Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, and no profit is made from these stories. (But I do have fun writing them: )
It had become a ritual.
Ben stood up, buttoning his suit jacket and smoothing out his tie. Not that there was anything wrong with his clothing – it was just as impeccable as the last time he checked it, only a few minutes ago.
He'd always believed that prosecuting was like good theater, small details of costuming being every bit as important as the oratory. As a young ADA, he was lacking in the latter but determined to compensate for it with the former. He was convinced that his clean-cut appearance helped him win his first few trials.
Now, years later, he was among the best – but the habit never left him. Every time he examined a witness, he made sure that his armor bore no flaws. It was for his confidence more than anything else, like a security blanket that helped him crack the toughest of adversaries.
Satisfied with his cross-examination, he put his hands in his pockets and returned to the prosecution table.
And waited for the cycle to begin again.
finis