Litigation was involved and the media jumped at the chance of dragging his company down into the mire and accusing him personally of being an accessory to crime. But the issue was quickly resolved by his sure-footed lawyers and spin doctors, and the share price was unaffected. It happened on Mabel Morton’s birthday, August 9th. It was hot. It was always hot in Arizona but that day it was REALLY hot. Mabel was at her computer. She was wearing thick corduroy jeans, a tee shirt, flannel overshirt and thick sweater. On her head she had a woollen cap, hugging her wavy red hair tight to her scalp and, on her hands, woollen mittens. Around her neck she’d wound a red scarf, the one Helmut had sent her from Germany. And she needed all of it because she had the air conditioning on full blast. The woollen hat bulged strangely at the sides. She had her headset on underneath it and the hat helped to keep his voice close in her head, intimate, belonging only to her.
