He had hoped to hear from Peter Neil before having to return to Washington. It was now clear that such luck wasn’t in the cards. But he had planted a seed, he assured himself. Would it take root in fertile soil? Neil was a bright boy—he’d begin to put the pieces together. The question remained, though: would Neil care? Few people risked everything for principle. Look what happened to his mother. If Neil didn’t come around, could he be blamed? Such were the thoughts mucking around Dawson’s tired brain during three days of doing just one thing—waiting. Better to leave, he decided. Go back to work as if nothing happened, and be ready to drop everything if and when he got his break. On the evening of the fourth day, back in D.C., Oliver Dawson wriggled across his kitchen table to hold Angela Newman’s hand. Now that he had made contact with Peter Neil, he needed to ask for her help. Afraid to break the news, he began by beating around the bush. When Angela couldn’t take any more of his rambling, she said, “Oliver, you have something on your mind.
