “Why, do you know someone who needs a good lawyer?”

Another of those uncle-ish chuckles. “Who do I know who couldn't use a good lawyer.” He sounds a lot more serious when he adds, “In this line of work, we run into Sophie Dumonts more often than we’d like. Mind if I pass your name along?”

“I would appreciate it,” Elle says, honestly. Even if this whole setup is…a little strange. Even if she really does think that one more big win will really get her name out there – if she can pull it off, of course. In the meantime, she and Bruiser still have to eat. And if the clients are too scary…well, nothing says she has to take on every case.

“I’ll let you know what I turn up,” Clayton says, and Elle thinks she can hear the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “Nice doing business with you, Ms. Elle Woods. And tell that idjit to call his brother!”

The phone goes dead in Elle’s hand before she can ask any more questions.

She puts the handset back into its charging dock and takes a long sip from her rosé, thinking. There’s something about the conversation she just had that’s sitting uneasy with her, but she can’t quite put her finger on what. Other than the general sense that she’s stumbled into some kind of mafia, which…could end up being a problem.

Elle looks down at Bruiser, who cocks his head to one side and looks back at her with his huge, liquid puppy-dog eyes.

“Oh, all right,” Elle says, and pulls open the cabinet over the stove to get down Bruiser’s treats.

She’s crouched on the floor, feeding Bruiser salmon tidbits, when it hits her like a blinding flash of the obvious. What was sitting so wrong with her about that conversation.

It was something the man calling himself Supervisory Special Agent Clayton had said, when he’d been talking about the murder footage. Something strange. Something really strange.

He hadn’t asked Elle who she thought could have been in that footage, if it hadn’t been Sophie.

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