Bruce Wayne's lapse in composure lasted only a few seconds. He quickly pulled himself together, preparing to regain control.
"The intelligence I received says you're just a rookie lawyer."
"Greenhorn lawyer would be more accurate."
Lance showed no concern for his résumé.
It was the real Lance Prescott who had been the failure. What did that have to do with him?
"Even a greenhorn has to study psychology."
"Mr. Wayne, would you like me to draft a psychological profile for you?" Lance asked. "But you know, it'll…"
"Cost extra."
Bruce Wayne and Lance spoke in unison, and Bruce laughed.
"I thought the check I gave you would be enough to keep you comfortable for the next ten years, even support a couple of mistresses."
"Don't be so stingy." Lance waved a hand. "I'm not the sole heir to the Wayne family. For someone like me, there's no such thing as too much money."
"Forget the psychological profile." Bruce leaned back into a more relaxed posture.
"I'm not used to stripping myself bare in front of another man, even if you're handsome enough to warrant a second look. Let's talk business. Can you win this case?"
"Let me put it this way, Mr. Wayne." Lance tightened his grip on his cane.
"I've always believed that victory is justice. To win, I can argue a devil into an angel. As for whether I'm confident about this case, that depends on what kind of check the devil is willing to write, Mr. Wayne."
"Fortunately, I'm wealthy enough." Bruce Wayne laughed. "By the way, are you afraid of the dark, Mr. Lawyer?"
Lance shook his head and drained Alfred Pennyworth's coffee in a single gulp.
"I'm more afraid the client won't be able to pay."
"Good answer." Bruce Wayne pulled a gold coin from his pocket, flicked it into the air, and caught it. "Then, Mr. Prescott, welcome to Gotham."
"Send the bill to Alfred," he added. "Now, let's discuss how to make Mr. Earl voluntarily give up his position as chairman, in a completely legal way."
"Of course." Lance drew a pen from his inner pocket. "But I should state in advance that if, during the process, I require certain background information, such as a director's offshore account statements, the security chief's transaction records, or even some intelligence on Mr. William Earle himself…"
"You'll take care of it," Bruce cut him off. "After all, the money I'm paying already covers those expenses, doesn't it?"
Now that was more like it.
Lance rubbed the brass head of his cane twice, then stood and extended his hand.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wayne."
"Call me Bruce." The young heir rose to his feet. Firelight from the fireplace stretched his shadow long across the floor, reaching Lance's feet.
"In Gotham, people who use first names tend to live longer. It's a local specialty."
"Alright, Bruce. For the sake of that generous check, I won't let you down."
...
Over the next few weeks, Lance moved through the streets and alleys of Gotham City, accompanied by four bodyguards in black suits and dark sunglasses.
Alfred Pennyworth secured an excellent start for the case.
Acting as the "family asset manager," he submitted medical and legal proof to the court that Bruce was alive and possessed full legal capacity, overturning William Earle's attempt to have him declared dead.
Lance's next step was to sue William Earle for breach of trust, misappropriation of funds, and violation of fiduciary duty, and to freeze his personal assets and shares.
As for evidence?
This was Gotham.
As long as you could pay the right price, you could even buy the devil's confession.
Of course, there were always a few idiots who couldn't read the situation and insisted on playing tricks.
...
In a run-down apartment on the edge of the Diamond District, Lance sat on a worn leather sofa, his cane resting across his knees.
In front of him was a man who had already learned his lesson. The man struggled to crawl up, only to be forced back down by a boot.
"You see, I didn't want things to end up like this. I'm not some devil. Before today, I thought we could be friends."
Lance casually wiped the blood that had splattered onto the brass head of his cane, then tossed the handkerchief onto the man's face.
He leaned forward slightly and lifted the man's chin again with the tip of his cane. Two of the man's front teeth were missing, and blood mixed with saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth.
"You people always assume an outsider like me is some naive pushover. We agreed on the terms, yet when it came time to trade, you tried to back out at the last minute."
"The deal was fifty thousand dollars. You hand over the USB drive, I hand over the cash. But you took the deposit and tried to sell it to Earle's people… Why? Did they offer more, or do you think…"
Lance leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"…that an outsider lawyer can't make waves in Gotham?"
The cane rose suddenly.
Crack.
This time, it was a rib.
Lance frowned, a trace of sympathy crossing his face, until the man's screams were muffled by a bodyguard stuffing a filthy rag into his mouth.
"Always so uncooperative."
He leaned back and pulled out another clean handkerchief from his inner pocket.
"Now, while I'm still in a good mood, you son of a bitch, tell me where you hid the USB drive."
The man forced out a few slurred syllables through his toothless, whistling mouth. The bodyguard removed the rag, and the man coughed up more blood.
Lance gestured for the bodyguard behind him to step forward and listen closely to the man's mumbling.
A minute later, the bodyguard returned from the kitchen with a sealed bag containing the USB drive. Lance took it, checked it, and gave a slight nod.
"You see, it was supposed to be a simple matter." Lance sighed and shook his head.
"You get the money, I get what I want. Why did you have to make things so complicated?"
He gestured for the bodyguard to haul the man to his feet. "Send him to the ambulance downstairs. Put the medical bill on Wayne's tab."
Once he was alone in the living room, Lance walked over to the phone, dialed a number, and waited through three rings.
"Hello, this is Lance Prescott. I'd like to turn myself in."
...
At the Gotham City Police Department, in the detention corridor, Commissioner James Gordon paced back and forth in front of the cell, his voice echoing as he cursed.
"The fourth time. This is already the fourth time, you self-righteous out-of-towner. How much trouble is that damn Prescott planning to cause?"
He kicked the iron bars hard, sending a rattle through the entire row of cells.
"Beats someone up. Turns himself in. Posts bail. Walks out. What does he think this place is? A revolving door?"
"That bastard should be hanging from a noose. This is outright contempt for the police and the law."
Clang. Clang.
From inside the cell, Lance raised his hand and tapped the bars with his cuffs.
"Pardon the interruption, Commissioner. I'm a lawyer myself. Voluntary surrender and cooperation with the investigation can lead to a reduced sentence. That's Gotham's own rule. As a law-abiding citizen who strictly follows the rules, I don't think I'm showing contempt for the law. Do you?"
"Shut up." Gordon snapped, his eyes blazing. "I don't need some damn lawyer telling me how to do my job."
A young detective hurried over. He glanced at Lance, sitting calmly in the cell, then lowered his voice.
"The Wayne family is here to post bail, Commissioner."
"No." Gordon let out a sharp snort. "Even if Jesus came to sign the bail, it wouldn't matter. I'm going to make sure this Prescott learns…"
"But…" The detective shrank back slightly. "The victim just signed a settlement agreement. He says he won't press charges."
Gordon's expression froze. He slowly turned his head toward the bastard lawyer in the cell, who was smiling at him.
The man even winked.
James Gordon took a deep breath. "Then why are you asking me?" He waved a hand with his eyes closed. "Let him go."
"Thank you for your cooperation, Commissioner." Lance stood up, his handcuffs clinking. "By the way, I might be back next week. I'll make an appointment in advance so I don't waste your time."
"Get out!"
When Lance stepped out of the police station, Gotham was wrapped in rain. Not a downpour, but a thick, gray drizzle.
Alfred Pennyworth was waiting by the car, holding a black umbrella.
"Mr. Prescott." The old man handed him an envelope. "From Mr. Wayne."
Lance opened it. Inside was a stack of unmarked bills and a note:
"I thought our deal didn't include cleaning up your mess. P.S. I have to say, I don't agree with some of your views and methods."
Lance laughed and tucked the money into his inner pocket.
"Tell young Master Wayne his theory of kindness doesn't work in Gotham. If he really wants to achieve his goals, he should study how others get things done."
Ignoring Alfred's disapproving look, Lance got into the car and glanced at the police station sign outside, blurred by the rain.
The car started and slipped into Gotham's night.
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Would you like me to take you back to the hotel, sir?"
"Of course. Thank you."