“But sit down first. Five minutes.”
“I can’t stay here, David.”
“Five minutes,” he said. “Please.”
My knees were shaking badly enough that I finally nodded.
He walked me to the farthest corner of the room, to a small table beside a potted fern, with his hand under my elbow the whole way.
David pulled out the chair for me.
Then he bent down until his eyes were level with mine.
They were wet.
“There’s something he needs to hear,” he said. “And I think you need to hear it too.”
“What?”
“Stay a little longer.”
He straightened up slowly, one hand on his bad knee, and he looked across the room at my husband the way I have only ever seen a man look at a thing he intends to take apart.
Then he walked away.
A few minutes later, David Whitaker tapped a microphone.
The room slowly quieted.
