“You done?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not gonna fight with you, Rollie. I can’t defend myself, and believe me, it’s killing me. But here’s what I know—fights aren’t won or lost in the first round. Sometimes it makes sense to take a few punches before hitting back. Then when you hit back, you hit him with everything you’ve got, because you’re not getting a second chance. You’re right, this is fucked up big-time. You want to make your stand here, go ahead. I can’t stop you. Write your story and put it up on the net.”

His anger was building as he continued. I could picture his face wrinkling up.

“But what do you think’s going to happen if you do, Rollie? C’mon, tell me. You think you’re going to spark some massive uprising to overthrow the government? You think Wrightman’s worried about that? You saw the response we got to the mother’s story. It lasted what, two days? Three days? Let me tell you what’s actually going to happen. Your new pals are going to find some evidence linking you to Amram. They’re going to arrest you and destroy your reputation. Even if you win the case, three or four years from now, it’s going to cost you every penny you’ve got.

“So if you are so damn certain you want to go ahead, good luck. Be my guest, I’ll be rooting for you. I’ll admit you’ve got a lot more guts than I do. But I can’t let you take the rest of us down with you.”

Well, that was a sobering response. The real problem was how much sense he made; I felt like someone had pulled the plug and all my bravado had drained out of me. In a conciliatory tone, I asked, “What do you expect me to do, Howie? Just be a good boy?”

After a long, contemplative silence, almost as if he was deciding how much to reveal, he said plaintively, “There are ways to fight back, Rollie. Trust me. We will.”

As difficult as that conversation was, it was little more than a warm-up for what was to come. Jenny arrived at the hospital midmorning, bringing chocolate and Jelly Bellys. As I was telling her about the visit, I sensed a stiffness come over her, and suddenly it dawned on me. “You knew all about this crap, this Secrets Act?”

She couldn’t even look at me. “Martha did everything she could to fight it. There was nothing…” Her voice drifted off. Then she explained, “You know what we agreed. I couldn’t tell you.”

She was right. We were both constrained by legal boundaries, and at the beginning of our relationship, we had agreed to respect them. We had shaken hands in agreement. Then we did other things to make it a binding agreement. Respect legal boundaries. No questions asked. I understood she wasn’t allowed to tell me, so why was I feeling betrayed? It wasn’t rational—but I had to strike out at someone. And she was the person I trusted most not to tell me to go fuck myself. (Which, admittedly, I probably deserved.) “I’ll get over it,” I said coldly.