John Marshall was fuming more aggressively than his normal smolder.  His office was a showcase of his combative nature.  Every spare inch of shelf space was resplendent in the accoutrements of conflict and that calmed him and fueled his rage in the same turn.  Glass and teak cabinets contained the detritus of the prosecutorial carnage he had committed for and against the citizens of his city of Seattle.  He was not just a zealous advocate for the system; he was an absolute believer in his using every ounce of power he could abuse.  Power not used simply wasn’t real power and soon dissipated.  So, he used that power aggressively to hoard an excess of new power.

He was an unshakable, nearly religious believer in prosecution.  He had no time or sympathy for the softhearted liberals who kept blowing the clarion call of the rights of the accused.  He spent his life in the walnut filled trenches of criminal court and knew better than any of them the number of sex criminals, both men and women, who escaped the system and their due to society at the hands of those left wing, misguided coddlers.

John had once been forced to consider if he had ever had a hand in prosecuting a guilty person.  He guessed it was always possible and the guilt had resonated with him for days.  He thought back to the blonde vixen who had asked the question over drinks at a political party.  It was a good thing that whore had been an exemplary fuck or she wouldn’t have been worth the problem she caused in his head.

He tried to remember her name, but names hadn’t mattered and she was just a power fuck that had turned into an extended sexual dalliance.  She was a social parasite in her own right, trading sex for access to his world.  Quickly, he had fallen victim to her charms and it had taken him months to learn to resist the temptation of her body.  He would not have considered the question but for his own, minimal guilt of fucking around on his wife.  His lust had colored his judgment and he thought about her question of conviction of the innocent.

In retrospect, there had been a few who might have not committed the specific crime they were convicted of, but they had for sure done something terrible to get in the system.  He honestly didn’t care; if they committed the crime that brought them to his door; if he got them off the street.  Justice was twisted, but it was justice.  John felt he was one of God’s weapons to protect people from the sex predators and if his fucking wife wasn’t a full on sex criminal she was at least a carrier of the problem.  She had become a complicitous, co-conspirator in the sex enterprise and he had to get her off the streets.  It was just icing on the cake that he would also be getting even with her; really great icing.  He pounded his fist on his desk for no purpose other than to feel the thump of it.  Yes, justice would be done and he would force the issue.

Marshall ran his eyes over all his trophies in the display case and it calmed him.  Soon, not soon enough, but soon; he would have that bitch behind his eight ball again and he would either chase her from town or have her in cuffs.  Of course, since Victoria had become a fetish whore, maybe she would like the cuffs a bit too much.

John’s assistant, Scott Hunter, sat stiff on a side chair that Marshall had motioned to when Scott came in the room.  John had an annoying habit of motioning you to a different seat each time you came in.  Scott was sure it just another small power maneuver; something that his boss had read in some management book.  Keep your subordinates off balance by never letting them settle into expectations.  Scott had come up with the perfect expectation that John couldn’t manipulate.  Scott expected Marshall to be a completely amoral fuck.  On that one, Marshall never failed.  Scott could see that Marshall was happily succeeding at being an amoral fuck, stupendously succeeding.  Scott hoped his small bits of offering might sate the voracious appetite of his spiteful boss.

John’s tone of voice demanded complete attention, “I talked to that fucking bitch and I didn’t get anything so you best some up with something soon.”  Scott wondered to himself, if you can’t get anything, how should I be able to?

John kicked his feet up on the desk just because no one else could. “Give me your progress report on the prosecution on Power Exchange?

Scott hesitated, “Do you have a specific charge you want?”

John lashed out, “Don’t answer a question with a question, it’s a cheap politician’s trick and that’s my job.”  Professional fear washed across Hunter’s face and John continued in a more congenial tone, “Who cares?  Just something to shut her down.  No matter what, make sure she is arrested.”

Scott tried to moderate his look to one of nonchalance, but he showed both discomfort and awe.  If there was anything Hunter had learned from John Marshall, it was how to suck up to him the way he liked; Scott swung for the fences to distract from his failure to close the Power Exchange and said, “You’re such a prick.”

A snake smile split John’s face, “I like that you can say that with respect.”

Scott nodded like a good sycophant, “I want to move up when you do.”  For a small moment, Marshall soaked in the false adoration, and then his face hardened and he almost whispered the minor bitch slap, “Your skills at finding what I want better be as good as your ass kissing or you will be moving down.”