Half measures will avail us nothing. —LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939 His ringing cell phone roused Vaill from a dreamless sleep. Even before answering it, he began testing himself. Stiff sheets, unfamiliar mattress, LG TV propped up on the dresser at the foot of the bed. He was in a hotel—a Marriott in downtown Atlanta. The room curtains were like lead shields, and if the sun had already come up, it was impossible to tell. The ringing continued. Vaill fumbled for the phone, knocking over his bottle of Tylenol. His voice was sleep-drenched. “Yeah, Vaill here.” “Tim, it’s Chuck.” Vaill brightened. “Hey, buddy, what’s going on? What time is it?” “Sorry to wake you, sleeping beauty. I actually thought you’d already be gone. It’s eight-thirty.” “Shit.” Vaill sat up and felt a twinge behind his eyes, but nothing materialized. He had planned to get Welcome to the Richard B. Russell Federal Building and the district court magistrate judge before nine.
