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It started as a relaxing, uneventful afternoon, parked on a quiet shoulder of Interstate 10. With a newspaper in one hand and a buttered croissant in the other, Dick Gumshoe melted into the seat of his patrol car and sighed contentedly.
Investigation yesterday had been hectic. Testifying in court the following day was even worse. With such landmark cases happening one after another, Dick found he barely had any time to relax nowadays. But now that his most recent case had been closed, and with no other cases awaiting him back at the precinct, Dick was eager to cash in a much-needed lunch break.
That was the plan, anyway. But when a red blur shot by his parked vehicle at the speed of a bullet, Dick jolted violently and nearly dropped his croissant in surprise.
Dick had barely managed to sit up straight when he caught sight of the blur vanishing into the distance: it was a bright red sports car, engine revving loudly, careening down the highway at a dangerously fast pace. The radar gun on Dick's dashboard blinked, displaying a shocking speed of 87 miles per hour. Dick's hand shot to the stick so he could shift his car into drive, then he flicked the switch overhead to activate his lights and sirens.
With his lights and sirens on, it didn't take long for Dick to catch up to the red car, still flying ludicrously quickly along the black pavement. But when Dick approached the rear end of the speeder, they immediately slowed down and signalled their intent to pull over. Dick expected a lot more resistance, given how fast they were going, but wasn't about to complain about avoiding a high-speed chase.
Once Dick's patrol car and the offending red car coasted to a stop on the shoulder, Dick hopped out and jogged over to the car. He glanced at the license plate, made a mental note of it—and then froze to do a double-take.
This license plate number was one that Dick recognized. His gaze shot back to the car's model, and when he put the pieces together in his head, Dick felt his stomach drop.
This car belonged to the Chief Prosecutor of Los Angeles.
Well, wasn't this lovely. Dick was sure to receive an earful from his supervisor for this—pulling the Chief Prosecutor over for speeding! He cursed under his breath but, knowing he couldn't put off the inevitable, made his way to the driver's side and motioned for the person inside to roll the window down.
"Mr. Edgeworth," Dick began carefully, mustering a miserable half-smile. "H–how's it going today, sir?"
Miles Edgeworth's eyes widened a bit when he saw Dick's face. "Oh, hello, Detective. I didn't expect to see you in this part of town." The corners of his mouth tweaked upwards into a crooked v-shape. Dick wasn't quite sure, but he thought that maybe Miles was trying to smile too. "Can I ask why you pulled me over?"
"I… Well, uh…" Dick found himself stammering and sputtering helplessly. His hand drifted up to rub the back of his neck. "Y–you see, sir… um…"
"Hm?"
"You were going too fast," Dick said a bit too quickly. God, what were the chances he'd pull over Miles Edgeworth of all people? Which deity did Dick anger this week to deserve this? "Th–the radar, sir… it, um… well…"
Miles’ attempted smile turned into a deep frown as he grew more impatient with Dick's floundering. He tapped his finger against the car door, waiting for the detective to pull himself together. "Yes? How fast was I going?"
"…Eighty-seven miles p–p–per hour, sir."
"…I see." Miles turned to face forward and gripped the steering wheel tightly. "I suppose you'll have to cite me for this."
Dick swallowed hard. "Y–yes, sir. I'm very sorry, sir."
Instead of replying, Miles leaned towards his glove compartment to rustle through some neatly stacked papers. His hand emerged with his registration and driver's license. "Take your time... I need to make a phone call."
Dick stopped himself from asking who Miles was planning to call. His supervisor? The Chief of Police? The mayor of Los Angeles? With Miles' license and registration in hand, Dick slunk back to the patrol car and collapsed into his seat. This could only end in disaster.
Dick worked incredibly slowly, as if it would somehow prevent the inevitable fallout of citing the Chief Prosecutor for a traffic violation. His salary was sure to take a massive hit, assuming he wasn't fired for this.
When he finally finished writing up the ticket, Dick returned to the red car to find Miles speaking to someone on his cellphone. When he saw Dick approach, Miles whispered a brief farewell and hung up. He turned to Dick and raised his eyebrows. "Well?"
Dick silently cursed himself for folding so easily under Miles' cold gaze. He must seem pretty pathetic right about now. Sucking in a sharp breath, Dick steeled himself and ran through his usual script. It was all he could do to keep himself from crying.
"I'm citing you for exceeding the speed limit by less than 30 miles per hour," Dick said as firmly as possible, struggling to limit his stammering. "The ticket amounts to $367, which you can either pay by the listed date or contest in court. Th–the scheduled court date is listed at the bottom here, sir."
"I see." Miles took the ticket and scanned it a few times. His eyebrow quirked up even further. "Anything else?"
"Th–that's everything. Here are your papers back." Dick's hands trembled as he presented Miles with his license and registration. "Sir, I'm sorry for asking, but… this won't affect my salary, will it?"
Miles placed the papers aside and chucked. "Detective, you've pulled over the Chief Prosecutor for speeding. Of course this will reflect on you."
Dick's shoulders slumped. "…Oh."
"You know as well as I do that corruption is still rampant in the legal system," Miles continued with a stroke of his chin, "and it's difficult to find honest officers nowadays. You must have recognized my car, yet you still pulled me over. I commend you for that."
It took a moment for the words to fully register in Dick's head. He scratched his hairline, face scrunched up in confusion. Miles Edgeworth was praising him? For pulling him over? "I–I don't understand, sir. I gave you a ticket."
"Yes, and I'm not happy about that, mind you." Miles scowled at the yellow paper, tossing it haphazardly onto the other seat. Dick flinched at the sudden motion. "But I recognize a good officer when I see one." While Dick stood idly by, scratching his head in confusion, Miles slipped the ticket and documents into his glove compartment. He returned his hands to the steering wheel and nodded at Dick. "I was just on the phone with your supervisor. You can expect a salary increase by next month."
A salary increase? Was this an April Fool’s Day joke?
"Anything else, Detective? Am I free to go?"
Dick practically heard himself buffering. He jolted out of his stupor and attempted to reply. "Well, yes, but…"
"Then have a good day. I'm sure I'll see you at the office later this week." With a quick goodbye wave, Miles shifted into gear and sped back onto the road, thankfully staying within the speed limit this time. Dick didn't move for a moment; he watched as Miles drove off, standing dumbly on the highway's edge with a bewildered expression. He wondered what exactly happened and whether he'd imagined it.
Dick shook his head in disbelief and eventually returned to his car. His croissant sat abandoned on the middle console, upside-down and dusted in a thin layer of dirt. But with a promised salary increase on its way, Dick found himself not caring too much about the wasted lunch. He'd buy twenty croissants. Thirty, even. And he’d definitely give one to Miles.
"Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth," Dick chuckled as he pulled out his newspaper and continued reading. He still had twenty minutes left on his lunch break, after all.