My pregnant daughter ran into my office, her face covered in fresh b:ruises. Her husband, a beloved local politician, casually strolled in behind her, shutting the door.

— always too late — that cameras don’t care who they used to be.

But nothing compared to watching Grant Voss handcuffed inside my office, his perfect hair falling over his forehead, campaign pin crooked against his lapel.

As officers escorted him out, he twisted around one last time.

“You think this ends here?”

“No,” I said calmly. “This begins here.”

And continue reading …