“Mr. O’Connor, how does it feel to be charged with murder?”  “Why did you do it?”  “Did you do it?”  “Are you going to take the stand in your defense?”  “Are you confident that you have good lawyers?  Didn’t one of them get raped yesterday?”  I stopped dead in my tracks to find out which reporter had the nerve to utter such a question.  I could feel Harry nudging me forward, saying over and over, “No comment . . .  no comment . . . no comment.”   I dug my heels into the carpeted steps and grabbed the railing tightly.  I heard the rude reporter’s voice ask another ridiculous question.  I honed in on him, letting him know in my silent way that he should take heed.  Instead, he shoved a microphone into my face and asked, “Do you think there’s a connection between your assault and the O’Connor case?”  Harry unwrapped my knuckles from the railing and escorted me out.

When we reached the door to the outside world, the cool, brisk air shocked my lungs. Low clouds blocked the sun,  reminding me of a solar eclipse I’d seen long ago.  As we crowded into Harry’s black Yukon, a cameraman ran up to me.  Before I could tell him to leave us alone, he said, “Hey, I’m sorry about what just happened.  That reporter should be canned.  He’s a jerk.”

I wanted to thank the cameraman, but Harry forced me in the car and closed the door.  I watched him as we sped away to the safety of our now police-guarded office.   My heart fluttered.  The sincerity in the cameraman’s eyes stole my breath.

* * *

“Let’s get cracking,” Harry shouted, the minute we reached the War Room.  “We’ve got a ton of work to do to get ready for trial.”

We normally handle local cases, meaning that the witnesses live nearby.  This case was different.  The alleged crime happened here, but the other possible suspects and witnesses live in different towns, states and even countries.  “You’ll finally have a chance to see some of the world, Mac.”   Harry’s a world traveler.  He’s been on me for years to take a trip overseas to learn about other cultures.  I’ve been more concerned with paying down my college loans.  Ironically, I finally have an excuse to get on an airplane and see something besides wide-open spaces, but since Yesterday’s attack, I’m afraid to go.

I grew up in Boulder, Colorado.  Nestled against the face of the Rocky Mountains, Boulder is framed by three gigantic rock faces shaped like the hot side of an iron; hence the name, the “flatirons.”  It was originally home to the Arapaho and Southern Ute Indian tribes.  I attended I University of Colorado at Boulder, which is the central nervous system of the city. I found Harry through the career placement office on campus.  He wanted someone fresh out of law school so that he could pay the poor soul next to nothing to learn how to be a “real lawyer.”  He has been faithful to both promises:  I still haven’t managed to make more than my minimum payment on any school loan, but today I feel like a real lawyer.

Our office is located on the upper floor of the Bank of Jackson Hole.  The Bank has a façade that makes it look like a cabin built with knotty pine and river rock.  The roof is cantilevered in the front in two tiers – the second tier housing a clock tower lookout, yet the roof over our part of the building has a flat line that gives the office a low industrial ceiling. 

Harry’s office is decorated in Stanford red and white and has a beautiful cherry-stained U-shaped desk, which is kept clear of paperwork.  He only allows active files and pleadings on his desk, meaning paperwork from cases that he’s currently working on.  If he’s not working on the case, the files go in a labeled box.  Papers and books get stacked on top of these boxes.  It gets out of control at times and that’s when he calls Lela in over a weekend to do a clean up. 

Other than these stacks of boxes on the floor, Harry is a very neat and tidy man.  Everything has a place in his world, even in his garage.  The garage is lined with white shelving on the upper half of the walls.  The bottom half of the wall has corkboard with all of his tools and yard equipment outlined by shape and hung in order of size.   Jane tells me that he organizes his closet by color.   I’m sure that his Louis Vuitton cap-toed black shoes are not next to his John Lobb brown shoes.  Harry would keel over if he looked in my closet.  I’m lucky if I’m not wearing one black shoe and one navy shoe (they look the same in the early morning hours).

Harry is an outdoorsman in every way, evidenced by the prints that line the walls in his office.  He has beautiful shots of the Tetons, and of wildlife photographed by local artists.  The one thing missing from his office is a computer, as it would simply collect dust.  He does all of his research the old fashioned way – via books or via his associate.  He keeps telling me that “one of these days” he’s going to take a computer class.  He often stands behind me in awe as I access the Internet and get information with the touch of a few keystrokes.  I do most of my research on CD-ROMs, websites and legal search vehicles.  I love the fact that I can learn anything about anyone with the touch of a few buttons. 

            “Let’s go over the facts of the case,” Harry grumbles, as he slams the thick file on the wooden conference table.  “Michael and Preston are Harvard roommates who started Geyser, Inc. together in Boston,” Harry says.  “They’re here in Jackson, Michael’s hometown, for a convention and take a day off to enjoy some skiing.  Michael’s an expert skier and he takes Preston on an expert’s run.  Somehow, Preston winds up unconscious in the trees.  Preston is taken by the ski patrol to the emergency room.  Despite everything that is done to save him in the hospital, he dies the next day.” 

“Here’s an odd thing.  From the minute Preston was transferred to the hospitIthe police were there to question Michael,” I added.  “Why would the police have been called?  I doubt they run to the emergency room every time someone gets hurt on the slopes.”

I watched as Harry digested the facts of this case.  He contorted his forehead in thought, causing me to focus on the broken capillaries around his nose, which stood out like tree roots in the dead of winter.  “We need to interview the ski patrol, the treating doctor, the pathologist, Deputy Tim Marshall, Kelly, Michael, Michael’s mom, Michael’s research assistant, Preston’s secretary, and members of the Geyser board of directors, for starters,” Harry said.  He was on a roll.  I wrote all of these names down on the easel, as fast as I could.  “We need corporate records like profit and loss statements, and the relevant financial filings for a public company like Geyser.  I will need all hospital records subpoenaed and a copy of any police interrogations and statements given by witnesses to the police.  Find out what Bain’s strategy is for this case.  Scratch that.  I will call Bain myself.  He already saw you in court today.  That might be as much as he can take of you for one day.”  Harry gave me one of his wry smiles, a half-smirk flanked by dimples.  He teased me at every turn about Bain. 

Bain’s a ladies’ man, for sure, but Harry is convinced that he is in love with me.  For the record, Bain is not in love with me.  I think he flirts with me because I’m a challenge to him.  According to my last boyfriend, I’m fiercely independent, not given to commitment, extremely private, and economically challenged.  I guess I agree with his psychological evaluation for the most part, except for the commitment thing.  I could commit.  Just not to Bain, or to my ex-boyfriend.  Bain needs something new to stoke his fire constantly, anyway.  He wouldn’t want to commit.  He just likes to flirt with me, and everyone else in a skirt.  I think he enjoys me because I’m nearly as tall as he is and he loves my long red hair.  He calls my hair a wildfire in a season of drought. 

“I’ll get the subpoenas going right away, but how do you want to divide the task of interviewing all of these people?”  Harry hates to travel on business any more.  He did so much of it in his early years of practice that he got burned out on airports and hotels.  He likes to be either at the office, home, or outdoors surrounded by nature and his sporting equipment.  Accordingly, he assigned me all the witnesses in Boston.

I had Lela make the travel arrangements.  Harry had hired Lela straight out of high school.  Actually, she’d dropped out of high school at age sixteen, and marched into his office one day, begging for a job.  He liked her spirit and her short skirts.  Lela is a Shoshone Indian and the daughter of a Shoshone Chief.  She wasn’t the type who valued a formal education, but she had street smarts and ambition.  Harry prefers common sense to raw intelligence.  He says that it’s worth more.  Harry trained her and promoted her up through the ranks.  Now thirty-four, after eighteen years at Harry’s side, Lela is a part of Harry.  I like the fact that Lela is a year older than me.  I often tease her about it. 

Lela arranged for me to fly to Boston with Michael on his early morning flight back to his now home base, where his pharmaceutical company had its headquarters.  That meant that I had only a few hours to prepare dozens of subpoenas and pack my bags.  Darkness surrounded the office long before I left.   I wasn’t really anxious to go home.

I met Michael at the airport the following morning.  After checking in and going through the security checkpoint, I sat in the waiting area and enjoyed black coffee and a freshly baked bagel.  I will never lose respect for the everyday pleasures of life.   From what I’d witnessed, Michael didn’t appreciate ordinary pleasures – his pleasures were achieved through experimentation.  For instance, he bought two coffees – one black and the other with cream and sugar.  He was drinking the one with cream and sugar leaving the black one idle, like an abandoned car.  I wondered whether he thought I would drink one of them, or if he liked his first cup souped-up in preparation for the full dose of caffeine on his second.  I got my answer within the hour.  The second cup of black coffee was used to keep his souped up version hot over the long haul.  He would drink a gulp of his creamed-up coffee and then add just a little of the black reserve.  He repeated this routine for nearly a half hour during our conversation.  Finally, tIhe loudspeaker announced our flight. 

“I hate commercial travel,” Michael said.  “How long can the police impound the corporate jet?”

“As long as they want . . . at least through the trial.  We’ll file a motion to have it released from custody after we get word that they’ve finished with forensics,” I said.

“How long does forensics take?”

“It depends.  It can take days, weeks, months.”

“What are they looking for in the jet?  I didn’t even fly in the jet here.  Preston did,” Michael said.  “He always had the jet.”

“They’re looking for any evidence that can be connected to his death, like threatening letters.  They’ll do fingerprint, hair and fiber analysis to see who else has been in the jet.  Who knows what they’re looking for?”

“They can do that sort of a fishing expedition?  They don’t have to say what they’re looking for?”

“It depends on what the search warrant says.  In this instance, the police got a broad warrant, so they can look for anything that could be connected to the alleged crime, unless we file a motion for a protective order.  Is there a reason we should file for a protective order?” I asked.  Michael’s eyes darted quickly back to the newspaper.

“No.  Of course not.  I was just wondering.”

“Harry tried to narrow the scope of the warrant, but the magistrate didn’t grant his motion.  Around here, the police seem to have a pretty long rope when it comes to investigating a crime.”  Michael nodded, then looked away.

For my traveling comfort, I wore my standard black wool slacks and a taupe turtleneck, boots with heels, a black leather coat and a black silk scarf.   After the jet discussion, we sat in an uncomfortable silence as we drank our coffee.   I would have loved to break the ice, but I wasn’t quite sure where to begin.  I knew that Michael and Kelly were childhood friends who had gone to Harvard University together.  I also knew that they somehow met Preston Parker at Harvard and that eventually, Michael and Preston became business partners.  I knew that Kelly and Preston married sometime after that.  I knew that Michael, Preston and Kelly were in Jackson together for a company conference and that Preston was gravely injured on the ski slopes and died shortly thereafter.   I needed to know more.

 As we prepared to board the small commuter plane, the airline ground crew summoned stand-by passenger Miller to the podium.  A man approached the podium, picked up a boarding pass and cut ahead of us in line to board the plane.  Something about him looked hauntingly familiar.  As I found my seat on the plane, I noticed the man staring at me.  A chill shot up my spine. 

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

“Oh, it’s probably nothing.  That man in the back of the plane is staring at me.”

“He’s probably just admiring your beauty.”

“Right,” I said, half-embarrassed.  I wasn’t trying to call attention to myself.  Something about that man’s eyes gave me the creeps.   I shook it off and cinched the seatbelt.  I could feel the man’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.  I loosened my seatbelt and popped my head over the headrest.  He was still glaring at me.  I narrowed my eyes on him in a stare down, which was interrupted by the airline attendant announcing preparations for take-off.

We alighted with a bumpy start.  The views of the Tetons were spectacular on this clear, brisk morning.  I could see mountain ranges for miles and miles.  The plane’s engine, sounding like a revved-up electric mixer, blared in my ear, detracting a bit from the natural beauty beneath me, but nothing could spoil my appreciation for the wonders of mountains.  I thought about Lewis and Clark and how they must have been in awe of the West:  the rugged peaks, the floral valleys, the wide-mouthed rivers and the statuesque trees.  Even from this altitude, the snow glistened on the crest like diamonds embedded in a mine. 

Michael read the local coverage of his arraignment hearing.  He must have sensed my gaze because at that same moment, he briefly raised his head from the newspaper and glanced my way.   The front page had a picture of him leaving the courthouse yesterday with Harry at his side.  The caption read:  “Local Man Arraigned on Murder Charges.”  The story told about how Michael was born and raised in Jackson.  Now at age thirty-eight, he’s a research doctor for one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in America, and one of its founders.   The article suggested that Michael and Preston had had an argument on the ski slope and stated that Preston wound up dead a short time later. 

Michael thumbed through the paper to continue reading the article.  He looked at the buried headline:  “O’Connor’s Lawyer Sexually Assaulted.”  Michael read on fervently.  A few minutes later, he lowered the paper.  “This happened to you two days ago?”

I rolled my eyes.  “Yes.  I’m not sure what’s more horrific – the act itself or having it smeared all over the papers.”

“I’m really sorry.  I hope you’re doing all right.  Have they found the guy yet?”

“No.  As far as I can tell, they have no leads.  He didn’t leave much evidence behind.  He didn’t . . . hurt me.”

“How can you be back at work so quickly?  Most people would be curled up in their beds being taken care of by their mother.”

“I haven’t told my mom about it.”  As the words escaped my lips, I realized how remote they sounded.  I hadn’t realized how much I’d isolated myself from my family, even my own mother.  I hung onto Michael’s words for a moment.  If I had confided in her about the assault, or any other problem in my life, she would have started her monologue with a scolding of how I should not have been in the office alone.  Nor should I live alone.  Nor should I be alone.  Somehow, my being single in my mid-thirties threatened her.  It was as if she’d failed me.  Over the past few years, every time I call home, the first five minutes of our conversation is filled with updates about my high school and college classmates who’ve recently married.  Michael must have sensed my guilt.

“Sometimes we need to think things over before confronting someone that we love,” Michael said.

I was about to respond but the plane dropped a few hundred feet without warning.  The pilot came on the loud speaker to let us know that we’d encountered some turbulent air and to make sure that our seatbelts were fastened tightly.

* * *

When we changed planes in Salt Lake City, the man in the back of the plane followed us to our next gate.  While Michael stopped at the newsstand to look at every major headline, I pretended to read the back jacket of a best-selling paperback.  The man passed closely behind me, wafting his cigarette-laden breath as he passed.  The smell was distinct.  I panicked. 

I stashed the book back on the shelf and dashed to Michael’s side.  He looked over at me with a half-glance, as if I’d invaded his personal space.

“Are they calling our flight?” he asked.

“Uh, yes . . . I think so.”  I tagged beside him, looking nervously around until we were settled on the next flight.   I decided it was time to ask Michael a few questions, and it would help the time pass.  Maybe I’d learn something, and I didn’t have to be too obvious about it.  First, I asked Michael about Kelly’s job. 

“She’s an associate lawyer with Jenkins & Brode.  She clerked for them while in law school and they hired her after she passed the bar.  As far as I know, she mostly does medical malpractice defense work.  She also sits on the board of directors of Geyser.  She’s the corporate secretary.  That’s why I had her take care of the bail arrangements.  Her firm handles some of our corporate work.”

“Must be a big firm.”

“It is.  And you?”  I told him about how I wound up working for Harry.  He seemed genuinely interested and asked a lot of questions about criminal defense law.  My turn.

“How did you and Kelly meet?”  

“Our fathers met at Harvard Medical School.  After finishing medical school, Kelly’s dad set up his medical practice in Buffalo, Wyoming and my dad established his in Jackson Hole.  We got together for holidays and learned to ski together and that sort of thing.”

“Are you a good skier?”

“I was on the high school ski team and I was on ski patrol, so I guess you could say that I’m a decent skier,” he said.

“What about Kelly?  Is she a good skier too?”

“She’s all right.  She’s been skiing since she was a kid and she used to be pretty good, but she was too busy being cheerleader and homecoming queen to be serious on the slopes.” 

“What about Preston?  Was he a good skier?”

“Not really.  He thought he was better than he was.  He learned to ski on the East Coast, at places like Sugarloaf.   I skied with Preston a few times.  He usually skied beyond his limits.”  

I could sense Michael’s competitiveness, and gave this a bit of thought.  Preston was injured while skiing with Michael on some pretty advanced terrain.  If Michael didn’t think that Preston was a decent skier, why would he have allowed Preston to ski with him in expert territory?  I really wasn’t intending to interrogate, at this point – I was simply trying to make conversation.   Apparently, my moment of silence plagued Michael, because he shifted in his seat and turned in my direction.

 “Anyway, Kelly and I both got accepted to Harvard and our dads made us go.”

“How did you meet Preston?”

“Preston was my dorm mate our first year at Harvard.”

“You two must have hit it off for you to have gone into business together.  I couldn’t stand my dorm mate my first year of college.”

Michael looked at me intensely.  He furrowed his brow slightly and focused on me.  “Preston was the best thing that ever happened to me up to that point in my life.  I was awkward in high school – too skinny to play rough and tumble sports like football and too shy to join any social-type clubs.  Preston took me under his wing right away and made me part of his group of friends.  He called us the ‘Parker Posse.’  His friends were my friends.  He invited me to share holidays with his family.  He made sure that I was never the fifth wheel.  He changed my life.”  Michael’s eyes welled with tears.  He obviously cared about Preston.  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  Luckily, the steward was serving lunch and interrupted the uncomfortable silence with rubbery chicken, a scant salad, a dry roll and a brownie with nuts.  I passed on the in-flight meal service.  I did join Michael in his request for red wine – sangre de toro, as my college roommate used to say.  Blood of the bull.

After Michael gulped down his glass of red, he opened a mysterious looking medicine container and popped two little white round pills.  I tried to read the label, to no avail.  Within a few minutes, he was fast asleep, slumped over in my direction.  I reached over and slipped the paper out of his hands and started reading the coverage on the trial.  Ten minutes into page three, he started talking in his sleep.  I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it was something like, “Either you’re in or you’re out.”   He suddenly jerked awake and shook his head, then slumped in the opposite direction, passing out against the window of the plane.  He slept the remainder of the flight.

We landed smoothly at Logan International Airport in Boston, although I was sure we were landing in the Atlantic Ocean until the plane made a sharp turn back toward land at the last minute.   Michael escorted me into a taxi and checked me into the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Boston.  If one wants elegance and luxury, this was certainly the place to go.  My mom had taken me to New York when I was in college.  She’s an interior designer and she goes there every year for a convention.  She introduced me to fabrics and furniture through her designer eyes.  While Michael spoke to the lady at the reservations desk, I wandered around the lobby.

The marble floor in the foyer was polished to a luster equal to the crystal chandeliers dangling overhead, reflecting a prism of light with every move I made.  The mahogany banister up the circular staircase looked like it belonged in a palace.  The lounge chairs were covered in gold chenille, all coordinated by the concentric circles of marble in the core of the room.  The grand piano was mahogany.  The firelight from the open hearth flickered. 

“Geyser holds most of its conferences here.  The majority of our key vendors and customers stay here when they’re in town,” Michael said, catching up with me.  Lucky customers.   Michael had requested a suite for my stay in Boston.   The bellman opened the door “Madam, the television is in the armoire, along with your minibar.  The room key will open the minibar and automatically charge anything you select from it to the room.  Over here, we have modem and fax capabilities.  The luxury spa tub is here, and this switch will automatically lower your bathroom blinds for privacy.  The dual-head shower has a massage unit and the bidet is adjacent to the toilet.  Shall I arrange for a turndown service for you this evening?” the bellman asked. 

“Uh, sure,” I said.  I didn’t know what would be included in a turndown service, but I hoped that it was better than it sounded.  Michael handed the bellman a bill and then looked back my way.

“I figured that you may be here a week or so, and that you will need a place to work.  No offense, but I would feel uncomfortable having you set up shop at Geyser’s headquarters. I hoped that you could work here and have any of my employees you need to talk to meet you here or in the lounge.  Just charge what you want to the room and I’ll take care of it,” Michael said.  “Now, I’ll let you get settled.  I need to get home and take care of a few things.  If you need anything, please call me.”  He walked over to the desk, wrote his home and cell number on the back of his business card and handed it to me.  “Thanks for your help, Mac.   I appreciate everything that you and Harry are doing.”   I gave him a light embrace and a strong pat on the back. 

“We’ll do everything we can for you.  We’ll need your help, though.  Take a day or two to think of everything leading up to the ski accident.  No detail is too small, at this point.  You can make a list if you need to.  Write down every person that you can think of who could possibly help your case.  Make a second list of anyone or anything that might hurt your case.   Then we’ll meet to discuss it.   In the meantime, I will need to meet with Preston’s secretary,” I said.  I watched as he pulled a three by five note card out of his shirt pocket and made notes on it.  He scribbled out a few items, scratched his head, and added a few more.  He put his note card and pen back in his shirt pocket.

“Why do you want to meet with Carol?” Michael asked suspiciously.

“If Carol is anything like Lela, Harry’s secretary, she knows more about Preston than anyone.  That’s why I would like to meet with her.”

“I doubt she’ll be of much help.  She’s more of a busybody than a secretary.  I’d rather that you left her out of this.”

“Sorry, Michael.  It’s important for me to meet her.  The prosecution might notice her deposition.  I want to get her story up front.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I would like to see Preston’s office tomorrow, too.”

“I don’t see why you need to see his office.”

“Because the prosecution will want to see it.  I’m sure that they’re already getting a search warrant for it.”

“Can they do that?” Michael asked, running his right hand thought his wavy blond hair.

“Yes.”

“Can we block it?”

“The warrant?  We can file a motion opposing the issuance of a warrant, but it’s up to the judge or magistrate to make the call.”

“I want you to oppose any warrant to search Geyser headquarters.  I don’t want anyone nosing around,” he said on his way out the door.  “We have huge issues with trade secrets.  All pharmaceutical companies do.  No one gets into Geyser headquarters unless I say they do.  I don’t trust anyone, especially nosy cops.  Do I make myself clear?”   

I nodded as I watched the door close behind him.  I stood there a minute or two.  I walked over to the window and looked out onto the Public Garden.  Michael had told me about it during the taxi ride.  The Public Garden is one of the oldest botanical gardens in America and the pond in the middle is famous for its foot-pedal swan boats.  I changed into my jogging suit and took a jog through the garden before darkness set in.  When I was a little kid, my mom read me the book, Make Way for Ducklings, the one about Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack and Quack – ducklings who took up residence in this very pond, following the swan boats around collecting peanuts from the tourists who rode on them. 

I visited the statues of the ducks and watched as families rode on the swan boats, feeding the ducks along the way.  At least that many ducklings paddled near the pond’s edge, so I bought some peanuts and took pleasure in feeding them.  I saw a young couple picnicking on the grass, sharing in the ambiance of their love.  I felt a pang of homesickness, and, yes, loneliness too.

It was getting dark and my mind started to plague me with thoughts of my attacker, so I hurried back to my suite.  On the way, I noticed a bulky man following not too far behind me.  I took a side path, and he followed.  I picked up my pace to a half-jog, half-walk, as did he.  My heart started palpitating and a wave of anxiety overwhelmed me.  A very busy street separated me from the hotel.  I held up one hand and dashed into the street.  A taxi nearly hit me.  It screeched on its brakes, missing my legs by only a few inches.  I kept running, darting behind a van and around a limo.  The man darted across the street right behind me.  I ran into the hotel lobby, hysterical.   

I was afraid to get on an elevator, in fear that he would get on too and we would be alone together, trapped.  I looked desperately for the staircase.  I saw the exit sign indicating stairs, but realized that I needed to use my electronic room key to access the stairs.  My hands trembled as I tried to line the card into the slot.  The red light turned green and the door clicked open.   I thought for a half-second about being trapped in a vacant stairwell with this hulk of a man.  No one would be able to hear me scream.  I let go of the stairwell door and ran back to the elevator. 

I reached around a group of people waiting for the next elevator to appear.  I pushed the “up” button and then took a fleeting look at the others in the lobby.  I couldn’t see the man.  The elevator door opened and I got in.  Several other people stepped inside.  The door was just about to close when a hand jabbed through the crack, springing the door back open.  The man got in and looked around.  Panic filled my veins as I tried to hide behind the gentleman standing in front of me, who was obviously annoyed with the proximity in which I was standing.  He inched forward, separating us, allowing a gap of space for my enemy to glare at me.  When we got to my floor, I zipped out as quickly as I could and then sprinted to my room.   I was gasping for air.

I entered my room and double bolted the door behind me, collapsing on the bed.  I didn’t know whether my imagination had got the best of me or whether the man had been after me.   He looked familiar, something in the eyes.

After I calmed down, I unpacked my laptop from its black carrying case.  I plugged it into the telephone jack and e-mailed Lela to let her know that I had arrived safely, but mentioned the incident with the guy in the park.  I wanted someone to know, in case something terrible happened to me.