I then spent fifteen minutes on the Internet to see what stories people were dreaming up about me today. It was astounding how famous I’d become. Not infamous, not notorious, but actually famous. As if I’d accomplished something beyond being in the wrong elevator at the wrong time. The irony was that I soon would accomplish something, something very real if my plans came to fruition, but nothing I would ever be celebrated for on the Internet. My fame would be fleeting, which meant I needed to capitalize on it now.

I got dressed in a crisp red suit, summoned Lonnie for a ride downtown, and alerted Alice, who was waiting at my front door when I emerged. She was forty, a faded blonde with a short no-nonsense haircut and a rock-hard body that put my morning exercise regimen to shame. A former state trooper who was once part of the governor’s security detail, she was now my bodyguard, hired by Mark the day I told him I was being followed. That was also the day he granted me the use of his car and driver. Now, whenever I left the building, it was in the silver Mercedes with Lonnie at the wheel and Alice riding shotgun. Though not literally. Her weapon of choice was a Glock 17, which she wore in a shoulder holster under her suit jacket. She also wore a coiled wire at her ear, linked to Lonnie in the car.

First stop was a café on Union Square. Alice went in to do a sweep, then gave the all-clear signal to Lonnie, who gave it to me. The reporter was already there waiting; he stood up when I came in, and waved me to the table.

“Morning, thanks for meeting me,” he said as I sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eager to make his pitch even before I picked up the menu.

He was one of four reporters vying for my story. Although I’d made it clear that I could not discuss my case, the murder charge hanging over my head was the obvious hook. But they were each offering a different approach to the story, and I was still deliberating who should get the exclusive. At the moment I was leaning toward the freelancer who dangled a feature story in Vogue. A frothy choice, admittedly, but I couldn’t help thinking that the photo shoot would be fun.

This one was pitching the social media angle—how the online debate about the case had caught fire and how it might impact the final verdict. He was a little daunted when I told him I’d never dabbled in social media. But he did a quick pivot and decided the irony would be a selling point.

A man stopped by our table on his way out. “Excuse me,” he interrupted. “You probably don’t remember me.” The reporter shook his head, but it was me the man was addressing. “We were on a CLE panel a while back. On multidistrict litigation, I think?”