Chapter Text
His identification number was C-198, name Miles Edgeworth, age 22.
Today, he was being released from prison.
At precisely 9:52 a.m., the bolts to his triple-locked cell door were unlatched. With arms full of his scant personal belongings-- six sets of clothes, various hygiene products, a couple boxes of tea, and his favorite novel-- he was escorted by a guard through the main hallway of the prison to the detention center. Here, he was temporarily placed in a holding cell, his belongings and himself searched. He was required to fill out needlessly lengthy amounts of paperwork. Then, he was escorted to the main door of the facility...
He stepped out without fanfare, a free man.
He breathed in deeply. The air was fresher, the sunlight somehow brighter, the blazing, blaring urban scenery of Los Angeles much changed. He didn't recognize any of it. Like a whole new planet.
It was only natural. He had been doing time in correction facilities for the last 13 years, convicted for his father's murder at the tender age of nine (most of those years were spent in juvenile detention). He had been innocent, but it certainly didn't matter now.
No family or friends came to meet him at the front gate. He was on his own, back in the cruel world that rejected him.
Still with his belongings in hand and no bag, he caught a city bus. He had two-thousand three-hundred ninety-three dollars and eighty-two cents to his name from years of penal labor minus deductions. Subtracting the bus fare, he now had two-thousand three-hundred ninety-three dollars and thirty-two cents to his name. That was all he was worth.
He went to charity after charity until he at last found one that offered to provide him with lodgings: a small apartment he could call his own for the time being. He couldn't remember what it was like to have privacy like this. Depositing his belongings, he then walked to the nearest food bank to acquire the essentials for living.
He returned to the apartment, ate a modest lunch, and spent a few minutes organizing his new home. When that was done, he went outside... and no further. He stood there on the apartment landing, gazing out at an unfamiliar reality that was once again his. He felt hollow. He had been anticipating this day for countless months, looking forward to the bliss, comfort, and dignity that came along with true freedom, but that was not how it was. Perhaps he needed time to reacquaint himself with self-sovereignty. Perhaps he had to first assimilate into the ways of society.
Most of all, he needed to find a job.
* * *
In prison, Edgeworth had known a man who had been like him, convicted at a young age, living his whole adolescence and early adult life behind bars. He had been released once, three years prior. On that very day, he broke into a private residence and assaulted a seventy-six year-old woman just so he could return speedily to jail with a lengthy sentence. To an outsider, this behavior might seem incomprehensible, but to Edgeworth, he most certainly understood. Life behind bars provided security, substance, a roof over one's head. It wasn't easy, it wasn't desirable, but to an individual who-- as a shut-in for more than a decade-- had no life skills, no home, no support group, no life savings, and no access to any type of livelihood or insurance, it wasn't much of a choice.
He was easily finding himself in the same situation. Personally, he had no plans to go back to the slammer. However, the stigma of being an ex-convict was barring him from the employment he was desperately chasing after. Not only that, the days he had left to his charity apartment were counting down. He was running out of food and toiletries, and his pride would only allow him to return to the food bank once or twice more.
One thing he could say for himself and his situation, he was more knowledgeable than the typical compatriot in similar shoes. He had read much in prison, acquiring a modest library for himself over the years, mostly nonfiction. It was regrettable he couldn't take that library with him, but then again, even an ex-convict had full rights to public sources of information. His learning was continuing. With a little practice, he was cooking meals without burning them, wearing the best fashion his meager funds would allow, and staying abreast of current events. With a little foresight and planning, he was piecing together the ins and outs of society at large.
Four months and seven days after getting out of incarceration found him sitting down for the Japanifornia bar exam for the second time. He had forged an Ivy University JD degree and swiped the fingerprints of a schizophrenic homeless man to get that seat twice. Miraculously, he managed to pass.
Fortune looked up for him from then on. He joined the bar under an alias, becoming Geoffrey Madeleine, and got his prosecutor's badge. He continued on to get a clerkship at a state appellate court, became a district attorney a half-year later, and moved up the ladder to become a Head Prosecutor. By that time, he had accumulated as many financial assets as typical of an upper-end middle-class American. He also acquired a grand reputation.
They called him the Demon Prosecutor. Oh, he was ruthless for sure. The world was full of self-serving villains and unforgiving circumstances; it was only natural no one could be believed at their word. To continue his standard of living, he had to be good at his job, and to be good at his job (and he was quite good), he had to get as many guilty verdicts as possible. Of course, he was fully aware of the possibility that he was sentencing a few innocents here and there. But how could he have room for mercy when the earth and its inhabitants had never had room for him? It was a simple calculation, his path in life. He didn't think much of the moniker people attributed to him.
Nevertheless, all changed the day he received to his office an abrupt reminder of his past-- a visitor.
Raymond Shields, boyish legal assistant to his father. He was neither a boy or an assistant now, obviously, but a full-fledged attorney. Madeleine felt his palms become clammy, his pulse quicken, and his vision made unsteady. He had entirely forgotten the existence of this individual. Here was the lone man in the world who could know his true identity. No, he undoubtedly did know.
Was this it? Would his ploy to get anywhere in life be done for? Would he be reported?
“Good afternoon, Prosecutor Madeleine. Sorry for the surprise visit.” Shields introduced himself by removing his fedora hat and bowing his head. “My name is Raymond Shields, attorney at law, head of the Edgeworth Law Offices. You may not remember me after all this time... but we were acquaintances once.”
Edgeworth. Acquaintances. Those two words pierced him through.
This was surely the end.
“How may I help you?” he found himself spitting out, sincerely acerbic.
“Whew, the icy glare. It's just as intimidating as the rumors say,” Shields remarked flippantly, grinning. He returned the fedora to his curly head. “I guess you're not a fan of surprise visits. But what can I say? I've been meaning to talk to you for the last while, and I just worked up the nerve by chance today. Besides, I didn't think you would agree to an appointment with me... am I right?”
“Hmp. It wouldn't be a point I'd dispute in court.”
A chuckle. “Fancy words, yet candidly frank. How scary.” It was a flip of a light switch. Shields' laughing grin dropped, replaced at once by a grave expression. “I'll stop beating around the bush. The reason I came here is..... I wish to apologize. I was unable to defend you fifteen years ago. And in the interim, I was unsuccessful in clearly your name.” Shields pushed his hat down to cover his eyes, grimacing. “Please forgive me!”
Madeleine stared, unable to fully process what he was hearing. This man... This guile-mouthed attorney... exactly what was his game? To pretend to know his innocence when there was no basis for doing so... to claim to have been working to appeal his case all these years...how utterly ludicrous, farcical, absurd.
“I hope to make amends. I don't know how, I don't know when, but I swear I will.” Shields readjusted his fedora, willfully meeting his eye. “Who knows? Perhaps there will come a time when you may need my services.”
His blood boiled. “Is that a threat?”
Shields held up his hands. “No, no, no, that wasn't my intention at all, honest. Look, I don't plan to threaten or blackmail or tell on you or whatever else you might be thinking right now. I'm a defense attorney; I believe in you. No matter what, I'm on your side.”
“Belief?” he echoed, incredulous, “Is that rosy, naive word supposed to sway me? You attorneys and your silver-tongues... why don't you ever admit your true aims? All you're interested in is wringing your clients for as much money as you can get out of them. And now I see you set your sights on more than just potential clients.”
Shields released a lengthy sigh. “I suppose that's the expected response given what you went through. You were betrayed early on in life and made to suffer for thirteen whole years-- no, I imagine you're still suffering. After all that, it's only natural you can't trust anyone.”
“Trust?” he scoffed, “Quit throwing meaningless platitudes at me. I don't need your 'trust', and I certainly don't need you. Now, if that's all you have to say, please leave.” He was trying desperately not to show it, but his heart was inconsolable, thumping more and more audibly in his chest. He was becoming lightheaded.
“Alright, I understand, I'll go. I'm grateful you at least heard me out. I know you don't believe it, but I mean what I say: I'm on your side.”
“Hmph.”
The nosy attorney left. Madeleine stared hard at the door he passed through, incapable of prying his white-knuckled holds from the arms of his chair.
He had to do something. That man had the power to expose him-- to yank the fruits of his labor out from under him and send him back to finite fate he narrowly managed to escape. It was unbelievably terrifying. He could lose everything at the drop of a word.
He wasn't going to sit still and watch it happen. He had to strike first.
Gray eyes darted all about the interior of his office, searching out a solution, anything. They caught on the pencil drawer to his desk, his mind's eye shooting through to its contents. What lay within would have to do. He had to formulate his plan quickly and formulate it now.
He pulled on the drawer and brought out his Swiss Army knife, slamming the former back closed. Time was ticking, but to him it appeared to decelerate. He threw out the knife's spearpoint blade and grasped it firmly in his left hand, turning it towards his dominant side. A shrill noise like that of a siren screamed in his ears unbidden. A warning.
He ignored it, plunging the blade into his upper arm. A poorly restrained groan escaped him. His nerves were on fire. Shocks were shooting through him. It hurt like hell. But even so, he twisted the knife to make the blood flow more freely. Then, he yanked it out with a grimace.
He wasn't done. He took a moment to compose himself, breathing heavily. Sweat was getting into his wound, making it worse, but... He raised the knife, directing it just aside his face this time. A quick twist of his wrist, a single slash, cut across his forehead, dangerously close to his right eye. When blood flowed down to half-obscure his vision, he knew he had succeeded.
It was a little much. He cursed, instinctively drawing up his sleeves to wipe with his arm. Why was he minding his clothes now? They were already ruined.
He turned his attention to a potential hiding place. There, the bottom drawer of his desk. It was a trick drawer, crafted by himself. A fake panel inside concealed a lower compartment, which he used to store inconvenient evidence until he could dispose of it later. He threw the bloody knife in there and firmly set the panel back in place. Then, he locked the drawer and pocketed the key. He used his good arm to make a mess of the resting objects atop his desk, scattering papers, knocking over the lamp, dripping blood upon the cherry wood.
Preparations complete, he slammed the automatic dial on his desk phone, putting it on speaker.
“Security! I have just been assaulted by a wild man with a bladed weapon! At the moment he's fleeing! Detain him!”
In a manner of moments, Raymond Shields was back in his office, hand-cuffed and surrounded by security guards. The chief prosecutor was there as well.
One glance his way told them everything, as he knew it would. The like horror on Shields's face made a delicious triumph bubble inside him, displacing the pain momentarily.
He did not let it show. “That's him!” he cried, standing while holding his injured arm, “That's the bastard that tried to kill me! Strip him of his weapon and arrest him!”
Shields looked dumbfounded as he was patted down. Meanwhile, the Chief Prosecutor came to his side, fussing over his wounds. He pretended to be too angry to care.
Of course they found no weapon.
“Where did you hide it, you brute?! I saw that knife as clear as day!”
Surprisingly, instead of being overtaken by fear or thrown into a howling frenzy of rage as he expected, Mr. Shields bowed his head, allowing the brim of his hat to cryptically overshadow his eyes. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I think there's been a misunderstanding. I never brought a weapon into this building. I couldn't have; I went through a full body scanner to get up here. And I certainly didn't attack anyone either. I'm a man of the law. I'd never do that.”
Madeleine slammed his desk. “Balderdash! Take a good look at your crime! How dare you attempt to explain it away! This floor is full of witnesses that could testify that you were the last one to leave my office!”
“Ah, those wounds you mean?” Shields returned calmly, looking to him with set frown, “Please think carefully and recall. Didn't you inflict those upon yourself? If I were to guess... I bet the knife you speak of is locked in one of the drawers of your desk, the key in your pocket.”
He nearly flinched. But it was fine; it was admittedly a guessable location. “Please,” he scoffed, “Wouldn't that be convenient for you?” He withdrew his desk key and opened up each of the drawers in turn, showing their contents to the chief prosecutor. “There! Is everyone satisfied? Now lock this vile criminal up!”
“Not yet...” Shields just went on talking. “That last drawer is bigger than the others, right? Ms. Chief, would you mind examining it one more time?” He waited for her to do so. “By your judgment, does it appear to be shallower inside than outside? Fake bottoms in office furniture is a common trick for storing valuables.”
His heart dropped along with his composure. He had been too impatient, made a grievous error. The nail to his coffin had been provided by none other than himself.
The bloody pocketknife was found.
“Prosecutor Madeleine, what is the meaning of this? Don't tell me... You stabbed yourself in order to frame this man?!”
“Now hold up.” It was Shields again, having been released. He approached. “Didn't I say this was all a misunderstanding? Prosecutor Madeleine and I met for the first time today; neither of us have a reason to frame or harm the other. Just look at Mr. Madeleine's face. He seems shocked that that knife was even in there.”
He couldn't help but gawk, frozen. What was this demon of his past saying? Met for the first time...?
“This is just a hunch of mine, but I believe Mr. Madeleine recently experienced a bout of delirium, likely from being overworked. He has bags under his eyes; it's easy to tell he's sleep-deprived. Unfortunately, while he wasn't in his right mind, he injured himself. You see, I came here meaning to discuss a plea deal with him, but when I entered the office, I found him sound asleep on his desk. I didn't have the heart to wake him, so we didn't even have a chance to talk. But I guess while I was making my leave, he woke up anyway in a panic of some sort, and the situation escalated to this.”
Was this man... simply an idiot? How foolish could one person be?
“Prosecutor Madeleine, is it true? Are you prone to these sorts of episodes when stressed?”
He was unable to look away from the attorney before him. “I.... don't know.”
“Hmm, if this is the only time this has happened... Well, nevermind that now,” said the chief prosecutor, “Let's get you to a hospital. I'll drive you. And Mr....?”
“Shields. Raymond Shields.”
“Thank you for being so understanding. I apologize on behalf of my subordinate and on behalf of the Prosecutor's Office for the false accusations. If you would, could you please stay behind for a moment? Security will need you to fill out an incident report.”
“Gladly, Ma'am.”
“Thank you. Come now, Prosecutor. Let's get you stitched up. You should know better than to pull long hours incessantly...”
Madeleine allowed himself to be led, too dazed to listen to her scolding. He was saved. Shields denied any relation to him. His concealed criminal past had not been brought to light.
How was any of this possible?
Raymond Shields stepped towards him. “Ah, one moment, Prosecutor Madeleine.” So it wasn't over. Of course it wasn't. “I know this isn't the best time for this, but here's my business card.” The innocuous piece of paper was held out to him. He accepted it with nary a lick of understanding. “When you recover from everything, would you mind giving me a call? I'd like to speak with you about that plea deal.” Shields furtively winked.
Ridiculous. Just... ridiculous.
He was escorted out of the office.
* * *
It had been a strange, fateful encounter, but thanks to that day, his worldview was gradually turned upside-down.
Against him better judgment, shortly after the incident, he met with Shields to demand the whats and whys behind his actions. In the end, he left with more than he bargained for. Shields-- or Ray, as he insisted on being called-- greatly admired his father, as he had forgotten. He had much to impart regarding the latter: bittersweet memories, his father's stand against corruption, his beliefs, his clients, the respectful way he treated others... The sentimental buffoon wouldn't stop talking about him.
But it was a lie to say that talk hadn't affected him-- as did all those that were to follow. They stirred within him feelings that he thought long dead. Affection. Pride. Tranquility. Sorrow. Regret. And in time, he found these emotions weren't just reserved for thoughts of his father. Bit by bit, they permeated throughout his entire being. One day he woke up to the realization that his eyes weren't what they had been. His vision had wholly changed; he was seeing life itself in a new light.
It was then that the 'Demon Prosecutor' expired within him.
No more did he derive satisfaction from putting a man behind bars. No more did he view human beings as threats and beasts. Reputation, win records, and career advancement became inconsequential to him. He started believing in abstracts again. He sought single-mindedly after Justice. He wouldn't allow a trial to end unless the full Truth was revealed. He had Mercy on deserving defendants and took extenuating circumstances into account. And most of all, he could genuinely Trust in the Good of society again.
People, he came to realize, were not devils, nor saints, nor altruists or narcissists. They were simply men, doing the best they could within the scope of their circumstances. Perhaps it was true that only those free of subjugation, destitution, and defilement could afford to have morals. Considering his past, it was true of himself.
He hoped to right these wrongs. He began contributing regularly to charities that fed and clothed the hungry, that taught marketable skills to the jobless, that provided support for the mentally ill, the disabled, the veterans, and the recently incarcerated... much like the charitable organization that had once helped him. But there was more to his motives. He did this in large part to atone for the lives he had indiscriminately convicted, and even more, strove to make amends. He went over all his past cases in his free time, scrutinizing them. If he found any cause for reasonable doubt or evidence of misconduct on his part, he sent his files to Shields and other attorneys, outlining grounds for an appeal.
Only then could he live an existence where his soul was at peace.