There were a handful of student-looking types spread out and about the place, which had the casual look and feel of every college hangout I had ever frequented. It even had the familiar mixed aroma of paper and books, strong coffee, and cheap food. Marti was waiting for me at a table in the corner farthest from the door. It was beyond the hearing of any of the customers. The sounds of portable typewriters and low-volume rock music further assured privacy. “We’ll talk awhile and then I’ll take you over to my apartment, if that’s okay,” Marti said after a quick greeting. “There are some things I want to show you—assassination kinds of things.” She looked campus-cool in a navy-blue sweatshirt with PENN in red across the chest over a white collared blouse and blue jeans. To my observant reporter eye, her brown hair seemed looser than yesterday—probably the result of a recent shower. Her sense of urgency was in full bloom. She was clearly fresh, ready, and fired up to get on with her story—but also, I figured, eager to discuss ways I might be able to help her father.
