Andrade’s face fills the screen, suddenly, and he immediately begins to remonstrate with Lomax, his arms windmilling. He brings a fist down on his New York desk. “Frank, you’re on mute, I think,” says Martin Lomax. “You need to click on the little microphone. The green button.” Frank Andrade leans into his screen, mouth open and eyes scanning for the button. He presses it. “Can you hear me?” “That’s perfect, Frank,” says Martin Lomax. “What were you saying? When you were banging your fist on the desk?” “Ah, nothing,” says Frank. It always disappoints Martin Lomax that Frank doesn’t have a
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