Obligatory legal note: I own only the words on the page. Wild Kratts belongs to Kratt Brothers Company, 9 Story Media Group, and all other affiliates. Phoenix Wright belongs to Capcom and creator Shu Takumi.


Wright Anything Agency

July 13, 10:03 AM

My eyes widened to the size of my grandmother's fine china dinner plates as my brain finally processed what this meant for the case. I would no longer be taking on Edgeworth. I would be facing Simon Blackquill, the master of courtroom manipulation. It was at this point where I realized the blessing and the curse of this situation. Blackquill, having faced the slings and arrows of outrageous injustice and unfair imprisonment, will at least fight for justice of some kind. However, knowing his abilities as a legal psychologist, he is going to play every trick he has up his sleeve to try to get me, my team, and my witnesses to slip up. All I could hope for now was a strong will from my peanut gallery.

I swallowed my unease, opened up Word on my laptop, and began to write my opening statement, letting the evidence of the crime speak the truth for itself. There was no loaded speech to be seen, no unfair opinions to sway the judge to an unfair vote: the only way for justice to survive this case is to run my defense on unadulterated truth and hope to God above that Blackquill hasn't been corrupted by the abuses of the American justice system. There would be no jury of twelve angry men to persuade, no governing body to check and balance the iron order of the gavel; there was the Judge, and his word was fact. Having the burden of proof, it would be my job to prove to one man that Martin was not the one behind the gun; a task easier said than done, and a task made especially difficult with the damning existence of the blue feather.

As I typed, my mind began to wander, and soon my brain was surrounded by conflicting thoughts, each of which shouted louder than the last as if they were children on a playground believing that he who shouts the loudest wins the argument. What is my profession: the defense of justice or the promotion of injustice? Of course, it is my job to defend the justice of my client and uphold the highest standards of the law, but if I were to eliminate injustice, I would be out of a job. When I take a case, am I fighting for their innocence or my reputation? Well, we can say that I am fighting for both, but which takes precedence when the going gets tough? Is it justice if a lawyer defends a criminal, simply because they don't want to look like a pushover?

Can anything be just? To say yes is meaningless, as it is a subjective answer; but to say no is to make my job essentially meaningless. If nothing can be just, why do we have lawyers? Why do we fight for something that cannot exist? Why do we fight for world peace, when there will always be someone who disagrees? What is more important: what we are fighting for, or how we fight? Is the desire for universal justice a goal or a burden, when universal justice is unattainable? I don't desire for universal justice, I desire for the upholding of the law; but when the law is unjust, is it just for me to defend it? Perhaps not.

Perhaps the concept of being a lawyer is entirely based on lies. We prey on injustice, snatch people up when they are at their lowest, and promise to bring them justice. And maybe we bring them justice. But they bring us our paychecks. And that is the most important thing to most lawyers. But not me. I will bring Martin justice, even if I have to destroy myself to do it.

By the time I could settle my thoughts, my fingers had written the opening statement by themselves. Two read-throughs later, I could find no errors. It was a perfect gut-shot, and I was ready to throw it down. I closed my laptop, placed it inside my shined black leather briefcase, and left the office, preparing myself to enter that courtroom and make the impossible possible.


10:31 AM, St. Michael's Cathedral

Meanwhile, Chris was in a completely different situation. He stood before the altar, asking for forgiveness to a god he knew inside would never listen to him. Of course, he would never be worthy of the pearly gates, not after what he had done in his life. He saw the blood on his hands, the skin tarnished from the bodies he left deceased in the burning sand. He felt their souls in his mind, haunting his existence, mocking his unfaithful nature, pointing their ghoulish fingers and guffawing at his blackened soul. Chris lowered himself to his knees and began to grovel at the feet of the crucifix. He mentally begged to be cleansed of his evil ways, wishing in the end to hear Gabriel's trumpet instead of Satan's call of doom. He wept.

A priest walked towards the green-clad weeping man, dressed in a black cassock with a cross around his neck; he approached cautiously, not wanting to scare the clearly-panicked man into a scurry. When he reached a seemingly-comfortable distance from the grieving man, he called out to him with a caring tongue, that of a man who is one with service of humanity. "What is wrong, my son?"

Chris turned his gaze to look upon this conduit to his savior, the wet streaks of salinated sorrow still shimmering upon his cheeks. "Forgive me, father...for my hands are bloodied with the despairs of war. I have killed, father. These hands have left men dead."

The priest kneeled to his level and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "My son, you are a soldier."

"It is my duty to spread peace, instead I brought death. I have murdered dozens with a single finger…I have stolen lives from this world without discretion. I have sinned, Father." Chris seemed to grovel at the feet of Father Silvester, begging for the life and purity of his soul.

"My son, you did not murder. You disposed of enemies in the name of peace. Sometimes, to spread peace, you must fight a war. Let me ask you a question: was there any other way? Was peace possible?"

"They fired the first shots. They started it, and we fired back." Chris looked down, beginning to find some inkling of peace within himself for the situation he had found himself in those four fateful days.

"Well, there was no other way. You did not murder, son. You acted in self-defense. There is no evil in you, and He understands that."

Chris got off of his knees, having finally received the strength he needed to pick himself off the ground and stand a little taller than he had before. "Thank you, Father. I needed that." He crossed himself, and Father Silvester placed a hand on his shoulder.

"No need to thank me. Thank yourself for your service for the freedom of this nation." Chris replied with a simple nod, and walked from the eucharist to the end of the church. He was finally ready. For the first time in years, he cracked a real smile.


Fresno Detention Center

11:18 AM

Martin sat still in his detainment cell, looking at his cuffed hands with an emotion he couldn't put his finger on. He hadn't moved from that one spot for what must have been several hours. His eyes laid half-asleep upon his visage, as a slight streak of tears glistened upon his cheeks, ancient artifacts of a time long passed where there were tears to cry for a poor, unfortunate soul like himself. His muscles and joints ached with abandonment, having laid dormant for what felt to him like an eternity and some change.

His left brain knew he was innocent, but his right brain was refusing to cooperate. If not for the consistent cries of hope from the logical lobes of his brain, he would have given up, confessed, pled guilty, and taken his death sentence lying down a long time ago; something in his brain, however, openly refused to allow this unceasingly torturous guilt to overtake his soul like a demon. And even after multiple rigorous and obviously-corrupted interrogations later, he continued to fight back.

"At some point, we'll make you confess. You know that, right? You're gambling with your freedom right now, and around these parts, the house always wins." A cop stood behind him, almost mocking his situation, but Martin stood firm.

"I won't confess because I'm innocent." Martin said back, his words as blunt as a hammer, yet at sharp as a needle. He never turned to look at the officer as he spoke. And with that, he never turned to see the officer draw his weapon. But in the glass the truth came out, playing the events of corruption like a movie screen. "You wouldn't."

"I would." Soon, cold steel met sandy-blonde hair the officer was ready and willing to turn crimson. "The captain likes me. I practically own this precinct. I wouldn't even get a slap on the wrist."

"Of course they wouldn't be the one to punish you. You would be the one for that." Martin said cooly. "You may feel invincible now, but the hardest substance to get out of your soul is someone else's blood."

"You're a maniac. I have a gun to your head and yet you still mock me."

"I would think the true maniac here is one who swears an oath to protect and serve the citizens of Fresno, and yet will pull a weapon on a man who has done nothing to earn it."

"If I kill you, they'll all think you're a murderer."

"You kill me, I become a martyr. The news gets hold, the public would riot. Watch as your little empire comes falling to the ground. One brick at a time. Everybody thinks they've got the world by the balls until the public starts learning the truth," Martin spoke bluntly.

The man said nothing. He put down the gun and sighed. "You know what? Fine. If you don't wanna confess here, we'll just get one out of you in court." The cop then turned, beginning to walk out to leave Martin there alone. At the last second, Martin cleared his throat.

"Last thing: don't think that's the first time I've been asked questions at gunpoint."


A/N: 1,779 words later, it's FINALLY done. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and get ready: the next chapter is finally in court. Have a good day!