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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The defendant's antechamber never seemed to
change, with the same old painting still hanging on the wall, the bailiff standing by the door, and the heavy air of justice clouding the room like a smoke bomb. Or the idea of justice, rather. “The curve of a card will be the defining factor in this tale,” whispered the wind as footsteps echoed in the halls. “You only need to know how to play your cards.” The sound rang through the hollowed room, and the sight of a certain, careful-eyed man, clad in navy with a rose bow tied on top of it all, only seemed to reinforce the idea: justice would be served.
The man–‘the coolest defense attorney in the west’--was admired for his calm, calculated demeanor and never flinching attitude in court. He was also known as Kristoph Gavin, a kind family friend of the Wrights. His support had been all too important during the seven long years, and it was no surprise that he would not come short now, either. The sunflower pinned to his lapel made the room ache, somehow, while the pleasant smile of a friend greeting a man with various threads loose on his person faded into view–a blue beanie cradling the crown of his head, only a tuft of black, sharp hair escaping from its prison, and some basic dull sweatwear for the defendant. His identity was scarce–his name was known, Phoenix Wright, though with those cryptic meanings blanketed under every word he muttered, he was just as understood as the victim. Who was John Doe himself, some traveler who just happened to get in between a bottle and a poker game.
“You know, I’ve been feeling some eyes on me, if you get what I mean. Not just normal spiders,” the wind echoed again, like a never-ending reminder, a reminder of the short time before John Doe’s death–a conversation with an eccentric journalist who tolerated some words to Wright, “Ever since I came in contact with Zak, actually.” The name tied to it all, Zak, laid flat in the air, the same palpability of an ace across a table. A musician who vanished one day at court, never to be seen for seven years, randomly pops up to play a game of poker. A cheated game, not to mention.
Phoenix Wright has felt that poker was similar to court during all these years, but as the bailiff barked a command, he felt his fingers twist along nonexistent cards, almost whispering through the pads to indicate comfort, an earnest calling of forgetfulness–as if he needed to apologize for leaving his old self at the door. Or did he even enter the courthouse as himself? He simply shook his head: the newfound rawness of the air letting him drift into the courtroom with no regrets or realization of his past following.
The day of disappearance lingered even still–the private courthouse, a stinging odor of ink, the filmy, red paper of the journal, and the nagging feeling of puppets and puppeteers. When he entered the room, the same judge present during that fateful trial stared at him like any other criminal to pass judgment on. And perhaps that was a good thing. The frail man behind the prosecutor’s bench was familiar, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to utter the name in his mind.
The defense was Kris and his mentee, the latter being the leading one, just as Wright asked. He had to be in his young twenties, two spikes of hair shooting upwards like a startled cat while his eyes darted around, a weird red tint present within them. Even still, the defendant merely sat to the side, an amused smirk drawing up his cheeks to the gallery’s confusion. And like how Zak said all those years ago, “They will be unable to find me guilty,” mumbled through his head, like a newfound moral.
A gavel rang through the wooden room, “The court is now in session for Phoenix…” The judge trailed off, a grimace carving into his face, “For Phoenix Wright.” The aged man’s eyes stared at the flippant defendant with conflict burning within, before shaking his head faintly, “I wished your court debut would have been behind your bench, Mr. Wright.”
The man in question shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. The judge hadn’t seemed practically merciful all those years ago, even if he now was. Wright still remembered how the words echoed in that hollowed room, the gong of the gavel and its pad, the visible strings behind Drew Misham, all quietly whispering, “You just couldn’t help yourself,” like a message painted in feigned blood.
“...Is the prosecution ready?”
The frail man nodded, tapping his bald head. An almost sickening smirk was present on his cracked lips, “Certainly, your honor. The victim died at the accused workplace–a club by the name of Firebird Light--by being bludgeoned with a glass bottle, and what’s better yet…” The smirk only widened, almost being similar to a certain other blond man’s, “the defendant’s fingerprints are on the bottle.”
The defense nearly deflated in the corner of the defendant's eye, those spikes of his going slack across his head, almost like a show rabbit’s ears.
“The prosecution calls for the accused to formally testify about the conditions that night!”
The lawyer somehow sank more into himself, a pitiful expression on his face as Wright was escorted to the stand. The crimson-red tint to the man’s eyes caught the accused's attention, a finger twisting across the gold chain around his neck. It strangely reminded him of Trucy, her and the same red markers she would draw over his old poker cards.
“Phoenix Wright,” the name sounded foreign on his own tongue, “the pianist at the club.” As much as his title said, the man did not know the first thing about pianos or any instrument, for that matter. He was only ever proficient at defending, though that only ever seemed to be broken down to dust by forged evidence, anyway.
The bald prosecutor tapped his head, setting the rhythm for a non-existent song, “But is that all?”
As the mentee looked at Wright expectantly, he opened his mouth, “I also play poker in the basement of the club.” It was not technically gambling, but that didn't seem to change how the gallery lit up in gossip. The judge frowned, almost seeming betrayed. A man of the law, then turned poker player, all by justice’s hand.
The basement of the club was secret to normal customers, but Wright was well-known by professional players–he had an unbeatable streak that started on the tip of his disbarment. The room was very stuffy, nearly clouded like the courthouse, with no windows besides looking at the stairs. Sometimes, it was like the accused was a canary of sorts, a bird trapped in a cage that was of webbed lies.
For the first time in the trial, Kristoph frowned behind the bench, a reminder of that grim day, almost exactly seven years ago. When the prosecutor in that fateful trial, Klavier Gavin, called a witness to the stand that Wright could never learn to forget, an artist with clean hands.
“The crime happened at the end of a game,” the frail man continued, presenting a photo of a very dead man and cards scattered about, “A game in which the victim won.” After a beat, the accused noticed the defense scrunch his face inwards as Kris regained his gentle smile in realization. “The prosecution states that the defendant killed John Doe after he won a poker game, to make his winning record for seven years last.”
Wright merely smirked on the stand, looking at the curve of the woodwork on the ceiling. Besides rethinking all of his investigations for the past seven years, silence fell on his tongue. As the prosecution said, the motive was a likely story, while the modus operandi hadn’t been established clearly. He expected the defense to object, but the only sound was the gallery’s gossip.
It was a gentle reminder of the ‘paint’ studio he rushed to visit years ago, even if Drew Misham wasn’t present, his young daughter, Vera, had been–a small girl with a velvet sketchbook hugged to her chest, and all of her sapphire hair tied back with various paint splattered on her hands. Wright never asked about it, but the ink and crimson-red smearing across the gentle, new skin was striking enough. It reminded him of Trucy, almost. Vera smiled when she spoke of Gavin, her tone consumed in childlike awe, only to mutter a name as empty as a coal mine.
Finally, Phoenix had his cards planned out in front of him; he simply needed to pull his own strings.
A gavel rang through the courthouse, but the defendant didn’t concern himself with listening, only recognizing the prosecution’s demand to call another witness. At the order, Wright sat back in his chair. The mentee behind the bench took an obvious deep breath, very clearly mouthing, ‘I’m fine’ over and over again to himself. Kris looked over with a slightly amused glint in his eyes, similar to how he looked at him at dinner, but focused on the Russian woman’s testimony.
The accused met the lawyer when he was unemployed. They had simply clinked, like Kris already knew him, and the man couldn’t deny him paying for every meal. For some reason, he continued to stay by his and Trucy’s side to pick up their lives. Zak might’ve abandoned his life and family, but the ‘coolest defense lawyer in the west’ couldn’t let that happen to Phoenix Wright and his adopted daughter.
He had explained the case and what happened to him countless times, trying to make sense of it, yet it only proved fruitless.
Wright was appointed Zak Gramarye’s lawyer a day before the trial, as his original lawyer was fired for some reason of insincerity, and was barely able to speak with him. He was accused of killing his mentor, but Phoenix, as always, held it to himself to believe in his innocence, regardless of the evidence stacked up against him. The truth would be able to unravel itself, after all.
Zak had been strangely confident for a defendant, constantly saying how he ‘wouldn’t be found guilty’. Right as the trial was to begin, a young girl, with rosy cheeks and a similar red cape draped upon her small stature, gave him a piece of paper, like a diary of sorts, signed off by fresh ink, all in the victim’s name. She only said, “The kind blue man told me to give this to you” in her young, albeit adorable, speech. Perhaps he should’ve realized then that the court was a fraud, along with that damning evidence, but he had been blinded by magic, it seemed.
He continued to perform his duty, gaining insight into the details of what truly happened when the young prosecutor, Klavier Gavin, presented a familiar red diary with a ripped page inside. He felt the need to object rumble up his throat–a need to show that convincing, damning evidence. It was the same handwriting as the victim’s, signed off by him, and upon the same fiery paper and all, yet Klavier Gavin simply smirked behind the bench, “You just couldn't help yourself, could you?” flowed from his lips with a strange calculation to it, and even now, the phrase lingers in Phoenix’s head. The prodigy’s words were smart, but the hesitation before he announced anything was there. Then it had just…disappeared, for that line.
He then called for a private court and a witness to the stand: Drew Misham, a forger under the guise of an artist. The testimony after was shocking, and while that happened, Gavin only smiled more and more, even while the lawyer's livelihood was being stripped away by his strings.
The gavel rang again, almost like a gunshot, as a recess was called. Wright had only been half-listening but sat up anyway, following the defense back to the sickening antechamber, the air of justice being even foggier.
“Mr. Wright,” the mentee began with a glint of determination swelling in his red eyes, “was there anything you noticed about the incident? Anything odd?” The line of questioning was familiar to Phoenix, and he knew the answers better than anyone.
“Nope,” he shrugged, looking at Kris, who was tilting his sapphire glasses up, “did you see anything?”
The blond man’s eyes widened for a split second, his hands falling to his back, “Nothing stood up to me then.”
On the day of the murder, like every other day, the two men had met up to dine at the latter’s workplace. Kris always had a penchant for paying completely for the meals, and that was no different that day.
The blue-clad man continued, “Granted, I also wasn’t looking for any murders.”
The bailiff barked another demand, and the lights of the show only seemed to glisten in the fog.
“It would happen soon,” the wind whispered to him, as quiet as lingering ashes in a fireplace.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
When they were called back into the courthouse, the witness continued her fraudulent testimony while Wright was sitting in his chair. He already noticed the cheated cards that ‘John Doe’ was dealt, so the words meant nothing to his ears–only a want to speak out, to prove she was wrong, that Zak had cheated, like he did all those years ago, but alas: he couldn't. The mentee stared at the Russian woman with a strange intensity, reminding the father of his daughter yet again. A finger began to fidget with the gold locket around his neck at the thought. Maybe not everything bad came from those seven years. Maybe he should thank Gavin one of these days. It was an amusing thought, of course, but he’d only ever get a smile or smirk in return.
The gavel rang through the room, “Order, order!” The elderly man silenced the gallery, “Witness, am I to believe you’re admitting to perjury?”
The woman who had dealt the cards at the stand nodded slowly, causing the prosecution to gasp outwardly, “I’ve got nothing more to hide–the game was cheated. The traveler asked me to add more cards.” She shrugged, not flinching at the gallery’s roars of gossip.
“T-that…” the frail man stammered, “It’s another motive! The accused found out about the cheating and killed him in revenge!”
“Simple conjecture,” Kristoph commented, his tone as straight-edged as a crimson sword. “The prosecution has no evidence.” The mentee to his side, squinted, and he could practically hear the thoughts brewing in his head of a contradiction present, “The defense formally accuses this witness of–”
It was silent for a beat, enough time for dust to settle on the wood of the courtroom, like a heavy blanket across his soul. The real defense wouldn’t part his lips, it seemed, and that meant one thing: the dust needed to rise.
“Objection!”
The gallery became dead quiet, just like that fateful day years ago. But instead of Klavier Gavin’s smug smirk, there was only a smile present across the room. One who would be surprised at the feeling of strings around him, not familiar.
Shocked, the old man yelled, “Mr. Wright! The accused will remain silent unless asked to speak!”
Against orders, the defendant stood at the stand, the witness moving away, “I wish to offer further testimony, your honor,” Phoenix admitted, looking at the red-eyed man now. “About what truly happened.”
The silence was short-lived; the gallery was in an uproar, the prosecution still sweating bullets, and Kristoph’s fake smile upon his lips. Multiple rings from the gavel didn’t do anything; it only seemed to cause a tempo for the useless cacophony of noise.
“The defense asks for the defendant to speak.” The mentee slammed his fist into the desk, effectively quieting the crowd.
Slowly, “...Very well. I will allow the accused to speak this one time.” The judge nodded, “Proceed, Mr. Wright.”
The thought of everything he knew about those seven years played through his head, a soft smirk crossing his face at the granted approval and newfound opportunity. “It wasn’t the witness,” he announced simply, ignoring the obvious confusion lingering in the air by his vague words. “It’s what needs to happen.” the wind reassures him gently, like a ghost in his ear.
“Who else, then?” The gallery yelled back while leaning forward.
Making eye contact with the young man behind the bench, he asked, “Who else? A third party would need to be there.”
Kristoph recoiled this time, his pretty facade failing, “A third party?”
“Not the witness?”
Phoenix felt like himself again–the ashes started to rise. “No. Someone no one has named.”
Those long seven years, all spent poor and desperate, taking care of his daughter. Every quiet investigation he had: talking to that journalist, Zak, even Trucy…but, most importantly, Vera Misham. Her bright eyes and how they squinted with such fondness, all blinded by the magic of the situation. Of course, he was never better than on that day, but everything couldn’t end this way–could it? The true Phoenix Wright would never forge evidence, but the show had started, and, for once, he’d be the one running it.
Both he and Vera had been made red-handed from that trial, but the curtain never closed, even as the director peeked in with glass shielding his eyes. Phoenix couldn’t help himself. “Who else was there?” He turned to the red-eyed man, “Think carefully.” He might be a simple pianist at a club currently, but he was once…
The mentee stared, his fingers curling on the wood as he thought, a glint of confusion in his iris. Perhaps he understood the meaning but didn’t wish to believe it. He wouldn’t be alone in that thought, but what must be done will be done.
Expectantly, Phoenix continued with his hands resting at his sides, like healing wings finally uncurled from his pockets, “Who else was there?”
After a calculated pause, the mentee inhaled, “Mr. Gavin?” he asked, looking down at the wood, not daring to see the man beside him.
Kristoph’s eyes narrowed, his smile still ever shallow, “What are you claiming, Wright?”
He had been there that day, right before Zak entered. He was also there that day, wasn’t he? That insincere lawyer of Zak’s. It would be a bitter pill to swallow, but it would be no different than the poison the defendant had been fed for years, titled as friendship.
“Mr. Gavin was there that day, in the club,” Phoenix pointed, feeling more like a bird than anything remotely human. “He could have done it.”
The silence didn’t last long; the gallery and the prosecution looked confusedly around, gossip echoing off their lips as the blond man squinted, pushing his glasses up with little effort, “The defense calls for the accused to stand down, your honor.”
The grey-breaded man opened his mouth, a glimpse of understanding in his eyes, before someone else answered, “You’re not the defense, Gavin. You can’t demand anything.” The lights had finally been set; like his daughter always said, shuffling cards in her hands with a precision no child should have, ‘The beginning is always the hardest to push through.’
The courthouse was dim with silence, fogged with injustice, so heavily clouded that one couldn’t see the scales of justice hanging above the judge’s head. No matter how big, no matter the shine on those golden rods, red deception would rub it from your eyes, even a judge’s. Justice would be impossible to reach with this act; some magic would be needed.
The mentee glanced at Phoenix intently before nodding, his eyes gleaming golden instead of that sickening, similar red. Instead of the bird skin in front of his eyes, he could truly stare. “The defense asks for the accused to speak.” After all, Phoenix had specifically asked for the mentee to defend him for a reason, similar to how Zak hired Wright so late. The blond spider beside him preyed on those young, naive, and desperate, but birds also consumed spiders, even those known for their poison.
Even if its ills could infect them themself.
And perhaps that was the stroke of luck he needed to drive this home, to drive the sun into light again.
They all walked through the crime, Phoenix laying down anything and all of the possibilities that point to Kristoph–he could have come from the ceiling, a hidden passageway, could have purposely framed Wright–and, by the sheer speed of it all, everyone needed to nod by the fatigue. Gavin stood at the stand now, the two switching places, with his hands curled up his arms, hunched over, and all like a spider falling from its web of lies. He stared under his glasses, straight into whatever was left of Phoenix Wright in the defendant's null and void body.
“Do morals matter when the system doesn’t?” Wright overheard his own thoughts again, no longer the ghost of the wind, “Or is it impossible for justice to exist, if the truth is always forged?” But, as he left himself by the door, he couldn’t help but present fake evidence, just like that day, a rumbling urge escaped his throat in the sound of an objection–a card, an ace, with a trifle amount of blood dropped on the front like a freckle. It was nothing more than the accused's own blood–he simply prickled his finger over one of his many aces. It stained him, a stain on the sun and sunflower he used to adorn his lapel with, a blemish on himself. What was new, though? How else would he have a 7-year winning streak in poker?
The spider barked, its stalking eyes bulging, “It’s a fraud! This court can’t accept this as evidence!” The madman on the stand yelled incoherent words, a bead of sweat gliding down his face like a bird of fire, like a canary escaping its cage.
Though his pleas wouldn’t change a thing. Like that fateful day 7 years ago, like Klavier Gavin, he rushed the verdict: “Your honor, the defense calls for a judgment!” Phoenix persisted, even if he, himself, wasn’t the defense.
The haunting song of a gavel had never been so sweet.
The defeated confession of Kris was somehow better.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
When the courthouse was adjourned, the defendant left as an innocent man, even with the mentee’s and the law’s ignorance of the forged evidence. Leaving those doors, I felt like myself–Phoenix Wright–for the first time in years. Perhaps I left more than my morals and creed by the door because what, if not your beliefs, was a person? My life had always been built on those foundations, and yet I betrayed my own self–or did I? He was merely a humble pianist today, not the old defense attorney. Definitely not truly Phoenix Wright–maybe I disappeared by magic, like Zak did years ago.
And, with the newfound relief the acquittal brought, the words of young Vera Misham said all those years ago echoed through his head, a certain image of a familiar red journal entry popping up,
“That man with the glasses paid for it.”
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･