Perfection
Little thing I just banged out from the perspective of a character who
oddly enough, keeps growing on me—Franziska von Karma. Strong hints of
Franziska/Adrian, so if that sort of thing bugs you, might not want to
read it. (But it's so cuuuuuute!)
Inspired by, and trying to mirror, "Clemency" by Lerayl ( - And it was
written fairly quickly, so please excuse the numerous flaws
Takes place four months after the final case in Phoenix Wright 2.
THERE ARE SPOILERS IN THIS STORY FOR ALL PHOENIX WRIGHT 2 CASES, SO READ
AT YOUR OWN RISK!
-----------
The light was on in the southern office on the eighth floor of the
Department of Public Prosecutors long before the warm rays of the sun
ever crested the horizon. Of course, nobody on the ground saw the rays
in question, due to the thick blanket of clouds that shrouded the world
in a perpetual misty twilight. It was the rainy season in Hamburg,
Germany, and last night had borne a sizeable thunderstorm. The rains and
thunder had come and gone, leaving only a slate-gray ceiling of clouds
behind.
And so, when most working men and women were just starting to wake, eat
breakfast, and head off to their jobs, a young prodigy of law had
already been awake and busy for over an hour.
Fransizka von Karma rested the end of a pen against her lower lip in
thought for a brief instant before scribbling something down on a piece
of paper in dark, quick, clean strokes. She slid the letter-size page
across her desk in one smooth motion, placing it on top of a small pile
of similar sheets, before turning slightly to the display on her
computer monitor far on the left. The local news site still hadn't
reported the murder, it appeared. Almost disappointing.
Her office was not small, though she had refrained from claiming an
extravagantly large one for her own as many in the Prosecutor's
Department did (or wished to do, had they the means). It was just as
much space as she needed; anything more would be a waste. A row of file
cabinets lined the rear wall behind her, a shoulder-high gray monolith
of case files. Each drawer was labeled exactly and impeccably, and there
was a three-ring folder lying on top of the cabinets that contained a
list of brief case summaries, possible precedents to use, and so on.
Franziska von Karma never used it—she never needed to.
The desk that was the main focus of the room was three-quarters of the
way to the rear wall, a simple polished wood piece with multiple drawers
and compartments for various tools. There were two piles of paper up in
the corner, a simple computer monitor over on the far right
side—Fransizka didn't much like using computers, but they were useful
tools—and the rest of the space she would use for her current case
files.
The entire left wall was a built-in bookshelf covered in various legal
tomes that the young prosecutor had virtually memorized. Opposite it was
a map of the city of Hamburg, with various pinpoints designating the
scenes of murders that Franziska had been assigned to prosecute. Other
than a pair of chairs in the middle of the room facing her desk, the
office was bare and Spartan, without any unnecessary ornamentation.
Everything had a place, and she knew exactly where it was. Franziska
could have probably worked blindfolded, if it suited her to do so.
Everything was perfect, as was fitting.
There were four phones on a small side desk to her right (which, with
the other desk, formed an "L" shape around her leather chair), one of
which was the inter-department communications line, with various
blinking lights indicating certain conversations happening all over the
building. As the Department was virtually empty at this early hour, its
face was blank for the time. The other three phones were all mobile
models, each in its own individual dock for charging and storage
purposes.
Each phone had its own number and purpose, so that Franziska would know
exactly what to expect before answering. The black land line would ring
with news of evidence, completed analyses and reports, or those
cumbersome and meandering questions from the Chief of Police that
Franziska was reluctantly forced to waste her precious time answering.
To its right, the tan mobile phone—phone #1—was for field reports,
information about new cases, and everything of that nature that was not
from immediately within the department. Today, it had already seen
considerable use, even this early in the morning. Further down the line
was the second phone, this one a dark blue. This was the line that the
news channels had for Prosecutor von Karma, and Franziska expected it to
start ringing shortly.
The third and last phone had never rung. It was red, and Franziska used
that number for all of her personal calls. However, as she always paid
her bills before their due dates, and made as little effort to socialize
with her coworkers (or anybody else, for that matter) as possible, it
was perpetually silent.
Not only could Franziska identify each phone by its location and feel in
her hand, she had ensured that she could recognize them by sound as
well. The first phone's ring was well known to anybody with a taste for
classical music—a clip from Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, by Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart, the closest to a perfect composer that had ever lived.
Another Mozart piece—Lacrimosa from his final Requiem—was the chosen
ring on the second phone.
Once more, the third mobile phone was unique. There was a part of
Franziska that was glad that the red phone had never rang, for its sound
was quite unlike any of the others. Instead of being an elegant, perfect
classical piece by the greatest musician to ever live, it was a baudy
little jingle from a foolish little children's television show. Against
the timeless work of Amadeus, it seemed trite and meaningless.
To Franziska von Karma, it carried the most meaning of all. The time
spent in America had been trying for the daughter of Manfred von Karma,
with her perfect record and perfect cases shattered by the persistence
(and blind luck) of one certain defense attorney. She had gone up
against that foolish lawyer and his little companion twice, and twice
she had been utterly defeated. Had she returned to court to face him a
third time, though, things would have gone differently.
Instead, she had been ambushed outside the courthouse before she could
enter, shot in the shoulder by a mysterious assailant that hadn't been
caught since. She'd been replaced in court by her father's other
protégé, Miles Edgeworth—back from the dead. Edgeworth was good, of
course... but it was his case, not hers.
Matt Engarde was found guilty, not for the actual act of murder, but for
conspiring to commit it. Wright had been defeated. However, it had been
by Edgeworth's hand, not hers. A part of Fransizka ached at that loss;
the lack of a chance to prove herself and demonstrate her own abilities.
If she had been standing opposite Wright, things would have gone
differently in that courtroom. It would have been a perfect case. They
had all been perfect cases—though thanks to the ineptitude of a certain
police detective and his coworkers, they had been perfect cases built on
imperfect facts.
There was no reason to prosecute the innocent. In that one way, perhaps,
the goals of the prosecution was like that of the defense—to see the
true guilty party face punishment. Fransizka chose to seek that end by
finding the perpetrator and bringing the full weight of the law to bear
on them. If the evidence showed the guilt of one person, charging
another with the crime and wasting precious time and resources was
foolish indeed. For that reason, a prosecutor needed to assume that the
defendant had, indeed, committed the crime in question.
Defense attorneys had to assume that the prosecution was wrong; that
their client was innocent. They had to trust in that and work to prove
it against the prosecution's efforts. In doing so, they would establish
who had not committed the crime, rather than who had. It struck the
blue-haired prodigy that Wright had been awfully good at doing both
simultaneously, but that was more luck and coincidence than anything
else.
Franziska's perfect cases had been dismantled not through any fault of
her own, but simply because the defendants were, in fact, innocent. Had
her detectives seen the bullet-hole or found the hidden clothes-basket
behind the folding curtain in Kurain village, or had they found the bust
of Max Galactica concealed beneath Ken Dingling's wheelchair... well,
the person on the witness stand would have been a decidedly different
someone. There was no point in prosecuting the innocent, no joy in
seeing the blameless sent to death row. At least, not to her, though she
suspected there might be others who felt differently.
If she had learned anything in America, it was that things were often
deeper than they seemed.
---
Despite being spring, the misty morning air was surprisingly cool.
Franziska's stride was even, measured, not too slow nor too quick—it was
calculated and perfect. She was, at present, roughly forty kilometers
outside of Hamburg, where the urban sprawl started to give way to more
open space. There was a medium-sized, U-shaped building in front of her,
with towering spires and parapets that gave the appearance of a medieval
castle. That was, of course, the idea—it was an inn for tourists in the
style of the old Holy Roman Empire... or at least, what the tourists
expected the architecture of that era to look like.
At the moment, it was the scene of a murder.
A young police officer, noticing her, jogged over to the prosecutor, his
boots squishing in the mud beneath his feet audibly. Without breaking
her stride, Fransizka continued on, forcing the officer to match her
brisk pace. Even though the patrolman was a head taller than the
prosecutor and much more powerfully built, he seemed to shrink away from
her mere presence in intimidation. She spoke, the only sign that she
acknowledged his presence at all. "What's relevant, Ernst?"
Officer Hans Ernst ran a hand through his dark brown hair, gathering his
thoughts before speaking. "The landlord, Frederich Kruger, was shot to
death at approximately two o'clock in the morning today. We're waiting
on the coroners to arrive to take away the body, so there's no autopsy
report yet, but it looks like he was killed by a single shot to the
throat." He jerked a dirt-splattered thumb to the right, where yellow
tape marked the perimeter of the police investigation. There was a black
tarpaulin on the ground, and von Karma could make out the outline of a
body underneath.
She ducked the yellow tape and motioned for Hans to peel back the
tarpaulin. He did so quickly, revealing the body of the victim.
Frederich Kruger had been a short, fat man, with a piggy little face and
a completely bald head—though his bushy black eyebrows suggested that he
had not quite gone gray. He had blue, beady eyes that stared up into the
sky, glassy and expressionless in death. Though his entire body was
soaked by water, the darkness on his shirt and stain on his chin and
neck could only be blood, blood that had drained away onto the muddy
ground from a gaping wound in his neck.
The violence of the scene didn't disturb Franziska, for it was nothing
new to her. Manfred von Karma had believed in his superiority, though he
was never foolish enough to believe in immortality. He had failed to
make a prosecutor out of his elder daughter, so he began to mold the
younger into his successor from a very young age. Crime scenes and death
were nothing new to the prodigy. In a way, however, she almost regretted
becoming so inured to the view of another human being lifeless.
Though the little girl that the lawyer Wright dragged around with him
hadn't been exposed to anything truly graphic in the time Franziska had
spent in America, she believed it was only a matter of time... which was
almost saddening. Wright and the little girl had been there in the
hotel, just after—
No, this was not the time to think about such things. She had a case to
build.
Hans looked up at her, sheepishly. "Hell of a painful way to go." At her
nod, the young officer covered up the body again, standing up and wiping
off his muddy hands on his trousers (though it didn't seem to help
much). "The coroners will be here in about ten minutes, so we can get a
proper autopsy then. But that wound is pretty hard to miss, eh Miss
Fransizka?" Narrowing her eyes and resting her hand on the handle of her
whip, Fransizka made it rather clear that she did not appreciate his
casual tone of voice, and the officer shrank back in submission, "I-I
mean, isn't it hard to miss, P-prosecutor von Karma?"
She nodded, looking up at the gray sky and releasing her whip's handle.
"Two o'clock last night... that was during the middle of the storm,
wasn't it?"
The officer nodded. "Right during the height of it, actually. That's the
reason why the crime was reported so late—there was a blackout, and the
phone lines went down for about three hours."
"And the suspect?"
To his credit, Hans Ernst didn't miss a beat. Competence was refreshing,
thought the prosecutor to herself. "Markus Richter, a tenant. We've
looked through the files of the inn, and apparently he owed Kruger quite
a bit of money. He was going to be evicted in a week—so he's got a
motive."
The ruddy-faced officer pointed up at a third-story window near the
inside corner of the building, below a large floodlight that illuminated
the side of the building down to the doorway, directly beneath it.
"That's Richter's room, where we found him sleeping this morning. It's
also where the fatal shot was fired—from Richter's handgun. An old
revolver, imported from the States—with one bullet missing. It's
impossible to say right now, but I'd guess that the forensics team will
match the ballistic markings on the bullet to his gun."
Franziska's voice was flat and strong, showing no signs of wavering or
doubt whatsoever. "You mentioned his alibi on the phone. He was at a
bar, he said?"
Her companion nodded. "Says he went to a bar to drown out the racket
from the storm, and that's where he was at the time of the murder."
"Find the bartender on duty, bring him in for questioning," The young
prosecutor snapped her fingers up in the air, her other hand going
towards her whip. "Now." The large patrolman flinched involuntarily, and
immediately pulled out a radio, shooting a brief gaze of terror at
Franziska before relaying the order to his fellow officers. "And if his
alibi holds out?"
Hans Ernst shrugged. "I don't see how it could, Fra—Prosecutor von
Karma. Not only is there the evidence already against him, but there's a
witness. The inn's chef, as a matter of fact. He says he was watching
the storm from his room," he pointed at a first-floor window a ways
away, "when he saw Richter lean out of his window and fire the fatal
shot."
For a moment, Franziska stood in thought. A year ago, this would have
been all it took. Means, motive, a weapon and a witness. All that
remained would be to make sure the witnesses knew exactly what she
expected them to say on the stand, and she would build her perfect case.
"Bring me to the witness, I want to talk to him." It was not a request,
and both of them knew it. Hans quickly shuffled his way through the mud
and opened the nearby door—painted to look like a medieval castle
gate—and the two of them entered the dimly lit halls of the inn. The
lights were flickering and quite dim, and Franziska guessed it was
because they were running on the inn's auxiliary power.
He led her through the hallways until they came to a wooden door with
gothic-style numbers informing all who cared that it was Room 119.
Without waiting for Officer Ernst to knock, Franziska turned the knob
and entered. There was a man sitting inside the lonely room by a chair
near the window, dressed all in the white uniform of a chef (though
without the trademark hat). "My name is Franziska von Karma, District
Prosecutor. I am in charge of this investigation. What is your name?"
"My, my, Prosecutor. Aren't we hasty?" The man gave a toothy smile and
stood up—he was tall and very thin, almost gaunt, with sharp, bony
features that reminded Franziska of a skeleton with skin stretched
tightly over it. He bowed softly, a gesture that the young attorney did
not return. "My name is Manfred Herzog, head chef here at this
establishment."
Anybody who was paying very close attention to the blue-haired woman's
body language would have noticed a slight jolt at his name, a jolt that
was quickly suppressed and covered up. Unbidden memories of her father
started surfacing... her father's blind obsession with perfection at
whatever cost.
Franziska was well aware that her path closely paralleled that of her
father. Even the healed wound in her shoulder that ached on wet
days—like today—was evidence of that. Like father, like daughter... but
she refused to let the wound that had been her father's downfall become
hers. She would grow from it, and had grown from it. One could strive to
be perfect, and that was admirable and just. But obsession with
perfection? Such an obsession was, ironically enough, a flaw—a flaw that
had doomed her father.
Though her pause in thought was a scant few seconds, that was all it
took for a slight smirk to find its way onto Herzog's face. He clearly
thought she was weak, easily pressured. Which meant that he had
something he was wanting to hide.
That in itself wasn't new. Most people had a skeleton or two in their
closets, and when confronted by a district prosecutor—who could very
well use their confession against them—they would be very reticent to
say anything that could possibly indicate a wrongdoing of their own.
Except for her.
No! This was not the time to reminisce about the past. Whatever this one
was hiding, it irked her. "Very well. You claim to have seen Markus
Richter shooting Frederich Kruger last night, correct?"
Manfred Herzog spread his arms wide, smiling conceitedly. "I may have
seen something like that, yes..."
CRACK!
The tip of her lash snapped the air in front of Herzog's bony face, and
the gaunt man screeched, jumping back. "Wh-what was that, you insane
woman?!"
Franziska held the whip over her head, holding it taut and making it
crystal clear that she would not hesitate to strike again. "I have no
time for the foolish ramblings of a foolishly foolish fool. You will
tell me exactly what you saw."
Though he was stunned, Herzog nodded, motioning her to the window. "I
was watching the storm through this window," Franziska noticed that the
sill was wet, as if it had been rained on—though the window was tightly
shut. Perhaps there was a leak? "And then I see Frederich walking from
his office to his cottage over there on the hill," she saw a two-story
house about one hundred meters away, a boring-looking home.
"Just then, I noticed something moving underneath the floodlight,"
continued the chef, and Franziska noted that Richter's room—and the
floodlight above it—and I saw Markus Richter lean out of his window and
shoot poor Frederich in the neck!"
"How did you know it was him?" the prosecutor's voice was calm and
dispassionate, as if asking about the weather.
Herzog nodded again. "Oh, that part's easy! Not only was he wearing that
ugly hat and coat he always wears, but the floodlight illuminated his
face!"
"Is that so?" A turquoise eyebrow arched, but the rest of her body and
face remained expressionless. For a third time, Herzog nodded an
affirmative.
CRACK!
"I am here to find out the truth, chef! You will not lie to me, do you
understand?" Her whip was held high once more, her cheeks flushed in
anger. "Foolishly hoping fool who foolishly hopes to get away with his
fool's tales! You could not have seen Richter's face, because the
floodlight was behind him! He would have been in shadow like that—so are
you going to tell me the truth, or are you going to waste my time and
get better acquainted with the bite of my whip?!"
The chef's pale face drained even further, and there was a look of
horror and contempt in his eyes. "N-no! No! I... okay, I didn't see his
face, but I saw his coat and hat, those beat up pieces of junk...
anybody could recognize them! Besides, it was his room—it had to be him!
I swear!"
Franziska held the whip up high... and then lowered it. "I understand.
Ernst, have him taken down to the Department for further questioning.
Wait here until Detective Schumann comes to further analyze the scene.
If you find out anything, call me immediately."
With that, she strode out of the room with her perfect gait, letting it
slam behind her. "The power was out at two in the morning," she said to
herself. "He didn't see anything at all." Franziska decided that she had
some financial records to look through.
---
Franziska sat in the back of the police sedan driving her back to the
Department, letting her thoughts drift for a brief moment. Herzog's gaze
had been contemptuous, as if she were beneath him—which fueled her
dislike of the man even more. It had also been fearful of her whip,
which was a look she knew full well.
Phoenix Wright had looked at her with passion and determination,
unwilling to give up despite the odds. The bumbling, inept detective and
his coworkers had looked at her in a mix of respect, awe, and trembling
fear of her whip. Defendants looked at her in terror, witnesses looked
at her in trepidation and awe of her tenacity and ferocity in the
Prosecutor's Box.
The man whom she considered a brother... Miles Edgeworth... he'd looked
at her with respect, true. But almost a grudging, patronizing respect...
as if she were still a young, foolish girl. So many thought that of her
before tasting the sting of her lash—and finding out that she, barely a
legal woman, had accomplished far more than any of them would in their
boring, mundane lives.
Her father had never looked at her with respect. She remembered his gaze
well, one of patronization, high expectation, and disappointment. Even
after becoming a full-fledged prosecutor at the incredibly young age of
13, he had never looked at her with respect as his other protégé did.
Even when he'd left her and gone to America, he would often call with
his advice on the case—whether Franziska wanted it or not. He never
asked her opinion. He never asked for her help. She was a replacement if
Edgeworth didn't succeed, and she suspected that the elder von Karma
would almost rather Edgeworth change his name to continue the von Karma
line than leave it to his younger daughter.
The prodigy could only remember one person that had looked at her with
genuine trust... and a need. The clock rolled back days and weeks and
months to the investigation of the murder of Juan Corrida.
With a start, Franziska realized why she'd found it so hard to focus all
day. She'd always prided herself on an accurate internal calendar and an
ability to memorize dates perfectly. Today was the day that Adrian
Andrews would be released from her minor sentence for her actions during
the investigation—the punishment was lighter, of course, due to her
cooperation with the state in building their case against Matt Engarde.
A sentence, Franziska knew, that she was partially responsible for.
Before talking to any of the people involved, Franziska had read up on
their profiles well. She'd known all about Celeste Inpax, about Andrews'
attempted suicide and subsequent actions, and about her dependency
issue. From the moment she'd entered that hotel room, she'd known that
the cool, collected manager was a complete façade.
She hadn't expected it to break down so quickly, though.
Most witnesses she talked to in the course of an investigation would
never reveal such a damning fact to the lead prosecutor for fear of
finding themselves on the defendant's stand. So, to see the other woman
go from collected and distant to practically sobbing out how she'd
stabbed a dead man in the chest and planted the evidence on her own
client was actually something that Franziska—who prided herself on her
knowledge—was completely unprepared for.
Though the two women were almost the same height, Adrian looked so small
and helpless, shrinking into herself, at last breaking the silence by
asking Franziska if she thought she was a horrible person for what she'd
done.
I don't care what sort of person you are, and it doesn't matter anyway,
she'd told the distressed woman. Don't admit to any of this on the
witness stand, not even if that wily lawyer tries to trick you into it.
You don't have to incriminate yourself, it's in our laws. It doesn't
matter as long as Matt Engarde is guilty. And tomorrow, I will find him
guilty.
Franziska, so thrown off by the collapse of Adrian's façade, had
actually gently rested a hand on her shoulder, feeling her smooth, bare
skin tremble as her body shivered almost uncontrollably. To her
surprise, it had actually worked, and Adrian had begun to compose
herself.
Adrian had trusted her. Of all the looks and glances she'd ever gotten,
not one had ever been trust.
Oh, sure, families of the victims and her subordinates on the police
force trusted that she would find the accused guilty. But that was trust
in Prosecutor von Karma, the name and office even more so than the
person. Adrian had trusted... Franziska. She had trusted her so strongly
that it was the one thing she had to cling to on the witness stand.
If Franziska had been there, she knew she would have protected
Adrian—after all, she was her witness. She would have led Wright off the
track, prevented what Adrian had told her coming to light. Miles
wouldn't have been able to force those dark moments of hers out into the
light like he had—necessary to his case, but not to Franziska's. But she
hadn't been there.
It was because Adrian Andrews had trusted so strongly in what Franziska
had told her that she was now in jail. A free woman, to be sure—of both
jail and her past—but the lawyer did feel responsible for putting her
through that hell, even just partially. But it dawned on Franziska that
for once, someone needed her. Someone was relying on her... which was
something that had never happened before.
It was ...nice. Franziska hoped that Adrian would forgive her for
putting her through that struggle before moving on with the rest of her
life.
---
The dark blue phone rang, and Franziska sighed, picking it up. It was,
of course, a news station asking for a comment on the murder case. The
prosecutor said that the guilty party would be held responsible for its
actions, and immediately hung up, resisting the urge to take the phone's
batteries out.
Her desk was covered in papers, though in an orderly fashion. There was
a large flat map of the inn on her desk with a diagram of the crime
scene. Apparently, there had been a second witness—a college student
living in the landlord's cottage, who had been taking pictures of the
thunderstorm when the murder occurred. Hans Ernst had delivered his
report of the student's account to the prosecutor, and she found it very
interesting that the student mentioned the sound of a struggle calling
his attention to the inn instead of the storm, when he was able to take
a photograph.
The photograph clearly showed a figure leaning out of the window in
question, and the flash of a gun... but unfortunately, the bottom of the
picture was blurry, so she couldn't make out the victim getting shot.
That, compounded with the reports from forensics that the bullet was
indeed a match to the gun, indicated an open-and-shut case. The
suspect's alibi was likewise shot down, as the bartender said he'd left
the bar at quarter to two—more than enough time to make it to the inn
and commit the crime. However, von Karma was not convinced. Her case
would be flawless, not built on the incorrect assumptions of foolish
police officers. Franziska's own investigating had uncovered some
interesting facts.
Firstly, it appeared as if the inn was deep in debt, and not just
because of Richter's delay in paying his rent. In fact, four days before
the murder Frederich Kruger had decided that he could no longer afford
having a three-star chef, and so informed Herzog that he was letting him
go.
It also seemed that Markus Richter had more debts to pay, including a
massive unpaid tab to the bar he claimed to have been at that night. He
never tipped Herzog when he ate there... the bartender had also been
aware of the financial state of the inn, and records in the late
Kruger's office showed that the owner of the bar had made several
unsuccessful attempts to purchase the locale as well.
The account of the student was suspicious, too. If Richter had indeed
killed Kruger with a single shot, then why the sound of a struggle? The
illuminated gunshot in the photograph was much brighter than Franziska
knew was natural... which said to her that it was a blank, which
expended more energy in sound and light because it didn't have to propel
a bullet.
Franziska brushed some papers off the map and started drawing lines from
the location of the body to the two rooms in question. Though the body
was laid out in such a way that it could have been knocked directly over
by a direct impact fired from Richter's room, the bullet had caught
Kruger on the side of the neck... which might have turned him around.
Her hand worked quickly, drawing lines that indicated trajectory, the
spin of the body... and if she assumed that the blow of the bullet had
spun Kruger around in the direction of the shot, it could have easily
come from Herzog's window. Which would have also explained the
water—he'd had to open it to fire the fatal shot, of course.
Things were beginning to fall into place. Herzog and the bartender had
been accomplices. The bartender had slipped something into Richter's
drink, causing him to feel sleepy and want to head home—and also,
ensuring he'd sleep for a long time. The bartender followed him back to
the inn, and gave the revolver from his room to Herzog, before faking
the sounds of a struggle—to catch the photographer's attention. He'd
then fired a blank gun... to distract from the real killing blow, fired
from Richter's gun from Herzog's window.
With Kruger dead, the bartender could pick up the inn for almost
nothing, and Herzog would be given his job back... and who better to pin
it on than someone who had a possible motive, whom the two of them both
hated?
It made sense. Her case was perfect. Her case was built on perfect
facts, not flawed assumptions by a detective force too incompetent to
even possibly comprehend! The truth was clear now, not muddied by a
hasty investigation in some vainglorious obsession with absolute and
total faultlessness.
Her father ignored his mistakes or attempted to cover them up, and it
had doomed him. Franziska realized this, and so she was determined to
learn from them. She would acknowledge her mistakes and correct them.
...even the mistake that had put a woman who had trusted her completely
behind bars for over four months. That was a mistake, unfortunately,
that Franziska could not correct. She'd given Adrian Andrews her number
in case she "needed" anything, but what could she possibly need from a
prosecutor in Germany while she was in prison? It was a weak attempt to
take responsibility, and Franziska knew it.
She glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight, now—she'd been working
on the case all afternoon and evening. In Los Angeles, it would be just
about three in the afternoon, right now. After taking all day to process
her release, Adrian Andrews would be free any moment now... a mistake
ended, if not corrected, at least.
Though she would never admit it, Franziska von Karma suddenly felt very
drained, sitting down in her chair with a bit less grace than normal.
Dum da di da dum da da da da...
Franziska sat up straight in her chair, startled. Her phone was ringing.
The fourth phone was ringing. The one that never, ever rung.
She didn't allow herself to hope it was true, but a part of her expected
the name she saw when she looked at the caller ID...
Adrian Andrews was calling her.
The young prodigy suddenly found her heart racing, and she didn't know
why. The pedantic little samurai tune was ringing out, and she could see
some of the few detectives still in the building looking at her office
in disbelief that the Prosecutor could have such a juvenile ring tone.
Normally, Franziska's whip would have slashed the air, driving them back
to their desks, but she sat silently, stunned and staring at Adrian's
name.
Was she calling in anger to confront the person whose fault it was she'd
spent a third of a year in jail? Was she calling... was there trouble?
That's what the note she'd left had said. Did Adrian... did she actually
need her?
She needs me.
No... no, that couldn't be it. All the way in Germany, what could I do?
She was already calculating the cost of a flight from Los Angeles to
Hamburg in her head. She's better off on her own, learning to be
independent, anyway.
She needs me.
It's my responsibility that she ended up like that, and no one else's.
She's... she trusted me. She needed me, nobody else ever did, not like
that. I'm striving for perfection, she's flawed... yet somehow
wonderfully flawed, beautifully imperfect, and that doesn't make sense!
She needs me.
But... she could always go to Miles, or Wright, or someone—anyone who
didn't betray her trust and get her sentenced to a third of a year in
jail for listening to what you told her to do.
She needs me.
...what do I do?
The ringing stopped, as perhaps Adrian thought nobody was there to
answer her. Franziska felt her heart catch briefly in her throat, the
strangely familiar and unwelcome sting of disappointment with herself...
the chance had come and gone, she'd let it slip away, the chance to
correct that awful mistake and find someone, maybe, who really needed
her. Maybe the one person in the entire world like that...
It rang again, and this time Franziska answered, letting a brief
eternity of silence hang in the air before speaking.
"Hello?"
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