TODAY I WROTED ABOUT MY PAPA
No one would have expected the final trial of Manfred von Karma, forty-time winner of the Nobel Prosecuting Prize, to feature him as the defendant. Really, you could barely even call it a trial. After Phoenix Wright had essentially proved him guilty of murder, conspiracy to murder, and general psychotic dickery, this was little more than a formality. Still, you couldn't shake a von Karma. He took the whole thing with the grace and dignity brought about by billions of years of evolution superior to that of mere humans... at least, he did once he stopped screaming.
Once incarcerated, Manfred von Karma was a model prisoner. He sat quietly in his cell and wrote his autobiography, and if the criminals in the cells around him were found swinging from the ceiling or asphyxiated on their own tongue... well, the guards weren't about to interrupt his silence with their investigation into it.
Manfred von Karma maintained a fair amount of contact with the outside world. He was too good to answer the fanmail, but he continued to keep up normal correspondence and he updated his last will and testament, as he did on all even-numbered days. He did not speak to his family, not wanting to taint them with his dishonor (whatever dishonor murdering anyone so insignificacnt as a defense attorney could truly bring one), and he did not speak to his own defense attorney, though he had taken care to import the most prestigious one that would take his case.
Even as he waited for the trial to start, von Karma did not dignify his representation with his superiority. Indeed, he only looked up from his newspaper when it became apparent that someone was brutally attacking the guard.
"Papa!" cried Franziska von Karma, who didn't seem particularly affected or inconvenienced by the fact that she was not supposed to be there.
"Hello, Strudel," he said. "Are you looking forward to the trial today?"
"Papa..." she said, and her composure cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Papa, I don't think I can--"
The echo of his backhand rang through the lobby (and perhaps the guard might have done something about it if he weren't lying crumpled in a heap where Franziska had left him). "There wil be no sniveling," he said, "You are a von Karma, and you will be my successor. You are going to go out there and you will prosecute me to the full extent of the law, like I prosecuted my father before me, and he prosecuted his father before him!"
At this point, the neglected defense attorney decided to speak up. "What's going on here? You can't be prosecuted by your own--"
Manfred von Karma tasered him swiftly. Some criminals found smuggling in tasers to be merely expensive; to a von Karma, it was priceless. His daughter couldn't help but smile.
"Thank you, Papa," she said. "It'll be over in less than twenty minutes."
"Good," he said, with an approving nod.
Franziska drew herself up to her full height and strode away with fresh confidence. At the door, after she'd stepped over the body of the beaten guard, she paused and turned her head. "Papa?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to get you the death penalty."
Manfred von Karma smiled what he thought to be a rather pleasant smile, and it might have been, for a shark. "That's my girl."
Once incarcerated, Manfred von Karma was a model prisoner. He sat quietly in his cell and wrote his autobiography, and if the criminals in the cells around him were found swinging from the ceiling or asphyxiated on their own tongue... well, the guards weren't about to interrupt his silence with their investigation into it.
Manfred von Karma maintained a fair amount of contact with the outside world. He was too good to answer the fanmail, but he continued to keep up normal correspondence and he updated his last will and testament, as he did on all even-numbered days. He did not speak to his family, not wanting to taint them with his dishonor (whatever dishonor murdering anyone so insignificacnt as a defense attorney could truly bring one), and he did not speak to his own defense attorney, though he had taken care to import the most prestigious one that would take his case.
Even as he waited for the trial to start, von Karma did not dignify his representation with his superiority. Indeed, he only looked up from his newspaper when it became apparent that someone was brutally attacking the guard.
"Papa!" cried Franziska von Karma, who didn't seem particularly affected or inconvenienced by the fact that she was not supposed to be there.
"Hello, Strudel," he said. "Are you looking forward to the trial today?"
"Papa..." she said, and her composure cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Papa, I don't think I can--"
The echo of his backhand rang through the lobby (and perhaps the guard might have done something about it if he weren't lying crumpled in a heap where Franziska had left him). "There wil be no sniveling," he said, "You are a von Karma, and you will be my successor. You are going to go out there and you will prosecute me to the full extent of the law, like I prosecuted my father before me, and he prosecuted his father before him!"
At this point, the neglected defense attorney decided to speak up. "What's going on here? You can't be prosecuted by your own--"
Manfred von Karma tasered him swiftly. Some criminals found smuggling in tasers to be merely expensive; to a von Karma, it was priceless. His daughter couldn't help but smile.
"Thank you, Papa," she said. "It'll be over in less than twenty minutes."
"Good," he said, with an approving nod.
Franziska drew herself up to her full height and strode away with fresh confidence. At the door, after she'd stepped over the body of the beaten guard, she paused and turned her head. "Papa?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to get you the death penalty."
Manfred von Karma smiled what he thought to be a rather pleasant smile, and it might have been, for a shark. "That's my girl."