The man who prepared it, formerly a research analyst at the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, now a hired whore at a local think tank, had labored around the clock for two weeks trying to get it right. To his dismay, the GT 400, it turned out, had an almost impossibly low center of gravity. He was forced to tinker with the computer models until a ninety-degree turn performed at 140 mph did, in fact, produce a mild tipover.

The best-designed European race car would be hurtling toward Mars long before that speed. As for the GT 400, it couldn’t surpass 60 mph if it had three rocket engines strapped to its ass.

Hamilton was squinting, trying to see what Earl was waving around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well, I expected you’d say that,” Earl said, rolling his eyes and glaring with contempt at this pathetic attempt to lie. “This here’s an expert report showing that the GT 400 is subject to rollover.”

Hamilton exhaled a deep breath. “I find that hard to believe.” He had no idea whether it was true or not.

“You calling me a liar, son?”

The reporters perked up and began scribbling notes-the promised entertainment had arrived.

“No, sir. It’s just I find that report-”

But Earl was already furiously waving another paper in the air. “And what about this?” he demanded, now sounding quite aggrieved. “I received this here letter from somebody in the Defense procurement office. Know why? He became incensed by what he called a big whitewash during the GT 400’s shoddy testing.” Earl was wired and on a roll; he’d managed to squeeze “incensed,” “whitewash,” and “shoddy testing” into the same sentence.

“That’s absurd.”

Another aide bent forward and handed Earl a thick stack of clippings. He grabbed them and began flinging them, one by one, on the floor in the direction of the witness table. “Know what these are?” he yelled. “Newspaper and magazine reports from the past few weeks. They detail the shoddy testing and deplorable effort by your company to hide the rollover problem.”

Hamilton’s mouth hung open. His face was red and forming the first drops of sweat; he could not stop tugging at his shirt collar. He felt as though he were suffocating. This was just so atrociously awful, so unfair. If Earl wanted to know about amortization rates or outyear repair costs, fine. But Hamilton wasn’t a vehicular engineer. Hell, aside from a few glossy photos in the company brochures, he’d never even seen a real GT 400. He tried two or three times to make that point, but Earl talked right over him as he kept flinging those damning articles in his direction like bullets.

When Earl’s hands were finally empty, he yelled, “I can’t believe you’d come in here and ask us to spend forty billion dollars on a rolling death trap.” He paused, wanting to be sure the reporters captured his pet phrase. “Forty billion. For a rolling death trap,” he repeated, again, more deliberately this time, as though the more slowly the words were pronounced, the more lethal they became.

“I’m sure we can explain those reports and that letter,” Hamilton sputtered lamely.

“Explain now. I’m listening.”

“Well… I-” This was all so humiliating; he hated Earl Belzer.

“Do you know we are at war, sir?”

“I read the papers, yes.” That glib response just popped out of his lips. He instantly regretted it.

Earl carefully removed his reading glasses and placed them on the table. “Was that crack meant to be funny?” he sneered.

“Uh, well, no,” Hamilton stammered, visibly squirming in his seat. The murderboard sessions were a limp badminton game compared to this.

“ ’Cause let me tell you something, boy. Over three thousand of our fine boys and girls have died over there. Three thousand sons and daughters slaughtered by Muslim fanatics and weirdos. Maybe that’s funny to you and your company, but not up here, Mr. Big Shot executive.”

The other thirty-four committee members were now wide awake and watching intently. Most were old pros at this game, and until this moment had reserved a fair amount of pity for poor Hamilton trapped behind that big witness table. It was all about power. Earl was both a player and the ref, free to make his own rules, free to barrage his witness with unanswerable questions, free to interrupt at will.

Hamilton never stood a chance. He was a bit player in a long, hallowed congressional prerogative to hold lopsided hearings, scold and browbeat witnesses, and never allow anyone but the members to deliver a complete or coherent thought. It was ridiculously unfair, of course. Still, Hamilton was expected to adhere to the proper decorum-behave like a slaughtered lamb, lie down, and be gracefully butchered.

A row of deepening scowls were now glaring down at the witnesses. Rollins and Baggio began quietly inching their chairs away from Hamilton, avoiding the line of fire, trying to dodge a stray bullet from Earl, who looked like he wanted to pull out a gun and blast away.

Hamilton wanted to get up and bolt, but his feet felt like concrete. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled as contritely as he could the moment Earl seemed to be finished.

The aides hunched in the seats behind Earl launched into giggles as they fingered the large stacks of papers positioned on their laps. Hamilton couldn’t take his eyes off them-what would they hand Earl next? What other loathsome crime was this awful man going to accuse him of? What fresh claim was going to appear, without warning, out of thin air?

He needn’t have worried. Earl was out of ammunition-the remaining papers were a harmless collection of office memos and take-out menus carelessly added to the mix-but his aides had been ordered to appear ready to drown the witnesses in damning reports.

Earl fixed him with another nasty frown, then said, “I won’t waste any more time reviewing the vast hoard of material I’ve received”-he waved a dismissive hand through the air as though his aides had three trucks full of reports and terrible claims and dreadful assertions that, out of generosity, Earl would not rub in his face-“and I don’t know whether all these reports and complaints and technical analyses are true or not. I’m no expert in such things. But my daddy always used to say, where there’s smoke, there’s somethin’ burnin’.”

Hamilton knew he had to do something. He took a deep swallow and said, “I’m sure we can satisfy your curiosity on these rumors.” He paused and tried to look hopeful. “Now, uh, now that we know your specific concerns, I feel sure that-”

“Are you proposin’ another hearing?”

“Yes,” Hamilton said, exuding relief at the thought of someone else taking this awful beating. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

Earl stared at him in disbelief. “Do I work for you, Mr. Hamilton?”

“Uh… no.”

“That’s right, Mr. Big Shot. You might find this hard to believe, but this committee stays fairly busy with the people’s business.”

“I didn’t mean to imply-”

“Excuse me, sir,” Earl bellowed with a ferocious finger pointed at Hamilton’s face. “This is my committee. I set the rules. You speak only after you are asked a question. Do you understand that?”

Hamilton could barely produce a limp nod. If he had a gun he’d shoot Earl; he’d shoot himself, too.

“So, since we have all these reports and vile accusations of vehicle deficiencies”-Earl paused to steal a glance at his notes to be sure he got the words just right-“and since I’m sure you gentlemen from General Techtonics want the very safest equipment for our soldiers in battle, I’m gonna do you a big favor. I propose to this committee that we give you six more months to extensively test your vehicle.”

Hamilton was rubbing his temples. His bosses were going to kill him. A six-month delay would be financially devastating. More tests could cost billions. “Am I allowed to register a protest?”

“You certainly may. We live in a democracy.”