opened.
She’d memorized the number the night before. In fact, she had practiced dialing it
a few hundred times. Now, her fingers could fly over the keys in a pattern as familiar
as stepping from her apartment’s front door to her car. At nine, she slipped into
a storage room and put her practice into play. As the call went through, she jammed
the device to her ear. One ring, two, and the third! Finally, on the fourth ring a
matronly sounding woman answered, “District Attorney’s office.”
After attempting to clear the tightness from her voice, Meg anxiously asked, “May
I speak to Mr. Jones?”
“I’m sorry. He’s out of town today. May I help you?”
No! He can’t be out of town. She didn’t wait all night to but put off for another
day or more. He has business here in Springfield. And it is very important business,
too. This simply wasn’t right.
“Excuse me,” the voice came back on the line, “is there something
I
can do for you?”
Meg took a deep breath, hoping it would cover her disappointment, and replied, “I
hope so. My name is Meg Richards. My husband was killed . . .” Before she could continue,
the woman broke in.
“I’m so sorry about your husband, Mrs. Richards,” the woman responded, sounding genuinely
sincere. “My heart goes out to you.”
“Thank you,” Meg replied, “but I called to find out the name of the person driving
the other car. You see, the papers didn’t print that information, and I feel that
. . . well, what I’m trying to say is that . . .” Pausing for a second, attempting
to relieve the pressure she felt in both her throat and aching heart, Meg searched
for the proper words. Not finding them, she took a deep breath and blurted out, “I
just want to know who he is!”
The line was so quiet for about ten seconds that Meg thought she’d dropped the call,
but then the woman’s kind voice came back, “I can understand that, Mrs. Richards.
If I were you, I think I would want to know, too. But you see, I can’t tell you his
name at this time. No matter how much I want to or how unfair it seems, I can’t tell
you.”
“Why not?” Meg demanded. “He killed my husband. I have a right to know who he is.
That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Endless seconds crept by with no response. Finally, the voice came back on the line.
“Mrs. Richards, I can’t tell you because of the boy’s age. He’s a minor, and in order
to protect his rights, we are not allowed by law to release any information about
him at this time. I’m sure, if this is any comfort to you, that you’ll find out his
identity in time. But we have to go by specific rules of law and we can’t break that
process. As unfair as it may seem to you, that is the way it works.”
Tears began to fall from her eyes and run down Meg’s face. Her frustration and grief
surfaced just as they had when she had run into a brick wall of noninformation on
Sunday. As she glanced out of the storage room, she noticed Heather walking down the
hall. Not wanting her friend to see her out of control, she closed the door and pleaded
into the phone, “I have rights, too. Why does the killer get all the protection and
I get none?”
“I know it must seem that way now, Mrs. Richards, but if you will be patient—”
Meg snapped, “I’m the one who lost it all, not him. I’m the one who lives by the law,
not him. You’re supposed to serve me!”
“You’re right,” the woman answered, “but my hands are tied, and I can’t do anything
about it. Perhaps you can call back on Thursday. Mr. Jones will be back then, and
well, maybe he can tell you something.”
“Thursday?” Meg barked. “You expect me to wait until Thursday?”
“Mrs. Richards, my name is Jo Blount. If there’s anything I can do for you in the
meantime, please give me a call and let me know!”
“Mrs. Blount,” Meg shot back, “it’s obvious that there’s nothing you can
She’d memorized the number the night before. In fact, she had practiced dialing it
a few hundred times. Now, her fingers could fly over the keys in a pattern as familiar
as stepping from her apartment’s front door to her car. At nine, she slipped into
a storage room and put her practice into play. As the call went through, she jammed
the device to her ear. One ring, two, and the third! Finally, on the fourth ring a
matronly sounding woman answered, “District Attorney’s office.”
After attempting to clear the tightness from her voice, Meg anxiously asked, “May
I speak to Mr. Jones?”
“I’m sorry. He’s out of town today. May I help you?”
No! He can’t be out of town. She didn’t wait all night to but put off for another
day or more. He has business here in Springfield. And it is very important business,
too. This simply wasn’t right.
“Excuse me,” the voice came back on the line, “is there something
I
can do for you?”
Meg took a deep breath, hoping it would cover her disappointment, and replied, “I
hope so. My name is Meg Richards. My husband was killed . . .” Before she could continue,
the woman broke in.
“I’m so sorry about your husband, Mrs. Richards,” the woman responded, sounding genuinely
sincere. “My heart goes out to you.”
“Thank you,” Meg replied, “but I called to find out the name of the person driving
the other car. You see, the papers didn’t print that information, and I feel that
. . . well, what I’m trying to say is that . . .” Pausing for a second, attempting
to relieve the pressure she felt in both her throat and aching heart, Meg searched
for the proper words. Not finding them, she took a deep breath and blurted out, “I
just want to know who he is!”
The line was so quiet for about ten seconds that Meg thought she’d dropped the call,
but then the woman’s kind voice came back, “I can understand that, Mrs. Richards.
If I were you, I think I would want to know, too. But you see, I can’t tell you his
name at this time. No matter how much I want to or how unfair it seems, I can’t tell
you.”
“Why not?” Meg demanded. “He killed my husband. I have a right to know who he is.
That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Endless seconds crept by with no response. Finally, the voice came back on the line.
“Mrs. Richards, I can’t tell you because of the boy’s age. He’s a minor, and in order
to protect his rights, we are not allowed by law to release any information about
him at this time. I’m sure, if this is any comfort to you, that you’ll find out his
identity in time. But we have to go by specific rules of law and we can’t break that
process. As unfair as it may seem to you, that is the way it works.”
Tears began to fall from her eyes and run down Meg’s face. Her frustration and grief
surfaced just as they had when she had run into a brick wall of noninformation on
Sunday. As she glanced out of the storage room, she noticed Heather walking down the
hall. Not wanting her friend to see her out of control, she closed the door and pleaded
into the phone, “I have rights, too. Why does the killer get all the protection and
I get none?”
“I know it must seem that way now, Mrs. Richards, but if you will be patient—”
Meg snapped, “I’m the one who lost it all, not him. I’m the one who lives by the law,
not him. You’re supposed to serve me!”
“You’re right,” the woman answered, “but my hands are tied, and I can’t do anything
about it. Perhaps you can call back on Thursday. Mr. Jones will be back then, and
well, maybe he can tell you something.”
“Thursday?” Meg barked. “You expect me to wait until Thursday?”
“Mrs. Richards, my name is Jo Blount. If there’s anything I can do for you in the
meantime, please give me a call and let me know!”
“Mrs. Blount,” Meg shot back, “it’s obvious that there’s nothing you can
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