Chapter Text
When the verdict is read, he is careful to keep his face still. He purses his lips together. This is a serious moment after all, and technically, technically, they lost. Raymond is next to him, looking awkward and gangly in a too-big dress shirt and a lopsided tie. The room is too hot, like usual. His assistant looks at the floor, jaw tight, fists balled. It is still a guilty verdict, and Manfred von Karma has still won, again. But Gregory Edgeworth fixes his gaze elsewhere, over towards the prosecution as the judge adds an additional remark.
“The court recognizes that the matter in which the autopsy was performed in this case is…highly irregular. Though the rest of the case leaves little doubt as to the defendant’s culpability, I will speak with the Chief Prosecutor and a complete audit will be performed. There is no excuse for this kind of thing, Mr. von Karma. If needed, I will provide documentation in support of whatever penalty deemed appropriate.”
Manfred is stoic, rigid, even. But Gregory can see it. A twitch on the man’s face, a shift in his gaze. The carefully polished veneer of perfect calm is beginning to crack ever so slightly. The evidence is there; the beads of sweat on his upper lip, the flush of red on his ears, the veins in his neck bulged, pulsing.
He inclines his head jerkily. Not hardly the magnanimous bow he treated everyone to at the start. “Understood, your honor,” he says, with only the vaguest hint of a sneer. His voice is steady, but his eyes blink rapidly a few times.
Unable to help himself, a gentle smile makes its way onto Gregory’s lips.
From the moment he had met Manfred von Karma he hadn’t cared much for the prosecutor’s arrogance or his bullying. He found von Karma’s need to win at all costs distasteful. The exchanges they’d had before the trial had been terse at best and explosive at worst. But one indisputable fact remained.
It was all a game for Manfred. The courtroom, the prosecution, the entire system. And being unable to win this time, Von Karma had cheated. He had falsified evidence to win. And though that hadn’t been definitively shown today, there was the beginning, right from the judge’s lips. Complete audit. No excuse.
Penalty. A bright red mark next to von Karma’s supposed “perfect” record.
That garbage excuse for an autopsy would be thrown out. They would get a retrial. Jeff Master would be free, and….well…
Hopefully by then he can catch a breather. Spend some quality time with Miles. He’s growing up so fast these days, and the amount of time Gregory spends buried in work only makes it worse.
For now, Gregory pulls himself back to the present. He claps a hand on Raymond’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Ray gives a light grunt, thick eyebrows meeting. “We lost.” His voice is flat. “Von Karma got away with everything.”
“For now. But this isn’t the end.” He grabs his hat off the bench and sets it on Raymond’s fluffy hair. “We’re going to keep fighting this. Just be patient, kid.” He turns to put on his coat. “You should head home. Get some rest. Want me to drive you back?”
Raymond nods. He looks pale. “Yeah, okay.” He sighs. “Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth. I…maybe need to use the bathroom first. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Okay.” Gregory tries not to worry as Ray shuffles off down the hallway, but he’s distracted soon enough.
“Father!”
A very loud stage whisper rings out from up the hallway. Sitting on one of the benches along the wall is his son, dressed in a sport coat and bow tie. Gregory grins at him.
“I think you can talk normally now. Court is not in session.”
Miles beams at him. Going to court is his favorite thing on planet earth, which concerns Gregory just a tad. He brought Miles to watch from the gallery a few times before this, and always had to remind his son to keep his voice down if there was a particularly interesting objection raised or argument made.
“I think the second expert witness they brought was pretty weak, Dad. You should have pressed him harder during cross.”
Gregory presses the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a chuckle. “Yeah, that’s probably right. I’ll do better next time.” He wonders what his law professors would make of the fact that he’s being coached by his nine-year-old son. He adjusts Miles’s bow tie, which has somehow been pulled askew, and reaches for his hand.
Miles takes it, but there's just a moment of hesitation, a recent, vague thing. He remembers with sadness dropping Miles off at school the other day, the rare opportunity to do so. Usually Miles rides the bus, but that day, Gregory got to drive him in their not-exactly-new-but-still-serviceable sedan because the hearing he was supposed to be at had been canceled at the last minute. When he'd pulled up at the curb, he'd given Miles a little peck on the cheek and been met with a look of horror, Miles's eyes darting out the window.
"Father," he'd whined, sinking down below the window. "Don't kiss me. I'm not a little baby anymore." Before Gregory could respond he'd slipped out of the car and fled.
Of course, this was a thing that happened eventually. Little boys grow up and are suddenly worried about looking cool in front of their friends. Miles seems to have a group of friends this year, which is good, a welcome change from years past where every teacher seemed to bemoan Miles's lack of interest in socializing and preference to simply read in a corner during free time. Never mind that the other children seemed to tease him mercilessly for that. Of course, maybe he is to blame for his son's social awkwardness, but he can't help but feel the whole thing would be easier if the other children weren't so vicious.
But it stung all the same, the realization that Miles wouldn't stay this way forever. He wouldn't always be a small, sweet boy who loved reading and talking about subpoenas the way other boys love sports or video games. He'd grow up someday. That was the whole point. He pushes the elevator button with a sigh.
"Sorry," says Miles. "I guess it wasn't a fair trial, right?"
He has tried to keep the details of this trial under wraps, despite his son's nosiness. Apparently, he didn't do as well as he thought. "Well, I don’t know about that, Miles. I believe we did our best. It's just that sometimes there are things beyond our control."
Miles nods, but doesn't say anything. The elevator pings, signaling its arrival. "Come on, son."
“Hold it!”
One of the bailiffs comes running towards them. Gregory rests his back against the elevator door until he reaches them, panting slightly.
“Going down?” Gregory asks, letting the doors close as the man slips inside.
The bailiff freezes a moment. He watches the elevator doors slide shut, his eyes darting around wildly. Gregory flashes him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “You made it!”
The bailiff stares at him, wide-eyed and tight-shouldered. He is of average height, with thin, pinched lips and bloodshot eyes. He can’t be any older than twenty-five, his face is smooth and unblemished, though the hair that sticks out from his cap is already grizzled with salt and pepper. His eyes are a grey-blue also. He actually looks like Miles in a sort of sideways way.
Suddenly, he seems to get a hold of himself. “Yes, down. To…ground floor, I suppose. Thank you.” His voice is soft, but deep, and carries just the hint of an accent of some kind. Gregory tries to place it. Something about the bailiff unsettles him.
“Sure,” he says. The button is already pressed. Miles twists his bow tie around, his eyes on the floor. The plaquards for each floor illuminate in decreasing order.
Gregory clears his throat, about to ask the young man if he had come out of the trial, but a heavy jolt takes the words right out of his mouth. The elevator continues to move downwards but there is another impact, then another. The car starts to shake violently, pitching its inhabitants to the floor. The lights flicker and after a few seconds go off entirely.