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The twelfth floor of the Los Angeles Prosecutors Office has eight offices but only three occupants. Sometimes it reminds Simon unsettlingly of death row. There weren't many occupants who remained long on death row, not while Simon was there and the process was expedited under the Homicide Act of 2020. Of those who had remained on death row long enough for Simon to know their sleep patterns, of those who are still there and will likely stay even if the act actually gets repealed, there is only one name that matters.
"Thank you for coming."
Simon inclines his head, pulls over a chair. They're at a little artsy coffee-shop because it's two-thirty in the afternoon and they like to keep up the pretence neither of them start drinking before five. Klavier is in a mood. He's only does the dance of formalities when his temper is close to the surface, like being polite will somehow disguise the way his eyes could set fire to the abstract painting he's pretending to contemplate.
"I hope I'm not inconveniencing you."
Simon lets him have the dance. "You know I don't do anything on Sunday."
"I'll make it up to you."
Simon picks up his cappuccino and takes a sip to hide his sigh. It's a very good cappuccino, although for the price it should be. Klavier has his nails notched into the groove in the table's wood next to his long black so hard that his nails stand out white from the strain. They're likely to leave impressions in the varnish.
They sit in silence for a long time. This is not the first time they've met like this. Usually, it's Simon who initiates these meetings after a trying day at work when there's just too many people around and he can't stand the thought of submitting himself to Athena's scrutiny. Klavier always chooses the places they go, partly because he wasn't in jail for seven years cut off from the world and he actually knows where to go to have good drinks and food, but also because Klavier can't just go anywhere he wants. Thus, the places they go usually aren't great for Simon's wallet, but they're always nice and discrete and quiet if they go at the right times.
Klavier breathes out through his teeth, makes his hand relax on the tabletop. Simon motions to offer him some of his brownie, playing along with the politeness game, even though he already can predict Klavier's slow shake of the head. Simon can also tell that Klavier would love some of it, but this isn't the time to pry at why Klavier is watching his figure.
"What happened?"
Klavier picks up his coffee but doesn't drink. Simon gets the impression that he would like to throw it but simply lacks a target. It's a bit of relief when Klavier puts the coffee back down.
"I visited my brother."
On a scale of one to ten to gauge bad choices, one being taking a slightly different path home and finding it a few minutes longer a walk and ten being committing homicide in broad daylight with a crowd in attendance, Simon would rank this at about a seven. He doesn't bother to hide this judgement, and Klavier scowls at him for it.
"Why."
Simon knows that Klavier generally does not visit Kristoph. It happened only twice when Simon was still inside, and Simon only knows this because it was the only times that Kristoph was lead past Simon's cell on the way to the visitor room booths. Just the memory of the small, self-satisfied smile makes Simon's blood threaten to boil, and it's only slightly tempered by the memory of the second time that Kristoph was led back and how openly angry and utterly unhinged he'd looked.
Across the table, Klavier notches his nails into the wood again, curling his fingers until Simon can see the outline of every bone in his hand and wrist. "He's refused to appeal."
That surprises Simon despite himself. He chews on the last of his brownie, the news ricochetting against the inside of his skull.
"That -" Simon clears his throat, and Klavier lets him pretend that it was the brownie stuck in his throat, "doesn't sound like him."
For a split second, Klavier's mask cracks, his eyes flashing and something unfurling in his body language that's hard to put into words. In that moment, his anger is so close to the surface that Simon can see that it isn't directed at Simon or the painting or anything around him. There's no direction to Klavier's anger. Simon knows that kind of anger, knows where it will eventually go if Klavier doesn't find an outlet. And Klavier won't; he works far too hard to not offend or hurt anyone else.
He lets Klavier get back in control, though, because Simon is well-aware of what happens when a person is pushed when they aren't ready. This isn't court or an investigation. This is two people having coffee in a place that's being respectful of their need for privacy. He waits for Klavier to draw the curtain back over his anger, sipping on his cappuccino.
"No," Klavier says, low and soft.
He picks up his own coffee and takes a long sip. Simon entirely expects Klavier to let them lapse back into silence, so it surprises him when Klavier continues, something odd dragging on his diction, giving his accent a more obvious flavour.
"He wants to have it done. It's a waste of the estate. Politics and public opinion will welcome it. So what does it matter?"
It clearly does matter, but it's unnecessary to actually point this out. Simon looks out the window, at the cars passing by. He decides to be selfish.
"Did you know he was my defence attorney?"
Silence. Simon glances back. Klavier has shut his eyes. Not hard, like he's trying to block out what Simon just said. They're shut in the way people tend to close their eyes before a deep sigh. Klavier doesn't sigh. He opens his eyes again, and all traces of anger are gone. Simon wants to know what he did with it.
"Ja," he says, and, of all things, it's apologetic. "I used to -" and the way he smiles is sympathetic and self-effacing; he shakes his head. "Even after what had happened."
Klavier started his career in law a year before Simon. Simon remembers watching the news reports while he was studying the bar. Back then, he hadn't been able to focus on it. When Kristoph Gavin had offered to take his case after five other defence attorneys turned it down, Simon had been surprised but couldn't find a reason to refuse that wouldn't make his plan obvious. He'd never intended to go free, and he'd always been reasonably sure that Kristoph had figured that out, even though Kristoph couldn't have known why. That Kristoph hadn't interfered but seemed to put up such a good defence in court: Simon had been so grateful.
Simon breathes out. "You weren't wrong to trust him. I trusted him. More than I reasonably should have. But I get the impression that's just what he's like."
He's the sort of person, Simon doesn't say aloud, that preys on trust. Kristoph actively seeks out people who need something to hold onto and becomes that thing, becomes indispensable and puts them in his debt. Simon got off rather easily, all things considered. For Simon, Kristoph was just a defence attorney who Simon didn't want but had to have for formalities sake. At least Kristoph was never his boss and mentor like he was for Apollo Justice. At least he wasn't a friend and confidant like for Phoenix Wright.
Klavier is quiet. His expression is calm, almost placid, but he's rubbing the knuckles of his right hand on the inside of his left wrist in very small, self-soothing circles. Or not the knuckles; it's the rings on his middle and ring fingers that he's using to cause friction. It's a very specific thing to do. Simon finds he doesn't like it. Klavier catches him staring and pulls his hands back, shifting them to his lap where Simon can't see them. They're quiet again, tense.
"Nothing changed," Klavier says, and that could mean so many things.
Simon weighs the consequences of what he wants to ask and decides that if there's a time, it's now. "Do you want him to appeal?" and he soldiers on even though the look Klavier gives him makes him half-sure that they're not going to be friends after this. "Do you want him free?"
Klavier looks down. Whatever he's doing with his hands in his lap is apparently very interesting. Simon runs the spoon around the edge of his half-finished cappuccino, making mush of the residual foam. He tries to remember what it was like, all those years ago, before the Phantom, all the blood and the sorrow. What it was like to be able to trust someone at face value. It's so very difficult.
When Klavier speaks, it's with that oddness to his words, as if English comes only with difficulty. "It doesn't matter," he repeats. "His mind is made up. He would rather die."
Simon resists the urge to grind his teeth; he is going to have to say it. "It does matter," and maybe his voice is a bit too loud, but at least it gets Klavier to look at him again. "I asked what you want."
Klavier stares at him. His expression is open but not with shock or anger or even discomfort. It's blank. He doesn't understand. It makes the bottom drop out of Simon's stomach and suddenly he doesn't know what to do. He's an expert in analytical psychology, but he's not a psychologist. He knows how to use his knowledge to break down a witness or defendant, has built his entire career around it. He doesn't know how to fix it.
He watches with something like horror as Klavier tilts his head to the side, a hand coming up to catch his bangs before they fall into his eyes. Klavier's gaze moves to the window, staring somewhere far beyond anything there. For a very long moment, Klavier goes away, the small motions of his fingers playing with the ends of his hair the only indication he hasn't completely disconnected. Slowly, though, Klavier seems to slot himself back into place. His hand leaves his hair. He picks up his coffee. He turns away from the window to take a long, calm sip. When he looks back to Simon, he smiles, small and sweet and picturesque. Simon knows he's going to lie.
But then the smile disappears. Klavier doesn't look away from him, doesn't hide his hands again. The smile is his mask, but, without it, Simon is faced with Klavier, who has never been kind. Pleasant, pretty, and pleasing, yes, but never kind.
"So you want truth," he says, and he spreads his hands; it would be mocking, except it exposes how he's rubbed the skin of his left wrist raw. "Even before Kristoph came of age, he raised me. He was better than our parents. He cared. I know it was not all fake. When someone lets their hand be broken to save someone else pain, that is not fake. I do not know when he changed, but, at one point in time, he cared. That matters. I am a selfish person. I do not love what Kristoph is now, but I love the Kristoph who raised and cared for me. So, no, I do not want him to appeal. I do not want him free. But I do not want him to die."
He drops his hands back to his lap. He watches Simon. Simon stares back, processing everything there. It's a lot, far more than Simon actually acted for, and it's deeply unsatisfying. It leaves more questions that Simon desperately wants to ask but can't because he's already used up all the acceptable approaches and already delved into some of the less.
Klavier looks at the clock that hangs behind the coffee machine at the bar. "It's almost three," he says, and that means that this place is going to be busy soon; he twists in the chair to start pulling his motorcycle jacket off the back. "Do you want a lift?"
He's being polite again. It feels like sand slipping out between Simon's fingers. It makes him feel helpless. That's the reason he says what he does.
"I don't think he deserves to die," and Simon doesn't, can't; he's been there for too long. "No one deserves that."
Klavier breathes in. He seems to shrink even with the motorcycle jacket to add bulk to his form. He reaches up to his hair, stops, and his fingers shuffle over themselves like they're searching for strings. He breathes out, glancing back at the clock.
"I need to leave."
Simon nods and stands up. Klavier blinks at him. He looks surprised and vaguely alarmed. Simon is deeply uncomfortable and disconcerted, but he knows he can't just leave this. He needs to catch Klavier before he goes off and does something he regrets or rebuilds his walls so high there's no coming back.
Klavier stands up. He doesn't smile. Simon feels like they should be in court. But they're both prosecutors. They're on the same side of the bench. Simon breathes out.
"I'll take you up on the ride."