Title: Jericho

Rating: K+

Characters: Manfred von Karma

Spoilers: Only original Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney

Time: First section takes place in 1999, the final few paragraphs take place just after the DL-6 incident on December 28, 2001

Manfred's father, the great General Von Karma, had two sayings: "Leave nothing to chance" and "When your wife is pregnant, do what she says without hesitation or question."

The second saying was why Manfred found himself in a church on a Saturday afternoon, lighting a candle. It was a sweltering June day, and Manfred insisted on wearing his court attire – layers of thick wool and cashmere – everywhere. He was lighting a candle at the behest of his wife, who was pregnant with their second child.

Manfred was not superstitious. But arguing with his wife, as hormonal as she was, seemed counterproductive. He turned to leave, and then stopped.

Two men stood at the door. One he recognized. Amos Thompson, a defense attorney. Head of his own firm. He was svelte, with dark hair already graying. He was said to be only thirty six, but he looked much older owing to his sharp facial features. His skin had a rather disconcerting ashen tone to it. Thompson was dressed in a rather plain looking light blue suit and white shirt with gray tie ascot.

The man beside Thompson was short and rather pudgy. He had bright red hair, the shade described as 'plain carrot color.' He was dressed all in black and white, with a cheerful looking bowler hat atop his head.

The redhead waved and walked over, Thompson cautiously close behind. "Hallo! Mr. Von Karma, what brings you here? If you're off to confession, I'd suggest letting Father Mudd know you'll take a while." The man smirked. "I jest." He stuck out a hand. "Alastor French. I'll have the honor of being your opponent in court on Monday."

Manfred made no move to shake French's hand. French put his hand back down.

"Would you excuse us for a moment, Alastor?" Thompson said. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Von Karma. Alone."

French opened his mouth to speak and closed it quickly. "Sure." He returned to the door, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. Then he was out of sight.

"He's one of yours?" Manfred asked.

"My best," Thompson said.

"Why didn't you take the case?" Manfred inquired. "Why give it to your underling?"

"I have more faith in Alastor than in myself," Thompson replied. "I'm not a very good lawyer."

Manfred didn't know what to say to that. Thompson was considered something of a bogeyman to the other prosecutors. The only reason Manfred himself knew Thompson's name was due to Thompson's stellar record – thirteen years, no losses. The other defense attorneys were indistinguishable; multiple copies of the same dull mind.

Is it because he only picks battles he can win? Manfred smirked inwardly. "I seem to remember making another one of yours cry last week."

"Neil Down," Thompson said. "He was a Navy SEAL before he went to law school."

"Bah, should have put more thought into that career change," Manfred said. "He crumpled in ten minutes. Tell Mr. French to try to hold out longer. I savor a challenge. Don't you, Mr. Thompson?"

"There are limits," Thompson answered. "Honestly, I feel pushed to my limits every trial."

"Then why are you still a defense attorney?" Manfred asked.

"It's prosecutors like you who remind me every day why I can't quit," Thompson said, sadness evident in his voice.

"That the prosecutors of this city maintain a conviction rate of well over ninety percent?" Manfred asked dryly. "Most people would consider that a good thing."

"Sure, let's go with that," Thompson replied absently, looking away from Manfred, to a stained glass window. "Do you remember the stories? The ones you heard as a child?"

"There is one you're thinking of," Manfred said. "Out with it."

"Jericho. The city with impenetrable walls, until they crumbled. Right before the eyes of the citizens, just before they were killed. Every living creature perished, save for one family."

"What does this fairy tale have to do with anything?" Manfred asked. "Relevance, Thompson. You wouldn't make such a rookie mistake in court, so don't insult my intelligence."

"The people of Jericho thought they were invulnerable. Just as you think your record is unassailable. But just because your work doesn't have any clear weak points doesn't mean it can't crumble under the right conditions."

"Are you threatening me, Thompson?" Manfred asked dryly.

"I wouldn't joke about that," Thompson replied. "I just wanted to make absolutely certain we understand each other."

"I understand perfectly," Manfred answered. "You and every defense attorney in this city harbors resentment toward me because of my perfect record. To win a case against me is as futile as Sisyphus' attempts to get the boulder to stay on the hill. You're luckier than most, but we both know what would happen if you faced me in court. But I am not entirely displeased by the spirit you've shown tonight. On Monday, I will not just defeat your lapdog Mr. French. I will humiliate him. That will be your reward."

"So we shall see," Thompson said, bowing briskly. "Good night, von Karma."

Manfred's prophecy came true that Monday. French lost the case. He cried, just as Neil Down had before him.

As for Thompson's warning, in time, it was forgotten. Until the tragedy of December 2001, in which Manfred received a blemish on his record, a bullet to his shoulder, and blood on his hands.

The last was metaphorical, of course. Manfred knew enough to stand far enough from the prone Gregory Edgeworth to avoid getting splattered with blood.

That night, he sat in his study. Alone. He was wearing a brace and several layers of bandages. Luckily, his wife and two daughters were away visiting relatives for Christmas, so they were not around to ask questions.

Manfred tried to picture the shattered clavicle, where the bullet had penetrated. He was limited to his own imagination, as getting an X-ray was out of the question. All doctors had to report gunshot wounds, and there'd be no keeping this one from the press. And all the police would have to do is match the markings to the bullet recovered from Gregory Edgeworth's heart. That wouldn't be enough to convict him of murder, but it was enough to place him at the scene. And as long as there was another suspect, the hapless bailiff could claim reasonable doubt. No, the only course of action was to pretend the injury never happened.

Yet, he could not stop picturing how the bone fragments looked under the swelling and discoloration. He imagined a comminuted fracture, where the bone shatters into many pieces. Like pebbles from a wall.

Even if the wound healed completely, Manfred knew he might not get full range of motion back. His body had become flawed, like his blemished record.

The damage to his shoulder was just insult to injury, as what really angered Manfred was the penalty. Twenty five years of endless work ruined, a kunstwerk sundered, an era ended.

Like the broken walls of Jericho.