arrived promptly at eleven. Unfortunately, so did a TV van from Houston’s Channel 6. It pulled right behind Ford’s car, blocking him in.
Robyn hated reporters. She knew they weren’t all scumbags, but the ones who lurked around corners and tailed unsuspecting crime victims rated no better than hyenas in her book. At the time of Eldon’s trial, all they’d wanted from her was a sensational sound bite to crank up ratings.
Ford exited his car and faced the eager reporter and cameraman who’d leaped out of the van almost before it had stopped. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and went to join him. He’d said they needed publicity to shake information out of the bushes. But she knew from experience how damaging the wrong sort of publicity could be. If public sentiment got whipped up against Eldon, the governor was far less likely to stay the execution.
The reporters—more than one—spotted her the moment she emerged from her upstairs apartment and were on her before she reached the bottom of the steps.
“Mrs. Jasperson, do you have any new leads as to the whereabouts of your son?”
“Has a body been found?”
“Why would you try to free your son’s murderer?”
“Are you still in love with your ex-husband?”
She thought she’d been prepared, but the barrage of rapid-fire questions overloaded her brain. “I believe my ex-husband is innocent,” she said. “As I have from the beginning.”
“How do you feel about Eldon’s current wife?”
“Do you know anything about Justin’s murder?”
“Did you kidnap your son? Is that why you know Eldon is innocent?”
“Is your conscience bothering you?”
She wanted to tell them all what to do with their disgusting insinuations, but Ford had said not to antagonize the press. “I really don’t have any more to add—”
“How do you explain Justin’s blood found in Eldon’s car?”
They moved in close, sticking microphones in her face, crowding her so that she could not escape. She’d never liked crowds, and panic rose in her throat.
Just then Ford pushed through the crowd and put a protective arm around Robyn’s shoulders. “No more questions. We’ll issue a statement soon, but right now we’re on a tight schedule.” He managed to sound cordial but firm, and the reporters immediately backed off. Ford escorted Robyn to his car, whispering in her ear, “You look like a scared rabbit. Straighten up and act serene and confident.”
She tried. But all she could think about was reaching the haven of Ford’s car and getting away from the insistent voices, wanting to rip her apart like carrion.
“Mr. Hyatt, aren’t you afraid of putting another murderer back on the street?” one bold reporter asked after the others had fallen silent.
“If I were afraid I wouldn’t pursue this case,” Ford said with a tight smile.
He opened the passenger door and helped Robyn to climb in, acting the chivalrous gentleman for the press. Once the door was closed and locked, she took her first easy breath since Ford had arrived. She watched as Ford had words with a couple of men, and the van blocking their path moved out of the way as he joined her in the car.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She took another cleansing breath. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“You did fine.” He started the engine, threw the car in gear and backed out all in one seamless motion. She liked the way he drove, all smooth confidence.
“Fine if you like scared rabbits.” She still shook.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Yes.” She’d had some toast for breakfast. “Is there some reason you’re so fascinated by my diet?”
“You don’t eat when you’re under stress, and that’s when you really should eat well.”
How in the hell did he know that? But it was true. When she was worried about something, she either forgot to eat, or she nibbled because food didn’t sit well in her nervous stomach.
“There’s a white bag by your feet. I bought you a vanilla milk shake. Maybe not the healthiest thing in the world, but at least you won’t pass out. Drink it.”
She didn’t like his imperious attitude. No one had ordered her around since she’d been in juvenile detention. Certainly not her mother, who had taken off with her third husband shortly after Robyn’s high school graduation, apparently happy to be free of her daughter. But he was right; she did need something more in her stomach. She gave him a curt “thanks” and retrieved the milk shake from the bag. It was smooth and creamy and cool in her throat—exactly what she needed.
“What did that reporter mean?” she asked after a minute or so.
“Which one?”
“That last one, who asked you if you were afraid of letting another murderer back on the street.”
“He was just trying to get a reaction out of me.” But Ford’s hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly.
“Have you ever made a mistake?”
“Who hasn’t?” he tossed off.
“No, I mean, have you ever believed someone was innocent, and then you were wrong? Did you ever free a guilty man?”
There was a long, pregnant pause. “You must not read the papers.”
“Not too often, no.” Robyn sensed the tension rolling off him and debated whether to press him or let it ride.
“Drew Copelson. I got his conviction overturned. Two weeks after he got out of jail, he attacked and beat an elderly woman.”
“Oh, my God. Did you—I mean, did you suspect—”
“No. I am, to this day, utterly convinced he did not commit the murder he was convicted of. He became a suspect because he had priors of violent crime, and he couldn’t come up with an alibi. Forensics proved the police planted evidence to clinch their case. He didn’t do it but I wish to God I’d left him in prison to rot. Katherine Hannigan wouldn’t be lying in a hospital room right now.”
“I didn’t realize it was so recent,” she said, wishing she hadn’t brought up what was obviously a painful subject. “I’m sorry it turned out that way. But we can’t just go around locking up people because they might commit a crime. You did the right thing.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you met Katherine. Or her family.”
She hated the desolation she heard in his voice. She couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to be blamed for the brutal attack of a woman. And clearly some people had blamed Ford.
“That’s why I resigned from Project Justice. I was getting out of the guilt-and-innocence business. I would not be working this case if you hadn’t pressured me.” His hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “Clearly I should have gotten out a long time ago.”
“I don’t believe that’s true. I’ve read about your other cases—the man in Atlanta who was accused of murdering his wife. The woman in Illinois who went to jail for supposedly killing her elderly father. I believe in our justice system, but it’s only as good as the people involved. And when the system breaks down, someone needs to step in and fix it.”
“I used to think that. Maybe I still do. But that person won’t be me. Not after I finish this case.” An SUV whipped in front of their car, cutting them off. Ford rammed his hand into the horn. “Damn, look at this traffic. Hey, have you talked to Trina?”
Robyn recognized a desperate ploy to change the subject. She let him. “I’m