 To be, he'd committed no sin at all by the standards of most politicians I had covered. He took my hand in his. I was startled by how it felt. Not cold, but cool. The basement was so warm, people were sweating and complaining they were sweating. This was a silly black tie affair. I said, hello. His sweet smile stayed frozen. He spoke very slowly and in a very soft voice. And what's your name? He asked. Exiting the room after the photo, the group of reporters, not instigated by me, I should note, made guesses about how dead he appeared to be. Percentage-wise.