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Chapter 1

“Kate Gamble!” the silver-haired director shouted from his seat in the fifth row of the auditorium.

It startled Kate to hear her name called, even if she had been waiting nearly an hour for her brief moment onstage. She was an aspiring playwright, emphasis on “aspiring.” More than four hundred contestants nationwide had submitted spec scripts to win the honor of a live critique from Tony Award–winning Broadway director Irving Bass. The “Bass Workshop,” as it was immodestly billed, included public readings, though it mostly drew friends and family of the winning contestants. Kate’s hope was not to wow the audience, but merely to take the stage, face the spotlight, and read her opening scene aloud without her knees buckling.

“Gamble! You’re up!”

Kate was seated in Row J, almost hiding behind one of nine white columns that supported the dress circle above. The famous Ford’s Theatre, site of Lincoln’s assassination, was still a living and working playhouse, and just being there made her feel sorry for anyone who didn’t “get” the excitement of live theater. Kate was a child when her father had taken her there to seeA Raisinin the Sun, a transformative experience that had sparked her dream of picking up the pen. It took more than inspiration to return, years later, and present her own work. Courage was essential. A touch of insanity didn’t hurt. After countless hours of rehearsal in front of her bedroom mirror, Kate could probably have recited her play by heart. But stage fright could strike at any moment. She gathered up her script like a safety blanket and hurried up the steps at stage left.

“I see your play is untitled,” said Bass.

Kate walked tentatively to center stage, shielding her eyes from the bright spotlight. She was five foot six in flats, but just the sound of the director’s voice made her feel much smaller. Bass was in the aisle seat, a talking silhouette.

“I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Why would that be a problem? By all means, if you’re at a loss for words, become a writer.”

Kate wasn’t sure if she should laugh it off or disappear through the trap door, if there was one.

“How long have you been working on your script?”

Kate hesitated. In a way, she’d been researching this story her entire life, mostly at the family dinner table. Her father was Christian Gamble, CEO of Buck Technologies International, a private data-integration company whose clients included the CIA, the NSA, and virtually every counterterrorism organization in the Western world. Kate’s father adored her, and a play about the dark side of Big Data would have been the ultimate betrayal in his eyes. So Kate had worked in secret, telling precious few that her story was about the processing of personal information, and telling absolutely no one that her inspiration was the data-integration software her father had licensed to the federal government.

“I’ve been at this a very long time,” said Kate.

Bass’s assistant brought another liter of vodka and placed it next to the pitcher of orange juice on the tray table in the aisle. Bass poured the vodka into his tall glass, seemed to consider the need for more OJ, and then thought better of it. He added only ice.

“Haven’t got all day,” said the director. “Let’s hear the best you’ve got.”

Kate did the nervous head jerk that she’d told herself not to do, tossing her copper-brown hair over her left shoulder and then her right. She collected herself and began by setting the scene. “June 1890. We are in the common dining area on the ground floor of a LowerEast Side tenement building. There is a simple wood table with two chairs that don’t match. Seated at the table is a young mother, Shayna Fine, breast-feeding a newborn.

“At rise: Enter Hans Albrecht, a young man dressed in a summer suit and flat-brimmed straw hat. A portfolio labeled ‘U.S. Census’ is tucked under his arm.”

“Hold, please,” said Bass.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a playwright, not a costume designer. I don’t give a shit what you think Hans Albrecht is wearing. Understood?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Proceed.”

Kate feared she’d already lost him. “Let me skip ahead to the good part. Albrecht is a census taker and he is asking Shayna, the young mother, the series of questions he is required by law to ask.” She shifted to her Albrecht voice, responding as Shayna:

“‘Ma’am, what is your race?’”

“Jewish.”

“That is not one of the choices. Not sure why that is. I should mention it to my superintendent. White, black, mulatto, quadroon, octoroon, Chinese, Japanese, or Indian?”

“Qua-what?”

“Quadroon. One-quarter African and three-quarters European ancestry. Octoroon is one-eighth African and—” Kate paused for effect, conveying the census taker’s realization that the ancestral fractions were lost on Shayna. “Let me ask it this way: Are you and your children the descendants of slaves?”

“Sir, my children are Jewish.Have you never read the Book of Exodus?”

“Hold, please,” said Bass, groaning.

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