A state of disobedience

Washington, DC

It is so very much too late for guilt, and I am not big enough for all the guilt I have. I miss old Goldsmith, mused Representative Harry Feldman. Redneck New Mexican or not. He wouldn't have rolled like I have. Maybe I wouldn't have rolled—frame job or not—if he were here to buck me up.

A great wave of self-loathing washed over the New Yorker; a wave compounded of disillusionment, disgust, and despair . . . along with a heavy admixture of serious personal guilt. I have no excuse. I should have known. Ross was right all along, right about the important things anyway.

Feldman gave out a sigh that would have been audible had there been anyone else to hear it. There was not. He had found that he preferred to be alone these days; a rarity in a career politician. It was bad enough that he had to live with his own guilt and grief. Having to hide it from others, to "put on a happy face," while he was seething inside? That would have been impossible.

How did we let it get so out of hand? Everything Willi said she wanted to do for this country was right, dammit.

Feldman turned back to his speech notes. Later today he was to put on a speech in the House condemning Texas and New Mexico in no uncertain terms. Those were his orders from the White House.

Maybe—just maybe—I would rather go to prison . . . or would . . . if I weren't a coward.

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