Page 22 of Punishing Penelope
“Chief!” I stand. “What is the status of the Edgar Norton case? Did you find the dad yet? You know, who beat his little kid half to death?”
Little Edgar, a four-year-old unconscious in the ICU.
“The hour is over.” He looks as if he’s holding back a growl.
“Maria Sendoza… you let the suspect out on bail. Who’s on the case? Are there other suspects? Can we expect to see results soon?”
Maria, thirty-six, spinal cord damages, might never walk again. Mother of four with no family in the States, no one to speak for her, and she doesn't speak a word of English.
“Miss Wilder, we have nothing further for the media today.”
“The public deserves some answers. Is it because Mrs. Mendoza isn’t a U.S. citizen?”
“We. Are. Working on it. Violence against immigrants is investigated just as thoroughly. We do not discriminate.” He steps down and moves toward the side door.
“These are people, humans who need justice!”
He disappears, never looking at me again. I scoff… loudly.
Coward.
I flinch when I realize there are eyes on me.
Peter’s.
His blue gaze is dark and filled with loathing.
The obvious resentment cuts deeper than I expected. Why the fuck do I care? Why do I have to try so hard to hate him when I hate everything he does?
I hold his eyes for a few moments until he curls his lip, looks away as if I’m nobody, and disappears out the same door his boss went.
People stand, the room erupts in a flurry of activity. I shove notebook and pen into my sleeve case, snap it closed with increasing anger, and stand. I’ll dig deeper into Maria’s case.
This is what I do. I’ve been put on this earth to fight for the little people.
“Wilder!”
I look up. Samson Parker, one of the more self-important political columnists, holds up a phone, waving it in the air.
“Incoming. I’m putting her through.”
I gesture non-committedly. I don’t have the time, and God, I wish for the thousandth time I had a secretary. My workload is ridiculous. I’ve gotten some slack, pushing my agenda, and know how lucky I am, but I’m also expected to be everywhere. I write features for the Sunday edition. I manage a crime Q&A on our website, I’m at almost all press conferences, and I cover everything worth letting the public know about. On top of that, I’m working on my book about the ten worst unsolved crimes in U.S. history.
But, of course, I’m taking the call.
You never know.
“Wilder, L.A. Times.”
“Is this Penelope Wilder?” A woman’s distraught voice gasps as if she’s been running.
“This is her.” I sit up straighter, flip up an empty page in my notebook, and grab a pen. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve seen you on the news. You’re always asking questions and say you fight for justice. Is it for real? I need to know.”
“It’s for real. Why don’t you tell me a little about why you’re calling, Mrs…”
“Mayra. I’m Mayra.”