Sunday ... and I'm already thinking about Monday morning. Outside, there's a layer of ice beneath the foot of snow that fell over the weekend. I close my eyes. Except for the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth, the house is quiet. It's always quiet. Maybe I'm getting set in my ways--some say I'm making excuses. They can think what they want. My personal life is my business.

Reminds me of a newspaper reporter who tracked me down a few months ago. Claimed she had questions about the Hancock murder. I gave her what facts I could but a few minutes later she made it clear it wasn't enough. She had to get personal.

"What's your passion," she asked. "I mean, what gets you out of bed, Harper?"

"The alarm clock," I told her. She didn't care much for my humor. That's fine. I didn't like the question.

Funny how little things stick with a guy. Later, much later and for reasons unknown, the issue of passion continued to buzz around in my head.

It's the innocent who keep me going; the muted victims who can’t fight against a criminal justice system that punishes them by protecting the rights of the criminals. It's the dead whose cases have grown cold and who wait on the sideline for justice.

Defense attorneys can manipulate evidence and their clients can lie all they want. I’ll turn into that festering thorn in their side, before it's over. Eventually I'll be the one who slaps down the winning hand.

Passion? Yeah, I guess you can say I have one.