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“Mr. Wright, what do you say to the charges against you?”
Blinded by flash bulbs, he half stumbled, half ran down the steps, stifled suddenly by the crowd that pressed into him from all sides. When Klavier Gavin had called out his accusations, Phoenix had not expected the media to act so fast.
That had been naive.
The press had swarmed the courthouse like vultures, circling a dying animal and waiting for the chance to pick the bones clean.
He should have been used to their games, after all, he had a habit of taking on high profile cases. Phoenix Wright was a lawyer to celebrities! To controversial and influential political figures! He had faced these sorts of people before, with their brown-noses and their eager eyes glinting with editorial hunger, but it was different when he was the object of that hunger.
“Do you think the American Bar Association will take decisive action?”
He tripped, or nearly did, a strong hand reaching out to steady him even as it grabbed him by his elbow and hauled him upright. Maybe he would have protested if he hadn’t been so disoriented, lost somewhere to the sea of voices crashing against the shores of his consciousness.
As it was, he just looked toward his savior, finding a familiar angular face, looking fierce as he stared out at the throng with something visceral smoldering in his grey eyes.
What he was doing here, of all places, Phoenix didn’t know, but at the moment he frankly didn’t give a damn, either. This face, this man, was familiar and friendly, a word that could not be used to describe him in any other instance.
But right now?
In this mess?
He was all Phoenix had to hold onto.
“Why did you forge the evidence, Mr. Wright?”
In an odd twist of fate, it was that hand, gripping him just short of bruisingly, that tethered him to reality. He was acutely aware of every detail of every reporter they passed, and was glad to see that Lotta Hart didn’t seem to be among them, for once.
Maybe, he hoped, The Scoop wasn’t the most important thing to her after all.
Maybe some things meant more.
It was strange that, in this moment, a conversation with the man half-dragging him through the shouts of the press and overly curious bystanders should pass through his mind. He could see the bar that they frequented for the biweekly drinks that he had suggested in order to try and rekindle their friendship. In his hand, the glass was cool and he was asking the other why it seemed everyone still called him “The Demon Attorney” even after he had cleaned up his act for nearly three years.
His concern had been honest and he hadn’t thought much of it then, but Edgeworth’s response chilled his blood now.
“The media doesn’t care about justice, Wright. To them, it’s a trifling concept. They’re like sharks -- They only show up when they smell blood and they’re always on the prowl.”
“Do you think they’ll make an example of you?”
The question struck him strongly, a mallet to his chest, and though his mouth hung open to answer, a voice cut him off, slicing through the din with white hot brevity.
“Mr. Wright has no comment.”
He heard the protest of the reporters, most of them demanding that he “let Mr. Wright” speak for himself, but Miles Edgeworth would have none of that. He was a master at navigating the media, his words sharp as blades, leaving no room for questioning.
“If you need something to tell the people, tell them that Mr. Wright was under the guard of The Demon Attorney. I’m sure your trash rag tabloids will generate revenue from that,” he tugged on Phoenix’s arms, pulling him closer, wrapping an arm loosely around his shoulder. “Now get out of the way.”
For some reason, those words has a placating effect on the crowd, and moving through them became easier as Edgeworth pushed, rather than dragged, him through the remaining bodies. He steered him into the employee parking garage nearby, and Phoenix found that the cool of the garage did something to clear his head.
It was only then that he realized he was trembling.
“Do you believe they’ll take your badge?”
“Breathe, Wright,” the voice was low and near his ear and his eyes snapped toward Edgeworth, who still had an arm wrapped around his shoulder. “It’s shock, but you’ll be fine. Just breathe.”
He wanted to answer, to say something witty or biting, that Edgeworth didn’t need to take care of him, but the words were stuck in his throat and it was all he could do to force himself to swallow and nod. His brain finally seemed to be catching up to the events as they had happened, the accusations that he could barely process leaving him speechless even as Edgeworth opened the passenger side door to his car and he slid inside.
For a fraction of a second he was alone in the car, the crowd seeming a lifetime away and the courtroom even longer, but he was joined a moment later, though Edgeworth did nothing other than lock the doors.
“You’re going to stay with me until after your hearing on the 29th,” Edgeworth’s tone didn’t leave room for debate. “You’ll be safer there as my home is more suburban and has a security system.”
Phoenix swallowed and managed to speak, not bothering to question why Edgeworth would know his hearing was on the 29th when he himself had barely just been told. “Edgeworth, my bike is still --”
“I’ll send Gumshoe to pick it up later, as well as necessities from your apartment. I assume you have your key?”
He nodded, numb with shock.
“Good. Then it’s settled,” the car purred to life, and Edgeworth began to pull out of the parking space.
For once, Phoenix found himself grateful for the silence of his companion.