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“One phone call, sir.”
He is led into a chair. A phone is on the table. A man sits across from him. “Thank you, James. I’m well aware.”
Dialing the number he knows as well as his own. Like second nature. Two pairs of eyes boring into his head. James, the guard, and one Manfred Von Karma.
He shouldn’t have expected any less. Of course he’d be here, at Miles’ darkest hour. He was before, and he is now. Never a savior, never a villain, but just observing. Always observing. Watching how Miles studied, how he ate, how he played with Pess. And ‘correcting’, when Miles would do something wrong.
The phone rings once, twice, and Miles struggles not to make eye contact.
“Prosecutor Franziska Von Karma. To whom am I speaking?”
She picked up, and it’s easy now. He slips into German.
“Franziska… it’s good to hear your voice.”
He can almost see his mentor’s eyebrow raise, out of the corner of his eye. James leans towards him, and whispers something in his ear. Von Karma dismisses him. He probably asked about speaking in a foreign tongue.
“Ah, little brother. What is this number? Did you get a new phone?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“And why are you calling me? We just spoke yesterday. Happy Christmas again, by the way.”
“Yes, yes, Happy Christmas. The thing is,, I seem to find myself in a spot of trouble, if you would believe it.”
“What? What’s wrong, Miles.” It’s not a question. She’s telling him to tell her.
“It’s nothing big. I don’t have much time, I’m afraid. But I-”
She seems to catch on, more or less. “Miles Edgeworth…. Whatever is happening, I know you. I know you won’t go looking for any help. You fool. Don’t say anything. Call Papa… I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”
(Oh, Fran…)
She’s speaking in a rush of words. Even if she has no idea what’s happening, she can tell that he’s in trouble. “Or that lawyer, the one you keep complaining about, the one who beat you. Wright, I think it was.”
The line goes blank. Neither of them are speaking. Miles can definitely see his mentor smirking.
“…Miles?”
“Hm? Oh, yes. How has your week been, Franziska?”
“What? No, no. Don’t change the subject. What’s going on?”
“I just need to hear your voice right now. …I have help. Don’t worry.” He’s not particularly lying. His mentor, the man who raised him for 15 years is sitting right there. He calms his voice, trying not to sound too distressed.
(If she asks, I was over-exaggerating. I’m fine, really.)
“…If you insist.”
She goes on to talk about her week for a while, about this flunky of an attorney who is giving her a hard time, making trials go on longer than they should. Miles just lets her ramble. Their repertoire is easy, and is as it always is during their weekly phone calls. She rambles, he responds with ‘advice’. She needs an outlet, he likes hearing her voice.
Miles really misses her. And he knows that she misses him too, in her own way. It’s been nearly 5 years since they last saw one another in person. There’s no telling how long it’ll be until they see each other next.
(If I make it out of this alive, that is.)
____________________________________
“Time’s up, sir.” James interjects just as Miles is about to say something.
Hand to receiver, Miles nods and says “Of course, James.” He prides himself on knowing all of the names of the people he sees weekly. “I’ll be done in just a moment.” He hopes that he gets a courtesy of a slightly longer call, as a ‘regular customer’ at the detention center.
He finishes giving a final piece of advice. “I have to go, Franziska.”
“Already? We’ve barely talked. Really, Miles, you’re worrying me. You call me up seemingly in a frenzy, not to mention from a random number, and then you’re all of a sudden alright, and now you need to leave after we’ve only spoken for a quarter of our usual call time? What is going on?”
“I’m really fine, Franziska. There’s nothing to worry about.” He risks it, making eye contact with his mentor. He’s frowning, ever so slightly.
(Probably thinking about how my guilty sentencing will affect Franziska.)
“Just tell me, where are you going so soon?”
And really, he has no reason to tell her, she wouldn’t gain anything from it, but… “Questioning. Don’t mind me.”
“Ah, of course. Get that guilty verdict, little brother.” She seems relieved.
“… …. … ….”
“Miles?”
“Yes. Will do. Your father says ‘hello’. Goodbye, Franziska.”
“Goodbye, little brother. Make sure not to be too much of a foolish fool in court.”
“Of course. I love you.” He says this in English, and abruptly hangs up.
(‘Get that guilty verdict’ … Right…)
“Are you ready now, Miles?” The grave voice of the older Von Karma, speaking in English, is a stark contrast from his young daughter’s smooth tongue in German.
“Yes, sir.” Von Karma is his mentor. His legal adoptive father. The man who raised him for so long. And he’s here now, blue earrings and all, sitting across from him, about to interrogate him on a murder charge.
(I’ll convince him I’m innocent, of course. He’ll be easily persuaded. I’m his… protégé. He won’t want to prosecute me, surely?)
____________________________________
“Let me defend you.” He’s not actually asking. He’s saying that he will. And, for a second, Miles is reminded of Franziska, blissfully unaware of what’s happening across the Atlantic from her home in east Berlin.
He turns him down. He can’t put him through that. If he could, he’d take James’ gun and shoot himself square in the head, just so nobody would have to deal with this bloody case.
Wright and the girl leave. Miles puts his head in his hands. All night, all morning, he’d been playing out scenarios of how Franziska would react to the news.
The door opens. (Did Wright come back, just to humiliate me some more?) He doesn’t dare look up, as the figure sits down on the better side of the glass.
Seconds pass.
“Miles.” (What?)
He looks up. It’s his boss. Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye. She’s not in her work clothes, he vaguely notes. Instead, she sports a white collared shirt, black suit pants, blood red waistcoat, and black trench coat (a lighter, more purple sort of black then her suit pants,) that is currently draped over her arm. Her hair is up in a neat bun, exposing the medium sized gold hoops of her earrings. She’s in high heels, from the clicking as she sat down, but he can’t see the colour. (Black, knowing the Chief Prosecutor.)
“Chief Prosecutor Skye. It’s a pleasure. I apologize for my… unkempt appearance.”
“Cut the formalities, Miles. What the actual fuck is happening right now!” She throws her hands up in the air, before lightly slamming them on the table.
Miles sighs. “You know me, Lana. Wrong place, wrong time, what else is new.” He lets a yawn escape his lips, the first one in ages. It feels nice to be around good company.
“And what was with that conversation with Wright just now? Yes, I heard it. Don’t bother answering that just yet. I’ve brought you some things… snacks, a fresh change of clothes, other miscellaneous items… hang on, let’s go to your room.”
“Room is putting it lightly, Lana. It’s a cell, plain and simple.”
She doesn't respond. She just grabs her things, gets to the door, flashes her badge, and drags him out, and into his cell.
Lana likes talking about rough things even less than Miles himself does. (Just try and get her to talk about SL-9…) They end up skirting around the topic for most of the time they talk. They order two steaks, and sit on the floor eating.
“And what about your defense?” The topic comes up out of basically nowhere. Not like Miles expected any less from the woman. “I know some great ones… Grossberg, for example. Although it is the murder of one of his employees. So maybe not him. Wright is a good choice too, and he doesn’t seem to mind pro bono, and he seems to really want to-”
Miles cuts her off. “No. I can’t let him touch this case. Not with a 50 yard pole. Besides, I’d only be setting him up to fail. Have you seen who’s prosecuting, for crying out loud!” Something occurs to him. He leans against the bed frame. “Speaking of… why did you appoint him to this case?”
“I didn’t. He specifically asked for it, and with Chief Gant and him being all ‘buddy-buddy’, I can’t really do anything. A man like that wouldn’t listen to a woman like me.” She sighs. “You need someone you can trust for this. If that’s not Von Karma, then it’s undoubtedly Wright. He needs to know you, Miles. If what you’ve told me is true, then he would do anything for you. He changed his whole life around just to try and see you again.” She gets up, and grabs her things. “Give it some thought.” She leaves.
She’s right, of course. And Miles knows she is. For all his talk about Wright’s win streak being ‘dumb luck’, he can’t deny that the man is an incredible lawyer.
(Maybe… he could do it. Maybe he could uncover the truth. Maybe he could spare Franziska the pain.)
“Ah, who could have guessed this day would come?” The words tumble out of Wright’s mouth so easily. Maybe, it’ll be okay. Just maybe.
____________________________________
Earthquakes strike. Tsunamis occur. Volcanoes erupt. Those are basic facts of life. You cannot change the earth. You cannot change nature.
You cannot change the nature of a person.
But that day, in that courtroom, Miles and Phoenix and Maya pointing their fingers at the man, at the culprit behind years and years of Miles’ suffering, he could feel himself change. Not his nature. But something changed.
Maybe there’s no heaven, maybe there’s no hell, but if there’s a limbo, Miles would be in it, and it would be that moment right there.
____________________________________
The worst part comes after. Miles gives special orders not to let Von Karma have a phone call. (I can’t let him break the news. It has to be me. She… she needs to hear it from me.) Lana backs him up, of course. She was in the gallery the whole time.
The next day, she comes to his apartment. “That was a shit show. I’m glad you’re alright. I brought wine.”
“Thank you… I can’t drink right now, though. Got well and drunk enough last night with Wright.”
“Hm. If you insist.” She puts the wine in his fridge. She’s come from work, he notes, as he watches her take off her blazer, throw her hair up into a messy ponytail, take off her heels, and plant herself down on his couch. “How are you holding up?”
“Better. I’m not guilty.” He sits down next to her, and turns on the television. Some random sitcom is playing.
“And Franziska? Have you told her the news yet?” (She knows me too well.)
“No. I’m not sure how she’ll take it. Probably worse than I did. Than I am.”
“Hm.”
They watch television for a while. The conversation drifts onto other topics. They end up falling asleep in front of the television. Lana’s internal clock wakes her up, and she fixes herself up in Miles’ bathroom. She’s gone when he wakes, a piece of perfectly spread avocado toast and a note that leads him to orange juice in the fridge. He puts some salt on the toast. (Lana hates salt. I can’t eat avocado without it.)
He makes his way to the bedroom after eating, and steps out onto the balcony. His apartment is in a large building in the middle of downtown LA, his balcony overlooking the Hollywood Hills. (I could probably find Wright’s office, if I really wanted.) There’s a little chair and a small table. Miles sits down.
He would have to do this eventually, of course. Better sooner than later. He dials Franziska.
The phone rings once, twice, and, as always, Franziska picks up after the second ring. Her smooth voice speaking German calms him down, as usual.
“Ah, little brother. I see you’ve made it back to your usual number.”
“Franziska. I have news.”
“News? That’s unusual. Will you be telling me about the so-called ‘spot of bother’ you found yourself in when we last spoke?”
“Yes.” He braces himself, taking a deep breath. (It’s lucky she doesn’t read news sites, otherwise she’d have known by now.) “You know of the DL-6 incident? My father’s murder?”
“Of course. What kind of fool do you take me for?”
“On Christmas Eve, I received a letter. From Robert Hammond, the defense attorney on the trial. The one who got Yanni Yogi acquitted. He invited me out to Gourd Lake. There, at midnight, we went out onto a lake. He was seemingly shot, and fell into the water. I was arrested for his murder.”
“What!? Miles Edgeworth!! D-don’t tell me…”
“Little did I know at the time, but Yanni Yogi was the boat keeper at the lake. He had murdered Robert Hammond prior to my meeting with the man. He dressed up as Hammond, and met with me on the lake. He fired a pistol, and jumped into the water. He then swam to shore, and threw Hammond’s corpse into the water. It was all false charges.”
“Miles, this is insane. Why didn’t you tell me!?”
(Keep going. Don’t answer her, don’t lose the thought.) “There was something else, too. The DL-6 incident. 15 years ago yesterday. The statute of limitations has run out, at last.” (Deep breaths…) “You are aware of my nightmares, yes?”
“…Yes, vaguely. Where is this going?”
“Yanni Yogi couldn’t do it on his own. He had someone tell him what to do. The same one who actually murdered my father. For all these years I’ve lay at night, dreaming of that day. For these past three days I thought that I was the one who killed him, that I shot my father, albeit accidentally. But no. I now know the truth. I’m… free.”
“Who- who was it…?”
“The prosecutor on the case. A man we both know well.”
“…You don’t mean.”
“Manfred Von Karma.”
Miles can hear a small sob escape his sister. He can practically see her now, one perfectly smooth, pearly hand covering her mouth, her perfectly manicured light blue nails on her cheek, fighting tears in her eyes.
“Franziska?”
Click
The line goes dead.
____________________________________
(We’ll have to talk about it eventually.)
(She’ll have to call me soon.)
(I should probably call her myself.)
(What if she’s done something rash?)
And then she’s at his door. She looks awful. (She never liked flying.)
She’s trying to advocate for him. Telling Miles not to prosecute him.
He can’t do anything. She’s watching her father get sentenced to death row, and her little brother making it happen.
Miles holds her, that night, as she cries and bunches herself up in his shirt. She’s screaming about how much she hates him. How much she hates both of them. He just holds her.