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No one would have expected the final trial of Manfred von Karma, forty-time winner of the Nobel Prosecuting Prize, to feature him as the defendant. Really, you could barely even call what was about to happen a trial. After Phoenix Wright had essentially proved him guilty of murder, conspiracy to murder, and general psychotic dickery, this would be little more than a formality. Still, you couldn't shake a von Karma. He took the whole thing with the grace and dignity brought about by billions of years of evolution superior to that of mere humans... at least, he did once he stopped screaming.
Once detained, Manfred von Karma was a model prisoner. He sat quietly in his Detention Center cell and wrote his autobiography, and if the suspected criminals in the cells around him were found swinging from the ceiling or asphyxiated on their own tongue the next morning... well, the guards weren't about to interrupt his silence with their investigation into it.
Manfred von Karma did not speak to his family during this time, not wanting to taint them with his dishonor (whatever dishonor murdering anyone so insignificant as a defense attorney could truly bring), and he did not speak to his own defense attorney, though he had taken care to import the most prestigious one that would take his case. Even as he waited for the trial to start, he did not dignify his representation's meager existence by so much as looking at the man. Indeed, he only looked up from his newspaper when it became apparent that someone was brutally attacking the guard.
"Papa!" cried Franziska von Karma as she burst into the cell, seeming neither affected nor inconvenienced by the fact that she was not supposed to be there.
"Hello, Strudel," he said. "Are you looking forward to the trial today?"
"Papa..." she said, and her composure cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Papa, I don't think I can--"
The echo of his backhand rang through the hallway (and perhaps the guard might have done something about it if he weren't lying crumpled in a heap where Franziska had left him). "There will be no sniveling," he said, "You are a von Karma, and you will be my successor. You are going to go out there and you will prosecute me to the full extent of the law, like I prosecuted my father before me, and he prosecuted his father before him!"
At this point, the neglected defense attorney decided to speak up. "What's going on here? You can't be prosecuted by your own--"
Manfred von Karma tasered him swiftly. Some criminals found smuggling in tasers to be merely expensive; to a von Karma, it was priceless. His daughter couldn't help but smile.
"Thank you, Papa," she said. "It'll be over in less than three minutes."
"Good," he said, with an approving nod.
Franziska drew herself up to her full height and strode away with fresh confidence. At the door, after she'd stepped over the body of the beaten guard, she paused and turned her head. "Papa?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to get you the death penalty."
Manfred von Karma smiled what he thought to be a rather pleasant smile, and it might have been, for a shark. "That's my girl."