Phoenix eventually pulls his head out of his ass and asks Lana some questions. “There’s something you should know from the start,” she tells him. “The suspect in this case has confessed to the crime.” Ema sputters over entirely too many text boxes that Lana is the suspect, like, no shit. Phoenix shakily takes this in and allows Lana to narrate the incident. “The crime took place yesterday, February 21, at 5:15 PM,” she says, adding that this exact time is in the deposition of the witness who saw her commit the crime. “Uh… My, that was a bit of bad luck, wasn’t it?” Phoenix replies. Lana’s like, “I know, right? Why people gotta be all seeing stuff?” and high-fives him through the glass. No, not really. Lana goes on as if he said nothing that the crime took place “in the underground parking lot at the Prosecutor’s Office.” I guess just the one prosecutor works there, then. “The body was found in the trunk of my subordinate’s car,” she adds. The law of character economy should already tell Phoenix which subordinate she means, but let’s let him discover it on his own.
Oh, like you’ve never done it in there.
“I was arrested on the spot,” Lana goes on. “Caught red-handed, as it were.” Phoenix knows a little about being caught red-handed, but I’m sure Mia told Lana all about it while they were drinking cosmos together. On to the victim, a police detective who was “stabbed once in the stomach.” Every subsequent mention of the fatal wound says it was a chest wound, so…whoops. But to Lana’s point, the police and prosecutors are going to go out of their way to nail her to the wall for killing a cop. Not like that. Edgeworth is the only prosecutor they want to nail like that. And speaking of prosecutors, what the hell is a chief prosecutor, anyway? “I’m responsible for overseeing every trial handled by prosecutors in this district,” Lana explains to a man who should already know. “I make sure the prosecutors have what they need to do the job, and manage every aspect.” Sounds like she’s a professional micro-managing pain in the ass. “Still, I’m a little surprised,” Lana says, giving Phoenix her best icy glare. “I would think you’d recognize the district’s Chief Prosecutor, Mr. Wright. In fact, it seems impossible you wouldn’t.” Clearly, Mia did not tell Lana everything about her protégé, notably that he has no fucking clue what he’s doing.
But more importantly, when Lana expresses her surprise at Phoenix being awful at his job, she raises her hand to her chest, and Phoenix and Ema can see that it’s bandaged. She explains that she accidentally cut herself. “When I stabbed him, that is.” Lana acknowledges that she really sucks at this criminal stuff, and Phoenix privately agrees, so he decides to change the subject to her former lover, Mia. “I was in law school,” Lana says. “I was in my third year, and she was auditing the class. She was different than the other students. She was strong… She’d do anything to become a defense attorney. Anything.” Anything except taking the class for actual credit toward a law degree? But then Lana goes on, “That…was probably why she was attracted to me.” Oh ho ho! It looks like Phoenix wasn’t the only one fucking his way through law school! Ema, bless her heart, takes one look at Phoenix’s stunned face and goes, “Intellectually attracted! Lana was top of her class in school.” Yeah, I bet she was.
‘Like a magnet toward a pair of scissors.’
“Well, Mr. Wright?” Lana asks, now that he knows he’d be defending a cop killer who used to chow down on his boss. “As you can plainly see, I am admitting my guilt. I think it’s safe to say…there’s no way you can take this case. None.” Ema freaks out at her, but all Lana the Ice Queen has for her sister is a cold, silent gaze. As the music takes a turn for the depressing again, Ema mutters, “You…you were always this way, weren’t you? You never think of anyone but yourself.” Lana’s surprised by her sister’s bluntness, but Ema just insists again that she knows Lana is innocent and doesn’t understand why she’s saying otherwise. More icy staring. But then, poor Ema says, “If I lose you…I’ll be all alone! I…I hate you, Lana!” I’m waiting for Phoenix to cut in here with even more “THIS REMINDS ME OF SOME OTHER SISTERS” nonsense, since obviously the Skyes are exactly like the Feys.
Lana turns her back on them again, but says to Phoenix, “I believe our discussion here is ended. The rest…I leave to you.” Phoenix takes this to mean she would like his services after all, and she makes sure to tell him he’s still probably going to lose. I wonder if she’s basing that on her own guilt or on his bumbling ineptitude. It can be both. While Phoenix stares some more at her back, he blue-fonts, “Lana has confessed to the crime, yes… But something doesn’t fit. It’s that look in Ema’s eyes.” With nothing to go on but that Lana’s Pollyanna of a sister doesn’t think she murdered anyone, Phoenix decides there must be something else going on. There is a part of me that wishes this case would be open and shut, both because it would maybe disabuse Phoenix of this idiotic notion that none of his clients can possibly be guilty, and because holy shit, is this case going to be a monstrous clusterfuck.
Back at the firm, Ema apologizes for her sister’s icy demeanor. Phoenix doesn’t really care and segues to, “I just never expected to be defending another prosecutor again.” Remember, this trial is all about Phoenix and his personal narrative! Ema listens silently as he basically goes, “MEEEEEEEEEE,” and once he’s done, she changes the subject back to Lana. Ema says she used to be different, “so gentle, always smiling. Everybody liked her.” Phoenix doesn’t really believe this, and somehow doesn’t immediately link this to how Edgeworth suddenly became cold and calculating. Prosecutors! One moment they’re doing hand stuff under your letter jacket, and the next they’re forging autopsy reports! Ema does not identify the single life event that undoubtedly caused this change in Lana, but there was one, and it’s stupid, and we’re going to spend a lot of time rehashing it. So for now they head for the scene of the crime, the prosecutors’ office parking garage.
Once they arrive at the parking area, Phoenix reflects that these are strange circumstances for his first visit to the prosecutors’ office. He will, for some reason, maintain this deep denial that he’s never been bent over Edgeworth’s desk while the janitors vacuum outside the office door, so let’s just let him have this. The garage is one of those automated ones with the cars parked on rails and transported to little cubbies that are so ubiquitous in Tokyo Los Angeles. Ema notes that the police are still inspecting the scene, and shouts out encouragement to them, to the mortification of Phoenix, who is trying to keep his supposedly cherry-popping visit to this place on the down low. Right when Phoenix is explaining this to Ema, a mystery person drawls, “Hey there! You ‘specting to go unnoticed here, pardner?” I’m already sure I’m going to just love this person.
You know how I mentioned that the characters in this case take a distinct turn for the WACKY? Well, here’s Exhibit A, your honor. The mystery person turns out to be a tan, scruffy-chinned man in a full-on cowboy outfit, including hat, red bandana scarf, and poncho, though the poncho is clasped with what looks to be the pendant Lucia wears in Lunar 2. Jeanne wondered if this man is possibly the subject of Marvin Grossberg’s gay cowboy painting, and I cannot disagree. Frowning at them, Rooster Cockbutt here says, “Looks like a bambina got loose from the ranch and is up to no good! Folks gotta learn to keep them dogies tied down, pardner.” At this last bit he tips up his hat and smiles at Phoenix. Is Phoenix the bambina? He is so confused and possibly turned on.
But it turns out, Ema knows this sad, weird man, and gasps, “M-Mr. Marshall!” Phoenix blue-fonts, “Marshall? Looks more like a sheriff to me…” Oh Jesus, thanks to Phoenix, I just now realized Marshall is a fucking pun. Please kill me. Anyway, the game refers to Marshall as “???” for now because we haven’t yet learned his first name, and until we do I’m just gonna keep my nickname. Cockbutt, pulling out a knife to shave his chin whiskers, tells “bambina” again, and I’m still unclear on which person he is addressing, “I know how you feel. But this is my gang’s gold strike, see?” And now he’s a forty-niner? This is stupid. Ema is also lost, so he clarifies, “This is our claim, our territory. And the goldmine is…evidence. If you’re fixin’ to mess with what’s ours… You’ll regret it, pardner!” He points square at Phoenix’s chest with a finger gun, which does nothing to alleviate Phoenix’s perplexing erection.
Like everything else in this game, I’m sure they dream about poking asses.
Cockbutt basically tells them to get the fuck out of there, but with stupid cowboy slang, leaving Ema to unnecessarily explain to Phoenix that Cockbutt is a detective. “Who thinks he’s a sheriff from the Wild West it seems,” Phoenix equally unnecessarily tacks on in his head. But regardless of Cockbutt’s warning, Phoenix is for now able to investigate the area, which is partially split in half by a partition wall. On the entrance side, he finds a door leading to a stairwell, an emergency phone, and a meaningless ladder. On the right, he finds the actual crime scene: a fire-engine red sports car surrounded by yellow police tape, with a rope outline of a body hanging out of the open trunk. There is a conspicuous item on the floor of each side of the area, and Phoenix nabs the one on the left first: a wallet.
He celebrates his basic nature at Hard Evidence every Thursday during happy hour.
Phoenix, who we know is a humongous dolt sometimes, tries to flag down a police officer to deal with this wallet, but Ema stops him. “Let’s be scientific about this, please!” she says. “Just put it in your pocket.” Phoenix doesn’t think this sounds scientific at all, and blue-fonts about theft just like he did with Maya a thousand times, but of course he puts the fucking thing in his pocket anyway. But since Phoenix’s pocket is a magical portal to the court record, this means he can now “scientifically” examine the wallet in detail, a process Ema painstakingly walks him through.
“You have to be sure to examine evidence carefully on all sides!” Ema explains. This is the dumbest possible piece of evidence to demonstrate this technique–in which I am required to clunkily turn wheels to rotate the object–since all Phoenix has to do is examine the button on it to open it up and get to what he actually wants. Inside he finds a police badge and ID card, featuring a photo of a man in an unintentionally hilarious white fedora and trenchcoat. “Detective Bruce Goodman,” Phoenix reads, “ID #5842189…” How I wish that number weren’t relevant, but it will be. Phoenix points out to Ema that this was not remotely scientific, but he nabs the ID card anyway. The badge, which seems just as relevant, he abandons on the pavement.
On to the car, which we will lovingly refer to from here on as the Penismobile. Phoenix moves to inspect the trunk–and he is used to inspecting its owner’s trunk on the regular–when Cockbutt comes back to yell at them. “The sheriff!” Phoenix blue-fonts. Jesus Christ, Nick, pull yourself together. “You’d best be moseying along,” Cockbutt says with another finger gun. “Unless you’re fixing to bite the bullet.” I’m sure Phoenix could be talked into whatever that’s code for. Ema just wants to know who the Penismobile belongs to. Marshall takes a swig from a flask, perhaps indicating that I should turn his mannerisms into a drinking game, and responds, “You want to know who rides that red mustang with the body in her saddle, huh?” Wow. Just wow. Cockbutt doesn’t actually tell them, but directs them, with some kind of introduction letter, “Get yourself to the saloon up on the 12th floor of the Prospector’s Office.” The prospector’s office! So funny! That kind of sounds like prosecutor! Ugh. “Might just find you a cervesa you like,” Cockbutt adds. Okay, it’s cerveza, but whatever. Indeed, there is a tall glass of something Phoenix will find to his liking up there. The piece of paper indicates the office of the “High Prosecutor,” whatever the hell that even is, in room 1202.
Cockbutt once again instructs them to leave the Penismobile and its environs alone, but allows them the run of the rest of the area. Phoenix considers rubbing his crotch on the windshield just to get a rise out of this asshole, but restrains himself lest Ema think he’s dusting for prints. They’re just about to inspect that other conspicuous object near the car when another mystery person asks, “Excuse me? Were you two all set?” This person turns out to be a pretty blonde woman, naturally with absurdly large bouncy boobs, selling boxed lunches. In case this subtle piece of characterization is at risk of being lost, she’s wearing a fuchsia pillbox hat with two onigiri fused to the side, and a choker necklace with a calamari-shaped ornament. She’s also carrying a large wicker basket, lined with fuchsia linen, containing her variety of lunches. She offers one to Ema, a revolting-looking “Half n’ Half,” and for Phoenix she has a “Crunchy Goodness,” which is, as far as I can tell, a piece of meat fried in panko with a piece of bone marrow on the side. What in the hell.