A Turnabout, of Sorts

The air was stale in the Prosecutor’s Lobby that morning. The drab curtains that covered the steel-barred windows were drawn, hiding the cloudy sky. The television in the corner was cocked out slightly, as if someone had tried to get behind it. The tea set on the long table that ran along the wall on the other end was reflecting the fluorescent light fixtures on its face. The lone plant in the room drooped sadly, its leaves wrinkled and brown along the edges.

I sat on the brown leather couch twiddling my thumbs. The couch was old, and it sagged when I sat in it. The leather was soft, and probably very high quality at some point, but it hadn’t aged well and the surface was raw.

I tugged at the sleeves of my crisp white blouse with dramatic ruffles that cascaded down the front and lipped the cuffs. It tucked into a chocolate brown twill pencil skirt that came just to the knee and went perfectly with my brown patent leather kitten heels. My hair was pulled up in a tight bun, but my severe fringe and loose tendrils effectively covered my eyebrows, which I always thought were too pale and didn’t match my golden locks. My satchel was in my lap, inconspicuously holding all of my secret weapons that that defense attorney in the tacky red suit didn’t even know I had.

“Objection!” a voice squawked. It was feint, but I was almost positive the voice belonged to Mr. Justice. Why on Earth did he need to shout so loudly? Why on Earth did he need to shout at all? He was an odd one, for sure. And his hair is more outrageous than Alexander McQueen’s 2005 spring line.

“Hold it!” he yelled again. Just listening to him made my voice box ache.

I fingered the latch on my bag nervously. Being in the courthouse again really brought back memories, and that day from seven years ago overtook me like a tidal wave. I remembered how nervous Mr. Wright was right before the case. I thought about seeing Miles in action for the first time, and how different the two lawyers were. Miles was calm and composed; Mr. Wright was skittish and tense. I recalled the moment the judge rendered his “not guilty” verdict and how relieved I was. It was the best and worst day of my life at once. Well, I don’t suppose it was the best day, as the best day of my life was when Mother took me to New York for her Fashion Week showing and I met my absolute favorite designer ever, or perhaps it was the day I met the amazingly talented Franziska Von Karma, but I digress.

After thinking back to that day, I saw that I made the correct choice in becoming a prosecutor rather than a defense attorney. Miles and Ms. Von Karma actively pursue the conviction of criminals and the search for truth. Mr. Wright, even though he was able to prove my innocence, was unprepared and seemed to just guess his way through the trial. To think that just days later he was found to be using forged evidence in court is astounding.

“Ah ha ha ha! Okay, Frauleins! I’ll catch you later!”

The moment I heard that voice I was brought back to the present day, and I felt something like a lead ball dropping in my stomach.

I clapped my hands together and prayed to whoever was listening at the time. Please, please, pleeeeaase let him just waltz right on past the door, I said furiously in my head. I threw in another “please” or two for good measure.

The door creaked open, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming, or cursing. My hands fell limply to my sides. As if on cue, he slid into the room, chains clanking noisily against his hideous rings. At least he had the courtesy to close the door behind him.

“It’s not like you to be just sitting there, Fraulein Wednesday,” he decided to tell me. “You’re usually puttering about, doing this and that.”

“I’m mentally preparing myself,” I grumbled. “What do you want, anyway?”

“I’m here to cheer you on, of course,” the fop said.

I really must credit Detective Skye for introducing me to the word “fop”. I had heard her use it to describe him while we were investigating, though I question the word “glimmerous” even though it fits him somehow. I may disagree with her on many different subjects, such as taste in clothing, but the good prosecutor is someone that we both seem to share an opinion on.

He grinned stupidly. It took everything I had to not punch his perfect gleaming teeth out.

“I don’t need you to cheer me on,” I told him.

He smiled. He knew something I didn’t, and he was going to lord it over me like I was his little sister.

“I don’t think you quite get it, Fraulein,” he teased, taking a few strides until he was right above me. “I’m here to be your co-counsel.”

I threw my satchel aside on the couch and stood up with the stomp of my heel. Even with my heels on, I only came up to his chin.

“Again, I don’t need you,” I growled through gritted teeth.

He let out a “hmph”, like I was exasperating him. He dug around in his pocket until he found a folded-up piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to me. It was warm. Ew.

“Herr Edgeworth seems to think so,” he taunted in a sing-song voice.

I gave him the best daggered gaze I could muster. “What is this?” I asked him.

“He mailed me and told me to come today,” he explained. “I thought you might do this, so I took the liberty of printing it out for you. Go ahead, read it.”

My eyes narrowed to mere slits as I scanned the page. It was an email, so it was in the typical font, but I imagined it in Miles’s calligraphic script.

Klavier, it read, Wednesday has told me that her first case is coming up soon. Unfortunately, my presence is required elsewhere, so I will be unable to attend. I ask that you please attend in my stead in case her focus strays away from the truth. I trust you enough-

I crumpled up the paper and threw it at his way-too-tan face. Not only did I have to put up with this rock-star meathead, but Miles didn’t trust me apparently.

I folded my arms as the crumpled ball fell with a bounce to the floor. I looked up at him, my sharply manicured fingernail pointed to the underside of his chin.

“Listen, you! I –”

“The trial is about to begin,” the bailiff said gruffly, probably in an effort to nip the impending argument in the bud.

He put his hands on his hips and a smirk on his face.

“Well? Shall we?” he propositioned.

I pursed my lips. I had no other way out. He was going in there with me whether I liked it or not, and he was going to revel in my discomfort and frustration. It seemed that his mission was to do just that. Or perhaps it was his duty as the senior prosecutor to break in the unfortunate freshman. I really didn’t appreciate it either way, as I was not about to re-live school.

“Fine,” I muttered, “but it’s not as if I’ll actually need you for anything.” I started toward the door, my fists clenched and hanging at my sides. My walk felt stiff and was most certainly unflattering.

“Fraulein!” he called, still standing in the same spot.

“What!?” I griped. “Let’s go!”

“You forgot your bag,” he said with a voice that was way too cheerful. I took a deep breath and stomped back over, grabbing my bag as I whirled back around. I started toward the door again with my unflattering walk, and he followed me this time.

His arm stretched out in front of me and opened the door for me. At least he wasn’t a completely unsalvageable fop. He still had some shred of gentlemanly politeness underneath the glimmer of his “bad boy” image.

“After you, Fraulein,” he said with a toothy grin.

“Thank you very much,” I said slowly and graciously.

And with that short exchange, I entered the courtroom with the most obnoxious man I’d ever met and my severely shaken confidence only barely intact. I could hardly handle just being near this man, how was I supposed to prosecute with him judging my every statement? In any case, I had to get a grip. After all, uncertainty was death in court, and I wasn’t about to let him or anyone else ruin my very first case.

…

“How did it go?” the garbled voice that sounded vaguely like Miles said.

“Recess until tomorrow,” I replied succinctly.

Some more static-like feedback from the other end seemed to be the response.

“What?” I said, wondering if he’d actually said something.

“Good,” he spoke, after some more static.

“Where on Earth are you, anyway?” I asked.

“…I-…in a……in the re-…with…-,” the unintelligible voice responded. I didn’t catch anything important, but I humored him for the sake of ease.

“Alright, then…,” I meandered, hoping to end the conversation. I felt uncomfortable talking on the phone in the courthouse, especially with a hanger-on that didn’t seem to want to go away anytime soon, much to my great displeasure. Not just that, but talking to Miles on the phone is like pulling teeth.

“By the-…was Gavin-?” he added quickly.

“It was fine!” I retorted curtly. “I have to go. Goodbye.”

I closed my phone with a sharp snap and threw it carelessly in my satchel. I figured Miles would chew me out the next time we spoke, saying something like, “You shouldn’t just hang up on someone like that!” But I didn’t care. He could just stew in his annoyance for a little bit whilst I stewed in mine.

“So, Fraulein,” my hanger-on spoke finally, “what are your plans now?”

“Go to the scene and investigate some more,” I replied. “I need to figure out what really happened here.”

“Then I will come with you,” he said.

I whirled around to face him.

“Your obligation ends here,” I said sternly. “I don’t need your help.”

“I want to supervise, ja?” he responded. “Make sure that you are really finding the truth that you need to find.”

“What are you going on about-?”

“Ach, Herr Forehead,” he said suddenly. I whipped back around to find that Mr. Justice had, in fact, approached us, along with his assistant. I had no idea how long they were standing there, and I wondered briefly if he had been standing there the whole time.

“Mr. Justice,” I said to him flatly. “You are a worthy opponent. I am looking forward to tomorrow’s trial.”

“Oh, uh, thank you?” he replied sheepishly. He looked to his assistant, and back to me. “So…what do you think about this case?”

“Frankly, I would rather not tell you,” I said back sharply. “You are, as a defense attorney, the enemy. As much as I want to find the truth, I would like to win as well, and I can’t win by fraternizing with the enemy. All I will tell you is that for the moment, I am still highly suspicious of your client.” I took a loose piece of my hair and fiddled with it, twirling it crossly around my finger. “That is all.”

I realized that I may have been a bit harsh on him, but at the same time I felt that he was not to be trusted. As a result of this, I saw his face tighten into an uncomfortable knot. He looked again to his assistant, who was also taken aback by my words.

“Well, I guess we should go then, Polly,” she whimpered. She slinked away with her periwinkle cape swishing behind her, and Mr. Justice soon followed.

“Cutting right to the chase?”

I had hoped that he had decided to leave, but sadly that was not the case. He slinked up in front of me, taking Mr. Justice’s place. I began on my way again, and he walked briskly with me, though backward. He was practically jogging, and I found it miraculous that he didn’t run into anything or anyone.

“You still insist on coming with me?” I asked, irate.

“Ja,” he replied concisely.

We reached the front of the courthouse and he turned around, walking by my side like a normal human being would. I rummaged through my bag for my keys and found them immediately, thankfully. I was hoping to avoid giving him the opportunity to make fun of me for not having my keys at the ready, or something equally foolish. We descended the steps, moving to where my car was parked.

My black Mini Cooper (hardtop with a white roof and mirrors, naturally) is my pride and joy and it is one of my most prized possessions, as it was a gift from my father to celebrate my becoming a prosecutor.

“Achtung, Fraulein! Does that roller-skate belong to you?”

It came as to no surprise that he would tease me about it. I smashed the unlock button on the remote.

“Get in,” I responded coldly. He slid into the passenger’s side and I went around and got in the driver’s seat.

“It’s as tiny on the inside as it is on the outside,” he remarked as I stuck the key in the ignition. I ignored this as I sped off to the scene of the crime, the motor humming loudly. Aside from an off-handed comment about his “hog” having more horsepower that my car, he stayed remarkably silent the whole ride. I glanced at him a couple of times and saw that he was just staring abstractedly out the window, his elbow perched on the armrest and his mouth covered by his ring-adorned hand. He had an unreadable expression; I wasn’t sure if he was deep in thought or not thinking at all. Maybe he thought I was angry with him and thought it wise to keep quiet, in which case he would be correct. I don’t appreciate it when I am made fun of, especially when it has to do with personal matters such as my car or my performance in court. I didn’t (and still don’t) have the experience that he had.

I fear that being associated with Miles is what propagated this. The other prosecutors held me to an expectation that I could not fulfill. Even though I worked for him (and truthfully he never really acknowledged me as his “apprentice” until a year or so ago), it doesn’t mean that I am his clone. We are two completely different people. He began his career at the age of twenty. I didn’t feel comfortable taking the bar until just a couple of months previous. I can’t be expected to live up to that sort of legacy right away, especially on my first case. Unfortunately for me, I was not endowed with abilities that could make me some sort of protégé. Nonetheless, I have tried my best to live up to such grandiose expectations, and I will continue to try until I do.

…

I pulled to a halt behind a police car parked in front of the gate to People Park. The pastel letters greeted the crime-scene-goers cheerfully as they went on to investigate any leftover traces of bloody remains or a looked-over piece of evidence. I smirked to myself, taking a bit of humor in the irony.

“Ironic, isn’t it Fraulein?” his voice broke into my thought. “Such a cheerful place, yet depressed with the grim implication of murder.” He paused for a moment, ostentatiously snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Hmmm, that would be a rockin’ song.”

“If you say so,” I said bluntly, brushing him off. Of course he had to stamp out the little speck of joy in this dismal day.

“That dry humor of yours is adorable,” he remarked tauntingly. He probably had some kind of wry smile on his face, but I was trying to ignore him so I wasn’t actually looking.

“Who said ‘humor’?” I grumbled as I made my way to the park proper. He kept close behind.

Mr. Justice and his assistant were already poking around at the scene, thanks to city traffic. I began my own investigation near the fence running along the creek. The suspect was found soaking wet at the time of his arrest so I felt it only natural to begin there.

“So, Fraulein,” he began, “what do you expect to find here, exactly?”

“Evidence,” I replied simply. “What else?”

“Right, but what do you expect to find here?” he returned.

“Must I spell it out for you?” I sighed. “I’m looking for definitive evidence that will connect the suspect to the murder.”

“And what do you think that ‘definitive evidence’ will look like?” he inquired.

“How am I supposed to know!?” I responded snappily. He was really beginning to get on my nerves.

“How do you think you can find something when you don’t know what you’re looking for?”

“How do you think I can focus on investigating while being given some asinine questionnaire?”

“Ach, I’m just trying to help,” he said, his hands up as if he were ceding defeat.

“Well, right now you are not helping,” I muttered. I moved swiftly to the line of benches on the other side of the park, walking my unflattering walk from this morning. I could hear his footsteps on the damp grass behind me.

“It seems to me that you need my help, Fraulein,” he retorted. “You don’t know what to do. You’re running around and looking for something that might not even be here at all.”

I stopped in my tracks and pivoted on my heel, facing him and his suddenly startled expression.

“Actually, I don’t need your help,” I snapped. “In fact, I don’t need anyone else’s help either.” His hand rose slightly in objection, but I didn’t give him the chance.

“And if your definition of ‘help’ is ‘to mock and deride’ then you’re doing a fantastic job!” I said sarcastically, my voice rising slightly. I saw Mr. Justice and his assistant look up in the corner of my eye. I felt my anger building rapidly.

“I…-” he started meekly.

“Do you enjoy making fun of others’ flaws!?” I continued, my voice to a full yell. “Because I certainly don’t appreciate it! I’m new at this, I get it! That’s no reason to put down my prowess in court or lack thereof, or anything else for that matter! So you can either stop with the critiques, or just leave altogether! Actually, I would really prefer if you just left, because I’m sick and tired of seeing your stupid face every time I turn around!!”

He just looked at me. His blue eyes were wide and his brow furrowed. He was visibly hurt, and I almost immediately regretted everything I had said.

“If that is how you feel…” he said finally, slowly, “…then I will get out of your way.”

As he turned to leave I reached my hand out to him, but the gesture was futile. He turned away without looking and stalked out of the park. I retracted my hand sluggishly and it dropped to my side.

“Uh, Prosecutor Adelaide…” I heard Mr. Justice pipe up, “don’t you think that was a little…harsh?”

“Yeah,” his assistant backed him up. “That was pretty harsh. I mean, Mr. Gavin was just trying to help.”

Normally, I would never have given Mr. Justice the benefit of the doubt, but in this particular instance I found his words rang true. He may have annoyed me, but I rarely yell at anyone, much less to the extent I had just done for such a small offense. I let my predisposition toward him take over common courtesy and civility, yet again.

“Why do I always do this?” I muttered, more to myself than for the benefit of Mr. Justice. “I push away the few people that are kind enough to give me the time of day, and I am left alone again.”

“Y’know, Mr. Gavin is pretty forgiving,” the girl in the top hat said cheerfully. “You should go apologize.”

“Trucy’s right,” Mr. Justice added. “Prosecutor Gavin likes to keep good company. He’ll understand.”

I paused for a beat, taking in their words. “Where do you think he went?” I asked them.

“Probably the prosecutor’s office,” the girl, who I assumed was Trucy, replied tactfully. Mr. Justice agreed with a slight nod.

“I see,” I acknowledged pensively. I looked to the entrance gate of the park.

“Take care of the rest of the investigation here, Mr. Justice,” I said with resolve as I walked stiffly back to my car. I thought I heard him say, “But I was already investigating…” or something similar, but I was too far away by that time to be sure. Nonetheless, I jumped in my car and sped away, the destination clear in my mind.

…

I pulled up to the building, the emerging sun glinting off of the rows upon rows of windows. I got out and scanned the panes quickly, seeing if I could discern which office belonged to him. I was still unfamiliar with the layout of the prosecutor’s office, and all I knew was that Miles’s office was the one with the basketball hoop in front of it and mine was two doors down.

After a pensive inquiry from the cranky old bag of a receptionist I made my way to his office on the top floor. As I approached I heard and felt a thumping bass line, and I knew that I could just follow the music. However, when I arrived at his door the music wasn’t any louder than when I was down the hall. I knocked on the door, with no answer. I knocked again, with more force and no more success. I determined that he must not have heard my rapping over the music, and so I let myself in, despite the fact that I may not have been welcome.

The music inside his office was significantly louder and I felt the pulse through my feet and up through my entire body. I was surprised nothing in his office had broken from the artificial earthquake.

I spotted him on the other end of the room, looking wistfully out the window with his hands shoved in his pockets. He didn’t notice me.

“Uh, excuse me,” I spoke. He gave no response. I called to him again, and without so much as an acknowledgement I yelled as loudly as I could.

He turned around finally, a look of surprise and alarm graced his face. He wasn’t expecting anyone, apparently.

“Ah, Fraulein Wednesday,” he said, his already-forceful voice barely carrying over the music. He pulled a remote from his pocket and turned off the stereo. “What are you doing here?” His face suddenly flattened into an expression of passive disappointment, and I felt a pang of sadness. He was truly hurt by my words.

My sadness overtook me, and I felt the beginnings of tears building behind my eyes. I clasped a hand to my mouth as I realized something that truly saddened me.

I had never called him by his name, ever.

Tears silently spilled over my eyelashes as I tried to suppress a sob. I had done him a severe injustice that he never deserved in the first place.

“Mr. Gavin,” I choked out, “I am so sorry. I said things that I didn’t mean and weren’t true.”

My eyes were squeezed shut, trying to keep the tears at bay, though I knew my makeup was probably ruined. I felt a large hand grip my shoulder and I looked up to see a warm smile.

“I appreciate the apology,” he said. “It takes a big person to do that. I forgive you.”

I managed a smile. “Thank you,” I said back meekly, wiping my cheek with my sleeve. “You are truly a good man, Mr. Gavin.”

“Ah, think nothing of it,” he replied lightly. “I realize that I may have been a bit heavy on the teasing. I just didn’t expect you to take it so seriously.”

“Yeah,” I laughed weakly, “I can be a little overly sensitive sometimes.” I shifted nervously. I never liked prolonged silences.

“Well, I guess I should get going,” I sighed, slowly making my way back to the door. “I have some more investigating to do…” I hesitated for a moment. “…if you would like to join me.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think you have it under control,” he responded. “You are Herr Edgeworth’s apprentice, after all.”

“I suppose,” I answered, “but I’m also not his clone.”

“Even so, I can tell you have potential. I think he could tell, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have hired you.”

“If he hadn’t hired me, I would have pestered him to death.” I smiled. “Alright, I’m leaving now. Goodbye, Mr. Gavin.”

“Wait,” he said as I was about to step across the threshold. I turned to face him. “Call me Klavier,” he said to me.

I smiled wider. I took his gesture to mean that I was his equal, or he was mine.

And as I closed the door behind me I briefly mused upon his reasons for ever following me around in the first place, along with Miles’s cryptic email, but this line of thought quickly faded. As I walked down the hall of offices, I found myself humming the very song that had been blasting on his speakers: “Guilty Love”, by The Gavinners. I laughed to myself, thinking how egotistical he was for listening to his own music when he was depressed. My misjudgment wasn’t completely incorrect, as he was still an obnoxious, lazy, smug man, but he was also rather kind and honest. I was wrong to think he wasn’t. I was grateful for an ally in my new home, especially without Miles present.

I felt that this was the beginning of me breaking out into my own, and out of his shadow.

There are some distinct parallels between fashion and law. I was to start my signature line, and I had to express my point of view with different, yet cohesive garments. And I had to do it by fashion week, or else I wouldn’t be given a second thought. I would just be another blasé looked-over designer. The courtroom is my fashion week, and the evidence is my signature line. But in the world of fashion, one cannot control how their line will come across to the general public. In the world of law, it is up to the lawyer to give their evidence a voice. A line of garments will speak for itself; evidence must be interpreted. This is the crucial role of the attorney at law. I must be the interpreter for the court, and for the general public. In this way, a lawyer can determine their fate. Designers practice their craft their whole lives, and pray that people will like it. A lawyer can persuade. A lawyer presents themselves; a designer is just a name behind an outfit. I think this is why I prefer the legal world. I can be a dynamic force of change throughout my career. I must prosecute criminals using my own devices, rather than relying on evidence alone.

And that is what will get me to the top, where Miles and Ms. Von Karma comfortably reside. I will get there if it kills me.

…

A new day arose and the sun beamed through the barred windows of the Prosecutor’s Lobby. The window was open, letting in the fresh spring air. The television had been pushed flush against the wall as if someone had noticed it was jetting out farther than it should have been. The teapot on the table cheerfully reflected the natural sunlight, and even the depressed potted plant seemed a little sprightlier.

I sat in a patch of sun on the old faded leather couch, basking in the warmth. My exposed legs were especially pleased, as they had no protection with my navy blue ruched dress.

My hair was only pulled back roughly with one large banana clip, with the rest cascading over my shoulders in wild curls. A pair of sky-high black heels and a pop of red lipstick completed the look.

The creak of the door sent me straight up, and I saw it was only my new ally.

“No need to stand for me,” he teased as he shut the door behind him. I folded my arms across my chest as he approached me.

“Are you here to be my co-counsel again?” I asked.

“Ah, I suppose that’s up to you, isn’t it?” he countered with a gleaming white smile. I smiled back.

“I think I can handle it,” I replied. “After all, I am Miles Edgeworth’s apprentice.”

“Good to hear,” he responded. “I’ll be cheering you on from the stands, ja?”

“Please don’t actually cheer…” I muttered. He chuckled in response.

“The trial is about to begin,” the bailiff grumbled.

“Well, that’s my cue,” I said as I grabbed my satchel from its resting place on the couch.

“Show them how hard you rock,” he called as he headed for the door. He gripped the handle and said, “Good luck, Wednesday.”

“Thank you, Klavier,” I called back, my sentence punctuated by the sound of the door closing behind him.

I sighed anxiously. It was my time to shine, truly. And I couldn’t have been more excited and nervous. I was ready to show off my signature line, without anyone holding my hand.

With the eyes of the audience upon me, I strode proudly into the courtroom. My ascent to the top had begun.