Shadow of Power

2

It is an axiom of criminal defense that a good lawyer must know his victim at least as well as he knows his own client. To that end, Harry and I are huddled this morning in the conference room at our law office on Coronado Island near San Diego.

Even before the picture appears on the screen, I can visualize his image and facial expressions. Terrance Scarborough is sufficiently familiar to anyone who has ever heard the word “law” that you could say he has the kind of recognition that Washington has on the dollar bill. Scarborough has been the ultimate media monger for more than a decade, on constant call as a legal expert for any network or cable channel that would have him. Set up a camera with a red light and Scarborough would cut a swath through humanity to get to it.

It is rumored that instead of legal briefs he carried only a clean shirt, a tie, and some Pan-Cake makeup in his briefcase. He had racked enough frequent-flier miles on trips between the networks in New York and CNN in Atlanta that he could fly to the moon for free.

Although he was an adjunct professor of law at Georgetown, I have yet to find anyone who took a class from Scarborough. While technically on faculty, he spent his time writing treatises on radical social theories. Like Mao, he seemed to be working on his own Little Red Book, anything to inspire discontent and class strife.

He garnered enough traction to generate a fair amount of social heat, and along the way he made himself a staple of television’s cable age. Without question, Scarborough had a messianic need to be the constant center of attention. According to Harry, he has now achieved that ultimate goal, posthumously, and, if I am reading my partner correctly, deservedly. So meager is Harry’s sympathy for Scarborough that I have been left to wonder a few times whether Harry’s hammer is missing from his own toolbox.

Scarborough’s motives, like most things in life, are a question of perception. It was Benjamin Franklin who is reputed to have said that “revolution in the first person is never illegal, as in ‘our revolution.’ It is only in the second person, ‘their revolution,’ that it becomes illegal.” Perspective, being a fine line, involves walking in the shoes of another. Yesterday’s demagogue is tomorrow’s committed leader when his message begins to resonate with the public-and so becomes elevated to today’s political martyr when he is murdered.

We have gathered a number of recent news video clips from an online clipping service and had them burned onto a DVD.

As Scarborough’s image flickers on the screen, it is impossible to deny that he possessed a certain charisma. Six-one and slender, so that dark power suits hung well from his body. Everything about him lent an edge of authority to his argument, from his emerald eyes and sculpted cheekbones to the dapper cleft in his chin. If you turned down the sound and just looked, you might see vestiges of Cary Grant, until you listened to the words.

“What is so insidious, so sinister, is the way in which the nation’s Founding Fathers, people like Madison, Franklin, and Adams, concealed the words of slavery from the public and from history. They slipped the offending language into the Constitution, where it slithered like a hidden serpent through their grand experiment in Democracy,” says Scarborough. “And to this day no one has seen fit to remove those words.

“You can complain about the Bolshevik Revolution and its failure to deliver,” he says. “But there is no deal in history dirtier and more deceptive than the inclusion of slavery in the United States Constitution. What is worse, these offending words are still there, for all to see, there in the organic law of this nation. They may be dead-letter law, no longer enforceable, but they are still visible, AND THEY ARE STILL OFFENSIVE!”

This is the point of Scarborough’s thesis: the manner in which the Constitution is amended. The video we are watching is from a speech he gave in the weeks before he was killed. It was delivered at a university near Chicago while he was on tour for his book Perpetual Slaves. The audience is mostly young, many of them black.

“If you don’t believe that the old Rebel flag of the defeated Confederacy should be hanging outside in front of state capitols in this nation, just beneath the Stars and Stripes, then how is it that the language of slavery should remain visible in the United States Constitution? Is there a different standard for the federal government?” he asks.

“What is so intellectually dishonest is that these ‘great men,’ the minds of the American enlightenment-Adams, Franklin, Madison, and others-dodged the use of plain language when it came to concealing slavery. And nothing has changed. The leaders of this nation continue to dodge it today.

“Look, search, and you will not find the words ‘slave’ or ‘slavery’ anywhere in the Constitution. No, they insult the descendants of slaves, and the national government has seen fit to continue to allow these to exist in print to this very day.

“Look at the infamous fugitive-slave clause, Article Four, Section Two, of the Constitution. This was the cardinal law of slavery crafted at the birth of the nation, the provision that crushed even the shadow of a dream of freedom for African slaves. And did it use the words ‘slave’ or ‘slavery’? No, of course not.

“It uses the euphemism ‘No person held to service or labor’ who escaped to a free state was to be freed. Why? Because the Constitution at its inception says that they should be dragged back and delivered up not to their ‘masters’ or ‘owners’ but to ‘the party to whom service or labor may be due.’

“And have these words been removed from the Constitution?” Scarborough puts a hand up to his ear and listens.

Some in the audience shout, “NO!”

“That’s right. The language is still there, a monument to the guile and craftiness of the slave owners who crafted our Constitution.

“Read Article One, Section Two, the insidious three-fifths clause, and tell me what it means or, more important, WHY IT IS STILL THERE. The continued appearance of these words is a national offense, an insult to every African American walking on this continent.

“Historians know what it means, because they study it. Lawyers know what it means. The federal courts know what it means, because they enforced it. Congress knows what it means, because they passed the enabling statutes that allowed the institution of slavery to function. And Congress has done nothing in more than a hundred and fifty years, since the Civil War and the repeal of slavery by the Thirteenth Amendment, to remove the offending words from the Constitution. Members of Congress sit there and complain about the Dixie flag, and the states that fly it, while they have this stink on their own hands,” says Scarborough. He allows the fiery oratory to settle on the audience.

“In simple terms the three-fifths clause identifies all the classes of people in the United States at the time of its founding. They needed this for purposes of taxation and apportionment, the formula to determine the number of representatives each state would get in the new Congress.

“The clause identifies ‘free persons.’

“It identifies ‘Indians.’

“It identifies ‘those bound to service for a term of years,’ indentured servants and debtors working off their debts.

“And then, last and certainly least, the clause identifies ‘three-fifths of all other persons’ then remaining in the new United States of America.”

Scarborough allows this to settle for a moment.

“Now, who do you think these ‘other persons’ were? Who could they so conveniently and easily carve up into three-fifths of a human being, like a turkey on a platter?

“Who could it possibly be that these enlightened men of the founding generation were talking about?”

“African slaves!” The words are shouted by someone out in the audience.

“That’s right, African slaves. ‘Other people’ who weren’t treated as people at all, because they were owned by white Americans as property, traded and sold like animals. They were being counted as three-fifths of a human being not so that they could vote for members of Congress but so that their owners, their white masters, could have the power of this franchise added to their own. White slave owners could increase the power of their own vote by buying more slaves. This was the incentive, the inducement carved into the cornerstone of the Constitution at the nation’s founding-AND THESE WORDS ARE STILL THERE!” Scarborough pounds on the podium with this, his theme. “Read the book,” he says.

The chant of “Take it out…Take it out…Take it out” starts to rumble through the audience.

He may be a writer, but Scarborough knows how to work an audience. He is a firebrand. Whether you like him or not, I would be willing to take bets that at this moment he is not pretending. This is an issue in which he clearly believes. He allows the chant to continue for twenty or thirty seconds before he cuts it off with his hands in the air.

“Read Article One, Section Nine, of the Constitution, where it says, ‘The migration or importation of SUCH PERSONS’”-he holds up his hand and shakes his finger to emphasize the words-“would not be prohibited by Congress but by the various states then existing. Were they talking about people who wanted to migrate here from Norway or France? NO! So who were they talking about?”

“African slaves!” Now it comes back automatically from the audience, more voices and much louder.

“Yes! They were talking about African slaves, using nice words like ‘imported,’ as if they were fine wine or cheese-human beings dragged here in chains, all at the will of the various states.

“Do you believe that these words should be removed from the Constitution and thrown into the dustbin of history?”

“YES!” A crushing chorus from the audience.

“WHEN?”

“NOW!” This is even louder. The speakers from the set we are watching vibrate under the strain.

“Everywhere you look, they concealed the dirty deal by avoiding the words. They wanted to traffic in SLAVES, all right, but they certainly didn’t want to say it, not so that the whole world and posterity would see it in print. And if the avoidance of language is not evidence of their guilt, then I will produce it,” he says.

“The founders will tell you that they tried to end slavery but they were not able. STICK AROUND,” bellows Scarborough, “because I will tell you the truth. The sequel to this book”-he holds up Perpetual Slaves-“Volume Two, will end the myth of American history once and for all. I will tell you what really happened, why they avoided the words. What propelled their fear, their trepidation? You won’t find it in any history book,” he says. “So don’t bother looking.

“We are talking about a continuing national insult to more than twelve percent of the nation’s population, more than thirty-five million people, and about the absolute stone silence of the country’s leaders on this point. They run for office. They’re out there now on the stump, but ask them about this and they will dodge and weave and avoid the question. They will tell you that the Constitution is the province of the Supreme Court. They will tell you anything that avoids a commitment to take the words out-to remove the offending language.”

The chorus of “Take it out” starts again.

“Some of them will tell you, ‘NO, leave it there as a historic relic, as a reminder of what white masters did to their black slaves.’ But the permanent and enduring stigma of these words, the offense that they carry, is deep!” says Scarborough.

“Ask yourselves…ask yourselves why these ploys on language, these aging, offensive euphemisms, have not been removed? They will pull down the Confederate flag, but they won’t remove this from your own Constitution? It says ‘We the People,’ but the words remain offensive,” he says.

The chant starts up again, but Scarborough shouts over the top of it.

“Can they sweep it under the table as the founders did?”

“NO!” The entire audience is on its feet now, hands cupped to mouths, clenched fists pumping on the ends of raised arms.

“Because I will tell you something more. I will give you another document, a document that the world has never seen, a secret letter written in the hand not of one of the founders but the founder, confirming the darkest deal in American history. If you want to see the original sin of slavery unmasked at its inception, evidenced in the handwritten words of God himself, then wait for the sequel,” says Scarborough.

Tumultuous cheers, diagonal blue lines across the screen, as the video ends.

Less than twenty-four hours after Scarborough’s speech, a rally in downtown Chicago, demanding action to remove the words of slavery from the Constitution, turned violent when police moved in and clashed with demonstrators.

The next day the national media picked up snippets of Scarborough’s speech, and like a trail of gunpowder, flashes of violent confrontation followed his book tour across the country as sales of the book exploded.

“My question is, how did the guy live so long?” says Harry. “If I talked like that, I’d have blown a fuse years ago. And how did he get so close to the Supreme Court?”

“Did he?”

“That’s certainly the image he projected,” says Harry. “The ultimate in-the-know Court watcher.”

“Maybe it was just that, an image,” I tell him.

Scarborough had argued a single case before the Supreme Court almost ten years ago now and won, not a landmark decision by any stretch. He had coupled this with an uncanny ability to hang on the social fringes of the Court and get his picture taken.

It was rumored in his earlier career that he coveted a spot on the Court for himself. However, given the passion of his politics and its public airing, he had little chance of being nominated and none whatever of being confirmed in the Senate. Some might argue that bitterness over this only drove him to further excess.

Harry and I look through a number of film clips, mostly interviews of Scarborough on his most recent book tour. The screen flickers between clips, and another face appears, a different venue this time.

“This is what I was telling you about,” says Harry. “This is Scarborough’s literary agent.” Harry looks at his notes. “Guy named Richard Bonguard.”

The other image on the screen is familiar to anyone who has ever turned on a television set, Jay Leno.

“This was two days after the murder,” says Harry. “Scarborough was supposed to appear with Leno that night, the night he was killed. From what I was told, the agent filled in.”

The interview is somber, not the usual fare for Leno. There is a text bar under the picture, AUTHOR MURDERED.

Leno: “So you two guys knew each other a long time? Not just an agent, you were his friend, right?”

Bonguard: “That’s right.”

Leno: “You have our sympathy. We really appreciate you taking the time to come in here and talk with us. It can’t be easy. It’s absolutely shocking. I can’t even imagine. We were expecting to see Mr. Scarborough as a guest here on the air that day, the day he was killed. You can imagine the surprise when we heard the news. Do the police have any idea who might have done it?”

Bonguard: “Right now, as you can imagine, everything is a bit sketchy. From what I understand the cops are still in the hotel room as we speak, looking for evidence. They’re being very careful. I don’t think anybody knows exactly what happened or why, at least not yet.”

Leno: “Except for the murderer.”

Bonguard: “Well, yes.”

Leno: “It’s just crazy. Do you have any idea why he might have been killed? Do you think it had to do with the book?”

The host props up a copy of Scarborough ’s book on the desk as the camera focuses in. Perpetual Slaves: The Branding of America’s Black Race. The camera cuts to the author’s photograph from the book’s dust cover.

Bonguard: “Certainly I think the police have got to be looking at that possibility. There had been a great deal of controversy over the work. I know that Terry had received death threats in the mail.”

Leno: “Really?”

Bonguard: “Oh, yes. Anytime you write a book that involves politics or social controversy, you’re bound to get some hate mail. But in this case it was more than usual, mostly anonymous.”

Leno: “Those would have been turned over to the police, right?”

Bonguard: “Oh, I’m sure. Most of them were in the hands of the publisher. But they would be turned over, if they haven’t already been.”

Leno: “It’s certainly a very important book. I read it last week before all this happened, and it’s stunning. I mean, I’m not a lawyer, but I never realized that the language of slavery was still right there in the Constitution. I’m sure most Americans don’t know that. I’m surprised that somebody hadn’t brought this to public attention before this.”

Bonguard: “Terry thought the same thing. He was surprised that it had never been exposed in this way. Of course, that’s only part of it…”

“This is the good part,” says Harry. “Listen to this.”

Bonguard: “There was more. He was going to do another book based on a historic document that went right to the core of the controversy over slavery. He didn’t write about it in this book because he was planning a follow-up, a sequel. He was preparing to expose some kind of deal that was cut at the time the Constitution was first written. According to what Terry told me, it involved slavery and a number of prominent historic figures, men who were involved in crafting the Constitution.”

Leno: “A deal? What kind of deal?”

Bonguard: “That, I don’t know. That’s why this letter was so important.”

Leno: “Do we know who wrote this letter?”

Bonguard: “Well, I don’t know that I can say too much more at this time-other than to say that the letter was important to an understanding of the history of slavery in America.”

Leno: “Well, that would be pretty important. How did your client, Mr. Scarborough, get this letter?”

Bonguard: “Again, I can’t say.”

Leno: “Do you have this letter?”

Bonguard: “No. In fact, I’ve not seen it. Terry referred to it several times in conversations that we had. According to what I understand, he had it in his possession, or at least a copy.”

Leno: “He had it with him when he was killed?”

Bonguard: “I don’t know.”

Leno: “So I assume the police must have it now?”

Bonguard: “I don’t know.”

“Wow.” Leno turns away from his guest to look directly at the camera. “Well, you heard it here first, folks. A real bona fide murder mystery. You will keep us informed?”

“Absolutely,” says Bonguard.

Leno rises from his chair and shakes Bonguard’s hand. “We’ll have to have you back.” There are a few muddled words exchanged between the two of them. The audience begins to applaud as the screen flickers and then goes dark.

“That’s everything,” says Harry.

“What about the letter?” I ask. “It sounds like the same thing Scarborough was talking about in his speech-the promise to deliver in the next book, the fiery rhetoric of some big secret.”

“The cops don’t have it,” says Harry. “No record of it listed in any of the materials seized from the hotel room or from Scarborough’s apartment in D.C.”

“Have the cops questioned this guy Mr. Bonguard?”

“More than that,” says Harry. He flips me two pages stapled together, what appear to be photocopies of some handwritten notes. “San Diego homicide sent a detective back to interview him, and the detective took notes. They never even typed them up, just ran copies out of his notebook and threw them in the pile with the other items from our first discovery request. Obviously they must have thought that it wasn’t very important. Otherwise they would have never taken notes, or sanitized them so we wouldn’t see them.”

Interview: Date: 7-26

(V)ictim: T. Scarborough

(S)ubject: R. Bonguard

“Second page,” says Harry. He reaches across the table and points with his pen. “Right here.”

S. told detective has no idea who might have killed V. Much hate mail following book. Racial orientation. Some death threats. Most are anonymous. Talk to publisher. Check to see if suspect is on record writing. See if any e-mails.

S. mentioned letter…(J letter). Unclear. S. says J letter impetus for entire book ‘Perpetual Slaves.’ S. says J letter what prompted V. to write book in first place. S. asked if we had letter. S. no idea of location of letter, never saw it.

“Am I understanding this? Bonguard is telling them that without this letter, the J letter, Scarborough would never have written Perpetual Slaves?”

“That’s what the cop’s notes seem to say,” says Harry.

“I don’t get it. The book made a fortune. There’s nothing about any letter in it, and yet according to Bonguard the letter is what drove the book?” I look at Harry.

“And Scarborough threatens to unveil the letter in the next book. The one he’ll never write,” says Harry. “And if the cops didn’t find this letter, could be that whoever killed Scarborough took it.”

“Why didn’t we see more in the press on this following the Leno show? Bonguard talked about the letter there.”

“Because by then the cops had already arrested our man, that afternoon, as Bonguard was sitting in the studio taping the show. The arrest took the edge off of everything else. The media wasn’t interested in any sideshow. The cops had their man. That’s probably why the police never followed up on any of this. Since they didn’t find the letter on Arnsberg or in his apartment, to them it’s irrelevant,” says Harry.

Certainly it didn’t fit the theory of the state’s case. “Get everything you can on this letter, who wrote it, when, its contents. Get a copy if you can. And find out if Scarborough made any notes referencing it. We’ll need to lay a foundation if we want to get it into evidence.”

“You’re thinking what I am,” says Harry. “Historic letter, probably a collector’s item. If so, it might have been worth a bundle.”

Like every good defense lawyer, Harry is centering on plausible alternative theories for murder.

“One thing is for sure. Our guy wasn’t found with any letter when they arrested him. Fact is, I doubt if he can read,” says Harry. “We might want to talk to an expert, find out what something like that might be worth if it were sold. The letter, I mean.”

Right behind passion, money is always the easiest motive to peddle before a jury when it comes to murder.

“It’s possible. It’s also possible somebody didn’t want the letter to see the light of day, if, as they both claim, this letter is a smoking gun giving rise to slavery in the land of the free.”

“You think somebody would kill to keep from tarnishing a burnished image?” asks Harry.

“I don’t know, but I’m not closing off any avenues at the moment.”

Harry is jotting notes, a small pad on the table in front of him.

“You’d have to think that if this letter exists and if it’s that significant, there would be some reference to it in other documents,” I say.

There are voluminous treatises covering the correspondence between the framers. These include hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of footnotes, the Federalist Papers, followed by entire libraries of books written on the subject.

“Someone would have had to have mentioned it somewhere.” I am talking about the mystery letter. “Check it out. Get somebody to do some research. If not here, in D.C. Try the Library of Congress.”

“We can hire a research service, but it’s gonna cost,” says Harry. “We don’t have much to go on. No date. No author for the letter. All we know is that it dealt with slavery and cut some kind of deal. Research could take a while.”

So far we have lined up a few experts to go over the lab reports on physical evidence found at the scene. We have investigators out talking to some of Arnsberg’s friends. Except for the letter mentioned by Bonguard and the fact that Scarborough seemed to fall back more than once on the same item in his speech, there is nothing else to go on.

“I tried to call Bonguard to talk to him,” says Harry. “Left messages.”

“And?”

“He never called back.”

“In your message did you tell him what it was about?”

Harry nods. “Uh-huh. Which has me wondering if he’s willing to talk to us at all.”

With Scarborough dead, the only one who can tell us about the mystery letter is Bonguard. This suddenly pushes him to the top of the curiosity list.

“Do you want to try to call him?” says Harry.

“What good would that do? If he’s not going to talk to you, why would he talk to me?”

“Maybe you have better phone karma,” says Harry.

Harry and I talk for a while. Over all of this, the mystery letter seems to hang there like a thread, daring us to pull on it.

“You know what troubles me more than anything else?” says Harry.

“What’s that?”

“ Scarborough. For all the fiery rhetoric-call it manipulation,” he says, “still, what he said about the language and slavery, the Constitution, it was accurate, all of it. I mean, he fudged around the edges a little.”

“He did a bit more than fudge at the edges,” I say. “From my reading, slavery was the third rail of politics during the Constitutional Convention. Nobody wanted to touch it, neither pro-slave nor anti-slave. They all knew that any attempt to recognize it or abolish it would result in the new nation being stillborn. Move in either direction and half of the states would refuse to play, take their ball and go home.”

“That may account for the covert language,” says Harry. “But there’s no denying that they recognized slavery. Like it or not, Scarborough had it right. It may have been the only deal possible, but that doesn’t dry-clean it or make it any less grimy. And the fact that the words are still there, visible to the entire world, is indisputable.”

“Your point is?”

“Since none of this is new-that language has been out there for what, going on two and a half centuries?-why now? What caused Scarborough to pounce on it at this moment and in this way, unless he was spurred on by someone or some thing.”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking-whatever it is, is in that letter.”

He nods. “If Scarborough knew what was in it, and we have to assume that he did. If he’s not going to stretch the language of the Constitution to fit his convenient yen for a second American Revolution, why would he exaggerate the contents of this letter?”

“So if that’s the case, whatever is in that letter must be pretty bad,” I say.

“That’s what I was thinking,” says Harry. “And if this is true, the letter could be sitting in the middle of our case. The reason Scarborough wrote the book, the reason he was so far out on the limb of rhetoric, and just possibly the reason he was killed.”

For several minutes we massage the question of what to do. But no matter how we come at the issue of the missing letter, we seem to arrive at the same conclusion.

With Scarborough dead, the only one who may be able to tell us what is in the letter, and where it is, is Mr. Bonguard. Since he’s not returning phone calls and since, for the moment at least, we can’t make him come to us, all subpoenas being kept dry like gunpowder for the trial, we are left with only one alternative, and it is not one that we can put off.

“Why do you have to represent him? Why can’t somebody else do it?”

“Because his father asked me to, and his father is an old friend. You don’t always get to pick and choose your clients.”

“There must be somebody else who can represent him? Why not the public defender? He can’t have much money. Not from what I’ve read and heard.”

“Sarah, I told you, I’ve already taken the case.”

“But it’s embarrassing, Dad. People at school are saying after what he did, he doesn’t deserve a trial.”

“Then those people are living in the wrong country.”

My daughter is home from college, doing a summer internship on break. She is indignant that I’m involved in representing Carl Arnsberg and wants me to withdraw.

“Somebody who does something like that doesn’t deserve a trial.”

“Sarah! How long have you watched me try cases? What has it been, fifteen, sixteen years?”

“Dad, don’t lecture me.”

“Why? Only your professors at school can do that? Lecturing you is one of the privileges of fatherhood,” I tell her.

“Don’t start,” she says. When we have these bouts, which is not often, Sarah sounds so much like her mother that at times I can hear Nikki’s voice. Though Nikki has been dead now for nearly fifteen years, I can often see her eyes staring out at me from my daughter’s face when Sarah is angry. Sarah’s mother died of cancer when our daughter was small, and so my memories of the two of them together seem limited.

“You’re assuming that he did it.” I’m standing in my bedroom over my open suitcase, which is laid out on my bed, half filled with the items I need for my trip to the East Coast. This is a large part of the reason that Sarah is upset. She was hoping that I might take some time off while she was home on break. She is standing in the open doorway to my room, one hand on her hip, looking angry and hurt.

“Sarah, listen. The whole purpose of the trial is to determine whether he did it. And I don’t think he did. What if someone accused you of doing something like this? Wouldn’t you want me to defend you?”

“Dad, that’s not fair. Everybody knows he did,” she says.

“I’m not concerned with what everybody knows. I’m concerned with what a jury says, and then only after they’ve seen, heard, and studied all the evidence.”

“For God’s sake, Dad, he’s a neo-Nazi. Even my political science prof says so.”

“Then your political science professor can convict him of that, and on that charge I promise I won’t represent him.”

“Dad!”

“But on the charge of murdering Terry Scarborough, I am his lawyer, and on that charge he is entitled to a fair trial, just as you would be.”

I return to packing, laying out shirts and underwear on the bed before loading them into my luggage.

“My prof says that Professor Scarborough was the victim of a hate crime. He says that it was a political crime and should be punished that way.”

I’m going to have to make a note to keep my daughter away from the prosecutors. She may give them ideas.

She stands there for a moment collecting her thoughts, trying to come up with a different twist on her argument. I can smell mental rubber burning.

“Fine! How long will you be away? Can you tell me that?” The edge goes out of Sarah’s voice. She realizes that she has lost this bout, though, knowing my daughter, I realize she is not giving up.

“Three days, four at most. I have business in New York. I won’t be sure until I get there. I’ll call you every day and let you know when I’ll be home. And I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“It’s just that I thought we could spend some time together,” says Sarah. “I was hoping that maybe we could go down to Mexico for a while, maybe Puerto Vallarta, one of the beach resorts.”

“I will make it up to you. I promise. You’ll be home again in a few months, and we can go somewhere. You can pick the spot.”

“You’ll be in trial,” she says. “Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.” She turns and walks away down the hall.

I stop my packing, one of my folded shirts still hanging in the air. “Tell you what!” I holler after her down the empty hall.

“What?” She is already halfway down the stairs.

“How would you like to do some shopping in New York?”

There is a nanosecond of silence, and she appears like magic back in the doorway. “You mean it?”

“Call the office, tell them to get another ticket on the flight, and book one more room at the hotel-adjoining, if they can manage it. Then get in gear and pack. We don’t have much time.”

“Sure! Won’t take me a minute.”