“You just want to hear some thing,” she says, “that will make Christian Life look bad. You’re mad Rainey’s never home anymore when you call her.”

A child shall lead us.

“I have to confess,” I say, glancing at Sarah before I turn to my girlfriend, “I’m a little suspicious of anyone who’s made to sound quite so wonderful. He never turns out to be the superstar everybody says he is.”

Sarah’s voice takes on a high-pitched tone that signals she is mad enough to cry.

“You’re just like the media,” she says to me.

“Always criticizing, always looking for the dirt.” She pleads with Rainey, “Don’t tell him anything.”

“Sarah,” Rainey says, coming around the table to stand behind Sarah’s chair and rub her shoulders as if she were a child who needed calming down instead of a spoiled, sulky teenager, “it’s okay. Your dad knows he’s got a standing invitation to get involved with me out there any time he wants.”

Her dark eyes flashing at me, Sarah says, “The only reason you’d go is to get evidence for your case.”

I stand up, wondering what I have done to my child.

In conversations before, Sarah has accused me of using people, but she has never been so angry or so blunt.

“I don’t think,” I say, throwing my napkin on the table, “I’d make it to the inner sanctum in the three weeks left to trial.” I head for the door.

“Let’s go home if all you are going to do is jump down my throat.”

As I knew would happen, tears start down my daughter’s cheeks. I still know what buttons to push. There may come a time when “guilting” her won’t work, but practice makes perfect.

“I’m sorry, Rainey,” she says in a choked voice.

“I am, too!” I call from the door, waiting for Sarah.

Sometimes she acts about three. I’m almost as mad at Rainey as I am at Sarah. I’m willing to bet my fee in the Wallace case that Rainey has been talking to Sarah about her coming to Christian Life. I don’t mind her trying to proselytize me, but Sarah is another matter.