Work Text:
Miles is watching the case.
Of course he is. He may not be in California anymore, but sue him (ha ha,) of course he misses it.
Misses him.
Anyway. Franziska seems intent on destroying Wright, and televising the process, and of course he’s going to-
Miles presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“Did she bring a whip to the court?” he asks to nobody in particular. Cringes as she cracks it; the sound is loud over the tinny speakers of his laptop.
The bailiff, he knows, won’t intervene. He’s new to his job, and young. Miles grits his teeth. They act as prison bars to the growl that wants to claw its way out of his throat.
Wright is struggling, he can tell. He’s intimidated. Miles doesn’t blame him; Franziska is terrifying, even to him, sometimes. She was thirteen when she took the bar. He was twenty. They took it the same year.
The whip cracks again on screen. This time she’s using it; it cracks against Gumshoe’s jacket uselessly. The material is thick, but Miles is sure the tail of the whip catches him across the cheek.
Anger boils in his chest for an instant. How dare she- his PARTNER-
no, it was no use. She’s across the ocean now. Convinced he’s dead, more than likely. He plans to do absolutely nothing to disillusion her of this fact. And besides, Gumshoe is no longer his detective- he’s Franziska’s. Miles is no longer responsible for his well-being, even if he still holds a certain friendship with the man-
no, he doesn’t. He had been useful to him. That was all.
She takes the whip to Wright next.
It’s hard to watch; the flinch, the gritting of teeth. Wright does his best not to yell, even as a bright red stripe blooms up his jawline, disappearing down his neck and into his jacket.
This charade of justice has gone on too long. Where is that bailiff? Surely even he would have intervened by now.
Not a word from the judge.
Miles feels his face heat in fury.
Wright is doing a good job despite it; pulls from nowhere a contradiction, a bullet hole. Gunpowder burn, or the lack thereof. He has the deceased Mia Fey by his side; one of the Feys is channeling her. Miles has long given up on convincing the court that summoning spirits is cheating. Besides, who could begrudge a man his dead mentor?
His thoughts flick to the elder Von Karma for longer than they should before flicking back to the younger, on the screen.
She grimaces in outrage and barely held back fury, cracking the whip and striking the judge.
Once again, the bailiff fails to intervene.
Miles almost throws his tea.
-
A recess, and a trial. Investigation day, trial, recess.
It’s standard fare. The newfound time difference means Miles has time to watch the trials themselves; while doing work that would soon be abandoned, mostly. He considers calling Franziska a few more times. Considers calling the courts. His voice is too recognizable; he’s sure everyone in the court has heard it at some point or another.
My self-control, he reminds himself, is legendary. The Demon Prosecutor does not break.
This remains true until the last day.
Wright wins the case by the skin of his teeth. Again. It’s not uncommon at this point; the younger prosecutors have started a betting pool, he knows, on how long Wright can drag out a trial. On what bizarre evidence he’ll pull up this time. Certainly they weren’t expecting the twist this time; Miles hadn’t seen it himself until the last minutes.
The cameraman pans to Franziska, who’s clutching her now-infamous whip with a white-knuckle grip.
And then she rears back and cracks it across the courtroom, sending Wright’s papers flying and laying a stripe across his chest. Miles can almost imagine it; the blue jacket vanished, red angry skin visible under the white buttonup.
He doesn’t have long to imagine it before she’s hitting him again and again. He has his arms up, but she’s relentless as ever; Miles thinks he sees a few blows lash across his kidneys and winces reflexively. The attorney has given up on stifling his cries and is yelping openly; Miles can’t blame him. Franziska hits hard. Blood has started seeping through his shirt, staining the cotton-white into a sickly crimson that almost matches Miles’ own jacket, but the barrage isn’t over-
there’s a thud as Phoenix Wright hits the ground hard.
And nobody in the entire courtroom does a thing. Lifts a finger to help. Even steps, for a half second, into the well; not even the Fey standing by his slumped, bleeding, battered and bruised body raises more than a complaint. Blue jacket on golden wood, red blood winding across the floor. The camera stays on the scene far too long. Miles can’t tear his accursed eyes away.
The bailiff , someone’s saying behind the camera. Where was the bailiff? They sound less scared than confused. They certainly don’t sound angry.
Yes, indeed, where was the bailiff? Miles thinks viciously. Bitterly.
Such a shame what this system has come to, says another newscaster, with a short tch sound. Irritated at this egregious misapplication of justice. Assault, battery, illegal handling of a weapon; where was the Detective? Surely Wright would press charges, if not the Fey beside him?
First Von Karma, then Edgeworth, now this, another reporter chimes in, business and fact in her tone, betraying little surprise. Is there no end to the villainy of this family?
Miles realizes too late he’s snapped his pen between his fingers and ink is leaking all over his hand and jacket. His other hand has a white-knuckle grip on his papers, threatening to tear. And the headache forming behind his temples is from him grinding his teeth. He can’t remember when he started it; probably around the second or third lash.
He takes a deep breath. Stands and inhales and exhales. Turns purposefully towards the bathroom and begins to wash his hand off.
He’s millions of miles away, and Miles can’t do a thing about his errant sister or the broken defense attorney she’d left in her wrecking-ball wake.
Whatever. It’s not like he cares about the defense attorney, anyway.
He had been useful. That’s all.