Note : To simplify things, this chapter starts two years before chapter one. In chapter one, Apollo is 16, meaning it is 6 years before the events of Apollo Justice. (He's 22 at the time.) At that time, Kristoph is 26, and Phoenix is 27, meaning it is one year after Phoenix was disbarred. At the beginning of this chapter, it is two years PRIOR to Apollo's 16th year, which means that Kristoph is 24, and Phoenix is 25. It is one year BEFORE Phoenix is disbarred, during the events of justice for all.
Note 2 : Any German in this page is translated with Google. Shoot it if it's wrong.
Note 3 (If you care) : Computer broke down while I was doing this.
II : A self-made devil
Two years ago
Kristoph twisted the phone he was holding into the groove of his neck and tilted his head to the side to hold it there while his other hand jabbed frantically at the 'save' button on his computer. The keyboard made a tapping, bouncing sort of noise, once. Twice. Three times. He stabbed at it again. Below him, the central processing unit started making a long wheezing sound, the sound he recognized to be the sign that his computer was overworked – maybe having it turned on for two whole months in a row wasn't healthy for it's disposition – and made one last frantic jab at ctrl and s. The machine gave another wheeze, then a spasm – if one can say a computer is having a spasm – and then silence. The wheezing stopped, along with the buzzing. The screen went black.
Oh Gott, no.
He tapped the keyboard again – but nothing happened, not even a flicker. He gave up, slamming his palm onto the keyboard and cussed.
"Ach, the lovely patient bruder is not so warm and lovely today. Why the impatience?" The voice from the phone chuckled with a German accent.
"It's nothing...Just that the computer broke down, and now the file I was working for two whole hours on is gone, just like that." He waved his hand in exasperation, swiveling on the chair.
"That old antique sitting on your table, it is still there? It is a long time pass it's bedtime – the last time I was there, it cannot even play Mario. Crashed every time I ate a mushroom."
"Well, yes, it is still there. I hadn't had the oppurtunity to ask Miss Devereux for a new computer. " He pushed the paper off the desk and pulled out the paperwork he needed and sighed. Might as well stop dilly-dallying and get to it. Elizabeth Devereux wouldn't be happy if she returned to the office and find that the entire table was clotted and his paperwork not done. Being a junior associate was a tough thing – paperwork usually falls into your lap when the senior attorneys are done with the case, even if the senior in question was kinder than most and did some of her own paperwork.
"Ah, that fraulein – her legs are still smooth and fine?"
"I don't know Klavier, I have better things to do than to look at her legs, unlike you. As if I could do that without her brother swinging that doll of his at me anyway."
"Haha, ja, that is true. When I returned to America, I would be sure to send her flowers – but for that brother of hers. " Klavier chuckled in the phone – his German accent was particularly strong – after spending a couple of years pulling all nighters in a German law school. He had hoped to pass the bar next year and make it as the youngest prosecutor ever in America.
"Yes, he is rather terrible for a child so young."
"I'll never forget the way he shouted at me when I tried to peck the fraulein's cheek during the autograph session. It looked as if he is about to become a victim of murder!" Kristoph smiled at the description of the child, scribbling randomly onto the margins of the document.
"But about that computer, Kristoph, why don't you just buy another one?"
The scratching of the pencil against the paper paused.
"Have you forgotten our conversation, Klavier?" He asked, a mild tone.
"Ach...Still a no go?"
"Yes, still a no go, as you so delicately put it."
"But Kris, you're a good lawyer, even if I do say so as your brother. Why is it so hard to make a living?"
Kristoph heaved a sigh. "Lawyers aren't pay dirt in this city, Klavier. There are just too many of them out there, and when you divide the cases between the lawyers in this city – you realize that there are virtually next to no case for them to handle – especially for a freshly graduated amateur like me. It's not just the ability you have that is in question, the question is whether people want to trust that ability or not."
"Ach...Tough life, this law, eh brother?"
"Says the boy who wants to be a lawyer himself." It was Kristoph's turn to chuckle now. " You had better work hard, 'else you'll end up struggling like me."
"Hmph, it's their loss if you ask me. You're the best lawyer I know."
"Oh, better even than that Miles Edgeworth you idolized so?"
"Bah. I was talking about defense attorneys."
"It's all about the reputation, Klavier. It's hard now, but it'll get better, I swear."
Over the phone, Kristoph could practically see Klavier nod. "But Kris, if you ever need anything – anything at all – you can just ask me, okay? The Gavinners are doing pretty well right now – even if we're studying and everything – and if you ever need anything --"
"No, Klavier." Kristoph cut off Klavier's serious voice, and felt the pencil he was holding snapped right into two when his fist curled tightly around it. There was no way in cold hell he was going to accept help – he hadn't fallen so low yet – especially from his YOUNGER brother. "I don't need help, Klavier. I told you, it's just a phase. If I work hard, I can build myself a good repertoire and everything will be fine, life will move on...I'm going to hang up now."
Without waiting for an answer, he clicked the phone to disengaged it and throw it onto the table. He leaned back and closed his eyes, massaging his lids.
It was tough surviving in a city like this. You have to work for years, gain experience, work some more, until you can become a big-shot lawyer, the kind he wanted to be. But of course, real life doesn't just wait for you to get the checks deposited- it runs on without you – and he was already struggling under the burden of the city's insane rent. His luck had been anything but good recently – all the cases he had accepted turned out to be airtight in a bad way, the defendants were so guilty they practically had it painted on their foreheads – and it hadn't taken the prosecutor long to pinned the crime onto them, despite Kristoph's attempts. So he was still stuck in the no-name section. A nobody.
How to remedy that? He knew what the answer was, of course. He pulled open his desk drawer and withdraw a tiny piece of paper from it – barely wider than an inch. On it was written a name and a phone number – that of Wayne Nelson, an expert at forging evidences. He had received that particular number from a client of his, requesting that he contact the forger to get him off the hook. Kristoph refused, not wanting to do that, and he had been fired, and he washed his hands of the man.
He kept the phone number though.
He played with the paper a little, twisting it this way and that – he knew the number by heart anyway – it was the key to fame. All he had to do was arranged for some forged evidence...And he would be the next "Ace Attorney" before long. Fame was one phone call away, handier even than pizza.
But what then, he thought? There wasn't much glory in it, even if he would enjoy gloating over the others and holding his success above their heads. But he would know deep down that it was a betrayal to the legal system he so loved, - one corruption spins another – and he didn't know if he could live with himself if he did all that just to – what? To have a moment of fame? - get a defendant declared not guilty. It wasn't like they deserved it anyway.
He knew his answer. He spun the paper around some more, then put it back into the desk drawer.
Everyone and their grandmother knew that defendant wasn't the one who did it. He didn't look like it, didn't act like it, didn't even look like he COULD do it, even if he had wanted to. Such a pasty, sweaty man, who can't even stomach the sight of raw meat – how could a person like that murder someone? And he can't. It was obvious to anyone with a mind that there was no way he could do it – the man had cried like a baby when he was told his girlfriend, stabbed and suffocated, was dead. He wouldn't even stand for a week after that and Kristoph, who knew quite a lot of the art of playacting, knew that he wasn't playacting.
Unfortunately for him, the law didn't have a mind of it's own and the evidence wasn't on his side. Seen from a purely logical, completely inhumane perspective it was his doing – the prints on the knife was his, the prints on the bag containing her was his – and so the branding of a murderer, was his. Everyone doubted that verdict, of course, but the courtroom isn't somewhere for people to stand around all day doubting – it was a place where so called justice is served, mercilessly, if need be – and so a reluctant judge clapped him with a reluctant guilty verdict, to be received by a reluctant audience whom filed out of the courtroom like a funeral procession.
What a terrible system, they would lament, patting each other on their backs and crying at the injustice of the process. Some attorneys would voice the issue over martinis and vodkas. Everyone was sorrowful. Where is justice for the people, the would say. Then the case is swept away by the hustle and bustle of daily life and the man is forgotten, swept under the carpet, until the only thing left to remind people of him was a thrown away noose and a file record that would be kept in a corner of a dusty, musty room until it too, is gone.
What was the point? Kristoph had thought as he saw it unfold before his eyes. Why was he defending a system such as this? Justice? Don't make me laugh. If no one plays by the rules, then why should I?
He left the courthouse with a different answer.
Present day
The blades of the wind is like the sword of a guardian goddess, standing guard before this no-man's land, Kristoph thought, with his usual touch of showy poetry. He wrapped his coat around him tighter and pulled the scarf higher up to stop the wind from scratching his neck raw. The wind, he thought sullenly, if one were to be completely inelegant, was howling like a madman – and he had heard a lot of madmen – not to mention acting like one. It tore at the road like it hated everything on sight, pulling at houses and cojoling trees into falling. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to stop his teeth from chattering.
It was all that stupid man's fault – Wayne Nelson – he had insisted that Kristoph came all the way down to his dump of a house to clarify some point or other on the forged evidence. Kristoph was reluctant, but he was insistent, and so he had to come here, all the way across the city to check one insignificant point in the paper because he couldn't risk alienating the man. It was so annoying, coming and going at the beck of his call like a dog - but he had no choice, and Nelson knew it. He was the one forging the things he needed, so he thought he was beyond him. Well, Kristoph had yet to find a satisfactory replacement. Once he did, Nelson would be dealt with.
And now he's trapped in this freak storm, with no car to run off in. He obviously couldn't traveled down here in his midnight blue Ford, - it would attract far too much attention – so he had to take the bus halfway here and walked the rest of the way. Only now he would have to walk the WHOLE way, because the bus wasn't likely to come soon, with the wind raging like this. They wouldn't want to be trapped under some falling tree.
Above him, thunder flashed and then like a lot of thunderstorms, it brought a whole barrage of heavy raindrops without a second to pause for breath. The raindrops felled noisily, heavy and blunt, splattering on Kristoph and onto the ground, making mud splash everywhere. He stamped his feet, throwing a silent tantrum.
Great, now what was he going to do? He can't walk back in this weather. Hell, he'd probably drown before then. And what was he going to say when his suit turned out all muddy from the walk? The laundry people would no doubt be interested to know why the great Kristoph Gavin was walking around instead of driving. No, it won't do.
He looked around, and spied what he needed in the form of a large building on a field. It looked like a factory - though he wasn't sure since the sky was dark and light was sparse – with windows white from a layer of building dust and heavy steel frames. It was an unsatisfactory place. Still, trespassing in a dusty, dirty abandoned factory was preferable to wandering around out here like a fish upon the firmament. His only worry was there might be witnesses to his existence here today.
Still better than dying of pneumonia though, he admonished himself, and having made a decision, started running towards the building, careful not to step into any puddle of mud. When he got near though – he realized that what he thought was an abandoned factory was far from being so – a dozen childish faces were pressed onto the glass so tightly their face were scrunched up. He reached hesitantly at the heavy double doors and looked up. There was a sign there, worn by time, with the words Protection...Children... barely intelligible on it. Someone had scratched a picture of a middle finger onto it too.
Charming, he thought, for an orphanage. What did the French said? Ah yes, enchanté.
When he stepped into the building, the first thing he did was to doubt his firmly held belief that there was no such thing as ghosts because indeed if there were such things as ghosts, this would be their perfect place to hangout. It was damp, it was dark, and it was musty. The ceiling had long since given up the pretense of being solid, and the ground had long since lost it's battle with dust. His light footsteps echoed like a church's bell. A woman, all fat and no lean, glided out to meet him.
"Oh, why hello there!"
"Ah, hello."
"What a pleasure to have you here with us Mr, ah..."
"Grant."
"Of course! Mr. Grant! So nice to have you here with us. We just had a visitor today, you know! So nice to have another so soon -oh dear, you look drenched, here why don't I take your coat?" She beamed at him, a smile so fake that if it had been a contradiction in court, he wouldn't know where to start pointing. He took off the coat, but didn't hand it to her outstretched fingers. That diminished her smile a little, but didn't put her off nonetheless.
She waved at an adjacent door. " Here now, why don't you join us for a cup of tea right over there in the dining hall? It'll stop you from shaking so, mm?"
Kristoph, try as he might, couldn't stop himself from shivering from the cold. He was soaked to the skin. Maybe deeper. Was there such a thing as soaked into your heart? He nodded a shivering head at her and she beamed even wider, practically snatching his coat away from him with glee. No doubt feeling it for the quality so that she would know whether or not to ask him for a dollar or twenty as a bribe. He trailed after into the next room, the one with the door slightly open, allowing a thin strip of light to enter.
The dining hall – as it turned out the room she lead him to was – was filled with rows after rows of wooden tables – the kind you would expect to see in an old Harry Potter movie – with matching benches. On it and around, would be strewn children, playing a game or two of cards as they aren't allowed out to play but right now, there were none. The whole group of them – those in the hall, at least – were packed together like sardines in a corner awkwardly with gawking expressions.
"Oh dears, why don't you go over there and play? We have a guest right here, let's make him at home, hmm?" She said with such a sugar sweet tone that Kristoph cringed. Obviously it wasn't normal behaviour for the woman, since the kids' jaws dropped even wider. This was one lady they weren't used to calling sweet. Her feet patted off as she left to make him that cup of tea she promised. Kristoph dropped himself into a bench at one corner of the room.
The kids looked at him.
He looked at the kids.
Maybe he should say something. The tension was unbearable.
"Hello." He smiled at them. That smile – calculated to equal parts friendly and equal parts kind – always worked wonders. It didn't fail him this time either. Something in the children petered out, and they return into a state of activity. Some of the older ones returned to what they were doing previously – vandalizing an already extremely vandalized wall with a chalk no doubt pilfered from school – and some of the younger ones remain huddled together, clutching onto their ragged dolls and smiling shyly at him. Others move to leave the hall.
Here was one flurry of activity - he observed the children – they had some kind of energy about them, children – that allow them to flit from one thing to another with an enthusiasm unmatched by any adult he knew. Maybe it was cynical, but it was true. He shuddered at the thought of having a child in his house – something the fat woman obviously wanted. Thinking about it made him shudder again. Never. His house is a neatly organized apartment, with shelves neatly organized with files, receipts, cases all in their respective sections, just like everything else in his life. He would never, ever, EVER want a child. Ever, he repeated, as the woman wobbled back into the room with a cup of tea, which she deposit in front of him. He raised the cup and sipped it. Unpleasant.
"So, ah, do you have an appointment, Mr. Grant?" She asked.
"No, I'm afraid not." He had already decided he would go along with this facade. Better to let her think that he came for a child than to think nothing at all. Emptiness of the mind is easily manipulated. He would know. "Was I suppose to?"
"Yes, but of course, it's alright! The office girl – bless her soul – is having a fever right now, and I do feel SO sorry to have to drag her up for the paperwork. You can just take it easy today, yes? Just take a look at our children, see if any catches you eye – oh but of course! I shouldn't be presumptuous!" She gave a shrilled high pitch laugh. Kristoph gave an answering smile to stop his mouth from turning down in a grimace.
"Of course."
"We're such a close family here you know, so- so tightly knitted! Like just the other Jack over there is just showing Ben over there how to do his homework," She pointed at a boy with scraggly boy with black hair, then at a boy with thick heavy-rimmed glasses on his face. Somehow he doubted that Jack would be teaching him any homework. "And then there's Polly. Such a nice boy he is! Why, just the other day, he brought me a bouquet of flowers, freshly picked you know!"
"Isn't that cruel of her to the plants?" He needled. Couldn't resist, she was just that annoying.
She gasped. "Of course not, by ah pick, I meant he picked it from the florist. As in choose? Yes, yes, that's what I meant. " She nodded, and her chin did a squiggly sort of dance. Kristoph bit his lip hard to stop himself from laughing.
"Oh yes," she continued. " And Polly is a he – Polly's just a nickname we give him, of course--" She nodded as if this was the most natural thing in the world-- " that's how we are like here! Everyone's a big, happy family! We're so close, it hurts me every time a child leaves, and I would cry for weeks on end."
"I wouldn't want to break up such a happy family then."
"Oh! But no no, it's only what they deserve, to have a REAAAAL family. We're just not enough you know. Tell me, are you married, Mr. Grant?"
"No, I'm afraid not." He shook his head and flashed a little apologetic smile.
"Oh." Slightly deflated. Then shook it off. "But don't worry about it! As long as you have no you know – she leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper – any criminal records, and you allow the social care people to check up on you every other month, it'll be fine! Not that there's anything wrong of course, it's just procedure."
It was so fun to see her so flustered, especially when he knew he had zero intention to adopt anyone.
"But silly girl! Here I am telling you all that – you should just see for yourself what our best child (Not that anyone is a favourite, you understand, merely that we're very proud of the boy.) is like!" She looked over at the boy named Jack. " Jack! Go get Polly down, won't you?"
"What, the Pole? How is HE the best kid here? Guy can't stand in the field for five minutes without getting himself knocked out." He complained, obviously having eavesdropped on the conversation.
"Just go get him, Jack." She hissed.
"Okay, okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. He's all muddy after the game, I bet he's still dirty all over." He got up from where he was sitting with the bench pushed back and his legs on the table and walked out of the room. Kristoph sat sipping more tea, keeping an eye on the slice of clear window and the sky outside. Both the wind and rain was letting up. He would see this best child of hers, then declare that he has seen enough for the day and leave, never to return. He'd had to take great care never to be spotted by the orphanage's residents. Reclining on his seat, he sipped his tea leisurely, enjoying all the attention from a bunch of little kids openly goggling at him.
A sound of heavy wood sliding on the floor rang, and two horns(?) poked into the room, followed by the face of a boy around Klavier's age.
"You asked for me, Miss Fisher?" His voice was clear, the kind that made every word sounded flawless, like that of a professional vocalist. He walked into the room, garbed in a clean cotton shirt. If he had indeed been on the losing side of whatever game they were playing, he showed no signs of it. Kristoph smiled at him. Here at last seemed a normal sort of kid, by his standard.
"Here, Polly, this is Mr. Grant." The woman gestured at the boy, then at Kristoph.
"Nice to meet you, sir!" Kristoph took back what he thought of him. His voice was far too loud.
"Nice to meet you." Another smile. He was getting the hang of this smile-and-they-shall-bow-to-you thing.
"And ah...My name is Apollo Justice, sir."
"But he's just Polly to us!"
"Of course." Kristoph inclined his head. Time to end this farce. He felt a little sorry for the boy, no doubt he'll be blamed for his leave, but he had no wish to remain in this depressing shelter for one more second. He dust off his partially dried shirt of any remaining dust and rose.
"This has been a really wonderful time – I thank you for the tea – Madam Fisher, but I really must ---" He stopped short when he saw the bracelet clasped around the boy's wrist. Following his line of sight, Apollo rubbed his wrist self-conciously. Kristoph raised his eyes to the boy's face and stared into his brown eyes, and with just a hint of uncertainty, he asked. "Where did you get that bracelet?"