He’d listened to the gasps of the congressional audience, the scratching of pens against notepads by the journalists. He’d spent vast sums on counsel only to realize that there was no defence against insinuation. Quotes, stripped of their context, were tossed about the room. The issue of his refusal to sign a non-Communist affidavit had been debated. Photographs of his visits to Moscow were passed from side to side with circles drawn around some of the men he’d stood beside. They were described as KGB agents, decried as monsters that had murdered and enslaved the civilian population. Jesse had protested: the committee had no evidence to support those accusations. They’d shouted back that the men circled were secret-police officers and the secret police was proven as an instrument of terror. Did he deny there were slave-labour camps in the USSR, labour camps that made a mockery of his talk of equality and fairness? He’d retorted that draconian measures, if they existed at all, were only ever used against a Fascist element, an element that when left unchecked in Germany had brought about many millions of deaths. He wasn’t about to weep over a few dead Fascists.

Though no court had found him guilty of any crimes, his passport had been taken away. He was no longer able to visit the Soviet Union or to accept invitations from non-Communist countries such as the United Kingdom, France and Canada. He was no longer booked for public performances. His recording career was starved of oxygen. No radio station would play his music. No record company would release his songs. No store would stock his albums, his back catalogue was removed from sale – his achievements made invisible. Royalties stopped. Although he was a taxpayer since the age of sixteen, a man who’d brought in thousands of dollars from other countries, the State had his livelihood, cutting off their own source of taxes. His income dropped to less than four hundred dollars a year. His savings had been drained by legal costs, including pursuing his record label for breach of contract. No court ever ruled in his favour. It had taken twelve years, but finally he was destitute. They had what they wanted. He was penniless, just as he had been when he’d started out. Forced to sell his apartment near Central Park, he’d been certain that the FBI informed all prospective buyers of his financial straits. The sale price was half its true market value and didn’t cover the debts.

Anna opened the window, perching on the ledge, looking out at the street below. Strands of her hair hung around her face, waiting for a breeze that wasn’t coming any time soon. Jesse joined her, putting s arm around her slim waist, resting his head on her shoulder, wanting to say sorry a thousand times over. The words dried up in his throat.