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Prosecutor Manfred Von Karma was executed yesterday at 10:00 a.m....
All the news channels were repeating the same thing, seemingly without any other topic to discuss.
Murders?
Climate disasters?
The latest investigations?
Nothing was more interesting than talking about him. Even in death, it seemed his name clung to the shadows of mortals.
The falling raindrops on the cement accompanied a melancholic song of the breeze, a mournful chorus in every footstep, in every puddle. It was almost eerie to feel his shadow lurking... at least that's how the shadow he left in the light felt: Franziska Von Karma.
She tried, in vain, to change the radio station. All the news reports were the same: Von Karma. In a moment of resignation, she decided to simply leave it off; the sound of cars on her way to the courthouse would accompany her.
"Isn't she Prosecutor Von Karma?"
"Manfred Von Karma's daughter? He's the one they executed yesterday, isn't he?"
"And she comes to a trial like nothing happened?"
"She has no heart."
Whispers. Other people's whispers always accompanied her shadow; with every step she took, every breath seemed to be grounds for judgment.
"She got where she is because of her father," was what she was used to hearing, in the courthouse hallways, from the police officers behind her.
At this point, such comments were indifferent to her; they were nothing more than a routine established since she became a prosecutor at the age of thirteen.
The trial began normally, monotonously. Same bow, same victorious smile after 10 minutes; the verdict? Guilty. Another textbook victory, one more on her record. It was a simple case, at least that's how she felt. The fingerprints on the gun used in the crime were enough. The sentence was the death penalty. However, the conclusion was met with an almost sepulchral silence, as if it were a whim of the moment.
"You're a bitch!"
"Stop!" they exclaimed behind her.
Behind her, the guards restrained a woman. One on each arm, stifling a futile attempt to reach the prosecutor. "If it weren't for you, my son wouldn't have been... MY SON IS GOING TO DIE! HE'S NOT A BAD BOY!"
"Shut up. The verdict has been given. I only defended the truth," Franziska said curtly, without even taking her eyes off her whip. Afterward, the woman let out muffled cries as she was escorted by the guards, heading for the elevator to go to the parking garage.
Each step they took, the sound of their heels against the marble floor, was like a cold, clean stab, straight to the chest. Reaching the elevator was like drawing a dagger, a dagger of blood and lies. Twenty years ago, he was disbarred. It wasn't until a few years ago that people forgot the crime, that the voices fell silent and he was used again... until that fateful trial in December 2016.
"W-what kind of joke is this?" he asked that day as soon as he turned on his television to watch the news. His father, his own father, Papa was going to prosecute his little brother. No, it wasn't possible, it had to be a dream. Yes, that's what it was. His father, his "dad," the one who had taken under his wing and guardianship a small, scrawny child who resembled a frightened kitten... wasn't real, he was dreaming. He wanted to hit himself, tear his skin off, smash his lips with his own teeth; anything to wake up from that nightmare, a bad dream.
No. It was real.
She had never felt such a sensation, everything she knew crumbling on the screen, without her being able to do anything. It was as if every organ inside her writhed with disgust at the thought. A heavy feeling, as if her legs had suddenly lost all strength and were fighting to stay upright. What a nauseating feeling... it was still seared into her mind, in a hypocritical dance, yearning to hide in the deepest darkness of her thoughts and force its way into the light of her doubts, as if it sought to be a part of everything within her.
Her father had left for America just a week ago... and now? He was going to condemn her brother. There was no other way; he was the perfect prosecutor, unbeatable, his verdicts were only one: the death penalty.
However, a phone call changed everything.
The fateful call from Miles Edgeworth, December 28th.
All the Christmas decorations fading away, almost like a premonition of a joy that would be gone forever, a warmth breathing its last. The phone rang:
"Franziska..."
"M-Miles Edgeworth? You're..."
"You saw the news, didn't you?" he cut her off in a tired, funereal voice, as if he had to offer a broken condolence... which wasn't a lie.
"...Yes."
"I'm innocent," he whispered before stating the inevitable. "Is there anything you want... to know? I'll tell you whatever you wish."
Franziska took a breath. She had only seen the news an hour ago... a cruel joke that made her squirm inside. "No. Justice has spoken..." she replied, ending the call without letting Edgeworth add anything more.
She didn't want anything more; he was surely dealing with his own problems, even bigger than hers; the ones that caused the nightmares she remembered so well.
"Justice has spoken," how empty those words felt coming from her lips... the Von Karma lips. Lips Von Karma, which for fifteen years concealed a crime. What justice did she dare defend? With what justification did she defend her perfection? Was this a joke? All these years, Miles's nightmares were the fault of... his father? How disgusting. The mere thought of it made her want to vomit...
Now, after her father's execution, she stood before the elevator that had started it all two decades ago. The same sharp, unsettling feeling coursed through her body, preventing her from entering; a torment that left her motionless before what had been the scene of the crime that had snatched Miles away... and her own.
She decided to take the stairs.
They were dark. The electric sound of the burnt-out lightbulb guided a soft flicker of light between the steps. One after another, they were the only accompaniment to her slow footsteps.
Once in her car, the engine noise seemed louder than usual. Would she have to take it to the mechanic later? Perhaps it needed oil, or something needed loosening. Or maybe it was a ventilation problem. A call interrupted her thoughts about her gleaming light blue convertible; "sister," was the number calling. What an inopportune moment; the last thing she wanted was to answer. Could she ignore the call this time? It was probably to discuss some inheritance matter or something like that; they had no relationship beyond blood. Maybe later she'd say she was busy with some research, or who knows, she'd invent some excuse.
Excuses... what a despicable word. They were the same as a lie... lies told by the daughter of a liar.
"I'm not my father, I'm not Manfred Von Karma," she used to repeat to herself in those moments to calm her restless mind. Sleepless nights, trembling steps before a trial. "Why don't they stop?!" she screamed inwardly, haunted by her own questions.
"You are his daughter, his legacy," but deep down, she didn't want to be the legacy of a murderer. Murderer, "Dad is a murderer," was something she hadn't been able to think about for a long time. She felt overwhelmed by doubts. Had she ever known her father? Now he was a disgusting and repulsive killer; no longer an invincible prosecutor, no longer "Papa." He was just like the countless others behind the bench she herself had left behind bars, waiting for the end of their sighs after five years that seemed like an eternity. What a beautiful way to start the new year. Just a few months after "accepting" her new reality, in February 2017, a phone call, in an irony of fate, decided to slap her in the face with the reading of a letter:
Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.
It was a lie. It couldn't be true. It was a bad comedy. He wasn't going to leave her now. No, no, no, he couldn't be dead. Her "little brother" wasn't capable of it; he was alive, but where? An impregnable, untouchable fortress... had vanished overnight.
"Who do I have to overcome now? Where did you go?" she wondered, unable to sleep each night, accompanied by the ticking of an old clock on her nightstand... the only thing she kept of an ephemeral shadow that called itself mother on her papers.
Who had done this to him? Who had snatched away her perfect, unbeatable little brother? Thinking of Manfred Von Karma was too disgusting; no, she couldn't accept that as an answer. She would avenge him.
Once in America, there seemed to be only one path... Phoenix Wright... the lawyer who had taken her brother from her.
Perhaps, thinking about it now, coldly, "revenge" was nothing more than an empty word. Why revenge? For her father? No. But she couldn't blame Miles Edgeworth, could she? All her nightmares, her traumas; yet if, after the trial, they had an answer, it was worse than a lie. And without him, she was alone. Her father was already dead in her eyes... only an old killer remained behind cold metal bars, waiting for an injection on the appointed day to close his eyes for the brief instant it took to reach hell. Is that where the guilty go?
Yes, however, there seemed to be other ways to suffer besides that hell: suffering in life, fear, pain, an irrational panic at seeing what you love slip away like sand through your fingers. "How simple human beings were, guided by that fear," she had thought months before after what had happened with District Attorney Godot. Saving Maya, why? A whim? She had done it for something more, an ephemeral desire to escape that shadow. It was only a call from Edgeworth, no more than thirty seconds, and yet, she didn't think twice.
He hadn't realized at the time that he'd gone two days straight without sleep, all to... help his brother? Maya? Why did it feel like a whim? Perhaps he'd managed to empathize with the medium's fear, supposedly trapped. Or maybe with his brother's fear of failing his friend.
"Fear and defeat are for the weak," his father used to say. He'd learned that before he could count to ten. Weak? Was Miles Edgeworth weak? Just for being afraid of failing, for feeling overwhelmed by the memories of what had happened in that elevator... Manfred Von Karma's fault. Did that make him weak?
Without realizing it, he'd arrived at his destination. Parking was quick; there weren't many people in that depressing, gloomy place. Now what? All that was left was to get out of his car and walk through the tears of the sky and the darkness of the clouds enclosing the world.
A small, perhaps slightly uneven, headstone, as if no effort had been put into its placement. There it was, in front of her father's grave. No "rest in peace," no flowers. Even the grass around it was turning yellow. No one had come, no one wanted to come. A murderer's grave wasn't worth it.
The wind caressed her icy hair as she remained motionless, without uttering a word. "Father..." Franziska thought for a brief, frigid moment. "I came to see you..."
Why? Why had she come in the first place?
"Father, why? Why did you do it? You were the closest thing Miles had to a father, and..."
She clenched her fist so tightly that even her gloves couldn't prevent the damage. "Answer me, Papa. Is this your victory? You're here all alone, not even your other daughter wanted to come see you"—"but I did come," she thought briefly. And yes, Franziska had come, without flowers in her hands, without condolences or sadness, just on a mere whim.
She clenched her fist. What was she doing there then?
"Father, why? Why did you kill Miles's father? Why didn't you answer me while you were alive? Did I really know you, Papa...?" Manfred Von Karma. He hadn't answered anything before he left; or rather, she had never had the courage to ask him, and he had never allowed himself to answer. She had already accepted it, so why was she now asking a tombstone? "How stupid." F-father, after losing that trial against Phoenix Wright... did you still love me?
No. That was the only answer that came to her mind. The truth was, she had tried to see him, once. "Your father doesn't want to see you now, Prosecutor Von Karma," was the response she received. Was "now" a "never wants to see you again"? She could try again... but she didn't want to. It was better to leave him dead.
"Damn it!" she shouted, this time with a crystalline tear falling down her cheek. "Answer me, father! D-do you hate me? Did you ever love me in your miserable life?"
"...How stupid, I sound stupid talking to a grave".
"Maybe."
"Huh?"
Franziska quickly recognized that voice, Miles Edgeworth. He was behind her, in his always impeccable suit, his hair in a book cut, and his extremely flashy scarf. "Go away!" she exclaimed before even giving her "brother" a chance to speak.
"Why are you here?"
"Where else would you be? Look at you, you're going to catch a cold out here in the rain without an umbrella."
"Y-you have no reason to be here... or an umbrella."
"I decide if I have a reason or not."
"...Go away, I look pathetic."
"Perhaps."
"...I..." Franziska sighed for a moment, swallowing her pride, "...I'm sorry for coming. I know he was the one who..."
"He's your father, it's fine that you came."
"But...!"
She couldn't say more. Edgeworth's gaze stopped her; without realizing it, he had already moved closer. "You know? You shouldn't pretend to be strong all the time," he said, looking directly into her eyes, the same dull ash color as her father's.
"I don't look strong, Miles Edgeworth... I look stupid and imperfect." "And is that bad?"
"Yes!" Franziska cried, fighting back tears that desperately wanted to spill down her pale cheeks. "He left without answering me... now that he's gone, I honestly don't know if I ever knew my father. I-I didn't visit him even once, and now it's too late. Why am I telling you this?! I-I..."
There was nothing to say. Edgeworth wrapped his arms around her, almost clumsily, in the blink of an eye. "People like hugs when they're sad," Phoenix had once explained to her. Maybe he was going to help her, though even he wasn't sure.
"W-what do you think you're doing?!" Franziska exclaimed, but received no answer; Miles wouldn't let go. So... was she trapped? Was it safe to be there? Could she even be herself?
Before she knew it, tears were streaming down her face, one after another, soaking her younger brother's suit even more than the rain. She clutched the reddish lapels of his suit tightly, her shoulders hunched, her eyes hidden behind her light blue hair. She simply wept uncontrollably, just like the sky that day. She wept and wept, and Miles just held her tightly. He didn't say a word; his mere presence conveyed, "I'm here, and you're safe." He understood her doubts better than anyone, and in a way, he was the root of them. "You're stupid... Miles," Franziska whispered between sobs.
"I know," he replied, still holding his older sister close.