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Cagey. And ruthless.”
    Eric nodded, keeping his gaze on Lorenzo, concentrating with every cell. I could definitely see why his patients found his empathy compelling enough that they were willing to spill their toxic secrets to a complete stranger.
    “I’m not on the board or anything, but I try to stay involved, push for changes if they’re needed. My hope is that we keep everything transparent. Just like our government.” He grimaced. “Not that that’s beenworking out so well in Washington. Or even Tallahassee. But people don’t like that—me saying we have to establish meaningful rules and follow them, quit relying on backroom politics. Some of our performers who have been around the longest are starting to feel entitled, and that grates on the newer people. We all pay the same fees—well.” He stopped and frowned. “Some of us don’t pay at all.”
    “What do you mean, some don’t pay?”
    “Right now, you only pay if you’re selling something—a physical object like food or T-shirts or souvenirs. But that’s got to change. It’s all got to change. But if people are going to die over it . . .”
    “So you think Frontgate’s murder was related to what’s going on with this organization?” Eric asked.
    Lorenzo’s lower lip quivered—he looked exhausted and hopeless.
    I reached across the table to take his hand, which was moist and hot. And I suddenly felt like I was intruding on his privacy. I let go and tried to smile. “I wanted you to meet Eric because he was also wrongly accused of a murder. Of course he was innocent. But he learned some important lessons about the process.” I turned to Eric. “Could you give him some suggestions?”
    “Definitely,” said Eric, “if he’s interested.”
    I cut the fried green tomatoes into pie-shaped slices and slid a few bites onto each of our plates. Nobody but me was eating much—Lorenzo was too upset. And Eric was completely focusing on the other man.
    Lorenzo finally shrugged. “Advice is welcome. How could it make things worse?”
    Eric said, “When I first fell under suspicion, I didn’t tell the police everything I knew about the crimebecause I was trying to protect someone. It had to do with my obligation as a psychologist. The obligation that I felt to keep the secrets of a patient private. But I also thought I was protecting myself. I believed that keeping that secret would keep me out of trouble. Wrong. My judgment, I’m sorry to say, was not that great. In fact, it stunk.” He wrinkled his brow. “Maybe you have some of the same feelings about your clients.”
    “Of course I do,” said Lorenzo. “I’m helping people with heavy burdens. They’ve carried them around for years, some of them. And they’ve told no one until they come to my table. They are so desperate to unload the weight. To get some guidance. You may laugh, because I sit at a booth on the pier with crowds of tourists and crazy circus performers all around, while you sit in a fancy office with a waiting room full of expensive magazines and classical music. But my work is a big responsibility.” He clasped his hands over his heart. “I feel it here every day.”
    I was afraid to look at Eric, thinking that he might find Lorenzo’s parallel between tarot cards and psychotherapy ludicrous. But when I snuck a glance, his face was utterly serious. “Listen,” Eric said, “you have to tell the police whatever you know. This business of the artist performance committee or whatever—it sounds very complicated. And there are obviously sides being taken and I’m guessing maybe your side is not popular? And the fellow who attacked you last night—you should tell them your theories about that. Why has he singled you out? These are fringe people with histories of drugs and violence—some of them, anyway. They’re not your usual upstanding citizens. You have to be careful.”
    Lorenzo nodded.
    “Why are the cops coming after you?” Eric asked. “What exactly was