Chapter 42
Außenseiter
Miles looked at the young man staring out at him from the mirror and frowned. The young man frowned back—as these things were expected to go. His face was at once familiar and strange. It was not so round anymore, and his jaw was starting to show sharp and square—just like his father's. There was a reason he hated that face.
He flipped his eyes instead to the bunch of cloth at his neck. A jabot, in the style of the German Supreme Court. The cloth was silk, white, and with frail filigree of lace at the edges.
Miles Edgeworth had been practicing the knot for nearly an hour, and still, he couldn't seem to get it right. He was fifteen.
Who in their right mind expects a young man of fifteen to go around tying lacey ribbons? He started to undo the cloth again. His mouth moved in frustration, but he dared not meet those eyes again. He dared not stare at that face.
"You're utterly useless, Miles Edgeworth," Mister Von Karma told him several minutes later in the corridor of the hotel while he undid Miles' jabot and retied it properly.
"There, if you slip it off like this, you needn't bother with the knot again," Mister Von Karma sniffed, "Since the concept has proven too difficult for you."
"Thank you, sir," Miles said. He really was grateful for the help.
The harsh words and condescension he'd learned to ignore years ago. They meant nothing.
He followed the old man into the street where they took a taxi to the courthouse. They were in London, in winter, and the day was damp and cold. It hadn't snowed for several days, but what remained of the previous snow still filled the gutters and the edge of the street in icy chunks of gray slush.
Mister Von Karma only had a passing interest in international law; it was Mister Armano that always pushed him to take on international cases. Smuggling and White Slavery—the lofty cases that affected millions and not just a few isolated families. To each his own.
Miles stayed behind Mister Von Karma, with his books under his arm, usually whatever law book or treatise he was reading through and the other a leather-bound organizer where he took his notes.
Mister Von Karma carried nothing; it was as if he didn't want to be there. Miles began to wonder if this study in international law and this visit to an English court were as much for Mister Von Karma's study as it was for his own. He shook those thoughts from his head.
He shouldn't think lesser thoughts of the great, the legendary Manfred Von Karma.
February 9, 3:27 P.M.
District Court
Courtroom No. 1
Miles gritted his teeth and glared at the defense table. This wasn't a new tactic—discrediting evidence like this. But there was definitely a reason defense attorneys all over the place liked to use it.
Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye was a warm silent presence beside him. He'd been having second thoughts about her since Las Vegas, but he certainly recognized the woman he'd respected and looked up to in the courtroom today.
"None of this evidence is admissible," Kristoph Gavin remarked, with a subtle smile in Edgeworth's direction, "Your Honor, you and I both know that we don't have several months to argue about it when we both know it already. The last thing anyone wants to see is another innocent man—"
"OBJECTION!" Edgeworth slammed the table with both palms. Lana Skye jumped beside him. He raised a hand and pointed at Gavin.
"You haven't proven he is innocent!"
"You haven't shown me evidence that proves he's not!"
"There is nothing wrong with the evidence! Yes, some of the crime scenes were older than others—but what we had collected was held in a way to protect the integrity of said evidence! Your Honor," Edgeworth said desperate now, "The Defense is doing nothing more than obfuscating the matter at hand. There is no problem with the evidence! We've already had numerous experts testify to that—"
Gavin held up his hand. Edgeworth glared at him.
"Your Honor," Gavin said silkily, "Do you know who Manfred Von Karma was?"
"I do," the Judge said.
"OBJECTION!" Edgeworth was ready to climb over the table, "Irrelevant! Your client is on trial here, NOT the prosecution!"
The judge banged his gavel. The courtroom was awash in mutterings and conversations. "Order!"
"Edgeworth, we all know better than to take your word—"
"Shut up Gavin! I—" Lana grabbed him by his elbow.
"Mister Edgeworth," she said pointedly, "Calm down, now!"
"But he—!"
"He's trying to upset you, Miles."
"Yes, but—!"
"Just calm down!"
Miles crossed his arms but stood back from the table. Lana had a hand on his back. She was rubbing little circles into his back—he should've been appalled—but right now, it seemed to help. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.
"Order!" the Judge said, "Order in the court! We will take a thirty-minute recess. During which time, I want to see the Defense Counsel and the Prosecution in my chambers."
He slammed the gavel one final time. It was like hearing a door slam. Or being suddenly splashed with water.
Miles frowned as he watched the old man leave the bench in a flurry of robes. He felt Chief Skye's hand on his arm. Absently, Miles began gathering his papers and his notes. He only looked up when the defense brushed past their table.
Gavin gave him a smirk. The lenses of his glasses flashed ominously and the glare obscured his eyes. Miles ignored him, hoping that no one would notice his anger or his mood. This trial had become a very personal one—and not in a good way.
Was this the way Mister Von Karma was feeling during the Hammond trial?
He held the door for Chief Prosecutor Skye and then followed her into the crowded room. There was a stiff heavy silence in the air. Miles thought he sensed some minor altercation—perhaps the defense had tried something with the judge.
"Ah, Edgeworth," the judge greeted still spinning his gavel in his hand, "Prosecutor Skye—a pleasure to have you."
"Of course, Your Honor," she said and nodded politely.
The Judge cleared his throat, "Now, since we finally have everyone present, Mister Baffi, what is your problem with the forensic evidence provided in this case?"
"Uh… well, you see, Your Honor…" Mister Baffi stumbled over his words. Miles glanced for a moment at Gavin. The young man was scowling—however subtly—and Miles wondered if he was using the bumbling defense attorney to get into court. After all, Mister Baffi's reputation wasn't exactly shining, and he could hardly be considered a proper stand-in for Brooke Shield.
"So, Your Honor," Mister Baffi started again, "My client is being convicted on multiple counts of murder just because these trace amounts of genetic material bears some similarity to his own."
"It's his DNA!" Miles interjected—he was tired of their games, "Three independent laboratories—including the one you hired—agree to that fact."
"But the similarities between siblings is close enough that—"
"Not in this case!" Miles said.
"Edgeworth," the Judge said, "Let Mister Baffi finish."
"I'm sorry your honor," Miles said.
"I don't believe the evidence is fair, Your Honor," Mister Baffi said.
The judge blinked at him. Chief Skye frowned. Edgeworth covered his face with his hand. Gavin only smirked.
"So…" The Judge said, "Why do you think it's unfair."
"Because it makes my client look guilty," Mister Baffi said.
Edgeworth glared pointedly at Gavin and the other man gave a small shrug.
"Because it isn't conclusive," Mister Baffi said.
Edgeworth gave a derisive snort and crossed his arms.
"Well, based on that evidence the killer could have been either Albert or Kurt Sheinheilig—"
"But Kurt also has ties to the victims and motive—need we repeat the whole of the trial in your chambers, Your Honor?"
"No, Edgeworth," the Judge said, "But Mister Baffi, as a defense attorney, I understand that you might feel badly when the evidence is stacked against your client, but unless you have a valid reason to contest the use of this evidence—well then, I'm sorry. Tough luck."
"Now, Mister Edgeworth," the Judge said.
"Yes, Your Honor?" Edgeworth said.
"Did you have anything else to add to your case?"
"I did not, Your Honor," Edgeworth said.
"Then, I'll thank you all to leave my chamber, while I deliberate on my own. This trial has gone on long enough—"
"Your Honor," Gavin spoke up with forced timidity, "There is one glaring discrepancy I must point out with regard to the evidence in question."
Edgeworth glared hard at Gavin; he could feel the tension in the room rise as he spoke.
"What is that, Gabby?"
Not even the judge's grating mispronunciation of Gavin's name could ease that tension.
"Well, all of the evidence in question was propounded by none-other than Mister Edgeworth. The protégé of the Legendary Manfred Von Karma."
"I'm sorry," the Judge said, "Who again?"
"I'm not on trial here!" Edgeworth said.
"HOLD IT!" Chief Skye interjected, "This isn't a trial about procedures. I assure you, all of Mister Edgeworth's work has been documented and verified—meticulously. If you would like any of the documents related to the gathering and processing of the evidence used in this trial, the Prosecution will be only too happy to oblige, Your Honor."
"Of course," Gavin started, "the DA is sure to back up their biggest star—and probably the District Police Chief as we—"
"Look here, you little twerp! When you finally get through all of your classes and graduate from whatever hippie cesspool you've been studying law at and maybe you know—pass the Bar exam, then you can come around here and tell the professionals how to do things. Take your rumors and your theories and go back to study hall."
All eyes fell on Lana Skye. No one seemed to expect she had it in her—but then, the Judge hardly seemed to remember what he had for breakfast, and Miles was the only one who'd had the pleasure of working with 'the Legendary Duo'.
The first time he'd witnessed it, he was nine years old. So he told his father. Then his father was murdered.
The second time, Miles Edgeworth was seventeen. He was finishing his exams, and every moment of spare time was spent in court, usually he sat among the audience. Watching Mister Von Karma the way the rest of the world saw him. Intimidating; monstrous; larger than life.
He remembered following him into the empty courtroom. Mister Von Karma had a leather attaché, worn form years of use. It was saddle smooth and originally a tawny color but was now a darker patina that left a mottled pattern over those areas of the case that saw the most use.
Miles wondered if his dad had carried a briefcase. If there was anything significant about it that he should've remembered. But all he could remember was Mister Von Karma's case.
Mister Von Karma pulled all of his paperwork casually from that bag before the trial. As he pulled out the papers a plastic bag slid out along with them. It fell and Miles had been the one to pick it up for his mentor.
He never forgot that bag.
There'd been a bullet inside it. Miles couldn't recall anything about the case, but the murder weapon and the bullet figured prominently in the outcome.
He hadn't known there was anything amiss. So Miles never told anyone. Mister Von Karma was the perfect prosecutor—he would never break the rules.
When the rumors started circulating a coupe years later, Miles knew who to trust. Mister Von Karma told him so. Why would Mister Von Karma ever lie to him?
He remembered SL-9.
After SL-9 things started to crack.
He slouched in the row of chairs set furthest back from the television and against the back wall of the small waiting room. The smattering of comically outdated newspapers and magazines on the small table beside him only managed to hold his interest for about a minute or two.
His mind was too tired for reading. Thoughts rushed and zoomed incoherent and dizzy behind his eyes. He pulled out his phone again and checked—no call back.
Miles slouched in his chair; he was too exhausted for sleep.
He'd managed to rush back to his flat for a shower and a change of clothes—the only thing worse than wearing the same suit for two days in a row, was wearing it for three—and had donned the charcoal suit he'd worn to the funeral. The white shirt underneath was crisp and clean and almost too bright against the dark gray. He'd decided to forgo a tie—mostly because he didn't want to bother with tying one and he was certainly not going to wear the same dark tie he'd worn to the funeral.
Despite his rush—or maybe because of it, Miles had arrived early. None of the cousins were here yet. Franziska and Heidi were already in conference with the lawyers and the executor, and based on the sharp tones that rang through the door, Diana had weaseled her way into the conference room as well.
Miles wouldn't have come at all if he didn't have to—but apparently, he featured very prominently in Mister Von Karma's will.
So he made himself comfortable, slouched in sleek sixty's retro waiting room chairs, his right ankle resting on his left knee. His hair was still wet from the shower and he hadn't bothered with extraneous things like socks for his shiny black slip on loafers.
Miles sighed heavily and stared at the television—he hadn't turned it on—and he waited. He ran through the trial in his head, seeing all the parts where he might've said something different, and wishing he could go back and correct his mistakes—but life was like that.
He ran a hand over his face, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose, hoping it might ease the headache he could feel building behind his eyes. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten—he was so hungry it hurt—and he cursed himself for getting wrapped up in things like he did. This was probably not very healthy.
Mister Von Karma would've lectured him about it—and still make him wait until the proper dinnertime. Miles smiled behind his hand. He really was kind of a useless person.
Miles looked up when he heard someone bustle into the waiting room. It was Hans—Diana's nephew. He had no relation to the Von Karma's what so ever, and yet he swaggered his way into everything dealing with the death of Manfred Von Karma and the distribution of his assets.
Miles didn't mind as much as Heidi or Franziska seemed to. No, the only thing that bothered him about Hans was the fact that everyone seemed to confuse him for the other man. Even Hans seemed pleased with the mix-up and in the few days since he'd arrived, more than once he happily referred to Miles as his doppelganger. It was enough to make Miles sick.
Sure, they were nearly the same age—Hans was twenty-six, and Miles would celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday soon enough—they both were of like height and had dark hair. Miles supposed they might have similar faces—they both had two eyes and one nose… But Hans was rather portly—well let's not mince words, here—the man was obese. If Miles had to guess, he'd say Hans might weigh twice what he did—if Miles was soaking wet and wearing body armor—but for the life of him, Miles could not bring himself to point out this minor difference in their physical appearance. It just seemed—well, mean and rather vulgar. And he had much more important things to worry about than being mistook for the fat cousin of his adoptive sister.
Hans waddled toward him smiling. Despite his tailored suit—which Miles thought a pointless waste of very good material—he had a sloppy look to him. The suit had obviously been designed to cover up a few unsightly bulges and smooth out his silhouette but only served to add more bulk to his already bulky body.
Hans dropped himself heavily beside Miles, heaving and wheezing from the strenuous walk from the elevators maybe thirty feet away. He sat and panted for more than a minute before he was steady enough to talk. He leaned over toward Miles and grinned. His round face was jowly and his chins ran into his neck so that it seemed like he had a costume suit attached to his jaw. Miles was trying very hard not to shrink away from him—he didn't want to seem discourteous.
"Niemand wird in der Lage sein, uns zu sagen auseinander," Hans said and laughed, motioning at Miles' dark suit—he usually wore magenta.
Miles forced a smile and nodded.
"Hast du gewonnen, noch?"
"Ich weiß nicht," Miles said and held up his phone, "warte Ich noch."
"Hmm…" Hans nodded and turned to look at the television and then made as if he was going to get up and turn it on. Miles launched himself out of the chair immediately.
"Let me," he said and went to the television and turned it on.
Miles remained standing, pacing the front of the room with his arms crossed—his phone still clutched in one hand. The voices from the television filled in the background buzzing incongruously against his thoughts.
Miles decided to go to the vending machines for a snack—no sense in prolonging any physical suffering—especially since he would soon be locked in a room full of angry Germans bickering over the remaining scraps of the Von Karma fortune.
He stared at the options in the machine and found that in spite of his hunger he was still reluctant to eat junk food. He stared at the blinking lights and the bright attractive packaging and chewed his lip. His brow was furrowed in frustration and he slid his two dollars absently through his fingers.
*CRACK!
A giggle.
He froze. His shoulders were hunched and his head down, anticipating an attack.
Instead Franziska wrapped her thin arms around his waist from behind and rested her head against his back.
"Don't," he said and made an earnest attempt to pull away from her, "That isn't—"
"Don't talk, Little Brother," she said into the jacket of his suit.
He straightened up and put his hands over hers; resting them there for a moment or two before prying them apart and turning so that they stood face to face.
"Where were you yesterday?" she said. Her voice was flat, betraying neither curiosity nor concern.
"I stayed at the office," he said.
She only nodded and looked at the couple of dollars he still held in his hand.
"You came to buy snacks?"
Miles turned back to the machine and coaxed it into taking his money, "I'm hungry."
He selected a plain bag of plain baked potato chips.
"You'll get fat like Hans," she said.
Miles leaned forward to take his chips and his change, "Oh, no one can tell us apart as it is."
"I was only teasing," she said, "Did you win?"
Miles paused to open his chips and shook his head as he did, "I'm still waiting for them to call."
Franziska slid her arm into the crook of his elbow and flicked her whip at the empty doorway to the small nook where the vending machines were kept off of the main corridor.
*CRACK!
"That's unnecessary," Miles said.
He pulled a chip out of the little bag and then she grabbed the bag out of his hand. He sighed a little in disappointment.
She kept her arm in his as they made their way back toward the waiting room.
"Why are you so sad Miles Edgeworth?"
"I'm not sad," he said, "Disappointed I think, but who am I to judge?"
Franziska looked up at him solemnly.
"You're not like him…"
A/N: Thanks for Reading! (This is the part where I normally beg for reviews…)
But I can take a hint… If you review, I will love it and cherish it (good or bad)…
Today, Turnabout Honeymoon is ONE YEAR OLD!
(Wish TH happy birfday)
(One year later… and I'm still not done… gah… *FACEPALM!)
UPDATED 12JUL2015 – Minor edits. This story is almost 3 years old now... Sheesh...