Liminality

by hollyjollyturnabout

Summary:

Gregory Edgeworth feels himself being surrounded, the snake of the case coiling around his body, but not pressing. It waits for him to exhale. Tyrell Badd doesn't exist anywhere, not really. Not at home, not at the crime scene, not in court, not at the precinct. He is between gruffness and softness, eyes hardened as coal and breath sweet on sugar.

They both live in the space between spaces.

(A fic that takes place during the Inherited Turnabout year of investigation! Part of the Eureka Zine - go check it out here: https://twitter.com/eurekazine?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor)

The sound of conversation reached the apartment before the two men did.

“I still think it would aid the case to check the desserts in that room again, Detective. You’re positive that the forensic team hasn’t gotten back-”

“What did I say in the elevator? We’re off the clock. Don’t go chatting with me-” A slam of the door as it opened. “- about what I have to do. Actually, what I don’t have to do. The things I do for you because you ask me about fifty times a day.”

“Now, I’m certain that’s not true, Detective,” Gregory Edgeworth said, smiling as he stepped inside. “I can’t recall a time I have asked you more than twenty times to do any given task.”

Tyrell Badd followed behind him into his fairly clean apartment, the windows closed to keep out the oppressive August heat. Los Angeles summers never got easier, even when night swaddled the city. If anything, darkness just cocooned the city in the same baking heat while pretending it would get cooler. A menagerie of beige and gray furniture greeted the two: a couch, a boxy television, and a kitchenette with a cream-colored fridge. The popcorn ceiling sagged in at various places and left reminders of itself across the threadbare rugs covering the hardwood.

It wasn’t a glamorous apartment. It wasn’t a family unit, like Gregory had, but it was close to Master Manor, the current crime scene that had plagued the two for the past six months. After hours of investigating, the pair had taken to stopping to catch their breath here before the defense attorney headed home and Badd headed to bed.

If it was technically unethical, perhaps it had just become white noise in the series of unethical aspects to the case. Everything in the case felt wrong to Gregory, like someone had their eyes over his shoulder the whole time, adjusting and plucking at whatever they felt necessary. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar feeling with cases in Los Angeles, but it wasn’t like this when he began his law career. Cases had honest witnesses and clear motives. They weren’t obfuscated in layers of unresponsive police officers and missing autopsy reports. They weren’t… this.

He shook his head, leaning down to take off his shoes. Where he was methodical with his untying, tucking the laces under the tongues, and placement of the shoes under Badd’s coat-rack, Badd was quick and efficient, kicking off his loafers and letting them rest by the door. Both men hung up their overcoats, leaving them in wrinkled button-downs and brown slacks. Badd loosened his tie on the way to the kitchen, while Gregory kept himself as professional as he could maintain.

A bit of distance, always. He still felt like a guest in this apartment, even if he had been here nearly every weekend for the last four months. He still waited for Badd to gesture vaguely at the couch before he walked over to it and sat down. Gazing around at the bland surroundings, the corner of his mouth tilted up.

“You know, detective, you could do with a splash of color in this apartment. Some artwork or a throw pillow, or something like that.”

A predictable conversation, clearly intended to arrive at the same destination it always did. Gregory almost heard the half-hearted ‘hm’ before it left Badd’s lips.

“Why do I need to do that? I still get you over here without it.” The voice trailed over from the kitchen, where the man was pulling a frozen tray of food from the freezer and ripping off its plastic cover.

“For a breath of fresh air! Come on, now. Even you must have some desire for this apartment to feel like a home,” Gregory retorted, leaning back on the couch and turning to face the other.

The whir of the microwave hummed through the apartment as Badd snorted out a bitter laugh. “My home’s not here. It’s out there on the scene. This-” He gestured around with a dull knife. “- is an address that my body parks in sometimes to eat, sleep, and bathe. You ask any detective, they’ll feel the same.”

Gregory started to speak up, ready to deliver some heartfelt remark that every man needs a home, when the microwave began beeping at an ear-splitting volume. Badd swore and pulled open the door. Using a paper towel as a makeshift mitt, he removed the plastic tray, the greens and unseasoned chicken covering his face in a curtain of steam. He stuck the knife and a fork from his sink on top of the meal. As he walked back over to the couch, he gestured to the freezer with his foot.

“I’ve got extra meals in there. Some leftovers, too. Meatloaf?”

The defense attorney shook his head. Again, another attempt at routine and pleasantries. “No, but thank you. I’m not hungry,” he lied. The investigation took more from him each time the two stepped onto the property lines of the manor. Maybe that was the compounding of the stress and the heat, especially as summer built itself up around him. The coming autumn would be easier.

With all hope, he wouldn’t have to investigate the scene ever again. The trial would resume on Monday. Maybe it would also end on Monday.

Badd eventually settled on the armchair, his body perpendicular to the couch. He reached for a remote and turned on the news, letting the white noise of California politicking fill the house. Gregory pulled out a crumpled mass of receipts from his pocket, turning them over in his hands. Old purchases of the Master estate, made on the day of the incident. A coffee in the morning. Ten tubs of chocolate frosting for a contestant’s emergency. The fare for one of the reporter’s cabs. Nothing untoward. Nothing strange.

The detective cut into the microwave meal quietly, content with silence. He chewed up his sliced chicken quickly, practically scarfing down the meal. Gregory didn’t know why the detective always seemed to be in a hurry at home. Maybe he was right; this wasn’t really his home. It was a stopgap between investigations. It was a place of stagnation that the detective preferred to avoid. If this night went like most other nights, they'd share a few half-hearted words, watch as the sun set behind the mountains, and say their goodbyes.

But for some reason, Gregory wanted this moment to last. Perhaps that’s why he said it.

“Badd, I think this case might be the death of me.”

A pause, the knife stuck mid-saw in the lukewarm chicken. Then, a huff as the detective rose to his feet. He walked with a purpose back into the kitchen, and Gregory heard the clinking of glass on wood. After a moment, Badd emerged with two glasses and a round-bottomed bottle of amber liquid.

“Nope, we’re not doing this conversation sober,” he said, placing the bottle on the table. A label of black and gold lettering stared at Gregory: Bertoux Brandy.

“Badd, it’s a-“ it wasn’t a school night. “I need to get back-“ Miles was at a friend’s for a sleepover. “I can’t get drunk in your house.”

“Alright, well, we’re not talking about this unless you get at least a swig of that in you,” Badd replied, already twisting open the cap. “We can go back to the throw pillow talk if you want. I’ll pull out a Homegoods catalog and make you look for one that ‘brings the room together’ or whatever. But if you want to talk shop…” He poured the liquid in two glasses, then slid one over to the end of the table. “Drink. It’s a good brandy. Tart, but smooth. You’ll like it.”

Gregory wanted to protest. He wanted to offer out all the alternatives, all the reasons why this was a poor idea between working colleagues. He wanted to muster at least a feeble excuse of not wanting to waste expensive brandy on an ordinary Saturday night.

But for some reason, he found himself unable to. He raised the glass to his lips, quieting his mind forcibly. In fact, he downed the whole glass. The smooth drink stung as it carved a path through his throat, if only for a moment. The rest went down, as Badd assured, smooth.

The detective himself stared, wide-eyed, as he sat next to Gregory, his glass still nearly full. “Not to deny you your poison,” he said. “But brandy’s known more for sipping, not shooting. You didn’t have to-”

“I know.” Gregory raised a hand to his face, already flushed. He hadn’t done something like that since law school, before trials were anything more than a study resource. The thought raised a bitter smile to his face, and he tossed the glass back again, catching the bitter dredges before placing the glass on the counter. He looked at Badd. “Don’t be encouraged by my example. It’s certainly better for sipping. Good, though. Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” said Badd, raising his own glass to his lips. The two sat like that for a few minutes, resting in a calm contemplation. Gregory considered pouring another glass, and the heady mix of grapes swirling around in his stomach empowered him to do just that. He sipped this one, watching the golden liquid dance in his glass between sips.

“You had the opportunity to stop this trial, you know.”

“Hm?” Gregory looked up, catching Badd’s eyes as he shifted on the couch.

“The Scones testimony. She slipped up, put herself back at the scene with the weapon in hand. The weapon from her dessert,” Badd emphasized, gesticulating with his glass. “You could have had her. If this trial was going to be the death of you, why not let that happen? Why not get your client declared innocent?”

Gregory thought back to that day in court. A hot Tuesday, just a few days ago. The air around them had been choking and sweltering - a malfunction with the A.C. in the courtroom. Gregory had been in front of his own bench, marching back and forth while the little chef woman talked herself into maddening circles. She was there, then she wasn’t, then she had the murder weapon, then she only had knowledge of how to make the murder weapon. Summer heat snapped at his collar, demanding he loosen it time and time again. Hours passed. Manfred von Karma watched, delighting himself in seeing Gregory coil himself tighter and tighter around her. For once, he wasn’t interrupting every clarification and accusing Gregory of badgering a poor, frail woman.

And Gregory, swimming in sweat, had not realized why he hadn’t. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be done with this. But then came a glint of amusement in von Karma’s violet eyes. Von Karma didn’t think he was caught. He hadn’t even considered this a roadblock.

Because Scones was innocent. Both of them knew that. No matter how tightly Gregory wound around her, von Karma knew the defense attorney would end up releasing her when the judge asked if he had further questions.

When Gregory returned to the couch, he pressed a hand to his forehead, surprised to find sweat on his palm when he lowered it.

“I don’t… I couldn’t do it. I knew she was innocent.”

“The hell does that count for?” Badd countered. “Thought you were one of those ‘evidence is everything’ types. How are you gonna start trusting your gut now?” He reached into his jacket, feeling around for something. Maybe a toothpick, maybe a lollipop. “Feelings don’t decide verdicts.”

Gregory thought about that one, a twitch of his wrist sending the brandy spiraling again. Feelings didn’t decide verdicts; that’s what he had gone to law school to learn. As much as he believed an unfortunate soul was innocent, they could very well be guilty. As much as he detested the methods of a prosecutor, they were doing their job to prevent further crime. The courtroom was a series of arguments: a laying out of all the tools and techniques the two had gathered, to turn fragmented accounts and evidence into a complete story. The side that could create the most complete story, in favor or against his client, would be the victor. Justice was, by definition, the administration of a fair, reasonable law.

So why did everything in this case feel so one-sided?

“You had a question. I get to ask one of my own,” Gregory said. He leaned forward, eyes trained on every fidget and twitch in Badd’s expression. “Why does it take three weeks for me to get fingerprint analysis done?”

“I don’t- Why are you asking me,” Badd said, less of a question than a deflection.

“Furthermore, detective, why are any court record additions not filed in paperwork unless I explicitly ask for it? And when I get them back, why is it always another junior detective handling it, like this is a misdemeanor case shuffling around the rookies instead of a high profile murder? Why do I have to keep track of everything getting shuffled into the court record every morning, because half the time, something’s missing?”

“I-”

“And beyond that, detective, beyond damn that, which is bad enough as it is, why-” His voice rose, breaking on the word as if shattering into glass. “Why doesn’t my defendant want to talk to me anymore if I’m his goddamn lawyer?!”

A beat of silence. Gregory swayed on his feet. He didn’t remember when he stood up, but he loomed above Badd, looking down with a fire he’d suppressed for months.

“I can’t confirm anything. You know that,” Badd said, shaking his head.

“Like hell you can’t. This case doesn’t stink.” He gestures with the glass, pointer finger extended to aim right at Badd’s heart. “It rots. It undermines the foundations of law and sucks everything else down into its depths. It’s a carnival of shoddy witnesses and nonsense autopsies and von Karma looking at me like he always knows what’s going to come next and I don’t. And I’m, frankly, getting extremely tired of it.”

With that, he sat down, finally. His feet couldn’t take any more, and all the tension suffused back through his muscles. Aches that the drink and conversation staved off returned.

He ran a hand through his hair. What was he going to do with this case?

“I wish you were the first defense attorney I met, Gregory.”

A first name? That caught his attention. “How do you mean?”

Badd shrugged, eyes carving a path over Gregory’s face. Sizing him up, then settling on his glasses. “Might have taught me that some of you were worth a damn. Worth knowing.” He shrugged, a hand coming up to rub at his chin. “Maybe.” His tone turned dismissive, but his gaze never left Gregory.

It was hard to tell, with the ever-present gruffness and fading orange glow from the window, but Gregory swore he could see a line at the edge of Badd’s mouth. It was the faintest hint of a smile.

After a moment, Gregory smiled back, clasping his hands together over his knee. The apartment felt smaller. Further from a resting place, and closer to a home, which pulled something in the back of Gregory’s throat.

Too close. Felt more than said, and the air shifted around them. Need to put up some distance.

The two exchanged some words, idle chat about the courthouse’s new benches and the rising price of gas. The vulnerability passed with the sunset, and before long, Gregory was sliding back into his dress shoes and pulling his hat from the rack. He turned the handle on the door, looking back to the detective.

“See you on Monday, then?” He asked.

The detective looked over and nodded. “Monday.” Something about his face looked… tired? Sorry? Hard to say, and Gregory knew that prodding it would dance the expression away.

Both stood in that awkward moment for a beat too long. Words unspoken. A case to crack. A rotting foundation.

Gregory left. Tyrell stayed, words forming on his lips that met no ears but his own.

“The only one worth a damn.”