The Way Home. Irene Hannon

hoping there won’t be a next time.”

      “Gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”

      “I thought I made myself clear yesterday, Ms. Winter. I don’t talk to the press. And I did not appreciate the call to my home. I consider that invasion of privacy, not that you reporters know the meaning of that term. But if it happens again, I’ll file a complaint. Is that understood?”

      She flushed, and something—some odd flash of emotion—darted across her eyes. It was there and gone so quickly, he wondered if he’d imagined it. But he didn’t think so. Suddenly the word cringe came to mind, and he frowned. How odd—and unlikely. Reporters were a thick-skinned lot. You couldn’t hurt their feelings if you tried. Obviously he had misread her reaction.

      “Look, Mr. Richards, I’m sorry about the call to your apartment. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it won’t happen again. However, I won’t promise to stop calling your office or talking to you here at the courthouse. That’s my job.” She tilted her chin defiantly on the last words, giving him a good look at her classic oval face, clear, intelligent eyes and determined, nicely shaped lips. His gaze lingered on those lips just a moment too long before he jerked it away, disconcerted by the sudden, unaccountable acceleration of his pulse.

      “And my job is to see justice done,” he countered a little too sharply as he moved forward once again.

      “Why should our two jobs be incompatible? And why do you hate the press so much?” she persisted, struggling to keep pace with his long strides.

      They reached the door of the courthouse and he turned to her, his jaw set, his eyes flinty. “They shouldn’t be incompatible, Ms. Winter. Justice should be a mutual goal of the press and the law. But the only things TV stations care about are ratings and advertising revenues. If that means sensationalizing a trial at the expense of justice to gain viewers, so be it.”

      “That’s a pretty cynical attitude.”

      His mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Let’s just call it realistic. How long have you been in this business, Ms. Winter? Two years? Three?”

      “Seven.”

      His eyebrows rose in surprise. She didn’t look more than a year or two out of school, but she must be close to thirty, he realized.

      “Then you should know that it’s hard enough to see justice done when everything works right. It’s impossible when the press takes sides.”

      “I take it you’re speaking from personal experience?”

      He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Five years ago I handled a trial very similar to this one. High-profile figure, well liked. He was charged with rape. He was also the proverbial golden-haired boy. Popular, wealthy, powerful, a churchgoing man with a list of philanthropic endeavors to rival Albert Schweitzer. He had the press eating out of his hand. In fact, the news media did everything it could to discredit and harass the victim. She finally caved in under the pressure. We didn’t stand a chance.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

      “And…”

      At her prompt, Cal turned to her, his rapier-sharp eyes cold as steel. “Two years ago he was charged with rape again. But this time he picked the wrong victim and the wrong place. She was a fighter, and she was determined to make him pay. Not to mention the fact that there were witnesses.”

      “So in the end, justice was served.”

      He shrugged. “No thanks to the press. And it depends on what you mean by ‘justice.’ Yes, he was convicted. But he’s still appealing. Worst case, he’ll serve a couple of years and be back on the streets. I hardly consider that justice, given the crime.”

      Amy gave him a quizzical look. “So why did you go into law, if it’s so hopeless?”

      He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Frankly I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately,” he replied soberly, surprising her—and himself—with his candor. “I guess I thought I could make a difference. And once in a great while I can. Every now and then, because of my efforts, justice is served and the little guy wins. That’s what keeps me going. That’s what makes it worthwhile.”

      His tone once more grew brusque. “Look, Ms. Winter, I can’t stop you from covering this trial. But I can—and do—decline to participate. I’ll give you one piece of advice, though. Don’t fall into the trap those reporters did in the case I just told you about. Don’t be taken in by appearances. Do your homework. Dig. Don’t assume that the image Jamie Johnson projects publicly is the real man. You’ll do everyone a great service if you treat him as you would any other defendant. And while you’re at it, take a look at the issue itself. Too many times people blame liquor for drunk driving instead of focusing on the real problem—irresponsibility. That’s a harder issue to tackle. But some thoughtful coverage might go a long way toward placing the blame where it belongs—on the person, not the object. Think about that, Ms. Winter. Try to go for substance over sensationalism.”

      She looked at him silently for a moment. “No matter what I do, I have a feeling nothing will change your mind about the news game,” she said at last.

      Cal’s mouth settled into a grim line. “When somebody dies, it’s not a game.”

      Amy met his intense gaze steadily. “I agree. And I appreciate your candor and suggestions. They were very helpful. In fact, I’d welcome any other input or ideas you might have as the trial progresses.”

      “Don’t hold your breath. As I said, I try to stay as far away from the press as possible.”

      “I’ll keep trying, you know.”

      He shrugged and turned away. “Suit yourself.”

      Amy watched as he disappeared inside, a thoughtful expression on her face. For somebody who didn’t talk to the press, he’d certainly given her an earful just now. Which meant he might do so again. And maybe next time he would offer a piece of information that would give her just the edge she was looking for in her coverage.

      In the meantime, she intended to take to heart what he had said. While she didn’t agree completely with his assessment of the press, he had made some valid points. And he’d given her a couple of ideas for related stories that could round out her coverage when there wasn’t much to report on in the trial itself. All in all, it had been a productive morning, she decided. She had some good ideas, and she had a ray of hope—which was probably the last thing Cal Richards had intended to give her, she thought, a wry smile quirking the corners of her mouth.

      As she turned to go, she glanced back at the door through which the reticent assistant prosecuting attorney had disappeared. He was an interesting man, she mused. Not to mention good-looking. Too bad they were on opposite sides—in his opinion, at least. Not that it mattered, of course. He wasn’t her type anyway. Not even close.

      Besides, even if he was, she didn’t have time for romance. She had a career to build.

      “If looks could kill…”

      Cal stopped abruptly outside the jury selection room, the scowl on his face softening as he glanced at his colleague.

      “It’s not that bad, you know. We’ll get this jury. If not in this century, then surely in the next.”

      This time Cal smiled. Bill Jackson, who could go for the jugular in the courtroom better than anyone Cal had ever encountered, also had an amazing ability to ease the tension in any situation. It was a pretty unbeatable combination in an attorney, and Cal was glad he was assisting on this trial.

      “Believe it or not, I wasn’t even thinking about the jury.”

      “No? Then what put that look on your face?”

      “A run-in with the press.”

      “No kidding! I thought you had them all trained to keep their distance.”

      “So did I. I