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1 - 2000
Gregory Edgeworth is insane if he really thinks he’s going to win this case—against him, Manfred von Karma. Undefeated for over thirty years. Von Karma smirks as he enters the courtroom that morning, the Edgeworth boy standing there in the box beside his father, as he has done every morning now for a year, before the judge gavels them to order and he quietly takes a seat in the gallery. Odd child. Not so much for being seemingly well behaved, but more for being both seemingly well behaved and the son of a man like Gregory Edgeworth, who is anything but.
This is going to be the last day, von Karma is sure of that, after a certain conversation he knew had taken place with Edgeworth’s client. Tangaroa will say anything to save that girl of his. This nightmare will go no further. Von Karma will have his victory and his peace. And he will make Edgeworth pay for dragging this out for a year of his life and ruining his decisive record.
He sees them looking at him, the Edgeworths. He raises his chin, then turns to the judge and clears his throat. Manfred von Karma is ready: It is time to begin.
But even after the verdict, von Karma feels itchy beneath his skin. He's tired. He had so longed to put this entire matter behind him and never think of Gregory Edgeworth again, having so utterly destroyed him that he was unable to enter a courtroom ever again. Instead, the trial had ended with Gregory Edgeworth barely defeated and responsible for the one and only penalty von Karma has ever received in his entire legal career. After a year of grueling court proceedings, von Karma had clearly been “off his game,” or so to speak, but that was no excuse. The machinations of these incompetent defense attorneys truly know no bounds, and von Karma should have expected that. He is capable of nothing less than perfection—yet perfection has eluded him today.
It’s almost an hour later when he storms out of the judge’s chambers, having failed entirely to convince him or his own “superior,” that idiot Winner, to repeal the penalty. False confession. How dare they?
He's so angry, his muscles clenched so tight, that he almost doesn't notice the ground shaking beneath him, the walls vibrating around him until the electricity flickers again—as it had done a few times in the judge’s chambers, he remembers, though he’d been too laser-focused to give it any notice—and he comes back into his body long enough to put it all together. And blast it all, he must hurry up and get out; he mustn’t allow himself to be trapped here with any of the idiots in this building. Idiots who would assign him a penalty.
He slings his cashmere coat over his shoulders without bothering to don it properly, though he does reach into his pockets for his soft leather gloves and pull them on one at a time. His skin has a tendency to crack open in the cold if he does not.
The halls are, aside from the ominous creaking of the building around him, eerily quiet. Everyone else had been sharper, faster than he was—they had already exited. He’s even angrier for it. Another failure. The red lights are flashing in the elevator bay, as if to remind the public that they are not to be used in the event of an emergency, which is rich, considering that the stairs are grubby, poorly lit, and probably currently occupied by Winner and the judge. Von Karma jabs at the button impatiently. The only thing that happens is that the power flickers a few more times and goes out completely, leaving him standing alone in the dark.
With his heart already pounding, and his head already swirling, a sudden and unexpected panic fills him. He steadies his breathing, but it barely helps. He leans his cane against the wall and sinks to the floor, leaning to one side to keep his weight off his bad knee as he does. He thinks he hears voices inside the elevator for a moment. Then nothing. He sighs, welcoming the stillness.
Gregory Edgeworth will have to pay. At every step, he has managed to thwart his investigation, his ability to make a tight and coherent case. He had somehow accessed the crime scene, which should have been illegal, had somehow influenced the police. Perhaps von Karma might report him to the bar association—there had been some indication that his boy had been interested in the specifics of the case, and von Karma is reasonably certain he had seen him holding files, maybe even reading them—who could say for certain? A defense attorney would not recover so easily from any allegations of impropriety—such as allowing a child to handle confidential case materials.
Von Karma snickers. He has, for years, been preparing for Franziska’s legal career; though it will be a while yet before she is ready, he has already filed the necessary paperwork to allow her to access whatever she needs in order to learn. Gregory Edgeworth will not have taken such precautions. Perhaps the insinuation of impropriety and the record of investigation by the bar association would even follow the boy as he grew up, blocking him from entering into his father’s so-called profession. Yes…that might be something worth pursuing. And it won’t require him to convince that idiot Winner of anything.
A noise sounds from inside the elevator. Perhaps it’s functional again? The amount of time he’s wasting here is ridiculous. Unconscionable. Honestly, the courthouse should be better prepared for natural disasters. Prosecutors have places to be. Von Karma presses his hands back against the wall, adjusting his weight as he slides his feet back to bear himself up. He winces at a slight miscalculation that causes his knee to twinge. What had he been thinking, sitting on the floor when he knew perfectly well that there was a bench across from the elevators? Ah, well, no one had been here to witness his poor decision-making, his panic.
He feels along the wall until he finds the button. But before he can press it, there’s a noise, loud and sharp. He hears it before he feels the shattering pain in his shoulder. He screams before he knows what’s happened, even before the burning takes hold. He’s still standing there, clutching his shoulder, when light suddenly floods the space, all the tiny noises starting back up around him, and the elevator doors opens, almost too quickly to take in.
Inside are three bodies. No, they’re not dead—but that’s unfortunate, really, because among them is Gregory Edgeworth. And that boy of his. But no, he doesn’t wish the boy dead. No, surely that’s…too grim. He sees, then, what must have happened. The gun, now at his feet, must have fired. The gun. He’s been shot. Him. Manfred von Karma.
The building is still so quiet, despite the hum of the electricity. Von Karma steps inside the elevator, just far enough to pick up the gun, warm and smooth in his hand. He studies it a moment. Definitely recently fired. His shoulder hurts, but he’s reasonably sure it’s nothing serious. If it were serious, the pain would be much worse. Still, he’s sweating now, his heart pounding. Maybe he will be ill? Ah, well, he’ll be home soon, and he can see what the damage is.
He looks at Gregory Edgeworth. A feeble, useless man. And yet he lies there whole. Von Karma would be doing the world a favor, really. He raises the gun, points it. He fires.
There’s only a sense of relief. The pounding in his chest eases slightly. His breath comes more easily. That, and the wound on Edgeworth’s chest, are the only things that change. He glances down at the gun in his hand.
“Hmph,” he says, and tosses it, clatteringly, back down where it came from. Then he turns and heads for the stairs, tugging his coat closer around the fire in his shoulder. He can’t be seen anywhere near this mess.
2 - 2000
When Miles Edgeworth wakes up the day after his father lost the Tangaroa trial, his head hurts. The room is too bright and blurry, and though his father is not there, he’s not alone. The man looking down at him is Mr. von Karma. It’s all he really has time to think before he’s asleep again.
Later, as he’s escorted out of the hospital at Mr. von Karma’s side, he remembers waking up to that stern face, peering down at him, barely reacting when his eyes opened.
He still doesn’t really understand why he’s leaving with Mr. von Karma. Where his father is, exactly. His head still hurts.
They’re in the backseat of Mr. von Karma’s limo, which had been waiting for them outside the hospital’s automatic doors when Mr. von Karma finally speaks. the first thing he’s said since before they’d left Miles’s hospital room.
“Do you remember what happened, then, boy?”
“I—” Miles does not. He barely registers that there is anything to remember. He only knows that something happened, something loud, something that shook everything. That stole the very air from his lungs—and took his father too.
“Because the prosecution would like you to testify. It was just you, right, and the man they have on trial: Yanni Yogi. Do you remember him? The bailiff.”
Miles does remember him. The familiar bailiff turned hostile, shouting at his father. The dizziness and darkness making everything seem nightmarish, unreal. The heaviness landing at his feet. The cold of the metal in his hands.
“It was his gun who shot your father. So, it’s very easy to see what happened. Right?”
“Will you be…prosecuting him?”
“Me?” Mr. von Karma raises his eyebrows, presses a hand into his shoulder, draws his coat around him, even though it is warm. “No. I am…merely looking after you. You are otherwise quite alone, you know. Your father left no instructions for your care in the event of his death. Typical defense attorney, failing to plan ahead.”
Miles’s head hurts. It is starting to make sense now—the death of his father, his headache. It is starting to come together. His eyes smart. He turns away from Mr. von Karma’s stiff bearing, his cold gaze. He looks down at his own clothes, the clothes from the day before, from the elevator.
“I will see that you fetch your things and are escorted to the trial tomorrow. After that, you may come with me while I look into further arrangements. It may be that your head will clear enough for you to remember some long-lost cousin.”
“I don’t have any relatives,” Miles says. Mr. von Karma stares at him. He has said something wrong then. But he can’t think how. He resists looking down, forcing hismelf to maintain eye contact. Mr. von Karma is formidable at the best of times, and displeased he’s terrifying. But somehow Miles doesn’t think he appreciates snivelling.
“Well, all right,” Mr. von Karma says. “Then you’ll come to Germany.”
Miles does not believe in spirit mediums. He’d seen her briefly in the halls of the courthouse before his own testimony, waiting for her turn to speak. She’s tall, slender, her dark hair piled onto her head. Misty Fey, they’d said. Master of Kurain.
The words don’t mean much to him, but he can tell she’s something important. That having her here is a big deal. “Unprecedented,” the defense says, trying to make the prosecution look bad—and this is confusing because usually, that would seem like a good thing, but not this time.
All they need from Miles is for him to confirm that no one else was in the elevator besides him, his father, and the man on trial for his death—the bailiff, who had been fighting with his father only minutes before. Who must have shot him.
They don’t ask Miles about the gun, or if he touched it or why. They don’t ask him if he’s the one who killed his father.
And Misty Fey? They don’t let him hear her talk, but usher him quickly away from the witness stand as she enters the courtroom.
Later, as he waits in the prosecution lobby, he hears that she channeled his father and that his father said Yogi shot him. So it must be true. It must. But when the prosecutor enters after the trial, he’s unhappy, his head shaking, his hands balled into fists.
“But he’s guilty,” Miles says. He doesn’t need to ask what the verdict had been.
“Miles? I’m so sorry,” the prosecutor says. “Mr. von Karma has a car waiting for you outside. Thank you for cooperating today. You were very brave.”
Miles doesn’t feel brave. He feels broken, and more uncertain than ever.
He keeps waiting. At some point, it’s supposed to get better, isn’t it? But there’s just the funeral—tiny and quiet, after which Mr. von Karma angrily admonishes him to come along without even saying goodbye to Eddie. His father is buried in the ground back there—his father—whom he hasn’t seen for two days now, and Mr. von Karma expects him to just leave him there. Just leave him and go into their house and pack his own clothes—“Only what you need. You’ll outgrow everything anyway and it’s not worth the hassle of extra baggage.”—and then they’re going to get onto a plane and fly away and leave everything behind.
Well, at least Miles doesn’t have anyone he has to say goodbye to. There’s just those two kids at school, but they think he’s weird. He can tell. They only like him because of that class trial. Well. Phoenix likes him because of that. Larry likes him because he didn’t tell Phoenix the truth.
He didn’t tell the truth in court either. He doesn’t know what the truth even is.
“Are you crying?”
“I—”
“It’s all right.” Mr. von Karma lifts a hand—the same hand that holds his cane—and gently taps Miles’s shoulder. This is the first time he has touched him. The first time anyone has touched him since the nurse did, when she told him about his father. “Cry all you like now, while no one’s looking. But once we get to the airport, I want you to keep your chin up, and show some decorum.”
3 - 2001
As the holidays approach, Miles feels hollow, then panicked, then—alarmingly—ill. The second week of December, he can barely get out of bed, and only does so because the consequences will be a cane across the knuckles if he is found to be malingering. There is nothing wrong with him. Not physically. He’s just weak mentally. At least, that’s what Mr. von Karma says.
A year ago, he’d pretended he thought his father was being silly as they hung lights around the house, as they wrapped presents, and his father admonished him not to try peeking beforehand, as if Miles had ever been that kind of child.
The lights, the opened gifts, had still been there when he’d gone back after the trial, when he’d packed his bags. He’d wanted to peek then. It was after Christmas, and he didn’t care so much about the presents themselves, but they felt like his father was, somehow, still there in them. Like he could feel him behind them as he imagined his hands wrapping them, and remembered his smile as he said, “I think you’re really going to like this one.” He had. He had liked it so much. But standing there that day, looking at the law book had only made him cry.
Mr. von Karma had told him to only take what he needed. The book wouldn’t fit into his bag. He’d cried then, unsure and sad and realizing the truth of what Mr. von Karma had said the day before—that he was quite alone.
When Mr. von Karma finally came inside to see what the holdup was, he was too embarassed to ask about taking the gift and let himself be bundled, shamefaced, out to the waiting car.
He never knew what happened to everything he’d left behind. Mr. von Karma had overseen whatever happened with the house, and had only scoffed when Miles had asked him later about the gift, about the rest of his father’s things. He hasn’t opened a law book since, even though there are many of them here.
So he knows he can’t explain why the sight of the evergreen centerpieces and garlands, the tiny white lights and shimmering gold ornaments that dot the von Karmas’ Christmas tree, the bouncing excitement of Franziska, von Karma’s three-year-old daughter, fill him with some unnameable, too-big feeling that makes it hard to do anything other than swallow and keep still. He can’t cry. He can’t talk about it. He can’t do anything at all.
On Christmas day, they sit at the dinner table, just the three of them before a feast that Miles knows will mostly go to waste. Or be eaten by the von Karmas’ impressive household staff.
There are red candles in the evergreen centerpiece. There are white candles in the windows and on the side tables with the wine and Christmas punch. On the table before them are roast duck and scalloped potatoes and brussels sprouts and two kinds of bread and, later, three desserts. Everything looks delicious, but Miles can hardly eat.
There had been gifts that morning. Miles had received several pairs of socks, a sweater, two button-down shirts, a new bow-tie, and two pairs of long pants.
He is struggling to keep his chin up, as he has the whole day, to play along with the Christmas cheer the household enforces for the family, including the visiting cousins, who had warbled their way through Christmas carols earlier. But it’s just the three of them for dinner. Franziska still looks happy, relaxed, as if she’s enjoying the holiday. Mr. von Karma is an indulgent, if strict father.
But Miles is not his son.
He eats silently, keeping his face as placid as possible. He suspects that after this, there will be tears behind his closed door. A bath that takes too long, to avoid any run-ins before bed.
“Edgeworth,” von Karma begins. “I have another gift for you. Or rather—one to give, and another, after some consideration, to pass along.”
Across the table, Mr. von Karma hands him the book. The one from a year before, that he’d stared as as he wept.
He nearly weeps again, there at the table, but instead, with a trembling hand, he reaches out to accept it.
It’s a law book: Advanced Defense Law. It’s old, beat-up. It had once belonged to his father—an old textbook. Miles runs his fingers over it, missing his father even as the idea of reading defense law now churns in his stomach.
“Thank you,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, not to let on that he feels any grief or satisfaction or disappointment.
“And one more, from me.”
This one is not wrapped. Von Karma simply slides it across the table. It’s heavy, leatherbound.
Basic Prosecutorial Law.
“I would like to teach you,” Mr. von Karma says. “If you would like to learn. Criminals deserve to be punished—wouldn’t you agree?”
4 - 2011
Miles Edgeworth gets weird around Christmas. More foolish than usual, even. He doesn’t respond to Franziska’s teasing, doesn’t look for her at breakfast in the mornings or offer to help her with her studies. He just goes silent and almost as stiff and rigid as her father had the first few months Miles Edgeworth had been here, only he doesn’t clutch at his arm the way Father does—had started doing after Miles Edgeworth had moved in. Miles Edgeworth spends his time in Father’s study or locked in his own room and refuisng to come out. Or he goes out for walks on his own, too early for the sun, even, without telling anyone he’s gone anywhere at all.
Miles Edgeworth is an adult—supposedly—for all the difference that seems to make: they will both begin prosecuting imminently, and Franziska is only thirteen. One day soon, he will move out. At least, that’s what Annike Jansen says. Annike Jansen is Franziska’s tutor, currently responsible for helping her finish her general education and prepare for the bar exam. Father says it’s best to prepare carefully, to take the time she needs, but Franziska von Karma does not need extra time. She will not allow Miles Edgeworth to outdo her.
Annike Jansen blushes when Miles Edgeworth comes around, and Franziska does not understand why she is such a foolish fool about that fool of a boy when she is so clever about everything else.
But then Miles Edgeworth is like that too. A foolish fool in some matters, and a near genius in others. Although Franziska has never caught him blushing and stammering over a boy. Or a man? (Is that what Miles Edgeworth is now? Really?) Or a woman, for that matter. Annike Jansen is out of luck.
2012
The first time Franziska had seen him, she had thought how strange he looked. His face and hair looked as if they had been washed out, diluted, perhaps, by the flow of his tears, which he hid, unsuccessfully. Over the years, the impression of him as just that—a mere impression, a suggestion of a person—has not entirely faded. Papa always remarks on it—his weakness, his inability to to achieve true perfection due to a flaw in his confidence. His constant vacillation. His mind, racing through multiple options for everything, sifting through possibilities rather than homing in on the single answer, the certainty of true vision. He is intelligent, but he is not a von Karma. Edgeworth blood is, in its essence, the blood of a defense attorney. Defense attorneys are meant to be crushed.
Franziska will do it, if Papa will not. It’s nothing personal. Not really. She doesn’t hate Miles Edgeworth—foolish as he is. But he has taken her Papa’s attention, his focus. With only his presence, he has made Franziska, too young for her father to take seriously, feel as if she is an outsider in her own home. And Edgeworth is obsessive in a way Franziska is not. She has fire, ambition, but he is driven in the way of a relentess stream that cannot be brooked. Franziska is proud when she succeeds—Edgeworth is ashamed when he does not not.
Papa rewards confidence, and gives no quarter to self-doubt.
One summer evening, Franziska walks down to dinner after having completed her studies for the day alone. It’s rare that she and Miles would join her father at the same time—he often says he cannot bear both of their questions at once—so this is not unusual. Nor is their silence. As a general rule, Miles Edgeworth does not enjoy himself, and Papa does not enjoy Miles Edgeworth.
But they are particularly grim tonight.
“Edgeworth will be joining me in California next week,” Papa says.
Franziska pushes away the initial stab of jealousy and finds a thrum of excitement beneath it. If he stays with Papa as long as Papa is planning to be away, he will miss the next exam. She will get her badge first. Papa must believe he still needs more training, better supervision.
“I will sit the bar exam there next week and remain in California to prosecute,” Edgeworth adds, as if he can read her mind. And from the way he’s studying her face, he probably can. She can’t stand the smug expression on his face.
“For how long?” she asks, finally.
He frowns slightly, but before he can speak, her father does.
“Don’t be a fool, Franziska. Edgeworth was always going to prosecute there. It’s where he’s from. The man is twenty years old. It’s time.”
“But what about my exam?”
“You will sit the exam when you are ready and not a moment sooner. A von Karma does not fail—”
“I would never—”
“A von Karma does not merely pass. I have seen your practice tests. Your scores would earn you a badge, but at what cost to our name? You must attain distinction. Work harder.”
“Are his scores really better than mine?” Franziska snaps. “I find that hard to believe.”
“His scores are better than yours,” Papa says. “Although because he’s not a von Karma, they don’t have to be.”
“I strive to live up to your expectations, sir,” Miles Edgeworth says. “I’m pleased that I have done so.”
“And you will continue to do so,” Papa says, but he is looking at Franziska.
5 - 2015
“You can do better than this,” Mr. von Karma says, glancing around Edgeworth’s new office. He’s holding a file in his hands. Edgeworth waits. Mr. von Karma will have ideas about how, exactly, he can do better. And most likely, the file he’s holding will be the answer somehow.
Mr. von Karma throws it onto the desk, not reacting when it nearly slides off. Edgeworth keeps himself still too, unreactive, though he does reach for it, intercepting it and flicking it open in one clean motion.
SL-9
Suspect: Joe Darke
He can’t react, but his chest is suddenly tight, his throat closing. This is promising. This is good. He tells himself that this has potential. This can happen, this can work. This can make him. This will finally be enough.
This case, though, as von Karma talks him through it, feels like a curse.
First there is the way it has come to him—a sloppy seconds situation. This is what Neil Goodman had been working on when he was killed, just one of this suspect’s many victims. And the only one for whom there is enough evidence to obtain a conviction.
Edgeworth tries not to read into how hard Mr. von Karma is pushing him—and how hard he says he lobbied to the prosecutor’s office—for him to take this case.
“A case like this will make you,” Mr. von Karma says. “Your record is good. You just need a big case like this, and you will have something to be proud of.”
That is what he owes to Mr. von Karma—to make him proud. And to do that, he must have a long and successful career as his protege. This will be the next step toward that.
But, without even thumbing through the whole case file, Edgeworth can see that the evidence is surprisingly slim, especially for such a storied killer. Joe Darke had been a normal businessman who had gone on a nearly inexplicable killing spree. There had been nothing expert about his actions, nothing polished or practiced. It should have been easy to convict him—there should have been scads of evidence. Instead, apparently, there are only two pages’ worth and a small envelope containing the tip of a knife.
Finally, there are the witnesses. A whole slew of them, and aside from that detective’s sister, all law enforcement or legal professionals. Edgeworth agrees to meet with them, but he is not without trepidation. Their statements are all nearly useless, and several of them outrank him—they know what details are important, and if there’s truly nothing else they can add, it won’t do to press them too hard. Not if his goal here is achievement.
From the statements, he can see that the sister—a child, and the star witness—had frozen up when the police tried to talk to her. And he will be expected to put her on the stand?
“This is all there is?” he asks. “This is barely enough for a case.”
“But it is enough. Make it work,” Mr. von Karma says. “Talk to the police if you have any questions. But gathering evidence is their responsibility. Trust them.”
“Of course,” Edgeworth says. His mind is working quickly. But all he can think, over and over again, is, “Of course.”
Trusting the police is what a prosecutor does, just as the police must trust the prosecution. Unfortunately, this time, he doesn’t have the time he needs to actually meet these investigators. So he has a choice to make. Can he trust them without talking to them? On evidence this thin? Of course, he thinks, again. He has to.
Or—he could refuse. His name is not down in writing yet—he still hasn’t signed. They could place it with someone else. Von Karma is looking at him. Waiting.
Edgeworth could tell him to leave it with him, that he would deliver it later. He could speak with Lana Skye, ask her to assign someone else. This will be a death penalty case. The prosecutor should be absolutely certain of the strength of the evidence before taking a case like this. Anything else would risk a loss, due to a bad-faith case. It would hurt not only his own record but that of the prosecutor's office itself. Lana would have to assign another prosecutor if he refused to take it. But this case—with all the attention it’s receiving, someone else would be eager for it.
Of course, von Karma would hear about it, but Edgeworth has displeased him before. Never anything as direct as this, as defiant. But he could probably weather that storm. He could make the case for refusing.
“Sign your name, then, boy. What the devil is taking you so long?”
Edgeworth looks up at his mentor. Not for the first time, he wonders why exactly it is that this man's good opinion is so important to him, when he has never had it to begin with. And yet, his heart pounds at that flat, gray gaze, and he acknowledges that the simple truth is that he does not want to pass up this case. He wants to do it, to prove that he can. Then, maybe next time he won't care quite as much about what von Karma says, what von Karma thinks—he will know what he’s capable of himself.
Maybe, if he’s proven himself with a case like this, he can decline anything similar in the future and von Karma will be more likely to accept his decision. Von Karma will see that it is not a matter of skill. Von Karma himself is certainly no stranger to refusing a case if he doesn’t think the evidence is there, but he thinks this one is good enough—he wouldn’t ask Edgeworth to take it otherwise. And maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But if Edgeworth can win it, maybe von Karma will trust his judgment next time. He just has to prove this first.
6 - 2016
It cannot be true. None of it. Her Papa, a murderer? Debasing himself so, turning himself into a criminal, all for the sake of a defense attorney? Two defense attorneys, really.
Franziska did not hear about Edgeworth’s trial until it was over. Did not hear about her father taking on the case even knowing that he was the accused. Her brother. Her little brother.
Papa was stern. He was unhappy, she knew, with Miles Edgeworth’s performance, of late. But to deliberately prosecute him? To frame him? To murder his father?
It is unspeakable, and although it is further shameful that even after everything else he had done, he had lost his case, Franziska is glad. Miles Edgeworth did not deserve that. The entire thing must be expunged from the von Karma name: Edgeworth’s losses, her father’s…disgrace and downfall. But it is nothing to do with her. She had no part in it. She will not feel shame or guilt. She has not earned them. She calls her father, just once. All she can do is say, “How could you?” and hang up because she cannot bear to hear his reply.
But now she is alone.
She does not name the feeling she has, the way it pushes up inside her. She finishes her studies. She hires someone to manage the house in her absence when she decides to travel.
She does not contact Miles Edgeworth.
2017
In February, there are rumors about him. The newspapers from California—which she views on occasion, but only because it is important for an attorney to be well informed—state that he has vanished, that he has left behind an ominous note. Franziska scowls at this. How is it that so many of these newspapers seem to be staffed only by foolish fools? How is it that after years of reporting on Miles Edgeworth, interviewing Miles Edgeworth, watching Miles Edgeworth in court, they still do not understand anything about Miles Edgeworth?
He is a foolish, bombastic fool. He says things for effect, but he speaks the truth. It is not so coded as they all pretend. If he has called himself a prosecutor in his declaration of death, he merely means that he has ceased prosecuting.
Franziska would cease prosecuting too if she lost three cases to a foolish fool like that foolish, ridiculous fool, Phoenix Wright. Which would never happen. (She might also cease prosecuting if she lost her mentor and only family, if the person who knew her best—the only person she had left—had ignored her for months, because maybe they blamed her for what had happened. She might. He might. But she won’t think about that. Can’t think about that.)
Sometimes at night, she lies in bed and stares at the moulding above the fireplace in her bedroom. Sometimes, her heart races so much she stands up instead and walks around the house in her white pajamas, aware that she is glowing like a ghost.
On one of these nights she returns to her room and finds the phone beside her bed with its screen illuminated.
She has received a text message from Miles Edgeworth.
Edgeworth: I saw the newspaper articles and wanted to avoid any confusion. I am currently traveling. There is no need for you to reply.
Franziska feels her eyes narrow. That foolish fool. Does he imagine that she is entirely without feeling? That she is a foolish fool who blames him for any of this? His failure is a disgrace—not only to him, but to her, but that is not why she feels ill at the thought of not speaking to him for all these months, of not replying to him now.
But she cannot think what to say, what would be worth saying—or worth hearing, from her. (Not to him. He probably hates her. But she cannot think of that.)
There is no need for you to reply. As if she should need his permission!
She throws the phone into the fireplace and clutches the bed frame while she cries.
She despises him. He is the most foolish fool she has ever met. She will never be able to rid herself of him, gain any peace from him. There is only one thing for her to do.
Avenge him.
7 - 2019
Eddie can’t deny that he’d seen something in Miles, these last few days. He’d hoped it would turn out differently. For a moment there, he had even believed that it really might. That Miles himself would feel that same pull. That he, Eddie, might be the one to guide Mr. E’s son back to his metaphorical legal home. There would be a certain satisfaction in that. But alas and alack and woe is Eddie—it is not to be.
Because despite Eddie’s needling greeting, when he’d pretended to mistake him for his dreaded mentor (why do the von Karmas and their ilk all wear those fluffy neck things?), Miles really is nothing like Manfred von Karma. Oh, he has some of the mannerisms, maybe even some of the same turns of phrase. But at his core, and even just the whole general vibe he’s putting out—well, Eddie jokes and complains about his dry, serious face, but it really felt like working with Mr. E again. Mr. E’d smiled a little more easily, maybe had more of a sense of humor. But he’d had that same steely drive, that same dedication to finding the truth that was more than just a creed, but a part of his spirit.
So, yeah, it would have been nice. Making it official. Maybe with another Edgeworth in the building, Eddie wouldn’t feel so guilty about adding his own name to the sign. But Miles had received the Committee’s ruling gratefully. He’s never going to be a defense attorney. He’s never going to be Gregory Edgeworth. That’s probably for the best. Still, Eddie’s glad he gave Miles a chance.
They’re sitting in a cafe across from the Edgeworth and Co. Law Offices. Miles looks out of place here now, with the frills. The badge. The actual, literal von Karma standing beside him, scowling and peering around the office after having insisted on escorting Miles here as if she were afraid he might change his mind again.
(“So you don’t forget your duties,” she had snapped. Miles had just turned a blank face on Eddie at that, and said, “Shall we?” So Eddie had followed his lead. He figures Miles is probably used to her.)
Now Miles is looking around, moving slowly, almost reverently. Eddie is pretty sure he’s not aware that he’s smiling, just slightly. Eddie clocks Franziska lightly with his shoulder when it looks like she’s about to say something.
“Let him look,” he whispers. Franziska scowls and murmurs something about waiting outside. Miles doesn’t seem to notice when she opens the door and lets herself out with surprisingly little fanfare.
Miles approaches the heavy wooden desk next to the window. Eddie has kept it the way it was eighteen years ago, and he knows he doesn’t need to explain that. Miles was here enough to remember, to be able to tell on his own. He picks up books, his father’s paperweight, letters he had received from colleagues. Everyone had always been so eager to work with Mr. E, to help him out, be a part of any case he worked on. Miles sits down in his chair. Then he looks at Eddie.
“He would have been honored,” he says. “That you’ve kept all of this.”
“Nah. Did it for myself really. Can’t stand the idea of tossing it, or taking the desk for myself. But I think he would have been happy,” Eddie says. “Mr. Tangaroa will get…what’s left of his life back. Because of you, me, and Mr. E. We solved it. All of us together. He would have been proud of you. Proud of us.”
Miles doesn’t look up from the desk. Instead he seems to be thinking, processing. For a moment, he looks pained.
“You know,” Miles says, slowly. “For once, I think you’re right.”
Then he raises his eyes to Eddie, and Eddie sees something there—a new lightness. A smile, small, but undeniable, tugs at the corners of his lips. This time he seems aware of it. This time, it doesn’t seem so out of place.