I’m jittery with renewed determination to present my case to Mr. Hines. I weave my way south down Interstate 5, drive beneath the ill-advised, traffic-inducing monstrosity of the Convention Center down the freeway about a mile. Qwest and Safeco Fields are off to my right. I take the exit next to the Tully’s Coffee roasting plant, a building that twenty years ago used to produce Rainier Beer. As children, when my mother drove past it, Jess and I debated the more accurate characterization of the scent in the air—urine or cornflakes? I much prefer the current, easily distinguished nutty bouquet of roasting coffee. Driving up and over the West Seattle Bridge, I listen to the calm, computerized tones of my GPS directing me to follow Fauntleroy Way, cross over California Avenue, and down the hill toward Lincoln Park. I find Mr. Hines’s office a few blocks away from the Fauntleroy Ferry terminal. It’s disguised as a two-story, sky blue Victorian-style house, complete with sharp gables and white gingerbread trim.
