Chapter Text
The last time Apollo sees Kristoph alive, he is escorting him out of prison.
It’s not that Kristoph is innocent. Apollo wants to believe that, and maybe he does personally, but he understands at the same time that he can’t professionally. Kristoph confessed, even, to killing a man named Shadi Smith. So it’s not that.
The issue is that the confession was obtained under false pretenses.
And Apollo can’t have that.
He doesn’t bring it up though.
And to be fair, neither does Kristoph. “Thank you,” he says, when the warden opens the door to his cell for him to step through. He doesn’t say anything for a while then, walking through prison hallways at a leisurely pace, his back always straight but his shoulders relaxed, smiling like he was merely a visitor here. “Thank you,” he says again, when an employee hands him his bag of belongings, and then again when Apollo opens the front door to the building for him. They walk to the parking lot in silence, and Kristoph doesn’t thank him for putting his bag in the trunk and opening the passenger side door, but Apollo doesn’t hold it against him.
“To your house?” Apollo asks after starting the engine, just in case Kristoph would prefer to go to his office. Apollo wouldn’t be surprised, is all. Kristoph loves his work.
“Yes, please,” Kristoph sighs as he sinks into the seat. “No breaking the speed limit, Apollo, but the sooner I see my bed again, the better.”
“Sure,” says Apollo.
And they don’t speak for the rest of the drive.
Apollo knows the way from here to Kristoph’s house, so there is no chatter from his GPS, and neither he nor Kristoph turn the radio on. Apollo keeps wanting to say something, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. Kristoph, once upon a time, invested a great sum of money into Apollo’s education as a prosecutor, so he can’t just open with, Did you do it?
Kristoph denied his guilt until that card was presented. That is what Apollo knows, after reading the transcript cover to cover until he felt like it was about to come spilling out of his ears. Apollo was abroad, doing what all self-respecting prosecutors of his time have done and studying foreign legal systems, but the news reached him quickly enough.
Well, maybe not quickly enough. They did not reach him quickly enough to actually step in before it was too late. Before this mess was thrown at his feet, left by a defense that could not be more compromised if they tried.
Klavier Gavin was a greenhorn defense attorney, fresh out of university with not a single trial under his belt. Before Apollo received that court transcript, he had never heard of the man, which he decided was not surprising. Kristoph never mentioned him, but Kristoph never talks about private things like that. Apollo doesn’t know anything about Kristoph’s parents either, he doesn’t know if there’s a spouse or maybe children living somewhere in that house, and he doesn’t want to know, either. They have a work relationship. Kristoph didn’t have to tell him about his little brother. Apollo found out through the court transcript, and he found out that Phoenix Wright had signed Klavier Gavin up to sit in on the trial and watch his older brother, one of, if not the most respected defense attorney in their district, defend him.
And then, when things got dicey, surprise, surprise, Kristoph was called to the stand as a suspect, and now the inexperienced young attorney was leading Phoenix Wright’s defense instead. Kristoph made perfectly sound and logical arguments, until Klavier Gavin presented that damn card.
The five of hearts, allegedly with the victim’s blood still on it.
And Kristoph folded like a plastic chair.
So of course Apollo wants to say something. He has a thousand questions he wants to ask Kristoph, first and foremost he wants to know what the fuck happened that night at that weird fake Russian restaurant, but he still doesn’t. Kristoph never gave a straight answer in court, and Apollo wouldn’t expect him to give a straight answer in the privacy of his car.
What really matters is that there is no way Klavier Gavin would have that card. What really matters is that Klavier Gavin learned under Phoenix Wright, and that there were two forgers at work that day, and that Klavier Gavin presented a piece of evidence he could not possibly have had. What matters is that this is what made Kristoph confess to killing someone, and what matters is that there are mechanisms in place for that sort of thing.
Killer or not, Kristoph should not have gone to jail like that. And Klavier Gavin should not have gotten away with presenting that card.
So Apollo rushed back into the country, and he contested the verdict. And he alerted the State Bar. And he got Kristoph released from jail, and Klavier Gavin’s license to practice law suspended. Because it was the right thing to do.
The law exists for a reason. People like Klavier Gavin and Phoenix Wright can’t just do whatever they want with it. If Kristoph really did kill this Shadi Smith person, there needs to be actual evidence, and not some random poker card with a wine stain on it.
“Thank you,” Kristoph says, as Apollo kills the engine in Kristoph’s driveway. It’s a big house, almost too opulent for a defense attorney, really, but the one thing Apollo knows about Kristoph’s family is that this house belonged to his parents. He does not, in fact, know if his parents are dead and he inherited it, or if it’s just regular real estate nepotism. But either way, it is or was Kristoph’s parents’ house, and Kristoph lives there now.
Klavier Gavin should be fine, Apollo thinks, as he glances out of his windshield, at the tasteful black of the roof tiles. He might be out of a job for a while, but Apollo is sure he’s either sleeping in Mommy’s basement or also owns a house like this somewhere. He should be fine. And Apollo doesn’t care, anyway.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Do you want me to get your bag?”
“No, that’s quite alright.” Kristoph is already climbing out of the passenger side door, limbs looking stiff with disuse, like the few weeks he spent in prison aged him several years. Apollo listens to the trunk open and close, then Kristoph comes up to the driver’s side window. “Apollo.”
He rolls his window down. “Yeah?”
Kristoph smiles at him, his eyes looking tired but crinkling along with it anyway. “Thank you for flying in and taking a stand, as well,” he says. “I do appreciate it.”
“Just doing my job, Kristoph,” says Apollo. He hesitates for a second, then adds, “Since no one else seems to feel compelled to do it.”
It pulls a laugh from Kristoph, which Apollo wishes he felt better about. “Fair enough.” His house keys jangle in Kristoph’s hand as he waves goodbye. “I’ll see you soon.”
“I have to fly back out tomorrow, actually,” Apollo says, bringing the engine back to life and putting his car in reverse. “But after that, yeah. See you then, Kristoph. Get some rest.”
He backs out of the driveway, and Kristoph walks up to his large front door. Apollo doesn’t have to fly back to Europe tomorrow. He doesn’t know why he said that. He has no obligations there; he could absolutely stay in LA. Clearly, there is work to be done. Someone definitely did kill Shadi Smith, and there is no prosecutor currently in the country whom Apollo trusts to figure out who it was. Even if it really was Kristoph. Or especially then.
But Apollo feels in a hurry to get away, suddenly. Like that heavy dark brown door is about to swallow not just Kristoph, but him too, if he doesn’t make it back to the airport in time. Something has been feeling off about this whole affair. Something about the victim’s name, something about the autopsy photos Apollo saw, something about the things he could read between the lines in the court transcript every time Kristoph or Wright spoke. Apollo hasn’t thought about Phoenix Wright in years, but he never considered him a killer. But even if he did kill Smith, why? What was his business with this man nobody knew?
Epiphany is scratching at Apollo’s skull from the inside, like an itch behind his eyes, like a sneeze waiting to come out. Kristoph closes the door behind him as Apollo pulls out into the street.
He drives home to his apartment, high-rise and spacious and nearly clinically clean, now that he hasn’t been here in so long. The case files for Shadi Smith and Zak Gramarye are still open, lying next to each other on his kitchen counter. Apollo glances at them, then pulls out his phone and books his next flight out of the country.
He never sees Kristoph again.