"Call your next witness," Judge Halvorsen said, voice clipped.
Vane stood immediately. "The prosecution calls Officer Marla Bennett to the stand."
A tall, dark-haired woman in uniform made her way down the aisle, face stern, jaw locked. She took the oath, sat down, and adjusted the mic like she'd done this a hundred times before.
Vane didn't waste a second.
"Officer Bennett, were you the first responder to the scene behind The Grange restaurant on the night of June 3rd?"
"I was," Bennett said. Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "I was two blocks away when dispatch called in a possible assault in progress. Arrived less than ninety seconds after the call."
"And what did you find?"
"Three males down in the alley. Two unconscious, one deceased. Blood at multiple points. One male later identified as Nolan Price—was standing over the body. He appeared disoriented. Blood on his hands, shirt. He did not flee."
Vane nodded. "Describe the scene. In detail."
"Victim #1 Peter Beckett. Massive head trauma. Blunt force, multiple strikes. Dead on arrival. Victim #2 had a shattered wrist and facial injuries. Victim #3 had a dislocated jaw and multiple cracked ribs. All signs pointed to a brutal, close-quarters fight. No visible weapons at the scene except one firearm, discharged once, recovered beside the second victim."
"Did Mr. Price have any injuries?"
"Broken nose. Bruising to ribs. Split lip. Blood consistent with both his own and the victims'."
"Did he resist arrest?"
"No. He seemed… confused. In shock."
Vane turned to the jury.
"No sign of robbery. No defensive wounds on Beckett. Just cold, methodical brutality. Would you agree, Officer?"
"Objection Leading," Adrian said flatly.
"Sustained," Judge Halvorsen said without looking up.
Vane pressed on, tone colder now.
"In your professional opinion, Officer Bennett… was this consistent with self-defense?"
Bennett hesitated.
"No," she said. "It looked like.. well I'm not sure what it looked like but it sure wasn't self defense."
A murmur rippled through the gallery.
Vane's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Did he say anything?"
"Nothing coherent. He screamed when he looked down. Then went silent."
Vane nodded, then backed away, "And what does Nolan, have to do with Kieran Everleigh?"
The officer shrugged, "Although they look worlds apart, that man sitting there named Kieran Everleigh was Nolan price."
"No further questions."
Adrian Grey stood immediately.
He didn't look rushed, on the contrary he looked rather relaxed which only fueled Vane's nervousness.
He approached the stand slowly, hands clasped in front of him, then stopped with practiced calm.
"Officer Bennett," he began, voice even, "just to clarify for the court you're testifying that the man sitting at the defense table, Kieran Everleigh, is actually someone else: Nolan Price. Correct?"
"Yes," she said. "Same man."
Adrian gave a slow nod. "You also said earlier, and I quote — 'they look worlds apart.'"
"They do. But that doesn't change the facts."
"Interesting," Adrian said. "Let's talk about those facts."
He took a step closer.
"Do you currently have fingerprints for Nolan Price in your system?"
Bennett hesitated. "No."
"Do you have DNA?"
"No."
"Facial recognition scans? A photo ID? Anything that can physically link Nolan Price to Kieran Everleigh?"
She shook her head. "They were all purged."
Adrian nodded again. "Purged. Convenient. And when did this purge happen?"
"Roughly a week after Nolan Price escaped from holding."
Adrian let that hang in the air.
"So to be clear," he said slowly, turning to the jury, "all the evidence tying my client to this other identity disappeared… before he ever filed for hotel ownership. Before he ever applied for a license. Before anyone in this courtroom had even heard the name Kieran Everleigh."
He turned back to the officer. "So tell me how, exactly, did you make the connection?"
She straightened. "I remember his face."
Adrian raised a brow. "From months ago."
"Yes."
"In a city of over ten million people."
"Yes."
He let the sarcasm soak in. Then took a sleek tablet from his paralegal and tapped the screen.
The courtroom lights dimmed slightly as grainy footage appeared — the alley. Rain. Sirens. A blurry figure hunched in shadows, blood on his shirt. The angle was bad. The lighting worse.
Adrian hit pause.
"This is your visual confirmation?"
"It matches the man we arrested."
"Matches? Officer, this is a horror movie filter away from being useless. You could project this on the side of a building and still not ID him in a lineup."
"It's the best we have."
Adrian pounced. "Exactly. The best you have… is a guess."
He turned to the jury.
"No prints. No DNA. No mugshot. No official record. No surveillance. Nothing physical, nothing digital. Just a hunch and a hunch alone."
He walked past the jury box slowly, voice building just slightly.
"You're asking us to believe that this man Kieran Everleigh was once a nameless, broke restaurant worker, arrested in a back alley, and somehow, with no family, no resources, no ID, managed to disappear into thin air… and reemerge months later as the owner of a luxury hotel?"
He stopped. Looked directly at Bennett.
"Would you believe that, Officer?"
She didn't answer.
He gave the faintest smile. "Didn't think so."
Then, softly, like a punch under the ribs:
"No further questions."
***
The door clanked shut behind Nolan as the guards left him alone in his cell.
He let out a breath, rolling his shoulders. The courtroom lights still flickered behind his eyes. Every sentence Adrian fired off echoed in his skull tight, surgical, impossible to argue with.
"No prints. No ID. No proof."
He sat down on the cot, head back against the wall, when suddenly—
"You're asking the people of Gotham to believe THIS?"
Kieran's voice echoed theatrically through the cell.
Nolan cracked one eye open.
Kieran stood dead-center, chest puffed to cartoonish proportions, a smug smirk pulling across his face as he strutted back and forth like a budget Perry Mason.
"My client? This dashing young philanthropist?" Kieran gestured to an invisible jury. "You're accusing him of being some grimy little alley rat named Nolan Price?" He paused, squared his shoulders even more, and sniffed like he smelled peasantry. "Objection, your honor. My client uses moisturizer."
From the far corner, Quentin doubled over, shoulders shaking with laughter. A half-charred imaginary cigar bounced around his mouth with every cackle as he imitated the officer.
"I remember his face! Sure I do! It was raining, dark as sin, but oh boy, I looked right into his soul from behind that dumpster." He pointed dramatically at Kieran. "That's him! That's the soggy bastard!"
Kieran spun and gasped. "You wound me, officer! I was in the Hamptons!"
"I don't even know what that means," Quentin grinned, flicking his fake cigar at him.
Nolan tried not to smile.
He failed.
He shook his head and let the moment hang. The three of them ghosts in the cell with him felt more real than half the jury.
Then his eyes slid sideways.
In the cell across from his, a figure sat in shadow.
Nolan blinked. "Harvey?"
Harvey Dent glanced up.
His face looked even again. Calm. The good side.
"How you doing?" Nolan asked.
Harvey gave a faint smile. "Fine."
Nolan leaned forward. "I haven't seen you around much lately. What you been up to?"
Harvey didn't answer immediately.
He flicked his coin.
Caught it.
Pressed it flat to the back of his hand.
Then he looked down at the result, expression unreadable. Slowly, he raised his gaze to Nolan and said, with a shrug,
"Nothing. Don't worry about it."
Nolan stared at him a second longer.
The clang of distant cell doors echoed through Arkham.
Somewhere behind his eyes, the laughter of his other selves began to fade.