For my protection, I am sending a copy of this letter to my lawyer. I am notifying Judge Arnold Coleman, who served as Steve Sawyer’s public defender during his trial, and Steve Sawyer. I am also notifying Greg Yeoman, who is John Merton’s current counsel.

You may leave a message with my attorney about what next steps you wish to take in resolving both the 1966 murder and your baseless accusations against me in the death of Larry Alito.

While Theo made up a dozen copies of my storyboard, I called Freeman Carter, my lawyer, and told him I had evidence so hot that it needed to be in a vault.

“I wondered when I would hear from you, Warshawski. The cops have been to my office already demanding that I produce your body, so I knew it was only a matter of time before you remembered you had a right to counsel.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that, Freeman. But let me give you a quick thumbnail of what’s happening.”

I explained as much as I knew, about Lamont and Steve-Kimathi and Dornick, Krumas and my uncle. I even reported finding the Nellie Fox baseball in the trunk of my family’s possessions.

“So what do you want me to do with all this?” Freeman asked.

“Hold on to the pictures and the baseball. Hold off the cops. I need to find Petra now if I can, and then I’ll worry about everything else.”

Theo, who’d heard my end of the conversation, said Cheviot could store the negatives and the extra prints for me, but I explained that the state could compel Cheviot to produce them. My lawyer had certain privileges that could keep the government at bay, at least for a few days. I did ask Theo to use their messenger service to deliver my storyboards to Bobby, Judge Coleman, and Greg Yeoman. I would drop a copy off at Fit for Your Hoof myself, if I could do so without a tail, but I wanted to watch Freeman Carter put my originals and the hundred prints Theo had produced in his office safe.

By the time Karen and I got back on the tollway, we were in the middle of the oozing Chicago rush hour. Slow hour, it should be called. While we drove, Karen reported on the repairs to Sister Frankie’s apartment at the Freedom Center.

“The men doing the work are doing a terrible job. After tearing the place apart, all they’ve done is put up some studs. They started to work on the wiring and blew the circuits for the whole building. And the sisters couldn’t even get the building management to restore power until they offered to send pickets to the owner’s home.”