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Rules aren't popular. Rule breakers, rebels, ne'er-do-wells--these are the people who star in movies, and for good reason. Thrills are thrilling. Danger is sexy, and according to the people who make the money, sex seems to sell. Action heroes don't walk away from scheduled, up-to-code demolitions. It simply wouldn't move popcorn.
Apollo Justice is not in the movie business. He lives in the real world, where thrills might be thrilling, but danger is dangerous. Apollo, Inspector for the Los Angeles County Occupational Safety and Health Administration, is as straight-laced as they come, and LA's citizens are safer for it.
Los Angeles is an enormous body, inhaling millions of workers every morning and exhaling them at night. "LA is my lady," Frank Sinatra once sang. He might have added, "She has congestion in the mornings, and we think it's from the smog." This morning, Apollo drives along the 101, both aorta and pulmonary vein of the city, before merging onto the teeny-tiny 23. Twenty minutes later, he is at the address given to him by an anonymous concerned party.
Finally, Apollo parks his 2019 Kia Forte on the gravel in front of the chain-link fence. He looks up at a building without posted permits, windows, or much of a roof. A hand-painted sign, garish in purple and silver, stands above the gate: Guerilla Coliseum, it reads.
Apollo sighs, dons his safety gear, and enters the so-called Coliseum with his eyebrows firmly raised.
Apollo is not a cop, and he is not a superhero. When he sees the people milling around, plugging things into generators and tuning instruments, he does not see villains or criminals. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding. Innocent until proven without permits, isn't that what they say?
"Excuse me," starts Apollo. He holds up his safety-orange lanyard, his laminated ID visible on its end. "May I ask where your supervisor is?"
"Supervisor?" A man with a green mohawk and a frown shakes his head. "I don't have a 'supervisor,' man."
"Your job steward, then?" Maybe this is a union gig.
The frown deepens. "I know a Stewart?"
Something white-gold catches the light. Apollo looks over to discover its source: the long, luxurious hair of a man with a perfect smile. The man directs the smile, as warm as sunlight, right at Apollo. He says, "What seems to be the problem, officer?"
Apollo says, "Inspector."
There's the feeling of a skipped beat, even though the drums aren't set up yet. Perfect Smile says, "What?"
"Inspector, not officer." Again, he holds up his lanyard. "Inspector Apollo Justice. Are you the authority having jurisdiction over this..." He squints beyond Perfect Smile at the instruments. "Rehearsal?"
Perfect Smile continues perfect smiling, although there's a line between his eyebrows now. "Sound check," he says, correcting Apollo's mistake. "We don't have an authority. Some would say we're anti-authority, Inspector Justice."
Communists, thinks Apollo. "Be that as it may, I need to talk to the person who decided to 'sound check' here."
Perfect Smile waves over Odd Hair. Odd Hair says, "Daryan Crescend." This is probably his legal name. People will name their children anything in this city. "What's the problem?"
Apollo introduces himself again, and having located the anti-authority authority, he asks, "May I see your paperwork, please?"
Mister Crescend's blank face has an edge of sneer to it. "Paperwork? I play guitar, I don't ride a desk."
"I see." Apollo crosses his arms. The mesh polymer of his hi-viz vest crinkles. "For your safety, and for the safety of others, I'm hereby shutting down this operation."
This declaration is usually electrifying. Apollo has heard it all: "But you can't!" and "I refuse!" and even "How dare you?" None of it has ever ruffled his proverbial feathers. Heavy is the hard hat, in terms of responsibility, and Apollo tries to keep a cool head.
Mister Crescend laughs in his face. He leans down to do it, too, magnifying the intended insult considerably. "Don't you know who I am?"
Before Apollo can say the obvious--"Yes, we were just introduced"--Perfect Smile puts a reassuring hand on Mister Crescend's shoulder. "Daryan," he says. "We aren't famous enough for that, yet."
"Who does this guy think he is?" Mister Crescend points a wagging finger in Apollo's face. "Who are you supposed to be?"
Apollo glares at him. "I'm wearing an ID badge," he says, once again evoking the lanyard. "Keep up, Mister Crescend. Better yet, get out."
"Inspector Justice," says Perfect Smile, practically purring the words. "What is this about? Have we committed a crime?"
"Well, yes, but that's not why I'm here." Perfect Smile seems intrigued by that, so Apollo continues. "Technically, you're all trespassing. If the owner of this land discovers that you're here, you'll definitely get written up on charges, but all of that is beside the point. The reason I'm here is because it's not safe for you to be here, and there are a dozen laws on the books to back me up." He looks between Mister Crescend and Perfect Smile. "My next step could be to call the police, if you continue here."
"Fuck this," says Mister Crescend. Perfect Smile puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but from Apollo's vantage point, it does not do much to reassure. Still, something is silently communicated, and soon Perfect Smile is Perfect Smiling in front of Apollo alone.
"Inspektor," he says. Something about his accent implies the change in spelling. "We're here to perform on incredibly short notice. The people, they demand it. I can show you the numbers. Where do you stream music?"
Apollo has not stopped frowning. "I use Spotify for podcasts?"
Perfect Smile, to his credit, doesn't falter. "Spotify... I remember her. The apps I could show you... But now isn't the time, is it?" He laughs. It's musical, of course. "What can I do to prove how important this is to us? To me?"
When he talks, the sentences have the rhythm of a flirtation. It's the words that don't make sense to Apollo. Unmoved, he says, "All due respect, I don't care how important it is to you. I care about safety, and this place isn't a safe performance venue."
Perfect Smile sighs. "You are so inflexible, Inspektor."
Apollo knows he isn't getting his message across. He looks around, searching for inspiration. He finds it in naked masonry, the unfinished bits of the walls. "Mister... what was your name?"
"Ach, how rude of me. I am Klavier Gavin, of the Gavinners."
"Cute," says Apollo. Before Mister Gavin can smile at him about it, he continues, "Mister Gavin, what kind of music do you play? Really quiet, subdued stuff?"
Mister Gavin's laugh is a little confused. "No, Inspektor. Rock and roll is in my soul. Loud, fast, fun--that's the Gavinner's sound."
"Okay." He points at the unfinished walls behind them. "What do you think those naked walls are going to do to your acoustics? No matter what you play, it's all going to sound like noise. Plus, silica dust is going to get into all your equipment, speakers and instruments foremost among these."
Finally, the Perfect Smile is starting to fade. "It is pretty dusty here," he admits. "That's silica?"
"Among other things," says Apollo. "You say you've got a lot of fans or whatever, right? You're trying to fill this venue? How many toilets are you bringing in?" When Mister Gavin doesn't immediately answer, Apollo says, "Have you sold tickets? Do you even know how many people are planning to come?"
"Lots," volunteers Mister Crescend from behind the generator.
Apollo shakes his head. "This isn't happening, Mister Gavin. Find another venue, file the paperwork, and you won't hear from me again."
Mister Gavin seems to regain his conversational footing. "Don't say that, baby," he says.
"I will literally call the police," Apollo reminds him.
Under Apollo's critical gaze, the Gavinners disassemble their equipment and move everything back into their beaten-up van. Mister Crescend glares at Apollo the entire time, and Apollo is caught between two desires: to see him navigate everything safely, and to see him trip and spill his ass on the concrete.
All told, Apollo is at the illegal jobsite for little more than an hour. He returns to his Kia, turns on the radio, and listens to the news all the way back to downtown.
-
The thing is, anonymous tips aren't an everyday occurrence at the OSHA offices. Every once in a while, someone wants to get their negligent boss in trouble, so they get a call asking for an inspection. Apollo understands not wanting to leave a name in that situation. What he doesn't understand is his latest email, which is from Anonymous Noname at gmail.
Check out Maestro Stadium, it reads. No permits posted.
Apollo didn't join OSHA for intrigue. He doesn't need drama. The performers at Maestro Stadium do need permits, though, and Apollo can't ignore this direct call to action. He sighs and stands from his desk, grabbing his jacket from the back of his ergonomic office chair.
"I'm just saying," he tells reception on the way out the door, "It better not be the Gavinners again."
-
It's the Gavinners again.
"Why, Inspektor!" Mister Gavin plays with his golden fringe, the other hand over his heart. "You're too eager! The show isn't until tomorrow."
Apollo is not a violent man, which is lucky for this clown. "Hello, Mister Gavin. You know what I'm about to say, right?"
"Yes," says Mister Gavin, "but I have a policy. I don't give out my phone number to fans--"
Feigning sudden deafness, Apollo interrupts to ask, "Where are your permits?"
"Oh!" He seems to remember the existence of paperwork that very moment. "Yes! That is Jeremy's purview. Jeremy!"
A teenager pushes off from the wall against which he'd been leaning, never taking his eyes off of his phone. He is wearing a Gavinners-branded t-shirt, and his thumbs are dancing as he texts, perhaps, an entire novel. Jeremy is also wearing a lanyard. The ID on the end says simply, Manager.
Apollo squints. Children shouldn't play with lanyards. Choking hazard, first of all. Apollo says, "Jeremy, I'm Inspector Justice with OSHA. I'm here to review the paperwork for use of this venue."
Jeremy glances up, then resumes texting. "Okay."
Apollo stares at Jeremy. He looks back at Mister Gavin. There are two buttons undone at his throat. Apollo didn't notice that before, and when his eyes flick back up to Mister Gavin's face, the man is smiling. He notices Apollo noticing, and it pleases him.
Apollo looks back at Jeremy with renewed annoyance. "Now."
Jeremy says to his phone, "Now what? I'm kind of busy."
"I can see that." Apollo pulls out his own phone, opens the website for this venue, and shows his screen to Jeremy. "Tell me what this says."
"Did you, like," says Jeremy, "forget your reading glasses at home?"
"It says," says Apollo, "that this building was last refurbished in 1975. Does that tell you anything?"
"That you're old," says Jeremy.
Apollo looks back at Mister Gavin. Like a horny magician, Mister Gavin has undone another button. Apollo bites back something unkind, instead saying, "Is this seriously your manager, or did you give him the lanyard as a joke?"
"He is our brand manager," says Mister Gavin. "While we create the art, he signs on the dotted line."
"You should get a lawyer," says Apollo. For some reason, this makes Mister Gavin laugh.
Jeremy interrupts to say, "What's wrong with the building being from the 70s?"
Apollo sighs, returning his phone to his pocket. "Lead paint for commercial use was banned three years after Maestro Stadium's last checkup. I assume you booked this venue because it's cheap? It's also operating illegally."
That got Jeremy to look up. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Then let me spell it out for you." Apollo hands Jeremy his business card. Jeremy looks at it as though it were poisoned. "Take my card. I'll walk you through how to get your money back from the people who scammed you."
Jeremy, finally catching on, looks horrified. "There's lead paint here?" He pockets his phone. "Forget this. Klavier, I'm out. I'll handle the social media from home." He does not hand in his lanyard before he leaves.
Mister Gavin--four buttons--walks outside with Apollo. The LA afternoon is steamy, yet Apollo figures Mister Gavin is going to catch a cold anyway.
Apollo says, "You're gonna have to tell the band to disperse."
"Ach," says Mister Gavin. "Yes, it appears so." He wipes away invisible tears. "Just as we were getting started... It is a tragedy, Inspektor Justice, that you keep popping our bubbles like this."
It's a weird way to phrase it. Everything about this situation is weird. Apollo looks up at the Maestro Stadium marquee, where Gavinners Tonite will have to be removed. Two anonymous tips, two foiled Gavinners performances. Apollo is not a detective, but he knows when something stinks.
"Mister Gavin," he begins to ask.
"Please," purrs Mister Gavin. "Call me Klavier."
This, too, is weird, and it makes Apollo's neck heat up. Embarrassed, he snaps, "I'm working. I don't develop propinquity on the job."
Mister Gavin smiles. It isn't flirtatious; it's surprised and amused, and it makes his eyes light up. He says, "You know, most people would say something about not mixing business with pleasure. Do you have a word-a-day calendar, Inspektor?"
Of course he does. Caught, Apollo grumbles, "Button up your shirt, Mister Gavin."
Klavier makes a show of looking down and being scandalized.
-
A week passes, and Apollo gets no more anonymous tips. He tells himself that this is a good thing. Nothing surprising or unusual should happen to OSHA inspectors. If he embroidered, he would put it on a pillow: with mundanity, safety.
Another week passes, and he reconsiders his position. A little excitement is good, in a controlled environment. The mysterious messages were reasonably good enrichment. That last email was like a pumpkin in the tiger's enclosure. Nothing wrong with that.
A third week passes, and Apollo begins to do independent research. Off the clock, on his personal laptop, he searches the name Klavier Gavin. He sees that Klavier Gavin is considered to be a spectacular singer and guitarist, who also happens to have a law degree. Apollo closes his laptop and then his eyes, overwhelmed.
So the bimbo thing is an act, then. The stuff with the hair and the no buttons, it's a front. People can look like that and also have a brain, and that's not illegal somehow.
As Apollo continues to meditate, which is what he calls obsessing while seated, he struggles to understand Klavier's motive. A lawyer should know better than to hire a child as a brand manager. Surely Mister Gavin, esquire, could have looked up and booked a proper venue on his own. Why all the theatrics? If there's a point to all this, Apollo is missing it.
He checks Klavier's credentials again, and then gets a notification: an email to his work address. He almost never looks at his work email after hours, but instinct guides him to log in anyway.
It's from Klavier. Attached is a ticket to a Gavinner's concert, happening tomorrow night at the Radiance theater. It's a modern venue, recently reopened after significant remodeling, and Apollo has yet to see the inside.
Hope to see you there :) reads the text of the email.
Apollo closes his laptop again. He has so many outfits that are meant for work, and so few that are cool enough for a concert. He needs to solve this very important problem immediately.
-
The Radiance was built in collaboration with lead acoustic engineers, so that the space polishes sound to its greatest potential. Consequently, it looks alien, as though the crowd is queueing through an enormous ear canal. It is respectable without being stuffy, and the music will sound good regardless of the genre. All Apollo remembers is that it's meant to be loud.
Apollo presents his ticket and is pointed toward the concert hall, but he lingers by the lobby snack bar. There is minimal security at this venue, and Apollo's lanyard is in his pocket. Dare he try to sneak backstage?
It is a crisis. Apollo is a man in crisis, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he attempts to rewrite his personal code from the beginning. He glares at the doors that say STAFF ONLY, and he wills for them to part.
To his shock, they do. Klavier Gavin leans through them, beaming at Apollo. "I didn't think you'd really come," he says, expression open and delighted. "I had a bet going with the guy at the door."
"Oh! Hiya." Apollo feels sweaty. "This building is up to code. I checked the most recent reports, and it isn't due for any work for another decade. The water system is hefty for a commercial building, but it's still..." He swallows. "Why did you invite me?"
Klavier waves Apollo backstage, and they stand together in a bare hallway. Apollo crosses his arms and waits for an answer to his question.
"I have a confession to make," Klavier says. His expression isn't regretful, but there is a softness to it. "You must have wondered who tipped off the authorities, those times--"
"I know it was you," interrupts Apollo. "That's not what I asked." Klavier's eyebrows are up, his mouth still open to explain what Apollo already knows. "Why did you invite me here, to this? I could have found something and shut this whole thing down."
Klavier rebounds quickly. "That was an option," he admits, "but an unlikely one. We have a real manager now, and a contract, and everything's triple-checked and collated. The boys in the band were worried about the expense, but given how irritating it's been to try to go it alone..." Klavier shrugs, unrepentant. "Well, the Gavinners are finally free to rock out."
Apollo's eyes narrow. "So, either I find something and your band shells out for good management, or I don't and you perform without safety concerns," he says.
Klavier tosses his hair over one shoulder with practiced grace. "They're good guys," he says wistfully. "They're rock stars, we all are. It was tough to prove that we needed to invest in the band when we were just making money on streams. Thanks to you, Inspektor, we're doing things sustainably, and the future looks bright."
Several replies leap to the front of Apollo's mind. This was a waste of American tax dollars, well, that can be easily dismissed. OSHA funding is "use it or lose it," and all told, these anonymous tips didn't cost him even a full tank of gas. There's no way your music is good enough for all this bullshit melodrama, but then, Apollo hasn't actually heard the stuff. Apollo ends up saying, "That's not all there is to it."
Klavier looks intrigued. "Oh, nein?"
"This could have been an email," he says. "You could have talked to your band about this instead of involving OSHA. Why didn't you?"
"Hmm." Klavier considers Apollo, seeming to weigh several options in his own mind. He says, "Who's to say I didn't?"
Apollo brings a hand to his chin, puzzling out the timeline of events. "You must have tried," he says. "There was pushback, something about keeping costs low. You're adults, and you personally have a full-time job. The band was getting popular, but reliable success is not a sure thing in the music industry." Apollo puts his hands on his hips. "You came to a crossroads: keep the band a hobby, or go professional."
"We're talented," says Klavier. "That's not up for debate. The people love us. Still, change can be scary, even in the city of dreams."
"You were prepared to take the leap, but they weren't," continues Apollo. "You devised a scheme. You made it look impossible to even perform without proper investment, and a real manager." Before Klavier can look too proud of himself, Apollo adds, "You get that that's not normal, right? Ordinary people don't devise schemes."
"Why, Inspektor," laughs Klavier, "whenever did I claim to be one of those?"
Apollo lets that hang in the air for a moment. Once Klavier squirms, Apollo asks, "Why go to these lengths, Klavier?"
It takes time. The soundproofing in this building is intense, and Apollo cannot hear the crowds on the other side of the door. Through the thick wall behind him, there is a full house waiting to listen to Klavier's voice. That amount of adoring attention changes people. Apollo wonders how it will change Klavier.
Klavier says, "I'm the lead vocalist and guitarist in a band called the Gavinners. Of course I wanted to go pro. I'm a vain man; look at my hair."
"I have been," he says, about the hair. Apollo did not mean to say it. Red-faced, he soldiers on. "All of this was so your band wouldn't think you're a diva?"
This finally makes Klavier frown. The answer is clearly yes, but Apollo suspects there are some complications he doesn't have the data to divine.
Nevertheless, Apollo knows the heart of the truth. "That's stupid, Klavier. You're chasing a dream right now, and you're about to perform a sold-out show in front of hundreds of people. Pretending you're less invested than you are is a great way to shoot yourself in the foot."
Klavier considers him with clear eyes. "What are you suggesting?"
"Grab the opportunity with both hands," says Apollo. "Give it everything you have. No more secrets from your band. Look at what happened to Fleetwood Mac."
"That's your musical pull?" Klavier smiles at him. "You should be studied by experts."
Apollo isn't finished. "If you care, care loudly. Everything else is a waste of time."
"Powerful words," says Klavier. "Does the heart of an artist beat under your little polo shirt, Inspektor Justice?"
"I'm a safety inspector," Apollo says. There is a fire in his heart, and he knows it shines in his eyes. His collection of codebooks takes up many shelves, and he's read them all cover to cover. They matter. What he does for a living matters, and it's that unshakable faith that motivates him from the moment he wakes to the moment he returns to bed. "It's exactly what I want to be."
The truth of those words has a physical impact on Klavier. He blinks, he huffs a laugh, he shakes his head. "Verdammt, you're intense."
There's nothing to say to that. Apollo always has been.
"We're starting soon," says Klavier. "Stick around after. I want to hear what you think."
Apollo hadn't planned on staying. Now, he must.
-
After being attacked by sound for two hours, the parking lot is a welcome reprieve for Apollo. He waits as instructed, recalibrating his ears, enjoying the natural soundscape of car horns and squeaky brakes. When Klavier emerges from the backstage exit, he is sweaty and vibrant, buzzing with energy. He's wearing a motorcycle jacket, and his helmet is under his arm.
Klavier begins talking about the concert. He says something about Apollo being inspiring, and about how he released his inhibitions and let himself be the rocker diva he was holding inside. How half-measures have not helped him, and that letting all of his passion into the music made it sound better than it ever had. "I left it all on the court," he says. "That's a sports reference. Do you understand those?"
Apollo says, "Huh?" Then he says, "Is that jacket custom?"
"What? Oh." Klavier puts a hand on his chest, as though reminding himself of what he's wearing. "Yeah. The best gear always is. I tried off-the-rack for a while, but loose-fitting jackets offer less protection."
"Oh," Apollo says. He cannot hide his distraction.
Klavier seems to notice. He turns, pointing a thumb over his shoulder to showcase the reflective back panel, along with the hi-viz accents. "You can barely tell it's a safety panel during the day, but when you shine a light on it, you see me for sure. I've got similar gear on my bike." He smiles. "Do you wanna see her?"
"Do you have a boyfriend," Apollo asks.
Klavier laughs. He says that he does not. Apollo notes this important information, then follows him to the motorcycle.
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