Lauren called her father away from his Harlem office and medical school duties to take care of his old friend while she and Pete escorted Neville More into New York City to meet with the President in his Hyatt suite. “I’d like to spit in your eye,” William Brent Morrow said with the brittle calm of a parent driven to the brink of temper’s control, “but Peter and Lauren think I shouldn’t.” More seemed to cower slightly in his chair as Morrow stood over him. The President had cowboy boots on, adding three inches to his normally imposing stature. Pete had always marveled how well the man made use of his intimidating bulk, and this was an appropriate occasion. With a pale ghost of his charming smile, Neville gestured in uncharacteristic humility. “Ah, yes. My cheering section over there.” Nestled comfortably in the deep padding of the living room couch, Pete and Lauren remained silent, letting Morrow conduct the session.
