By Zephyria 
“The Chief Prosecutor is also feeling troubled.”
Those words left me bewildered. When I stopped talking and looked at her, the assistant prosecutor nodded as if to say, Exactly, and then spoke.
“The other prosecutors are also dying to hold trials and expose the suspects’ crimes in full detail. But budget is an issue, and the workload is piled high like a mountain, so they have no choice but to process things quickly. Plea bargaining is an inevitable choice and a common practice; the concern is whether you’re trying to drag things to trial just to gain popularity for yourself. Besides, since you’re so handsome, people are bound to be even more enthusiastic.”
“That’s…”
“Exactly!”
The assistant prosecutor slammed the desk once more. As I flinched instinctively, she continued sharply.
“Take this opportunity and make a real effort to attend the gathering. Don’t make excuses about not being good at those things; just try.”
And before I could open my mouth, she added:
“Don’t you feel frustrated that, once again, a trial is right around the corner but must be handed over to a negotiation? Use this chance to support the Chief Prosecutor, and of course, once you move up in rank, you can prevent these cases from being settled through negotiations.”
I paused at those words. Noticing my heart wavering for the first time, the assistant prosecutor nodded with a face full of conviction.
“That’s right. By doing this, you can reduce the suffering of victims and bereaved families who suffer because trials are avoided and negotiations are settled with absurd sentences.”
Of course, being the Chief Prosecutor isn’t a position where one can manipulate everything at will. One must consider public opinion, the circumstances of the prosecutors, and various other constraints. Above all, it’s all useless if you lose the election. In fact, being a regular prosecutor right now might be more liberating. I don’t have to worry about elections or anything, and there’s less to be held accountable for.
…But.
All of that is actually because the Chief Prosecutor looks out for me to some extent. He was quite fair and square, and while realistic, he had a strangely idealistic side. If it weren’t for that temperament of the Chief Prosecutor, I wouldn’t have made it this far. In the worst-case scenario, there’s always the method of changing the prosecutor in charge to induce a negotiation.
Thinking about it that way, I couldn’t dismiss the assistant prosecutor’s words as complete nonsense. To paradoxically give up the freedom of a regular prosecutor in order to gain the freedom of a fair trial—it was a frustrating thought, but when had I ever obtained what I wanted without a price?
“…I understand.”
“Good choice!”
As soon as the words left my mouth, the assistant prosecutor clasped her hands together as if in prayer and cheered. Seeing her overly joyful expression made me feel awkward, but I feigned ignorance with a dry cough and spoke.
“I’ll think about it. If there is no further business…”
The assistant prosecutor paused at my words and slumped her shoulders in disappointment, but she soon regained her energy.
“Fine. To clear my weekend, I’ll have to work hard now. I get it.”
I tried to say, ‘I haven’t confirmed it yet,’ but she quickly added:
“Trust me, you definitely won’t regret it.”
Speaking with absolute confidence, the assistant prosecutor walked out without listening to another word from me. Finally alone, I sank into thought for a moment, then drank the coffee she had brought, pushed the pile of documents to one side, and put a cigarette in my mouth.
* * *
My mind was so cluttered that I couldn’t focus on my work at all. In the end, I left the office 30 minutes earlier than usual. I bought two books to read over the weekend and headed home; just as I closed the front door, my phone rang. Checking the caller ID, I paused for a moment before reluctantly answering.
“Yes, Mother. Have you been well?”
My voice flowed out smoothly, as usual. As I set the bag I was carrying down on a chair, my mother replied from the other end.
“Oh, Chrissy. Yes, I’ve been well. How about you? Are you very busy? I’m worried you might be overworking yourself.”
To her ever-gentle voice, I replied readily.
“I’m managing just fine, don’t worry. Is something the matter?”
“Must there always be a reason for me to call?”
My mother scolded me with a hint of disappointment. I quickly defended myself, saying, “It’s not that.”
“Just in case. If nothing is wrong, then that’s fine.”
“Yes, well, it’s not that anything bad happened.”
Speaking as if to reassure me, she then brought up her business.
“I have some business in your area this weekend, so I’m planning to go with your father. While we’re at it, I wanted to see your face. How about we have a meal together?”
I stopped moving entirely as I was taking the books out of my bag.
“…With Father?”
After a pause, I asked, and my mother answered with a laugh.
“Of course. The pastor introduced him to a good supplier in that area. Haven’t material costs risen a lot lately? Apparently, it’s 5 percent cheaper. Your father said he needs to see the quality for himself, so I decided to go along. Though, of course, what would I know about such things…”
I let the following words drift past me carelessly, and during a brief pause in her speech, I asked.
“While Father is visiting the supplier, you’re saying you’ll meet me?”
Please, please.
I prayed fervently while biting my thumbnail, and then my mother’s voice came through.
“No, I’ll do some shopping in the meantime, and once your father is finished with his business, we’ll go see you together. Your father misses you so much.”
It would have been better if she hadn’t said that last part. My stomach, which was already churning, flipped violently. I clamped my hand over my mouth with all my might to suppress the urge to vomit.
“Chrissy, Chrissy?”
My mother continued to call my name from the other end. I took a deep breath and endured the intense nausea.
“I’m sorry, I have plans this week, so it will be difficult.”
“Plans? On a weekend?”
Her puzzled reaction soon shifted. Before my mother could say something foolish, I quickly added:
“I’ve been invited to the Chief Prosecutor’s party. It’s not a party hosted by the Chief Prosecutor himself, but… I promised to go.”
“The Chief Prosecutor?”
My mother was visibly disappointed that the news wasn’t that ‘her son had a girlfriend,’ and then she reacted sharply.
“Calling a subordinate even on a holiday, how cruel. You must already be exhausted from work, and to have to meet your boss on the weekend—how horrible can it get? Chrissy, it’s necessary to decline appropriately sometimes. Just because he’s your boss doesn’t mean he has the right to interfere with your private life.”
Of course, Mother. I know. I’m not a seven-year-old child anymore.
With a distorted face, I managed to fake a gentle voice and said:
“Don’t worry, Mother. The Chief Prosecutor suggested this spot for my sake. He told me to get acquainted with the high-ranking officials who will be attending.”
“Oh, is that so?”