POV: Edgeworth

"Did you hear?" says Officer Meekins, "Mr. Wright's just been involved in a murder. The trial's set for tomorrow." Miles Edgeworth, Chief Prosecutor, would probably cop to pricking his ears up at that if called on it. It is literally his job to keep an eye out for trouble in his courthouse, and trouble and Phoenix Wright go hand in hand.

"As the accused or the defense?" he breaks in, because that's a strange way to put it, but Phoenix cannot possibly be the victim, because he is not allowed. Edgeworth and Trucy both specifically forbid it years ago.

Meekins jumps three feet in the air and manages to pull a mid-leap about-face. "Oh! Chief Prosecutor! I was just bringing you the police report."

"Answer the question, Mr. Meekins," he says.

"Well, you're not going to believe it, but neither," says the officer and before Edgeworth can work up a good panic spiral, continues. "He's a witness this time. I think it's a first." His superior manages to contain his massive sigh of relief.

"You may be right," says Edgeworth. "I should probably go find him and make sure he's prepared for the trial, given his track record. Tomorrow you say?" Meekins nods, and hands him the file. As Edgeworth walks quickly away he can hear the smaller man turn back to his compatriot.

"That's our Prosecutor Edgeworth," says the Officer, "always going above and beyond to keep this place running smoothly." Edgeworth snorts. I certainly try, I suppose, he thinks. It's just that I don't often get anywhere with said goal.

The proper interrogation room is quickly found, once Edgeworth has hopped into his car and taken a possibly faster than technically legal ride over. He bursts in, not at all dramatically, and is met by a startling sight. "Good lord, Wright," he says, totally calmly, no, really, "what on Earth happened?" The man's blue suit is dyed almost entirely brown with dried blood, it must be several gallons at least. Phoenix is smiling up at him, because of course he is.

That Wright appears in good humor means nothing, unfortunately. Even aside from the ridiculous smile-forcing coping mechanism the other man uses to get through trials, he always seems to have a grin to spare for Edgeworth whenever he meets him.

"Hey Edgeworth," says the man, absolutely reeking of iron, practically every inch of him below his collar coated in gore. "What's up?"

"What's up-?" parrots Edgeworth with exasperation. "You're a complete mess, Wright, that's my line!"

"Hey, it's not that bad," said Wright, and Edgeworth is considering nominating him for murder victim himself, now. The condition of that suit is a travesty. "None of it's mine, we're just waiting for the photographer to get back so he they can document the spatter pattern before I get cleaned up. Wouldn't want to lose evidence."

"Yessir," says the Detective, an older contemporary of Gumshoe that Edgeworth doesn't work with much. "We ran out of film, just waiting for my assistant to grab more."

"Out of film?" asks Edgeworth, "What is this, the 90s? Use a smartphone, for heaven's sake." Detective Koverman (yes, that's his name remembers Edgeworth) ducks a little, clearly embarrassed, and fails to produce the requested object. Wright widens his grin sheepishly, scratching behind his head with one hand. That man always seems to be twenty years behind technologically. The pixels on his phone camera, if he has one, are probably visible to the naked eye.

As Detective (possibly soon to be Ex-Detective if his methods are all this outdated) Koverman goes to retrieve a working digital camera, Edgeworth sits down in the chair the man just vacated. "You're truly alright?" he asks, softer by far than he would have been in years past. Wright has the unmitigated gall to roll his eyes, but he's still smiling fondly.

"I'm fine, Edgeworth," says the no-longer-blue-clad Lawyer. "Don't be a worrywart." Edgeworth sniffs disdainfully. Wright would insist he was fine if he was bleeding out.

"You've been checked over by a medic?" he presses.

"No need," says Wright. Oh, of course not, thinks Edgeworth you're only completely covered in blood. "Like I said, none of it's mine. I was only standing in the wrong place at the Wright time." Edgeworth catches the pun before he can take the bait and correct the other man, not giving him the satisfaction. Wright pouts ever so slightly, clearly put out. If he's feeling well enough to make tasteless jokes, surely he's alright, thinks Edgeworth, but he stops himself. Wright is one of the best actors he knows, when he really tries.

Even if he isn't injured physically, as far as he knows Phoenix has never actually witnessed a killing before. He's certainly seen his share of aftermath, of course, but twenty years of prosecuting have taught Edgeworth that they are not the same. He's seen several investigators over the years, who had no problem with grisly crime scenes, break down after seeing an actual incident. Let alone being involved to the point of being drenched in gore.

"I mean, yeah," Wright says, clearly yielding to Edgeworth's flawless interrogation technique, "it wasn't great watching that fight, and getting covered in pig's blood is a waste of a good suit, but I'll be okay." Pig's blood? Thinks Edgeworth, and then mentally revises his estimate of the ridiculousness of whatever Wright's gotten himself into upwards, and the potential for trauma and tragedy downwards.

The prosecutor pulls out the file Meekins had given him from the briefcase where he stuffed it, and gives it a quick glance. A scream, a struggle, the sound of a gun firing (not thinking about any of that too closely). Two witnesses, one an investigator who had been facing the wrong way to see any of the action, the other Wright, looking right at it. They had both been behind a chain link fence, fifty or so feet away from the victim. A large vat of industrial butchery waste had been upset as a second shot went wild, leaving both men drenched in red liquid.

Now that Edgeworth looked closely, he could see the faint crisscross pattern near the top of where the blood started on the blue suit that would corroborate the positioning of the witness. Thus confirming that Wright had been facing the crime. Entirely too close to a randomly firing gun, thought Edgeworth unhappily, but I suppose it isn't actually his fault this time. Only that man could invite mortal peril simply by standing around making small talk.

At that point Detective Koverman rushes back into the room with Ema Skye hot on his heels. Edgeworth vacates the seat smoothly as they file in so they have room to get this over with, slipping unobtrusively into a corner. The young woman is wielding a digital camera with great enthusiasm, as well as berating the Detective for not contacting her sooner to collect evidence.

"We had to get his story straight!" protests Koverman.

"I'm not going to change it," says Wright, a flash of iron in his eyes. "I saw what I saw. You've got an innocent woman locked up, and I'll tell that to any jury you put me in front of." His voice is steely, and there is no sign of the carefree joker that only moments ago had been swapping bad puns with a friend.

"Our officer says otherwise, Mr. Wright," says the Detective, a slight snarl in his voice of which Edgeworth does not approve. Koverman is leaning forwards, both hands on the table, doing his best to loom intimidatingly.

"Your officer says wrong, then," replies Phoenix, not sounding the least bit intimidated. He's leaned back in his chair, its feet tilted off the ground, his appearance reminiscent of the indolent poker player he once was. The posture is deceptive; despite the tilt he's straight-spined as a soldier.

"Look, Mr. Hot-Shot-Famous-Lawyer," says Koverman, heatedly, "Our officer-" and Edgeworth decides that will be quite enough.

"Your officer, Detective Koverman," he says, in a voice certain colleagues have assured him will chill the bones of the fiercest men, veritably stealing all their courage clean away. "Will have his chance to tell his side of the story on the witness stand, the same as Mr. Wright." Edgeworth has no idea what is going on here, but he will back Wright up without hesitation regardless. He owes the other man that much and more, and trusts him implicitly besides.

Detective Koverman is rather obliging about it. Which is to say that he shrieks like a small child and loses his balance in a panic, smacking his nose on the table as his arms give out under him. Apparently he had not noticed Edgeworth was still in the room. The now sprawling Detective had his head turned as he walked in, and then focused only on the empty seat. Ema snaps a picture of him mid-pratfall that the Prosecutor privately thinks is probably rather a good shot. Wright manfully stifles a snicker.

"Okay, Mr. Wright," says Ema, while the Detective picks what is left of his dignity off of the ground. "Stand up for a minute and I can get the back side and a few full-body shots. We got the top part, though, that's the important one for the spatter analysis. Sorry you had to stay in a dirty suit for hours but somebody forgot to tell the forensics department where you were."

"Did they?" says Edgeworth, in a tone that would be the envy of any funeral home. "How interesting." There's been only small hints of potential wrongdoing on the part of the police department so far, of course, but a quick internal investigation can almost always turn up something. Half of Edgeworth's reputation for being able to infallibly sniff out irregularities in the legal system is built on him glaring and waiting for people to crack, anyways. Another quarter would be the living lie detectors with which he regularly keeps company, and he'd like to think the rest of it is investigative talent on his part.

There are actual whimpers on the part of the Detective, which bodes ill for the man's career. Although that could be the broken nose, I suppose, thinks Edgeworth. Aloud he says coolly, "you should perhaps see to that, Detective Koverman. It could become a problem." The man runs off, either to get his nose set or his officers in order, Edgeworth doesn't care which.

"Holy crap, Edgeworth," says Wright, grinning like a fool. "Where were you three hours ago?" Edgeworth flinches slightly at the accusation, internally cursing Meekins for slow report writing, and the police for apparently badgering an innocent man for hours on zero grounds. Phoenix reads him immediately, of course. "No, wait," says Wright, "that came out wrong. I meant to say thank you, that was amazing, and I appreciate the save." A part of Edgeworth fairly preens at that, and the Prosecutor tries to smother the reaction before it can make him look foolish. Wright likely knows anyways, the bastard, from the fond look he gives Edgeworth.

"Alright," says Ema, "Finished with the photos. If you two are done with," and she gestures vaguely to the two of them, "all that, Mr. Wright can go get changed and leave me with the suit." Edgeworth is sure he has no idea what she might be referring to. None whatsoever. I do agree about the suit, he thinks, Wright needs to be rid of it immediately.

A quick trip to the station's showers and one bedraggled (but somehow still spiky, odd as Edgeworth always assumed it was hair gel) lawyer is on his way home, wearing LTPD branded sweats and a t-shirt. He's got the shirt inside out, possibly as a form of protest at his treatment, which is ridiculous for several reasons, and also driving Edgeworth to distraction. Which the other lawyer undoubtedly knows. See previous statement re: bastardry.

Edgeworth's bright red sportscar isn't the most unobtrusive ride, but it gets them back to Wright's agency fairly quickly. Trucy gives her father a proper scolding, and thanks Edgeworth for rescuing him, which is a highlight for the day. The Prosecutor invites himself in while the young magician is setting up a welcome home trick, and then she's off to complete her homework in the other room and he can finally corner Wright. He takes a moment to more carefully peruse the case file while Phoenix is making sub-par tea.

Ms. Lovelace is almost certainly innocent, and Edgeworth heaves a sigh at the state of his legal system. The number of false arrests has seen a sharp downturn since he took the reins, but even one is one too many. He can't control the police entirely, but the Prosecutor's office is and has been imposing strict penalties for breaking the updated regulations. They have also been flatly refusing to prosecute poorly constructed cases, or cases without evidence. Once the Los Tokyo PD realized the state would potentially drop all charges rather than take the chance of convicting an innocent person (sharply affecting their conviction rates), procedure adherence increased greatly. He still needs to investigate what went wrong in this case. They have a direct eyewitness giving testimony that completely exonerates the defendant, and no one seems to have given that the slightest bit of consideration to it.

"This could really be my big chance, you know?" says Phoenix, possibly as a follow up to a previous comment that Edgeworth was definitely listening to instead of wondering how one ruins tea when it only has two ingredients.

"What do you mean, Wright?" asks Edgeworth. He's already perhaps the most famous attorney in the city, and never much interested in the publicity besides, the Prosecutor thinks.

"To finally see justice done in the courts, of course," says Wright.

I had rather thought that was generally our purpose, thinks Edgeworth, leaning back a scant inch in his chair and gesturing for his friend to continue.

"Sure, but from the other side of it," says Wright in response to the unvoiced sentiment, slumping down on the couch in front of the coffee table. "I mean, how many trials have been made so much more complicated by terrible witnesses, huh?" That hits home, and Edgeworth winces at the memories. "Exactly!" exclaims Wright in response.

"I, on the other hand, actually know what I'm doing," says Wright, and Edgeworth snorts disparagingly. The very idea.

"Alright, alright," says Phoenix. "No need to be judgey, I know I can be a little laissez-faire with the trial prep sometimes." Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. "Fine, a lot." It occurs to the Prosecutor that he is having a conversation without having to say a word. It is a warming thought. "You still like me, ya big softie." Too warming, apparently, as Wright cannot resist teasing him. "Came to my rescue and everything." The remark is punctuated by a dazzling grin. Edgeworth consciously resists being dazzled. There will be no bedazzlement of any kind, your honor.

"Anyways," says Wright, "I've got a chance to finally see a truthful, accurate testimony on that damn stand, and I'm going to take it. Whoever they get on the defense is going to have the best, most well-behaved witness of their career. It'll be great." That does actually sound like an admirable goal, thinks Edgeworth. If more witnesses went into court with that attitude, trials would probably function more smoothly for everyone. Still, the sentiment is unusual, and testifying in court is hardly fun and games.

"I know what you're thinking," says Wright, holding a napkin up to his neck, and then puts on a truly awful imitation of Edgeworth's voice. "Don't be ridiculous, Wright, taking the stand is no laughing matter." The representation is close to his thoughts, certainly, but Edgeworth does not sound like that. "And I don't sound like that." Edgeworth stares in consternation. Wright has the audacity to chuckle.

"Still," says Phoenix, dropping the impression, "it will be interesting to see the court from another perspective. I've had the first two stands covered...three if you count me helping you out in Europe for the prosecution. I mean, I've been called as a witness before, sure, but those were all times I was actually involved or invested, as opposed to just happening to see something, y'know?" Edgeworth nods. They linger for a few more minutes over the "tea", and Phoenix is a somewhat overly-enthusiastic host, as is his wont. Then the Prosecutor takes his leave with the excuse that he cannot be spared longer from the office, and will need to drive back. Wright gives him a fond and cheery farewell, and says that he'll stop by tomorrow after the trial if he doesn't see Edgeworth before then.

Edgeworth is worried. Not frantically so, but still. Phoenix "bleeding heart" Wright is not, no matter what he says, completely alright after witnessing firsthand a murder and a false arrest. Both are personal nightmares come to life, with no way for Wright to take direct action regarding them. The front he's projecting, of a carefree interest in seeing how the other half of the legal system lives, is most likely a bluff. Problematically, Phoenix is one of the most proficient bluffers in the world, good enough to fool even himself sometimes. Edgeworth has seen the other man keep up fronts for literal years, and put off breakdowns for as long as necessary. Whatever he might feel is necessary, which may in a worst case scenario be 'forever.' Edgeworth is going to be keeping a sharp eye on his oldest friend until this case is finished, and then just a little bit longer.