after Mitchell Law in St. Paul. She had immersed herself in the hectic pace, eager to put away as many bad guys as she could. Veterans of the overloaded Hennepin County court system had taken in her enthusiasm, with the knowing skepticism of the war weary and speculated on her burnout date.
In ten years her tenacity had only toughened, but her enthusiasm had tarnished badly, coated with the verdigris of cynicism. She still remembered clearly the day she had stopped herself in the hall of the Hennepin County courthouse, chilled to the bone by the realization that she had become so inured to all of it that she was beginning to grow numb to the sight of victims and corpses and perpetrators. Not a pleasant epiphany. She hadn't become a prosecutor to foster an immunity to human suffering. She hadn't stayed in the system because she wanted to reach a point where cases were little more than docket numbers and sentencing guidelines. She had become an attorney out of genetic predisposition, environmental conditioning, and a genuine desire to fight for justice.
The solution seemed to be to get away from the city, go somewhere more sane, where gangs and major crime were an aberration. A place where she could feel she was making a difference and not just trying to stick her thumb in a badly leaking dam.
Deer Lake had fit the bill perfectly. A town of fifteen thousand, it was near enough to Minneapolis to be convenient, and just far enough away for the town to maintain its rural character. Harris College provided an influx of youth and the sophistication of an academic community. A growing segment of white-collar Twin Cities commuters provided a healthy tax base. Crime, while on the increase, was generally petty. Burglaries, minor drug deals, workers from the BuckLand Cheese factory beating each other senseless after too many beers at the American Legion hall. People here were still shockable. And they had been shocked to the core by the abduction of Josh Kirkwood.
Briefcase clutched in one gloved hand, the low heels of her leather boots clicking against the hard polished floor, Ellen walked down the corridor of Deer Lake Community Hospital . Most of the activity in the hundred-bed facility seemed to center on the combination nurses' station / reception desk in the main lobby, where people with appointments were complaining about the long wait and people without appointments tried to appear sicker than they really were in hopes of getting worked in faster.
A clutch of reporters loitering at the periphery of the sick zone perked up at the sight of Ellen and scooted toward her, pencils and pads at the ready. Two women and four men, an assortment of expensive wool topcoats and scruffy ski jackets, spray-starched coifs and greased-back ponytails. A photographer angled a camera at her, and she turned her head as the flash went off.
"Ms. North, do you have any comment on the condition of Agent O'Malley?"
"Ms. North, is there any truth to the rumor Garrett Wright sexually assaulted Agent O'Malley?"
The second question drew a peeved look from Ellen. "I've heard no such rumor," she said crisply, not even breaking stride.
The key to handling the media in full frenzy: keep moving. If you stopped, they would swarm and devour you and you would be regurgitated as a headline or a sound bite with film at ten. Ellen knew better than to allow herself to be trapped. She had learned those lessons the hard way, having been thrown to the hyenas on occasion as the sacrificial junior assistant on a case.
The lack of a juicy answer seemed only to sharpen the reporters' hunger. Two cut around to her left. Two scuttled backward in front of her. The one on her right hopped along sideways, the end of a dirty untied shoelace clacking against the floor with every stride.
"What kind of bail will the county attorney request?"
"Can you give us a rundown of the charges being filed?"
"The county attorney will
In ten years her tenacity had only toughened, but her enthusiasm had tarnished badly, coated with the verdigris of cynicism. She still remembered clearly the day she had stopped herself in the hall of the Hennepin County courthouse, chilled to the bone by the realization that she had become so inured to all of it that she was beginning to grow numb to the sight of victims and corpses and perpetrators. Not a pleasant epiphany. She hadn't become a prosecutor to foster an immunity to human suffering. She hadn't stayed in the system because she wanted to reach a point where cases were little more than docket numbers and sentencing guidelines. She had become an attorney out of genetic predisposition, environmental conditioning, and a genuine desire to fight for justice.
The solution seemed to be to get away from the city, go somewhere more sane, where gangs and major crime were an aberration. A place where she could feel she was making a difference and not just trying to stick her thumb in a badly leaking dam.
Deer Lake had fit the bill perfectly. A town of fifteen thousand, it was near enough to Minneapolis to be convenient, and just far enough away for the town to maintain its rural character. Harris College provided an influx of youth and the sophistication of an academic community. A growing segment of white-collar Twin Cities commuters provided a healthy tax base. Crime, while on the increase, was generally petty. Burglaries, minor drug deals, workers from the BuckLand Cheese factory beating each other senseless after too many beers at the American Legion hall. People here were still shockable. And they had been shocked to the core by the abduction of Josh Kirkwood.
Briefcase clutched in one gloved hand, the low heels of her leather boots clicking against the hard polished floor, Ellen walked down the corridor of Deer Lake Community Hospital . Most of the activity in the hundred-bed facility seemed to center on the combination nurses' station / reception desk in the main lobby, where people with appointments were complaining about the long wait and people without appointments tried to appear sicker than they really were in hopes of getting worked in faster.
A clutch of reporters loitering at the periphery of the sick zone perked up at the sight of Ellen and scooted toward her, pencils and pads at the ready. Two women and four men, an assortment of expensive wool topcoats and scruffy ski jackets, spray-starched coifs and greased-back ponytails. A photographer angled a camera at her, and she turned her head as the flash went off.
"Ms. North, do you have any comment on the condition of Agent O'Malley?"
"Ms. North, is there any truth to the rumor Garrett Wright sexually assaulted Agent O'Malley?"
The second question drew a peeved look from Ellen. "I've heard no such rumor," she said crisply, not even breaking stride.
The key to handling the media in full frenzy: keep moving. If you stopped, they would swarm and devour you and you would be regurgitated as a headline or a sound bite with film at ten. Ellen knew better than to allow herself to be trapped. She had learned those lessons the hard way, having been thrown to the hyenas on occasion as the sacrificial junior assistant on a case.
The lack of a juicy answer seemed only to sharpen the reporters' hunger. Two cut around to her left. Two scuttled backward in front of her. The one on her right hopped along sideways, the end of a dirty untied shoelace clacking against the floor with every stride.
"What kind of bail will the county attorney request?"
"Can you give us a rundown of the charges being filed?"
"The county attorney will
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