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When it came time for his verdict, justice was swift.
As a prosecutor, up until recently, all he had witnessed were guilty verdicts. In all those cases, Miles played a pivotal part in proving each defendant’s—each criminal’s—guilt.
Now, while on the witness stand, serving the role of the accused criminal himself, Miles was forced to accept a truth he’d long denied: he wasn’t so different from all those he had sent to their fate.
After fifteen long years, his father’s killer had been found. DL-6 was solved. It was finally over.
For the murder of Gregory Edgeworth, his father, Miles was guilty.
When the verdict was read, Wright called out in despair. He sifted through his evidence, pleading pointlessly for more time, another chance, a miracle.
But despite Wright’s protests, nothing could change the facts of this case. Nothing could change his guilt. Nothing could change what Miles had done.
Chaos broke out as the officers handcuffed him, preparing to take him away. Wright refused to accept their loss. Loudly, he argued, bargained, begged. A last-ditch effort by a desperate man. His assistant jumped in, foolishly trying to help him. The only thing it would accomplish was them both being held in contempt of court.
The gavel swung down, again and again, as the judge called for order and for this case to finally come to a close.
On the other side of the courtroom, Von Karma stood behind the prosecution bench, arms folded across his chest, calm and quiet. A faint smirk pulled at his lips, the only crack in his perfect composure. His mentor pointedly avoided Miles’ gaze. It stung, undeniably, but it was justified. A criminal, such as himself, deserved that treatment.
Distantly, his old friend called out, promising he would save him, promising he would fix this. But now, there was nothing to fix. No more wrongs to right. And Miles shouldn’t be saved.
Phoenix Wright was naive: idealistic and hopeful to a degree beyond foolish. Always determined, he’d push back against the inevitable. He never gave up. Never could tell when something was done. Never understood when the time for fighting was over.
…But there was no fighting this. Not anymore.
Miles was done running from the truth. Finally, it was time for him to face justice.
Despite the disarray coming from the defense’s side of the courtroom, Miles found himself in a serene state, calm and at peace. It was unlike how he’d felt for a very long time. Like a decade-long question had finally been answered.
Two weeks after the verdict, Wright sat across from him, separated by a pane of bulletproof glass.
It was the first time they had spoken or seen each other since that trial, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying on Wright’s part. Every day, a guard approached his cell, informing him that he had a visitor. And every day, Miles refused.
Yet, here they were. Today, for some inexplicable reason, he accepted. Miles regretted it the instant the words left his lips. It was a moment of weakness. A foolish, sentimental desire to see him again, at least one last time.
When the guard first escorted him here and their eyes met, Wright smiled. For a few moments, his whole face lit up. Like simply seeing him managed to bring Wright that much joy.
At the realization, warmth radiated throughout his chest. Miles ignored the feeling.
Frankly, Wright looked awful. It wasn’t in the sense of being unattractive. No, Wright was still a handsome man—still infuriatingly attractive. It was the difference from the last time Miles had seen him. It was the dark circles under his eyes, which he drew attention to with how often he rubbed them. It was his pale skin, which was missing the vitality of his normal complexion. And it was how he carried himself, devoid of the fire and energy Miles had grown accustomed to seeing during their battles in court. It was obvious that he’d stopped taking proper care of himself in the time Miles had been imprisoned here.
“I'm surprised your assistant isn't here with you. It seemed like you two were attached at the hip.”
Miles had gotten the distinct impression that she had done quite a lot to help Wright out. Honestly, he was surprised Wright made enough to even pay her.
“Maya needed to return back home to her village to continue her training. She left the day after your trial…”
Did not having Maya around make these last couple of weeks even more difficult for Wright?
Ever since that day, Miles had been wholly skeptical of the supposed legitimacy of spirit channeling.
If it was a genuine practice and Misty Fey had truly summoned his father all those years ago, it meant he had lied to protect him. Yanni Yogi had been declared innocent, and all along the real culprit was…
He would prefer it if it weren’t real… But either way, whether his father had been channeled or not, he had to know who really killed him…
Miles could never make up for what he’d done. Hopefully, if there really was such a thing as an afterlife, his father could find it in himself to forgive him. He didn’t deserve it. Miles didn’t deserve the forgiveness of anyone—least of all his father, his victim.
Miles distracted himself from his thoughts, changing the subject to something less depressing. For some time, they managed to talk about a variety of topics, engaging in a normal conversation. Miles made his best attempt to keep the words between them flowing. It wasn’t something he was particularly good at, but he tried.
Miles hadn’t realized how much he wanted to speak with Wright until he sat down for this visit. Miles always preferred being alone and spending time in his own company, but when he was left with nothing but that option, he found himself craving the opposite.
Being in Wright’s presence again made him feel… better. Deep, deep down, Miles had an inkling of why that was the case. Part of the reason, anyway. But he couldn’t allow those feelings to rise or be explored at all costs. Miles couldn't then—when Wright came back into his life and he first realized them—and he certainly couldn’t now. For as much as being near Wright gave him some measure of comfort, the fact that he felt that way at all left him frustrated and annoyed.
“Did you get the check I asked Gumshoe to mail? The payment for your services?”
While Miles would rather avoid any conversation surrounding his case, he needed to know if Wright received his deserved payment. He would certainly need it, considering he clearly couldn’t be taking clients on when he spent so much of his time trying to visit him.
Wright blinked at him. “…Yes.”
“It should be more than sufficient. Hopefully it covers all your expenses, at least until—”
“I ripped it up.”
“You what?”
“Don't worry, Edgeworth. You can just write me another one once I get you out of here.”
That was how Wright wished to play this?
Miles glared at him. Somehow, he managed to hold his tongue.
How could he do something so moronic? This was why that man didn’t have money. Did he want to live in poverty? Wright was far, far too stubborn for his own good.
“Speaking of…”
After a few minutes of decently pleasant conversation (before Miles started silently fuming over Wright’s poor financial decision-making, at least), Wright shifted the topic to Miles’ case—somewhere he was hoping it wouldn’t go. Talking about anything else had been a welcome distraction.
“I combed over everything about that case—everything I had access to, anyway. I’ve read the case file front to back, I don’t know how many times… I can understand how it remained a cold case for so long.”
Miles stared at him; Wright chuckled nervously.
“A-Anyway, the only thing that really sticks out to me is the extra bullet hole, but I can’t make any sense of it. I visited the police department’s records room the other day to look into everything they had on DL-6. I was hoping to find some answers, to get some sort of break in the case.”
“Wright…”
“Maya and I, we’d only gone to that room once, just to get the case file. We weren’t able to get a good look at most of the stuff there when we were first investigating… but I really wish we had.”
“Wright, you know—we know—the answer already. You don’t need to—”
“It’s gone, Edgeworth,” Wright continued, refusing to listen. “The evidence… The guard at the front desk said it had been placed in Von Karma’s custody. Not a single piece was left behind.”
Miles sucked in a breath. “Von Karma did what? Why? Why would he…”
Miles didn’t understand. Why would he take all the evidence? His mentor would do everything in his power to secure a guilty verdict, that wasn’t new. But to go to that extent… even now? Unless… he knew?
Von Karma knew the truth. He knew Miles was a killer. He knew he had killed his father.
Manfred von Karma hated criminals even more than Miles did. It made sense that he would want to ensure Miles be punished for what he had done.
How long had he known? And why did he choose to let Miles get away with his crime for as long as he had?
“We’ll just have to work with what we’ve got. Don’t worry, Edgeworth, we have other options.”
Wright dug through his satchel, searching for something. “I know I have it here somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “I remember putting it away last night…”
After a few more moments of searching, Wright pulled out a manila folder and a pen. Wordlessly, he slid both through the document slot and over to Miles.
“This is the first order of business, I think. To ensure we have time for everything else.”
Miles opened the folder, revealing a small packet of stapled-together paperwork. The pages were a tad crinkled and the top left corners slightly bent, showing clear signs that the papers within had been reviewed over and over. He thumbed through the pile. Wright had already filled out everything for him.
Throughout the document, there were clear marks where correction fluid had been used. It was unprofessional. Whiteout was barely a step above simply scratching out the text, at least with how Miles had been taught. If he had made a mistake while filling out legal forms—not that he ever had, but if he did—he would just grab another and begin anew.
And while Wright's penmanship still left much to be desired, his handwriting here was in a neater script than other documents he'd seen penned by Wright.
Overall, these forms were in a much better state than any other documents he’d received from Wright. Far neater and more legible. It was clear how much care he put into it.
Almost immediately, Miles had figured out what this bundle of forms was: a stay of execution. If approved, the motion would allow a temporary pause in the enforcement of a court order. It was often used during the appeal process or while pursuing other means to overturn the original judgment. In his case, the term would be taken quite literally. It would prevent his death sentence from being carried out for an indefinite period of time. Ensuring extra time for investigation and reevaluating his sentence. Any time at all that Wright would spend on this would be wasted.
Miles reached the final page. He traced his finger over Wright’s name at the bottom, frowning. Above Wright’s signature was a blank line, the only thing left to complete.
He didn't ask for Wright to do this. He didn't want him to. Nevertheless, Miles was sorry to waste Wright's time.
An arrow-shaped sticky note pointed at the empty signature line. Sign here, the note specified, as if Miles would be so unfamiliar with any kind of legal form to need something as simple as where to sign be pointed out for him. He could appreciate the intent behind it, at least, as unnecessary as it might be. This was the first time he’d seen Wright using them. Miles couldn’t help but wonder if he dug them up just for this, for him.
“You’ve spent a lot of time on this…”
All that care, that effort, the lengths Wright went to and how relentlessly he fought for him… Miles didn’t want it, not in the slightest. Even so, he couldn’t help but be touched. Just thinking of it made a certain level of fondness for that man bubble up inside him.
At the same time, it amplified his guilt.
“Of course, Edgeworth. Why wouldn’t I?”
All this time, all this effort, the blatant disregard for his own health and well-being… what was Wright doing to himself? It was pointless, useless, a waste… and Miles already had enough to feel guilty about. He couldn't take responsibility for Wright too.
Miles needed to step in. He needed to stop it. He couldn’t let Wright keep doing this to himself.
“I compiled a list of charity organizations that provide support and help advocate for those who’ve been wrongfully convicted. Maybe they have resources I don’t. I’m thinking that tonight, after I drop that form off at the courthouse, I’ll go through their contact information one by one and—”
“Wright.”
He kept talking, eyes down as he shuffled through the papers in front of him. Miles wasn’t sure if Wright had even heard him, or if he was too focused on his own words and thoughts.
“—run out of appeals, we could push for a writ of habeas corpus if new evidence comes up, or on the grounds of an unfair trial due to a conflict of interest. One of the men who raised you served as the prosecutor, after all. Then—”
“Wright,” Miles said again, louder this time. Still, he failed to capture his attention.
“—a long shot, since conflict of interest is rarely taken into consideration, but it’s worth trying everything we can. Maybe we can wait until we try a few other things first before going this route. I think—”
“Phoenix Wright!”
Wright finally lifted his gaze, looking over at him with tired eyes.
“Stop. Please just… just stop,” Miles pleaded. “It's over, Wright. I need you to forget about pursuing this any further.”
“What? So you’re just giving up? Just like that?” Wright blinked at him, disbelieving. “Do you expect me to? Sorry, Edgeworth, but I won’t give up that easily.”
“I’m merely trying to save you from wasting your time and effort any further.”
“I would never think helping you is a waste.”
Miles stared down at the incomplete paperwork in front of him, sighing.
“Edgeworth…”
“I'm sorry,” Miles said before closing the file and pushing everything back over to Wright's side. “I can’t sign this. I refuse to.”
“I don’t get it, Edgeworth. When you accepted this visit, I thought you were finally going to let me help you. I was sure that you would… that you were ready to.”
“I didn't come here to speak with my lawyer.”
“Oh… uh, well…” Wright shyly glanced away, his cheeks tinged pink. “T-That's not just why I'm here—to be a lawyer, I mean.”
“…I know.” Miles sighed. “If this were just a job for you, it wouldn't be nigh impossible to get you to stop.”
Miles hoped Wright could continue acting as a lawyer after this. He didn’t wish to be responsible for damaging or even potentially destroying Wright’s career. As much as Miles didn’t want to admit it, Wright had a lot of potential. He could stand to read a law book or two, and learn to prioritize preparing his cases over bluffing… But Miles truly believed he should keep at it and continue honing his craft.
“I hope you're still able to get clients after this,” he said. “There's a reason everyone else refused me. Well, the risk to their reputation was only one of many, but it was a factor, nonetheless.”
“Dammit, Edgeworth… I don’t care about that,” Wright said, furrowing his brow. “The reason why I became a lawyer in the first place… I-I need to save you.”
Miles went quiet for a moment, stunned by Wright’s words. He met Wright’s intense gaze, searching his eyes. He wasn’t sure what Wright meant by that. Miles parted his lips, almost asking for clarification before stopping himself. He didn’t dare ask. It was better not to know. There was no use in opening that door and thinking about anything that could have been. “Sorry,” he said instead. “I’m… I’m sorry, Wright.”
“I don’t want your apologies,” he said. “I just want you to let me help you. I don’t understand…” Wright sighed, dejected. “I don’t understand why you won’t.”
“I can’t let you do it. Not this time.”
“But—”
“I don’t want this, Wright. I don’t want your help, and I don't want to be saved.” All Miles wanted now was to face his punishment and finally pay for what he’d done.
“You think you deserve this, don’t you? You think that the verdict is correct, and you really are guilty?”
Miles glanced away, saying nothing.
“No, I don’t believe it. I refuse to.” Wright leaned forward, an intense look in his eye. “Something isn’t adding up. You’re innocent, I know it. I believe it, from the bottom of my heart.”
“Beliefs and feelings mean nothing in a court of law.” Miles scoffed. “At least without anything to back them up. Evidence is everything.”
For almost fifteen years, Miles had feared that he was his father’s killer. His guilt-fueled dreams served to never let him forget that. The only thing he had to hold onto was that it was only a dream—a nightmare. It wasn’t real. There was no proof, no evidence. Miles’ belief that he could have killed his father was false… it had to be.
A belief only remained a belief until there was enough evidence to prove otherwise. And finally, after fifteen long years, there had been enough evidence to prove that Miles was guilty. His deep-seated fear—his belief—that Miles had killed his father had been true, and Miles could deny it no longer.
“The courts have decided I’ve committed the heinous crime of patricide. I’m sure that heart of yours has nothing to prove the contrary.”
Wright leaned back; a hurt expression flashed across his face. “It isn’t right. You were nine and it was an accident… Even if you were the one who did it—which I don't believe—you can't possibly think you’re at the same level as some murderer?”
“Accidental murder—”
“Is still murder, right.” He scoffed. “Well, I have a problem with that… Why don’t you?”
At the time, Miles was only a child. He was in distress. It was an accident. That was all true, and yet, none of it mattered. Miles had killed his father. There was no forgiving that. Not by the court, not by anyone else, and certainly not by Miles himself.
“The circumstances don’t matter. It changes nothing. The guilty need to be punished.” He needed to be punished.
Miles looked over at the guard, silently signaling that he was ready, before rising to his feet.
“Despite how foolish it is and how little difference it makes in this case, I do appreciate your belief in me. But… you’re wrong. Your belief is in the wrong person.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And you need to accept it. There is no other choice.”
It was selfish of him to see Wright. It would be better for the both of them if they cut all contact. He should have remained firm on this. There was no point in indulging, knowing what awaited him. And Miles’ presence here would only serve to encourage Wright even more.
Wright jumped to his feet as Miles turned to leave.
“I won’t stop trying, not until you’re free!” Wright called out after him. “I don’t care what it takes, Edgeworth. I’m going to get you out of there.”
As much as Miles wished it wasn’t the case, he knew Wright meant it. Nothing would come of it, but it wouldn’t stop Wright from wasting his time.
“If I can’t save you…”
"It's too late, Wright." Miles stopped, halfway to the door. He turned to look back at Wright, one final time. “It's always been too late.”
Wright repeatedly called out to him, his voice growing exceedingly desperate. After a few moments, the door slammed shut behind Miles, muting Wright’s cries and forever separating the two of them.
This visit had been a mistake. It was a moment of weakness that did nothing but hurt the both of them, and Miles would not be weak again.
Miles spent nearly every waking moment trapped alone in a space only a sliver the size of his bedroom back home. His cell was dim and dreary, with little to draw his eye or engage with. For the most part, all he had were his thoughts.
Miles spent much of his time reading when there was sufficient light to do so. There were only a handful of books he had access to. It didn’t take long to devour his small library. He must have read his favorite out of the selection, a classic mystery novel, five times in the month he’d been here.
He often read at the small desk in his cell or while lying in bed. Sometimes, instead of reading, he would just lay there, staring up at the discolored ceiling, and think.
From day to day, there was little variation in his routine. The monotony was inescapable.
“Miles Edgeworth,” the guard said, approaching his cell. “She’s here again to see you, Ms. Franziska von Karma.”
It had been almost four years since they'd last seen each other. Nearly two since they last spoke. She had flown over from Germany to be here; no doubt disrupting her promising career to do so.
But… Miles didn’t want her to see him like this. He couldn’t bear it. Not now. Not after what he’d done.
Both Franziska and Wright kept trying to see him. Both persistent and relentless in their pursuit of that goal, as was their way. Aside from that one lapse of judgment he had concerning Wright, Miles managed to stand firm in his refusal to see either of them.
“No,” Miles responded finally. “My answer remains the same—it will be the same—each and every time: I’m not taking any visitors.”
The guard didn’t move to leave. “B-But last time she whipped me so hard I was nearly sent to the hospital! I almost lost consciousness! I-I don’t really want to tell—”
“That isn’t my problem, is it? Frankly, I don’t care what you do or don’t want to do—you have a job, so just leave me be and do it already!”
The guard opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Thinking better of it, he turned around to leave. The door to the death row cellblock locked behind him, and Miles was left alone once again.
If he were anyone else, his attitude would have gotten him punished. The few privileges he had would have been revoked, Miles knew that. Even while wearing a striped prison uniform, he wasn’t like the others. Not exactly. For better or for worse, Miles couldn’t detach himself from his previous prosecutor status.
That dissimilarity was made strikingly clear whenever another inmate laid their eyes on him. For many, it was not the first time Miles had encountered them, even if he couldn’t remember them himself. The amount of crime was too great, the defendants too numerous, and he didn’t have enough time or care to commit them to memory. Most he never gave more than a passing glance as the officers carted them away. But from the way they looked at him, Miles knew he had a hand in sending them here.
A part of him questioned their guilt, which was a thought that hadn’t really come to him before. The few times any inkling of doubt had crept into his consciousness and made itself known to him, Miles had done everything in his power to squash it and shove it back down. Prior to Wright forcing his way back into his life, at least. And now, that doubt lingered whenever he set his eyes on one of those souls he’d sent here.
Almost all of them looked at Miles with pure hatred in their eyes. Miles never had someone look at him like that before. It truly unsettled him. Perhaps it was a blessing that he was only allowed an hour each day outside his cage.
When Miles wasn’t reading, he was writing. It didn’t serve any particular purpose, other than to put his thoughts to paper and let them out of his head. It couldn’t be called journaling, not really. There would be no record for him or anyone else to look back on. Miles made sure of that. Every night, Miles discarded the papers before anyone could read them.
Miles had never gone to therapy (aside from a few sessions that were largely unproductive, and so, Miles didn’t waste his valuable time returning), but he had heard of the benefits of writing out his thoughts and feelings, even addressing a letter to someone with no intent to for it to reach them.
Once, Miles drafted his father an apology. Another time, he wrote Wright a letter.
Before he ended up here, Miles had never tried that technique. Back then, his preferred method had been distraction and avoidance. He would focus so strongly on his work and leave little time to consider anything else. Now, there were only so many ways he could keep his mind at bay, and his chosen coping mechanism had been rendered almost completely ineffective.
Miles received mail from time to time. Most displayed Wright’s name on the return label. A last attempt, grasping at any connection to reach him. Unlike the letters Wright had sent him over their years apart, Miles couldn’t bring himself to read these. He kept them, just in case. For some reason, he couldn’t get himself to throw them away. They were the only items occupying the small lockbox he had in his cell. It had taken him years to finally open many of the letters Wright had sent, and so maybe there would be a chance, one day, that Miles would want to read these ones.
The days bled together, each monotonous and mindless. It was easy to lose track of time.
Most inmates spend years on death row, waiting for their punishment. Waiting for justice to finally be served. Miles had already spent fifteen years waiting. Only two months of it were here, locked within these four walls, and only two more remained, thanks to his mentor’s intervention.
It was a mercy Miles didn’t deserve. But at least Franziska and Wright would be forced to stop wasting their time on him soon enough.
While in his cell, alone and with little to occupy him but his thoughts, Miles’ mind often drifted to his father. More than it had in years. Miles even managed to recall a few memories from his childhood that he’d long forgotten.
He stayed in the memories, reminiscing for far longer than he would otherwise. It was how he was able to regain them in the first place.
In the past, he wouldn’t allow himself to indulge. It was too painful to think about his father and his childhood before he had lost him. But now, with so little to distract himself with, it was hard not to think back on that time.
Miles wiped a tear from his cheek. The latest memories he recalled caused him to cry, it seemed.
Two weeks until his punishment, Miles had another panic attack.
He had them occasionally. Over time, and behind bars, the frequency had been increasing.
Sometimes, when Miles suffered from one, he would sit on the floor in his cell. He took up the small space between his bed and desk, where he wouldn’t be seen immediately if a guard came to check on him. He would withdraw into himself, pulling his knees tight to his chest, and taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. The floor under him, cold to the touch even through his prisoner pants, was grounding.
It was something he wouldn’t have dared to do in the past, outside his present circumstances and especially on a filthy floor such as this one, but now the position gave him some measure of comfort.
Once Miles finally accepted the awful truth and stopped fighting, he found himself almost at peace.
This had been true since his verdict nearly four months ago, when Miles had finally accepted his guilt. But his unconscious mind remained disquieted. His nightmares persisted. Not nearly every night, not as often, but far more than he thought they would after finally realizing the truth.
While Miles had yet to truly pay for what he’d done, he was unable to escape punishment while he slept. At night, Miles still often awoke in a cold sweat. Sometimes, the silence around him was broken by the guards reprimanding him for calling out in his sleep.
Ahead of him, the door leading out of death row creaked open, letting in a beam of light. It bathed over him, and Miles shielded his eyes. From where he sat, all he could make out were two figures standing in the doorway, their features shrouded in shadow.
Miles slowly rose to his feet and walked up to his cell door.
Rattling accompanied the approaching footsteps. As they grew closer, the pair of silhouettes morphed into officers. One carried a set of chains, meant for him.
“Miles Edgeworth,” one officer greeted him as the other slid his cell door open. “Are you ready?”
Miles spent years running from his fate, and now all that was left to do was meet it head-on.
“Yes,” Miles said, relieved and resolute. “It’s finally time.”