Jonathon King - Eye of Vengeance

"His brother," she said, her eyes still closed. Then she opened them. "His brother seen me in the hall outside the court and walked up to me on that day when the jury found him guilty."

"And he talked with you?" Nick said, prodding her.

"He said he was sorry about what happened. I could see it in his eyes, Mr. Mullins, that he was hurtin'."

"You do seem to have that ability, Ms. Cotton," Nick said, making a guess as to why he was here. "To pick up on people's pain."

This time she looked straight into Nick's face, studying it, the creases in his brow, the lines at the corners of his eyes.

"I read about your family, Mr. Mullins. I recognized your name right off and remembered the way you had with your words, that compassion. It was your wife and daughter, so you know how it is when somebody needs that," she said. "Maybe someone else is going to need that now."

Nick looked down at his open notebook. He had yet to enter a word with any meaning or usefulness in his "exclusive" interview.

"Is that why I'm here, Ms. Cotton?" he finally said, not wanting to look in her eyes, not wanting her to see his. "Is that why you asked to see me? Because of my compassion?"

He felt her nod more than saw it.

"I read the newspapers a lot, Mr. Mullins," she said. "Sometimes I can feel people in there, in the words. I learned that by readin' what happened to me, to my family. And like I said, you had that feeling in your words before."

"But not now?" Nick said, wanting her to continue.

"I watched the paper to see when you got back to your job. I have seen your stories now and compared them with before. And if you don't mind my saying so, sir… you changed," she said without taking her eyes off him. "The pain changed you."

Nick stared at her, this small black woman, telling him about his heart with a plain open face that did not show sympathy or judgment, or assess fault.

"Compassion," she said. "I believe you are losin' that, Mr. Mullins. And I believe that would be a terrible thing in the end, sir."

Nick was still rolling Margaria Cotton's words around in his head when he got back to the office. While he'd been dropping her off in front of the Broward Sheriff's Office, Detective Hargrave and his partner, the big sergeant, had been just getting out of their unmarked Crown Vic. Detectives being what they are, Nick knew they'd check out the driver who was bringing Cotton to see them. Even the stone-faced Hargrave could not cover the look of consternation on his face. The big man had turned around just as they were entering a side door for employees and officers only and given him a sorry shake of his head.

Now, as Nick was making his way to his desk, a sports editor grinned at him and said, "Hi, Nick. How you doing?"

The greeting snapped his concentration at first, and then piled onto Cotton's observation.

"Hey, Stevie. Alright," Nick answered.

Few people in the place bothered to talk to him these days. The sports guy, Steve Bryant, had told him it was because they didn't know what to say after Nick returned to work following the accident. The first few weeks, there were the quiet condolences. He'd nodded, thanked them. But he'd never been a gregarious sort. He'd have an occasional beer with the other reporters after a late shift, would toss a good-natured barb across the desk like the one he'd received from Hirschman about the roof photo. But Steve had confided that if Nick was already intimidating with his intensity before the tragedy, he was downright scary when he'd returned.

Loss of compassion? Like Ms. Cotton had said? A scene from an old movie flashed into Nick's head. A hard-core mercenary is told during a firefight that he's bleeding. The guy's rebuttal: I ain't got time to bleed.

When he got to his desk there was a press release lying in the middle, a one-sheet write-up that had been faxed by the Sheriff's Office as it had been to every news organization in three counties. Cameron had given everyone all the updated information that Nick had already put in his story for this morning's edition, including the caliber of the bullet. While his computer was coming up, Nick answered the blinking light on his phone. Three of four messages were from readers who wanted him to know how glad they were that Ferris had been shot, saving them the cost of another trial "for that animal." None left a name. The fourth call was from Cameron. There was a distinct edge in his voice:

"Nick. Nice job this morning doing an interview of a witness before the detectives could even get to her. Man, you're gumming this one up, pal."

Cameron paused, maybe for effect, maybe because he didn't want to say what he had to say next.

"Detective Hargrave wants to see you himself this afternoon about four. I'll assume you'll be here. Believe me, Nick, it might be a once-in-a-lifetime offer. But I'm going to have to be in the room with you, so ease up, eh?"

Nick replayed the message, twice, and then sat back, thinking it through. Hargrave, the wordless one, the man who always turned his back on the media, wanted a sitdown. Did he think Nick had gotten something from Cotton he hadn't? Maybe he thought she knew the people who had worn the pictures of Cotton's girls during the trial. That would sure as hell be one of Nick's moves if he was looking for someone with motive. There had been news coverage of the trial. Nick would have to call Matt over at Channel 10 to see if their film was being subpoenaed. But most of those video shots would have been of the front of the courtroom, not of the gallery. Hargrave also would have known from Cameron that Nick hadn't covered the trial. He looked up over the cubicles to see if the court reporter was still at her desk. She might have quoted some of the people who'd worn the buttons and had some names and contact numbers. He looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. If the meeting with Hargrave took a while, he'd be pushing deadline later in the day. To be safe he opened up a new screen on his computer and started typing a rough draft of tomorrow's follow-up story, which at this point wouldn't be much different factually from today's, other than planting a quote or two from Ms. Cotton. He could always hope that Hargrave would let loose with something, but he wasn't planning on it.

It took him an hour to bang out 350 decent words that could pass for a Saturday story on its own if it had to. At this point, he'd have to lead with the only fresh thing he had, which was that police were talking with the mother of the slain children in connection with Ferris's killing and the investigation was continuing. Nick knew it was bullshit. The investigation was always continuing and most people with half a brain would know that the cops would talk with the girls' mom. But he also knew that if you phrased it just right, the general reading public would skim it, figure it was close enough to news and give themselves something to gab about at dinner with their friends on Saturday night:

"How 'bout that shooting downtown? The pedophile guy?"

"Yeah, I saw they were talking to the mom of the girls he killed."

"Like she wouldn't have a big smile on her face, eh?"

"Can you believe they were gonna let the guy off?"

"The system is all fucked up, you know?"

"I'd of hired somebody to kill him if I was her."

"Yeah?"

"Damn straight."

When Nick was finished with the draft, he stored it away and turned off the computer. He'd have enough time to stop at the cafe downstairs and grab a cup of coffee and maybe one of those plastic-wrapped sandwiches and he could eat on the way over to the Sheriff's Office. He hadn't bothered to look at the rest of the research files that Lori had sent. Later, if he got back early, he thought. Right now he was already getting cranked up for Hargrave. What the hell was the guy going to say? Just chew him out? Hell, he could take that without a sweat. He hadn't put anything unethical in the story today, and sure as hell nothing that was going to stink up the investigation. The dead man's name and the caliber of the bullet? The killer knew the name would come out and the bullet caliber was only good in dismissing some of the nut jobs who would call the cops claiming they'd done the shooting. Oh, yeah? What'd you do him with? A nine-millimeter, you say? Good-bye. Don't call back again.