Chapter 126: Boss, We Meet Again; Didn't Expect That, Did You?

"The plaintiff calls Salvatore Vincent Maroni, also known as 'BOSS', to the witness stand!"

In the courtroom, the judge sat upright with dignity, the jury wore solemn expressions, the bailiffs stood silently to the side, and the gallery (the audience) sat in rows. Maroni walked forward step by step; glancing out of the corner of his eye at Assistant District Attorney Vernon, who was also seated in the courtroom, he couldn't help but feel like laughing—to think that even such a thing could sit in a court of law.

But when he saw Harvey Dent before the bench, he couldn't help but feel somewhat surprised.

The prosecutor wore a crisp, pure white suit that blended seamlessly with his snow-white shirt, paired with a silver-gray silk tie and a pair of jet-black leather shoes; standing there, he seemed untouched by even a speck of dust. The courtroom lights shone upon him, making his head of beautiful blond hair gleam—he was dressed to the nines, as if about to ascend a grand stage.

When Harvey was still a rookie prosecutor, just arriving in Gotham, he had been just as handsome and radiant, a golden youth whom everyone called Apollo.

How long ago had that been? Perhaps three years, perhaps five; no one cared particularly. Colleagues only remembered how he had been dragged down by the entirety of Gotham's sin—Falcone, Maroni, super-villains—and within merely a few short years, the former golden youth had withered, shriveled, and been tortured into a gray middle-aged man.

"Prosecutor Harvey, you've never worn a white suit before."

"Perhaps, Mr. Maroni; is that strange?"

Of course it's strange, Maroni thought. The Harvey of the past only wore black suits, because in court, plain and dark-toned formal wear conveyed sufficient seriousness and respect for the proceedings. And the always meticulous Harvey Dent would never make a mistake in such matters; during his years in Gotham, he had suffered countless setbacks and matured rapidly, so of course he would remember every detail that could increase his chances of winning.

Of course, when neither he nor the Roman intended to let him win, what he wore was all in vain.

He smiled dismissively and turned his head without restraint to survey today's courtroom.

The judge—three million, and I'll still have to threaten his family; the jury—three hundred thousand each, bribing most of them means no need for threats; the bailiffs—thirty thousand each, not a penny more; the gallery—oh, those are just bored spectators here for the spectacle; when their own interests aren't involved, they don't care at all who wins.

Maroni walked calmly toward the witness stand, but after only a few steps, he suddenly felt something was off.

Wait, why does that lone guy in the very back row of the gallery look a bit familiar?

He whipped his head around to look at the back row of the gallery, and there, unmistakably, was that familiar figure: a cheap coat, sleepy eyes, and a stick of Pocky dangling from his mouth.

The instant he saw him, painful memories surged uncontrollably and subconsciously into Maroni's mind: cars engulfed in flames, a restaurant shattered to pieces, a hideout slaughtered empty, the despair of cowering in a secret room listening to the Holiday Killer's footsteps, and that damn question of his, "Boss, pizza?"—is that even a question a human being could ask?

I was fucking nearly dead back then!

He was like a fuse; in an instant, all those negative emotions exploded within Maroni's heart. Seeing this figure in the courtroom now, the alarm bells in his mind began to ring frantically.

Maroni's expression seemed to become somewhat grotesque over those few seconds, as if he were wearing a mask of pain—during these past days, he had already heard of Ma Ma Zhaodi's reputation within the Falcone family, and he hadn't expected that after firing this jinx, the bastard still wouldn't be satisfied and had actually chased him all the way to the courthouse.

And that figure completely lived up to Maroni's attention; upon noticing Maroni's gaze, he immediately removed the Pocky from his mouth, zipped up his half-open coat, and solemnly nodded at him—a gesture that made Maroni feel even more desperate.

If you truly respected me, I beg you, just disappear already.

Ma Ma Zhaodi sat in an inconspicuous corner of the very back row of the courtroom gallery, slacking off.

He wasn't actually sleepy today, but the atmosphere in the courtroom was far too solemn, making him uncomfortable; harboring the thought that no one would notice a background character like him, he half-closed his eyes and started a session of his system game.

After noticing someone looking at him and offering Maroni a slight gesture of respect, Ma Ma Zhaodi didn't look at him again—I've already put away my Pocky, what more do you want from me?

Then he noticed Harvey Dent on the courtroom floor, looking like a knight of light, and couldn't help but feel somewhat doubtful about life itself.

"Holy crap, what's going on with Harvey today? He looks like a peacock displaying its feathers."

He saw a friendly smile spread across Prosecutor Harvey's face, every movement appearing elegant and proper; although the white suit and smile were quite unfavorable for a trial, on him they seemed just right. At this moment, Harvey showed no trace of the struggling prosecutor burdened with heavy loads; rather, he looked exactly like the perfect knight of light in people's minds.

Was it because of Maroni's confession? Because the words he was about to speak and the actions he was about to take in court would cause one of Gotham's top underworld families to crumble—was this the reason Harvey wanted to greet this day with his original appearance?

After all, in the eyes of many, today was indeed a day full of hope.

No, Ma Ma Zhaodi shook his head; a flower that has already bloomed cannot turn back into a tender bud. Harvey was a warrior covered in scars; the flawless knight of light was not his true nature at this moment.

In the courtroom, Maroni recounted item by item the matters of his past collaboration with the Roman—these were parts for which he held evidence.

"Yes, yes, he was the one who found Mickey Gazzo and his brother Frank, and then threw their corpses into the Gotham River."

"So many 'smart' fellows you're all looking for—they're all in the Gotham River—sigh, I finally understand why I developed stomach ulcers; perhaps it's because I drank too much dirty water."

Everyone in the courtroom immediately displayed somewhat strange expressions; what kind of nonsense was Maroni suddenly spouting?

Harvey suddenly heard Maroni utter this sentence, and a hint of slight confusion appeared on his face as well: "Stomach ulcers?"

"Yeah, that thing is torturing me to death—perhaps I'm also being tortured by my conscience at the same time, don't you think, Dent?"

"What kind of nonsense are you spouting?" Dent frowned, the smile vanishing from his face as a trace of gloom added to his expression: "I now demand that you swear to answer truthfully: do you admit to having personally witnessed that those murders and felonies just mentioned were committed by the Roman, namely Carmine Falcone?"

"Falcone? Cough! Cough!"

Maroni did not answer the question but instead began to cough violently; while coughing, he reached his hand toward the inside of his coat.

In that coat pocket lay the bottle of medicine that Vernon had delivered.

(End of Chapter)