The Way Home. Irene Hannon

pieces. Stories about ordinary people who do extraordinary things. Feature reporting, more in-depth than what I do now, where you have the time to do stories that leave people uplifted and inspired. I get to do a bit of that now, but not nearly enough. It’s really satisfying to shine the light on good, decent people instead of the dregs of humanity who usually dominate the news. There are good people out there, and I like to find ways to give them their moment in the spotlight. I think it would also help young people to see that nice guys don’t always finish last.”

      Amy had gotten more and more passionate as she spoke, and Cal’s attentive—and approving—gaze, as well as the sudden warmth in his eyes, brought a flush to her cheeks. She didn’t usually get so carried away, nor did she typically reveal so much about her personal feelings. She had no idea why she’d done so tonight. She did know it was time to shift the focus. “So now you know all the reasons why I left the farm and never looked back,” she finished lightly. “And how about you? What’s your background? How did you get into law?”

      He gave her a quick smile. “I guess turnabout is fair play. I grew up in Tennessee, in the shadow of the Smoky Mountains. Unlike you, I had to think long and hard about leaving.”

      “Why did you?”

      He shrugged. “A lot of reasons. For one thing, law seemed like a career where I could do some good, help people, advance the cause of justice. I was pretty idealistic in the early days.”

      His reasons for his career choice made many of Amy’s sound shallow and self-serving, she realized, and she took a sip of coffee while she mulled over his answer—especially the past tense in the last sentence. “And you aren’t idealistic anymore?”

      His eyes grew troubled. “When the system works the way it’s supposed to, when I can really help someone and justice is served, it’s incredibly satisfying,” he said slowly. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen nearly often enough.”

      “Is it happening in the Jamie Johnson case?”

      “I guess we’ll see when the verdict comes in.”

      “But you think he’s guilty.”

      “I’m prosecuting him.”

      “You’re avoiding the question, Counselor.”

      “That’s right.”

      She sighed. He’d easily deflected her few subtle probes about the trial during the evening. So far, she had nothing usable, no lead that would give her the edge she so badly wanted. Then again, she hadn’t pressed all that hard. For some reason, her heart just hadn’t been in it. Besides, it had quickly become apparent to her that while she was a good reporter who knew how to ask the right questions, he was an even better attorney who knew how to avoid answering them.