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You're never sure why you did the deed just so. Maybe it was the pain- the bullet ripping through your shoulder, taking your common sense with it. Maybe it started earlier, while you wandered the dark courthouse in a fog. When the door opened and you saw him lying helpless on the ground, the gun at his feet, you were sure he was the one who'd ruined you. You knew he’d shot you, as surely as he'd stained your record.
So you shot Yanni Yogi through the heart, wiped the gun clean, and put it in Gregory Edgeworth’s hand.
— — — — — — — — —
You read about it a week later. GUILTY. No surprise. His son protested on the stand- said he'd thrown the gun, that he was the killer, not his father. Payne dismissed those claims- a child trying to save his father, how understandable. Almost admirable. But the prints on the gun told the real story.
Now you know who really shot you. A small miscalculation on your part, but how were you to know that the entire family consisted of miscreants? Imperfection begets imperfection. Your shoulder aches.
Each day you practice stilling the tremors. Once your convalescence ends, you expect you'll never need think of Gregory Edgeworth again.
— — — — — — — — —
When you return to Los Angeles, you hear something new. Rumors whisper through the courthouse corridors. Suddenly prisoners are advocating for themselves, making appeals, fighting their sentences. Soon there's a tremendous backlog, years and years of postponed executions, appealed on the basis of cruel and unusual punishment, of overlooked evidence, lost evidence.
Someone in state prison is making good use of his law degree. You pay no mind to appellate court.
— — — — — — — — —
Your daughter enters law school, precociously young. Even you did not ascend so quickly at that age, but then, you didn’t have a genius for a father. Sometimes you worry about her. You’ve read the best books on parenting, done your best to teach her the social skills a young woman needs to succeed, the skills with a whip she needs to defend herself. As a father, you’ve been perfect.
She reports back regularly, letting you know that she’s made a few friends, made perfect grades, secured an internship.
At her graduation, you pay very close attention to her speech. She is the youngest-ever graduate from Ivy University School of Law, and the valedictorian.
Miles Edgeworth is the salutatorian. You are careful to pay him no heed.
— — — — — — — — —
There is talk in the higher courts of California of banning the death penalty. Functionally, the queue is frozen. You keep pursuing guilty verdicts. As you age, the tremors come back.
— — — — — — — — —
You write a letter to Polly Jenkins, and you tell her how Gregory Edgeworth covered up the murder of Yanni Yogi. You tell her exactly what to do, neatly tying up every loose end.
— — — — — — — — —
You indict Miles Edgeworth for the death of Roberta Hammond. He elects to hire a fellow junior lawyer, some Phoenix Wright, even more the rookie than he.
It should be simple.
It isn’t simple. You’re surprised at your own outbursts, at times. Pain shoots through your arm.
You suppose that this is an unusually personal case for you.
— — — — — — — — —
It is regrettable that your taser came in handy, but needs must.
— — — — — — — — —
Phoenix Wright is cross-examining the parrot. You’ve lost control of your case. When Jenkins accuses Miles Edgeworth of the murder of her fiancé, he admits to it. He says his father took the blame, but it was his; that this is the last chance he has to make things right.
In the uproar, the only one who sees you grip your shoulder is Franziska.
— — — — — — — — —
Gregory Edgeworth is called to the stand. He admits that his son fired the gun- but he is certain it did not hit Yogi. He’s certain it was someone else.
He turns to face you.
— — — — — — — — —
The metal detector beeps. Wright presents the bullet. You hear yourself scream. Miles Edgeworth starts, stares at you, then turns to the defense’s bench, pale as a ghost.
“Dad. Dad. It wasn’t me.”
His father smiles at him. Phoenix Wright grins at them, then at you. A mean look. It’s only his fourth case.
You look up at your daughter, sitting in the wings. She looks you in the eye, very deliberate, and she looks away.
You take one last look at Gregory Edgeworth. You should’ve killed him when you had the chance. It would have been cleaner.
— — — — — — — — —
The day Gregory Edgeworth gets his badge back, you choose death.