During the trial preparations, Fris had meticulously investigated his “opponents.”

As a lawyer, his professional creed was to use every possible means to defend his employer’s interests.

…But Hal Smith wasn’t actually his employer.

Fris had dug deep into Bella Bettywen’s background, scrutinizing every trace she’d left online. He even reached out to her old police academy classmates from her days in New York, carefully disguising his true intent to piece together her profile.

Bella, a short-haired woman, had been abandoned at birth and openly acknowledged her orphan status. However, she rarely spoke about her first university stint. Attending a prestigious university renowned for archaeology, mysticism, and history, and enrolling in its highly competitive archaeology program, was no small feat. Dropping out to later enter the New York Police Academy was also a notable accomplishment, suggesting high intelligence and formidable determination.

Her former classmates described her as a justice-driven individual, sometimes to the point of extremism. Bella wouldn’t hesitate to use unconventional methods to uphold justice and showed zero sympathy for her enemies. She was an expert fighter who maintained herself in a constant state of readiness for battle.

“If she hadn’t ended up in Gotham, she might’ve joined a SWAT team or even a more clandestine unit,” one classmate speculated.

Fris also received insider tips from a contact within the police department—though the contact had no idea the information would reach Fris or his true employer. This overworked and frustrated officer had let slip some details while venting to a romantic partner, inadvertently revealing more than intended.

Reportedly, after Bella conducted interrogations, her clothing often bore dark red stains of dubious origin. Following her sessions, even the most defiant suspects turned into obedient confession machines. Yet when released, Hal Smith and others couldn’t quite articulate what Bella had done to them.

“I felt like my very soul was being manipulated,” Hal had stammered when pressed for details. “I was consumed by both desire and fear in that moment.”

When Fris called Bella to the stand, the warden stood, her expression cold and silent.

The judge urged Fris, “Defense attorney, please present evidence.”

If he claimed his client had been coerced into confessing, then at the very least, he needed to produce a medical report confirming injuries.

Fris smiled. “In fact, the defendant suffered no physical injuries.”

He turned back to Bella. “Warden Bettywen, would you be willing to swear before God that you will not lie under oath?”

The short-haired woman raised an eyebrow, her expression bemused. Technically, this line of questioning wasn’t entirely procedural.

“Objection,” interjected the prosecution’s lawyer, a young woman hired by Wayne to represent the victims. “The defense is engaging in irrelevant questioning instead of presenting evidence related to this case.”

Judge Meg Scott, infamous for her antics and infamous history with Gotham’s judicial system, spoke up before the chief justice could respond. “Objection overruled. Why don’t we hear what the warden has to say?”

The other judges exchanged glances but didn’t intervene.

Bella chuckled dryly. “I believe there might be a God in this world, but I don’t worship Him. I swear to justice that I will not lie in the questioning to follow.”

Hal Smith visibly flinched at her words.

Fris’s smile widened. “Warden Bettywen, during your tenure at Blackgate Prison, have you frequently employed violent interrogation tactics to extract confessions? I have documents indicating that you allegedly crippled the former warden, Martin Joseph, during such sessions.”

“Objection,” the prosecution lawyer said icily. “The defense’s question is irrelevant to this case.”

Judge Meg Scott, grinning mischievously, replied, “Objection overruled. Let’s hear the warden’s answer.”

The other judges cast Meg a few skeptical glances before exchanging silent nods among themselves.

Bella, who was secretly Vivi White controlling a decoy persona, had to think for a moment before recalling who Martin Joseph even was.

“Ah, I remember now,” Bella said casually. “Yes, I did use violence during interrogations, but I didn’t cripple him. His injuries occurred during the transition of warden duties. Due to his poor management, inmate-on-inmate violence led to serious incidents. When I heard about it, I was deeply saddened and immediately took the strongest measures to rectify the prison’s internal issues.”

Deeply saddened? she thought to herself. Why didn’t I just kill him outright?

As for using violence, it was true—her interrogation skills had been honed through such methods.

Hal Smith shuddered again in his seat.

“Thank you for your honesty, Warden,” Fris said, voice smooth. “Of course, we cannot jump to conclusions. Just because you’ve used violence in the past doesn’t mean you necessarily coerced my client. After all, he shows no physical scars.”

In the audience, forum watchers were abuzz:

“He… kind of has a point?”
“That old guy looks as frail as my grandpa. I almost feel bad for him.”

Fris stepped forward, lifting Hal’s face for the cameras to capture. Hal’s cheeks glistened with tears, though he hadn’t sobbed aloud until now.

The courtroom fell silent, save for the faint clicking of reporters’ cameras.

“What I’m referring to is not physical scars,” Fris said solemnly, his tone filled with fabricated anguish. “But, Warden, you used a newly developed, fast-acting drug, injecting it into the defendant’s system, triggering an addiction. Under the torment of withdrawal, the defendant was coerced into providing ‘tailored’ confessions. Isn’t that true? Do you admit to this?”

The courtroom, meant to remain quiet, erupted in murmurs at Fris’s words. Onlookers in the public gallery were stunned, and online forums lit up with a barrage of confused questions.

The idea that Gotham’s law enforcement might use drugs to manipulate suspects was absurdly laughable—and yet, given Gotham’s reputation, it carried a hint of disturbing plausibility.

“I do not admit to that because I never did such a thing,” the Warden replied, crossing her arms with a sardonic smile. “You’re being utterly ridiculous, Counselor. What’s next? Are you going to claim that because the drugs supposedly metabolized, no tests can detect any trace?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed,” Fris nodded with mock sadness. “But the absence of evidence is not proof. Therefore, I call my next witness: Dr. Hadley Quinzel, a psychologist.”

Fris’s assistant handed over a report to the panel of judges, written by the so-called psychologist. The document asserted that “Hal Smith” had suffered severe psychological trauma following his interrogation.

As a result, Hal’s testimony was deemed inadmissible due to the mental state in which it was provided.

Fris gently patted the elderly defendant on the shoulder and added, “Even now, a psychological evaluation by the court’s own medical experts would confirm the severe condition of my client. Since Warden Bettywen started speaking, my client’s distress has visibly worsened. Warden, do you still refuse to admit to your actions?”

The judges exchanged the evidence Fris provided, though curiously—or perhaps intentionally—they excluded Judge Meg Scott. Annoyed, Meg glared at his peers, but when he glanced at them again, he noticed something unusual: their expressions were peculiar.

Coincidentally, the expression on Warden Bettywen’s face shifted slightly as well.

The summoned witness, “Dr. Hadley Quinzel,” strode into the courtroom. The blonde psychologist was striking, her hair pinned up and her figure poised as she confidently stood at the witness stand. However, upon locking eyes with Warden Bettywen, her cold expression broke into an unsettling smile.

Under the gaze of the cameras, the “doctor” casually walked toward Fris.

The Warden sighed, exasperated. “I can’t admit to something I didn’t do.”

Fris pressed on. “Then, Warden, how exactly do you conduct interrogations? If there were no physical injuries and no psychological pressure, why would my client confess to crimes he didn’t commit?”

“Perhaps,” the Warden replied as she rose and walked closer with a faint smile, “he was crushed by guilt. The weight of his own misdeeds became unbearable, and he wanted to atone.”

Fris instinctively stepped back. The Warden was taller than him.

But before he could retreat further, the “psychologist” behind him grabbed his suit jacket, spun him around, and shoved something into his chest.

At that moment, the “psychologist” ran her fingers along her jawline and cheeks. Her features morphed—becoming strikingly different, exaggeratedly beautiful. Dr. Hadley Quinzel was gone. In her place stood Harley Quinn, the infamous partner of Gotham’s most notorious criminal.

Smiling brightly, Harley turned to the bench of judges. “How long are y’all gonna stare at that evidence? This geezer’s crazy!”

Her grin widened to something unnerving. She raised her voice, declaring: “And I proved it!”

Fris was on the verge of a meltdown. Wait—had he really brought Harley Quinn as his witness?

Before he could process this, Warden Bettywen swiftly grabbed Harley from behind, locking her arms. But Harley, an acrobat at heart, flipped backward despite her restrained wrists, landing behind the Warden and attempting to slam her into the ground. The Warden countered with a fluid reversal, pinning Harley mid-air.

“Harley? I thought you were supposed to be seeing a psychologist—not impersonating one!”

Harley merely chuckled, unbothered by her predicament.

Fris, now trembling, reached into his pocket to retrieve whatever Harley had stuffed there. At the same time, Bruce Wayne stepped forward from the gallery, casually tossing a glass of water over Fris.

“Apologies,” Bruce said dryly, “I thought it might be a bomb.”

Fris stood there, drenched, holding a frog-shaped wind-up toy.

The toy exploded seconds later, covering Fris in sticky syrup that dripped down his hair and onto his expensive suit.

During the commotion, the Warden had repositioned Harley as a shield, ensuring the syrup splattered over her instead. Harley huffed indignantly but said nothing.

Once the madness subsided, Harley was escorted out of the courtroom—her guards had mysteriously been incapacitated earlier. Fris, still trying to recover his dignity, straightened his soggy suit and retreated to compose himself. The Warden, unfazed, shrugged and returned to her seat.

Forum reactions:

“Wait, that’s Harley Quinn? Gotham’s mental health patients are that attractive??”
“[Photo of Joker][Photo of Killer Croc][Photo of Clayface][Photo of Black Mask][Photo of Two-Face]: Sure about that?”
“[Photo of Poison Ivy][Photo of Harley Quinn][Photo of Catwoman’s body]: What’s the problem? Looks fine to me.”