realized when
her sworn enemy was brought to justice.
A ringing phone prompted her to look up from the chart she’d been staring at but not
really seeing and move across the small cubicle to the counter separating her from
the wing’s hallway. “Wing Three,” Meg answered tersely.
“Yes, I’m looking for Nurse Richards,” a man explained.
Pausing for a moment in an attempt to remember where she had heard this voice, she
replied, “I’m Meg Richards.”
“Mrs. Richards, this is Webb Jones, your district attorney. My secretary said you
called while I was out of town.”
Suddenly, Meg was alive again. Here was the reason she had mentally marked Thursday
as important. This was the day that the district attorney was to return. This was
her bridge to hope! Now she had someone who could give her some answers. How had she
forgotten about Thursday?
15
T ALL, HANDSOME IN AN I VY L EAGUE SORT OF WAY , W EBB J ONES WAS THE cookie-cutter image of a Hollywood district attorney, with his green, wide-set eyes,
wavy, dark hair, and strong, firm jaw. Yet what was most impressive about the man
was his deep voice. And he used it effectively on the street and in the courtroom.
Jones had worked his way up from nothing. His father had been a clerk in a hardware
store. His mother cleaned other people’s houses. He was the only one of his four siblings
who went to college. Pushed by a desire to escape a world in which he was always the
poorest kid, he’d not been satisfied just to earn a college degree. He yearned for
much more. He wanted to be the guy who lived on the right side of the tracks, drove
the big car, and wore the expensive suits. He wanted to be important. And he felt
the best way to earn this status was through law. His degree from the Indiana University
Maurer School of Law brought him a sense of satisfaction. From there, he clerked for
a federal judge and then became a part of the state attorney’s office. While working
in the capitol, he focused on a twenty-year plan. The first step was realized when
he was elected district attorney. The second was when he married a daughter of a wealthy
and influential stockbroker. Nowsix years after leaving to become the area’s top prosecutor, he was primed for the
next move—the governor’s office. But that meant he was going to have to avoid the
pitfalls that trapped many aspiring politicians. This case could be one of those traps,
so he had to be very careful.
“Mrs. Richards. How I wish I had been in the office when you called. I’m so sorry
I was out of town on business.”
“Mr. Jones”—her voice was now filled with an excited tremor and she wasted no time
making her point—”I want to know what you’re going to do about my husband’s death.”
Jones was prepared for her question. The widow’s response was not atypical in cases
like this. The victim’s family always wanted swift and hard justice. Even as he’d
placed the call, Jones felt sure the conversation would quickly turn in this direction.
“Pardon me for not saying so earlier,” Jones began, choosing each word with special
care to hit the right note, “but I was very deeply saddened to find out about Mr.
Richards’s accident.”
“It was no accident,” Meg cut in.
The woman was combative. There was no mistaking that. She seemed primed and ready
for a fight, and she would be in for one. This would be no easy case, not with the
Thomas family and their money and power on the other side. And that was the problem.
This case was one of those pitfalls that could kill a career. Thus, Jones would really
rather avoid it all together. The best way to defuse this bomb was to get the family
to cover medical and funeral costs, pay a few thousand in a settlement, and maybe
have the kid do a bit of community service. But this woman’s tone indicated she would
likely not be satisfied with that answer. Still, he had to
her sworn enemy was brought to justice.
A ringing phone prompted her to look up from the chart she’d been staring at but not
really seeing and move across the small cubicle to the counter separating her from
the wing’s hallway. “Wing Three,” Meg answered tersely.
“Yes, I’m looking for Nurse Richards,” a man explained.
Pausing for a moment in an attempt to remember where she had heard this voice, she
replied, “I’m Meg Richards.”
“Mrs. Richards, this is Webb Jones, your district attorney. My secretary said you
called while I was out of town.”
Suddenly, Meg was alive again. Here was the reason she had mentally marked Thursday
as important. This was the day that the district attorney was to return. This was
her bridge to hope! Now she had someone who could give her some answers. How had she
forgotten about Thursday?
15
T ALL, HANDSOME IN AN I VY L EAGUE SORT OF WAY , W EBB J ONES WAS THE cookie-cutter image of a Hollywood district attorney, with his green, wide-set eyes,
wavy, dark hair, and strong, firm jaw. Yet what was most impressive about the man
was his deep voice. And he used it effectively on the street and in the courtroom.
Jones had worked his way up from nothing. His father had been a clerk in a hardware
store. His mother cleaned other people’s houses. He was the only one of his four siblings
who went to college. Pushed by a desire to escape a world in which he was always the
poorest kid, he’d not been satisfied just to earn a college degree. He yearned for
much more. He wanted to be the guy who lived on the right side of the tracks, drove
the big car, and wore the expensive suits. He wanted to be important. And he felt
the best way to earn this status was through law. His degree from the Indiana University
Maurer School of Law brought him a sense of satisfaction. From there, he clerked for
a federal judge and then became a part of the state attorney’s office. While working
in the capitol, he focused on a twenty-year plan. The first step was realized when
he was elected district attorney. The second was when he married a daughter of a wealthy
and influential stockbroker. Nowsix years after leaving to become the area’s top prosecutor, he was primed for the
next move—the governor’s office. But that meant he was going to have to avoid the
pitfalls that trapped many aspiring politicians. This case could be one of those traps,
so he had to be very careful.
“Mrs. Richards. How I wish I had been in the office when you called. I’m so sorry
I was out of town on business.”
“Mr. Jones”—her voice was now filled with an excited tremor and she wasted no time
making her point—”I want to know what you’re going to do about my husband’s death.”
Jones was prepared for her question. The widow’s response was not atypical in cases
like this. The victim’s family always wanted swift and hard justice. Even as he’d
placed the call, Jones felt sure the conversation would quickly turn in this direction.
“Pardon me for not saying so earlier,” Jones began, choosing each word with special
care to hit the right note, “but I was very deeply saddened to find out about Mr.
Richards’s accident.”
“It was no accident,” Meg cut in.
The woman was combative. There was no mistaking that. She seemed primed and ready
for a fight, and she would be in for one. This would be no easy case, not with the
Thomas family and their money and power on the other side. And that was the problem.
This case was one of those pitfalls that could kill a career. Thus, Jones would really
rather avoid it all together. The best way to defuse this bomb was to get the family
to cover medical and funeral costs, pay a few thousand in a settlement, and maybe
have the kid do a bit of community service. But this woman’s tone indicated she would
likely not be satisfied with that answer. Still, he had to
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