An unrecognizable phone number flashed on my cell screen Sunday night. I let it go to voicemail, then, immediately checked the message. (This is how we all do it, right? Pretend not to care, then rush to hear who's trying to reach us!)

The voice was familiar from the first syllable. Male, southern, polite, older.

He introduced himself as a blast from the past. His name was Ron. He was the father of a young man whose trial I'd covered in Summit County a decade ago. Andrew, who could not have been much older than 20 then, had hit a man in the head with a rock during what allegedly was a drug deal gone bad. Andrew reportedly was shocked to read two days later in the paper that the man had died; he fled home, to his father's house in North Carolina, where police found him.

"Andrew's been incarcerated for 12 and a-half years," his father said. "He was locked up that day they came to the house and he's never been out since."

Ron and I had become friends during the course of the trial, which lasted 17 months. I know this because Robby was not yet born the day the victim, John, died in a vacant lot on a cold March night in 1995. My son was a year and two weeks old when the gavel sealed the jury's decision and Andrew's future in late September 1996.

There was never any doubt that Andrew was responsible for John's death. The debate was over intent. Andrew maintained he had acted in self defense, and knew he had hurt the man but did had no idea he'd struck him with enough force to kill.

I believed this was true. I had sympathy for Andrew, as well as for John's family, few of whom attended any of the court proceedings. But this was the way for me with all three murder trials I covered during those years. Horrid as the crimes were and much as I believed a sentence was in order, I always believed the accused's account. As a juror in all three cases, I would have found for second-degree murder. The juries always blind-sided me, each time coming back with a first-degree murder verdict and life sentences.

Some might say I am just a wee bit of a bleeding heart. It is, I believe, what made me a good reporter. I could always see both sides.

But anyone could have seen his father's heartbreak. He was a kind, gentle man, nearly broken by the chain of events. We sat in the same courtroom for hours at a time, with breaks between court appearances that sometimes lasted months.

Ocassionally, near the end, he took me to dinner. He talked little of his son. I think he was unable.

Closer to his son's age than Ron's, I never had a romantic thought toward Ron. He was married, though I only once saw his wife in the courtroom with him - on the day of sentencing. He is also a good 20 years older than me. I suspected he might have felt some small something for me, but I never encouraged it or acknowledged that I even had an inkling of such a thing.

We had exchanged Christmas cards for a couple of years after the trial ended, then those had trailed off, too.

Now, he was calling to say hello. He was going home Monday after spending a few days in Colorado, visiting Andrew in a state facility. Ron had gotten my number from Brad, in an e-mail Brad had sent him some time ago.

Some time ago indeed. Brad has been dead for more than 13 months now.

We talked briefly about Brad's accident. Brad had correponded for a time with Andrew; I knew he had hoped to write about those exchanges someday. Regardless, Ron said Andrew and he had "kind of hit it off." His other two sons were doing well, he said.

"I know it sounds cold, but life does go on," he said. "I have two other sons to care for. You do your best by them, and you do your best for the one that went astray."

Ron he came to Colorado from his home in North Carolina three or four times a year, he said. "May I take you to dinner next time I'm here?"

I marveled at the polite, southern style with which he posed that question.

I said certainly and look forward to that time.

After we said goodbye, my mind filled with memories of the trial. The most significant for me happened the day the jury reached its decision.

I was but a month from leaving Zach, yet in my memory, I was already single. For some reason, I had no care for Robby that day and had brought him with me to the Summit County Justice Center. My reporter friend Jane held him while I sat in the courtroom, listening to the verdict.

As the judge read the unanimous decision, Andrew's shoulders sagged and his head fell to the defense attorney's table. I saw his back shaking with soundless sobs.

Just outside the doors, Robby began to cry, a distinct sound audible to all in the courtroom. It faded abruptly as Jane walked down the hallway with him, away from the courtroom.

It was an absurb thought, I knew, but I wondered if he could feel the boiling emotions from behind the doors.

The horrible irony of that moment stays with me today. One son lost forever, another lost to a lifetime of imprisonment and hopeless regret, and another whose life was just beginning.

As parents, we resolve to protect and even save our children from life's worst experiences. Yet at some point, we all have to open the door, hope we've taught them how to fly straight and true, and let them go.

That time approaches for Robby and me, I know. He's flapping his almost teen-aged wings, moving toward the door. But I've got a few more years. Enough time still, I hope, to teach him well.