As if he hadn’t heard me and with a voice as icy cold as his glare, in a monotone through clenched teeth he embarked on a monologue clearly written for him by a jailhouse lawyer. Every sentence began with: “I want you to sue…” Like a cop who gets a broadcast of two men fighting on a corner and takes his time getting there so the men can wear themselves out, I let him drone on about all those he wanted us to sue. When he seemed done, I said: “Frank, are you finished?” “Yeah,” he grunted. “I’m finished.” “I wish you could hear yourself talk. Then you’d know you weren’t making any sense at all.”
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