[magitroika] gonna need a lot more coffee for this

[philo_doxxing]

Ezra made no guarantees of taking the case during that first call. From what he gathered, this is… an interesting case, to say the least. That’s probably an understatement, actually, seeing as how by all laws of magic it shouldn’t even be possible.

Whatever happens, he has no doubt that this case is going to be huge, for better or worse. Which is exactly why he could make no promises to start with - only arrange a meeting time and send the caller, evidently a friend of the defendant’s, a series of questions about the case to have him answer.

The day of the meeting arrives, and Foster is escorted from his cell to a small, barren meeting room, equipped only with a metal table, a pair of chairs, and a light hanging overhead.

There, he’s left alone for just a few moments, his hands cuffed to the table.

When the door opens again, a small, slight man steps in, a binder under one arm and a thermos in hand. Judging by his face, he can't be any older than Foster - possibly younger, actually - but the bags under his eyes and streaks of grey at his temples might make it hard to tell.

Ezra sits down, and looks Foster over the way one might look at a potential new pair of shoes, if that someone was particularly hard to read when it came to perceived shoe quality, possibly because they were carefully controlling one of the worst cases of resting bitch face known to man. He doesn't say anything.

Comments

[criticallyfucked]

Foster is.... not much to look at. Or a lot to look at, depending. His eyes are bright and blue, but under them... it would be less appropriate to call them bags than suitcases, obvious enough to rival Ezra's. His brown skin is sallow, greying-yellow, his shoulders bony on a ribby frame. Which is evident because he's not wearing a shirt. Not that a shirt would cover the dried-crusted line across his throat, puckered skin and tight-but-crude stitching holding it shut.

He's quite obviously cuffed to his chair. Equally silent.

Watching.

[philo_doxxing]

You know, Ezra didn't have any particular expectations as to what a man who broke a hard limit and brought himself back to life by his own power would look like. He expects that's probably a good thing, since, if he did, he's fairly sure this would be disappointing.

He opens up his binder and takes a few objects out of the internal pockets, laying them out on the table - a notepad, a small voice recorder, a pencil, and a packet of documents. Once that's done, he takes a sip of coffee and starts up the recorder - and it's only then that he speaks.

"So. You're Foster van Denend, correct?" He glances up briefly from the papers in front of him - the list of questions he had sent over. "I'm Ezra Faust - your attorney. Before we get started, you should be aware that this conversation is entirely confidential; unless I have reason to believe you're intending to commit a crime in the future, nothing you say here will be passed on to anyone else."

[criticallyfucked]

He watches with apparent interest as Ezra removes his effects and arranges them with purpose on the hard blue plastic table between them. It's fairly cold in the room, but he doesn't seem to be bothered. Which is somewhat impressive, since he's also wearing no shoes.

"Mmmm." Foster confirms his identity with a smile, but no actual words, as would possibly have been helpful. He.... likes the way this guy looks at him. It's.... not impersonal so much as dehumanising, like he's looking at a particularly sketchy package, or an unopened bin and not a person at all.

"And if I am?" he asks, curious.

[philo_doxxing]

Ezra looks up from his documents and raises an eyebrow incrementally.

"Then I am legally obligated to inform the police. Which I would rather not have to do, as it will only make your trial more difficult."

Without giving Foster a chance to reply, unless he opts to jump back in the conversation, he nods to the cuffs on his wrists. "If you'd be more comfortable uncuffed, I can talk to the guards."

[criticallyfucked]

Foster's expression doesn't change at all--it's that same steady unhelpful smile, his eyes turned up to regard Ezra silently.

Then Ezra asks if he wants to be uncuffed. Foster pauses, turning his wrists against the cold metal of both cuffs and chair--appreciating the unyielding restriction of them, the feeling of absolute to his restraining omds.

".... more comfortable?" he echoes, before laughing--a string of spittle spilling down his front as he does.

[philo_doxxing]

...Okay, well. He asked his potential client if he wanted to not be cuffed to a table anymore. Said client is now laughing and drooling on himself.

This is not a great start.

He waits til Foster has quieted down a little to reply. "I take it that's a 'no'." You know. Just a guess. "In that case, why don't we start going over your case? I've got the questionnaire from before here, but it's... hm."

Incomplete? Mostly useless? So many options.

[criticallyfucked]

Foster is nonplussed at the mention of a questionnaire. It takes him a few seconds to think of what the fuck Ezra even means.

"What's wrong?" he asks, but not out of concern. He... didn't think much of those questions, Ezra. Let's put it like that. Honestly, he remembers Sophie asking him questions one after another, many of which were impossible or uninteresting, for quite a while, but he hadn't really connected that to the man standing in front of him and calling himself a lawyer until right this second. Once it was over, he'd more or less forgotten it happened--maybe it was just added to a file somewhere, he didn't know.

Or not, apparently.

[philo_doxxing]

Oh, well, that answers the question of whether to explain the problem or just move on.

"It's very nearly useless." Once again, no hesitation. "The purpose of these questions was for me to gain some understanding of your case and the circumstances surrounding it before coming here, so this meeting could move along more efficiently. As it is, though, we're just going to have to start from square one."