I also have this fan fic posted on FanFiction.net, and I am trying to get feedback on it. This is a work in progress, and is something of a biography for the demented genius a lot of us know and hate. Much of the story is centered around his adult life, however.
Here is a link to the Fan Fic, if anyone wants to check it for further updates. http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4221822/1/Mein_Kampf
Chapter 1 Childhood
Up to this point, my life had been a constant struggle against humanity. I was borne into a world that would have preferred if my existence never came to be. My mother was less than adept at hiding her regret that she had not given birth to a daughter, and my father, well…he just didn’t like anything. But I scared my parents. I came into this world missing a chromosome. At first, my parents feared that I would be mentally or physically impaired. This baffled the doctors. The absence of a chromosome seemed to have no bearing on my everyday life, but they warned my parents that its impact could manifest itself when I reached adulthood. Of course, this made no difference to them. I suffered considerable neglect at their hands, and my only sanctuary was the solitude of my mind.
School was the only real refuge I had, and I took pride in my academic ability. But in turn, I also suffered for my superior intelligence. As a small, short boy with apparent intellectual ability, I was an easy target for bullies. I would frequently come home bruised, battered, and bleeding. The only response my unsightly appearance elicited was a disappointed sigh from my crude, crass father who believed I should have fought back against them. With little other choice, I was content to allow my tormentors their moment in the sun. Society would punish them accordingly, once those simpleminded oafs entered the real world, where neither their brawn nor their lack of brainpower would assist them.
Through all the years, I took solace in the fact that, with my intellect, I would have a clear future once I completed my education in Germany. Although academic glory was satisfying, I lacked one thing I craved above all else: friendship. I was accepted by some of the other children only because I could help them with their homework. Once they had procured their answers from me, I was forgotten, left to sit alone while they began engaging in their reindeer games. When I was seven years of age, there was one boy whom I believed to be my friend, but in the end, it turned out that he, like the rest of them, sought only an easy way out of struggling with their homework. Angered at this betrayal, I revenged myself upon him by framing him for cheating on a test. Satisfied with his punishment, I proceeded with the dull monotony that was my life.
About a year after that incident, my younger brother, Klavier was born. At first, I welcomed this new arrival. However, it soon became apparent that he was to be more of a nuisance than a comfort to me. Prone to wailing incessantly at the most inopportune occasions, I grew to hate him, despite knowing full well that he had no control over his impulses. As he grew older, I began to envy and despise him even more. He was popular and charismatic, and my parents absolutely fawned on him. Though he was considerably less intellectually capable than I was, he was no fool. He could sense my animosity towards him, and tried to befriend me, but I pushed away his well-meaning advances. I didn’t need friendship, at least not from some glimmerous fop whose head was full of foolish fancies of becoming a rock star.
It angered me that someone with such a mundane, artificial personality could be loved by so many. Out of pure spite, I decided to bring an end to his superficial existence. I had it carefully planned. When everyone was asleep, I would retrieve my father’s pistol from the top shelf of the bathroom closet. Then, I would shoot Klavier and throw the weapon out the window. Immediately after I disposed of the weapon, I would sneak back into my bed, feigning sleep and preparing to put on a convincing display of grief for my dear, deceased baby brother. I had full intentions of carrying out the plan which I had concocted, but as I grabbed the pistol, a seed of doubt entered my mind for the first time. It would be too obvious, I concluded. Too obvious who had done it and too brutal a crime for me to commit. He wasn’t so bad, I concluded. A little empty-headed and a little self-absorbed, but he was still my brother. Shying away from my attempt at murder, I gradually adapted to his existence, shutting him out with the rest of my family, doing my best to ignore the praise and adulation that I deserved to hear.
One day, my father was charged with domestic violence. He had come home the night before after an evening out with his coworkers. He had had a few beers too many, and in a fit of drunken rage, he had taken an empty wine bottle and smashed it over my mother’s head. My mother had been fortunate. In his drunken state, he did not smash it forcefully enough to take her life. His loss of motor functions had dramatically lowered the impact of the blow. There was minimal bleeding, and my mother was able to retain her life and her sanity.
Klavier and I had been excused from school to witness my father’s trial. The legendary prosecutor, Manfred von Karma was doing everything he could to convict my father of domestic violence. In my heart, I wanted him to succeed, but I could not help but admire the defense attorney, Justin Case. Though the defense attorney knew he had almost no chance of stripping von Karma of his perfect win record, he believed in my father’s innocence. He was a fool in that respect, but I was in awe of his skill as an attorney.
As I watched him argue the case with passion and purpose, I knew then that when I grew up, I wanted to be a defense attorney. As expected, my father was convicted of the crime. Mr. Case had argued his case well, and were my father innocent, he would certainly have gotten off. But as it was, there was undeniable and damning proof of my father’s guilt, and he was dragged away in handcuffs, protesting the verdict of the trial. I smirked as he was led away, disgraced by the hand of justice. Some day, I would be the one in the courtroom, arguing for a client. And I would win.
Chapter 2 The Scar
I began studying for a career in the legal department once I had reached high school. After I graduated from college at the age of twenty, I had been accepted into a prestigious law school. So far everything was going according to my plan. The competition amongst the prospective lawyers was intense, but I was able to consistently outshine the rest. I quickly rose through the ranks of the law school and passed the bar exam with flying colors.
But during my time in law school, I crossed paths with an inferior being that would later degrade my existence: Phoenix Wright. Phoenix Wright was a pitiable attorney: easily flustered and mediocre to the last degree. I could hardly believe any law school, let alone one as prestigious as the Berlin Academy for the Legally Inclined would accept this pathetic excuse for an attorney. In mock trials, he would try to make the minutest discrepancy into a glaring contradiction. Needless to say, he failed more often than not, and I could only shake my head in amused disbelief as I saw him showcase his apparent lack of skill.
Once I passed my bar exam, I joined Oppenheimer and Co. Law Offices. As a rookie attorney, my list of clientele was virtually nonexistent. Within a year of my graduation from the Berlin Academy for the Legally Inclined, I had had only one client, and that client was guilty of the crime he had committed. I was able to get him off with a Not Guilty verdict, thanks in part to Prosecutor von Stein’s incompetence.
But after fifty-two long, arduous weeks of mediocrity in the German legal system, I decided to take my chances overseas. I had heard of the American legal system, and knew, from the frivolous nature of the inhabitants of America, that I would receive an abundance of clients. With violence and murder occurring left and right, even an inexperienced attorney such as me would have an opportunity to make a name for himself. While taking on cases for a variety of clients, I was able to support my livelihood, yet very few people still knew who Kristoph Gavin was. It seemed to me a great injustice that in all my brilliance and capability as a lawyer who had never lost a case, that I was still mired in obscurity, never given an opportunity to make my existence known in the legal world.
For years, this continued as I took on cases involving mostly petty crimes, with the occasional charge of domestic violence or assault. After some time, I decided to defect from the Grossberg Law Firm and head my own law office. To my chagrin, I found that I had even fewer clients than before. I remained hopeful for several months, but my financial status had been thrown into jeopardy.
Just when I began to give up hope of success in a legal career, fortune smiled upon me for the first time in my life. The state had appointed me to be the defense attorney for the trial of Orenthal James Sampson, the former NFL MVP, who had been charged with a series of murders. Despite the mounting evidence against him, I knew this would be my only chance to make a name for myself before I was forced onto the streets.
My opponent would be a worthy one, none other than Manfred von Karma’s protégé, Miles Edgeworth. Twelve cases into his career as a prosecutor, he had yet to be bested in court. I was ready to be the first to put a blemish on his pristine perfect record. This would be my chance. I would prove my client innocent, at all costs. And Miles Edgeworth would fall before my feet.
The trial went smoothly, and I had come to realize that much of the hype surrounding Miles Edgeworth was purely exaggeration. I had expected a prosecutor of his stature to be unflappable, a prosecutor who would always pose a threat. But Miles Edgeworth had overlooked several crucial points in the trial, and it was only through a desperate move that he was able to salvage the trial until the next day. The way the trial was going, it seemed as if victory was already mine to savor.
After dropping my briefcase off at the office, I went to the crime scene to investigate for more clues. When I arrived at the crime scene, I was ambushed by Manfred von Karma himself. He sneered at me and roared in his deep, rumbling tone,
“You shall not emerge victorious in the trial tomorrow. Regardless of what took place within the courtroom today, you are no match for Miles Edgeworth.”
“Oh, really?” I demanded. “And what makes you say that? I would have assumed your protégé would pose much more of a challenge than he did in court.” At this, von Karma’s gaze fell menacingly upon my eyes.
“I taught him what it meant to be a von Karma. Miles Edgeworth will find a way to bring justice to your client. He has never failed to do so yet. The guilty will always lie, to avoid being found out. It is the prosecution’s duty to incarcerate the perpetrators of injustice who weave lies to escape the tangle of their crimes. It is my duty to ensure that you do not succeed in tomorrow’s trial.”
“And what do you presume to….AHHHHHHHHHHH!”
In a split second, von Karma had used his taser to forcefully dictate that the discussion was over. He had been aiming for my torso, but I had held up my right hand in self-defense and instantly felt thousands of volts of electricity searing my hand. With a cry, I fell to the ground, clutching my hand in agony as I rolled around on the floor. I saw that there was a deep indentation on the back of my left hand that looked like the face of a demon. I could feel myself losing consciousness, and in my last moment before passing out, I glanced up at von Karma, horrified, holding back cries of pain.
“Best of luck, attorney,” he said, with a triumphant smile, before walking off, his purpose fulfilled.
They found me later that night, and transferred me to the Hotti Clinic. The taser had caused severe trauma to my nervous system and I would not be able to defend my client in the trial tomorrow. The physician informed me that another defense attorney appointed by the state would be taking my case, but the case meant nothing to me at this point. In the hands of an inferior attorney, my airtight case would fall apart. And if my case still managed to hold up, it would be another unworthy lawyer, thieving my glory and scavenging my pride.
I remained in the clinic until Thursday, and I would not pretend that I had not been expecting the headlines of that day’s newspapers. ‘Sampson Found Guilty of All Charges,’ the headline blared, ‘Edgeworth Emerges Victorious Once More.’ Disgusted, I tossed the newspaper into the recycle bin, lamenting what would have been mine had von Karma not intervened.
The only good thing that came out of the trial was the slightly increased prestige I had received from the first day of the trial. I began receiving clients often enough to afford a comfortable lifestyle. My legal career was looking slightly upwards, but I was still far from famous as a defense attorney. A year later, another case was sweeping the nation. The esteemed defense attorney, Mia Fey, had been murdered. The defendant was none other than the victim’s sister, teenager Maya Fey. The press remained completely convinced in her guilt, and many were declaring the trial over before it had even started.
I followed the case closely out of mild interest, as it regarded one of the more respected names in the business. I was shocked, but mostly pleased to see that the defense attorney for this particular case was none other than the incompetent Phoenix Wright himself. What a fool he was! What could he possibly gain from this case, other than disgrace from an embarrassing loss? Phoenix Wright may have won his first case on luck, but this time he was in over his head.
When I saw that Miles Edgeworth was to be the prosecutor for the case, I became even more certain that Wright would regret his foolish decision to defend Maya Fey. Edgeworth had failed to impress me in our lone showdown, but even I had been unable to best him in one day. Given that he had evaded defeat against me, it was all but given that he would destroy the novice Phoenix Wright.
As I watched the case progress, I could only laugh at Wright’s feeble efforts to appear competent. He had prolonged the trial by another day, but he had completely missed the mark. Instead of proving his client’s innocence, he had made a desperate move to try to accuse the witness herself of a crime which was barely related to the case. Fortune had smiled on Phoenix Wright, as he was given another day to pretend that he knew what he was doing.
When I woke up the next day, the newspaper informed me that there had been a switch in defendants. Phoenix Wright was now accused of murdering his mentor, with the motive that he would have become head of the Fey and Co. Law Offices once his mentor was out of the picture. The idea of Wright murdering someone in cold blood was laughable, but once again, the press was condemning him to the death sentence already. Although I knew he wouldn’t have had the fortitude to commit such a crime, it appeared all but hopeless for Wright. I looked forward to watching a live feed of the trial that day.
It was a slow day at the law office, so I left for home and began savoring the inevitable outcome. The trial was a dramatic masterpiece, a rare blend of comedy and tragedy. Against Edgeworth, Wright was just overmatched. It was almost pathetic, like watching a struggling child being devoured by a shark. To my utter surprise, Wright somehow pulled a victory out of his rectum and had handed Edgeworth the first defeat of his career.
Moments after vilifying him, the press was showering him in glory and praise for his ‘unbelievable turnaround.’ The reporters hailed him as a lawyer who was on a meteoric rise to fame, a person we could expect great things from in the near future. Impossible! How could Phoenix Wright luck out again? How could the second-rate Phoenix Wright, the lowlife of the legal world accomplish what I did not? Phoenix Wright had stolen my thunder, and had gained a reputation for legal brilliance that was completely undeserved. Someday, I would claim my rightful place, and Phoenix Wright would not stand in my way.
Chapter 3 My Big Chance
Life went on. After the trial of State vs. Sampson, I was beginning to gain respect as a defense attorney. I was considered to be something of a “competent” lawyer, a lawyer on a plane of skill slightly above the average lawyer. Average! I scoffed. As if my name could be synonymous with the dishonor of mediocrity! I was still waiting for my big chance. I would allow nothing to stand in my way, nothing to hinder me from shining on the legal stage. I thought about success every night and day. I was entranced by its seductive allure, for it seemed to promise power, fame, and prestige: the three symbols of status that gave my life importance. Then, one night, the answer to my prayers arrived in the form of a young girl.
“Mr. Gavin?” the young girl inquired shyly. “I’m Trucy, Trucy Gramarye.” ‘Gramarye,’ I thought. That name struck a chord with me. Gramarye was the name of the most famous troupe of magicians in the 21st century. Gramarye…what could he want with me?
“Yes, Trucy?” I asked.
“My daddy…Zak…he wants to see you…at the detention center.”
“Does he mean now?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “He insisted that a lawyer should come as soon as possible.”
I locked the door to the office, and I followed Trucy to the Detention Center. When I arrived at the Detention Center, visiting hours were almost over.
“I’m here to see Zak Gramarye,” I told the guard. He directed me towards a confined area on the other side of the hall.
“Are you sure this is a defense attorney, Trucy?” he asked his daughter.
“Yes, daddy,” she said. “It said so on the door of his office.”
“Very well,” he said.
“My name is Kristoph Gavin. I am the head of the Gavin Law Offices. I’d like to represent you in this case,” I declared. “But first before I do so, I would like to hear your version of events and how they coincide with the current known details of the crime.”
“I would expect nothing less,” said Zak. “I had received a letter from my mentor, Magnifi Gramarye. The letter told me to come to visit his room in the hospital at 11:05 PM on the night of the murder.”
“What else did this letter say?” I demanded.
“This letter told me that I was to shoot a forehead with a pistol that he had prepared earlier. Each pistol had only one bullet, so I was to make the right decision. I knew I had to go, for reasons that I will keep private.”
“I would rather you didn’t,” I said coldly. “You see, if you are to receive the ‘Not Guilty’ verdict you desire, I will have to know as much as possible regarding your motives and everything leading up to the incident.”
“You overestimate the American legal system, Mr. Gavin. Such a legal system has been faulty for generations, where the guilty party is innocent, and the innocent become scapegoats of another man’s crime. I know for a fact that it will be impossible to declare me ‘Guilty’ if I do not exist.” This man was delusional. From what he was saying, he expected to defeat the court system by feigning his nonexistence? Ridiculous! “Please continue,” I requested. “As I was instructed, I arrived at my mentor’s room at the precise time. I noticed my mentor was asleep, with his hands tucked over a small journal. I began searching for the pistol he said he had prepared, and after a few moments, I found it lying in the drawer. I cocked the pistol, and readied my aim, but as I was about to pull the trigger, I found myself unable to take my mentor’s life. At first, I was unable to see a way out of my situation. I did not dare defy a direct order from my mentor. Though he appeared asleep, I knew that he would not allow my defiance of his instruction to go unpunished. Yet, I did not want my hands tainted with murder. I looked around the room for a different way to interpret his instructions. I found a toy clown by his bedside. Taking careful aim, I pulled the trigger and blew a hole clean through its forehead. As I was about to leave, my mentor called for me. I turned around, and he told me that he had decided to leave the secrets to his magic tricks to me via a transferal of rights. “You have made the right choice,” he said. “I would have expected nothing less of you, Zak. Go now, and carry on the Gramarye tradition with pride.” He ripped out a page of his journal and handed it to me before I left. That’s all I can tell you.”
“I see,” I mumbled. “May I see the journal entry?” I asked. Wordlessly, he handed the torn out page to me.
“So I presume you will be defending me in court the day after tomorrow?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I said. “I will make it my priority that you receive the verdict you deserve.”
“Your kindness is appreciated,” he said, in an almost mocking manner. “But before you go, I wish to challenge you.” A challenge? What could he possibly want?
“What sort of challenge?” I questioned.
“It is very simple. Before you go, we will play a game of cards. You understand the rules of poker, I presume?” Poker? How could he want to gamble at a time like this?
“You must understand. I am not in a position to engage in endeavors of chance.”
“Oh, we won’t be playing for money,” he laughed. “There is much more that you can extract from a simple game of poker than financial wealth.” Sighing, I consented to play his ridiculous game. I had rarely played poker before. I knew how to play, but I had never found it entertaining to engage in games of chance. Zak dealt the cards, and I noticed that my opening hand was poor. I had no pairs or straights of any kind, and I waited for Zak to declare a move.
“It is your move, I think,” he said. Slightly angered, I slammed my hand down.
“I have nothing,” I said. “Why do you waste my time with this trivial nonsense? As your defense attorney, my time would be far better spent investigating this case, and you have me play a game of cards with you?”
“On the surface, it is just a game,” Zak said mysteriously. “But within the game of poker, you can see the man for who he really is. His body language, his emotions, even his innermost thoughts can be brought to the surface by something as simple as a game of chance. I saw you for who you were tonight, and I was less than favorably impressed. Nevertheless, you have my blessing as your client. Good night, Mr. Gavin.”
I left the detention center, irked and confused. What was he playing at? He could afford to play games and wax poetic of pretending to understand that which was unfathomable, but he could not provide any more useful information than a flimsy testimony? My instincts told me that mere ability would not enable me to emerge victorious in this trial. I decided it was time to make an appointment with an old acquaintance. Chapter 4 Fall of the Phoenix
It was about 11:00 PM when I knocked on their door. After a few moments of silence, I heard the shuffling of footsteps and a man mumbling softly to himself. The door swung open, and I saw the disheveled face of Drew Misham.
“Yes, Mr. Gavin?” he said. “I am sorry to bother you at such an hour,” I responded. “But I would like to speak with your daughter.”
“Vera is asleep right now,” he replied. “It’s long past her bedtime, and far past a decent hour for anyone to be calling on us right now.”
“It is important,” I said. “It is absolutely imperative that I speak, in private, with your daughter, right this instant.” Confused and slightly annoyed, Drew Misham shuffled off to wake his daughter.
He returned to the doorway, and he said, “Well, come in, if you must.” I walked into the door, and Drew pulled on the cord dangling from a dusty light bulb attached to the ceiling. “My daughter is very shy. Please be gentle with her.”
“You need not worry, Mr. Misham,” I assured him. This will be a brief discussion.
“Very well,” he said. Drew left the room, and Vera began staring at me awkwardly, while nibbling gently on her nails.
“It’s all right, Vera,” I said comfortingly. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m your friend.” Vera continued staring at me with the same apprehensive expression, and I sighed inwardly. This discussion was getting nowhere. Unless I could persuade her to be open with me, I would never extract the service I required of her. “I’m your friend,” I repeated. “Look, I even brought you a good-luck charm,” I said, pulling out a bottle of Ariadoney nail polish.
“G-good luck?” she stammered.
“Yes,” I smiled. “This good-luck charm is very powerful and it is very special to me. I’m giving it to you as a gift. Whenever you go outside, just wear this nail polish. It will protect you from evil, and you won’t need to be afraid anymore.” She nodded, captivated by my words. “But it will only protect you if you promise not to tell anyone about it. Can you do that for me, Vera?” She nodded once more. “Very good,” I said. “I have a service I would like to request of you.” I pulled out the journal entry Zak had given me. “This is a page from a journal. I would like you to write another journal entry, but I want the writing to look the same.”
“I’ve never done this sort of work before…” she murmured.
“It’s OK,” I said. “I know you can do it. I believe in you.” She smiled at me, the first real emotion she had expressed throughout the course of our conversation. With complete disregard to the lateness of the hour, she began reproducing the writing on the journal to a blank sheet of paper. I gazed at her for a moment, and then, a stroke of inspiration occurred to me. When I had first planned to use Vera’s services to forge a new piece of evidence, I had not wanted to leave behind any witnesses who could damage my reputation. It simply wouldn’t do, I concluded, to put myself in jeopardy when so much of my ambition relied on my hidden agenda remaining hidden to the public world.
I had anticipated this, and had laced the nail polish with atroquinine poison. Atroquinine was one of the deadliest poisons in existence, and was fatal in doses of 0.2 milligrams. But I could not expect her to fall victim to the atroquinine in the nail polish. From what I had gathered, she rarely left the house, and had no reason to do so, even with her supposed good-luck charm. And when she did leave the house, she would be less afraid, all because she thought the nail polish would protect her from evil. I smiled to myself. She believed the nail polish would protect her from harm, but it could not even protect her from me. My plan depended on her completing the forged evidence before she succumbed to the atroquinine, but once she had completed the forgery, her fate was insignificant to me. As a backup plan, I pulled an envelope out of my jacket pocket.
“Vera?” I said softly. She looked up at me. “When you finish, do you think you can send the copy and the original journal entry back to me in this envelope?” She nodded. I left the envelope next to the journal entry, and wrote out the return address and the address of my law office. Before I left, I placed a stamp of Troupe Gramarye, which Zak had given to me during our meeting at the Detention Center. The stamp had also been laced with atroquinine poison, which would make my plan all but foolproof. I was confident that she would remain alive long enough to serve my purpose, but I needed to cast away all doubt that she would live to remember this night. The atroquinine poison was slow-acting enough so that she would be able to send out the letter, and once she had done that, she would have outlived her usefulness. Satisfied, I departed from the Misham dwelling and began solidifying Zak’s case.
The next day, I received the envelope from Vera. I tore open the envelope, and found a perfect replica of Magnifi Gramarye’s handwriting. I marveled inwardly at the quality of her work, for not even a graphologist would be able to detect the slightest discrepancy in the handwriting. It was almost a shame, I mused. It was a pity that circumstance dictated that a master of her art was to be put to rest. I almost wished it had not been necessary. Almost.
But then, to my stunned disbelief, I saw that the stamp on the envelope was not the stamp of Troupe Gramarye. It was a plain stamp, showing a picture of the American flag fluttering in the breeze. What was the meaning of this? Why had the stupid girl not used the stamp like I told her to? This was not good. If she had not been exposed to the atroquinine poisoning, that meant that she was still alive. What could I do? I had been relying on the atroquinine poison to erase her involvement in this case, but now, there was evidence against me, all because of a turn of events which I had failed to foresee. Alive, Vera Misham was a threat to me. I would have to watch her, investigate her to make sure that my reputation was never placed in jeopardy. And all of this would have to be done without her knowledge. There was the chance that the atroquinine poison from the nail polish would one day take its effect, but until then, I would have to remain cautious.
Removing the original journal entry, I made a copy of it and set off for the Detention Center to speak with my client.
“Here. You can have the journal entry back.”
“Why are you giving this to me?” Zak demanded.
“I have no use for it. I already made a copy of it for use in the trial tomorrow. I only wished to express to you that you can be confident that I will do everything in my power to achieve a ‘Not Guilty’ verdict for you.
“Very well,” he said. “I will see you in court tomorrow.”
That night, I was certain I had done everything in my power to ensure victory. With the forged piece of evidence, it would take uncommon skill on the prosecution’s part to prove my client guilty. Then I realized, that in my haste to create a solid case, I still had no idea who would be arguing for the prosecution. I scanned the News section of the Los Angeles Times, and quickly found an article pertaining to Zak Gramarye’s trial.
“As of now, the attorney for the defense is still unknown…” I murmured. “The prosecutor for the case is…” As I saw the name, my heart gave a sudden jolt. Tomorrow, I would be going up against my own baby brother, Klavier. I had no idea that he had decided to pursue a career in law. I had remained detached from my family since I had graduated from law school, but, from the background information within the article, it appeared that the trial tomorrow would be Klavier’s first case as a prosecutor. At the age of seventeen, he was the youngest prosecutor in the state.
I smiled. It would be a pleasure to defeat my brother in court. For the first time, I would be able to best him before a nationwide audience. For the first time, the world would know that I, Kristoph, was far superior to my empty-headed, superficial brother. Emboldened by this thought, I began thinking of how best to send Klavier’s case crushing down around him. As I sat there, lost in rapture, the phone rang suddenly. Who could that be? After a few rings, I picked up the receiver.
“Hello. You have reached the Gavin Law Offices. This is Kristoph.” It was Zak. “Oh, yes. Do you have something to tell me, Zak? WHAT? You can’t be serious!” Zak continued explaining his story, and with every word, my anger increased exponentially. When he had finished, I slammed the phone down, all etiquette forgotten.
Zak had just told me at the last minute that I would not be representing him in the trial tomorrow. Apparently, he had chosen not to enlist my services. Who had he chosen to take my place? None other than the second-rate imbecile, Phoenix Wright. I had demanded a reason for the last-minute switch in attorneys, but all he had said was some nonsense of a game of poker and the man behind the cards. I had been shafted by Phoenix Wright, all for something as petty, as insignificant, as idiotic as a card game. This would not go unpunished. I would give both Wright and the defendant what they deserved for this blasphemy. Words would have been insufficient to describe the hatred that consumed me.
I wanted to make Wright bleed. I wanted to hurt Phoenix Wright, and I didn’t care how much I was hurt in return. Only one thought controlled me, influencing my emotions and festering hatred. I realized then what I had to do. I left the office and headed for the prosecutor’s office nearby. If I hurried, I could catch Klavier before his work for the evening was complete.
When I reached the prosecutor’s office, I looked for Klavier’s office. After a few minutes, I found his office and rapped on the door. After a short moment, the door opened and I met my baby brother, Klavier, for the first time in almost a decade.
“Kristoph? Is that you?” he asked, disbelieving. “Yes.” “You don’t know how happy I am to see you!” he gushed. “We need to catch up. There’s a café just around the corner. Do you want to go and—”
“I don’t have time for that, Klavier,” I said pointedly. “I only came here because I have something important to discuss with you. The defense attorney for tomorrow’s trial, Phoenix Wright, intends to use forged evidence.”
“Forged?” sputtered Klavier, flabbergasted.
“Yes, Klavier, that’s what I just said,” I replied testily. “It will be up to you to expose him for the fraud he is. He deserves no respect. He is second-rate and a lowlife attorney. He is beneath you. He is nothing compared to you. Do you understand me?”
“Ja, Herr Bruder,” he responded. “But are you sure you—”
“Incidentally, you will need to prepare Drew Misham as a witness. Here is his address. Talk with him at his house, and have him ready for tomorrow’s trial.”
“Ja,” he said. “But how do you come to know this, Kristoph?”
“I have my sources,” was all I said. “With any luck, Phoenix Wright will receive the fate he deserves. Best of luck in the trial tomorrow, Klavier.”
I arrived at the courtroom early tomorrow. I needed to find Trucy. I could not directly give Phoenix the evidence myself, as it would raise far too much unwanted suspicion. After a few minutes of desperate searching, I found Trucy lurking outside one of the defendant lobbies.
“Hi, Mr. Gavin!” she greeted. “Hello,” I responded. “Trucy, would you be able to do me a favor?” “Sure thing, Mr. Gavin!” she bubbled.
“This is very important,” I said. “Will I be able to trust you?” Trucy nodded eagerly. “Good,” I said. “I want you to give this envelope to the spiky-haired old boy in the blue suit. You won’t need to look for him. Just go to your father and you will find him. OK?” She nodded. “Good,” I smiled. “I knew I could trust you.” I watched Trucy walk off towards her father, and was careful to remain out of sight. I was about to head back to the office, but I realized that I had the opportunity to witness a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. I had been about to head back to the office in the hopes of receiving a prospective client, but I decided to remain behind. This was more important.
I snuck into the courtroom, and took a seat. I could see Wright acting confident, certain that he would win this trial. I watched the trial progress, and was favorably impressed with Klavier. Despite his lack of experience, he always maintained his composure. He would make a fine attorney. Better than Wright, at any rate.
At long last, the moment of truth arrived. I could see the triumphant smirk form on Wright’s hideous countenance.
“Objection!” he shouted. “I believe this evidence wraps up this case nicely.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” the judge asked, confused. “Why…this appears to be the missing page of the journal!” Wright’s smug expression grew more pronounced.
“Your Honor, I believe that the writing on this journal entry proves, beyond a doubt, the defendant’s innocence.”
“Hmm,” said the judge. “It would appear that way. Very well. At this point, I will declare my verdict. The court finds the defendant, Zak Gramarye...”
“OBJECTION!” Klavier yelled. “This case isn’t over yet, Herr Judge.”
“Prosecutor Gavin!” exclaimed the judge. “What do you mean by this?”
“We received word last night that Herr Wright would try to present forged evidence to the court.”
“Forged evidence! Explain yourself, Mr. Wright!” Wright stared at the judge, at a complete loss for words.
“Achtung!” exclaimed Klavier. “I believe the witness for the prosecution will be able to provide insight on this matter. Now, if you would just clear the court…” At the command of the judge, the crowd exited the courtroom, and I knew then that Wright’s fate was sealed.

Chapter 5 After Seven Years
I waited for the trial to finish so that the press would be able to confirm the fruition of my plan to frame Wright. Although there was nothing to be heard but pure silence from the courtroom, the acoustic gaps in the air filled themselves with the sweet sound of Phoenix Wright’s heart breaking into a million pieces.
Klavier had done his work well, but even he had no idea that he was condemning an innocent man to commit legal suicide. That was my handiwork. Klavier was merely a pawn in this operation, completely unaware that he was being used to fulfill my needs. It had always been better that way. For that way, there were no lingering feelings of guilt among those who presumed to be pursuing justice.
I found it interesting how people were so quick to believe that they were in complete control of their actions, masters of their own fate, when they were merely puppets, dancing when people such as I pulled the strings. While I was lost in thought, I heard the door to the courtroom swing open with a loud, creaky slam.
Deciding it was better to not be recognized, I hid my face behind that day’s issue of the Los Angeles Times, as the witness, Drew Misham, walked by, looking disheveled as usual. Through my peripheral vision, I could see Phoenix Wright trudge out of the courtroom dismayed, defeated, and most importantly, destroyed. Only hours previously, Wright had been a bird who thought himself to be a perch above all the rest. It was ironic that it had been his own arrogant intention to soar above the clouds that had clipped his wings and sent him crashing back down to reality. I went to sleep more satisfied that night than I had been in recent memory.
The newspapers were screaming from the rooftops for all to hear about Phoenix Wright’s sudden, beautiful fall from grace. Klavier had also received a lot of favorable press. Although they were laying on the praise a little thick, I would concede that he put forth a commendable effort for his first case.
I received a letter that day from the District Attorney’s office that Mr. Wright’s punishment for forging evidence would be decided at a meeting this afternoon. The message had come on short notice, but the District Attorney deemed it imperative to decide Mr. Wright’s fate as early as possible. Not wanting to miss anything, I finished up my work that morning and set out for the meeting.
About a dozen other esteemed defense attorneys had congregated, all of them glaring at a nervous looking Phoenix Wright. I took my seat next to Marvin Grossberg, my former mentor.
“Have a seat,” he said rather unnecessarily. “You’re just in time for the meeting. But I’m afraid we’re here on rather somber business.”
“Indeed,” was all I said.
“I hope the meeting doesn’t take too long, though,” he murmured. “Sitting on such uncomfortable chairs for so long is bound to upset an old man’s hemorrhoids.” Slightly disturbed, I returned the faint smile he gave me. My former mentor had always been a bit too open about his bowel functions. It had been one of the reasons I was so eager to defect from his law firm.
The meeting was structured similarly to a trial, with one notable exception. Instead of a judge declaring the verdict of the defendant (Phoenix Wright), we would be using a jury panel, except that the decision would be made by a majority vote. Wright stated over and over that he had no idea that the evidence was forged, but he could not explain more about what made him so certain in his belief.
“You have to believe me!” pleaded Wright. “I didn’t know it was forged! Just give me one more chance!”
“You had your chance, Mr. Wright,” said District Attorney Roberts sharply. “And you took that chance as an attorney to disgrace the legal system, all for personal gain.”
“But the law says…”
“The law is absolute,” interrupted Roberts. “Would we be so foolish as to let ignorant swine soil our courts? I think not. If we give you back your attorney’s badge, to what depths would you sink in an attempt to snatch victory? I’m afraid we simply cannot allow this to happen.”
“But didn’t Edgeworth…”
“Miles Edgeworth was an entirely different case. It was proven that the evidence had been forged without his prior knowledge. There was no witness to testify against him, and so he was cleared. But your case, Mr. Wright, is far more severe. We make our decision now.”
Wright glanced fearfully around the room, eyes searching for someone, anyone who would speak on his behalf. I don’t know what made me do it. Whether it was remorse or a desire to appear inconspicuous, I stood up.
“It would appear that there is damning evidence which convicts Mr. Wright of forgery beyond a shadow of a doubt. But I must disagree with you on this count, Mr. Roberts. How are we to know that this was not simply a set-up, a plot to catch Mr. Wright unaware and send his career crashing down? As a defense attorney who has convicted numerous criminals, it is clear that he would have enemies with a motive to bring about his ruin. It goes against my conscience to watch an innocent man suffer for a crime he may or may not have committed. While his guilt is not yet beyond a shadow of a doubt, I feel it is not the time to pass judgment on Mr. Wright.” I shot a sideways glance at Wright, and could see his eyes dancing with hope. But District Attorney Roberts was of a different opinion.
“You do raise a good point, Gavin,” he said. “But it changes nothing. Wright still is unable to testify as to whom he received the evidence from, and the fact remains that he presented the evidence in full knowledge that it was not documented as official evidence. Therefore, the blame rests on Mr. Wright’s shoulders, which leads us to our verdict. Those in favor of stripping Mr. Wright of his attorney’s badge?” Everyone in the room besides myself and Wright rose their hands.
“Very well,” said Roberts. “It pains me to do this, but it is my duty.” He seized Wright’s attorney badge and stamped on it with his foot, separating it into worthless fragments of shattered plastic. “It was right,” was all Roberts said, before leaving the room, glaring disgustedly at Wright. With his entire world broken with the plastic fragments that lay uselessly on the floor, I left the room, leaving Wright standing there, disheartened and seemingly unable to accept what had just happened.
I decided it would be best to keep watch on Phoenix Wright. There was always the chance that he would have made the deduction that I had conspired to strip him of his badge. I had been careful to never show any outward sign of animosity towards him, and I feigned friendship, spending far more time in Wright’s company than I would have preferred. Spending all this time in Wright’s company wore me down, but I had long since the importance of projecting a respectable appearance to the world at large.
After Wright’s exile from the legal world, my law firm began to grow. I gained some prestige from winning bigger cases throughout the years, and I took on my first understudy four years after Wright’s career as a defense attorney had ended. His name was Apollo Justice. Strange name, but he had potential as a lawyer. He was young, but determined. He caught on quickly to how the law worked, and I could see a bright future ahead of him.
One night, seven years after Wright had lost his badge, I dined with Wright at the Borscht Bowl Club. I was almost finished with the main course when I saw him. Seven years ago, he had spurned me for the man sitting not five feet across from me. He had disappeared from public view for nearly a decade, but today, he had shown his face. Hastily, I got up to follow him.
“Kristoph, where are you going?” asked Wright.
“Later,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“Later!” I hissed, rushing to follow Zak. I followed him all the way to the underground room where the shady regulars of the Borscht Bowl Club had come for criminal purposes. I could not hope to enter the room from the main entrance without being seen, so I circled around and hid myself within the secret passageway that lay behind the bookshelf. There was a slight crevice in the bookshelf which allowed me to see Zak Gramarye.
A small, timid-looking European woman was dealing the cards to Zak Gramarye and Wright himself. I watched both of the players, expressions of intense concentration on their faces. I spotted the bottle of grape juice bearing Wright’s fingerprints. Perfect. I slipped on my gloves and waited. Suddenly, Zak rose up out of his chair and motioned to search Wright’s pockets. He found nothing, and cursed under his breath.
Suddenly, he picked up Wright’s bottle of grape juice and hit the dealer over the head with it. Wright ran up the stairs, unnoticed by the enraged Zak Gramarye. Concealed within the secret passageway, I began breathing hard. Zak looked around, but saw nothing. I realized that now was the time to make my move.
Pushing aside the bookshelf, I stepped across the threshold of the secret passageway.
“So, Zak Gramarye, we meet again,” I announced. “Seven years it’s been, and I still my memory remains as clear as ever.”
“You!” he shouted. “What do you want?”
I smiled at him. “I just wanted to give you a token of my appreciation for the events that transpired seven years previously. Think of it as a gift.”
“What are you—” I grabbed Wright’s bottle of grape wine, seizing it upside down, and smashed it over Zak Gramarye’s shiny, bald forehead.
“You—” he sputtered, as blood gushed down his forehead in a lovely, crimson waterfall. He slumped into his chair, his head tilted to the side, and I knew then that he was dead. Deciding to take as much suspicion off myself as possible, I decided to doctor the crime scene before I left. I took one of the cards in the poker hands, and slipped in a fifth ace that had been lying on the table. The ace had been splattered with Zak Gramarye’s blood, and I smirked at the ironic nature of the situation. My murder of Zak Gramarye would effectively ascertain that I would not be convicted of this crime. I had my revenge, and I would still be able to project a respectable façade to the world at large.
Everything had gone according to plan, and I had my revenge at last. Taking care to close the bookshelf behind me, I retreated down the secret passageway. Just when I was about to leave the Borscht Bowl Club, I heard my mobile phone ring. Irritated, I motioned to answer it.
“Hello?” I asked. I looked at the Caller ID. It was Phoenix. What could he possibly want?
“Kristoph. I seem to be in a bit of trouble,” he declared.
“What’s this?” I inquired. “Game not going well?”
“Something like that,” replied Wright.
“That gentleman who challenged you…He turn out to be good?” I asked.
“He turned out to be dead. Someone hit him. Hard.” I gulped. Did this mean he knew? I was trembling with apprehension, but I kept my voice steady.
“You mean someone cracked that flawless bone china pate? It…wasn’t you, was it?” I questioned.
“Me? Please,” he declared, with a mocking note in his voice. “The cops should be here any minute. I’m in your hands…Should it come to that.”
“I see,” I responded. “And when will I be defending you?”
“You…?” asked Wright. “No, Kristoph, I don’t believe I will be requesting your services in court. I was under the impression that you had an understudy, I believe…?”
“How do you know this?” I demanded.
“I have my sources,” was all Wright said. “If you would be so kind as to have him defend me in court on the day of the trial…I would be most grateful.”
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t expect anything special.” I hung up, irritated. The only silver lining in the darkening cloud of this incident was that Phoenix Wright would be incarcerated for my deeds. I doubted that Justice would be able to prove Wright’s innocence.
Despite my hatred towards Wright, I had offered my services to him, but he had the gall to snub me for a rookie who hadn’t even gotten his feet wet in the legal world! I had only wanted to get us both off the hook, and deal with Wright myself, but fate had directed this turn of events. I pulled out my mobile phone, and began dialing a number I had called many times before.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end said.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Mr. Gavin.”
“S-Sir,” the voice stammered. “Is something the matter? You’ve never called—”
“Never mind that,” I said quickly. “You’ll be defending a client in court tomorrow.”
“A client…Me?” he asked uncertainly. “But are you sure…am I ready, Mr. Gavin?”
“I have complete confidence in you, Justice. You’ll do fine.”
“Well, if you say so, Sir,” he responded. “What is our client’s name?”
“It should be a familiar name to you, Justice,” I said smirking. “You will be defending a Mr. Phoenix Wright in court tomorrow.” Silence was all that met my response. “Justice?” I asked. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Mr. Phoenix Wright?” he asked excitedly. “The Mr. Phoenix Wright?”
“Yes, Justice,” I said, rolling my eyes. Why was everyone so hung up on Phoenix Wright? God knows he had never accomplished half of what I had done for the legal world. “Phoenix Wright has been accused of a crime I am sure he did not commit, and it will be your job to prove his innocence in court tomorrow. I presume I can trust you with this matter?”
“Yes, sir!” he responded.
“Good,” I said. “I’ll see you in court tomorrow.” I hung up, and began preparing a case for Wright. With Justice, chances were that things could go very wrong tomorrow. Very wrong.

Chapter 6 Turnabout Trump Pt. 1
When I woke up the next morning, it felt just like any other day. But this would be one of the most important days of my life. For better or worse, I did not yet know. I arrived at the courtroom, and waited for Justice. He had said he would be here at nine-thirty, but it was nine thirty five, and I had seen no sign of him. Poor dolt. He had probably arrived in the wrong courtroom. Just then, I saw him, and he rushed up to me.
“Ah, good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, sir,” he responded, looking nervous.
“You look tense, Justice. Wound up tight.”
“W-Wound up, sir? No! I’m loose! I’m fine!” he replied, unconvincingly.
“That screeching noise…Is that your voice? I suppose it’s to be expected. Your first trial, and it’s a homicide. I guess “Justice” doesn’t start small, eh?”
I smirked at him, and he replied indignantly, “I’m fine! I got up at 5 A.M. to do my “Chords of Steel” voice workout! I’m fine!”
“Ah, that explains it,” I sighed. “I did detect a certain rasping quality to your speech.” He gazed at me, frightened. “As you know, your client today is a good friend of mine. I wouldn’t want to let him down…if you get my drift,” I said calmly.
“Drift gotten, sir!” he shouted, in response.
“As it happens, I dined with him the night of the murder. We can’t let this case fall through.”
“Yes, yes! I’m fine, sir!” he insisted.
I felt compelled to add, “One more thing. Don’t say you’re fine quite so much. People might take you the wrong way. I’ll be preparing our case. You might want to introduce yourself to the client.” I left Justice and Wright alone and set off to the courtroom about ten minutes before the trial was to begin.
At ten o’clock, both Justice and the prosecutor for the case, Winston Payne, were at their respective benches. The judge pounded his gavel.
“The court is now in session.
“The prosecution is ready,” squeaked Mr. Payne.
“The defense is, uh fine. I mean, ready, Your Honor,” Justice rasped. “Your name was…Mr. Justice?” the judge asked. “And this is your first trial?”
“Y-Yes, Your Honor! But I’m fine! Really!” he insisted.
“Are you quite sure?” said the judge, with a patronizing expression on his face. “Your voice sounds a bit strained. Ahem. Mr. Gavin?”
“Yes, Your Honor?” I responded.
“I was under the impression that you would be heading up this case…?”he inquired.
“That was my intention, yes,” I replied. “However…a defense attorney must always cede to his client’s wishes. And my client specifically requested Mr. Justice.
“Well, of course he wants justice!” the judge replied, as if this were an obvious statement. “But to entrust his case to this greenhorn…Why? I do not exaggerate when I say that you’re the best defense attorney in town, Mr. Gavin.” I beamed inwardly, in spite of myself. “Then let’s begin,” the judge declared. “The defendant may enter the courtroom.” As he said this, Phoenix Wright walked in, looking tired and disheveled.
“This is truly an unfortunate turn of events,” the judge lamented. “I’m sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances. Long time no see, Mr. Wright.”
“Let’s put the past behind us, shall we?” said Wright. “These days I’m merely Phoenix Wright, piano player.”
“I won’t speak of it further, then,” said the judge. “If the prosecution would be so kind as to explain the charges. Mr. Payne?
“To think,” squeaked Mr. Payne. “I saw you enter this room a fresh attorney, and now I’ll see you leave in chains.”
“Ah, Winston Payne. Subtle as ever I see,” Wright rebutted.
“Ahem,” coughed Mr. Payne. “The crime occurred at the Borscht Bowl Club…a Russian restaurant. The defendant, Phoenix Wright, took the victim, a customer…and he hit him! Wham! On the head! Smack! Killed him cold!
There’s no need to be so dramatic, Winston. I think we get the point.
“Hmm…” the judge mused. “A customer at the restaurant, you say? And the defendant, you say he was…?”
“The pianist for the club, it seems,” responded Mr. Payne.
I heard Justice gasp, “Phoenix Wright, a pianist?”
“This is the weapon that took the victim’s life,” continued Mr. Payne. “A bottle of grape juice. Grape juice is apparently our defendant’s drink of choice.”
“The court accepts the deadly bottle as evidence,” said the judge.
“Something to note, Justice. All evidence is filed in the Court Record. Make a practice of checking it frequently,” I advised. “I’m confident in your ability to handle this.”
“So, the victim was a customer at this restaurant,” the judge said. “But just who was this, erm, “Shadi Smith” fellow?”
“We believe he was a traveler, Your Honor,” answered Mr. Payne. “A…traveler?” the judge asked slowly.
Mr. Payne replied, “According to his passport, he had been out of the country for a number of years. He had only returned to this country recently, though his place of residence is unclear.”
He resides in his rightful place now.
“And he had some sort of connection with the defendant?” the judge inquired. “That, too, is unclear at present, Your Honor,” admitted Mr. Payne. “We believe they first met at the Borscht Bowl Club the night of the murder.”
Wrong.
“If they had only just met, then why murder?” the judge said blankly. “Perhaps the victim had slighted the defendant’s piano playing?”
Mr. Payne replied slowly, “That…doesn’t appear to have been the case. No, the motive had nothing to do with the defendant’s lack of playing skill. At least not piano playing. I’ll let this photo explain what I mean. As we can see, a game of poker was in progress at the scene of the crime.”
“Wait a second!” exclaimed the judge. “Isn’t poker gambling? That’s a crime in and of itself!”
“Indeed,” chortled Mr. Payne. “It appears our defendant…has fallen to become the basest sort of criminal!”
“Objection!” I shouted. Much as I hated Wright, my chance of getting off the hook would be greater if Justice could establish Wright’s innocence. It was therefore vital that I did not allow Mr. Payne to dehumanize Wright any further. “It is true that the defendant was engaged in a game of poker with the victim. Yet it was only that: a game in the purest sense,” I declared. “A competition, Your Honor,” I added, in response to his blank stare.
“A…competition?” Mr. Payne asked dully.
“Yes,” I replied. “A test of wits, a silent clash of passion. Only the cards, their backs wreathed in blue flame, know its final outcome.”
“Err, come again?” said the judge.
“The cards on the table had blue backs, Your Honor,” said Mr. Payne. “I believe the defense was waxing poetic in an attempt to mystify those present…and impress women.” The judge nodded.
“That will be our first order of business here then,” he declared, “to find out more about this fatal game of cards. Very well, defendant. You will testify to the court about the poker competition held the night of the crime.”
“My pleasure,” responded Wright. Wright began to testify.
Witness Testimony
I am a pianist by trade…yet I can hardly play at all.
My real job is to take on interested customers over at the poker table.
The room where we play and the competition in there are the club’s main attractions.
The rules are simple: we play a game of poker using two decks of cards.
That’s all it is…a game.
And it keeps our customers happy.
“Hmm,” the judge said, as Wright concluded his testimony. “A pianist who can’t play piano?” he demanded skeptically.
“Better than a defense attorney who can’t defend,” smirked Mr. Payne.
Or a prosecutor who can’t prosecute.
“Very well,” the judge said, ignoring Mr. Payne’s joke. “The defense may begin the cross-examination.”
“R-right, Your Honor!” said Justice, in a feeble voice.
“Are you alright?” I demanded. “You’re sweating bullets.”
“Bullets…!? Where!?” he almost shouted. I sighed.
“It’s a figure of speech, Justice. Your voice sounds strained and raspy, too.” “My brain feels strained and raspy, sir.” I sighed. This was not looking good. “Look,” I said, trying to reassure Justice. “You’ve watched me perform cross-examinations many times. Though you’ve never done one yourself, have you? Care for a refresher?”
“No need for help here, sir!” he said, with renewed confidence. “I think I’ve got this one covered!”
“I think you’d better do more than think,” I responded. “You know it, or you do not. Find any inconsistencies, any lies in the testimony, and reveal them to the court. That is cross-examination. Learn it. Know it. Do it,” I commanded.
“The defense may begin the cross-examination,” the judge repeated. Mr. Wright testified again, as Justice stood there, sweating profusely.
Cross Examination:
I am a pianist by trade…yet I can hardly play at all.
“Hold it!” yelled Justice. “You can hardly play…?”
“Oh, I play sometimes,” Wright responded. “When customers demand it. So I play them one song. That’s usually all they want. The title of “pianist” is a mask—a respectable face I wear for the world at large.”
“Then why are you really at the Borscht Bowl Club?” the judge demanded. Wright continued with his testimony.
My real job is to take on interested customers over at the poker table.
“Hold it!” Justice yelled. “They pay you just to play poker?” he asked, with an incredulous expression on his face.
“That would seem to be the case. I am a professional, after all,” answered Wright.
“Bah!” snorted Mr. Payne. “Do I detect pride in that statement? It’s just hard for an honest, hard-working member of society like me to imagine…”
“Yes,” replied Wright. “Your imagination was always a bit limited, Winston.”
“Wh-What!?” demanded Mr. Payne. “I’ve played poker for seven years in that little room. And I’ve never. Lost. Once,” Wright boasted.
“Wha--?” I heard Justice say.
“You see why the customers come now?” asked Wright, as if he were explaining this to a four-year-old. “Defeat the undefeated poker champion…it’s quite a draw. That is, I’m quite a draw.”
“Wait, you’ve never lost once?” demanded Justice. “Not even one time!?”
“As I said, I’m a professional,” answered Wright. Following this, Wright continued with his testimony.
The room where we play and the competition in there are the club’s main attractions.
“The room in the crime scene photo…is an attraction?” asked Justice.
“It has quite a history, actually,” Wright explained calmly. “The Borscht Bowl Club used to be a gathering spot for the black market types back in the day.”
“B-Black market?” Justice asked.
“All in the past,” Wright said. “Things like the black market are only on the silver screen nowadays. Suffice it to say that there were a lot of deals being made under the table. Right there in that room.
“A smoky room, gambling hoods,” said the judge. “You know…just looking at this picture makes me feel “bad”!”
“The bosses gather around the table,” continued Wright, ignoring the judge, “cutting deals, safe from the eyes of the law…Meanwhile, a goon keeps watch through the small window…I can practically picture it now. The room had a few other tricks to it. Though it was common knowledge to our regulars. At any rate, they come to play poker in a room steeped with history. Despite the dark past, it was all just good, clean fun.” Wright resumed his testimony.
The rules are simple: we play a game of poker using two decks of cards.
“Hold it!” screeched Justice. “Two decks of cards?”
“A simple measure to prevent cheating,” replied Wright. “If you alternate between two decks, no one can slip in cards.” The judge nodded.
“There’s something else I’ve noticed…” he observed. “In addition to the cards on the table, there are some lying scattered on the floor.
“Precisely,” I responded. “Cards on the table, cards upon the floor…Each one forming a complete deck. A crime scene painted blue by a sad sweep of cards…It’s poetic, really.”
“Hmm,” the judge mumbled. “As I recall, in poker, you made five-card “hands. I can see how it would be easy to cheat.”
“Heh…Yes,” chuckled Wright. “A game of ‘hands’.” Continuing with his testimony, Wright said
That’s all it is…a game.
And it keeps our customers happy.
With no reaction from Justice or Payne, the judge pounded his gavel. “This competition you’re talking about…I believe the court understands the nature of the game sufficiently,” he stated.
“Th-That’s right!” stammered Justice. “It was a simple game, after all.” The judge shook his head.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Huh?” Justice replied dimly.
“People are not murdered over “simple games”, Mr. Justice,” the judge responded. “Defendant. You were in the room the very moment that crime occurred. Yet you claim no connection to the crime?”
“Now that’s strange,” Wright said.
“What’s strange?” demanded the judge.
“I was testifying about the competition that night,” Wright pointed out. “Asking me about the crime at this point is against the rules, Your Honor. Of course, I expected to hear a cry of “Objection!” from the defense…” I turned to look at Justice, who had an astonished expression on his face. I groaned softly. This was going to be a long day.
“Don’t despair yet, Justice,” I said encouragingly.
“S-Sir?” he responded.
“Wright,” I said. “There’s something I’d like made clear. Namely, your connection to the case at hand. And I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Sure,” shrugged Wright. “Why not?” The judge pounded his gavel.
“Very well,” he said. “The defendant will amend his testimony. Wright added:
I plead silence regarding the murder. But I will say I never touched the murder weapon.
“Objection!” shouted Justice. “So you say you didn’t touch the murder weapon…this grape juice bottle?...Right?”
What was Justice doing?
“So I said,” responded Wright.
“Hee hee hee,” Mr. Payne chuckled. “Too bad our new defense attorney never learned how to play dumb.”
“What’s this, Mr. Payne?” the judge demanded.
“I examined the bottle in question,” said Mr. Payne. “And it was covered with the defendant’s fingerprints!” The courtroom stirred excitedly.
“OBJECTION!” Justice yelled. “No need to shout, Mr. Justice! I can hear you just fine!” the judge exclaimed. Justice turned red.
“Excess yelling can damage the judge’s ears…and our case,” I reprimanded. Justice nodded, and continued.
“Any…Anyway! What’s so strange about fingerprints on a bottle in a restaurant?” he demanded. The judge nodded.
“Well, that’s true,” he conceded. “The prints alone don’t prove he did it.”
“Oh, they wouldn’t prove a thing,” Mr. Payne interjected, “…if they were normal fingerprints!”
“Huh!?” exclaimed Justice.
“But the fingerprints on the murder weapon were upside-down!” Mr. Payne shouted.
“Upside down? What does that mean?” asked Justice.
“It means he was holding the bottle inverted!” Mr. Payne snapped impatiently. “And there can only be one reason for that…Yes. To brain someone with the bottle.”
“Auuuuuuuuuuuugh! M-Mr. Gavin! I think things just took a turn for the worse!”
“Oh?” I replied. “I see no problem, Mr. Justice.”
“Huh?” he said blankly.
“The only thing that matters is the truth,” I said. “There’s a good reason for everything. You’ll see.”
“Defendant!” the judge yelled. “Can you explain your fingerprints on this bottle to the court!?”
“I stand by my plea of silence regarding the murder…For now,” Wright said unhelpfully.
“Hmm…not very cooperative, are you? This could hurt your case,” the judge warned.
“I’m sure he’s uncooperative because he’s hiding something!” squealed Mr. Payne. “There must be some reason…”
“Objection!” I interrupted. “Your Honor. You seem to have forgotten something.”
“And what might that be, Mr. Gavin?” the judge responded.
“On the night of the crime, who was it who reported the murder to the police?” I demanded.
“Reported…?” the judge asked slowly. “Well, that was the defendant, Mr. Wright. But still, that…” said Mr. Payne.
“R-Really!?” the judge yelled.
“Erm, yes, well,” said Mr. Payne, looking slightly put out. “According to the case file…The murder was reported from the scene, by a call from the defendant’s cell phone.”
“Near the scene?” asked Justice.
“Let’s take a look at the murder scene, shall we?” said Mr. Payne. “The victim was murdered in a small room in a basement two floors down from ground level. Of course, cell phones can’t get reception so far down. The defendant used the stairs in this hallway to go above ground…The call came from the first floor of the restaurant.”
“I see…” the judge mused. “And this is the phone that made the call?”
“The defendant could have just fled the scene of the crime if he so chose,” I interjected. “Yet, he fulfilled his duty as a citizen and reported it to the authorities. And you claim he is being “uncooperative?””
“Urk,” was all Mr. Payne had to say. I continued.
“I think the prosecution has toyed with our client enough for the time being.”
“T-Toyed?” Mr. Payne stammered. “I assure you, no one is more serious about…”
“What was it you said?” I interrupted. “The defendant was “in the room the very moment that the crime occurred”. How can you possibly know this?”
“That’s a good question!” exclaimed the judge. “How indeed!”
“The answer is simple, Your Honor,” I replied. “The prosecution has a decisive witness.”
“Hee hee hee,” chuckled Mr. Payne. “You’re as good as they say you are.”
I turned to look at Justice. “Everything up until now has been a warm-up, Justice. Are you ready?”

Chapter 7 Turnabout Trump Pt. 2
“Very well,” the judge said, punctuating the brief silence. “The prosecution may call its first witness to the stand!” A small, timid-looking Russian woman dressed in a hat and coat made her way slowly up to the stand. She began trembling and sunk below the witness stand.
“The witness will state her name and profession,” declared Mr. Payne.
“H-hold on just a moment!” the judge stammered. “Where’s the witness?”
“I surmise that she has been frightened by the defense’s demonic-looking horns,” chuckled Mr. Payne.
“Have no fear!” the judge exclaimed. “If any horns point in your direction, the court will cut them off.”
“You…are…sure?” the witness said slowly in a thickly accented voice. I was taken aback. I had been expecting a squeak.
“I swear it on my gavel! Please, come out,” the judge said, trying to reassure the witness.
“Well, if you are sure it is OK…” the witness mumbled.
“Ahem,” continued the judge. “Now, the prosecution…” Just then, the witness whipped out her camera and took a photograph.
“W-W-Wait a minute!” the judge said, flustered. “Would the prosecution care to explain the witness’s…erm…paraphernalia?
“Er…yes,” said Mr. Payne. “She is a professional, Your Honor. Those are merely the tools of her trade.”
“And that would be…?” the judge inquired.
“My name…is Olga Orly,” the witness said thickly.
Oh really?
“I am employed as waitress in Borscht Bowl Club restaurant,” the witness continued.
Obviously not for your English-speaking abilities.
“Then…why the camera?” the judge asked slowly.
“Of course, it is my pride to serve borscht that is naming restaurant,” the witness responded, “but I also perform—how is it said? Other service.”
Um…
“I take it one of these other services is taking the customer’s pictures?” said the judge.
“Dah, dah,” said Ms. Orly. “Like, for example…this one.” As she spoke, she pulled a picture out of her coat pocket which depicted Wright next to Zak Gramarye, or for all intents and purposes, Shadi Smith.
“Th-That’s the defendant!?” the judge wheezed.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Payne. “On the night of the murder.”
“Man in white hat…is one who has gone kaput,” said the witness.
“Indeed…” the judge mused. “That is the victim.” The courtroom began chattering excitedly.
The judge pounded his gavel. “Order! Order! This is quite a piece of evidence to casually drop into our laps!”
“It is same way as I drop cold bowls of borscht on laps of customers…casually,” the witness explained.
“Hmm…Then the court will casually accept this new evidence,” the judge replied.
“Now, witness,” said Mr. Payne. “Where were you at the time of the murder?”
“I was in room,” said the witness. “The Hydeout, we call it.”
“Excuse me?” Justice demanded. “The Hydeout?”
“It is room where famous gangster “Badgai” was arrested. Is room where murder took place,” the witness stated. Justice recoiled, an expression plastered on his face which caused him to assume the appearance of an autistic monkey.
The witness smiled and took a picture of Justice. “Your look of utter surprise…It is lovely,” the witness laughed. “I will post by courtroom door later for you! Dah, dah, photos will be numbered, and you will write which ones you want copies of.”
“Very well,” said the judge. “Witness! You will testify to the court about that night’s events.” The witness began her testimony.
Testimony:
That night, customer asked me to deal cards for game.
It was cold…Both players with hats on, dah.
The victim, he plays whole time with his hand on locket at his neck. Then, last hand is done! But something terrible has happened, dah!
That man flew at victim, and is strangling him to death!
As the witness concluded her testimony, the judge said thoughtfully, “Hmm…Incidentally, who won the game?”
I saw the witness draw in breath, but Mr. Payne was too quick. “Isn’t it obvious?” he chortled. “The winner was the victim…Mr. Smith!”
“Objection!” shouted Justice. “That’s ridiculous! Um, because…Mr. Wright can’t lose!”
He can’t be serious.
“Ahem. Justice?” I said. “Maybe you can come up with a more legitimate objection?”
“But! He hadn’t lost in seven years!” Justice exclaimed. I sighed exasperatedly.
“Take it from me kid,” said Mr. Payne. “It happens. I didn’t lose a case my first seven years as prosecutor, either.
And you haven’t won a case for your last seven, either.
Incidentally. I have some evidence here. These are the poker chips as they lay the very moment of the crime. The hand and chips on this side belonged to the victim, Mr. Smith,” continued Mr. Payne.
“Chips…you say?” the judge asked.
“Dah,” said Mr. Payne. “Er…I mean, yes! Imagine that poker is war…Your hand is your army, and the chips are the spoils.
“I-I know that,” the judge stammered. “After all, in my youth, I was known as…the “Poker Head of Courtroom No. 3”!” I turned to look at Justice. Even he was shaking his head.
“Hmm…” the judge continued. “Looking at this picture…it does seem that most of the chips are on the victim’s side of the table. Very well. The defense may cross-examine the witness.”
Cross-Examination
That night, customer asked me to deal cards for game.
It was cold…Both players with hats on, dah.
The victim, he plays whole time with his hand on locket at his neck.
Then, last hand is done! But something terrible has happened, dah!
That man flew at victim, and is strangling him to death!
“Objection!” cried Justice. “Oh really? “Strangled”, you say. That’s odd.”
“Dah,” said the witness noncommittally. “Normal customers only choke on borscht.”
“No,” replied Justice. “I mean this report shows that the victim died of a blow to the head!”
“Aaack!” the witness screeched. Justice banged his fists forcefully on the defense bench, like a primitive caveman.
“Ms. Orly!” he exclaimed. “Really now…did you witness the crime!?”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!” was all the witness had to say in response. The courtroom stirred excitedly.
“Hmm…” the judge said slowly. “Looking at the picture, it doesn’t seem like he was hit. He’s still wearing his hat and everything.”
“Yet it is a fact that he was hit, Your Honor,” replied Mr. Payne. “Here’s a photo we took of the victim with his hat off during the investigation.” Mr. Payne presented a photo to the court of Zak Gramarye, his large, bald, shiny head glittering ever more brightly with the crimson stream of blood running down his forehead. I suppressed a laugh as I glanced at Zak Gramarye’s expression, forever frozen on his lifeless countenance.
“Well, that’s quite shocking isn’t it?” the judge exclaimed. “This head certainly was hit.”
“B-But…! I have seen it happen!” the witness insisted. “The defendant, he lunge at victim, his neck…” Justice stood there, idiotically, looking triumphant as if the case were already won.
“Justice,” I said. “I admire your enthusiasm, but perhaps you should think this one through more.”
“Wh-What do you mean? I found a contradiction!” he exclaimed.
“There’s one more thing in her testimony that…troubles me,” I told him.
“What is it?” he whispered.
Figure it out for yourself.
“You’ll see,” was all I said, before turning away again.
“Very well,” said the judge. “It seems we should continue the cross-examination.”
Cross-Examination (cont.)
The victim, he plays whole time with hand on locket at his neck.
“Objection!” shouted Justice.
“Mr. Justice, would you care to explain what it is you’re thinking so intensely about?” the judge demanded.
“Recall, the testimony, Your Honor,” Justice explained. “The victim played with his “hand on locket at his neck”, I believe she said?”
“I hope you aren’t about to raise an objection to the witness’s grammar!” squeaked Mr. Payne.
“No, but look at this photograph,” Justice said commandingly. “Do you see a locket on the victim’s neck?”
“Well done, Justice,” I praised, with genuine sincerity. “I’m impressed. I knew you’d be able to handle this.”
No I didn’t.
“B-but what does it mean?” asked Justice. Just then, the judge continued to speak.
“If we are to believe the witness’s testimony as-is…Then the locket “disappeared” following the victim’s death.
“Lockets don’t just “disappear”, Your Honor!” Justice responded.
“It’s quite simple when you think about it,” I said to Justice. “If the locket is gone, someone must have taken it off, no?”
“Taken it off…?” said Justice slowly, the wheels spinning frantically in his mostly empty head. “Wait, you don’t mean…!”
“The defendant wasn’t strangling the victim at all. He was taking off his locket!” I responded, with a touch of impatience in my voice.
“Aah!” exclaimed the judge.
“Urk?” Mr. Payne murmured. Wright stared at the pair of them. It was the judge who finally shattered the painful silence.
“Say,” he said.
“Yes?” asked Wright.
“I just noticed this, but…You have something hanging around your neck, don’t you?”
“Oh? You mean this?” said Wright, gesturing towards the locket hanging around his neck. “Yes, it’s a locket…with a photograph inside. A photo…of my daughter.”
The fact that Wright had mated greatly disturbed me.
“C-Come again?” said Justice.
“Mr. Wright!” the judge exclaimed. “You have a daughter!?”
“We confirmed it at the time of the arrest,” said Mr. Payne. “The picture in the locket is indeed Mr. Wright’s daughter.
“Well now,” the judge said awkwardly. “If the results of this poker game led to the murder…Perhaps we should hear a bit more about the outcome of this game?”
“Further testimony won’t really be necessary,” Mr. Payne declared confidently. “It’s clear that the defendant lost. Badly. The witness beamed at Mr. Payne.
The judge shook his head in dissent. “Ms. Orly! You will testify to the court about the game played between the victim and the defendant!” “D-Dah…” the witness mumbled.
Testimony
The game began with 3,500 points in chips for each man.
House chips come in two size: small and large.
The one who was winning…dah, it was victim!
For last hand, defendant play with all chips on table and lose.
The moment loss was decided, defendant grabs bottle from table and…
“Indeed…” the judge said after listening to the witness’s testimony. “Looking at this picture…It does seem to be a one-sided game.”
“As the court knows, poker was the defendant’s life!” shouted Mr. Payne. “Failure must have been a bitter pill to swallow!”
The judge nodded. “Ah, how many times I have heard these words: ‘I done it in a fit of anger, Yer Honor, and now I regret what I done’…a common tale, but true. The defense may now begin the cross-examination.”
Cross Examination
The game began with 3,500 points in chips for each man.
House chips come in two size: small and large.
“Hold it!” Justice interrupted. “Are the chips in this photo all the chips that were used?
“Da…Dah! Of course!” squealed the witness.
“Maybe you could explain a bit about these “chips”?” Justice asked.
“E-Explain?” the witness scoffed quietly. “What is there to be explained?”
Mr. Payne was of the same opinion. “Objection!” he yelled. “Poker chips are poker chips. They’re not fish and chips, not a chip off the block, not a motorcycle cop, not a…”
“Thanks…” Justice interrupted. “I think we get it now. But what are these chips worth? Are they in dollars? Or rubles, even?”
“Nyet,” replied the witness. “As I have been saying before, it was game, not gambling. Hard perhaps for capitalist to understand. Two types of chip: 100 points chip and 1,000 points chip. It is not money, dah.” Justice just stood there, staring blankly.
“Justice,” I said.
“Sir!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t you find her comment…interesting?” I demanded.
“In more ways than one, sir,” he replied.
“I’d have it added to her testimony, myself,” I advised.
“Well?” asked the judge. “Does the defense want the witness to add to her testimony?”
“Yes, I do think this deserves further scrutiny,” Justice answered, as if it had been his intention. “Add it to the testimony!”
“Very well,” agreed the judge. “Witness, if you would be so kind.”
“D-Dah, Your Honor,” the witness whimpered.
One kind of chip is worth 100 points, other kind is worth 1,000. Two kinds in all.
“Objection!” Justice shouted. “You’re sure it was the victim who won? Absolutely sure?”
“Objection!” Mr. Payne rebutted. “It seems our new attorney is a bit confused…A glance at the picture is enough to tell you who won! If you’re not in kindergarten.”
“Um…” the judge mumbled. “Just for safety’s sake, could you please explain the problem to the court?”
“Of course, Your Honor,” replied Justice. “In this photo, I see small chips and I see large chips. Tell me…which were worth 1,000 points?”
“Why, the big ones of course! Duh!” scoffed Mr. Payne.
“Oh, I thought so too…” smirked Justice, “but then the totals don’t add up.” “Th-The totals…?” Mr. Payne stammered.
“Let’s review what the witness told us, shall we?” Justice asked rhetorically. “Each man started with 3,500 points in chips. And the combined total value of the chips was 7,000 points.”
“Yes…if my calculations are correct! Let’s see, three plus one, carry the five…” the judge murmured.
“Um, they are, Your Honor,” Justice interjected. “Now! Look at this photo that allegedly shows all the chips. If the big chips are worth 1,000 points, and the small chips are worth 100…And you add them up…”
“How much is it?” Mr. Payne demanded.
“Ten thousand six hundred points,” Justice answered. “The chips don’t add up!” He banged his fists hard on the defense bench. “This clearly contradicts the witness’s testimony!” The courtroom buzzed anxiously, like a swarm of confused hornets.
“B-But why!?” shouted Mr. Payne. “How could this be!?”
“Exactly…” I said to Justice. I was slightly impressed that he had made this observation on his own.
“Justice. Now that you know the “what”, you must determine the “why”.” “Each man began the game with 3,500 points,” continued Justice. “If all the chips are indeed shown in this photograph…Then there can only be one answer.”
“Well, what is it!?” the judge said impatiently. “The value of the chips…was the other way around!” Justice shouted.
“Wh-What!?” squealed Mr. Payne.
“Want to know what I think?” Justice asked, once again, rhetorically. “The small chips were worth 1,000 points, not the big ones!”
Exactly. Six small chips and ten big chips. I couldn’t see why everyone else was so slow on the uptake.
“Madness! Utter madness!” Mr. Payne shouted wildly.
“Show me that photograph of the chips again!” the judge demanded. “There are six small chips and ten large chips…Why that does make 7,000 points when you add them up!”
Got there at last, have we?
“Excellent work, Justice,” I said. “It’s almost as though you figured it out by yourself.”
Whether Justice caught the jibe or not, he replied nervously, “Well…I’m just glad I was the one who said it.”
“Objection!” squeaked Mr. Payne. “B-But wait! The value of the chips may be different, but that changes nothing!!”
“Indeed…” the judge said blindly. “The victim did have the larger number of chips still…Ah!”
“Exactly,” smirked Justice. “If the small chips are 1,000 points and the big chips are 100…Let’s do a little math. Add up the points for each side of the table.
“Ah… Auuuuuuuuuuuuugh!” Mr. Payne bellowed.
“The victim, Mr. Smith had 2,900 points and the defendant had…4,100 points!” the judge exclaimed. “Well now…It seems that Mr. Wright was winning that night after all!” Justice declared.
“That’s…impossible,” Mr. Payne said cluelessly.
“My client had even less reason to kill the victim!” Justice asserted. “After all…he was winning!”
“Yeeeaaaargh!” Mr. Payne cried animatedly.
“Now…Ms. Orly,” said Justice, turning his attention back to the witness. “You must have known the true value of the chips. Since you were there at the scene of the crime…weren’t you?”
“Ah… Eeeeeeeeeek!” the witness screamed.
“Order! Order!!” the judge demanded, slamming his gavel. “It appears our defendant has lost his “motive”. And Mr. Wright’s supposed defeat…never happened.” The witness groaned softly.
Justice said, “We must now ask ourselves whether we can trust the witness’s testimony at the time of—”
“HOLD IT!” the witness yelled, in an unusually commanding voice.
“E-Excuse me?” Justice said disbelievingly. “What is it, Ms. Orly?”
“I…I did not want to be saying this,” the witness said, her bravado vanishing on the spot, “but…Actually, you see, erm…”
Get to the point.
“See what, Ms. Orly!? What do we see!?” Mr. Payne demanded, with desperation in his voice.
“In the last hand, there was cheat!” the witness declared. The courtroom stirred once again, even more confused than before.
“A ch-cheat?” asked Mr. Payne. “You…You don’t mean…a trick!?”
“Wait, or do you mean…a scam!?” the judge demanded.
They’re the same thing!
“Yes,” the witness replied. “There was cheat in last hand…That is why game ends with chips as they are!”
“Well,” I said to no one in particular, “this case certainly has taken a turn…for the interesting!”
“Witness!” the judge boomed. “You will testify to the court! Tell us about this cheating in the final hand!”