Chapter 3—Trust

June 19, 2015

All Hell had broken loose after the trial of that smuggler. Miles now had to walk around with a patrolman thanks to a couple of attempts on his life. Thanks to his prosecution of Jorge Marino, he was blindsided by a fellow driver a few days after the trial. After slamming into the left side of Miles's car, the driver pulled out a gun and tried to shoot him. Were it not for the fact that Miles was blindsided right in front of the police station, he probably would have been killed. He suffered fractures to his left leg and hip from the collision, placing him in a body cast and a wheelchair.

His car was another story. The impact had torn the engine apart beyond repair. For the time being, Detective Gumshoe was driving Miles around in his own car—if it could be called a car. The piece of scrap metal served its purpose, but it was nothing he would have voluntarily driven. Gumshoe referred to it as his "hunk of junk car," but in a way that made it clear that he was glad to have it. It was indeed a hunk of junk, too. Most of the paint had flecked off, much of the chassis was rusted, the right side view mirror was broken, the suspension was rusted together on the back wheels, the engine sputtered, the wipers stuck, the radio played more static than music (not that Miles cared for most of the music ever broadcasted on the local stations), the upholstery was torn and badly stained with who knew what, the car regularly stalled in wet or slightly cold weather, and one of the doors had trouble closing. Miles's wheelchair was stored in the back seat. It would have been put in the trunk, but the trunk smelled like sour milk—far from a good smell to have on one's wheelchair.

A new car—a rather comfortable and efficient sports car Miles had seen during his annual visit to Germany—was going to be imported for him in about a month, by which time he would be able to drive on his own. For the time being, though, Miles had to be driven to and from the Prosecutor's Office in Gumshoe's engine on wheels. In truth, Miles would have preferred just taking the bus, but the city's bus system, like most of its public transit system, was pathetic for a city with over a million people—in fact, it was pathetic even for a city with ten thousand people. A lot of the prideful higher-ups were against having their "luxurious" reputation spoiled by something typically used by "lower" classes. Though the public transit system was not something he would typically use instead of a car, the lack thereof forced the city's less wealthy residents to get cars, which, given the price of fuel, were so expensive in the long run that they ultimately cost more than the people's homes.

Outsiders thought of San Diego as a lovely city, but that was only at face value. Like a lot of large cities in the United States, San Diego was better to visit than to live in. For a city of San Diego's size, the city government was horribly corrupt. Given that Bluecorp's headquarters was in San Diego, it made some sense, but even with Bluecorp, the government was too corrupt. Roads were rarely in top form, and many transportation projects focused only on the short run and were often finished so late that they were obsolete upon completion. The city's dependence on cars also drove up the pollution to moderately harmful levels. Admittedly, given Los Angeles's bad reputation in comparison, San Diego was not necessarily Hell, but it was far from Heaven.

"Somethin' on your mind, Mr. Edgeworth?" Gumshoe asked, breaking the relative silence of the ride.

"Just how much this city has deteriorated since my childhood," Miles answered.

"You don't like it here?"

"For me, the city is tolerable, but not a place I would choose to live in were it not for my current job."

"Well, I like this place. It'd be nice if there wasn't as much crime, but then there'd be less jobs for us law people."

"It's a pity that our jobs depend on crime continuing, but then again, many important jobs depend on misfortune."

"At least we're not in Smog City, pal."

"There is that to be thankful for. In my visits to Los Angeles, I would sooner call the city 'Los Diablos' than 'Los Angeles.'"

"'Los Diablos?'" Gumshoe asked, not familiar with the city's second most common language.

"'Los Angeles' translates into 'The Angels.' 'Los Diablos' translates into 'The Devils.'"

Gumshoe didn't answer, probably thinking about the comment. Then, with a laugh, "I'll have to remember that one."

"I first heard that comment from your least favorite prosecutor."

Gumshoe shuddered.

"At least you and Mr. Dzhugashvili agree on some things," Miles added.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to like him. The guy works us detectives into the ground."

"He has his reasons, though."

"He doesn't trust us, pal! That's why he always watches our investigations!"

"Given past faulty investigations that have resulted in innocent people getting arrested, I can understand why he is so insistent on thorough investigations."

"Look, we make mistakes sometimes. As long as the right guy's found in the end…"

"Gumshoe, you know that we have very strong prosecutors. In most cases, whoever is arrested is usually found guilty whether the investigation was thorough or not. I've seen plenty of cases in which I actually had my suspicions that the defendant was innocent. Need I bring up the Terry Fawles Incident?"

Gumshoe hung his head a little bit and sighed. "I see what you mean, pal. Did you really think he was innocent, though?"

"In all honesty, I don't know. Ms. Hawthorne was definitely suspicious, but her motive was dubious at best."

"She's way too pretty to be a killer, pal!"

"'Take nothing and no one at face value.'"

Gumshoe tensed up slightly at the quote.

The remainder of the car ride was quiet except for the sputtering of the engine and the occasional squeaking of the wheels. Gumshoe dropped Miles off at the Prosecutor's Office, where he wheeled himself off after a brief good-bye.

While Miles was on the way to the main entrance, a silver car slowly pulled in. When it parked, a man in a long black coat—much like a greatcoat, but without the extra padding on the shoulders—and holding a cane in his right hand got out. The cane tapped on the pavement every now and then.

"Good morning, Mr. Edgeworth," the man said.

"Good morning, Mr. Dzhugashvili," Miles answered.

Ivan Dzhugashvili was like a lot of the city's prosecutors in that he had some odd aspects about him—not the least of which was his appearance. He was similar in size and build to Miles, but he seemed taller to most people. His most notable features were his long coat and his beard. His beard was long and relatively ungroomed, reaching down to the top of his chest. His hair was another story, though—always fabulously groomed. His glasses rarely drew attention except when he fidgeted with them. Of course, his cane also left an impression on those who knew its true purpose.

One thing Dzhugashvili was known for was his direct involvement in the investigations for any cases he handled. He always made certain that every part of the crime scene was examined thoroughly, every person with even a remote connection to the case questioned, every piece of evidence examined in every possible method. "Take nothing and no one at face value," he often said. Though his trial record was nothing impressive, he was a respectable man. Of course, most detectives who carried out investigations for him hated him—many referred to him as "Ivan the Terrible" behind his back. He was so thorough that many investigators were ready for a vacation after working with him; he wanted nothing overlooked.

Still, he didn't care that the detectives despised him. In regards to his harshness, the ends justified the means. He was the only prosecutor Miles believed beyond a shadow of doubt to have never proven an innocent person guilty. He even went so far as to point out contradictions defense attorneys missed.

"Have you heard the latest about Borginia?" Dzhugashvili asked.

"Nothing new," Miles answered.

"A bunch of radicals set off bombs in Pskov."

"I thought the Borginians wanted independence, not punishment," Miles said somewhat arrogantly.

"The representatives in Tartu denied involvement in the attacks, but I doubt Russia will believe it."

"A false flag, perhaps?"

"Doubtful. Russia may not have an incredible government, but they would not stoop that low. Besides, as things stood before the bombings, most of Russia had little trouble with Borginia becoming independent. Besides, most of the land they're asking for is in Estonia."

"I meant by Russian opposition radicals—people in Russia who are against Borginian independence."

"It's possible when you put it that way."

"By the way, Mr. Dzhugashvili, why are you here instead of at the crime scene?"

"I believe the investigation no longer needs my observation. Besides, I have something to discuss with the Chief Prosecutor."

"If I may ask, what is it?"

"Some dubious evidence that was delivered to my office yesterday."

"Do you think she's responsible?"

"I doubt it; this particular evidence would cast suspicion on the prosecution's claim. I kept a careful eye on the investigation, and I believe with the utmost certainty that our suspect is guilty. The evidence I was given has to be forged."

"Who is the suspect for your case?"

"Aaron Space, a Bluecorp executive," Dzhugashvili answered. "A connection was found between Space and the recent smuggling operation, and so far, no evidence has given us reason to not suspect him. For starters, Marino named Space as someone connected to the operation. When we investigated his house, we found numerous contracts with the smugglers, among other incriminating items."

"Such as?"

"Files on the Kitaki family, a list of people known to be involved in the smuggling operations—need I continue? A safe room was also discovered in his house with a number of illegal weapons in it—as well as the same drugs from your case."

"Why does he have files on the Kitakis?"

"We've found that they're the main group behind smuggling operations in San Diego. If Space was involved in blackmailing them, then his cut of the drugs and drug money makes perfect sense."

"What about the forged evidence?"

"A file on the Rivales family and their connection to the smugglers. The warehouse had evidence of the Kitakis' involvement, but nothing even remotely incriminating the Rivaleses. Besides, the Rivales family has never been found to have had connections to smuggling. I would be astounded if the evidence was—"

Dzhugashvili was cut off by the Streltsy's theme from Khovanshchina. He reached into his coat pocket and took out his cell phone. The phone was rather large and had a touch screen and stylus. It looked much more like a PDA than a phone.

"This is Dzhugashvili," he answered. He paused to listen to the caller. "And has a conclusion been reached?" "You're certain?" "Okay. Thanks, Katyushka." "You couldn't have called at a better time, actually. I was just about to talk to Ms. Skye about the matter." "Excuse me?" "HE wanted you to stay quiet about it?" "I'll make sure to bring him up in the conversation, then." "Good-bye, Katyushka."

"Your wife?" Miles asked as the elevator reached the twelfth floor.

"It was forged, and Chief Gant wanted the forgery kept under wraps."

"Chief Gant?"

"This forgery situation is going from bad to worse. I think I'll contact Fey and see if she's found a connection between Gant and White or Space. If Gant's the one behind the forgery, then Ms. Skye could not possibly be the conspirator. At the worst, she is an accomplice, though I doubt it, given her honesty."

"Agreed. I trust Ms. Skye the same way I trust the investigators."

"You only trust her because you love her."

"You have it backwards, Mr. Dzhugashvili. I love her because I trust her."

Dzhugashvili had no response to that. In truth, there really was no proper response to a statement like that. The elevator dinged at the twelfth floor. Miles wheeled himself out and to his office.

Purge those thoughts from your mind, Miles ordered himself. Lana would never forge evidence. She has done nothing but trustworthy work since the day she joined the force. She's even helped expose forgeries within the department. There's no way she would forge evidence herself.