Chapter 12

Little Brother

The other boy that shared his room was sent to a foster home almost immediately after Miles' arrival. So they told him that he was lucky—that he'd have the room to himself for a while.

The detective and one of the doctors from the hospital—the woman doctor that gave him the stuffed toy—had taken him to Dad's house first. They told him to take whatever he needed—clothes, shoes, books—Miles didn't want anything from the house. The doctor lady held his hand as they walked into the house he and his father had only lived in for a few short months.

He still remembered living here. It wasn't that long ago—a few days maybe? But somehow it seemed foreign. The leather sofa looked cold where it sat, a newspaper had been folded sloppily and left on the seat. Dad's reading glasses were still on the table, as if he'd just set them there.

"Where is your room, Miles?" the Doctor said.

"Upstairs," Miles said. He started walking toward the stairs and she tried to take his hand again, but Miles pulled away, he'd had just about enough of her.

They had family pictures, but Dad never had a chance to put them up. The walls were pretty bare. Dad did hang the cuckoo clock up though, on the wall where the stairs paused for a short landing before changing direction. Miles never really liked that clock, but Mom had picked it out and Dad cherished it for her sake.

Miles continued up the stairs with the Doctor hovering close behind him.

"How are you feeling now, Miles?" She said as they arrived at the top of the stairs. She was asking that all the time.

"Fine," Miles said automatically. He looked around the small loft at the top of the stairs. There was a tent set up there, from when Larry and Phoenix had stayed over. Dad showed them how to set it up—he thought they'd like to camp out, even if it was only out on the loft. Beyond the collapsed tent the door to Dad's room was ajar. Miles didn't realize he was staring at it until the Doctor gave him a light push on the back to stop his musing.

Miles led her into his room. It was tidy and bare. There was a small desk in one corner with a few books still stacked where he'd left them. A short bookcase under the window held a handsome leather bound set of encyclopedias—a set his father had as a kid. On the wall near his desk were several pictures drawn on ruled paper with a ragged edge from being torn from a notebook. The drawings Larry made for him.

"Um…" Miles said.

"What is it Miles?" the Doctor said and before she could ask him about his feelings he asked her a question.

"Will I go back to the same school?"

"We'll have to wait and see," she said.

"But school is starting soon," Miles said.

"Do you like school, Miles? Do you have a lot of friends there?"

Miles only frowned—what did that have to do with anything?

"Come on," the Doctor said, "Let's get some of your clothes to take with you to the home."

"Can't I just stay here?" Miles said.

"You're just a little boy," the Doctor said, "You can't live in this big house by yourself."

Miles wanted to ask her why, but he was reluctant to hear whatever weird question she would ask in reply. So he said nothing.

When he had packed enough of his clothes to satisfy the doctor, they went back downstairs and met the detective, who was frowning near the door. He was a big man with a touch of gray in his light brown hair. He, at least, proved better company than the doctor.

The door had a padlock on it and Miles watched curiously as the detective locked the house. They were already walking back to the car when Miles remembered something.

"Wait!"

"Is something wrong Miles?" the Doctor said.

"There's something else I need to get," Miles said.

The detective looked a little flustered, Miles stared at him wide-eyed.

"Is it something that you need or something that you want?" the Doctor said.

"It's important," Miles insisted, "It's in the garage. You don't have to unlock the house to open the garage, do you?"

The Doctor was frowning. But the Detective patted Miles' shoulder and walked toward the garage. He looked at the large door for a moment and then the keys in his hand.

"I'm pretty sure they gave me the keys for all the doors to the house," he said.

"Dad used to open it with buttons," Miles said.

"Oh, yeah," the Detective said, "But most garage doors have a bypass that can be unlocked with a key. I just hope I have the right key."

Miles watched as the detective tested the handle of the door. He always wondered why such a big door had such a stupid little handle, when the buttons opened the door automatically. The Detective tried four keys before he got one that fit. He turned the handle and gave the door a hard enough pull that it went most of the way up.

Miles ran inside and made straight for the large gray plastic trashcan in one corner of the tidy garage. Inside was a bouncy ball, a rake, his putters and various other outdoor sports equipment. Dad had encouraged him through several phases of changing sports interest. Miles could only look into the bin as it was up to his chin in height.

"What are you looking for?" the Detective said peering in over Miles' head.

"I want to bring my best putter," Miles said.

"I can't let you bring a putter," the Detective said but he reached inside, "How about this?"

He held up Miles' baseball mitt. Miles frowned at it.

"It's too small," Miles said, "That was from when I was a little kid. Dad got me a new one for Christmas."

"Where's that one now?"

"I think I left it upstairs," Miles frowned, but the detective reached into the bin again and pulled out an adult glove. His father's glove.

"How about this one?" The Detective said.

"It's too big," Miles said.

"You'll grow into it." Miles took the glove from the big detective and hugged it to his chest. He nodded.

"It's Dad's glove," Miles said.

January 8, 10:00 A.M.

District Court

Courtroom No. 2

Miles stifled a yawn and finished his coffee. He'd been preparing the witness for the better part of the last three hours. This was going to be a difficult witness. He stood outside the witness' waiting lounge and checked his watch.

He threw the paper cup in the trash and walked toward the courtroom. Miles straightened his cravat and ran a hand through his hair. It fell perfectly into place.

The bailiff poked his head out and motioned for him to enter. Miles didn't look around at the audience but went straight and focused toward the prosecution table. Once there he set out his files on the case, the evidence lists, the evidence he'd present himself. Miles only looked up when the defense walked in.

She was a severe looking woman wearing a gray pantsuit. Her dark but graying hair was cropped pixie-like and short. She glared back at him as she prepared her own materials. Miles almost smiled—almost.

Chief Gant and Chief Skye walked in together and joined the audience behind the defense table; no doubt they chose that side of the courthouse so they could see him better. Gant grinned and waved at him. Miles nodded slightly at him and turned his gaze toward the bench where the Judge sat at the head of the courtroom.

When he entered in a flurry of black robes, the bailiff introduced him to the court and the proceedings formally began. Miles relaxed considerably.

"Court is now in session for the trial of Mr. Kurt Sheinheilig," the Judge said.

"The Defense is ready, Your Honor," Pixie-Haircut said.

"The Prosecution has been ready for a while," Edgeworth said.

"Edgeworth!" the Judge said.

"Good Morning your honor," Edgeworth replied.

"Tell us what's going on here," the Judge said.

"Very good, Your Honor," Edgeworth said, "For the past three years, this City and the surrounding region have been terrorized by a murderer. A cold-blooded and indiscriminate murderer. The Prosecution believes Mr. Sheinheilig is this—"

"OBJECTION!" Pixie-haircut said, "Prove it!"

"That's what we're here to do," Edgeworth replied coolly.

The judge hammered his gavel in one sharp crack, "Will the defense relax? Edgeworth, continue."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Edgeworth said with a sidelong glance at Pixie-Haircut, "Let's move on then; the Prosecution would like to call its first witness—Mr. Shady K. Rector."

Shady K. Rector took the stand. He was a small greasy little man with several nervous twitches. He was wearing a bold striped prison uniform and he remained cuffed on the stand. He turned his head nervously searching the courtroom audience.

"Witness, Please state your name for the record," Edgeworth said.

"Um… I-I'm… muh muh my nuh name is Shh… Shady Rector," Rector said.

"Weren't you just here?" the Judge said.

"Your Honor," Edgeworth said, "Mister Rector was recently convicted in an unrelated case."

"Oh," the Judge said, "Go ahead then."

"Mister Rector could you testify to the court about the nature of your web service 'Reformed and Reborn dot com'?"

"Um… Y-yes," Rector began, "Reformed and Reborn is a de de dating site that that kuh-caters tuh-to kuh-convicts tha-that have been released from prison. Life is very hard for people th-that ha-have been in-incarcerated. Th-this site offers them th-the chuh-chance to be-begin anew, by helping th-them find love. Luh-love kuh-can change lives for th-the better. All-although the suh-site is for ree-reformed convicts, nuh-no details about our kli-clientsss criminal past is ree-revealed."

"Oh," the Judge said, "That's very optimistic, isn't it?"

"We-we're a veh-very glass half-half f-f-f-f-f-full kind of company, sir," Rector said.

"Shield? Do you wish to crass examine the witness?" the Judge said.

"Of course!" the Defense Attorney said. Edgeworth eyed her unperturbed; so her name was Shield.

"Mr. Rector, you said your web service caters to reformed convicts, correct?"

"Y-yes ma'am," Rector said.

"You also stated that no details about their criminal past is revealed," Shield slapped the table top, "How do you know that all of your clients are convicts then?"

"Objection! Irrelevant!" Edgeworth said.

"Yeah, how is that relevant to this case?" the Judge said.

"I believe it is," Shield said.

"How?" Edgeworth said.

"Yes, how?" said the Judge.

"If the convictions are kept secret, then how can the site be sure that all of its clients are convicts?" Shield shook her pixie haircut. Edgeworth eyed her with unconcealed ennui.

"I think the defense is confused," Edgeworth said, "We are seeking to establish a link between the defendant and the victims in this case. Whether this web service actually catered only to convicts or not is irrelevant."

The judge slammed his gavel, "Sustained. Witness testify to the court about how you know the defendant."

Shield glared at Edgeworth and he met her eye with a bland look.

"Y-yes Your Honor," Rector said, "Kuh-kurt worked at the kuh-company. He he was wuh-one of the puh-pro programmers fuh-fffuh on the website. He duh-didn't have a kuh-criminal reh-record. Wuh-we hired him because of his expertise."

"He was an outside hire, correct?" Edgeworth prompted, "Not one of your circle of friends?"

"Y-yes sir," Rector said, "Muh-most of us that stuh-stuh-started the company met in puh-prison. Buh-but we didn't have all the toolsss we needed to ree-really start an online suh-ssss-service. Ssso So we had to hire out ex-expertsss."

"Thank you Mr. Rector," Edgeworth said.

The judge again allowed the defense to cross-examine. Miles watched her with a quiet calm, cleverly hiding his shock at having to deal with a defense that bluffed and blundered it's way through the trial. He couldn't remember ever dealing with a defense like this—well except for Fey's trial maybe. Phoenix on his second case was a lot like this Shield woman—except his client was actually innocent. Miles' case against Sheinheilig was airtight.

He let her stall for a few more minutes.

"Objection, Your Honor," Edgeworth said, "She's badgering my witness."

"Sustained," the Judge said—obviously bored with her pointless nitpicking.

Miles asked Rector to testify again, this time on Sheinheilig's work habits. Shield was starting to look frazzled in the defense's corner. He rolled his shoulders a little while Rector stuttered through the next block of testimony. Miles let Shield cross-examine again—maybe he was hoping for a fight. The kind of fight Phoenix Wright would've put up.

Miles watched her become more flustered as she pressed and prodded the witness and poor Rector patiently stumbled through the answers to her questions. Miles caught the Judge cringing a few times through the cross-examination. Miles thought he'd coached him well—compared to this morning, Rector hardly stuttered at all.

Miles called in an expert witness next—after Shield had run out of steam and finally conceded that she'd had no further questions. The man was a psychologist who consulted for Federal Investigators and Gant had been very happy when Miles informed him of the doctor's involvement. Miles had twelve autopsy reports in front of him, twelve victims that he was able to tie to this case.

"Please state your name and occupation for the record," Edgeworth said.

"My name is Frank Steinberg," the doctor said, "I'm a Criminal Psychologist Specializing in Serial Murder Cases."

"Doctor Steinberg," Edgeworth said, "Tell us a little about your background."

Miles looked over to see Shield squirming at the defense table. Dr. Steinberg had been studying serial murderers for years. As the doctor listed credential after credential and the agencies and police departments he'd consulted for, Miles thought he could see her shrinking. Why had he been nervous before?

"Thank you Doctor Steinberg," Edgeworth said, "We've confirmed twelve victims in this case—you've reviewed the autopsy reports and profiles on each victim, correct?"

"Yes," Doctor Steinberg said.

"Your Honor," Edgeworth said, "The Prosecution wishes to enter these documents into evidence."

"OBJECTION!"

"What is it Ms. Shield?" The judge said.

"The defense has not been made aware of this evidence."

Edgeworth allowed himself a smug little smile, "Your Honor, the Prosecution also wishes to enter this hand receipt into evidence—denoting the date and time when said documents were received by the Defense from the Criminal Affairs Department."

The judge tapped his gavel with a sigh, "Overruled. Thank you Mister Edgeworth."

"Doctor Steinberg, based on these documents, what can you tell us about the murderer in this case?"

Doctor Steinberg's testimony was thorough and damning. Miles had this in the bag. He hadn't had a trial like this in a long while—a very long while. Simple, open and shut. The long testimony took them well past noon and the judge recessed for lunch. Miles met the Doctor in the Witness lounge.

"Doctor Steinberg," Miles greeted him.

The Doctor smiled at him, "Mister Edgeworth, I was disappointed that I missed you this morning."

"Sorry Doctor," Edgeworth said, "I was tied up."

"So I presumed," Doctor Steinberg said, "No matter. What do I have to expect from this other lawyer?"

Miles gave him a pained smile, "She's going to try to drag this out. She'll going to attack every point in your testimony and attempt to obfuscate the truth. I have a feeling she's going to try and tell us her client is insane."

"Now, we talked about this, son," Doctor Steinberg said, "This is not the work of a crazy person. Deranged, yes. Sociopathic, yes. But not crazy. Someone with a mental deficiency is incapable of killing like that."

"Good," Miles said, "That's what the judge needs to hear."

Doctor Steinberg nodded.

"Her ultimate goal will be to discredit you," Miles said, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, "So I have to ask one last time, is there anything you've done—or were involved in—or anyone you know that may impede your ability to—"

Miles bore into the man with his eyes, searching for the slightest wavering.

"My dear boy," the Doctor said shaking his head as if Miles had just told him the sky was green, "We've discussed this before. I assure you—there are no skeletons in my closet. I'm not that kind of doctor."

Miles smiled slightly at the man's joke, "All right. Did you want something to eat? They're bringing lunch."

"Yes that would be very good," the Doctor said.

Miles walked out of the witness lounge, feeling like nothing could stop this train—not this time.

"Miles," she said when she poked her head in, "You have a visitor."

Miles jumped up from his desk and left the classroom. The principal was there and so was that man. Miles eyed the two of them with trepidation.

"Miles Edgeworth?" that man said, "How have you been?"

Miles just stared mutely at him—why was that man here?

"You can come to my office," the principal said. Miles frowned; he'd never had to go to the principal's office before. Larry had to go all the time—and it never seemed like a good thing.

Miles fell in beside that man as the principal led them along the empty corridor. Miles didn't like his new school. But it was near the orphanage—that's where he was staying now. He'd only lived there a few days, it wasn't bad, really, but Miles didn't understand why he couldn't just stay at his Dad's house. Or with one of his friends.

That man put a hand on Miles' shoulder, and Miles looked up at him—eyes wide.

"Don't you remember me, Miles Edgeworth?" Miles didn't like how that man kept saying his full name over and over again.

"No, sir," Miles answered.

"My name is Manfred Von Karma," that man said.

"Oh," Miles said—he remembered. Von Karma was the prosecutor in Dad's last case—the one he lost before he died.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Miles Edgeworth," Von Karma said, his voice grated sickeningly with the sentiment. Miles couldn't believe him if he wanted to.

The principal left them alone in his office, but he left the door open—explaining to Von Karma something about safety of the children. Von Karma was simpering toward the man—assuring him that he only had Miles' best interests in mind.

"I would've come sooner, but I had an emergency abroad," Von Karma said.

Miles blinked at him—not having expected to see that man at all.

"Why are you here?" Miles said.

"To rescue you," Von Karma said.

"It's so terrible what you're going through," Von Karma said, "Orphaned at so vulnerable an age. Having to live in a dump and go to a school like this."

"It's fine," Miles said.

"Oh, I know, you're a brave fellow," Von Karma said, "You've been taking it all in stride, haven't you?"

"I guess," Miles said.

"But you deserve better than this, don't you think?"

"Um…" Miles said, "I'm okay here, but I liked my old school better."

Von Karma shook his head, "Miles Edgeworth, do you know what happened yesterday?"

Von Karma waited for Miles to answer and Miles stared blankly at him—he had no idea what the man was driving at.

"Your father's killer went free," Von Karma grinned when he said it and Miles swore the room darkened just a little.

"What?" Miles said.

"He had a good defense attorney," Von Karma leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "They called in a spirit medium and she lied. Said Yanni Yogi shot your father, but we know he didn't, don't we? The police have nothing else to go on—somewhere, there's a killer running around with your father's blood on his hands. Such a terrible thing."

Miles stared at Von Karma—did he know something?

"What's going to happen now?" Miles said.

"Who can say?" Von Karma said, "What will become of a world like this where innocent people—good people, like your father—can be killed left and right with no regard for their lives? No justice? What kind of world is this?"

Miles hugged himself, but he couldn't turn his head away from that icy stare.

Miles pulled his car up in front of the arrivals exit at the International Airport. He parked and took the key out of the ignition. She was nowhere in sight. Miles got out of the car and stood leaning against the door. He checked the time again—had he missed her?

Miles took out his phone and thumbed the screen to find the number in his contacts and hit the send button.

"Miles!" It sounded like Franziska, but not. She was giggling.

"Franziska, is that you?"

"This is my phone, Little Brother, who else would it be?"

"I'm outside," he said, "Where are you?"

"I'm still at the baggage claim," she said, "Come get me!"

Miles groaned, and nodded—then realized he was on the phone, "Which baggage claim?"

"4B," she said.

He hung up and walked up to the nearest attendant, "She's at the baggage claim, I'll be right back."

"Sir, you can't park—"

"I'll be right back," Miles said and slipped him a fifty, "I'll give you another if everything's in order when I get back."

The attendant grinned, "You can count on me, sir."

Miles walked through the door; this part of the terminal was nearly deserted at this time of day—especially on a weekday. He moved gracefully toward the baggage claim, cutting a path opposite of the human traffic moving toward the door. His phone rang as he walked.

"Edgeworth," he said, bringing it to his ear.

"Why'd you hang up?"

"I'm coming toward you now," Miles said, "I didn't see the need to be on the phone."

"But what if you missed me?"

"It's not that busy right now."

"Fine," Franziska hung up on him. She probably just wanted to be the one to hang up. The thought almost made him chuckle.

He paused when he entered the bustle of the baggage claim. He looked at 4B—the belt was off and deserted—she'd given him the wrong number. Miles started walking along the separate conveyers looking for the one displaying her flight number. He saw her standing with a tiny carry-on at the edge of the crowd in front of 2C and playing with her phone.

Miles frowned and walked up behind her. He tapped her on the shoulder and she nearly fell over, but he put out an arm to steady her.

"Miles!" Franziska grinned and threw her arms around his neck.

"Are you dru—?!"

"Miles, I was going to call you, because I'm at 2C not 3A," she said.

"How many times do I have to tell you, you cannot drink in this—"

"Stop," she swung her arm at him and Miles noticed that she had a new riding crop, "I'm not a little girl."

"You're still a minor," He said and took her hand to lead her toward the exit.

"Wait," She tried to pull her arm out of his grip, "My luggage!"

Miles looked down at the wheeled carry-on she had by the handle, "Isn't that your luggage—"

"Miss, I have your bags!" the attendant was a tiny man pushing an airport buggy loaded with bulging designer luggage.

"Oh thank you!" Franziska tipped the man, "Miles, do you mind?"

Miles frowned at the luggage, "You're not moving in are you?"

"Stop complaining," Franziska said.

Miles took the cart from the little attendant and started pushing it with an expression of foreboding.

"You always over pack," Miles said, "I thought you'd be in for the weekend…"

"No, I'll stay for the month," she said, "You need my help anyway.""

"I need what?" Miles said raising an eyebrow.

"Trust me, you do," Franziska said.

"How was your flight?" Miles said.

"Long," Franziska said, "But the champagne was very good."

Miles shook his head, "One of these days, you'll learn the hard way."

"Like you did?" Franziska said and she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

Miles' impassive face cracked into a small smile, "Ancient history."

"Have you been to see my Papa?" Franziska said.

"No," Miles said, "But his case will be at the High Court soon. I hope they put him away for good."

Franziska smacked him on the cheek with her riding crop, "Don't say that."

"How about we don't talk about it?" Miles said glaring now, Franziska glared back. She had her father's glare. Miles focused on the bags in front of his face—not wanting to let her see his trepidation.

Franziska was pouting slightly and she fell behind as he led her toward the door. Miles stopped the cart and looked back at her, she was messing with her phone again. Miles made a face; teenagers…

"Franziska, you can play with that in the car, let's go," he said.

"Stop it," she said and swung her riding crop in his direction, "I'm not a little girl."

They exited the airport and the attendant grinned at him and motioned toward the unmolested car.

"You still drive that stupid little car?" She said derisively. Miles shot her a look as he paid the attendant.

"Can you get me a taxi?" Miles asked him, and then eyed the cart full of luggage apprehensively, "One of the mini van ones?"

Miles unlocked the car with the fob and led her around to the passenger's side and opened the door.

"Could you take of your shoes, please?" He said when she sat, but before she had brought her legs in. Franziska glared at him again and she made a few noises to show her annoyance, but she complied—having lost this argument before—and handed over her shoes.

"You're so OCD," she muttered as he tapped her shoes together to shake off whatever imaginary dirt he was afraid of and handed them back to her.

"I got a cab for your bags," he said, ignoring her earlier comment, "they'll be a few minutes behind us."

He closed her door and went to settle with the cab driver before climbing into the driver's seat. Franziska was poking at her phone when he started the car and pulled out of the terminal loading and unloading zone.

"Miles," Franziska said, "What's going to happen to me now?"

He glanced at her, shocked at how vulnerable she suddenly seemed. She was only a girl—barely seventeen—and her father had just been convicted for murder. Miles didn't speak right away, but focused instead on the red light keeping them in airport traffic.

Franziska hugged herself and leaned against her window, and that almost broke his heart—almost.

"You've done very well on your own, love," Miles said—hoping he sounded sympathetic enough.

"But," Franziska said, "I wasn't really alone. Papa was always there—in the periphery anyway. Now it's just me… Alone in the world."

"I'm here," Miles said, "and Heidi. If you needed someone in Germany, Heidi wouldn't turn you away."

"I don't want anything from Heidi," she said venomously, "and you're all the way over here."

"How hard was it for you to get out here?"

Franziska pulled her knees up and put her feet on the seat, Miles couldn't help checking to make sure they were still unshod.

"Miles, what was it like for you when you lost your father?" She asked.

Miles glanced at her and felt his hands tighten on the wheel involuntarily. When he looked out of the windshield his vision blurred.

"Miles?"

The car behind him honked and Miles stumbled out of his reverie. The light was green and judging by the impatience of the drivers stuck behind him, it had been green for a while. He jerked the car into gear and sped off.

"Miles, I asked you a—"

"I heard you," he said—maybe more forcefully than he'd intended, "I don't want to talk about it."

Franziska's brow furrowed, eerily similar to the way Manfred Von Karma's brow furrowed. Miles couldn't make himself look at her after that.

"It's not the same thing and you know it," Miles said after he'd calmed a bit.

He turned onto the ramp and shifted into third and then fourth as he brought the car up to speed. Franziska was staring at her phone in her hands; her platinum locks fell over her face. She jerked involuntarily each time he changed lanes, all the while increasing his speed.

"Miles," she said after a while, "You're going faster than ninety… this isn't the Autobahn…"

His eyes flicked to the gage and he pulled his foot off the gas for a moment, enough to bring the car down to an acceptable speed.

"I'm just trying to understand…" she said; her voice barely audible in the speeding car.

A/N: Thanks for Reading!

Miles is Miles in this story—but he's Edgeworth in court!

Dr. Steinberg—because "Frank N. Stein" was just too obvious…

Franziska! (I figured she was still 17 at this point); I like the idea that Franziska's whip gets more dangerous as she gets older—hence the riding crop.

Yeah, Miles' driver's side is on the right. He's one of 'those' car guys—wonder how he feels when they throw a dead body in his trunk…?

UPDATED 5JUL2015 – A few minor changes. I don't know if anyone noticed, but Miles had to spend some time in an orphanage. Remember, after Von Karma shot Greg he left the country to recuperate from his own gunshot wound. Yeah, I'm a total nerd for Ace Attorney.