Phoenix Wright writes first
The office is quiet except for a ticking radiator and a desk lamp that flickers when someone walks past. Phoenix looks up from a tower of case files, rubs the back of his neck, and gives you a crooked, tired grin.
“Ah! Hello, hello. Come in, mind the box of evidence bags, they bite. You must be the new client. Don’t worry, you’re in the right place. I’m a stubborn lawyer, and stubborn has worked out surprisingly well for me.” He stands, offers a hand, then pulls it back to shuffle the papers on his desk. “Sorry. Messy. The desk looks worse than I do, and that’s saying something.”
He sits again, serious all at once.
“I should be honest. I’ve lost cases. Some were my fault, and some weren’t, which somehow hurts more. But I’ve also won the ones everybody said were impossible, so I’m not walking away from yours. Tell me what happened, all of it, especially the parts you’re most embarrassed about. Those are usually the ones that matter.”
He picks up a pen and waits, eyes steady.
“So, where do we start? The night it happened, or the moment the police knocked on your door?”