If I couldn't keep her locked away in suburban motels for three nights, then how was I

supposed to help her get clean?

The decision was not mine to make.

* * *

The routine of the late afternoon was shattered by a phone call from my older brother

Warner. He was in town, on business, unexpectedly, would've called sooner but couldn't

find my new number, and where could we meet for dinner? He was paying, he said

before I could answer, and he'd heard about a great new place called Danny O's where a

friend had eaten just a week earlier--fantastic food! I hadn't thought about an expensive

meal in a long time.

Danny O's was fine with me. It was trendy, loud, overpriced, sadly typical.

I stared at the phone long after our conversation was over. I did not want to see Warner,

because I did not want to listen to Warner. He was not in town on business, though that

happened about once a year. I was pretty sure my parents had sent him. They were

grieving down in Memphis, heartbroken over another divorce, saddened by my sudden

fall from the ladder. Someone had to check on me. It was always Warner.

We met in the crowded bar at Danny O's. Before we could shake hands or embrace, he

took a step backward to inspect the new image. Beard, hair, khakis, everything.

"A real radical," he said, with an equal mixture of humor and sarcasm.

"It's good to see you," I said, trying to ignore his theatrics.

"You look thin," he said.

"You don't."

He patted his stomach as if a few extra pounds had sneaked on board during the day. "I'll

lose it." He was thirty-eight, nice-looking, still very vain about his appearance. The mere

fact that I had commented on the extra weight would drive him to lose it within a month.

Warner had been single for three years. Women were very important to him. There had

been allegations of adultery during his divorce, but from both sides.

"You look great," I said. And he did. Tailored suit and shirt. Expensive tie. I had a closet

full of the stuff.

"You too. Is this the way you dress for work now?"

"For the most part. Sometimes I ditch the tie."

We ordered Heinekens and sipped them in the crowd.

"How's Claire?" he asked. The preliminaries were out of the way.

"I suppose she's fine. We filed for divorce, uncontested. I've moved out."

"Is she happy?"

"I think she was relieved to get rid of me. I'd say Claire is happier today than she was a

month ago."

"Has she found someone else?"

"I don't think so," I said. I had to be careful because most, if not all, of our conversation

would be repeated to my parents, especially any scandalous reason for the divorce. They

would like to blame Claire, and if they believed she'd been caught screwing around, then

the divorce would seem logical. "Have you?" he asked.

"Nope. I've kept my pants on."

"So why the divorce?"

"Lots of reasons. I'd rather not rehash them." That was not what he wanted. His had been

a nasty split, with both parties fighting for custody of the kids. He had shared the details

with me, often to the point of being boring. Now he wanted the same in return.

"You woke up one day, and decided to get a divorce?"

"You've been through it, Warner. It's not that simple."

The maitre d' led us deep into the restaurant. We passed a table where Wayne Urnstead

was sitting with two men I did not recognize. Urnstead had been a fellow hostage, the one

Mister had sent to the door to fetch the food, the one who'd barely missed the sniper's

bullet. He didn't see me.

A copy of the lawsuit had been served on Arthur Jacobs, chairman of the executive

committee, at 11 A.M., while I was at the CCNV. Urnstead was not a partner, so I

wondered if he even knew about the lawsuit.

Of course he did. In hurried meetings throughout the afternoon, the news had been

dropped like a bomb. Defenses had to be prepared; marching orders given; wagons

circled. Not a word to anyone outside the firm. On the surface, the lawsuit would be