The plush booth where I was seated rose and fell as though there had been an earthquake. As a pillar of thick black smoke erupted from the basement stairway, people began rushing frantically toward the exits. Sergeant Joe Stone of the Denver Police had been saying something to me—I never did find out what—when the blast halted him in mid-sentence. He jumped to his feet and began waving his leather badge case in the air. Over the din of the dozens of terrified patrons who, moments before, had been boisterously celebrating New Year's Eve, he shouted, "I'm a police officer. Everyone stay calm!" Another undercover cop joined in, and they made a futile effort to calm the panicky crowd. If I hadn't been so furious at Stone, I might have admired his presence of mind. But I was too angry for that. Thanks to his pigheadedness, my months of planning had, quite literally, gone up in smoke. Across the table, my legal assistant, Maurice White, just sat there, shaking his head in disgust.
