Finally, unexpectedly, Dray offered to see me. I drove through Dedham again, past the rain-wet courthouse with its glistening columns, down the empty High Street and across the empty square, and then through the mean industrial section of East Dedham, following the loops of the Neponset River to Hyde Park. It was a strange feeling to be on that journey, as if I might at last be heading toward the center of the maze. _Katzmann & Dray_—there was the name on the downstairs directory of the modernized office building on River Street. Upstairs it was not quite so modern. I followed the dark, creaking corridor until I faced the name painted on an open door, then walked into a narrow brown room with nothing in it but a table, a lamp, and a gilt-framed photograph of Katzmann. I recognized him at once from the afternoon at Dedham: the square domineering head with the close-cropped hair. Dray came suddenly out of a back room, a short, pudgy man in his sixties, with thin mouse-gray hair and blue eyes. “Just go in there,” he said pointing to another room, “and I’ll be right with you.” On the oak door were the faded letters F. G. KATZMANN, Room 12. Stepping inside, I found myself alone. An oak desk faced me. On its plate-glass top I noticed the issue of _American Heritage_ containing my Sacco-Vanzetti article with the Ben Shahn illustrations—to my embarrassment, for my description of Katzmann in it was not flattering. Dray strode in briskly, sat down at the desk, and stared at me several seconds before speaking. “I could have seen you at any time within the last two months,” he said finally, “but I couldn’t make up my mind whether to or not. This is what decided me.” He tapped the magazine. “You write here that though you thought they were innocent, just by reading the evidence alone you’d have found them guilty. When I read that I decided you at least were honest. But for that I’d not have seen you. “You know that Fred, as long as he lived, refused to discuss this case publicly with anyone. Of course he mentioned it to me. I don’t suppose a day went by that he didn’t think of it in one way or another. I saw him come in sometimes with tears in his eyes and say, Why do they say these things about me? Why do they keep on attacking me?’ Don’t think he wasn’t hurt. “Now he’s gone, thinking it over, I’m willing to tell you a few things I know to set the record straight, because so much has been said against him. Fred was almost like a father to me. I was twenty-four when I came here just after the trial, and I studied what law I know right here in this office. Fred never had a son of his own, just his two daughters, and I think he came to look on me sort of as a son. All I know is this: My son’s at law school now, and if I can teach him as much decency and as much law as Fred Katzmann did me, I’ll think I’m a lucky man. You think I admire Fred. I do.”