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“So.” Klavier leans back in his chair and smiles without teeth or humor. “How is your investigation going?”
Prison doesn’t suit Klavier Gavin. He’s meant for the stage: legal or musical or otherwise, sweating under the spotlight with thousands tuning in and screaming for him (whether derogatorily or affectionately) while Klavier visibly loves every bit of it. He thrives under attention, in a needy housecat sort of way. Stuck in the detention center, with only the attention of his lawyer (who is deeply unimpressed by any of his charms) and his lawyer’s assistant (who is only so good of an actor), Klavier sulks. He wilts, his perfect posture bending into a sloppy curve as he slides down his chair.
In any other context, Apollo would find this deeply amusing. Unfortunately, in this context, Apollo is the lawyer.
Apollo clears his throat and opens his mouth. Klavier has been run ragged enough that when they snap into eye contact, Apollo’s throat dries up with how desperate Klavier is. Pleading, really.
Apollo’s stomach shifts uneasily, like there’s a cold, molasses-thick current running through him. The hopelessness of this case is really getting to him.
Apollo closes his mouth. His assistant sees the cue for what it is.
“It’s, um.” Trucy shoots Klavier her best stage show grin: wide, with teeth, and with an added sparkle to the eyes. Klavier switches his expectant gaze to her and Apollo lets himself take a breath. “It’s going! We’re finding a lot of evidence! Right, Apollo?”
Klavier looks back to Apollo. “We did find a lot of evidence,” Apollo concedes, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Oh,” Klavier says. Then, “I wager,” he says, with a glazed, resigned look in his eye and a slight grimace. “That none of it was favorable for me?”
It’s, actually, right on the money: Apollo and Trucy have gone through the crime scene thrice over, each time uncovering greasy fingerprints and broken nails and torn pieces of cloth that the police had missed. So, yes, they did find evidence. They found enough evidence that Apollo had to resort to storing items in Trucy’s top hat, tragically dislodging the residents of said hat (a handful of baby frogs) in the process.
Unfortunately, all the evidence they found pointed to one Klavier Gavin as the murderer. Apollo’s required to say exactly this in his capacity as Klavier’s lawyer, but in his capacity as Klavier’s maybe-sorta-friend-ish-acquaintance, well.
Apollo says, “Not everything was unfavorable,” and the look on Klavier’s face says that he isn’t convinced.
“Ach. I should have expected as much.”
“Apollo!” Trucy elbows him, and Apollo instinctively moves to elbow her back before remembering halfway that it was bad form to engage in this sort of thing in front of his already-miserable client. “You’re crushing his hopes!”
“Hey! It’s—it’s not my fault!”
“You’re his attorney! You’re supposed to believe in him and make things right!”
“It’s alright,” Klavier interjects before Apollo can speak. Apollo feels his face flush. This is going down as one of the worst attorney-client meetings of his career. “You’re too kind, fraulein, but…” Klavier smiles ruefully. “I did tell you that there was much against me.”
Klavier did tell them this earlier in the day when he formally agreed to accept Apollo’s legal services, except, when Klavier had said this before, it had been spat out in intense annoyance while Klavier had been aggressively pacing the room. Now, Klavier says the words in a tone that doesn’t scream defeat, exactly, but there’s a lot of exhaustion. Not given up, but on the verge of doing so, if only because it’s gotten too tiring to try.
Apollo narrows his eyes. This isn’t like Klavier.
“Are you sure you told me everything?” Apollo asks, startling Klavier into straightening in his chair.
“Yes,” Klavier says. He runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, Herr Forehead, I told you everything I know.”
There’s something here. There’s something off and Apollo doesn’t know what it is. In the corner of his eye, he sees Trucy shake her head, a miniscule twitch of her chin, and he agrees: it’s too early in the game to press Klavier about his secrets.
“Okay,” Apollo says, leaning back in retreat, and after a beat, Klavier relaxes as well, shoulders slumping once more. “Uh, are you otherwise holding up okay, Prosecutor Gavin?”
Klavier chuckles. “What do you think, Forehead?”
“You don’t look at ease,” Apollo admits.
“You look as nervous as you did during Vera’s trial, actually,” Trucy says, tapping her chin thoughtfully.
The comparison makes Klavier tense up again. Interesting. “Ach,” he says, trying again to play off his stress. Apollo has spent too much time at the receiving end of Klavier’s anxiety-fueled tirades to believe Klavier’s act for even a second. “It’s foolish to hide anything from you, isn’t it, fraulein magician?”
“Hey, I pointed it out!”
“It’s poor form to steal the credit from the youth, Forehead.”
“You know what, whatever. Just tell us the truth: how are you feeling?”
Klavier toys with his curtain bangs, pursing his lips and distractedly staring off into the side, and Apollo holds his breath. Maybe this is when they get something close to the real truth from Klavier, all without further investigation or Apollo having to well and truly grill him.
Then Klavier shrugs and Apollo knows that this is not that moment and that Apollo will, in fact, have to work toward the moment.
“I can’t say prison food suits my digestive system,” Klavier says. “I’m used to more… fine cuisine, how should I put it.”
Of course he is.
“Well,” Trucy says. “You can’t blame him for having a specific palate.”
“It’s just inexcusable,” Klavier says. He’s warming up to giving them a show, Apollo can sense it. Something similar enough to what they saw from him earlier to provide consistency, something mundane enough to not truly affect their investigation, and something genuine enough that they can nod along without questioning it. “The fare that they serve here—”
“What do you think Prosecutor Gavin is lying to us about?”
They’re lingering inside the detention center, Klavier having been taken away for questioning six minutes into his lengthy zero-star review of prison food. Apollo’s takeaways from this review that he was only partially paying attention to is a) Klavier is extremely rich, b) Klavier is extremely out of touch, and c) prison food is only somewhat more unbearable than public school lunches.
“I don’t know,” Apollo says, staring at Klavier’s now-empty chair. “I don’t think he lied to us, earlier, either, but…”
“He’s holding something back,” Trucy suggests, and Apollo nods. “But why? We’re his lawyers, we’re here to help him!”
“I guess we still have to earn his trust.”
“I thought we already had it.”
“I thought so, too.”
Once they step out of the detention center, Apollo pauses at the door. Trucy, already several steps ahead, stops and turns back to him.
“What’s wrong?”
Apollo shakes his head. “I think I forgot something. Could you head back to the agency? I’ll meet you there when I’m done here.”
Trucy tilts her head. Her eyes are as sharp as they always are, but Apollo’s gotten much better at meeting her gaze head on instead of ducking away.
He’ll talk, if she asks him to, but they both know that he isn’t going to actually let her join him.
“You’re so spacey, Polly,” Trucy finally says, shaking her head. “It’s really unprofessional. You can’t inspire confidence in any of your clients if you’re soooo out of it!”
“I’m not taking this from someone who let frogs live in her hair because they would get lost otherwise,” Apollo says dryly, rolling his eyes when Trucy sticks her tongue at him. “I’ll buy dinner on my way back, okay?”
“Fine. Apollo?”
“Yeah?”
Trucy draws her cape around her. “Be careful.”
Apollo has visited his former boss in prison exactly once before. In the days after Kristoph Gavin’s unexpected arrest, Apollo had been elected by the other employees at Gavin Law Offices to deliver Kristoph the necessary paperwork for officially shuttering the office and approving their final paychecks.
It hadn’t been a bad visit, all things considered. Kristoph had been perfectly cordial, complimenting Apollo’s organization and signing every document without complaint. Toward the end, Apollo had mumbled a half-apology for successfully accusing Kristoph of murder, and Kristoph, smiling without emotion, had acted as though Apollo hadn’t spoken at all.
So of course: Apollo walks to Kristoph’s cell months after levying his second successful murder accusation toward Kristoph, and all Kristoph does is look up from his book, smile, and say, “Justice.”
“Mr Gavin,” Apollo says, unsure.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Kristoph’s tone is determinedly calm, as though Apollo was still an intern making costly filing errors.
Apollo refuses to wince and stammer apologies like he did in his internship era. Instead, he says very steadily, “I just wanted to ask for your opinion on a few things.”
“Hm? Is your new mentor not up to snuff, Justice?”
It rankles him more than it should, Kristoph saying his name in such a lighthearted tone. Apollo devoted too many hours as an intern working to get Kristoph to say his name with subdued approval and cheer instead of the initial gritted teeth and forced politeness. Hearing Kristoph say his name with pride when Apollo got promoted to a full employee left him ecstatic. Hearing Kristoph say his name now with a sarcastic echo of that earlier pride just makes Apollo feel ill.
Instead of defending the honor of a mentor Apollo’s feeling increasingly less dazed and starry-eyed about, he says, “Did you hear about Klavier?”
Kristoph raises his eyebrow by a millimeter. “No, Justice, I did not read of the accusations being volleyed at my brother, nor did I happen to see him walk by my cell in a pair of handcuffs.”
Apollo does wince at that. “I signed on as his lawyer,” he says lamely, and Kristoph snorts.
“So I heard.” Kristoph gives Apollo a critical once over, just like he used to do whenever Apollo messed up Kristoph’s coffee order. “And? Are you prepared to defend him in court tomorrow?” At Apollo’s skittish silence, Kristoph sighs. “I tried to give him the numbers of my more experienced former colleagues. He only wanted Justice.”
During the intern days, Apollo would have been willing to play around with the pun and say something like and he’s got him right here and Kristoph, in turn, would chuckle and drag it out further. Right now, Apollo swallows and watches Kristoph’s eyes track the movement of his throat.
There’s absolutely no confidence or trust in Kristoph’s eyes. None.
“Justice,” Kristoph says. “Klavier is my little brother. He always will and should be a step behind me. It’s the natural order of things.”
“Okay,” Apollo says warily. “Where are you taki—”
“But understand this: my brother is not a murderer. He is many things. But he would never kill. That is the truth. Do you understand, Justice? I don’t care what those mouth breathers of the public think. My brother is innocent. Ensure that.”
“I know that,” Apollo says, a little too late, a little too defensively. Kristoph frowns at him, and it’s so annoying, how his disappointment still makes Apollo panic. “I’m—I’m going to prove it tomorrow in court.”
“Maybe you should prove it to yourself, first,” Kristoph says, cold. Then he sighs again, adjusting his glasses. “It doesn’t matter if Wright is so determined to pervert the judicial system with the implementation of this… jury. Do your job just as I taught you, Justice. Pursue the truth and present your conclusions. Your only audience is the judge. Don’t lose focus on what the jury thinks.”
Apollo wonders just how much news Kristoph gets delivered to his cell, if Kristoph is aware of just how chaotic trials are with juries. The second phase of Phoenix Wright’s jury system project had involved inserting the seven-paneled juries into the courtroom itself so they could follow along, ask questions, and further democratize the legal system. This was all good in theory, but Apollo’s losing track of how many of his trials he’s only narrowly won after having to spend too much time convincing Wocky Kitaki at the jury table that, okay, so maybe the defendant was absolutely wack and morally reprehensible, but that didn’t mean that defendant was guilty of the trial they were on trial for, so could Wocky please give a ‘not guilty’ verdict and go home?
It could be, really, that this is what’s holding Klavier back from being completely honest with his defense team, this understanding that the truth wasn’t always the key to winning the jury’s vote.
But Apollo isn’t here to theorize Klavier’s reticence with Kristoph. He’s here to square his shoulders and tell Kristoph, “About the last time I saw you at Vera Misham’s trial.”
This surprises Kristoph just as Trucy mentioning Vera had surprised Klavier, but unlike Klavier, a touch of tension leaves Kristoph’s shoulders. He’s confused by the question, but not stressed out.
Kristoph asks, “What about it?”
Apollo hesitates. “We only presented a truth, then, Mr Gavin,” he says. “Not the truth.” Kristoph’s eyes are narrowed in confusion. Apollo only hesitates a second before continuing. “We collected our evidence and we made a narrative that convinced the jury. We gave them a truth, and they believed in it.”
After a beat, a smile slowly stretches across Kristoph’s face. It’s nothing like Klavier’s smile: smug, cutting, and not a hint of amicability.
“Are you implying that you doubt my guilt, Justice?”
“No,” Apollo says immediately, shaking his head for emphasis. Kristoph chuckles. “You killed Zak Gramarye.”
“But?”
“But for Drew Misham… Mr Wright had us all convinced that it was you. He showed us the evidence. He explained everything.”
“But naturally,” Kristoph says, sounding pleased. There’s a touch of that old pride Apollo used to occasionally hear from his boss, and maybe it’s the location or all their recent history coming to a head, but Apollo is suddenly, achingly grateful that he’s no longer working at Gavin Law Offices. “You doubt the man disbarred for forgery. Of course you do. I knew I did not take you on as an understudy in vain. I told you that your surname boded well for your ability to deliver justice, didn’t I?”
“That’s not it.”
“Oh?”
“Mr Wright was… right,” Apollo says, and some of Kristoph’s earlier disappointment seeps back into his eyes. “You’re guilty. You’ve hurt a lot of people for reasons I’m not sure I’ll ever know, but… this one thing keeps nagging at me, at the back of mind.”
“Care to share with me?”
He’s come too far to back out of this conversation, and, really, Kristoph is the only person Apollo truly can discuss this with without having to hold anything back.
Still. It’s not a good feeling, having these doubts, and it’s even less of a good feeling to voice them.
“Justice?”
“Everything that pointed to you orchestrating Misham’s death and Mr Wright losing his badge…” Apollo shrugs. “I could use all that evidence to point blame toward someone else, like… like Zak Gramarye.”
“Or,” Kristoph says, raising his eyebrow again. “Even your new mentor himself, hm?”
“It’s not him,” Apollo blurts out, and Kristoph laughs. It’s much more mild than the last time Apollo heard him laugh at Vera’s trial, but it still sets Apollo on edge.
“So quick to answer,” Kristoph finally says, shoulders shaking in residual laughter. Apollo takes a miniscule step backward. “I wonder if your loyalty to him isn’t misplaced? Don’t pretend that he treats you well. He was never fully honest to me, his good friend for many years.”
Apollo scrunches his brows. “You weren’t actually good friends,” he says, and this does not sting Kristoph as much as Apollo thought it would. “There’s no way. I’ve seen both of you talk to each other too many times to believe that.”
“Who’s to say?” Kristoph’s smile now is closer to what Apollo saw during his first trial, when Kristoph had abandoned the pretense of being a good lawyer and had committed to pressuring Apollo into getting a guilty verdict for their client. “As you’ve aptly commented, Justice, there is never a singular truth. No certain history, grounded with irrefutable and undeniable evidence that the eye can plainly see as reality. Only grains of evidence that we use to weave together whatever narrative best suits our interests.”
“Yeah, I.” Apollo squints. Kristoph has calmed down, settling back into the chilled demeanor he had when Apollo first approached his cell. “I guess.”
“I hope that you do more than guess tomorrow, Justice. This prison isn’t big enough to house me and my brother together, do you understand?”
“Right,” Apollo says, making eye contact. There’s mirth in Kristoph’s eyes, but also genuine expectancy and, maybe, something close to the desperation Apollo had seen in Klavier’s eyes. “Of course.”