Hard News

he wanted to get the clock running. Get his sentence over with and get on with his life.”
    Rune said, “I saw in the story that the conviction was for manslaughter.”
    “The jury convicted on manslaughter one. He showed reckless disregard for human life. Got sentenced to fifteen years. He’s served almost three. He’ll be eligible for parole in two. And he’ll probably get it. I hear he’s a good boy.”
    “What do you think?”
    “About what?”
    “Is he one of your guilty clients?”
    “Of course. The old I-was-just-hitchhiking story. You hear it all the time. There’s always a mysterious driver or girl or hit man or somebody who pulled the trigger and then disappears. Bullshit is what it is. Yeah, Boggs is guilty. I can read them all.”
    “But if I found new evidence—”
    “I’ve heard this before.”
    “No, really. He wrote me a letter. He said the police dropped the ball on the investigation. They found the witnesses they wanted and didn’t look any further.”
    Megler snorted cynically. “Look, in New York it’s almost impossible to get a conviction overturned because of new evidence.” He squinted, recalling the law. “It’s got to be the kind of evidence that would’ve changed the outcome of the case in the first place and, even then, you have to be able to show you made diligent efforts to find the evidence at the time of the trial.”
    “But if I do find something would you handle the case?”
    “Me?” He laughed. “I’m available. But you’re talking a lot of hours. I bill at two twenty per. And the state ain’t picking up
this
tab.”
    “But I really think he’s innocent.”
    “So you say. Come up with fifteen, twenty thousand for a retainer, I’ll talk to you.”
    “I was hoping you’d do it for free.”
    Megler laughed again. Since he had no belly, it seemed to be his bones that were jiggling under the slick polyester skin of his shirt. “Free? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that word.”
    FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HER LIFE RUNE HAD AN ASSIS tant.
    Bradford Simpson volunteered to help her. She suspected he was motivated partly by his desire to go out with her—though she couldn’t for the life of her guess why he’d want her and not some beautiful Connecticut debutante who was tall and blonde (two of her least-favorite adjectives when applied to other women). On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly asked her out again after she’d turned him down and she supposed that his reappearance had more to do with journalistic crusading than romance.
    “What can I do to help?” he’d asked.
    And she’d gotten a little flustered, since she didn’t have a clue—never having had anyone work for her.
    “Hmm, let me think.”
    He’d offered, “How about if I dig through the archives for information about Hopper?”
    “That sounds good,” she’d said.
    He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished.
    “Did you know Lance Hopper?” she asked him.
    “Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here. But I worked for him once or twice.”
    “You
worked for the head of Network News?”
    “Well, I wasn’t exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He’s the one who started the intern program. I think he would’ve made a good professor.” Bradford fell quiet for a moment. “He did a lot for me, for all of us interns.”
    Rune broke the somber spell by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll pay him back.”
    Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly.
    She said, “We’re going to find who really killed him.”

    chapter 8    
     
    WHAT’S THAT ?
    Rune opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling of her houseboat’s bedroom, watching the ripples of the morning sun reflecting onto the off-white paint.
    She turned her head, squinting.
    What’s wrong?
    She felt the boat gently rocking in the Hudson, water lapping against the hull. Heard the baritone grind of a boat engine that seemed near but was probably two hundred yards away—she’d learned how noise carries on the water. The sound of rush-hour traffic too.
    So what was it? What was missing? What wasn’t here that ought to be?
    The tie-dye sheet had tangled around her feet, a percale Gordian