tell me lies

Pride always had been von Karma's cardinal sin. He was quite sure that he knew the young defence attorney's type: all yap and bluster. Something in the small dog line, maybe. A terrier. The cheap sort that hunts rats. Certainly nothing as well-bred as a spaniel or a prosecutor.

He could even tell the boy's method; a cobbled-together patchwork of guesses, supported by bare fragments of evidence, unstable and unsupported, based on the judge's credulity and the prosecution's weaknesses.

(Of course, von Karma had no weaknesses.)

And at the root of it, what was the boy's motivation? Sentiment. A lie told to himself to keep his tiny heart warm at night; a folly treasured rather than despised; a gesture of eloquence somehow valued as an act of mercy. Nothing so based on weakness could possibly change the course of the trial or procure Edgeworth's acquittal.

When it came down to it, he knew that his own lies far outmatched the boy's pitiful attempts. They were crafted elegantly, prepared, polished, graceful, appealing to the ear, seductive to the logical faculty, and flowed in a perfect sequence of causality. The boy's whimperings and objections should have failed. More. They should have failed utterly.

(Recently, he has come to the conclusion that he must on some level have wanted to lose. Things had become too easy. It was time to start again.)

Yes, he must in some way have allowed the boy's victory. How else could he explain his own failure? Where failure is impossible (as it was), then there must have been some other reason for Edgeworth's acquittal.

But he treasures one thing, won out of the shards of his own judgment; the little glint of pride in the boy's eyes as they exchange glances across the courtroom, in all its smugness and viperish malignancy.

The boy likes winning. He'll do it again.

One of these days, truth won't be an issue to him any more.

On that day, whenever it comes, wherever he is, von Karma will be smiling in Hell.