Chapter Text
2016
There is something we need to discuss
Robert Hammond. Edgeworth bites his lip, his tongue, almost until it bleeds. He sinks into his chair, but the soft, raspberry-colored velvet does not provide the security it usually does.
His heart pounds, and beneath his jacket, sweat prickles at his armpits. He takes a deep breath, let’s it out. He will do this. He has to do this. If there’s something that Hammond knows, that he wants to say, now, three days before the statute of limitations for that awful, awful day…
There’s nothing for it. He will have to go. And even if it’s a trick, which, as a prosecutor who’s seen his share of crimes (and as a student of human nature), he knows it very well may be, there’s still nothing for it. There’s no one to ask. It isn’t as if he wants to tell anyone what this could be about. It isn’t as if he could talk about this, even if he wanted to. Even if telling the secret wouldn’t change anything, there’s no one to tell, no way to…to process this without…but…no.
And so, at 11:30 that night, Edgeworth parks his car in the lot next to the caretakers lodge, walks through the little path around the woods in the dark as silently as he can on the cold, rocky ground. Hammond is there, waiting for him. Already in a boat. When he sees Edgeworth, he waves him over, and Edgeworth joins him without a word.
At one point there’s a loud sound almost like a gunshot, a flash. Edgeworth is so tense, he flails, nearly standing up, causing the boat to rock back and forth. He catches himself, sits. Apologizes.
“Foolish boy,” Hammond says, his voice little more than a whisper. It makes Edgeworth not want to apologize again, so he doesn’t. When they’re still again, Hammond rows silently again just another twenty feet or so. Stops. The oars scrape against the side of the boat as he raises them over the side.
For a moment, a slide flashes through his mind, a single thought of horrible, gruesome violence, from a scene he’d read once, and then seen in a movie based on the same book. A man being beaten to death inside of a boat with an oar, his skull giving away, spilling blood and brains all over the inside of the boat, leaving his murderer in a panic, cleaning the boat, trying to figure out how to move forward in a world where he had seen the mess a man could be turned into at his own hands.
For just a moment Edgeworth thinks this.
And then he knows what a fool he has been to come out here, alone, afraid, and even more afraid to show it. And in that moment, Hammond draws a gun. And fires.
The sound takes him back to a nightmare, to an elevator, and an earthquake.
The sound shatters him. Maybe that’s why he picks up the gun: because he knows that it belongs in his hand.
2001
“Miles, your jacket.” Gregory Edgeworth smiles down at his son, who has been talking so enthusiastically—well, talking isn’t really the word for what Miles does. More like holding forth. Pontificating—that he doesn’t seem to notice the cold, even in his short pants. Gregory stills him with a hand to the shoulder as he hands him the jacket, sets his briefcase down, and turns to lock the door of their brownstone townhouse behind him.
Miles is still talking.
“So I told Wright not to worry because I knew that I was capable of providing a proper defense, but I was a little concerned just because the witness I wanted to testify, Larry Butz, was absent that day.”
“And then what happened?” Gregory asks, steering Miles around the corner.
“I won! And Larry didn’t even get in trouble because he wasn’t there even though he definitely deserved justice.”
Gregory chuckles and Miles feels warm inside.
“I’m sure he did.”
“But Wright was impressed, which I liked, but it was strange because I was just doing what I needed to do. To expose the truth. And I know you’ll win because Mr. Tangaroa deserves justice as well.”
“Yes, he does.” Gregory smiles down at him, and Miles can tell his father is proud of him. He beams back, proud of his father, too. It isn’t everyone whose dad gets to defend one of the most popular performers on TV. And who is perfectly innocent. All his father’s clients are innocent, and he wins all his cases, exposing the truth. It’s justice.
“So, tell me more about Phoenix Wright and Larry…Butz was it?”
“When something smells, it’s always the Butz,” Miles recites.
Gregory stares at him, then, almost as if it’s against his will, he bursts into laughter and picks Miles up, hoisting him onto his back. “You are full of surprises,” he says. Miles feels his cheeks reddening, realizing the joke of it for the first time. Butz. Butts. Ugh, so that’s why everyone says that. It’s somewhat vulgar, but his father seems pleased enough. Maybe he doesn’t need to worry.
“Come on, we better move,” he says, lifting Miles onto his shoulders and beginning to trot. Miles bounces along happily. They’re going to court. He’s going to watch his father work. He can’t wait.
It’s exciting to see Mr. Tangaroa and Judy in person, even if they are in court. When else would he get to meet actual TV stars? (Even if he had only watched their show after Mr. Tangaroa had become his father’s client). Miles had asked his father before the trial started if he might meet them, and he’d said only if he wins. Only if his client gets to go home a free man. But when Miles had said he’d like an autograph, just to show Phoenix and that awful Larry Butts (he insists it’s spelled Butz, but Miles isn’t sure he really believes him), his father had said he’d see what he could do.
Miles knows that that usually means yes.
He’s in the front row of the balcony, behind the defense, so he’s closer to his dad and Mr. Tangaroa, but he can see the prosecution better, across the way. Mr. von Karma. At the sound of his voice, during opening arguments, almost a year ago now, Miles had shuddered in his seat, and even now, he feels a deep chill whenever the man speaks. He is of average height, but somehow he seems to tower like a giant, bigger even than Mr. Tangaroa, with his bulging muscles and bouffant. Even the judge seems to cower before Mr. von Karma, and several times throughout the trial, Miles has almost had to stop himself from shouting out at the way von Karma cuts down his father, who goes on with true equanimity, as if nothing out of the way had happened at all. Calm and brave as ever. Miles wants to be like that, so he keeps his mouth shut, his chin up, even as he looks daggers across the courtroom at Mr. von Karma.
That day, they’re halfway through the proceedings when it all goes wrong. Miles isn’t exactly sure what happened, just knows that his father has landed a blow, von Karma had faced a penalty—which seemed to be a good thing, right? Gregory held his chin up as the judge expressed his disappointment in Mr. von Karma, “The first penalty in your illustrious career thus far.”—but then the courtroom had plunged into silence.
Miles tried to sort it out, but before he could grasp what was happening, the judge was banging his gavel.
“If that is all, then I am ready to hand down my verdict,” the judge says. “This court finds the defendant, Samson Tangaroa, guilty.” The judge bangs his gavel.
It’s over.
Oh, no. He didn’t do it. He didn’t. His father will fix this. He has to. He looks up, out at the courtroom, as everyone around him stands and starts moving, as the bailiff steps forward to place Mr. Tangaroa back in handcuffs. No, Miles thinks, no.
But one person is perfectly still.
Von Karma does not react, but stands, frozen, staring across the courtroom at Gregory.
Miles doesn’t like that look, but Gregory turns away from von Karma and looks at his son instead. He winks at Miles, who frowns uncertainly and stands up, heading for the stairs to run down to his father, who is now patting Tangaroa on the back, saying something to him in a quiet voice that is lost to Miles in the noise around them.
His father’s hand closes over his shoulder, warm and firm and soothing.
“Come on, Miles. I know you must be disappointed. So am I. We’ll figure this out. Let’s go home.”
Miles nods and reaches for his father’s hand. His father gives his fingers a gentle squeeze and holds his hand all the way down the hall, only acknowledging the many people who try to stop him to talk with him with a nod. Friendly, but undeterred from his goal of getting them out of here.
“We can talk next steps at home,” Miles says, as they wait for the elevator.
Gregory smiles down at him.
“Yeah? I thought maybe pizza and a movie?”
“We have to help Mr. Tangaroa!”
“OK. How about pizza and a brainstorming session, and then an episode of Bake ’n’ Bop?”
Miles nods, and Gregory chuckles as the door opens, and Miles runs in ahead of him.
“Wait!” someone calls, and then, as Gregory enters the elevator, holding the door behind him, a man joins them, breathing hard from having run to catch them. It’s the bailiff, Miles remembers him, the awe he’d shown of Mr. Tangaroa even as he’d cuffed the large man and led him away.
The elevator doors close. Miles presses the button.
And then everything trembles, and it’s all so loud. Miles can’t think, can’t see.
After that, Miles doesn’t remember much.
Just shouting, then, a gun, cold in his hands.
Just the sound of a shot going off. Once, twice.
The door of the elevator coming open. His father. His father, bloody and not moving and…
2016
It’s still dark when the police arrive, and he’s just standing there, staring out at the water, the boat bumping ominously against the dock, where it’s tied.
Things are said, and he doesn’t register many of them. When they reach out for his hands to cuff him, he lets them. It is not until he’s in the cell that it all registers. He is in jail. He is going to court.
There is no possibility of a defense. He’s Miles Edgeworth, the Demon Prosecutor. He’s defeated every defense attorney in town. And now he stands accused of killing one.
Well, his record isn’t perfect any longer, is it? It’s every defense attorney except one—except him. And Miles would never ask him. Not ever. Ugh. The thought of it makes him shudder. Phoenix Wright, who doesn’t seem to have grown up at all since they were nine years old. Who still looks at Edgeworth with starry eyes, like he’s expecting something good from him. Like he thinks Edgeworth, too, is the same little boy with stars in his eyes and a golden-paved road before him.
Edgeworth thinks of his father, of the way he’d felt about him, how much he’d wanted to be like him. He thinks of the gun, firing. A defense attorney is little more than an insect to be squashed. He closes his eyes, suddenly dizzy. His heart pounds. He can’t let himself give in to this weakness right now. He needs to think.
“Mr Edgeworth?” It’s Gumshoe.
Edgeworth can’t look at him. He can’t bear to be at his mercy, to be seen this way.
Gumshoe coughs. “Um, you’re need in the um—”
“Interrogation room,” Edgeworth finishes.
“Yes. Um. Sorry.”
“It’s all as expected.”
Edgeworth turns away from the corner he’d been facing and walks toward Gumshoe.
He expects cuffs, but Gumshoe doesn’t even try. Edgeworth is hardly going to remind him. He lifts his chin as he walks out past Gumshoe, and starts down the hall. He half expects Gumshoe to tell him to wait, to insist on escorting him down these familiar halls, but it seems Gumshoe can’t bring himself to. He does catch him up before he enters the interrogation room though, entering just behind him as if he’d been in control the whole time.
And then he’s gone. That too should have been as expected. They wouldn’t let Gumshoe do this part. Not when he’d been assigned to Edgeworth for investigations, but if Edgeworth knows him, Gumshoe will find a way to involve himself. Edgeworth is surprised by how much it hurts to see him turn his back. He takes his seat. He will need to cooperate. It is the only thing left for him to do.
The thing is—none of it makes any sense. He knows it doesn’t. He’s not surprised that they don’t believe him. He’s Miles Edgeworth. Practically a von Karma. Practically perfect in every way. He’s cold, he’s calculated. He’s savvy, smart.
Why would he go out to Gourd Lake in the middle of the night, get on a boat with a stranger? Why would he do any of the things he’s telling them he did?
The Miles Edgeworth they know wouldn’t. The table of the interrogation room is cold and hard. He knows it from experience, so he doesn’t bother to lean onto it, elbows driving into it, hands pressing into his eyes until he sees stars.
“Sir,” Gumshoe says. “Sir?”
Edgeworth looks at him, or pretends to. He still can’t see.
“They’ve announced the prosecutor, sir,” Gumshoe says.
Edgeworth swallows. “Lana Skye?” he guesses, from the pained expression on Gumshoe’s face.
“Worse,” Gumshoe says, and there’s a strange, shifty look on his face.
Edgeworth doesn’t understand, for just a moment. Who would be worse than Lana, a police detective turned chief prosecutor, who had guided him through his early cases? Only himself, which would make no sense, and then, of course, von Karma.
von Karma. It sits in his chest like ice. But somehow there is a rightness to it. It is no more than he deserves.
“I see,” he says. He nods.
“Maybe…he’ll go easy on you?” Gumshoe says. But even he seems to know better than this. Edgeworth bites back his reprimands. He’s in no position to reprimand anyone, and now it feels as if the bottom will fall away from the self he’s constructed, so carefully, all these years.
If von Karma would prosecute him, that means von Karma believes he is guilty.
But of course he does. Defendants are guilty. It’s one of the von Karma first principles.
Is that what this is, or is this something more? Does von Karma know something even Edgeworth isn’t sure of, from all those years ago?
Because maybe he is guilty. Not of this crime, but…
There is always the feel of that cold metal in his hand. There is always that sound. He deserves this.
But he can’t melt down now.
He sits still. He looks calm, he imagines. But it’s more because he can’t move than anything else. He can’t. He’s done, and his brain has stopped working. It’s all he can do to stand up when they tell him to. All he can do to march himself back to holding, to look up when they signal a visitor.
And dash it all if it isn’t him.
2001
The first thing he remembers after waking that is the ceiling of the hospital, gray and speckled tiles. You could lift one and crawl around in the ceiling. Miles is pretty sure that’s how that works. All you’d need is a ladder. Or maybe a stepladder would be better…
He must have drifted off again because now there’s a voice.
“What’s wrong with him?” It’s a child’s voice, but sharp, accented.
“His father was a defense attorney.” That voice he recognizes. But—
“Would that make him comatose?”
“Touché. But he isn’t comatose, not strictly speaking.”
“Then what is wrong—”
Miles opens his eyes and shifts. A toddler is sitting on his bed, dressed all in ruffles in black and white, with a blue ribbon tied around her hair. Her eyes are fixed on his face, and she looks startled. She is surely too young to have been the one who spoke. But he doesn’t see any other children.
“Are you awake now?” von Karma says. “Good. Nurse!”
It’s a few moments, but a nurse appears in the room, looking concerned, then happy.
“Oh, he’s…oh, good. Miles, how many fingers am I holding up.” She holds up her hand, her thumb tucked away.
“Four,” Miles says, impatient. “I’m not an infant.”
“Wonderful, Miles. I know you’re not. You’re a very brave young man. Do you know why you’re here?”
“I fainted.”
“That’s right. And—”
“My father—“
The nurse and von Karma exchange glances.
“I’m so sorry, Miles. He didn’t…he didn’t recover. Is there anyone else in your family, someone you could stay with?”
Miles shakes his head. There’s no one else. It’s always been just him and his father. And Eddie, sometimes, but he’s pretty sure Eddie is too young and too busy with law school for him to go live with. And Eddie is alone too. He doesn’t have any family.
“He was shot,” Miles says, remembering, seeing it again, the shaking, the vibrating, the noise. The sudden stillness and the gun falling, the flash of it in the dark, the scent. The sound, over and over again. “I—I—he was shot—he—”
The nurse takes his hand, holds it.
“I’m familiar with them,” von Karma says, and he seems stiffer than usual, his face even more of a mask of suppressed tension. “As I’ve said before. I believe the best thing is for Miles to come with me and Franziska, and I will make the necessary arrangements.”
He can still feel the nurse’s touch as he leaves the hospital with Mr. von Karma and his strange little daughter. He’s in a daze. Dimly, he’s aware that this is odd, that Mr. von Karma has no real family connection to him, but there’s something about it that makes sense. He has seen the man almost every day for a year, after all. And there’s no one else. So maybe this is normal, maybe this is fine.
Von Karma has the driver let Miles and the girl out at a condo. He doesn’t explain anything, and Miles is too numb to bother asking. He follows the girl to the door.
“We’ll follow Papa tomorrow,” she says, when Miles stops at the top of the steps and looks back at the departing car.
“Follow him?”
A woman opens the door then.
“Franzy!” she says. “You are just in time for your snack.”
“Is Miles having a snack too?”
“If he wants one. Hello, Miles. I’m Ariadne, Franzy’s nurse and tutor, and probably your tutor too, for now. Welcome. I’ll show you to your room, all right? I can bring you up some juice and cookies. You look like you could use a lie down, yes? ”
Miles doesn’t complain that he’s already laid down for who knows how long. He’ll lie down again. It doesn’t matter. How could anything matter?
“And tomorrow we go home! Is Miles coming home with us?”
“Yes, of course. Now go into the classroom and get ready. I’m going to show Miles his room.”
The girl—Franzy?— doesn’t move, but the woman ignores her, and beckons to Miles.
There is no funeral. At least not one that Miles attends. (And if Miles doesn’t attend, then who would it even be for?)
No one has touched him since the nurse held his hand.
Everything feels bright and cold and loud, like the gun in his hand, firing.
2002
Although von Karma had flown back to Germany just a day before they did, a year ago, Edgeworth hasn’t seen the man at all. He’s always either in his office or nowhere in the house at all. He’s been variously in America, Japan, the German courthouse, or even on outings to public gardens with Franziska while Miles, at home, reads and works geometric proofs. But not once has he seen Miles.
But Miles hardly sleeps, every night he hears the gun, feels it going off as it leaves his hands, sees his father…And so he’s awake when he hears something slide across the floor of his bedroom. He sits up, quick, looks around, sees a white envelope just inside the door.
In the exact center it reads, simply, “Edgeworth.”
He opens it.
Miles Edgeworth:
Ariadne states that you have begun to study what is expected of high school students in history, mathematics, and science, and that you have a prodigious appetite for reading and a natural ability with writing. Additionally, she reports that you have retained your strong interest in the law, and have followed the case of your father’s murder with a particular desire expressed that Yanni Yogi face justice for his acts, and that Robert Hammond, a lawyer, is a fraud who himself deserves nothing more than the same punishment Yogi should have received. All criminals deserve punishment; to believe otherwise is misguided at best. I am gratified to know that you think so too.
If it is any consolation at all, consider that Yanni Yogi, at least, will not recover from what was exposed during the trial. The trial was a complete sham. Spirit mediums and insults to the dead—a travesty. A complete besmirching of your father’s name. You are right to be angry, to let that fury drive you, inspire you.
Indeed, this is all as I had expected. Therefore, I have judged that it is time for you to begin your legal education properly. Come to see me before breakfast. I will be in my office. There is no need for you to prepare anything; I will make my expectations extremely clear to you, and you will meet them. Make yourself presentable in accordance with von Karma standards, and do not keep me waiting.
Manfred von Karma
It can’t even be 5 a.m. yet. Does Mr. von Karma know what time he wakes up (not the time he pretends to, a half hour before breakfast and lessons)? He looks at the clock: 3:45 a.m.
He looks back at the letter.
If the letter was delivered this early, then that means Mr. von Karma is awake. So, in the worst case, if Miles goes down now, he will arrive earlier than expected, but won’t wake the man from his sleep. If he makes the opposite assumption, that von Karma will expect him later, he risks keeping him waiting, which he’s been expressly told not to do.
It’s best not to take the risk. Mr. von Karma does have ways of knowing things you might not expect him to. Besides, if anything about what von Karma is planning will bring some justice for his father, some retribution to Yanni Yogi and Robert Hammond…
Miles shuts out the image that haunts him every night, because it’s morning now, time for sun instead of shadow.
Well, he owes his father what he can give. And he can give this, he can devote his life to justice. And he can start today.
He takes a short breath to compose himself and starts back across the room to make his bed and dress.
Twenty minutes later, he’s standing outside the heavy oak wood door of Mr. von Karma’s study. He pauses, sets his jaw, and knocks. There’s a muffled call from inside, he can’t make out what was said, but he can infer from context. He opens the door, sees von Karma across the room, behind a large, dark wooden desk atop a large, red oriental rug. The walls are lined with hardbound leather books with titles like The True Meaning of Justice, and Proper Punishment: Prosecution from Allebahst to Zheng Fa. Miles would love to get his hands on any of them.
“I didn’t call you in here to gawk, boy.”
“I apologize.”
“Good. Do better and next time there will be no need.”
“Yes, Mr von Karma.”
“Sit down.” von Karma gestures to a leather backed chair against the wall, at a corner from his desk. As Miles nears it, von Karma says, “Bring the chair to sit in front of me. And don’t drag it on the rug. Or the floor, for that matter. Pick it up. Yes, that’s right.”
Miles walks the chair, almost as tall as he is, to a spot about two feet in front of the desk. von Karma nods at him, so he sets it down and takes a seat. Despite the leather upholstery, there’s hardly any cushion to speak of, and the chair is hard and rigid, the back of it pressing into his upper spine, forcing his head forward. It was clearly designed for someone taller than he is.
He edges forward. von Karma frowns.
“Don’t fidget,” he snaps. “A von Karma is perfect in every way.”
Miles frowns slightly, confused.
“But then, I suppose you are not a von Karma, are you?”
Miles shakes his head, because it’s true, he’s not—it’s why he had been confused about von Karma giving him that as a reason not to fidget—but for some reason, he’s suddenly ashamed.
Mr von Karma doesn’t give him time to figure it out or dwell on it.
“So you have followed the trial. The so-called DL-6 incident.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t a question. Do not interrupt me. I will tell you when I expect you to speak.”
They’re silent for a moment, then Mr von Karma inclines his head toward Miles.
“Good. Now, tell me, from the very start, everything you know. Do not omit a single detail. My desire is to test your thoroughness, your objectivity, and your legal knowledge. Focus your summary accordingly.”
Miles can’t help but feel his eyes widen. He has always excelled at all three, and this is the first time in his life he has felt that it truly mattered to anyone. Even his own father had not encouraged him like this, always offering his television shows and outings with other children to try to tempt him away from his legal pursuits. But now, someone sees him, just as he is, and will reward him for doing what he does best and doing it well.
Miles puts aside his grief, and begins.
2016
The Fey girl is with Wright, the two of them peering at him through the glass. She has an annoying little smile, like she’s constantly about to laugh. He feels sick. He really thinks he might be sick. He can’t look at either of them. He wants to cry, but he can’t. Even if they weren’t here, he’s not sure he could. It just…doesn’t happen, not unless you count nightmares (and he doesn’t), not since he started prosecuting, which happened, to his mind, before anyone else might think—when he realized that all defendants were guilty, and started trying to figure out how to get Yanni Yogi and Hammond to pay for their crimes. From that moment, he was a prosecutor.
What is he now?
His stomach turns now, at his naive childhood folly, which had sustained him until now. If von Karma knows what Edgeworth has long suspected, then it turns everything on its head. Everything.
It meant that Yanni Yogi was innocent, Hammond did nothing wrong by defending him, and Edgeworth…
For the first time, under Wright’s questioning, he realizes the significance of not knowing the truth of what happened in that boat. When it was just the police, he could see how it made him look culpable. Could wonder if anyone would believe him.
But now he wonders if they should. Because if he killed his own father and doesn’t remember, couldn’t he have done this, too?
He can’t fight this. There’s nothing left in him to fight. And there is no longer any point. There is no honor left in it. No honor left at all. Not for him.