One letter, though, hit the hardest. It was written by the person in the room who I knew the least. My lawyer, whom I’d barely ever met face to face, spoke with quiet honesty. “Tom,” he said, “I don’t know you very well, but you seem like a nice guy. All I want to tell you is that this is the seventeenth intervention I’ve been to in my career. Eleven of them are now dead. Don’t be the twelfth.”
