So Trite was actually going to pretend he knew what was going on; even if it was only to a degree, that still left enough room for Godot to doubt him. The crime of obliviousness was what Godot had accused him of, and what lessons would he could he have learned in the span of those few short hours since? Or would he have even bothered? With his flippant attitude, ignoring the weight of his actions as he skipped along, pushing away pebbles that fell into landslides.

The red-burning flare of anger still existed in Godot's world. He saw it now, but held back. Even a bumbler might manage to trip over a sack of gold, if someone left it in an obvious enough place.

Going back inside, for example. Godot might have questioned why a bit more immediately had it not been for the sudden chill. It was a strange occurrence on such a night, when just a few moments ago nothing more than a short-sleeved shirt seemed to be enough against the weather. But Godot hated the cold, and without coffee or a purpose, even he saw no reason to suffer through it. Trite's request could be mocked on the inside, away from the fog.

"It seems the weather wants me to agree to the defense's request. I'll hold the door so it doesn't viciously attack you again." Ever the gentlemen, Godot stepped aside, doing as he said for the sake of Phoenix's mental facilities. He wouldn't let the lawyer cry 'brain damage' in court when they got there.