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Chief Prosecutor Skye prides herself on thinking things through logically and rationally. It is perfectly rational to agree to Gant’s demands as necessary to keep Ema safe—for she will not be losing the only family she has left. And, most of the time, Gant’s demands are small and inconsequential. Most of the time, she can perform her duties as she is meant to do so: impartially and fairly.
Most of the time, she is not staring down at the autopsy report for Mia Fey, as if it will go away if she bores enough holes into it with her heartbroken glare. As if it will all be nothing more than a bad dream, as if Mia will still be—across town and not speaking to her, after Lana had broken up without so much as an explanation.
(Could she have done something if she had been there? She had thought breaking up would keep her safe. Perhaps it had, from Gant. But it had not, in the end, when it mattered most.)
As Chief Prosecutor, she has some influence over who the prosecution for a given trial will be. von Karma is her first instinct, but she thinks of dialing his number and barely suppresses an involuntary wince. No, von Karma would not appreciate being contacted for the murder of a defense attorney, and in all honesty, Skye would prefer to deal with him as little as possible. von Karma does what he wants and when he wants.
That leaves his moderately more tolerable protege, one Miles Edgeworth. A similarly stellar record in convictions, if much shorter due to a comparatively shorter legal career. He will get Mia’s murderer convicted, of that Skye can be certain. She dials, and waits.
“Prosecutor Edgeworth speaking.”
“This is Chief Prosecutor Skye,” she says. “Are you aware of the Fey case?”
“I am.”
“I want you to prosecute.”
There is a brief period of silence. Eventually, he says, “Very well. Is there anything else?”
For the minutest of moments, Skye entertains the possibility of actually telling him why she wants him on this case. Perhaps she would, if he asked, or if he was here in person and could see her red eyes. But Lana Skye and Miles Edgeworth are kindred spirits, in this sense. Neither offer up information about the person behind the prosecutor even if asked, and neither will ask others in turn.
“There is nothing else. Thank you, Edgeworth. Good day.” She hangs up rather too quickly—but if he had noticed her voice crack near the end, he had not commented, and for that she is grateful.
She should likely get these files down to him, then. She won’t be taking them in person, not in this state. Perhaps… she should take some time to collect herself before she calls someone else to delegate to.
She sets the autopsy report to the side, and finally picks up the case dossier itself. There were two suspects, one of whom was arrested at the scene, one of whom was detained and questioned. The latter was Mia’s protege, Phoenix Wright. The former was—
—was—
“No,” Skye says aloud, as if saying it will change the face staring up at her to someone, anyone else. The girl could be anyone, except… she has Mia’s eyes. She would have to be about seventeen now, one year older than Lana’s own sister—and indeed, the arrest report confirms it. Maya Fey, 17. Primary suspect.
“What have I done?” She asks the portrait of Mia’s little sister. The portrait, unsurprisingly, does not answer.
The only way she can justify what she has just done is by convincing herself that Mia has been murdered by her own sister. And—perhaps that isn’t so far-fetched. Perhaps— Ema’s face flashes in her mind— perhaps that is exactly what happened.
She must convince herself, and so Lana Skye does.
It is a surprise that Mia’s protege Wright takes on the defense of his mentor’s murderer. It is a greater surprise that he manages to keep Mia’s— the defendant from being declared guilty on the first day.
“You have no cause for worry,” Edgeworth informs Skye, the next day. “The defense is incompetent, and foolish. The verdict will be declared tomorrow, and it will be in our favor.”
Skye nods. She considers something, briefly, and eventually says, “You are not usually… so hostile toward the defense.”
“The defense is incompetent,” he repeats, “and has only made it as far as it has out of luck.”
And despite herself, Skye almost smiles. “He is certainly Mia’s student, then.”
“Yes.” Edgeworth studies her, and similarly weighs his options. “I was not aware you and the victim were on a first-name basis.”
“We were. Once.”
“My condolences,” Edgeworth says, misunderstanding.
“Thank you,” Skye says in return, deciding to accept the only expression of feelings he is likely to make for the next five years. “You are—”
Dismissed, is what she was going to say, but it is Edgeworth’s phone that rings. A flash of irritation crosses the mask his face may as well be, and he steps back. “This may be related to the case.”
“Dismissed,” Skye says with a nod.
She can hear him talking in the hallway outside, though not the details. She can hear the conversation stop abruptly, then start again. She can hear, at last, a hesitant knock on her door.
“May I ask what—” She begins as she opens the door to her office. Then she stops, because the hallway is empty.
(She does not find out until the next day at court that the call must have been about the sudden and alarming change in defendants. There is something between Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright, and the part of Lana who loved detective work once wonders what it might be.)
(Prosecutor Skye, who knows better than to wonder anymore, decides it will not matter once Phoenix Wright is found guilty for the murder of Mia Fey.)
Phoenix Wright is not found guilty for the murder of Mia Fey. The new witness, testifying to him being the killer, was in fact…
Redd White was the name of the man who killed Mia. Redd White, CEO of Bluecorp, and after being exposed as the true killer, his trial comes after the conclusion of Wright’s.
“I will act as prosecution,” Edgeworth tells her, though he looks a little shaken. Unsurprising—the man had just been handed the first loss of his career, by a defense attorney with exactly two solo cases under his belt no less.
“No, you will not,” Skye tells him. “I will.”
“Ah. I understand.”
Did… the fearsome High Prosecutor just… shrink away a little?
“No, you do not.” Lana endeavors to rearrange her features into something a little less sharp. “The victim in this case was… important to me. I should have taken on prosecution myself to begin with, not recused myself out of… unnecessary feelings.”
“Hm. I… did not mean to fail you.”
“On the contrary. You would have failed me if you put away her sister or student for her murder, and let the true killer walk free.” It has been a long time since Lana has attempted a smile, but she does try nonetheless. She is not sure she succeeds. “As far as I am concerned, this was not a loss.”
“Your opinion matters less to me than you believe, Prosecutor Skye.”
“Very well. I will still be acting as prosecution in the trial of Redd White.”
Edgeworth ducks his head and… if Skye did not know that the man does not run, she would think he had all but done so. She does not miss the glare fired in the direction of defense attorney and recently acquitted defendant Phoenix Wright, though it appears as if Wright himself does.
In Prosecutor Skye’s professional opinion, there is something going on there. That something is also none of her business.
(She would, however, bet money that they had met somewhere long before this case.)
“The prosecution is ready, Your Honor,” Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye says dispassionately. Nevertheless, she does not take her eyes off of Redd White.
He squirms under her scrutiny. Good.
“The defense is ready, Your Honor,” says the state-appointed defender whose name she has already forgotten and whose name will not matter by the trial’s conclusion.
The defense is laughable, given that the defendant had confessed to the crime in a prior trial and everyone of note here knows this. Though, Skye supposes she should give some credit to the defense for attempting to gain a lesser sentence for White, as opposed to no sentence at all.
She gives the defense no credit at all, for anything less than execution for the man who had taken Mia’s life would only allow him to one day walk again free.
“This court finds the defendant, Redd White…” The judge slams down his gavel. “Guilty of the murder of Mia Fey. Now, for sentencing… does the defense have any thoughts?”
“Ten years should be sufficient,” the defense says, and Lana sees red.
“OBJECTION!” All eyes go to Prosecutor Skye, who takes a moment to collect herself before elaborating, “The prosecution would like remind the court that this man was not only guilty of the murder of a highly regarded member of the Los Angeles legal community, but also of framing first the victim’s sister and then her student, blackmailing at least two key witnesses to ensure their silence, and wiretapping the victim’s office phone.”
Arson, murder, and jaywalking, in a sense—compared to his other crimes, the wiretap is nothing. But it could just be the straw to break the camel’s back—or in this case, the defendant’s. Perhaps quite literally.
White glares. Skye meets his glare and holds it. With her eyes, she shouts what she never will say out loud: you killed the love of my life.
He looks away. Skye does not.
“Very well,” says the judge. “Consider the courtroom reminded. What would the prosecution suggest?”
“For the murder of Mia Fey…?” Skye pretends to think, as if she had not practiced this very speech in front of her bathroom mirror this morning. “Consider that, should Mr. White ever be freed from prison, he has money and connections enough to silence every member of this courtroom in much the same way he silenced Ms. Fey. He is dangerous. Too dangerous to ever walk free again.”
Across the courtroom, White is starting to live up to his surname.
“So you would suggest a lifetime sentence, with no possibility of parole?” The defense asks, and Lana wonders once again if he was in fact state-appointed at all. “That seems… unnecessarily harsh.”
“I would not. I would suggest harsher. An appropriate sentence would be the same fate he vested upon his unfortunate victim.”
“What?!” White blurts, standing up. His lawyer gives him a look, and he sits back down.
“Do you mean to say, Prosecutor,” the defense says pointedly, “that you desire the death sentence for this man?”
“I more than desire it,” Skye says. “There is legal precedent for it, barring extenuating circumstances. You have made it abundantly clear that your client is quite lucid, and therefore there is no reason your client should not face the death penalty.”
“Yes there is!” White stands up again.
“Mr. White. Sit down.”
He does not sit down. He addresses the whole court this time, “I have friends, you know. Friends who will be quite sorry to see me go.”
“Do you mean the friends who have washed their hands of you after your actions became public?”
“You will be sorry.”
Prosecutor Skye stares him down. But it is Lana who says, “No, I don’t believe I will be. Your Honor?”
Being blackmailed is not exactly a good state to be in, but it has its benefits. Namely—your little sister not being prosecuted for the murder she unintentionally committed, and the fact that the person blackmailing you will protect you, to an extent, to keep you useful.
“Bailiff, restrain Mr. White,” the judge says without looking at her, and Lana knows she has won.
Mia’s funeral is on a Tuesday. It is a small affair, though not so small that Lana cannot attend without being immediately recognized. That is… likely for the best.
From her place in the back of the room, she identifies Wright by his hair without much difficulty. That must be Maya Fey beside him, and Lana cannot miss Marvin Grossberg if she tries. She does not recognize everyone in the audience, but… hm.
Is that Miles Edgeworth? Given that he is one of the first out and he happens to meet Lana’s eye before ducking his head and making his escape, she would say yes.
She won’t bring up his presence here if he doesn’t bring up hers.
Lana, however, waits. She waits until nearly everyone has gone, intending to follow one particular person out when she leaves—except the girl is, quite literally, the last to leave. Even Wright is gone before her.
At last, Lana approaches. She puts a hand on Maya’s shoulder and says, quietly, “Your sister loved you very much.”
Maya startles at the touch, but catches sight of Lana and apparently relaxes. She must not look as intimidating outside of the courtroom. “Thanks… who are you?”
Lana Skye, she does not say.
Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye, she does not say either, because that is even worse.
The woman who tried so hard to get you convicted of your sister’s murder, she does not say, because Maya has clearly been crying already and just because Lana does not enjoy social situations does not mean she is completely inept in them.
Her ex-girlfriend who left her when she needed me most, she does not say, primarily because that statement is not entirely accurate—she had left before Mia needed her. But she had still left.
(If only.)
“An… old colleague,” Lana settles for saying at last. “Mia meant a lot to me. I… hope she knew she was loved, in the end.”
Maya nods, and sniffles. “Me too.”
Every Tuesday after Mia is buried, Lana visits on her way home from work. She does not stay long, merely long enough to exchange brief pleasantries with the air and exchange one bouquet of pink carnations and red roses for a fresher one.
(Ema has them delivered for her, while she is in prison. If she knows what the flowers mean, she never comments on them to Lana, and for that she is grateful.)