When someone was shot in Crime Alley, nobody batted an eye. Apathy was at the core of the people of Crime Alley and who could blame them? Worse things happen to people everyday in this city. When someone was shot in daylight, it was just a normal day in Crime Alley.

But when Ignacio Quesada, right hand man of Fernando Hernandez, leader of the Cartel in Crime Alley is killed by a Japanese man in broad daylight, you bat an eye.

After the funeral, one of his men brought Fernando aside.

“Our boys found this after the shooting.”

The boy placed a briefcase on the table, he opened it and in that briefcase was a blazer. A blazer riddled with bullet holes but no blood.

“Our boys found this, guy dropped it while he was on the run,” said his boy. “Puto had those special suits. The suits only we’re supposed to have. Us and those Russians.”

Fernando took out a cigar. “Ignacio used to love these cigars; you know? I never understood the appeal, they were cheap shit but Ignacio used to puff them away. They’re shit, no kick, nothing.” Fernando chuckled. “But Ignacio was always a cheap bastard. Even when we were kids, cheap cigarettes, cheap clothes.” Fernando sobbed. “Cheap bastard.”

Fernando cleared his throat, running his hand over his trimmed beard. “What else did you find out?”

“We found some of those putos on our turf,” the boy said. “Took out some of our boys, they also had these suits.”

“Sergei,” Fernando said. “Cheap bastard like Ignacio. Ignacio told me not to trust him, he could smell bastards like him from a mile away. Call him up.” Fernando scoffed. “Bloody Russians, you can’t trust them.”

The boy was taken aback. “Call him, senor? You sure?”

“Yes,” Fernando said. “It’s time we played our supplier a visit.”

When someone was shot in Crime Alley, nobody batted an eye. But when Ignacio Quesada was shot in broad daylight by the Yakuza, you bat an eye. Because that meant blood would be spilt, that meant blood would rain in the streets, that meant war.

…

“Matt where the hell were you?” Foggy hissed, his voice seething with anger. He gave one look at Matt and stopped in his tracks. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Accident,” Matt said.

“And you didn’t think to call?” Foggy said. “The judge is fuming. You really think you’ll be able to get away with it?”

“Look I’m sorry,” Matt said. “What happened?”

“We’re in recess,” Foggy said. “The toxicology report and that anonymous submission of those glass fragments is swaying the jury’s mind but…”

“Prosecution,” Matt said. “Let me guess they’re bringing up that rape case, his complicated relationship with his brother and…”

“Everybody in the jury,” Foggy said. “We tried to get an unbiased jury but the Grotes…”

“Yeah,” Matt said.

“Prosecution is going full on with a claim that Grotto took the sleeping pills himself to avoid having fingers pointed at him,” Foggy said. “Doesn’t help that the knife is full of his fingerprints. God, I don’t know what to do.”

“Leave the closing statement to me,” Matt said.

Foggy scoffed. “It’s Schreiner. You really think he’ll let you…”

“He will.” Matt smiled. “Blind remember. It’d be bad publicity if he didn’t let a blind lawyer…”

“Even then,” Foggy interrupted. “You can’t just walk into the court without repercussions, hell you might get disbarred. You didn’t give due notice to me or…”

“I’ll handle it,” Matt said. “Just give me that closing statement.”

Foggy sighed. “Dragging me into trouble again,” he mumbled. “Just like in college.”

Recess was over. Matt Murdock walked into the courtroom, walking stick clattering on the marble floor.