Alright, so this is finally out. Took so much longer than it should have.
First and foremost, I must thank my two editors. TheInsane (for the title, summary and editting) and Luv2Game (for more editting). You're both my go-to guys and I can't thank you enough for your help.
I couldn't let them try Miles for shooting me. He didn't know what he was doing when he threw that pistol. Besides, even if Yogi didn't pull the trigger, it was his fault. He was indirectly responsible for my death. Had he just stayed calm, everything would've been fine. We would've gotten out of the elevator, and been able to go home. Yogi was responsible in the end, so if he was sent to prison, he deserved it. He robbed a nine year-old boy of his father, and robbed a man of his only son.
He hired Robert Hammond to defend him, and I know that Hammond wouldn't care about finding a murderer. If I lied, he wouldn't bother pressing me for the truth, only to discount my testimony from the record to get Yogi an acquittal. All he cares about is clearing his client's name to better his own. That trial was nothing like any I'd ever known because of Hammond's lack of integrity and the judge's fickleness. I'm surprised that the judge even allowed the testimony of a spirit medium in his court. It's impossible to prove that was truly my words that were submitted as I didn't testify on the stand, in fact, I had no idea at all where I was. Any other judge would've thought that the very idea of it was absolutely preposterous. Apparently this judge is easily persuaded and lacks control over the court, simply letting the attorneys come to their conclusions. As a result, Yogi's trial ended in disaster.
It left me with a frightening thought, however. What would happen to Miles once the trial was over? I had no living relatives that could provide him with a suitable home. California State Social Services would probably send him to foster homes and mostly likely he would remain there until he was eighteen. At that point, the State would no longer provide for him at all. Barely anybody is ready to be on their own at eighteen. How would he pay for college? Law school? An apartment? His life? Yogi doesn't have any idea what he's done to my boy. What's worse is that he doesn't care.
I don't know if my prayers were answered or damned when Manfred von Karma filed for custody of Miles. My son would have a home, a chance for a good life, and an education, but with von Karma? The last I remember, he was calling me a fool from across the courtroom, clamming up and pounding his bench as I proved that he had been tampering with evidence in the last case I was counsel of. How does he benefit from taking my son under his wing? He promised Miles that if he became a prosecutor, he could one day ensure that justice would be served for my murder and that no guilty man would ever walk free again so long as he was there to lock them up personally.
No, I don't want that. I don't want Miles to be locked up for manslaughter. It wasn't his fault. He doesn't deserve to be punished. He meant no harm. I could say that I'm glad that I ended up dead instead of Yogi. If that were the case, there'd be no way to avoid prosecution for Miles. It's bad enough that he thinks it's his fault. He has nightmares about that day almost every night. He wakes up panicked, and sweaty, gasping for air like he was that day in the elevator. But at least then, I was there to tell him to calm down and that everything would be okay if he kept his head on his shoulders. He dreams of the moments just before I died. The last few things I remember, he sees them too. Yogi panics, I try to console him, he attacks me, Miles throws the pistol, it fires, and the scream. It must have been Yogi, he had already lost it, and hearing the pistol fire probably pushed him over the edge. Miles tells himself that it's just a dream, and it'll stop once he puts this all behind him.
But I could still feel Miles grow an unnatural hatred for defense attorneys since Yogi was acquitted for my murder. He may never truly put all this behind him with that attitude. I only wish that I could speak to him once more, and tell him not to judge all because of the actions of one. So that I could remind him that a defense attorney's true duty is to discover the truth, whatever that may be. To remind him of a man's duty to society and his fellow man, a defense attorney's duty is to defend those unable to defend themselves and to ensure that every man, guilty or not guilty, is never denied their right of a fair trial.
Yet, no matter how much I long to, I know that I can't.
So von Karma is granted custody and Miles leaves behind everything and goes to Germany to live in his estate. Miles is tutored there by various people, and von Karma himself. Thankfully, Miles has always been a fast learner, and never afraid to ask questions in school. If not, he'd never be able to keep up with the lessons von Karma puts him through. He doesn't treat Miles like a boy, but as a colleague practically, expecting him to understand the most sophisticated vocabulary and legal terms that people aren't even exposed to until they are accepted into pre-law programs in college.
I still see no benefit for von Karma in any of this and he certainly isn't the type to take in an orphaned boy out of charity, especially my boy. He must have a reason, something to gain, a motive so to speak. After some time I can't help but feel like von Karma is doing it just to offend me. He's taken my son, and is attempting to make him into something that I never would've wanted him to be. It doesn't matter to me if he ends up becoming a prosecutor instead of a defense attorney, but to take up any bench in court armed with lies, forged or hidden evidence and deaf ears to the truth, as von Karma does, was something that defied the very idea of the courtroom and all it stands for.
Prosecutor. Defense attorney. It doesn't make any difference. As long as both parties provide the court with facts supported by evidence, with reliable witnesses, and belief in themselves and their convictions, then truth will find a way to make itself known. That was all that I wanted Miles to understand but after listening to von Karma's promises for justice and Hammond's lies, I'm not sure if he believes that anymore.
He encourages Miles to obtain absolute perfection in every way, shape and form in every aspect of life and anything less than perfect is unacceptable. Of course, I always told him to do his very best in everything he does, and to strive for perfection to better himself, but that true perfection was impossible. I would always tell him that strength wasn't about having no weaknesses, but about not letting those weaknesses; that all people inevitably have; drag him down when something else is more important. Just as courage isn't about being fearless, but not letting his fears stop him from doing the right thing.
He forbids Miles from making friends, as they would create a weakness in this "perfection". He was told that not even family could truly be trusted, only his own intuition. I taught him that family and friends were the pillars of strength that lifted us up when we fell, or held us up so we wouldn't fall. I would tell him that the love of family was irreplaceable, and friends were the siblings we never had.
Ironic, I figure, being that Miles and von Karma's own daughter consider each other siblings. I'm sure he's aware of it, of the potential "weakness," or so he calls it, in his daughter for indulging in sibling love and rivalry, but he also must know that he can do nothing to stop it. I suppose, in the same light, that I'm grateful for it. Franziska seems to be the only form of companionship that Miles has and doesn't feel ashamed of. Even so, it's only semi-decent due to von Karma's unspoken disapproval and most likely temporary. Being constantly challenged to see who can impress von Karma more or competing to see who is more perfect than the other is hardly what I call sisterly but unlike her father, I can tell that Franziska genuinely cares for Miles one way or another, regardless of her denial.
As far as the law goes, he's taught Miles that witnesses always lie, and that if he had to create evidence to convict the defendant then it was a completely justified action. He taught him that defense attorneys weren't there to ensure a fair trial for the free people, but just to spew out lies and let criminals walk free. That they didn't exist to make sure that prosecutors actually remembered that everybody is innocent until proven guilty and in order to prove something in a court of law, one needs evidence, but just to fabricate lies and deceive the court by ignoring the facts. Whenever I feel a twinge of doubt in Miles, von Karma notices it as well and reminds him of the trial of my murder. He tells my boy that my trial was a fraud because of a defense attorney and that he can ensure that nothing remotely like that will ever happen again by silencing the "foolish" lawyers who take advantage of their titles.
Everything von Karma teaches him is the exact opposite of everything I've ever taught him and he's doing to spite me, I feel.
That bastard is using me to manipulate my son. When I was living, it was my job to see through lies and find the truth, and this man isn't fooling me anymore now than he was when I stood across from him in court, as he snapped and waved his fingers condescendingly in failed attempts to intimidate me. I don't understand what he's thinking but I don't like it at all. The only reason Miles listens to him or has any respect for him is because he brings up my trial. He makes Miles think that he's doing it for me. He thinks that von Karma respected me as his fellow man and is trying to help. He's taking all the love and respect my son has for me and is using it to fool him into disgracing my name.
To see Miles hate defense attorneys so, and to watch him take everything von Karma says to heart is even more painful for me than when I lost my wife. Miles always was a passionate person, always putting everything he has into what he loves and believes, and I never thought I would see somebody take advantage of his qualities for no reason at all. And he's defenseless against it. He doesn't know any better. I suppose I have only myself to blame for that. I never exposed him to the dark side of the human being, but taught him that everybody had some good in them, and that defense attorneys must place their faith in the good in people. That's what he's doing now with von Karma, and it's my fault.
Watching all this is infuriating and agonizing. I can't watch for another moment, but how can I turn my back on my boy? I can't. It won't be permanent, but I need something to remind me of who my son once was, about his dreams that he left behind and forgot. Our home, perhaps there? Before I died we lived in a small house in a neighborhood not far from the grade school Miles attended. Apparently it wasn't sold, so if Miles ever came back to America, he would have somewhere to go if need be.
Everything is as I left it, save for most of Miles' belongings. It looks like he left behind most of his toys and puzzle games he liked to play with. von Karma probably told him to leave them so he wouldn't have any distractions from his studies. There are countless layers of dust over everything after a few years of neglect. It didn't feel like a home at all anymore. It seemed like a house that young children would joke was haunted.
It still did bring some comfort to me. All the tests that Miles did well on, book reports, essays, and report cards were all still hanging on the refrigerator. The books that we would read together before he went to bed were still in the bookcase in his room. His art projects were still on the shelf above the dinner table in the kitchen; his awards all framed and hung around where he would practice playing his flute along with pictures of him growing up little by little. The collection was incomplete, but it still made me remember how proud I am of him, regardless of what he becomes.
My bedroom was still covered with pictures of my wife and me before she died. I had long since put her things into storage, and told myself it was time to move on, but I kept the few things most dear to her around for memory. On my night table, the picture of us while she was pregnant is still there. I remember her being so overly attentive to Miles when he was a baby, constantly wondering if he needed anything, checking on him, fretting over everything he did and everything he was exposed to. I used to laugh and tell her to relax, but now I can only wish that I could be there with Miles, to fret over and watch him as intently as she always did. Remembering her, and how she protected him from everything, brings shame upon me like none I've ever felt. She would never have let any of this happen to our son and I can't imagine how ashamed of me she must be.
I hear some laughing outside the windows and I can see a few kids running past. The grade school must've been let out. I went outside and watched them all go by for no reason other than whenever I got home from my office early; I would wait for Miles on the porch. I know that no matter how long I wait and watch the corner, as I used to, I won't see Miles on his way home, but after realizing that I've failed both my wife and my son, I suppose a desperate hope brought me to believe that maybe something would come of it. I realize now that that very same desperation is probably what brought me back to my home in the first place. I thought perhaps it would help to lift my spirit some, and it did for a short time, until I came back to reality and looked at the big picture.
None of the children give my home a passing glance, they just run or walk past like it's not even there. After a few minutes, I continue looking, but stop seeing as my mind begins to catch up with me. Eventually the sounds of children running by dies and all I hear is an occasional car driving by. I try to use the new silence to bring myself back into a rational state of mind and inference so I can decide what to do next. There is nothing left to do, nobody left to see other than Miles and I don't see any point in further stalling. A part of me is grateful that the sound of single pair of footsteps interrupts me from thinking and doing anything. They probably belong to one of the neighbors on their way to the mailboxes. Curiosity and a need for distraction cause me to look up.
I see a boy I remember. I'd spot his spiky hairdo a mile away. What's his name? He was Miles' friend. He was a good kid who never got in any trouble, did well in school, but seemed a bit gullible. I remember thinking he was a good influence on Miles and always welcomed him to visit. He didn't look much different, though he's a lot taller than I remember, but his hair is still the same. When I would wait for Miles, he would always be walking with him. It made me feel better that Miles wouldn't walk home alone and I'd always invite him inside for a snack before he went home.
As he passes, unlike the other children; he looks at my home as it comes into his line of sight. For a second, it feels like he's looking at me. When he gets to the concrete walkway leading to the porch, he stops. His eyes scan the lawn and a moment later, he treads through the dead grass and picks up a few pieces of trash that had been discarded there. He collects handful and dumps them into the blue trash can that's on the curb for the next house over. He then makes his way back to the sidewalk and continues on home. I keep watching him until he turns the next corner. It bothers me that I can't seem to recall his name. It's an odd, uncommon name, but not foreign. I remember when I met the boy for the first time and he told me his name, he said something to help me remember, some sort of pun or joke.
"You know, like the bird and the capital of Arizona, and the flying brothers."
Phoenix Wright.
Who could've thought that an act of random kindness could make such a difference to anybody? The few things Phoenix had just done meant more to me than they probably would to anybody else.
When he walked by he looked at my home, not a passing glance or a glimpse, a genuine look. For that moment, he was probably looking for me, even though I could almost swear he was looking at me. It was most likely a habit at this point, derived from when he would walk home with Miles. They would always look to the porch with hope that I would be waiting there for them. Either way, his deep blue eyes were very easy to read. There definitely was acknowledgement in his stare. He remembers Miles, and most likely Miles still holds a place in his heart.
Then he stopped. If he'd just looked, that might've meant he simply remembered a boy he once played with who lived there, nothing more. But he stopped. To get a closer look, comparing what he remembered to what he was seeing or recalling his visits, whatever the case may be. Stopping gave a much stronger sense of recognition, almost as if he was thinking too much to be walking at the same time.
Picking up the trash on the lawn could've been his idea of a daily good deed, if it had just been that. But it was out of respect for people he remembered. Possibly somebody who made a difference to him. That's right. Phoenix did hold Miles in high regard. That's one day I won't soon forget. Miles called my office as soon as he got home from school. I could hear that he was proud and excited in his voice. He told me he defended a boy who was accused of stealing his lunch money in a class trial. He said that nobody was able to prove that it was him, and he didn't believe the boy had done it either. I laughed and told him how proud I was of him for doing what he thought was right, and for standing up for somebody who couldn't defend himself. It was the next day that Phoenix walked home with Miles for the first time and we'd met.
It's been about two years since I last saw Phoenix, so he should be eleven or twelve years old now. I can almost picture what he'll be like when he becomes a man. For some reason, this boy brings a faint feeling of hope to me. As faint as it is, it's still there, and it's very real. It's a rather large difference however, from the complete and utter hopelessness I was feeling only minutes ago. Maybe something did come of that desperate longing that brought me to wait at the porch for nothing. It still troubles me to no end, thinking of Miles' circumstances and what will become of him under von Karma's tutelage, but somehow, I feel that watching him once more, with the thought that Phoenix still remembers him, made things less painful, even if only by the slightest margin.
One thing my wife always believed in was signs, and I think this was one of them. I hope that Miles and Phoenix meet again someday. It will not be soon. That much I know for certain but after seeing what kind of person Phoenix is, I realize how badly Miles needs somebody like him around, especially now. If a small memory of a grade school friend would coax a boy into cleaning up the lawn of an abandoned home, than seeing an old friend after years of absence could beget miracles in a heart like Phoenix's.
Anybody I knew during my life would say that's wishful thinking and they're probably right, but this boy is Miles' last hope. It's a long shot, but something is better than nothing. For the time being, all I can do is place my faith in Phoenix and pray that he doesn't forget who Miles was, and who he wanted to be. Maybe I can't speak to Miles and remind him as I'd like to, but Phoenix... he can, and I only hope that he will.
Even though it's a long shot, nothing short of a miracle, he's my only option. At this stage, Phoenix is all I have.
All done, finally. Please tell me what you think of how I depicted Gregory's character. We don't know anything about his personality so I went on whim. Please review.