a mention of it anywhere in the press. There wouldn’t be if James could not prove foul play. The police would not touch it based on the circumstantial evidence he had so far, but James knew Ben McCoy was somehow involved. He felt it in his gut and he was going to prove it.
James pulled in to Albi’s Steakhouse. He offered Megan his hand, and she hesitated before allowing him to help her out of the car. She looked more like a scared mouse than the take-no-prisoners Assistant District Attorney she was reported to be. He found it hard to believe this was the Ice Queen defence attorneys hated go up against. She had a reputation for being a tenacious ball breaker. Even judges did not want to get on the wrong side of her, apparently she was whip smart and knew case law better than anyone practising in the District and she was not afraid to tell people when they were wrong. Those were the rumours, but they did not square with the nervous woman in front of him.
A waiter seated them at a table overlooking the river.
“So what drew you to a career in law? Why are you a prosecutor?” he asked once the waiter had taken their order. Admittedly it was a lame question, but he had not prepared to speak to her. He’d only gone through with the meeting so he did not throw up any suspicion with Ben.
Megan took a long sip of her iced water and eyed him dubiously. “Really, you want to know why I work for the DA?” She tapped her fingers on the white linen table cloth. “I suppose I want to put bad guys away.”
“Why do you specialise in domestic violence cases?”
She turned to look out the picture window. Slender fingers touched her neck as she cleared her throat. “Off the record?” she asked, turning back to him.
He nodded. None of this was going in a story anyhow, but now he was interested.
“I like taking down men who prey on vulnerable people. I would be just as happy to try a man who abuses his position, let’s say, by tapping phones, intimidating witnesses and failing miserably to cover it all up,” she said pointedly.
There was no question she was talking about his father. His jaw clenched. No matter where he went he could not get away from the fact that Conrad Emerson had violated every ethics law known and paid for it with his freedom. His father’s actions had brought GMN to the brink of collapse only a few years ago, but James had worked his ass off to bring the company back stronger than ever. Shame some people could not see past his father’s sins.
“Most people just think that, they don’t actually say it.”
“I was thinking worse,” she said.
“Well then, congratulations on your restraint. But don’t hold back on my account. Tell me what you really think.”
“Do you really want to know?”
He nodded.
“Are you sure? Cause I’m Southern, I have to be absolutely certain you want to hear the truth. It’s what passes as manners where I come from.”
“Tell me.”
“I think journalists are vultures. They violate people’s privacy and are more interested in titillation than news. They pretend to be providing a public service but more often than not they are just appealing to the lowest common denominator. I’m glad your father went to prison. It proved that no one is above the law.”
James took a drink of his iced tea and wished he had something stronger. She might look sweet but she had an edge. Perhaps he had underestimated her. “I doubt you’re as happy as I am about his incarceration.”
Megan blinked. She looked around the room, presumably to make sure no one was within earshot. “Is this the part where you tell me all about your integrity? It was all daddy. You didn’t benefit at all from his felonious actions. But oh wait you did. You are now the sole owner of a multibillion dollar corporation. You came out quite well in the deal.”
“Did I? My reputation was in tatters. There are still ignorant people far too eager to tar me with the same brush.”
“I prefer my insults indirect. If you want to call me ignorant, say it,” she challenged. Her tone was sweet, in direct opposition to her message.
“Trust me, if I’d wanted to insult you, you’d know all about it. I don’t think you’re ignorant by the way. Wound a bit too tight, yes. Quite possibly a bitch, but not ignorant.”
She smiled like he had just complimented her. He had indeed underestimated her.
“I’m glad our esteem for each other is mutual.”
“Indeed,” James said as the waiter brought over a basket of bread.
Megan tore off a piece and dipped it in olive oil. “I understand completely if you want to tell the world I’m a bitch. You have my blessing.”
“I’m not going to write an article about you being a bitch. I would never let my personal feelings cloud my professional judgement.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” The sarcasm penetrated her saccharine smile.
“You really hate journalists.”
“I really hate people that violate trust and take advantage of vulnerable people.”
“Let me get this straight, journalists provide no benefit to society?”
She finished chewing before she answered. “In theory they do, of course. They have the opportunity to inform and enlighten. But in practice they stalk pregnant celebrities and print stories about how fat they’ve become. That’s hardly a public service.”
“I think you are confusing paparazzi with legitimate journalists.”
Megan put down her bread and leaned in. She spoke slowly and softly. Her long lashes kissed her cheeks when she blinked. “Have any of your papers or news stations printed a photograph that was obtained from a paparazzo?” Her gaze was direct, her smile never faltered.
James shifted in his seat. Christ, this is what defendants must feel like under cross examination. She was cold; no wonder she was called the ice queen. She struck him as the type who would do her homework, toil through reams of microfiche just to make a point. And James Emerson did not lie. Ever. “We have.”
“I rest my case.”
“What case is that exactly? I’m kind of like you, I like my insults direct.”
She sat back in her chair. “I think you pretend to have integrity, but you don’t give a rat’s ass about anything beyond the bottom line. You would sell out your granny to get a story. You are more like your father than you admit.”
He ran a hand through his hair. She had gone for the jugular. She was either incredibly lucky in her aim or very astute in her judgements. There were few things he liked less than comparisons to his father, but he refused to be baited. “I give the people what they want.”
“Child pornographers say the same thing.”
“Did you just compare me to a paedophile?”
“Certainly not. I was just taking your argument to its logical conclusion.”
“Unbelievable.”
