Chapter 5
Joy Ride
"Is that Miles? My goodness, you're getting so big!" Auntie said and she hugged him so hard Miles couldn't breathe.
"Auntie," Miles said, "Dad and I brought you a present."
"Wonderful," Auntie said, "But come in, come in. Oh Wellington! They're here!"
Auntie's flat was very large—larger than their house—and there were servants to clean it and paintings and statues from all of her travels. Miles loved Auntie's flat—except for the cats—Auntie had five Persian cats, and they always seemed to be glaring out of the corners at him with their eyes glowing in the shadows of their sinister squashed faces.
Miles went straight into the drawing room to rouse the cats from their hiding places.
"He looks like you," Auntie said to Dad and Miles tried to pretend he couldn't hear them. He had one of the cats—a fat white one—by the tail and he dragged her out from under the divan.
"But I see some of his mother too. He'll be a little heart breaker."
Dad laughed, "Let's hope he has more ambition than all that."
"I'm so glad you've come Greg," Auntie said.
"How do you feel?" Dad said.
"Wonderful, now that you and Miles are here," Auntie replied.
"Tea Miss Edgeworth?" the butler asked.
"Please, Wellington," Auntie said.
The cat yowled and Miles let her go.
"Miles!" Dad yelled as he and Auntie entered the room, "Stop bothering the cats."
"Miles come and sit by me," Auntie said, "Your Dad said you got an award at the school recital last week."
"Uh," Miles said and sat beside her, "Um yeah. They gave everybody awards. Everyone that played in the recital."
"Miles, don't be modest," Dad said, "He received an invitation to study music at a private art school in Monterrey. He's too young, of course, but the maestro was very impressed."
Miles felt his ears go warm and shrugged when Auntie looked at him. Dad smiled and sat down on Miles' other side and put a big hand on his shoulder.
"But Miles knows that he will succeed if he puts in the work. He knows the path he needs to walk to reach his goals. Isn't that right, son?"
Miles frowned a little; the adults sometimes seemed to enjoy making him uncomfortable.
"Yeah Dad," he said.
The butler brought tea and Miles stared at the liquid in his cup while Auntie complained to Dad about the hospital and the doctor she was seeing and the medicine she had to take and how lonely it was since they'd moved away to the suburbs. He wished they hadn't come and then he felt guilty about feeling that way.
"Oh, Greg!" Auntie said suddenly, "Help me up."
Dad stood and held out an arm to help her stand. Miles frowned at how painfully slow it was. She rested for a moment against Dad and then turned to smile at Miles.
"You'll never guess what I bought you for Christmas!" Auntie said.
Miles looked up at her surprised.
"But we can wait for Christmas," Dad said, "right?"
"Oh nonsense and superstition," Auntie shot Miles a conspiratorial look, "Miles do you really want to wait until Christmas."
Dad gave Miles a sharp look and Miles frowned, "I can wait until Christmas," he said and then looked at Auntie, "But I'd like to see it now too."
Dad shook his head, but he smiled as Auntie took her cane and led them out of the apartment and into the elevator in the corridor outside. She pushed the buttons and smiled at Miles again.
"You're going to love this," she said.
The elevator dinged and opened into the building's basement garage. Auntie was holding very tightly to Dad's arm as she led the way. She stopped beside a red sports car, and pointed. Dad looked scandalized. Miles was confused.
"You can't be serious," Dad said.
"Is it inside your new car?" Miles said.
"This is your car Miles."
Miles eyebrows went up very high and Dad shook his head, "Miles can't drive. He won't learn for at least another six or seven years."
"I can learn," Miles said defensively. Auntie unlocked the car and Miles sat in the driver's seat.
"This is a little crazy—more than a little… He's nine years old," Miles heard Dad say to Auntie. Miles slouched low in the seat and poked at the buttons on the console.
"I wanted to give it to him before I—"
Dad must have stopped her saying it, but Miles knew why they were here. It wasn't just for Christmas. Auntie and Dad were talking very quietly among themselves. Miles put his hands on the steering wheel and wished they'd given him the keys.
Miles got to his building at five-thirty in the morning on New Year's Day. A lot of people went to parties. There was a concert downtown, and one on the beach too. But Miles didn't go to any parties or concerts, and he didn't feel like sitting on the couch and watching parties or concerts on TV either. So, late last night he got into his car and drove to Coronado Island and then turned around and came back.
He sped a little—well maybe a lot—but that's why people buy cars like his, right? You don't take Sunday drives in an Alfa Romeo. It just seemed like a waste. For a little while he felt completely free, alone in his car, flying so fast the merest falter could have sent him over the cliffs to his death. Or into the side of a mountain, or another car. Sometimes thoughts like that crept in and they never seemed so bad. Just a bit of daring, a tempting of fate, and that near-miss feeling in the pit of his stomach when the car lurched a little because he was taking the curve too fast and the slightest correction always seemed over compensated.
Miles was still giddy after he parked and locked his car in the garage and went to climb the stairs to his room. He didn't realize how tired he was until he hit the fifth floor landing. He'd been sleeping well after the trial and the all-nighters seemed like a thing of the past—and this little foray into danger took its toll. Miles yawned and started up the next flight of stairs.
He tripped on something in front of his door and some half-formed rationalization escaped his sleep-deprived mind and he kicked it against the wall opposite his door and ducked. And nothing happened. And after a while he peeked over his shoulder and stared at the oddly shaped mass, until finally he worked up the courage to walk over and examine it.
It was a gift basket with his name written in large red letters with hearts replacing o's and dotting the i's. Miles frowned and unlocked his door. Wellington was hurrying over from the direction of the kitchen.
"Oh, Mister Edgeworth," the butler said, "We were worried sick about you."
Miles absently turned the gift basket over in his hands and looked at the table where the house phone sat. There was also a vase of flowers and a few unopened bottles of champagne. Miles didn't see flowers or champagne on that table the night before.
He rubbed his face and started to remove his jacket, "Wellington," he paused to yawn again, "What is this mischief?"
"The Champagne came from the ladies downstairs," Wellington said.
Miles frowned. The collective ladies downstairs were ever a pebble in the shoe of his existence. They all lived in the smaller apartments below the seventh floor and they all seemed to be forty-something, well to do single ladies. It was some cruel turn of fate that he should inherit ownership of this building that seemed full of women who thought he ought to be a playboy of some sort.
Miles shuddered thinking about them.
"The flowers were anonymous," Wellington pointed at the gift basket Miles was still holding, "We didn't see that one."
"Oh," Miles said and passed the basket and his jacket to Wellington.
"Breakfast, sir?" Wellington said.
"What? No," Miles yawned again, "I'm going to bed—for a bit. I have to finish moving offices today. By close of business."
"Very good, sir," Wellington said, but there was a note of uncertainty in the man's voice.
His alarm woke him at nine, but he didn't feel like getting up. Pess was a large warm mass beside him and that made it so much harder to force himself to get up and make himself presentable. If anyone learned of his habit of racing around in his car at night, he'd probably have to go into hiding.
Miles washed and dressed—khakis, white shirt, black sweater—he was only going to move his things from one office to another. Then he'd come right back.
He had a mind to go back to bed then, and why not? It was a holiday, after all.
Miles stopped by the kitchen on his way out and had managed a cup of tea on his own when the cook, Misses Kucharka, came in looking dismayed.
"Never mind," Miles said, "I'm in a hurry."
The toaster spat out two halves of a cinnamon raisin bagel and he took them and stepped out of the kitchen. There were champagne bottles on the table in the entryway. He didn't drink, as a rule, and he ought to remove the temptation.
Why champagne?
Miles was chewing his bagel thoughtfully—he paused and smiled to himself. He was very clever. Miles swallowed his mouthful of bagel.
"Um," he said in the direction of the kitchen, "Can you get me a bag?"
"M-me, sir?" Misses Kucharka said; no doubt still worried that Miles had gone and used the toaster all by himself—and the imagined repercussions of such a lapse in duty.
"Whomever," Miles said, though the cook was the only person in the kitchen, "One of those bags—you know—that you put things in… from the store."
"Will this do sir?" Wellington had come from nowhere and held up a canvas shopping bag. Miles put his bagel between his teeth and took the bag. He started putting the champagne in it. Wellington frowned slightly.
"What will you do with it, sir?" Wellington said.
Miles looked at him and shrugged, he still had the bagel in his mouth. Then he gave a bottle to Wellington and walked out the door with his half-eaten bagel in one hand and a bag of champagne in the other.
Miles parked and paused to check his phone before stepping out of his car and entering the main entrance to the police department. On his way to Criminal Affairs, a poncho-clad bandana wearing patrol officer standing outside one of the stations security checkpoints held out an arm to stop him.
"Weyyll! Hey there buckaroo, what are you up to?" The policeman said.
"Not now, Marshall," Miles said and attempted to continue, but Marshall kept his arm out.
"Not so fast, son," Marshall said, "What are you sneaking in here with? And all incognito—like some coyote bandito."
"I'm a prosecutor," Miles forced a smile and tapped a finger to his temple, "I am well within my rights to enter these premises."
"Boy, I know who you are," Marshall circled around him so that Miles was trapped between the policeman and the wall, "What are you bringing in here? Tampered evidence?"
Miles glared at him, "Will you step back? There's no reason for this—"
"Mister Edgeworth!" Gumshoe's razor-burned face appeared over Marshall's shoulder grinning.
Marshall stepped back still eyeing Miles suspiciously with sidelong glances. He stepped back into the doorway of the security office and started cleaning his nails with a large bowie knife. Gumshoe rounded on him.
"Hey Pal! What's your problem threatening Edgeworth like that? He's the High Prosecutor now! No little scumbag patrol cop has the right to jump all over the High Prosecutor! You got a problem with Edgeworth, Pal? You come to me, don't go threatening Edgeworth in dark corners, Pal!"
Miles felt his face grow hot hearing Gumshoe's tirade and he turned his face away from the two men. Marshall continued to pick at his nails with his knife as if he hadn't heard Gumshoe at all. Gumshoe glared at him for good measure, panting a little after his outburst. Marshall muttered under his breath.
"What did you say, Pal?"
"We're in a police station—not some abandoned ghost town on the windswept plain."
"Get back in there," Gumshoe said and he moved as if to shove Marshall into the security room, but Marshall ducked inside before Gumshoe could touch him.
Gumshoe turned and grinned at Miles, "Happy New Year, pal!"
Miles stared for a moment and then stood and dusted at some imaginary dirt from the encounter off of his shoulder.
"I mean Happy New Year, sir," Gumshoe repeated, a little deflated.
"Woot," Miles said.
Gumshoe frowned, "You can do better than that Mr. Edgeworth."
"Right," Miles said and he cleared his throat and reached into his bag, "Here is a bottle of Champagne."
Marshall poked his head out of the security room.
"Sh-sh… Champagne…? Mr. Edgeworth…" Gumshoe stammered.
"Whooop! Happy New Year Gumshoe!" Miles shouted. Several police officers stopped. Miles' ears turned red and he put his head down and started to walk out of the building.
Marshall gave a long whistle from the Security Room door, "Weyyll… If the moon won't arise blue tonight."
"What's all this racket out here?" Marshall almost jumped at the voice behind him. Miles and Gumshoe and several nearby policemen stopped in their tracks. The Chief of Police had just come out of the evidence room and was standing over Marshall in the security room. He grinned at the policemen standing around and adjusted his tinted glasses.
"You," he said, "turn around."
Miles turned and looked at him coolly, but offered no other expression, "Chief."
"Is that you little Worthy?" Chief Gant said and his grin spread, "I didn't recognize you without your bib."
"My bi—?" Miles started to say.
"You weren't at the New Year's Party last night, Worthy… Seems you didn't feel the need to grace us with your presence."
"It's a cravat…" Miles said—still stuck on Chief Gant's bib comment.
The Chief of Police smiled and he stepped forward and put an arm across Miles' shoulders, "Our little Worthy, you're getting all grown up now, aren't you?"
"Um…" Miles said. Gant gave him a fatherly squeeze—a one-armed embrace—Miles grimaced but didn't dare pull away.
"Chief Prosecutor Skye went and made you the High Prosecutor, you must be very proud."
"I know the path I've walked," Miles muttered and shrugged. Chief Gant dropped his arm and Miles took several steps away from him.
"How long has it been now?" Chief Gant rubbed his chin, "Five years I think? Maybe a little more—since our boy wonder showed up?"
Miles was suddenly very uncomfortable, and unconsciously the fingers of his right hand wrapped around his left elbow. He glared away from Chief Gant and focused instead on the stained hem of Gumshoe's trench coat.
"You swim, don't you, Worthy? I thought you said—"
"No, sir," Miles said, "Not unless you count the bathtub, Chief."
He tried to force a smile. Chief Gant grinned at him in a way that might be construed as threatening—and whether it was or not, it was creepy. Miles wanted very much to hide.
"Is that an invitation, Worthy?" Chief Gant tugged at his beard and focused his greasy smile on Miles. Miles opened his mouth to protest but his words had escaped him.
The burly police chief started to laugh boisterously and slapped Miles so hard on the back he nearly fell over.
"You should've seen the look on your face! BWAHAHAHAHA!"
Miles recovered his footing and tugged his sweater straight. Chief Gant stopped laughing suddenly and looked around.
"What's everyone standing around here for?" Chief Gant shouted. Miles startled and covered up by crossing his arms. The still station erupted in movement and activity and only then did Miles notice that everything had gone still when the Chief arrived. Marshall was whistling at his post in the guard station, sharpening his knife on a stone and Gumshoe rubbed his head and offered a sympathetic look as he went back toward Criminal Affairs.
Chief Gant pushed Miles into a nook past the security room where a water fountain was placed out of the way of traffic in the corridor.
"Worthy… Indeed," Chief Gant said, "What are your plans, little Worthy?"
"Chief," Miles said, "I'm going up to my office to move my things. Then, I suppose I'll review some of the cases we have on the docket."
Chief Gant burst out laughing very loudly and Miles backed into the water fountain. It started to buzz and he looked down at it.
"Clever fellow," Chief Gant said, still laughing, "Taking it one day at a time are you? Very clever…"
Chief Gant stopped laughing as suddenly as his outburst began. He was glaring at Miles directly and Miles glared back and started to tap his forefinger with impatience.
"You're going down Edgeworth," Chief Gant said, Miles narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"You're not allowed to hit for anyone else—it isn't fair," Chief Gant said.
"Since when were you worried about fair, Chief?" Miles said and he gave the Chief of Police a shrewd little smirk.
"Touché," Chief Gant grinned and slapped Miles on the shoulder once more before walking away.
When the police chief was out of sight he exhaled in relief and paused to compose himself before going after Gumshoe.
"Miles?" Phoenix's mom found him sitting on the porch in his pajamas. He didn't even turn to look up at her.
"Miles, sweetie, you'll catch a cold," she said, "Come inside."
Miles stood wordlessly and followed her inside. Phoenix was in the sitting room, owl eyed and just as worried as his mother. Miles had thought him asleep.
"Guys it's really late," Phoenix's mom said, "I thought you were going to bed."
"Mom, we did go to bed," Phoenix said earnestly, "But Miles got up and never came back."
"Miles…" Phoenix's mom looked at him with sympathy, but she wasn't going to say anything.
"Anyway," Phoenix said, "It's not like we have school or anything."
"Yeah," Phoenix's mom said, "But we'll miss the parade if we end up staying up all night and sleeping all day."
"So," Phoenix said—Miles thought his apparent indifference sounded forced—Phoenix had been excited about the parade earlier. Phoenix got excited about a lot of things.
"It's always the same anyway," Phoenix muttered.
"Oh is it?" His mom said, "So you're saying you don't want to go?"
"I don't care," Phoenix said, "But Larry might get upset—because I said we'd be there."
Miles thought he saw her smile a little at her son, "Miles do you want to go to the parade."
Miles looked dumbly at the two of them for several moments and then nodded. Phoenix would be upset if they didn't go. Miles didn't want to cause them so much trouble.
"So… Will you go back to bed and stay there?" Phoenix's mom said.
"Well," Phoenix said, "Maybe we could have some cocoa first?"
Phoenix's mom put her hand on his head a rumpled his short spiky hair, "Sure Phoenix. Do you want cocoa Miles?"
Miles shook his head. Phoenix elbowed him.
"Use your words," he said, "Stop being weird."
Miles clutched his arm and looking at the floor, he said, "No ma'am, I already brushed my teeth."
"Are you sure? You can always brush them again," she patted his shoulder and beckoned the two boys follow her into the clean but cluttered kitchen.
Miles only wanted to hide, but his Dad would be angry if he behaved rudely, so he followed them. Phoenix leaned near him and said, "Miles you're weird today. Stop being weird."
Miles was trying very hard not to cry in front of his friend.
Miles lay on the couch in his new office. With everything moved in, it wasn't different from his old office. The view from the window was slightly different, but Miles wasn't tempted to spend much time looking down from twelve stories up.
Gumshoe had been kind enough to come and help him move. The man was hunched over the chessboard squinting at the pieces and arranging them in various patterns on the board—he still couldn't grasp the first thing about the game.
Miles plopped the folder he had onto a stack on the floor near the couch and grabbed up the next from a few he had stacked against his thighs. It wasn't very formal, but he was tired still from the night before and it was New Year's Day—no one would be around.
"I'm going to grab a bite," Gumshoe said standing, "You wanna come, sir?"
Miles took his pen out of his mouth and he grabbed up the folders on his lap and sat up.
"Ah… I'll go later," Miles said, "I just want to finish up so I don't have to come back."
"I could bring you something," Gumshoe said.
"No thanks," Miles said absently as he had his nose was in the folders again, "I'm not staying very much longer—then I'm going home."
"See you later, Mr. Edgeworth," the detective said and he grabbed up his trench coat and left.
There weren't a lot of cases going to trial in the next week, but the Honeymoon Killers was a big deal. The district hadn't had a Serial Murder since the Joe Darke Killings—and this one was more complicated. Miles frowned at Payne's notes on the investigation, the evidence looked solid enough. Miles scribbled in the margin of Payne's typed report, he'd have to meet with the man tomorrow, before they went to trial. Miles sighed; Payne could be very tiresome.
He picked up all the Honeymoon folders and bound them with a rubber band and then plopped them on the desk. There was only one small stack left. He brought them back to the couch and sat down. He flipped open the first folder.
Miles laughed out loud. A horse thief had been arrested and his case was going to trial tomorrow. Somehow Officer Marshall came to mind, but Miles wondered if Jake Marshall had ever even seen a real horse. Unfortunately, this horse, apparently a huge star on the Mexican racing circuit, was valued at over two million dollars—Grand Larceny.
He chuckled again, looking over the police report and evidence list—too bad he'd taken that day off. The prosecutor on the case was older than him, but new to the job and the district. Holly Smock—Miles didn't remember talking to her. He dropped the folder and picked up the next one, Holly's notes were very concise. Miles yawned and looked at the defendant's profile. The defendant's counsel? "Court appointed" was handwritten over an ink line that crossed out Phoenix Wright.
Miles smiled.
A/N: Thanks for reading!
22SEP2013 Revised and updated! This chapter stayed mostly the same—with the addition of the 'swimming' crack by Gant. It was definitely missing…
4JUL2015 Gant is so creepy. Their weird interaction is in regard to the baseball game. So about the car... I don't know why but this made more sense to me, especially since if you study the game art, the car Miles has is a 2001. With everything that he goes through with the Von Karmas, I don't see him taking the time to find what's basically a rare collector's item. So somehow this came to me and it fit-in fact somehow it works... Anyway, enough of my geekiness for now...