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liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims’ pride, From every mountainside, Let freedom ring.”
    If only that were still true. He somehow doubted the Founding Fathers would recognize the state of the republic they had left behind for the American people. Donald pushed his way through the impeccably polished, brass revolving door, pausing to wonder what would happen if he did a 360 and drove home. Nothing good.
    Entering the lobby, Donald was struck by the magnificence of la grande entrée of 73 Tremont. After a major renovation in 1988 added several stories to the existing neoclassical granite structure, the building took on a character of its own. From the Carrara marble inlay floors to the forty-foot-tall vaulted ceilings, the lobby was gracefully appointed with polished brass, mahogany wood and elegant soft lighting. Despite a level of grace and style that would rival the finest five-star hotel, the lobby was sparsely decorated to minimize the chance of an impromptu street gathering. Everything in 73 Tremont had been designed with a purpose.
    Replacing the historical bellhops of the former Tremont House were subtle reminders of the buildings twenty-four-hour armed security team. A careful look revealed numerous security cameras shrewdly incorporated into the architectural finishes—an odd feature for a building owned by a trust set up to benefit Suffolk University. Of course, Donald knew all too well that the building had little to do with the university.
    “Good morning, sir, how may we help you?” asked a well-dressed concierge behind the reception desk.
    Donald could feel the eyes studying him from above. I am not paranoid, just aware.
    “Yes, I have an appointment on the thirteenth floor,” said Donald.
    Two members of the building’s security team emerged from a shallow alcove to Donald’s right. Men in Black types. Definitely not your typical campus security arrangement.
    “Your name, please?” asked the concierge, picking up a phone receiver.
    Donald provided his name and waited several seconds. He wasn’t sure why they put him through this drill. They’d probably identified him a block away. The concierge listened to the phone and nodded, replacing the receiver. Two more men emerged from the alcove, bringing the total to five.
    “Before these gentlemen escort you upstairs, sir, we must ask if you are carrying any weapons—including sharp objects. If you have any weapons, please allow us to check them for you,” said the concierge.
    Donald had received his concealed-carry weapons permit shortly after his release from prison. He had never owned a gun prior to “going away,” but it soon became clear his new job duties would require personal protection. Within weeks of returning, he received correspondence from the Office of the Pardon Attorney in Washington, D.C., granting him a full Article II pardon and restoration of his civil rights, permitting gun ownership. An application to the Massachusetts Parole Board, marked APPROVED, arrived a few weeks later, completing the process. Everything had been prearranged on his behalf. He’d never seen the applications.
    “Yes, I do have a weapon to check, ” said Donald.
    The concierge motioned for him to follow the men through a door, where he voluntarily surrendered his Springfield XD-S 9mm to the solemn gentlemen who hadn’t smiled—much less spoken. One of the security team members released the magazine and cleared the chamber before locking it away in a wall safe. After a brief search of his Hartmann signature tweed briefcase, they motioned for him to follow. Although Donald had been through this procedure a few times before, it never failed to reinforce the importance of the man he had come to see.
    Three members of the security crew entered the elevator; one of them inserting a key into an unnumbered slot on the brass elevator keypad. They rode to the thirteenth floor in awkward silence. When the elevator opened,