For a few weeks after his arrest, reporters, photographers, and gossips loitered outside the brownstone, wanting a glimpse or a picture of my father, but he walked past with his head high. My father believed the worst of it was behind him, and he could go back to making America the place it should have been but never was. I wasn’t so sure, and I was haunted by visions of bar-covered prisons. My father had lived my worst nightmare, confined in a jail, and with a fortune-teller’s instinct I felt I would be there too. I wanted to ask him what it was like, being in custody, without choice, at the mercy of others, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I put the recurring visions of dark, fright-filled dungeons from my mind as swiftly as I could with household tasks, gardening, and brief flashes o
