“I’m fine,” said Tim, who wanted to get out of the room as fast as Cohn had. In exiting, he allowed himself one glance in Potter’s direction and realized that Tommy was right: the senator appeared perfectly content, pleased with the crispness of his own performance. He wore the look of serene dignity that he could maintain for hours at a time, the same expression he’d no doubt worn when reading one of Everett Dirksen’s five unpublished novels, a task he’d undertaken, he explained to Tim, “because Senator Dirksen values my opinion.” “Come on,” called someone from the crowded elevator car that
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