October modplot: Memories

[jurisimpudent]

Your hand looks small on the bar of the witness stand as you wedge yourself into the seat. You can't see the judge. You tell yourself you're not scared. You are.

State your name for the record.

You answer; your voice is already shaking. Already shaking; how bad are you? How stupid? How can you ever think you'll get through your full testimony when you're already this stupid and cowardly and scared?

Miles Edgeworth.

And your occupation?

You stare down at your hands. There's a ripple of anger in you when you answer:

I…go to school.

And you understand why that made you angry when you hear the indulgent chuckle from the judge to your right, when you look up and see the dewey expressions from the people in the gallery. You look up at the prosecutor, and you feel - for the first time in your life - a bright hot line of hatred for someone. It's nasty, and it's cruel, and it twists in you, and it hurts, because your dad is dead, and there aren't supposed to be condescending chuckles when your dad is dead.

How old are you, Miles?

Nine.

And what did you see?

You answer what you saw. There's a ringing in your ears as you talk, and there's a curious disconnect from your words. When you speak, it seems too vivid. There are eyes on you, curious, and you hate all of them, too. You don't know if you're being coherent. The prosecutor - the prosecutor keeps interrupting you, and the defense attorney interrupts him - you're not being coherent, but what you're saying, you can't remember…The elevator, the earthquake - the bailiff, strangling your father - your father - Dad - and a gunshot -

They press that point. Who fired the gun? The prosecutor has prepared you, coached you. The answer is clear, but the words tumble from your mouth and you're crying - when did you start crying?

I don't know.

The prosecutor calls a recess so you can compose yourself. He touches your shoulder. You hit his hand away from you. You've never hit anyone before. Dad would be ashamed of you.

There's someone else, a woman - his secretary - who kneels down next to you and coos, gets you calmed down enough that you can go back inside, but you hate them, you hate them all, you hate all of them, you hate all of them because Dad's dead and you don't...

You don't…

A few more minutes of testimony. You say more. You can't remember. Then - and this is the part you remember, the part that's seared into your memory - the defense attorney offers a neurological assessment. Oxygen deprivation indicates you were probably brain-damaged. The testimony today has indicated the same.

The official opinion of the court aligns with Mr. Hammond's neurologist's report.

The bailiff is freed, in the end. Dad's killer walks free. The prosecutor had promised you justice; all you've found is an official opinion that you're damaged, and hatred, when never before have you hated anyone. Never before in your life.


If I had been the prosecutor, the outcome would have been quite different.

The man sitting before you is severe, harsh, upright. You remember him from court. Dad had called him a formidable opponent; you think that had been a compliment.

My enemies do not ever escape from my grasp.

You look down at your hands. There's dirt under your fingernails; you don't care at all. You haven't cared for a year.

How do you…keep them from...

The man's voice is sharp. Speak up.

Hesitantly, you look up, and ask, louder: How do you keep them from escaping?

The man wears a smile. It's not kind. But you're tired of kind smiles.

Do you wish to know, really?

Yes, please.

Speak up. And don't use such weak words.

I - Yes, sir.

He nods. The smile grows.

To show you will take ten years of your life.

Your brow furrows; you stare. He leans forward.

I can make you a prosecutor, Edgeworth. If you are clever, and you commit to working hard for me, I will show you how to bring your own enemies low. You'll come to live with myself and my family, away from here, and dedicate yourself fully to your studies. Do you agree?

You're soft-spoken and thoughtful and given to hesitation. But now your answer is firm and immediate:

I agree, sir.

Because how could you ever refuse?


You don't know how long you've been awake. You feel sluggish. You can't stand up. Your eyes don't focus right; you're not sure why. People come and talk to you. You can't remember who. Your head hurts.

You've been out four days. That's one thing you remember hearing. And: We don't want you standing up quite yet. And: Can you say your name for me? You must have done so, because they went away.

Here's the first thing you remember uttering:

Where's my dad?

And the nurse at your bedside gets a look on her face like she's bitten into something bitter. She looks down, drawing your blood.

I don't know anything about that, honey. The doctors will be in soon, okay?

The next nurse (bringing a tube for you to breathe into, noting how much force your lungs can produce) also promises the doctors will be in soon. And the doctor comes, and you ask -

Where's Dad?

Your voice is high, shrill, piping. The doctor doesn't talk to you. He leans over and mumbles, The police should have been by already.

Social worker first, says the nurse.

Well, where's the social worker?

Held up.

Where?

What do I look like, a telephone?

Dad raised you polite. He raised you to have good manners. When someone speaks to you, you speak back to them. When they're not paying you heed, you wait until they're not occupied, and when you have their attention, you speak quietly and nicely. You say please and thank you. You don't raise your voice.

But right then, your throat clenches, and you want them to just tell you that Dad died.

Where's - you start, your voice just below a scream, but your throat - torn up from the breathing tube, sore and weak - catches, and you cough and cough and you feel like you can't breathe and you grab hold tight of the side of the bed and cough until you retch, panic overtaking you, starting to sob, starting to weep wildly and uncontrollably while they just stand there and watch you and mutter to each other.

Dad's dead. They finally tell you that much. His funeral's in three days. And if you work really hard on building up your strength, you can attend.

(You don't get strong enough fast enough. It happens without you. You never see his face again except in photographs.)


You don't feel so weak now. You're older. Your hands, when you look down at your hands, don't have a child's chubbiness anymore. When you stand up to cross the room, you've got growing pains, an ache in your elbows and knees. You're dressed differently, now - a button-down shirt, an ascot, cufflinks, uncomfortable shoes, a double-breasted jacket - even though you're just sitting at a desk. Your eyes ache; they're dry and scratchy. You look at the clock, and a ripple of awareness tells you it's been thirty-six hours since you last slept, now.

There's a knock on the door. You stand; you open it; you see a meal on a tray and, beyond it, a servant's retreating back. A desperate hysterical sort of misery washes over you; it's been seventy-seven hours since you said a word to anyone, now. You wish they would stay and talk, just to receive your thanks. You wish -

You bow, stiffly, awkwardly, in confusion and unhappiness, in the direction of the servant's back. You wonder - pathetic and ungrateful, as though your esteemed mentor would be so petty as to care about something so inconsequential - whether the esteemed von Karma might have instructed them not to talk to you. You wonder whether the esteemed von Karma is punishing you for having failed in recitation last week. You know you ought to feel grateful for his attention and for this food and for the shelter over your head, but all you want to do is fill the bath and push your head under the water and hold it there until it's all over.

You take back the food and set it aside. There are books that need reading. You will read them. Next time you will be flawless. Next time you won't see him curling his lip in contempt. Next time he will be happy with you -

There's another knock on the door. You look up in confusion, look around to see the door opening. It's strange; the servants never enter uninvited, and…

It's Franziska, seven years old, dressed in powder-blue, followed closely by a valet bearing a plate of food. Franziska's carrying a stick; she points with it imperiously at your bed and announces -

I will have my dinner served there.

And she hops up on your bed, settles down, and the valet hands her the tray with the plate on it. You stare at her in confusion, simply not comprehending what's transpiring; you ask -

Franziska, why are you…

She interrupts.

Eating by yourself is pathetic, Miles Edgeworth. And she punctuates that with a fierce swallow from her glass of milk. You may thank me.

You still stare.

Thank you for…?

For saving you from being pathetic! Don't be so slow. Now turn and eat your dinner with me.

Slowly, you pick up the food, and put it on your lap, and turn to look at Franziska. You've been in this household three years now and always you and the esteemed von Karma's daughter have kept separate, so you don't understand what's going on or why. But she knows her own mind, it seems; she orders you, sharply:

Tell me what you've been working on.

And you slowly begin to speak, haltingly at first - like your voice has forgotten how to be used but begins gradually to remember - and then with greater surety. The details of what you've said, those are fuzzy. What's not is the keen confusion that gives way to gratitude that gives way to affection, even as she leans over and raps you hard on the knee with her stick when she doesn't like your answers.

She takes every meal with you from then on. To save you from being pathetic. That's all.


Here's Dad: a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, slicked-back hair, a tie, a tendency to wear mismatched socks. A peanut-butter-and-mustard sandwich yesterday, absent-mindedness combining with the complete darkness when he was making your lunch to make you go hungry. Never missing a school event, not a spelling bee or a geography bee or a parent-teacher conference. Firm affirmations of his love for you. A key in your pocket. Leaving your light on so that he can come by and say goodnight to you when you're already asleep, so that when you wake up in the morning and see the light's been turned off you know he's already come and gone. Fumbling attempts to keep up Mom's old garden in her memory, attempts eventually ceded to a gardener. Bemusement when you're in tears over your B in art; level-voiced negotiations with the teacher to let you make it up. A party with you in a suit and a bow tie and people saying to you, over and over, Your father is a great man. Did you know how great a man your father is?

You know, and it makes you feel near to bursting with pride.

Here's Dad: a quiet Sunday morning at the kitchen table, tea in your mug, coffee in his. You drumming your heels against the chair as you work once again at folding a paper crane. He frowning down at his case brief. It's warm. The sliding glass door is open. You can see a bird of paradise bobbing in the breeze, and the quiet is broken only by the hiss of cars passing by on the street.

Neither of you has spoken for an hour. But you ask, suddenly:

Dad, what if I didn't become a lawyer?

Dad looks up and pushes a stray piece of hair off his forehead. It immediately flops down again. He frowns but doesn't hesitate before answering:

I'd still be proud of you, no matter what you did.

Even if I broke the law?

A pause, and then he gives a little smile when he admits:

We might have to have a talk if you decided to become a career criminal.

That's reassuring to you. It means he's not lying. So you feel confident enough to reassure him.

I mean - I think I will be one. I want to be. But if, if I'm not good, then I'll have to not do it, won't I - because everyone is entitled to a fair defense…

Dad's got a stack of cases to work on, yet he answers patiently. No demands to know what's brought this on - just a quiet response to what you're actually saying.

That is true. If you are not equal to providing a defense, then it's your responsibility to step aside. But is there a reason you don't think you'd be good at it?

You shrug.

I'm not good at art.

His eyes crinkle in a smile.

Your art's just a bit different. That's all. But I believe that, if it is what you truly want to do, you will become an excellent attorney, Miles.

You smile in return. You feel a warm sort of happiness. It's as good as a swallow of tea.

Let's try. Come and help me with these case files.

You brighten.

Really?

Really. This first one's a bit gruesome. A murder. Will you be okay with that?

And you're perhaps a bit too enthusiastic when you answer - Yeah! And a moment later, you wrinkle your nose - I mean, um…Yes, I will. Thank you for your, your, um, consideration.

And Dad smiles and pulls out the chair beside him for you to jump into, and answers with due consideration:

You're very welcome.


You know what death is. You're not a dumb little kid. You know what it means that Mom died. Dad, uncertain, with his face pale and lined and his voice shaking, had tried to explain it to you, but you told him that you understood. Because you do. Mom's gone, and you won't be able to see her again; it's not a hard thing to figure out.

When you tell Dad that, he stands still for a moment, and then confirms this. He sounds like he's going to be ill. You're worried about him. Mom would have made him a cup of tea, probably. That's what she did for you.

You know what death is. You know what it means to see Mom laying there. But it's weird, it's so weird, not to see her laughing. Mom was always laughing. She was always smiling and singing. When she napped, even then she slept with her mouth hanging open, and as soon as you came into the room she'd stir and sit up and blink and ask you how you were and immediately be up and trotting outside to check on her roses. But she's still now, and when they lift you up so you can see into the coffin and say goodbye it's just strange.

Everyone's crying. You stay quiet. You don't want to distract them. You know this is important for them to do. They all loved her a lot.

I'm worried about Miles, Dad says, which is just strange because he's the one who's really sad. You're worried about him. You're okay.

That night he wants to stay with you in your room. You guess he needs it. You don't mind. But you can't sleep, and you feel bad because you think he needs it, but you end up asking him questions instead of letting him. That's probably really bad of you.

Are the plants in her garden going to die?

Dad answers in a voice that shakes. You've never, in all your life, heard his voice shaking. Not before this. But now he's so sad and unsteady.

No. No, Miles, I'm - I'm going to take care of them.

What about her class?

I…The…school will find a substitute. For a while.

But that's not what you meant. They'll be sad to lose her.

Dad's started crying. You feel awful, too, for making him cry, like he hasn't cried enough.

Yes.

She was a good teacher.

She was a…really good teacher. Yes.

We're going to keep her tea mug, right?

Dad's suddenly over next to you, kneeling by your bed, wrapping you tightly in his arms. You're crying. You don't know when you started.

I know it won't be, be useful, because she never - never let anyone else use it - we can't, can't drink out of it, but - but I want to hold onto it -

Dad holds you closer. His voice is anguished.

Miles -

And you can't talk, suddenly - you're crying into his shoulder, and in a high sob you ask -

Does she still love us?

And Dad answers, his shoulders shaking -

She loves us. She loves us. She'll always love us.


It comes on sudden. Unpredictable - and then it's there; it's there. You can't hear. You can't breathe, and that's the worst of it; you feel a thickness in your mouth, like your tongue's caught to your palate, and there's something clawing at your insides, that raking panic. Your ears beat a tattoo, the thrum of blood pushing its way through the bony labyrinth, and the bailiff's fist rises, falls, falls, falls, comes back up bloody, and Dad's making a terrible sound, a terrible choking sound, and you're crying -

It's animal, animal; there's no sense to you. An animal when threatened reacts or it freezes; you do the latter; you push yourself into the corner and watch, struggling for breath, dizzy - head pounding, ears pounding, something scrabbling inside your chest trying to get out - tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth - you can't breathe, you're dying -

Gun's at your feet. Your shoulders ache. You feel like you're inside a barrel, inside a box, buried deep underground and scratching at the dirt and feeling it press down further. Every move - every move and you're buried deeper, deeper, dirt pressing down harder and you can't breathe - Dad's struggling to breathe - Dad's dying - you can't do anything, you can't help yourself - Gun's at your feet. You're trapped, Dad's dying - you pick it up - you throw it and it fires and there's a scream, and Dad's dead, you've killed him, you've killed Dad -

And then you're through, sitting up, turning around, gasping hard for breath, feeling the slide of sweat down your face.