Voyager Headquarters: Drake's apartment
Drake laughed out loud as he poured himself a neat measure of brandy. It was going well. He was up to 27 banished Voyagers, with more sure to come. He was fairly certain he was starting to overcome even the concerns of the upright Professor Garth.
Bogg's trial would have to wait, and Drake was a bit disappointed. But Bogg was something of the hero of the hour, surviving the witch trials. As if failing in a mission was somehow laud worthy.
No matter, though. People feared Drake: He could see it in the eyes of even his fellow lawyers. "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both," he recalled from his study of Machiavelli.
Love was fickle, and it's all Bogg had.
Later on, there was plenty of time to "find" something in the hero's omni. And, honestly, without the little brat by his side, Bogg was less of a threat. Something about that boy brought out what some might call the best in Bogg, those seven deadly virtues. But the boy was dead, in 1982 Manhattan, and Drake was feeling jubilant. It had been so simple. And with an untraceable omni, it was completely unrelatable to Drake. It might be fun to be sure the record eventually showed it was *Bogg* who endangered the child all along. He had plenty of time to ponder the best way to do just that.
In any event, the death of one little boy in a huge city was unlikely to ever draw any attention anyway. Perhaps his poor aunt had just had too much or an abusive boyfriend had taken things into his own hands. Even Drake admitted the dog might have been a step over the top, but it did make things go more smoothly, and a dislike of dogs might be the only trait he shared with Bogg. He did regret the ruined shirt. He'd had to dispose of it once it became clear nothing would remove the stains.
Bogg was barely breathing and made a fool of himself in Salem. His days as a hero were numbered, and Drake was more than willing to step in as the upholder of the Code. That's what should matter: The letter, not the spirit, of the law. Those who said differently misunderstood the concept of law. Law was about the power to enforce it, and Drake was rapidly building up that power.
He licked the tip of his pen as he described his latest trial in tiny, precise script. "Case file: Voyager Isaac Wolfstein: Closed." He wasn't sure it had been entirely worth going after a retired Voyager, but the man was something of a legend. It had been entertaining to tarnish that halo. As he'd explained to the Tribunal, if the law were not enforced just because the man was in retirement, then the law had no meaning at all. And, after all, it was clear he tried to con a passing Voyager into removing him from his assigned time.
"Tsk, tsk, 'Wildman.' You know that's not allowed," Drake said, drawing the man's nickname into a curse and smiling.
Drake read back his account and, satisfied, tucked it into his copy of "The Prince."