The Way Home. Irene Hannon
unless they came up with a rock-solid witness. Though the sports hero didn’t dispute the drunk-driving charge, he claimed that the victim had stepped off the curb and into his path. And at the moment, it was his word against no one’s. With his clean-cut good looks and apparent sincerity and remorse, he had the public eating out of his hand.
But he was guilty as sin, and Cal knew it deep in his gut. Johnson had had other minor run-ins with the law, was known to be a drinker, had demonstrated his irresponsibility in any number of ways the police were well aware of. Unfortunately, none of that was admissible as evidence.
Cal jammed his hands into his pockets and walked over to the window of his apartment. There were many things he liked about his job. The harsh reality of this kind of trial, where the odds of seeing justice done were minuscule, wasn’t one of them. He would do his best, of course. He always did. But he’d been in this business long enough to learn that no matter how high your ideals were when you started, disillusion was your legacy. There were just too many instances where the “little guy,” for lack of money or power, was shortchanged by the law. Cal worked hard to keep that from happening, and sometimes he won. That was what kept him going—knowing that in at least a few instances justice had been served because of his efforts. It was a deeply satisfying experience, but it happened too rarely.
Cal looked down at the glittering lights of the city and drew a long, slow breath, willing the tension in his shoulders to ease. It was a pretty view, one that his infrequent visitors always admired. But it wasn’t home. Never would be. And, as usual, it did nothing to help him relax.
So instead he closed his eyes and pictured the evening mist on the blue-hued mountains outside his grandmother’s cabin in Tennessee. He could almost feel the fresh breeze on his face, smell the faint, woodsy aroma of smoke curling from distant chimneys, hear the whisper of the wind in the pine trees and the call of the birds. As he let the remembered beauty seep into his soul, his mind gradually grew still and he was filled with a sense of peace.
When at last Cal opened his eyes, he felt better. Calmer. He’d lived in cities for almost half of his thirty-four years, but only Gram’s cabin fit the definition of “home.” It was still his refuge, the place he went when he couldn’t handle the impersonal, fast-paced city anymore, when the frustration became too intense, when he needed to regain perspective. And he’d been going there a lot lately. Even after all these years, he felt like a stranger in the sterile environment of steel and concrete. Only in the mountains was he able to ease the growing restlessness in his soul.
But how could he ever explain that to his father? he asked himself dispiritedly for the thousandth time. Cal raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. Jack Richards would never understand. All his life, all the years he’d labored as a tenant farmer, he’d wanted a better life for his only offspring. And “better” to him meant an office job, a lucrative career, life in the big city. He’d instilled that same dream in his son, though it wasn’t a dream Cal had taken to naturally. Unlike his father, he’d always loved the land. But somewhere along the way his father had convinced him that his destiny lay elsewhere, far from the blue-hazed Smoky Mountains. And the day Cal graduated from law school with an enviable, big-city job offer in his pocket, his destiny had seemed settled, his “success” assured.
In the intervening years, however, he’d begun to realize that deep inside he had never really shared his father’s dream. The mountains called to him more and more strongly as the years passed. And it was a call he was finding harder and harder to ignore, especially on days like this. Yet how could he walk away from the life he’d built for himself, throw away all the long hours he’d invested in his career in Atlanta? Frustrating as it often was, there were also moments of deep satisfaction when he was able to help someone who really needed his help, who might be lost in the system without his intervention. That was why he had gone into law, why he still enjoyed it. And as he took on more and more responsibility, he would be in a position to do even more to further the cause of justice. It somehow seemed wrong to even consider leaving a job where he could be such an instrument for good. And further compounding the situation was his father. How could he disappoint the man who had worked so hard to give him a better life?
With an impatient shake of his head, Cal turned away from the window. He’d been wrestling with this dilemma for months, praying for guidance, but resolution was still nowhere in sight. And until his prayers were answered, he’d simply have to maintain the status quo. At least until his patience ran out. Which might not be too far down the road, he thought ruefully as he headed toward the kitchen.
The red light was blinking on his answering machine as he passed, indicating three messages, and he paused. Fortunately, his unlisted number kept crank calls and solicitations at bay. Only his close business associates, family and a few select friends were privy to his private line.
Despite the protest of his stomach, Cal deferred dinner for yet another few minutes. He straddled a stool at the counter, pulled a notepad toward him and punched Play.
The first two messages were easily dispensed with. The third was more disturbing.
“Mr. Richards, this is Amy Winter. We met this morning at the courthouse. I don’t like to bother people at home, but I’m not having much luck connecting with you at your office, and I really would like to continue our discussion. As I told you, I’m covering the Johnson trial and your input would add a valuable perspective to the coverage. I realize, of course, that you can’t discuss the trial in any detail, but perhaps you can suggest an angle I might investigate, or offer some other insights that would be helpful. Let me give you my work number and my home number…”
As she proceeded to do so, Cal’s frown deepened. He didn’t like reporters in general, and he especially didn’t like pushy reporters. Which was exactly the category Amy Winter fit into. How in the world had she managed to get his unlisted number? And did she really think he’d return this call when he’d ignored both of the messages she’d left at his office earlier in the day?
Resolutely he punched the erase button. Obviously she was new on this beat or she’d know that his “no comment” meant exactly that. But she’d learn. In the meantime, if she continued to call his home number, he could always file a harassment complaint. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he didn’t have time to play games. Sooner or later she’d get that message.
Apparently it was going to be “later,” Cal thought resignedly when he spotted the persistent reporter on the courthouse steps the next morning. At least she’d left the cameraman back at the station this time, he noted.
“Good morning, Mr. Richards.”
She sounded a bit breathless as she fell into step beside him, and he glanced over at her. The chilly, early-spring air had brought a becoming flush to her cheeks, and her jade-colored jacket complemented the startling green of her eyes. She was a very attractive woman, he realized. Then again, that seemed to be a prerequisite for broadcast news. As far as he was concerned, TV stations would be better off if they paid more attention to solid reporting skills and real news and less to cosmetics and sensationalism. He picked up his pace.
“If this keeps up, I’ll have to wear my running shoes next time,” she complained breathlessly, trotting beside him.
He stopped so abruptly that she was a step ahead of him before she realized he’d paused. When she turned back he was scowling at her.
She ignored his intimidating look. “Could you maybe signal the next time you’re going to put on the brakes?” she suggested pleasantly.
“I’m 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