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Page 217
The plane struck turbulent air, dropping several feet before leveling off. Anna used it as an excuse for not replying. She closed her eyes and sat back. Morgan had all but convinced her that the American military was not involved in the murders of last winter. But was he right? Was he speaking the truth? She distrusted Ryerson, but he had raised her doubts all over again. Jake had despised men like Morgan. "They wrap their consciences in the flag," he had said contemptuously.
Ryerson persisted. "I could tell your story, Mrs. Neville. I could get some action for you. I have friends in Washington, powerful contacts."
"I don't want trouble. I want justice."
"In this country? That's not fucking likely."
Anna studied the homely, gaunt, hungry face, the slight frame, stooped at the shoulders. She'd read a great deal about the journalism of the glory days of newspapers, when a major city might have seven papers and editions were published morning, afternoon, and evening. In those days, the reputation of a journalist depended on objectivity, not advocacy. Or so she had been taught. Truth might be an abstraction, but the New Journalism, with its emphasis on personal bylines, opinions, and conjecture, seemed a poor substitute. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ryerson," she said, "but I don't want to tell my story again, and especially not to you."
"Well, if you feel that way," Ryerson said, stung by her curt reply. He snatched a blanket and returned to a seat at the rear of the cabin.
Anna sighed and tried to release the tension in her neck, rolling her head from side to side. Nothing made any sense anymore. Why was she in this plane? A feeling of panic overtook her. What if they crashed? She strained to see the instrument panel, not really knowing what to look for, but anxious for reassurance that the plane would not fall from the sky. Morgan turned and looked at her, then spoke briefly to Ave Peters. Their disembodied faces floated eerily in the reflected light from the windshield. What a wonderful picture that

 
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