Work Text:
"Good morning," Marvin Grossberg says as he nods to the owner of the accounting firm next door to his law office. He can't say he's ever spoken with the nearby employees too much beyond basic pleasantries, but the opportunity to greet a familiar face at the start and end of the work day is not one that he takes for granted any longer. He sighs as he climbs the short steps and unlocks the door, opening the firm for another day of business - or what passes for one at this point in his career.
There was a time when Grossberg Law Offices never slowed down, brimming with noise and activity as its associates tackled their cases. Though Grossberg had begun the firm on his own nearly thirty years back, he had grown accustomed to sharing the space he once again found himself alone in. Now, he tried to find reasons to limit his time at his desk since the enduring silence seemed to only be a reminder of how much had changed. The other personal offices remained untouched, each one a perfect preservation of its old occupant's work space. Grossberg didn't have the heart to clean them out or otherwise find use for them, and he often felt that he had a certain responsibility for ensuring that their memories persisted somewhere.
It's a strange position that he finds himself in: to be so burdened by his past actions yet fully aware that he can't say he's entirely deserving of forgiveness or pity. Most days he's not sure why he still comes in to work, usually spending the hours in silence until the phone rings or a client comes in. Even then, his previous dealings with corporate figures have left him wary of taking on every case that comes his way. He's considered that he could pass on the firm to someone else, or sell it off completely and add to his savings for a nice, average retirement. But that only feels like another way to turn a blind eye and walk away, and Grossberg's done too much of that for a lifetime.
Robert Hammond had joined him a good twenty years ago, and although the man was as stiff as they come and all-business, he had an undeniable skill. He had kept his distance, and Grossberg could respect that, especially after the unwelcome limelight of a case like State v. Yogi. Grossberg may not have entirely endorsed his methods, but Hammond stuck to his guns and brought in a string of big-name cases to the firm, so he wasn't about to debate tactics and etiquette. Before long, Hammond was a junior partner, and that was when Grossberg first got a taste of the reputation and riches that a little publicity could yield.
From where he's sitting now, he can see the door to Hammond's office across the narrow hallway, slightly ajar and covered with shadows. He leaves the door like that out of habit, having been so accustomed to Hammond's complaints about slamming doors and how damn distracting they are when I'm trying to work. Grossberg's own office is just a bit too warm - not much sense to lowering the thermostat when there's no one else working here - and with the thought of how cool the dark, running office equipment-free room must be come thoughts of the days leading up to Christmas, when Hammond was last standing in that doorway.
"Go home early, Robert," Grossberg had said to him on the night of the twenty-third. "I know you're not too big on holidays, but it's just you and me here. I see no reason to keep the place open much longer." If Hammond was feeling affected by Mia's death a few months earlier he wasn't showing it, but Grossberg had come to expect as much.
Hammond had reluctantly agreed, mumbling something about "no cases anyway" and "having somewhere to be tomorrow" so Grossberg wished him a happy holiday as he gathered up his things and left. Of course, Grossberg had no idea it would be the last time he ever saw him, but in hindsight if his colleagues had each vanished from the firm so quickly he supposed Hammond shouldn't have been any different.
He'd like to say that he always remained true to the much-idealized days of his youth and upheld the noble mission young Marvin so strongly believed in: fair representation, affordable fees, a voice for those who lacked one. He still sought that, truthfully, but once he let Redd White grease his palms he was forced to chase the big fish, as it were. At this point he couldn't even say that he felt the desire to interview or hire new associates, though that grew from the guilt that had taken root in his mind as soon as he sold information to White and saw its consequences.
The quick satisfaction of a fat check rapidly vanished as he watched the news stories that aired about the fraudulent Misty Fey, and how she had hung her head in shame and disappeared from her home village. If Fey wasn't already a name that would linger in his memories as it was then the image of two young girls, one barely a toddler, now effectively orphaned and left in the care of their village would certainly ensure that it was. That was when his sleepless nights had begun, and although it was not an act one could simply take back and set right, Grossberg had immediately regretted his greed.
Before he knew it his firm had taken on two exemplary young talents who were as determined and passionate as they come. Diego Armando, rough around the edges as he could be, had no tolerance for those who exploited the disadvantaged. Hammond had scoffed at Diego's first few cases, noting how easy it was to want to "fight for the little guy," but it wasn't going to pay the bills. They clashed from time to time until Hammond realized that Diego wasn't going to change his ways any sooner than he was, and they were able to work alongside one another with minimal disturbances.
Then there was Mia Fey, who had shown promise before she even completed her degree and taken the bar exam. Grossberg knew it likely wasn't coincidence that brought her to his office, and despite, or perhaps because of the guilt he carried she was readily welcomed. She hadn't harbored any suspicions, as far as he could tell, but every time he looked at her he felt the creeping uneasiness in the pit of his stomach return. The stress was hell on his digestive system, and he had gotten so bad that the entire office knew of his hemorrhoid issues.
He had meant it when he told Phoenix Wright that he felt remorse, though he couldn't deny that the damage had already been done. They were so young, each of them. Too young to have suffered so strongly while Grossberg remained and outlived them all.
Diego had been the first to leave, and when Grossberg had first stared down at his comatose form he felt that he had lost a ward. Not that he had raised the boy - boy, heavens, he was well into his twenties by that time - but Grossberg had felt the slightest protectiveness over Diego since their chance encounter all those years ago. It was because he knew Diego in his youth that he was aware he had always been stubborn, and when something caught his attention and he wasn't satisfied with the outcome he would pursue it to no end. After a trial like State v. Fawles Grossberg could understand why Diego couldn't stop, that it was for himself as much as Mia, but maybe there was something more he could have done to help them.
In some ways Diego had never truly left, since his brews and favorite snacks continued to line the cabinets of the small kitchenette area until Mia slowly made her way through them. Even now, Grossberg swears he can smell the faint scent of coffee occasionally traveling down the hallway, and the "World's Second Best Boss" mug sits on a shelf, unused.
Unable to bear sitting down idly any longer, Grossberg rises from behind his desk and crosses out into the hall, down to the next door on the right for the office that's gone unused for so many years. He turns the knob and swings the door open, reaching to his left for the light switch on the wall. When the overhead light flashes on it's suddenly all too real again, and Grossberg can't ignore how alive this office still looks. No one plans to be nearly killed by the target of their investigation, of course, but with the desk still covered in files and pictures pinned to the corkboard on the wall it's hard to believe Diego's not simply out for lunch. Any minute now, he'll be back, but any building illusion is shattered when Grossberg's eyes land on the framed portrait of Diego and Mia that sits on the bookshelf at the back of the room.
How many people could say they had failed another person as many times as Grossberg had failed Mia Fey? Diego's illness had been the final straw that pushed her out of the office and into her own firm, and as much as Grossberg knew he would miss her she was better off for it, or so he thought.
That photo was the last trace of her here, since she had taken everything - including her office plant - with her when she moved. It was certainly understandable to want to avoid taking trips back and forth and having to walk through the halls, not only feeling Diego's absence but reliving it.
If there was one burden he carried that he could never forgive it was that Mia's, and likely Misty's, blood was on his hands. If it wasn't for his own selfish pride and fear perhaps she would still be alive today, perhaps Diego wouldn't be sitting in a cold cell.
Likewise, these walls have become his own personal prison, encasing him like the indictment he had been carefully avoiding for all of these years.
It was a small blessing then, Grossberg mused, that he hadn't been given the opportunity to speak with Diego following his unexpected recovery. As much as he hated to admit it, his own cowardice would have stood in the way even if he had and Grossberg wasn't sure he would have been able to tell Diego the truth. But of course, Redd White was in prison now too, and with nothing left to lose he was likely eagerly awaiting the chance to meet Diego face-to-face and mention why he had such a particular interest in Mia. To add insult to injury Diego wouldn't have the courtesy of hearing it from his own mouth.
The memories of his colleagues are everywhere. In every corner of Grossberg Law Office's confining space there are reminders of what it has become and what it could have become. Grossberg can't sip his lemon tea at his desk without hearing Diego's percolator in the next room, or hearing Hammond complain that he can't find his chamomile, damn it, and it's the only post-trial de-stresser that works. When the office's general line rings its Mia's voice that answers the phone, always the first to jump at the case of a client in need.
And now Diego was the last, too. An ill man driven to extremes while Grossberg sat here, in relatively good health, and enjoyed a career.
Enjoyed a life.
It's too much; he can finally admit that to himself. But leaving the firm is taking the easy way out, and turning himself in for an eighteen-year-old offense was likely more difficult than it sounded, especially considering that the man blackmailing him was now in prison himself.
There is an alternative, he supposes. He could reach out to old colleagues to ensure that a strong defense was assigned for Diego's trial, and that appropriate measures would be taken to get him the best medical care available. If any other needs should come up, naturally, he would take care of those as well.
And then there was Maya Fey, who he had failed to defend in spite of her sister's enduring trust. Now, she certainly had a lot of responsibilities ahead of her based on the secondhand information Grossberg had heard. Though he was not about to meddle in Kurain affairs again, perhaps there was a way to assist her from a distance. A few favors called in to connections along the way to help her village establish new relationships couldn't hurt.
It didn't feel like much, and Grossberg wasn't going to pat himself on the back for being Good Samaritan of the Year, but it was a start toward counteracting some of what he had set into motion.
At that, Grossberg made his way to the front of the firm, resolved in his mission to offer any protections he could to those he was still able to help. He owed that much to Mia, to look out for the two she had cherished so dearly.
For now, it was time to close up the office after another day of "business" and see to more important matters, namely attending the public vigil for renowned children's author Elise Deauxnim.