He called from wherever they took him, once, through a lawyer I didn’t recognize. The lawyer left a voicemail using words like misunderstanding, context, and willing to cooperate. I listened to it twice, deleted it, and emailed my own attorney, Pressman, who had been waiting for exactly this call. I had retained her six weeks ago.
The days immediately after were administrative and relentless—affidavits, asset freezes, a deposition that ran four hours and felt like giving evidence about a stranger. In a sense, it was. The man I was describing bore almost no resemblance to the man who had made lamb on Thursday and lit candles and looked at me like I was enough.