The Law Offices of Nelson & Murdock is a bit of a misnomer: it is really just one office, and it is not so much a real office as a tiny storefront set into one of the many brick buildings of Clinton that has been converted into an office. On entering in through the door, which still has a little bell that chimes merrily whenever it opens, a desk sits directly to the left with the nameplate of Karen Page, the firm’s secretary. Past her desk is an open area with chairs where clients can talk with either attorney, and beyond that are two more desks set up for the attorneys, Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock, themselves. The entire back wall is dedicated to law books, although the keen eye might notice duplicate copies of everything; one set in regular type, and one set in Braille.
The office is kept pretty clean, although occasionally a random assortment of items takes up space: cookies, bags of rice, sporting goods, wheels of cheese, just about anything odd one can think of. Though the attorneys might defend their clients as being respectable, upstanding citizens, they can’t always pay in cash, and the firm has quite the ebay account to try to make up for it.
Never let it be said that Matt Murdock is a slacker. It is a Sunday afternoon, and yet here he is, in his office, at his desk, presumably working on something. Truth be told, he decided to stop in to check on a few things after church, which also readily explains his choice of attire being a gray suit with white shirt and striped gray and blue tie. Stopping to check on a few things turned into actually doing more than just checking a few things, as it usually happens to workaholics the world over. His excuse is that he has court tomorrow in the morning, and he might as well sort everything out that he can now, instead of right before it. Besides, with Foggy and Karen out of the office, and no other clients running around, he can enjoy just a little peace and quiet. Well. Not exactly quiet. More like muffled city sounds. But it's better than trying to work in an awful din, in any case.
Arturo has walked in front of the law office a dozen times in the last few weeks. He has a crappy apartment not too far away, and has been doing shifts at a crappy clinic a few blocks from that. Every day he dodges pickpockets and thugs, and every day he passes this office. The same thought crosses his mind every time he does, and it's been building. % Today, he stops at the door and presses his face up against the window. He's not expecting it to be open, but he caught a bit of movement. He's wearing jeans that were once high quality but have seen better days, a pair of worn leather loafers and a button up shirt with a dark brown jacket. It was all good quality clothing at one point, but it's all seen better days. Much like him.
There Matt is, in the back at his desk, typing away at his keyboard that has Braille stickers applied on the keys for him, though really, most of typing is muscle memory for most people. He clacks away, and is about to hit the key to print something out when he hesitates, head turning and tilting in a way to give one ear a better angle on the front of the converted office. The rumble of a passing car causes a murky rippling for his radar sense that just manages to outline a shape there at the door, confirming that he did, in fact, hear that someone out there did indeed pause in their walk right outside. Hitting the key he had hesitated on, the Braille printer chugs to life, and Matt pushes back from his desk to stand up and move to the front of the office and that said door. Though if Arturo tries it before Matt gets there, he'll find it unlocked.
Arturo doesn't try the door, but he does look, well, rather embarrassed when Matt starts his way. When the door opens, he shuffles back a step. "Ah, sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm also not a robber. If I was, I'd be a pretty poor one. Since I'm standing here instead of running away." He shuffles back a step.
The bell above the door jingles when it opens. Matt puts on a friendly expression beneath the dark sunglasses that he wears, and cocks his head to the side with a quirk of his mouth at the immediate apology he's hit with before he can even say anything. "Hey, that's okay. Last I checked, hanging out on the sidewalk isn't a crime around here," he says, some wry humor laced in his words as he tries to put the other man at ease. "Can I help you with something?"
Arturo digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Well, maybe. I'm not sure if this is the kind of case you take on. The only law that I know about is malpractice law. Not..." he sucks in a breath, "Not that I've ever been sued, but we had to learn about it in school. Uh. Sorry. Can I come in?"
With the mention of malpractice law, Matt takes a stab in the dark (uh, not that he doesn't usually do that already, technically), "Medical field?" With the apology and request, though, he hesitates just briefly, since it is Sunday, and then steps back to allow the other man in. "Please, come in. Ahh I'd offer you a cup of coffee, but the coffee maker and I don't exactly get along," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking with apologetic amusement. The Braille printer finally grinds to a stop in the background. "Have a seat over here. What can I help you with? I'm Matt Murdock, by the way," he says, with a general gesture to where the chairs are, even as he moves to them. Although in reality unnecessary, he fishes a hand outwards in front of him when close to one of the chairs to find the back of it, and orient himself by it.
There is something in Arturo that relaxes when he figures out that Matt is not just wearing glasses because of glare through the window. His hands drop out of his pockets. The black claws on the ends of his fingers are the reason he was careful. He was also speaking with his lips doing their best to conceal his teeth. "Yes, I'm a doctor. Although I've had what you might call a fall from grace." He takes a seat. "Arturo Ridley. And uh, well, I've been sued by a previous employer. It never occured to me to try and fight back. Legally speaking."
Without a clear, steady series of strong sounds, Matt will continue to remain oblivious to those claws; it's such a fine detail that the muddled, weak sound waves the pair of them make won't be enough to give him a clear enough picture of the other man. The teeth would probably always be beyond him, unless he was bitten or something along those lines. Once Arturo sits down, Matt follows suit, comfortable in familiar surroundings. The lace end of his dress shoe ticks lightly against the leather as he crosses a leg over the other. His brows lift up and over his sunglasses at the mention of Arturo being sued. "Your previous employer? That's unusual. What are you being sued for?"
"Breach of contract," says Arturo. "I broke it on ethical grounds. I had reason to believe my research was being used for purposes I wasn't comfortable with." He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. "My specialty is mutant internal medicine." He rubs the side of his neck, bending one clawed finger under. "They took everything I had. And they're garnishing what meagre wages I make."
Matt sits silent for a moment, thinking on all of what Arturo has said. Without really being able to help it, he listens to the man's heartbeat, the friction of clothing on chair as he shifts, a police siren four blocks over, a sunset breeze catching in the very top branches of the trees lining the street outside, his computer switching to its power-saving mode now that he's not futzing with it. "May I ask what it was that you weren't comfortable with?" he finally asks. It is a weighty question, he realizes, and is asking a lot. But it can also inform a lot.
Arturo's heartbeat is slow and strong, like that of an Olympic athlete, even though he doesn't really look it. The thrum of his heart suggests an unusually strong muscle. "They wanted me to log every mutant blood sample in a central database. Ostensibly to help create a profile of mutant bloodtypes and common markers. Which sounds...logical, except the data server they were using was owned by a company that is known to be working on a way to test whether or not someone is a mutant."
"And you think the company that owns the data server would be using this test that they're working on in an unethical manner?" As of yet, Matt is being cautious. Anything he says could be construed as legal advice, after all, as he is an attorney. He can't take the risk that he might say a thing casually that Arturo could run with, only to get screwed over by it. So, more information is always better. At least, until he can get a grasp on whether or not he can help the man or point him in the direction of someone who can. He does find the unusually strong heartbeat interesting, but only in a peripheral sort of way. It's certainly not pertinent to their current conversation, in any case, and is filed away to the background.
"I believe that they would access my samples and use that dataset to help build their mutant test. I don't think there are many good reasons to develop a screening test. Imagine if someone in the 40s developed a test that could screen for gay people. Can you imagine what would be done with that information?" Arturo exhales and draws fingers through his hair. The ruffling of his hair around his unusually-shaped ears might ping Matt's senses. "All right, so I admit that you could say it was for early detection, before someone manifested, to protect them and their families. But I think the damage it could do in the wrong hands outweighs the benefits."
Matt holds up a hand in that apologetic 'easy' sort of pose when Arturo's frustration surfaces. "For what it's worth, I agree with you. But that argument that the test could be used to just as easily protect people as it could be used to harm them is the problem there. Your concern that they'll use it in a harmful way is assumption, not fact." He sits back a bit more and idly drums a thumb against his knee while thinking on it. The dull, quick sound of the beat is something that his mind can focus on sensory-wise, and helps to block out other things. He winds up scowling before long, brows drawn snugly together and the corners of his mouth pinched downwards. "I hate to tell you that this is outside of my area of expertise. I know that medical professionals are allowed the right to conscientious objection due to the Roe versus Wade ruling, but I don't know if New York is specific in the details about what you can or can't object to based on personal moral or religious grounds."
"That's why I never considered it before. Most people don't see the problem with creating a screening test." Arturo leans an elbow on the arm of the chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. "What about..." He shifts in the chair, "...I told my patients specifically that personally identifiable information connected to their blood samples would not be disclosed. And that non-disclosure was part of the agreement in my original contract. I never had proof that they disclosed my patient information, but what if I found that proof?"
"If you can find evidence that points to them creating the screening test with ill intent, that would be helpful," Matt cautiously advises. He is walking a fine line here, or so he believes, but then he can't exactly just brush Arturo off, either. The man comes across as genuine and sounds like he's been forced into a real bind. He can't turn his back on that. With the mention of the contract, though, his brows are up again. "If that was part of the contract, and you get proof that they violated that part of the contract, that's bad news for them," he says, and gets to his feet. Once standing, he makes his way over to his desk and starts to riffle through an old-school rotary rolodex of business cards. They've been indexed by Braille tags, and he walks his fingers through to find what he's looking for. "I know a pretty solid lawyer who deals in malpractice suits a lot. He'll know the ins and outs of the laws a lot better than me." After a pause in which he debates on whether or not sharing the next bit of info is wise, he adds, "He's empathetic to mutants, so I'm sure he'd take interest in the case."
"I obviously..." Arturo folds his clawed fingers under. "...can't afford to pay very much. What with the garnishing of my wages and a professional reputation in tatters. And yes, the fact that I'm a mutant. I registered, mostly because I really have very little left to lose. Although the ethics of registering, especially under such hefty legal threats, are highly suspect."
"That law is unconstitutional," Matt spits out flatly, and with some vitriol. Tell us how you really feel about registration, Matt. "I can give him a heads up about your financial situation. Just because you don't have any money right now doesn't mean you don't deserve representation." He returns to Arturo with a business card and offers it out. "That should be for Paul Sneller. Give him a call tomorrow. Like I said, I'm sure he'll take an interest in your case once he hears about it."
Arturo takes a moment to look around himself, then back to Matt. He nods towards him and chuckles softly. "I feel like you and I are somewhat alike, Mister Murdoch. I get the sense that we've both been a bit screwed over by our ethics."
Currently, the eyesore oddity for a law office that was used as payment is a stack of still-boxed, neon-colored skateboards, crammed in the most out of the way corner of the office possible. There are also one too many English tea sets to be easily explained as just ensuring clients feel at home. Arturo's comment draws a real grin out of Matt, that really brightens his visible features. "Oh, I don't know if I've been really screwed over. I like to think of it in terms that my life is just a little more interesting than the lawyer down the block." He sobers after that, though, and adds, "Seriously, though, give Paul a call. I went to law school with the guy. He believes in what's right at the end of the day. I'm sure he can at least give you some better legal advice than I can."
"I appreciate that. I do. It might be totally useless to fight this, but hey, I figured it couldn't hurt to at least look into it." Arturo lifts a hand and lets it drop to his knee. "As it stands, even if I get a decent-paying job, I won't be moving into a better apartment anytime soon. There's at least fifty grand still outstanding that I owe them."
"It is never useless to do what is right, Dr. Ridley," Matt says, downright serious and even solemn about it. It is not, perhaps, an intonation on the level of what one might expect from a fanatic, but it does seem to very well be something that he believes very strongly in. What's right is always up for interpretation, of course, but in this instance, he certainly seems to be on the side of Arturo. Even if he has otherwise tried to maintain a quieter air about his disapproval for the unethical issues the other man has described. "It might be a hard fight. It might be a losing one. But it's still worth it." He pauses after that to remember himself, and thinks to tack on, "At least, in my opinion, anyway."
"Well, I appreciate that," Arturo thinks he appreciates it, anyway. "You do like to fight for the underdog, don't you? I admire that. Actually, I walk by your office almost every day," he indicates the window behind him. "I would have never thought my case was worth fighting if I walked by a highrise every day."
Tucking his hands into pockets to assume a more casual stance, since he's still on his feet, Matt shrugs his shoulders. "I grew up here, in Hell's Kitchen. Now I'm a blind lawyer. I guess you could say I /am/ the underdog. If I turned my back on that, I'd be turning my back on myself, you know?" He falls silent after that, listening to the city sounds outside that can make his life so hard, and yet he still loves. Because it's home. "Everybody deserves legal counsel and representation. Money shouldn't play a part in that right."
"Well," says Arturo. "I'm glad there's still idealists in the world. I thought I was the only one. People keep calling me paranoid for worrying about where my research goes and what's done with it. But it would be far too easy for it to turn into something ugly. Look at the zombie plague. You can't tell me that wasn't from people fucking around with mutant genetic material, pardon my language."
"I think that if people stop caring about what their work does, we're not really people anymore," Matt says. An entire society without any ethics to speak of is a worrisome idea to him. Maybe that is why he is in his office on a Sunday, to try to make up for some of the unethical activities that even go on in what should be the incorruptible judicial system.
Arturo steps around to the side of the desk and stops in front of Matt. "I'd like to shake your hand, Mister Murdoch. You're doing good work here. And I appreciate your advice." He holds out his hand and will move it to intersect if Matt holds out his.
"Well. Some days, maybe," he says, a self-deprecatory humor there in his words thanks to his modesty kicking in. With the request, Matt offers his hand out. It is not exactly lined up with where Arturo's hand is, which would be expected of a blind man, wouldn't it? "I'll give Paul Sneller a heads up that you'll be calling. Really, I think he'll be able to help you a lot better than I can."
Arturo moves his hand to clasp Matt's. His hand is rough for a doctor, and strong. When he curls his fingers, the strangely shaped claws can be felt for a moment. "I should let you get back to work."
"Court in the morning," he says, as if he needs an excuse to cover a slight embarrassment about being caught out at work on a Sunday afternoon, when most sane people that have week jobs are out and about enjoying themselves. Matt's hand probably feels a little rougher than the average lawyer's, calloused in spots that suggest repetitive work of some kind, so turn about is fair play. He does not shy away from Arturo's grasp, even when he feels those claws. If anything, his handshake becomes just a little more firm in nature. "I wish you the best, Dr. Ridley."
"I'll wave sometimes when I pass by your window. And hey, if you ever need some patching up from a wild bar fight, let me know." Arturo means that as a joke. He even chuckles a bit. "I'll put my card on your desk." And he does just that before he turns and heads for the door.
A rich chuckle escapes Matt at that. "I'll remember that," he says. If only the good doctor knew that he might actually get a hurting attorney on his doorstep at some point for such an offer. "Have a good rest of the evening," he bids, before sitting back down at his desk. He'll wait, though, until Arturo is out the door before resuming his work. He wouldn't want to be rude like that.
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