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had only been three years older than Kenny when I’d looked at him after the arrest with cold, rock-hard eyes and said, “I don’t talk to traitors.” Then I’d walked away, my head held high with righteous fervor. I had no idea he’d take our rejection so hard, that he’d poison himself with the very pesticide we were protesting.
    I was a child. A dangerous child.
    â€œCass?” Ron’s concerned voice broke in. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYeah, sure,” I said. My teeth were chattering. “I got a little drunk on the plane is all.” A little drunk, a little maudlin, a little guilty. Some people do the Ninth Step sober, some have to drink in order to remember.
    The letter ended with a signature. No truly, no sincerely, and no love.
    â€œGod, Ron,” I began, “I already felt rotten about Kenny, and now—if he didn’t even sell us out, then—”
    â€œThen we’re even more guilty than we were before,” he finished. “We jumped on that kid so fast.” He shook his head. “I mean, I never even thought of anyone else. As soon as the bust went down, I said to myself, ‘Kenny, you little fuck. You’re going to pay for this.’ And then he did pay for it.”
    I looked at the wheelchair. “So did you, Ron. So did you.”
    â€œYeah, well, sort of.”
    â€œSort of, my ass. It was because of the arrests that you got sent to ’Nam.”
    â€œWhat do you think of the letter?”
    I let Ron change the subject. “She sounds pretty flaky. And besides, she just got sober. Does that sound to you like somebody with her head on straight?”
    â€œDoes to me,” Zack said. I looked across Ron at the wild black hair and shaggy beard, the tattooed arms and studded wristband, the leather vest with the motorcycle patches. His huge face glowed with joy. “Kicking juice and shit and coming home to Jesus was the best medicine I ever took, praise the Lord.”
    â€œWell, maybe for some people,” I muttered, aware of Ron’s suppressed laughter.
    A hand tapped my shoulder. I jumped. A uniformed officer said, “Court’s in session, Counselor. Better get inside. Judge Noble’s a stickler for punctuality.”
    I nodded and rose from the bench. Zack took the handles of Ron’s chair and wheeled him toward the courtroom, where I came face to face with a piece of my past. Dana Sobel Rapaport, Harve’s daughter and Rap’s ex-wife, stood waiting outside the big double doors. She wore a navy blue suit that cried out for brass buttons and epaulets, flat shoes, and an Oxford cloth shirt with a straight gold pin through the collar.
    I knew it was her by the shiny, straight black hair. Indian hair, I’d always thought, particularly in the old days when it hung down to her butt. Now it was short-cropped and gray-streaked, but it was still the hair of a Native American princess.
    â€œCassie, is that you?” she asked. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
    Me? What’s different about me? You’re the one who got old, who cut her hair and put on forty pounds and started dressing out of a Land’s End catalogue. I’m still the same —
    â€œDana,” I said, forcing enthusiasm into my tone. Pretending this was a reunion, not a court appearance that might end with my brother in custody, awaiting trial as an accessory to murder.
    â€œWhere’s Harve?” I asked. “I wanted to talk to him for a minute or two before the case was called.”
    â€œHe’ll be here,” Dana replied. “He had a case in Common Pleas, but he’ll be here by the time our case is called.”
    This was the Harve Sobel I remembered, always running late, always dashing into court at the last minute with a breezy apology, always having to cool out the judge before getting down to business. I’d hoped having the first two rows of the courtroom packed