There was much debate in the pretrial hearings regarding whether such footage should be seen by the public, with the defense arguing it would prejudice the fact finders and some arguing it would violate the privacy rights of the prisoners and their families. But the louder voices in the cacophony fighting to direct where things went in those days argued more convincingly that all courtroom proceedings must now be conducted on camera, with all evidence available for all to see. And that everyone in the American public, especially those who had supported the President, needed to confront those truths as a first step in their reeducation and national reconciliation.

Ann Landis was the partner at WWH who had made those pretrial arguments, and the truth was, she was right. It certainly prejudiced Donny. So much so that when Ann escorted him to meet his new client, and he saw the two SAS operators in their black berets guarding the conference-room door, he felt an intense and almost eldritch sense of fear well up in him as he prepared to step through.

“Good morning, boys,” said Ann, who obviously liked having them around. Ann was a former federal prosecutor Donny had a case against some years earlier, and the member of the President’s defense team who suggested they bring Donny in to help with the sentencing.

Donny had thought it was a good idea, until he saw the motherfucker sitting there at the conference-room table, and wondered if there was a way to kill a man with a porcelain coffee mug. If he could stab El Presidente’s eyes with his ballpoint pen deep enough to reach the brain before His Majesty’s Stormtroopers got to him.

“Happy Monday,” said Ann. “I believe most of you know Donald Kimoe.”

There were five other lawyers in there, from three different firms. They all shook hands, and introductions were made where needed.

The President remained seated there in his blue swivel armchair, sizing up Donny. They had told Donny beforehand that the President no longer shook hands, for fear of poisoning and general germaphobia. Donny said that works for me.

The President wore a very nice blue suit, with a pocket square, a red silk tie embroidered like the scales of a dragon, and the blue-black American-flag lapel pin of his officially disbanded political party. He no longer looked scary, though he still looked a little dangerous. He had been reduced to human scale. Without the klieg lights and regal trappings of office, he looked like a CEO who had just been unexpectedly fired, and now sat in the office of some HR flunkies as they collected his company phone and told him all the things he could no longer do. Maybe it was that image in his head, or maybe it was the anger and grief he felt bottled up inside, that made Donny walk right up to the guy, reach down, and remove the pin from his lapel.