Author's note: So like, this is an AU, kind of? Think mid-2020s post-pandemic Japanifornia. Same characters, different timeline, with many, ahem, liberties taken with the lore and legal system. If you're looking for 100% faithfulness to the games, this ain't it, chief. But there is plenty of Wrightworth and people shouting "objection!", so what else do you really need?
Chapter 1
In the dark, the snick of a lighter is swallowed by the empty space. But the rush of flames that follows is not. They tear through the empty nightclub, blue, then yellow, then red-hot. Couches, paper screens, acoustic padding; they don't stand a chance.
Smoke rises, thick and acrid, filling the space from the ceiling down. The fire flickers and nearly dies, smothered by its own oxygen-hungry flames. Then a door slams open, and the rush of air from outside is all it needs to roar back to life. The air wavers in the blistering heat. An oversized wooden mask splinters and smashes to the floor, its paint bubbling and distorting.
In the end, it's the fumes that do the worst of the work. Toxic smoke pours into the shabby office, closing around its single occupant like a smothering fist.
Somewhere outside, sirens split the air as the LAFD battle against the Los Angeles traffic.
They're already too late.
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It's not very often I get a whole evening to myself, in this line of work. Unless you count the sleepless nights spent overthinking every little mistake I made in court that day, which I don't. But tonight there's no case, and no trial in the morning that I need to prepare for - only sweet, merciful freedom. Several whole hours in which I get to do what-slash-who-ever I want.
It's the simple things, really.
I stop by Maya's desk on the way out to say goodnight, but she's sitting on the couch in the waiting area, eyes glued to the news. Over footage of the charred ruins of a building, the words ONE CONFIRMED DEAD IN HANNYA NIGHTCLUB ARSON take up a third of her tablet screen.
"Arson, huh?" I say, but Maya shushes me, turning up the volume so she can hear the reporter's tinny voice.
"Four people have been arrested in connection with the Hannya nightclub fire. The fire, reported at 2.13pm on June 24th, tore through the closed club, destroying the building and threatening surrounding businesses. Police are moving quickly to determine whether the person found dead at the scene was killed accidentally, or whether the arson attack was, in fact, a murder. More to come soon."
I sigh at that last part, feeling my faith in humanity eroding away. "Why do you insist on watching the trashiest news channels?"
"Because they're the best ones, obviously." Maya pauses the stream and looks at me expectantly. "Four suspects. That's pretty serious. Witter's saying they're all employees from the club."
"And how does Witter know that when it's not even on the news yet?" Witter is, I have learned, not one of Maya's gossipy friends, but a social media site that I emphatically Do Not Care About.
"Duh. Everyone's talking about the fire! Someone who knows the suspects must have posted something about it. They're… not the most popular people in Downtown LA right now."
"Yeah, I can imagine." The Hannya's popularity exploded about a year ago after some drama series was filmed there. I mean, even I've heard of it, so it must have been doing well.
"I sure hope they find a great attorney." From the significant way Maya's looking at me, I can tell I'm missing something. She shakes her head incredulously. "My god, Nick! Would it kill you to check your emails every once in a while?"
"You know I hate reading off a screen." Yes, I do have a laptop, and no, I will not allow myself to become reliant on it. What kind of attorney would I be if I glued myself to a computer instead of observing the world around me?
"Whatever, boomer. Here." Maya grabs a manila folder off the arm of the couch and flicks it at me. I tuck it under my arm, with my ever-growing pile of papers that make the trip between here and my apartment every day.
"I'll read it tonight," I tell her, with a glance at the clock. "I need to get going."
"Oh, you're heading out?" There's a mischievous glint in Maya's eye. "On a date? Where's he taking you, somewhere with a Michelin star? Oh, wait-" she exaggeratedly presses her fingers to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. "It's coming to me now - the Dine-o'-Matic!"
"Ha, funny." Sometimes, I seriously regret keeping a psychic medium on the payroll. Jokes aside, her powers have saved me a few times. More than a few, actually. It's a shame she'll never get the credit she deserves for the work we've done together.
"You know," says Maya, still grinning at her own joke as I head for the front door, "I bet Mr. Edgeworth checks his emails every half-hour like a normal person."
"Bold of you to assume he knows what a computer is," I fire back over my shoulder as I leave.
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An overpriced cab ride across Downtown later, and I'm knocking on the office door of one Miles Edgeworth, prosecutor extraordinaire and renowned cravat enthusiast. I hear a muffled come in from inside, and as I open the door the scents of Earl Grey and sandalwood wash over me, and I'm already smiling because I have a deep, dark secret.
I like Miles' office more than my own.
It's not only that decent tea service is impossible when Maya's capable of burning water. It's because Miles' office is so damn over the top. It's exactly the set a scriptwriter would dream up for the climax of the series finale, when the Tortured Lawyer suddenly realises he Knew The Answers All Along.
Desk so polished I can see my reflection? Check. Shelves crammed with obscure legal textbooks? (Well-thumbed, as obviously he reads them on slow days.) Check. Dressed in a full suit, even though the AC in this building is on the fritz? Check. Chess board set up with a notoriously difficult play that I don't know the name of? Check and mate. Oh yeah, it's all very intimidating, except it's hard to be intimidated by someone after you've seen them without pants on.
Miles slips his glasses off and rubs his eyes as I enter. Despite my joke earlier, there's a laptop on his desk, closed so I can't be tempted to glance at the screen. It's not a personal slight; it's just the way he is. And for the past week he's been even more reserved than usual, so he must be working on something big.
His gaze lingers on the folders stuffed under my arm. "Any particular reason you've brought half your office here with you?"
"Come off it, Miles. You're just as bad as I am." Except he keeps all his stuff in a locked briefcase, because of course he does. "Did you forget I was coming over?"
"No, you're early." His tone is neutral, but the way he leans back in his seat looks a lot like an invitation. So I skirt around his desk and kiss him hello.
"It's half-six, and you know it," I mutter against his neck, breathing in his cologne as he twists my tie around his fingers. (That he enjoys doing that is a fact that lives rent-free in my head, and now it does in yours, too. You're welcome.)
"Objection, speculation. You can't prove I know what time it is."
"Objection overruled, you're being an ass." I smirk as I pull away, grabbing his keys from the dish on the corner of his desk. I jingle them a little. "C'mon, you can still work on your big, important, top-secret case on my couch." Or any other piece of furniture I own. This I know from experience.
Fifteen minutes later, we're in Miles' car, weaving through evening traffic towards Little Nihon. In my experience, most couples talk about the inconsequential details of their day when they spend time together. Or, I don't know, come up with names for their house plants and argue over what colour curtains they're going to buy. But we're not most couples.
"Michigan v. Sharp set an unexpected precedent, though." Miles' attention is fixed on the road, but his eyes are lit up, like they usually do whenever he suddenly remembers an obscure historical court case - usually to prove me wrong about something.
"I mean, yeah. But you would say that, Mr. Prosecutor." For the record, I asked him why it's easy to convict a pigeon in a courtroom. It was a joke, yet here we are.
"...You have no idea what Michigan v. Sharp is, do you?"
"Honestly? I've been lost for the last five minutes, but you were having so much fun. I didn't have the heart to tell you."
"Hmph. Well, at least you recognise your own shortcomings-" Miles brakes sharply to avoid a pizza delivery bike that cut him off, and slaps his fist on the horn. I narrowly avoid being strangled on my own seatbelt, but my folders shoot off my lap and land in a messy pile at my feet. The newest addition sits on top, and Maya's thick sharpie scrawl grabs my attention. HANNYA FOUR.
"Hey, did you hear about the Hannya club fire?" I say casually, bending to retrieve my stuff. Miles doesn't respond at first, and when I look up at him he's wearing an odd expression.
"Who hasn't, by this point?" he says lightly, with a shrug.
"The cops seem pretty sure they got the guys that did it. Makes you wonder…" This time he simply makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, and I don't push it. He's probably still salty over the pizza guy cutting him off. I do take a peek inside the folder, though. Staring up at me is a printed-out email with 'READ ME!' written along the header in red pen. Maya's helpfully highlighted the subject line.
Subject: Letter Request for Legal Services
Oh. Oh shit.
I really should check my emails more often.
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The first time Miles came to my place, I kind of wanted to die. Until then I'd assumed he lived in like, a penthouse, or something, and that my poky one-room apartment would be the ultimate deal breaker. I was so nervous that instead of joining him on the couch so we could make out like normal people, I went and made us both coffee (without even asking if he wanted any, because that's just the kind of smooth operator I am).
And when he looked at me in horror and said "Seriously? Powdered milk?" I hit him with a couch cushion. Things were a lot less awkward after that.
It's funny to think back on that now, sitting with him on my bed, with our respective cases and cartons of Little Nihon's finest donburi. I skim-read Maya's notes as I eat. So much for my evening off, I guess, but somehow I can't begrudge it when I have the weight of Miles' body on the covers next to me, his knee pressing into mine. It's a warm night, and I'm incredibly distracted by the way his loosened shirt collar keeps flashing glimpses of his collarbone. God, Wright, pull yourself together and get back to work.
The slim folder contains everything publicly known about the Hannya nightclub fire, including a lot of speculative Witter threads that I ignore. I'm more intrigued by the letter of request, which is from a Mr. Keiji Kobayashi on behalf of his daughter, Ria, and three others; Manuel Jacobs, Fred Ashby and Carrie Janssen.
"Hannya Four", Maya has helpfully written in the margins. She's also added 'COO of Canopy Security Consultants', with an arrow at Mr. Kobayashi's name. My eyes nearly bug out when I see he's offering two-thirds extra on top of what I usually charge. He's done his homework, that's for sure.
In the corner of my room, the news is playing silently on my ancient TV, but the moment footage of the burned-out club catches my eye, I grab the remote and unmute it.
"-suspects are confirmed to be employees of the nightclub. Whether the arson was a deliberate attempt on Mr. Blacklock's life is still unknown."
"Blacklock," I mutter, trying to place the name. I'm sure I've seen it somewhere in my notes.
"The co-owner of the club." I look up to find Miles staring at me. Then his face clouds over as if he regrets saying anything at all, and it hits me.
"Oh my- you're the prosecutor for the case!"
"Don't be ridiculous. I just happened to be paying attention."
"You are! You were acting strangely when I brought it up earlier. And you've been busy with your mystery case ever since the club burned down." I waggle my finger at him the way he does when he thinks he's got me.
"That's your evidence?" he scoffs. "It's circumstantial at best, and hardly concrete."
"Stop trying to distract me with sexy lawyer talk. It won't work."
Miles shakes his head, already tidying away his laptop, as if he thinks I'd try to sneak a look. "No," he says firmly, snapping his briefcase shut. "If I was on the case - and I'm not saying I am - I wouldn't be able to talk about it. Just as you wouldn't, if you took the defense. Which would be a conflict of interest, by the way, so don't even think about it." It's my turn to stare at him, and he gives a wry smile. "You're being rather obvious."
Well, that's me told, then.
"Fine," I say, trying not to sound miffed. "But, you know. Hypothetically- " I never get to finish that thought, as he pulls me in for a bruising kiss, fingers at the nape of my neck, and wouldn't you know, I've completely forgotten what I was going to say. His tongue brushes my lower lip, and I'm fumbling with his damn shirt buttons when he leans over me, pressing me into the bedcovers. My head hits the pillow, but we both freeze as paper crinkles under my shoulder.
Maya's notes. Oops.
"Ah, Phoenix…" Miles actually averts his eyes as I retrieve them, as if he's preserving my modesty or something. "Do you perhaps want to put those somewhere safe?" God forbid he catch a sinful glimpse of an exposed Witter thread. It makes me want to burst out laughing, but also kiss him, and carry on kissing him forever. I settle for a gooey grin, even though his gaze is fixed somewhere above my left ear.
"Sure," I say, shoving the papers onto the floor, and pull him down on top of me.
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Of course I go and meet the 'Hannya Four' the next morning.
It would be rude not to, after Mr. Kobayashi's generous offer. And I'm curious about this case. Besides, Miles' comment about me taking the defense being a conflict of interest? This is one of the rare times when he's actually not entirely correct. But I can rub that in his face later. For now, I need to know where exactly the four suspects stand, and probably stop them from saying anything they shouldn't to the police.
Keiji Kobayashi is waiting for me outside the detention center, and I'm glad I wore a freshly dry-cleaned suit because the first thing he does is give me a quick once-over. I guess I passed whatever test that was; although he doesn't offer his hand, he gives me a curt nod.
"I'm glad you came, Mr. Wright. I've heard positive things about you." Clearly not a fan of small talk, he immediately gestures for me to follow him through the main door.
"Forgive me," I say, hurrying to keep up with him, "but I need to clarify something. You want me to represent all four of the suspects, not only your daughter?"
"Yes." For several seconds he doesn't say anything more. Then he turns to me, and I realise he's thought long and hard about what to say. "They're good young people, all of them. From what Ria's told me, they work hard and look out for each other, almost like a family. And…" he hesitates again, clearly still working out whether he can trust me or not. I let him take his time.
"There's something not right with the Hannya," he says finally, after glancing around the lobby to make sure no one is within earshot.
Aside from being a smoking ruin? "Not right?" I echo, but he waves the question away.
"I'll tell you the rest if you decide to take this job. I should warn you - the previous attorney I hired was useless, so I fired him. I hope you will be more reliable." Well, okay then. No pressure.
I leave Mr. Kobayashi at reception and get signed in. I submit to the usual pat-down, then let the guard lead me to one of the depressing little rooms they use for interrogations. The Hannya Four are sitting around a metal table, looking as though they haven't slept in a while.
I've memorised their profiles. There's Ria Kobayashi, obviously, twenty-one years old, with short hair tied up in a ponytail and looking despondent. Next to her is a tall woman with an undercut. That's Carrie Janssen, twenty-four. Sitting opposite those two are Manuel Jacobs, twenty-four, sitting quietly with nail-bitten fingers clasped on the table top. Then there's Fred Ashby, twenty-three, tattooed and jittery in the corner. I make a point of greeting them each by name. No doubt they've already heard their collective nickname, but it's important to remember that they are individual people.
"I'm Phoenix Wright, defense attorney," I say by way of introduction. They simply blink at me, and I guess I don't really blame them. I'm only a few years older than Carrie and Manuel. They were probably expecting an old guy from some gritty courtroom drama. Well, if I'm not going to impress them with my credentials alone, I need to get to work.
"First of all," I begin, "I want to understand what happened with your previous attorney." There's a pause as the four of them exchange glances. Fred rolls his eyes, and Carrie nudges Ria to get her talking.
"It started when he was preparing us for our arraignment," she says, in a near-whisper. She's huddled in her plastic seat, her arms wrapped around herself. It's as if she thinks she can disappear if she makes herself small enough. "He wanted us to plead guilty to setting the fire. He says there's enough evidence to convict us of manslaughter, but…"
"But we didn't fuckin' do it," drawls Fred. He glares at me. "Goddamn lawyers." Carrie hisses a quiet 'shut up!' and kicks him in the shin, but I ignore them.
"Dad was furious, so he fired him," Ria shrugs. "That's it, really."
Okay, that's not a fantastic sign, but I've been here before. Contrary to what Miles (and literally every other lawyer I've ever met) might think, I've learned that first impressions count for a lot. And my first impression of these four is pretty damn strong. They're young, they're scared, and while Mr. Kobayashi is definitely holding out on me, he's a man with a reputation to protect, and he seems to trust them.
"If I take your case on, the next thing I'll want to do is talk to you separately," I tell them.
"Why? So you can decide which of us to throw under the bus?" Fred lifts his chin with a scowl, arms crossed. His attitude reminds me of my old friend Larry, except he's fifty pounds of muscle heavier and a lot less friendly.
"Fred," says Manuel softly, and I realise he's remained silent until now. "Quit it." I'm with him on this one; Fred's jiggling in his seat like there's a swarm of wasps in his pants.
"I'm just saying. You know who's paying this guy. Why should he give a shit about me or you?"
Ria looks stricken, which, actually, I sympathise with. "What are you trying to say?"
"Mr. Kobayashi has asked me to represent each of you, which is what I'll do," I cut in, before things spiral out of hand. "But you can request your own attorney if you want." Fred doesn't say anything to that, so I guess he doesn't fancy that idea after all.
"Anyway," I continue, taking a deep breath, "Before we continue, I have to disclose my relationship to the prosecutor for your case, Mr. Miles Edgeworth."
So much for keeping the peace - the four of them react as if I'd told them I burned down the Hannya. Ria presses her fingers to her mouth, Manuel's shoulders slump, and Carrie mutters 'wait, what?' under her breath.
The look Fred gives me is scathing. "Relationship?" he says, twisting the word so it sounds mocking. Oh, so that's how it is. I cringe inwardly and try to forge onward.
"We're-" dating "-friends." Oh shit, why did I say that? I go to correct myself, but there seems to be a circuit broken between my brain and my mouth. Between Fred's implied homophobia and my nerves, I've suddenly come down with a severe case of cat-got-my-tongue. My clients are exchanging concerned glances.
"Is that… normal?" Ria says, and it takes me a second to realise she's referring to me being friendly with the prosecutor and not my sudden inability to form a coherent sentence.
"Well, it's not unheard of," I manage. My tie's starting to feel a little tight. How the hell did this go wrong so quickly? "People working in the legal profession do get to know one another. But we're both obliged to conduct ourselves professionally, inside the courtroom and out." Which you're doing a terrible job of, I think, squirming.
"Oh. Well. I guess that's fine." Ria looks to Carrie for confirmation - huh, interesting - before nodding her agreement.
"I mean, it's not like anyone else is jumping for the chance to defend us." I could have done without that last remark from Carrie, but she's not wrong. Manuel and Fred still look skeptical, but eventually they, too, nod. Begrudgingly, I'll admit.
It's done, then. I'll go back to Mr. Kobayashi and tell him I'll take the case, and everything's going to be peachy. Apart from the fact another attorney already failed my clients. Who I just lied to, by the way, which is… not great. I mean, I've lied to clients before, but it's usually along the lines of 'yeah, this trial is proceeding exactly the way I planned!' and 'don't worry, the judge always scowls at the defense like that.'
But it's fine. Who will know? Miles and I are professionals. We're hardly going to be making bedroom eyes across the courtroom at each other.
There's absolutely no way this is going to bite me in the ass later.
Right?
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Author's note (last one I swear): I am like, brand new to this fandom, please be kind 3 (I slept on the series for so long, the regret is real)
In case you're wondering what the fuck "Little Nihon" is, I figured in Japanifornia, Little Tokyo would be less part of Downtown and more a city district in its own right.