I don't know whether other reporters feel this way, but I almost always have a slight wave of fear in my gut when I know someone has read or watched or listened to a story I wrote about them. Did I misquote them, take them out of context, portray them fairly? Of course reporters want to be fair all the time, but sometimes we're not.

Last December, when I wrote about a convicted fraud expert and former meth addict, (Lisa is not her real name; she continues to work with the DA's office) I asked whether anyone could ever trust her again. Would someone give Lisa a job when for more than a decade she supported her drug habit by stealing mail and stealing identities. "How can you believe someone who was so good at fooling everyone? . . . I hope she finds her way. But I wonder what great leap of faith it will take for someone to trust a thief," I wrote months ago.

Lisa read that blog post and she wrote to me a couple weeks ago:

"I remember in your article that you wrote about me online and in it you talk about how can I get people to trust me, well Ms. Faryon I think that I am accomplishing it. Life is so GOOD!!"

This summer will mark my 20th anniversary as a reporter. It would seem that after two decades of doing the same thing, you wouldn’t constantly be second-guessing yourself. But my most recent assignment was among the most troubling for me in a long time. I was working on a story about Alzheimer’s disease. I didn’t know a lot about it. I thought it affected very old people, made them forgetful, end of story. And then I met Carl Hopkins.

Carl Hopkins is 74 years old. He’s had Alzheimer’s for about four years. When I met him at his house, he seemed like any other retired senior. He likes to drink a lot of coffee and putter around his well-equipped garage. At the beginning of the interview, he was articulate and upbeat. And then, I noticed traces of the disease. Something his wife, Sue Holloway, had pointed out earlier. Carl repeats himself. I know we all do, but this was different. He said the same phrase several times. This, I learned, is a common symptom of the disease.

When I began reviewing my tapes to decide what segments of the 45-minute interview I would leave in the story and what I would cut, I was faced with this dilemma: how do I show the viewer how this disease is affecting Carl in everyday life without subjecting Carl to embarrassment? I could have cut the tape so you saw a few of Carl’s articulate answers. You might think, gee, this guy is fine.  I knew from meeting Carl’s wife, that wouldn’t be fair. Sue, like so many caretakers, is watching her husband slowly fade away. He is no longer the guy who used to barbeque for friends every weekend because he’s now uncomfortable in social situations. It’s difficult for him to follow conversations. He can’t garden anymore because he fertilizes and waters everyday, forgetting he did it the day before. He still has a driver’s license but Sue won’t let him on the road by himself; last spring, he went missing for six hours. He used to be able fix things. He can’t do that anymore. He even forgets what he can no longer do.

When I first met Lisa, a long-time methamphetamine user and convicted fraud expert, I expected someone a little more hardened. Dressed a little less conservatively. Someone not quite so nervous. Instead, Lisa wore her long hair in a bun. Her dark dress past her knees. Her manner of speech careful and earnest. We were introduced by Deputy District Attorney Damon Mosler. The story I had been assigned was the relationship between meth use and crime. It's one of several segments on methamphetamine that are part of Meth Next Door: An Envision San Diego Special.

There's nothing new about the relationship between drugs and crime. Users will do just about anything to support their habit. Lisa became an expert at stealing mail and stealing identities to support her meth addiction. When we sat down to do the interview, Lisa was candid. She described in detail the first time she washed (took the ink off) a stolen check, wrote in her name, took it to the bank, and was handed $300. She said her "knees were shaking," but it was a "rush." And so began her long career as one of the city's most prolific fraud artists. She eventually learned how to tap into bank accounts and steal tens of thousands of dollars in a single day. And she did all of this by stealing people's mail. She listed the neighborhoods she frequented. They were all close to where I live.

"They never check their mail," she said.

That's me, I thought. So often I let my mail pile up in my broken mailbox. The flimsy plastic door tore off months ago and my mail often sits for days, completely exposed, in my mailbox on my front lawn. I would have been an easy target for Lisa or anyone like her.

Lisa told me while she was on meth she "had no feelings" and felt no remorse for all the lives she damaged. Eventually, what made her give up meth and mail was exhaustion. After 13 years of using meth, a drug that keeps you awake for days, she wanted to sleep. She also had several outstanding arrest warrants and knew she'd go to prison the next time she was caught.

Lisa made a deal with the district attorney's office. She told them in detail how she committed her crime, even showed them how she washes checks. In exchange for the information, she stays out of jail.

Lisa has also been off meth since April, 2007. So this should be a happy ending for her. But it's not. She is a convicted felon. She has worked five different jobs since she's been clean, but fired from all of them after employers do a background check. She says she understands her employers' dilemma. How can they ever trust someone like her? She is getting by financially with the help of her boyfriend and family. She says if it wasn't for them, she's afraid she'd return to meth and "busting checks."

When Lisa confessed all her fraud secrets to the district attorney and nearly two dozen other law enforcement officials, Damon Mosler was recording video. Throughout the interview, she seems proud she was able to outsmart police, the post office, banks and credit card companies. But she has a moment toward the end. A realization that her game is up and she can never go back. She breaks down and says, "I'm smart, I'm very smart." But she knows she used her intelligence to commit crimes, and now it's a permanent scar on her life. She already suspects she may never get a decent job. Watching the video, you can see some of Lisa's long forgotten "feelings" return.

Lisa's dream now is to work for a security company because she knows best how to catch a thief. She wants to use her knowledge for good instead of evil, she says. But she is surprisingly self-aware of her dilemma. How can you believe someone who was so good at fooling everyone? I thought about my broken mailbox and how close it is to the neighborhoods from which Lisa use to steal.

As a journalist, I found Lisa to be a sympathetic interview. She comes across as someone you want to root for. I hope she finds her way. But I wonder what great leap of faith it will take for someone to trust a thief.

Reporting on illegal immigration isn't easy. People aren't always eager to talk and the paper trail is often thin. This is one of those stories. When we met Jay, he'd recently been deported to Tijuana for the second time. He was a few months from turning 18.

Jay grew up in Fontana, California. His mother brought him from Mexico to the United States illegally when he was 2. His mother and sister are now legal U.S. residents. Jay was working on getting his papers, but he got in trouble with the law and that derailed the process.

Both times Jay was deported, he'd committed crimes in Fontana and that tipped off immigration authorities. "Jay" is an alias and we weren't allowed to show his face because he is a minor. This video documents the challenges we faced in reporting Jay's story.

View more photos of Jay and the youth shelter in Tijuana.