As Warren Group began to collapse under the weight of the scandal, my mother and I visited the historic estate and gardens in California that my father had helped restore.
Reporters were already crowding the entrance.
But the first people to greet us were not journalists.
They were a group of gray-haired restoration artisans.
One elderly man took my hand, his eyes filling with tears.
"Are you Henry's daughter?"
I nodded.
He patted the back of my hand.
"You've done your father proud. He was the best of us. That pavilion has stood for twenty years, and not one joint has given way. The shame of it is, we were poor back then. None of us knew how to protect our work or make sure our names stayed on it. They erased our names and took all the credit."
My mother stood beside me, crying to
