Custody of the State Read Online Free PDF

tonight. I made the reservations myself.”
    â€œOh, yikes. You just saved my hide. That’s right. Thanks for reminding me, Hilda,” Will said sheepishly.
    He glanced over at the picture of Fiona on his bookshelf. He liked that one the best. She was beautiful from any angle, of course, in any picture, with her dark auburn hair, piercing dark eyes, and cover-girl features. Her smile set the whole room aglow.
    But unlike the studio pictures she used for concert promotions or autographing for her fans, this photo was different. She’d been caught in mid-laugh at a party the two of them had attended. It was impromptu, unabashed, and bursting with life. That was Fiona.
    Will wondered how he could have forgotten about their date. However, for him the whole business of getting back into the matters of the heart—rather than the issues of the mind—had been laden with complications. Ever since he’d met Fiona he’d felt a tidal pull toward her—falling in love with total abandon. His life was starting to come together. The old demons were gone. His law practice—which he’d constantly questioned—was undeniably successful.
    Nonetheless, his relationship with Fiona kept running into quagmires—sinking under the weight of his problems with relationships or her seeming impatience with the slow growth in his spiritual faith. Tonight, he thought to himself, we’re going to communicate. Really communicate. We need to move things to a deeper level. After all, I want to marry this woman. This is going to work—I’ve got to make sure of that.

5
    O N THE NINTH FLOOR of the International News Network building—the tall glass tower that was its headquarters in Atlanta—Crystal Banes, host of prime-time television’s Inside Source, was holding court.
    In the small conference room she was swiveling slightly back and forth in her red leather chair, bobbing her foot. Fortyish, with a blond “Prince Valiant” cut, she was attractive in a hard-featured way, but she had a habit of curling her lip from a smile into a smirk, ever so subtly.
    Around a small table that was strewn with newspapers, magazines, faxes, a few government bulletins, half-empty coffee cups, and press releases, her team was gathered. Her producer, assistant producer, chief writer, and regular camera man were all there, busy taking notes—all except the camera guy, a man in his late twenties whose flat-top hair was dyed a little on the orange side: He was giving a blank stare out the window.
    â€œCome on people, let’s go,” she chided. “Ideas. I want ideas.”
    â€œThere’s always the parking permit scandal with that congressman…” the assistant producer chirped out.
    â€œPlease,” Banes groaned, “don’t give me that.”
    â€œHow about doing something on Max Mulligan, the radio talk-show host from Baton Rouge with ties to the KKK?” the writer said.
    â€œLegal department says we’d get creamed on that one,” the producer shot out.
    There was silence.
    Then the camera guy, who was still looking out the window, spoke up. “How about that lady who’s on the run from the cops with her little boy? Child-abuse charges. The kid is being poisoned, supposedly. The husband is in jail, saying this whole thing is a travesty—we’re innocent, blah, blah—the police can’t find her. She’s still out there with the kid, out there in the wild blue yonder.”
    â€œWhere’d you hear this?” the producer asked.
    â€œOn the news. Our news. On our network . Duh … ” he said with a laugh.
    â€œDon’t talk to me that way,” the producer shot back. “I consider that harassment. And camera guys are a dime a dozen.”
    â€œLet’s all just stand down,” Banes said with an air of superiority. “Actually, I think Spike may have something.”
    â€œCrystal, these criminal