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“If he does, he’ll never rat them out.”

“You’re probably right. But we can ask.”

TWENTY-TWO

It was a sparkling Saturday on the Mall and all of Washington seemed to have decided to take the day off and enjoy it. Frisbees caught the sun as they flew lazily overhead, lovers blissfully strolled hand in hand, as though men and women weren’t dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, and families poured onto the vast expanse of lawn that is the Nation’s Backyard. Stretching between 3rd and 14th Streets, with the Washington Monument at one end and the Capitol Building at the other, the Mall was the vision of Washington’s city planner Pierre L’Enfant, although he saw it more as a wide boulevard lined with mansions. It wasn’t until 1901 that this sprawling expanse of grass and pebbled pedestrian pathways was transformed into the city’s main gathering place and tourist attraction. Ringed by the Smithsonian’s many museums (the National Air and Space Museum is the world’s most popular museum, attracting more than ten million visitors each year), it is equally as famous as the scene of protest marches and demonstrations, and is the setting for concerts and festivals. It also features the city’s most utilized jogging track and the softball field on which congressional leagues vie.

Matt and Mary had slept late, enjoyed breakfast at the Diner, and decided to spend the afternoon at the National Museum of African Art, where an exhibit of works by the artist El Anatsui had opened earlier in the week. Matt had begun collecting African musical instruments and recordings, a modest collection, to be sure, but one in which he took increasing pride. He didn’t play the instruments but enjoyed the visual flair they provided his apartment.

For Walt Hatcher, not having to go into work meant time to get to a chore he’d been meaning to do for weeks, clean out the garage. He, too, had slept late, unusual for him, and lingered over breakfast with Mae. “I’m glad you got a good report from the doctor,” she said. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I told you it was nothing. Speaking of which, when are you due to see the doc again, Mae?”

“Not for six months.”

It was what he wanted to hear.

The Rollins household was up and active by seven that morning. Rollins was pleased that he’d decided to cancel his meeting with Bob Colgate to spend the day with Sue and Samantha. He’d been feeling increasingly guilty over the past few months as his unofficial role in the Colgate campaign ate up more and more of his time. His law practice had suffered, but not terminally. It was the time away from family that bothered him, and he made a silent pledge to rectify that situation once Colgate was elected, a foregone conclusion based upon every poll, and the legions of TV pundits who breathlessly reported them as if fact on a daily basis.

Sue packed a lunch, which Jerry put in a small cooler housed in a canvas bag with a shoulder strap. He loaded it into their family vehicle, a silver Volvo station wagon, along with two lightweight folding chairs and a small blanket. He wasn’t especially looking forward to a day of folk music. His musical passion was jazz, especially artists from the BeBop era—Miles, Dizzy, Charlie Parker, and other innovators—and he took pride in the large collection of LPs and CDs he’d amassed over the years. He’d played drums with a rock-’n’-roll garage band while in high school, and while listening to his idols on his car’s CD player often pictured himself grooving behind a drum set.

But the music genre wasn’t that day’s draw. It was enjoying leisure time with his wife and daughter that appealed. Although he wasn’t a sentimental man, there were times when the sheer beauty of the two women in his life, and the fact that they loved him, were overwhelming. He suffered that exquisite feeling that morning as he watched mother and daughter work together in the kitchen, and had to leave the room lest the tear in his eye prompted a question.

He and