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Manfred von Karma was dead.
He was not sentenced before his death, nor did he ever see the inside of a prison cell. If he had, the outcome might have been predictable. A foregone conclusion and sentencing. Intense media attention and scrutiny, with the flash of cameras recording his failure for the world to see. And after that a life lived in captivity, with no one for company but the decades worth of innocent defendants that he himself had put behind bars.
It was hard to tell how long he would have lasted. Even in detention it was clear something had changed in him. Quite apart from the intense control with which he’d approached his life and fought to keep the truth concealed, here he moved without complaint, followed orders, and barely spoke.
As ever, he was constantly gripping at his sleeve, tensing the muscles in his shoulder, blunting a pain to which he’d long grown used.
The possibility of the bullet in his shoulder matching the other fired in DL-6 was proof enough for the initial trial system, but the higher courts would need the infernal thing removed and analyzed. He was scheduled for surgery two weeks after Christmas.
By all accounts it would be a routine procedure, over and done with in less than a few hours. The age of the wound and non-vital tissue involved made the possibility of life-threatening complications minimal. But despite his insistence that anesthesia would not be necessary, it was not a situation he was in any position to negotiate.
The operation began at night, to avoid the attention of the press. A bevy of police stood guard, two inside the room and two outside it – not that anyone involved thought escape would be a possibility. Ordinarily, the anesthesiologist would ease her patients into sleep by suggesting that they try to count to ten. This time, she did not. She’d read the papers, and knew who this was. His comfort was not her priority.
===
Twilight sleep, they once called it. A medically-induced tether on the border between life and death.
It was as easy for Gregory Edgeworth to slip into this space as it was for Von Karma to succumb to it. It would not be a straightforward thing to explain to the living, how he had come to know where Von Karma would be and when. Independently he had no spiritual power of his own, but even fifteen years later he’d retained a thing or two from his brush with the Kurain school of channeling.
Commonly it is believed that spirits retain a connection to the living when they have “unfinished business” to resolve, which could very well have been the truth, as far as Edgeworth had ever experienced it. Still, for fifteen years, inasmuch as he could be said to be thinking, he had not spared a thought for Von Karma.
Not until he had a reason.
He’d dedicated his life to the law as a final arbiter between guilt and innocence. Accepted, if not fully believed, that court was the first and greatest battleground against injustice and corruption. And here, it could be said, that justice had prevailed. Von Karma was guilty, and would never take another breath outside of a prison.
But that punishment was only to repay his debt to society, which was only one debt out of a great, great many he owed. And without any access to a courtroom, he had no reason to defer to it.
Without any connection to a physical body, or indeed physicality to the space at all, it would be difficult to say that Edgeworth approached Von Karma, but the happenstance was close enough. Von Karma, for what it was worth, was far less equipped to be aware of anything happening around him. But for all his foul traits, he was intelligent, and quick to catch on.
He knew who was with him, and the beginnings of his terror were tangible.
“Hello Manfred,” Gregory said, with the equivalent of a smile. “I understan̶d̸ y̶̛̥ȏ̵͉̉u̴̫̣͠'̷̪͘͠v̵͕̩̅̀e̵̛̟ ̷͙͈̐b̴̺͑̐ȅ̸̩͔e̴̛̲͜n̷̢̼͒ ̸̧̽ṫ̷̢͎̰͌̚ā̶̺̜̱̕k̷͇̬̱̥̆̏̕ḯ̷̬̙̲͈̓́̾ń̵̩̄͝g̴̜̓ ̸͉̫̲̋c̸͓͚̜̟͌̈́̆a̷̙͑̔̚͝r̴̞̎̄̏ḛ̵̟̀̾ ̷̟̩͘ǫ̷̞̬̯̘̍̈́̔f̵̥͔̜̠͍̭̬̫̫͠ ̵̫̓͌͋͑͒͆̈́͂̓͒͝m̷̹̩̯͚̔̀͛̿̕y̵̛̛̭͛͛͐͐̏̅͗̈ ̵̬̳̫̪̤̪͍̋͗̓̄̑̿͘s̷̻͖̔̈́͐̈́̄͘ő̵̡͕̆̍̿͌͋͝ņ̸̫̫̗͙̦̒̋̆̄͂̈.̷̧̙̟͓̲̳̬̱͈̳͓̝̃̓̃̈́̕͝͝͝"̴͉̳̝̮̘̹͗̍̄̉̄̌͗̈̕
===
Of course there had been no way to anticipate it. He’d had no prior surgeries, and nothing in his medical history that would have anticipated the severity of his allergic reaction. The doctors had done their due diligence, and the anesthesiologist had dosed him properly.
They should have had time to intervene, but they didn’t. Maybe it was his age that magnified the impact, or the stress of the trial that weakened his system.
However it happened, he shouldn’t have been awake. He certainly shouldn’t have had the energy for the scream he made – a high, shrill, piercing thing that all but tore out his throat – nor should he have died with such a look of terror on his face.
The extraction was otherwise a success, and as the police overwhelmed the surgeons the bullet lay in an evidence bag, forgotten for the moment. In two days it would go to forensic analysis, where the ballistic markings would confirm what Phoenix Wright had already known without the fuss.
But for now Manfred von Karma was dead. His next of kin were notified; one screamed and cursed into the receiver, while the other listened, silent, and then hung up with little more than a “thank you.” A call was made to the detention center, and messages drafted to the courthouse and the press. On the hospital line, a clerk began arranging for the body’s removal.
And Miles Edgeworth, not knowing what awaited him in the morning, slept as soundly in his bed as his father in his grave.