Chapter 2: In Which Phoenix Wright Gets Distracted
I'll say this for Miles Edgeworth; he has impeccable taste in coffee houses. Mame-san is one of the dwindling number of family-owned places around here that hasn't been swept under by the endless tide of Starbucks outlets. They do everything, from whipped-cream-topped confections to demure, silky brews with biscotti on the side. But what everyone comes here for is the Japanese-style iced coffee. Don't ask me why it's so good, I don't know coffee things. It just is, okay?
I find Miles sitting at a table by the window, away from the more private plush booths. Which makes sense. As I established earlier, this is a convivial meeting and definitely not a date.
"I love this place," I tell him as I take a seat. He offers up a cautious smile, and it hits me how rare a sight that is. More likely, he'll smirk at things I've said (usually because they're stupid) or bare his teeth at me across a courtroom. Even now, his expression is guarded, as if the fun police will show up if he looks too happy.
"I do too. I don't get to come here often."
"Too far from the High Prosecutor's office?" I reach out a hand to fiddle with the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table. I'm not nervous, exactly, but it feels weird to be sitting with him in such an innocuous setting. I half expect to hear the crack of a gavel at any moment.
"There is that. But also…" Miles makes a face. "It's nicer with other people." He sounds so matter-of-fact, but holy shit, that might be the loneliest thing I've ever heard.
"Well then… hi," I say, and immediately want to crawl into a hole and die. Nice one, Phoenix. You're really nailing this socializing thing.
"Hi."
So, it's becoming apparent that I am not cut out for polite conversation with someone on Miles' level. The silence stretches on way too long, until we both chuckle nervously and find things to look at that aren't each other. My gaze falls on our server, who has miraculously appeared to dispel the awkwardness. She gives me a wink that she seems to think is subtle. Boy does she have the wrong idea.
Still, it's Mame-san, which means it's time for that sweet, sweet icy-cold goodness I've been jonesing for. Miles orders something called Masala Chai, which turns up in a pot with a teeny tiny cup and an honest-to-god saucer.
"Really? You come to Mame-san for tea?" I laugh. Miles shoots me a look.
"What's wrong with tea?"
"Nothing, just… took me by surprise, that's all." He doesn't say anything to that, but a ghost flickers across his face which makes me wonder if I've annoyed him. Again. I have to admit, his drink smells amazing, like a spice rack, and I don't mean to stare, but he's so damn graceful about the whole business of pouring himself a cup. Then he happens to look up and stiffens as he realizes I'm watching him.
"What?"
"Uh. Nothing." I shut up and gulp my coffee before I embarrass myself further. And then, since my brain apparently doesn't know what 'shut up' means, I add, "So is that like, a British thing?" Is that offensive? It's probably offensive. But Miles clears his throat softly and sets his cup down.
"When I moved to England, I stuck out because of my accent, among other things." He's not looking at me, instead staring out of the window at the busy street. "So I adapted. Learned the vernacular. Buried California in the past, where I thought it belonged. And then, after Oxford, it was simpler to tell people I was British than to keep explaining why I moved from America when I was nine."
'After Oxford', he says, as if it's no big deal. But thankfully, my brain engages before my mouth for once. Focus, Wright, for God's sake. He's telling you something important.
"Of course, now I'm back, and I stick out again." His lip twists ruefully. "But there's only so much energy you can put into changing yourself for other people."
"Hey, uh…" I have an inexplicable urge to reach over the table and pat his hand. "Y'know I wasn't trying to give you shit, right?"
Miles blinks at me as if I've jolted him awake. "I know. I was merely… reminiscing."
"Okay. 'Cause you can drink as much tea as you want."
"Well then, since I have your permission." His eyebrow quirks as goes to pour himself another cup. But there's a smile behind the words.
And all of a sudden, the awkwardness melts away as I realize I've been needlessly stressing over trying to come up with intelligent conversation. The two of us do nothing but flex our egos in the courtroom, and it's exhausting. Years ago at school, we - me, Miles, and Larry - used to sit together on the same bench every day, talking about… whatever stupid shit eight-year-olds talk about. I have to wonder when Miles last got to hang out with someone, without there being ulterior motives at play.
"I get what you mean, though," I go on, stirring my drink with my straw. "You should have seen how my family reacted when I switched my major from music to law. I must have the only parents in the world who were disappointed that their son became a lawyer." And my cousin Violet still calls me Elle Woods to this day. Yep, that is exactly as annoying as it sounds.
"Why did you change your major, anyway?" asks Miles. "That's always puzzled me." Ohhhh no, we are not going down that road. That's exactly the kind of thing that can be used against you in the courtroom. He opened up to you, says a traitorous little voice in the back of my mind, which I ruthlessly squash.
"Oh, that. I figured I could do more good as a lawyer than as a composer," I say breezily. Does he look disappointed? Or am I projecting?
"Hey, wanna try some of this?" I change the subject so abruptly I can almost feel the whiplash. I nudge my drink toward Miles, but he grimaces and shakes his head.
"I don't like coffee."
"Uh, okay, first of all, this isn't coffee," I retort. "This is nectar of the freaking gods. Seriously, it's not the same stuff you get from a tin. You've never had anything like it."
"I know why coffee drinkers always say 'this isn't like regular coffee' - because they're fully aware that coffee tastes of dirt. And regret."
"And what does chai taste of? A Christmas bath bomb?"
Miles raises his hand to his mouth, and I realize he's barely holding in a laugh. "Wright. If you want to try some chai, you only have to ask." God, when did this man get so unnervingly good at reading me? In fairness, I've been un-subtly eyeing up his drink since it arrived.
"...fine," I say meekly. "Can I try some of your chai?"
He pushes his cup slowly across the table, and I can feel his eyes on me as I raise it to my lips and take a sip. It's hot, and fragrant, and delicate. A second later, the warmth of ginger and cinnamon and something else blooms in my mouth, then through my chest. Huh, it really does taste of Christmas.
"What do you think?" Miles asks, a curious look on his face. I slide the saucer back, the spices still on my tongue.
"Different," I say. Then, "but not in a bad way. Just… different." He holds my gaze, and yes, alright, the subtext is strong with this one.
"Hm. Maybe your taste buds aren't beyond redemption after all."
"Lies. Slander." I lean back in my seat with a laugh. "You'll be hearing from my attorney." Miles usually receives my jokes the way he receives compliments - with mild horror and no idea what to do with them - but this time, he returns the laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. And I'm not sure how to feel about that.
Oh wait, yes I do. It feels like victory.
···················
Since Miles foolishly gave me his phone number, and I have both a surplus of free time and a deficit of clients, I've taken to tormenting him whenever I have a free moment. Which is all the time. Hey, he hasn't blocked my number yet, so I guess he's not utterly sick of me.
I've just sent him a probing ' Ever heard of a dirty chai latte?' text when Maya barges into my office, waving her tablet around in excitement. I shove my phone to one side and pretend to be busy on my laptop, where I totally wasn't skim-reading true crime articles instead of working.
"Good news!" she announces. Then she catches a glimpse of my phone as it conspicuously locks itself, as unattended phones tend to do, and narrows her eyes. "Sorry, am I interrupting?"
"It's nothing important," I say flatly. "Anyway, you were saying?"
"Oh, right." Maya bounds into the seat opposite me and slaps her palm down on my desk. "We have a potential client! Have you been following the news about the Nomura kidnapping?" At my utterly blank stare, she sighs. "Seriously, Nick? Do you live under a rock or something?"
"Humor me."
Maya starts rambling about Reiko Nomura, who is apparently an heiress to some fancy wristwatch company's fortune. And, more recently, a kidnapping victim. "The cops found her and arrested the gangsters, but they still haven't spilled who was actually behind the whole thing," she explains.
I'm momentarily distracted by my phone as it lights up. Miles' reply appears at the top of my screen; 'I have. It is an abomination and should be made illegal.' I suppress a smirk. Pushing his buttons is too easy.
"So Mr. Shibata will be dropping by this afternoon to meet you in person. Isn't that awesome?"
"Wait, what?" my head shoots up as I realize I've completely zoned out for the last ten seconds, and Maya is looking expectantly at me. "Who's coming here?"
"Hiro Shibata. Your potential client." Oh, right. That is absolutely a name I have heard before, in relation to the Nomura kidnapping case which I have only now heard about. I nod slowly, which doesn't seem to reassure Maya all that much.
"Okay. I'll, uh… get right on that."
"Uh-huh. Completely unrelated note; an ominous brown envelope arrived this morning with Final Notice stamped all over it. Juuuust so you know," she says sweetly, before getting to her feet and flouncing out of the room. A few moments later I hear her aggressively tidying in the other room. Yikes, it's bad when Maya Fey is lecturing me on personal responsibility.
I sigh and reluctantly pocket my phone, then turn back to my laptop and open Spoogle. If I don't want to embarrass myself in front of this Shibata guy, I have some serious catching up to do.
···················
Hiro Shibata, it turns out, is a doughy, sad-eyed man in his thirties, and the fiancé of the recently-kidnapped heiress. His fortunes aren't nearly so impressive (why else would he come to me?), and it doesn't take me long to figure out why he'd need a lawyer. There are sweat marks on his shirt and his knee does a non-stop nervous dance as he sits down across from me. He looks guilty as hell, but luckily for him, I know looks can be deceiving.
"I didn't do it," he blurts out, once our introductions are out of the way. I inwardly cringe and mark a square off the Shit My Clients Say bingo card that lives rent-free in my head. "But from the way the police are treating me, I'm the prime suspect!"
"Cops always look into the boyfriend," I say reassuringly. "Statistically speaking, they'd be remiss not to. Have they formally questioned you yet?"
"Once, right after Reiko was-" he swallows hard "-after those thugs kidnapped her. But it's only a matter of time before they haul me in again!" Yeah, this guy watches too many cop shows. He rubs his sweaty forehead and takes a shuddering breath. "I can't go to jail! Please, you have to do something." That's another square off the bingo card, a variation of ' ya gotta help me!', an expression I despise. Mostly because, on account of my bank balance, it's true.
"You haven't even been charged with anything yet," I point out, trying to hide my irritation. "But I agree that you need to lawyer up now." Maybe I should go easy on the cop shows myself. "Don't talk to the police without me." If this is how jumpy he's been acting, no wonder they're giving him the investigatory side-eye.
I eventually manage to extract his version of events - along with a promising alibi, which is a good sign - and with a final reminder to call me if the police decide to question him, I politely but firmly usher him out of my office so I can chew over what I've learned. While there's little to suggest Mr. Shibata was involved with the kidnapping, that relies on the story he gave me being both complete and honest. Maybe I'm cynical, but my cases are never that simple. But hey, on the upside, I'm being paid again. By the hour, no less. This calls for a celebration.
Maya and I order burgers. Delivery, too; no more schlepping around the block for me. For at least a couple of weeks, anyway. And maybe the bacon grease goes to my head a little, because I find myself tapping out a message to Miles. Hey, wanna grab dinner somet-
I hesitate. And that hesitation turns out to be fatal, as I immediately start second-guessing myself.
Isn't that a bit much? You're hardly friends. There's a big difference between catching up over coffee and taking a man out to dinner.
And then, my brain being the treacherous, fickle thing it is -
Don't you want to hang out with him again?
I mean, sure I do. Our coffee not-date was fun, but I don't want him to think I'm looking for more from him than that. This isn't a 'hey I'm hitting you up' situation, it's a… reunion, I guess you could call it. We've barely exchanged five sentences (polite ones, anyway) in all the trials we've worked opposite one another, and then there was that whole thing with Miles getting framed for murder (the less said about that, the better). So all I really want is to see if that kid I once knew, the one I caught a fleeting glimpse of, really is still in there somewhere.
So… should I do it?
···················
I'm gonna do it.
But I'll be civilized about it, at least. I sequester myself in my office and call him, my fingers drumming a faint tattoo on my desk to fill the silence before he finally picks up.
"Hello, Phoenix." He doesn't sound surprised to hear from me. Then I remember I've been bugging him almost constantly, so yeah, that tracks.
"Hey, you got a minute?" Good job, brain. He picked up, didn't he? He'd eviscerate me in the courtroom for asking such a dumb question. Luckily he doesn't call me out on it.
"More or less. I have a trial starting shortly."
"The Visserman trial, right?" I'm not stalking him. Much. I happened to catch a glimpse of the news while I was researching Mr. Shibata earlier, that's all.
"Mhm."
"Well, I'd wish you luck but that feels like betraying my profession." Not my finest joke, but I hear a short exhale of amusement from the other end. At least, I think I do. "Anyway, uhh… do you wanna grab dinner sometime?" Yes, it's direct. But he's a busy man, what with the Visserman trial and… everything.
There's the briefest of pauses, then- "I'll be free tomorrow." Wow, talk about confidence.
"Oh, uh, cool. I mean, great. Awesome." Christ, Phoenix. Pull yourself together. "At six, then?"
"I'll pick you up," Miles says, with a hint of amusement. There are muffled voices in the background, and his tone turns clipped. "I have to go."
Seconds after I hang up, it occurs to me that I have no idea what the man likes to eat. Should I text him and ask? Or is that weird? It's probably weird. And he has a trial to win. But what if he has allergies? Or what if he's, like, gluten intolerant? I don't want to be the asshole who takes him somewhere where he can't eat. I grab my stress ball (stress gavel, actually. It was a gag gift from Maya) and spin slowly in my chair as I overthink myself into a corner.
My office door cracks open and Maya pokes her head in. "Couldn't help but overhear you making dinner plans."
"Sorry about that, I should have closed my door," I say pointedly.
She ignores me, waggling her eyebrows. "Are you going on a date?"
"No! God, no, it's a professional meeting. Lawyer stuff."
"With Miles Edgeworth."
"Who is a lawyer," I point out.
"Who happens to be into men."
"You don't know he's-" I consider what I'm saying and change tack. "Not every meeting between two queer guys is a date!"
"Oh, okay." Maya's expression turns flat enough to become patronizing. "So it's just dinner."
"Just dinner."
"Between two completely non-romantically-inclined people."
"Yes," I say firmly. "Great, I'm so glad we've established that."
"So what are you gonna wear?"
My gavel bounces off the door with a squeak as she hurriedly retreats, laughing.