They went up one flight of stairs, turned right into a hallway, and then turned left into a small room. As Harris opened the door and led the way inside, he said, “Friends of yours, I think.”
She had never seen the woman with the iron-colored hair and kind brown eyes. But she would recognize the fuzzy blond mop and acne-scarred cheeks of her companion anywhere.
“Hi,” Grady Burton said. “Guess I’m on your blacklist, huh?”
In spite of her weariness, Kari laughed. “Let’s just say I’m awfully glad to see you.”
“This is, uh, Mrs. Plummer,” Grady said. “After we heard about you going to jail on account of us, we got together last night and, uh, decided to come in on our own.”
“That’s very conscientious of you,” Kari said. She smiled at both of them. “You’re doing the right thing. I never would have given you away, but I think the police need to hear whatever you have to tell them.”
“So do we,” Mrs. Plummer said.
“Since they came in, that lets you off the hook,” Harris said. “I’m dropping the charges against you.” He expected her to grovel with a tearful thank you. Kari merely nodded in acknowledgment. Harris frowned. He could scare almost anybody, but this dame was as cool as a cucumber. Again he wagged that unmanicured finger an inch from her nose. “You stay out of my hair from now on.”
She glanced up at the flakes on his scalp. “I’ll do my best.” Her sarcasm was wasted on him. And she had been wrong. He didn’t eat garlic for lunch. He ate it for breakfast.
Without another delay, the lawyer hustled her outside. Bright sunlight chased away the chill of the jail. Closing her eyes, she drew deep breaths of fresh air. When she opened her eyes, a horde of reporters were swarming up the steps, microphones and cameras aimed at her.
“Be careful of what you say,” the attorney cautioned. “Every word will be quoted.”
She had come to terms with her night in jail, but would she be able to explain her feelings about it? Where was Hunter? Why hadn’t he come with the attorney to release her? Why hadn’t he been with Lieutenant Harris? She didn’t have time to sort out all the perplexities before a reporter asked the first question. Setting aside her misgivings, she faced her peers confidently.
“How was jail, Ms. Stewart?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” She smiled shakily.
“Were you mistreated?”
“Not at all. I was made as comfortable as possible.”
“Were you questioned by Lieutenant Harris?”
Careful, she warned herself. Someone might have seen Hunter going into the cell block last night. If she failed to mention it, suspicions might be aroused. “I spoke with Mr. McKee last night,” she said evasively.
“What about?”
“About naming my sources. I wouldn’t.”
“We understand two hospital employees came forward this morning and are willing to tell their story to the police.”
“Yes, and I’m glad, for many reasons. I didn’t relish another night in jail.” Everyone laughed. “But I’m especially hopeful that what they tell the police may lead to finding the missing children.”
“If you had it to do over again, would you keep your sources a secret?”
“Absolutely.” She addressed them with conviction. “This is one of the most ambiguous issues of our time. I believe in freedom of the press. I believe in the privacy of the individual and in the sanctity of that privacy. I also believe in justice being carried out. I certainly don’t condone the crime of kidnaping babies from a hospital nursery.
“Had I personally known any factual evidence I would have given it to the district attorney without hesitation. But at the same time, I would go to jail again to protect the identities of my sources, who until this morning wished to remain anonymous.”
“Did Mr. McKee use this issue to pay you back for the attacks you had made on him?”
“Did I ever attack Mr. McKee?” she asked innocently. Her audience laughed again.
“At one time your stories were rather slanted,” a reporter observed. “You all but accused the D.A. of using his present office to advance his political career by fair means or foul.”
She was very tired. She knew she looked a wreck. She had dressed for jail, not a press conference. Her twenty-four-hour makeup felt like caked and peeling paint on her face. Her clothes were wrinkled.
But that particular question sharpened her wits. She had come to a meaningful conclusion sometime during the night, but it had remained fragmented and incomplete. Now it came into sharp focus. “At one time, my attitude regarding Mr. McKee was biased.”