I sat through the visitation instruction process after my body search was completed, and I looked around at the few notices posted on the walls, all expected: NO TOUCHING, NO EXCHANGE OF ITEMS WITHOUT GUARD PRESENT TO INSPECT, etc. I briefly wondered if I should have brought him something (snacks, a magazine, cigarettes?) before a buzzer sounded, my name was shouted, and I was directed to follow my guard, Officer Roberts, into the hall.

We walked the length, and I was led into a rather large room that looked like it served as a spare cafeteria when not in use for visitations. I had expected a glass wall and telephones, but instead he was being led in from a door on the opposite wall. His jumpsuit was the anticipated bright orange, and his hands were manacled with extended handcuffs as he reached our table.

He was even taller in person (easily six foot one or two). He was on the pale side, though his exposed skin had hints of pink from time spent outside. His arms had dark hair, and he wore a thermal shirt bunched up under the short sleeves of his jumpsuit since the interior was cold, a strange contrast to the oppressive heat outside. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and thick but rather well-maintained for someone who didn't exactly have access to great products or hair care services. I wondered if he learned how to cut and style it himself to keep up appearances in the off chance he had a visitor, interview, or court appointment. It was a bit longer on the top and hung onto his forehead in a few strands, and his temples were streaked with dashes of grey.

In any other context, his face would have been ordinary. His cheeks, though a bit sallow, had sharpness to them, and his mouth was small, almost delicate, and yet nothing made as intense of an impression as his eyes. They were deep brown, nearly black, and while they could have seemed cold, instead they seemed very engaged and expressive, as though they never stopped scanning his surroundings, searching for something. And these were just the things I was initially allowed to notice. There was more to take in, but I needed to keep my attention as focused as possible.

"Are you comfortable if I remove these? He's not a violent offender," said Officer Stevenson, the tall Black guard who had seated my visitor sternly but politely. The two men moved with each other comfortably, as though they saw enough of each other to know the quirks, and this put me slightly at ease.

"Yes, you can. Thank you for asking."

The cuffs on his hands were removed, and once they were, Marshall Kane stretched back on the attached table bench, extending his arms above his head and his feet across the floor. His left foot touched mine, and I reflexively pulled it back under me, suddenly very aware of my body in a shared space with the same man dozens of women had alleged had transformed them into someone they did not recognize.

My unease rose once again, and I looked him in the face only to find myself being intensely studied.

"Wow. Look at you," he said, smiling.

I had some time to take him in at close range now. He was lucky this facility issued orange, it made his sallow skin look brighter, and I doubt the orange looked great on many others. He wore glasses; his lenses looked thick, and the frames were out of style. His dark hair was clean and shiny, I could see the light in it move as he sat. It was less Jesus-guru and more Jim Jones than I had expected since it was kept so neat. As I took him in, it occurred to me that I had been staring at photographs of him for the better part of ten days, and everything about his face was already familiar to me. He politely watched me absorb his visage, his knowing smile intact.

"Me, what about me?" I asked in a polite way that did not altogether hide my obvious intrigue.

Again, another moment of intense self-doubt and awareness of how I was sitting (leaned forward, legs crossed, arms twisted in front of me), how I was dressed (short-sleeved deep teal blouse, tucked into a black accordion-style skirt, hair slightly waved and parted, the silver jewelry I had worn removed for my safety), and how I was being perceived crashed over me in a wave. I had no idea when he last saw a woman, or at what range or (worse) in what context. These thoughts disquietly swirled around in my head, and I worried it would show on my face.

"I saw your editorial picture in the magazine, but I don't think it does you much justice. It's also black and white, and your eyes...they're grey. Remarkable." He studied me deeply, still smiling, and had leaned in to look at my eyes during his comment.

I fought the urge to lean back.

Let the games begin.

"Bet you say that to all the girls." I gave him a half-smile.

"No, no girls for me," he said, looking down as he adjusted himself on the small bench seat. "Not allowed visits from any old supporters. And in case you didn't notice, it's all men in here."

His eyebrows moved up as he made a pained and ironic smile at this.

"What about the crazy ladies who marry convicts? Don't they visit or send photos anymore?" I asked, earnestly, again batting away my mind's concerning question of when he last saw a woman up close.

He laughed. It was genuine.

"Funny. First off, those crazy ladies love crazy guys, usually murderers, and I haven't killed anyone. I guess that makes me far less interesting to them. The one woman who seemed to fit the bill you're describing was...well let's just say I am happier with nothing."

"Ah, well...sorry about that for you." I was smiling now too. I think this was as close to friendly banter as I had hoped to expect on the first encounter.

"You don't have to apologize. Not at all. You're beautiful, classically and astonishingly so, if I may say."

I didn't know what I was supposed to say to that, so I just sat there, my face set.

"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable, but you're an adult. You must know; I can't be the first you've heard this from. And I am sure you own a few mirrors."

He paused again for my reaction, and my eyes narrowed as I smiled some acceptance, but the blood rushing to my face betrayed me just enough.

"I won't go on, but if you had shown up for any one of my courses, I would have emptied the accounts and fled with you to South America before the end of the first 5-day."

He moved himself up on his bench at this point, a big heavy shift, so he groaned and exhaled the last line, something he uttered as a complete certainty.

"5-day?" I asked.

"Yes, 5-day. It's one of the sessions. First, there's the 3-day, then the 5-day. I never attended the 3-days. You didn't know who was serious until they signed up for the 5-day session. More time, more money, more commitment," he said, gesturing a bit to elaborate as he spoke.

"Wow. I could have spared you all this." The sarcasm was rising, and he caught it like the surf.

"I know. I suppose I should be a bit cross with you for that, but you're here now. And all I had to do was ask," he said, pausing to look and take me in again. "You never know what you can get until you ask."

The provocative language did not escape me, but since we were just starting to build some rapport, I didn't want to address it directly. In the first few seconds, he had managed to present me with a challenge or, rather, an invitation to ask anything. I flipped through my notes in my mind's eye, and dozens of questions filled the pages, and I wondered which was the most pressing. But in the same moment I asked myself, I understood he wanted to know the same. What great mystery about him still existed, one that hasn't already been explored in an article, book, or podcast, that brought me all the way here from Chicago? I didn't have an answer for that, but I did know I wasn't the one who sent the first email.

"Why did you invite me here, an interview?" I asked, and he seemed to enjoy the deflection.

"Yes and no. Do you know anything about The Visionaries, Executive Visions, the trials...?"

"Only what I could find available online. News stories, court documents, a number of interviews and documentaries."

"That's good. Very helpful for context. Do you know what's happened to the group since my arrest?"

"A little. Executive Visions was shut down and ordered to pay some remediations, which you claimed you couldn't do in full since some funds have gone missing. Some of your followers believe you are innocent, and the business side is now defunct, but a few remnant stragglers maintain a community in...Florida, I think? The early defectors are either anonymous or riding out some fame through interviews and docuseries episodes on Investigative Discovery. The later defectors were either charged, cooperated in the investigation, took plea deals, or provided testimony at trial. Do I have all this right?"

"Some of it. You're right about the more devoted members gathering in community in Florida, I think. They weren't charged with anything, so they refused to participate in the investigation and instead provided testimony for my defense. What I am gathering, though, is you don't know about the few who ended up in Chicago."

"Chicago?! No, I haven't heard anything about that."

Oh Deborah, you are not ready for the cult I am going to hand you next.

"Yes, do you know anything about Gregory Nixon?"

"Your ex-VP? Yes, he took a step back for some time with family conveniently right before the investigation and your arrest went public."

His face lightly contorted into discontent, mixed with an ounce of disdain, but not as much as a normal person's would. He still looked very contained.

"Both of those are generous assessments of his involvement in what I created at the time, though he's certainly enjoying the inheritance of it now."

"Is he involved in this new organization?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"There's nothing new about it. But yes, Greg has taken all my old blueprints and rebuilt the same structures...right in your neighborhood," he said, and I could tell he felt victorious in the pause, offering me what he felt was a treat of information and also a one-up question of why I, the cult investigator, did not know of this happening in my backyard.

"Sounds like you don't even need me," I replied, and I wanted to remind him that I did not need to be here.

He smiled again, but then it dropped from his face as quickly as it had appeared; he seemed to be thinking very carefully about what he said next. It was then I noticed the smallest red speck of blood on his chin, a shaving nick. He was clean-shaven for our meeting. So many of his online photos and images featured him with a light beard and, at the very least, stubble. It was never part of his image to be unkempt or messy, and many other "gurus" of the age were trying to look more like Jesus or Einstein, as though mundane grooming tasks could not tear them away from important work. But his reversion to his picture-perfect pre-trial image sent a strong message to me in our first meeting.

And I couldn't pinpoint what it was trying to say.

"I would like us to be friends, Morgan. I hope we don't spend six months pretending to dislike each other. And what we're about to do together is important to me. I am not a fan of human defense mechanisms, but I understand why you have them. You're a poorly-adjusted, highly attractive woman who-"

"What on earth makes you say I am 'poorly-adjusted'?"

My eyes widened with surprise and anger. I didn't mean to become combative, I should have let him make his evaluation in full and then moved on, but I just wasn't as contained as he was in this moment. Also...six months?!

"Nothing I say is meant as an insult. To the contrary, you seem very self-aware. Perhaps you should tell me why I would assume you're not well-adjusted like your peers?"

I was prepared to dismiss the question, and I was amazed that he asked it, knowing full well that I could get up and leave. That was when I appreciated the risk of it. It was another challenge, one he wanted me to accept.

I sat for a moment before answering.

"Maybe because instead of being on a boat or in a McMansion or even in some high-rise office building, I am talking to a convicted cult leader...? Like this is some usual Saturday for me or something."

I leaned back further now, uncomfortable, and he didn't miss it.

"Okay. That was good. No need for 'or something,' you had it all. And to your last comment, I think yes, spending your Saturday here with me is more aligned with you than a party on a boat. I could be wrong, I don't know you very well just yet. What do you think?"

What did I think? I thought he was right, but I didn't think telling him that was the right thing to do just now. I did have to maintain some control over the nature and direction of our interactions, and admitting I wanted to be here seemed like a violation of my own boundaries.

"I think you should tell me what I need to know about Gregory Nixon. And how you think I can help over...six months." My back and resolve had straightened.

He slouched comfortably, the smile back.

"Why don't women ever tell men when they are right?" he mused.

The rest of our meeting was spent discussing Greg Nixon's recent move to Chicago, where he was originally from. It seemed like his reputation had suffered on the East Coast, but the Midwest is friendly, and Chicago is usually receptive to the entrepreneur types, especially ones with resources, confidence, and some lineage.

A few original Visionary followers went with him, and so far, the courses had been re-established under the name "The Journey: Executive Courses for your Quest in Success." Shortened to the "JEC" for recruitment, Nixon's acolytes were starting small, but one central tenet for this rebirth was a public rebuke of Marshall and his original vision. Every brick used to build Nixon's organization was stolen from Marshall's and repainted, and as Nixon's new structures grew Marshall's status had dwindled even more than it had at the time of the trial. People had turned on him after he lost his last appeal, and he shared all of this with what seemed like aloofness, as though it were all by chance or he just happened to be present for it and not someone suffering from his own consequences. But I could sense the resentment underneath, certain words rang with it, and I got the feeling he thought of Greg not as a thief but as a false prophet, one reading words he had written and calling them new revelations.

And he had to sit in here knowing that was happening.

When he finished filling me in, our time was up, and Officer Stevenson had returned to collect him while Officer Roberts was preparing to meet me at the exit.

"Thank you, Morgan, for coming today. You have already exceeded my expectations."

He took one step towards me and held out his hand. I looked at Officer Stevenson who nodded curtly to let me know I was allowed to shake, and I placed my hand into his lightly. He gripped it gently, and as close as he was, I felt so small and light in his rather dark and looming presence, a presence that was offset by a very real smile that was lurking in the corners of his eyes and mouth but was not openly expressed.

"Of course. What are we doing tomorrow?" I asked, the mystery of the next meeting growing.

"You will have to wait and see," he replied, and he let go of my hand rather abruptly and turned towards Stevenson to be led away, his back somehow just as imposing as his front as they shuffled off. They reached their door before I had turned towards the one open for me on the other side of the room, and he didn't even look over as they walked out.

"What did you think of him?" asked Officer Roberts as we walked back through the door and into the waiting room where I could collect my personal items I had left in a bin behind the counter.

"I don't know. I think he was a lot like the videos I have watched of him. But there were a few surprises, I guess. What about you?"

I placed some of my items back into my purse and grabbed my small jacket, which I didn't need outside in the heat but maybe could have used inside the cold building.

"He's very easy. Easy to get along with, easy for the guards. He doesn't complain or give us any grief," he said calmly.

He put my empty bin back behind the counter.
"You think that's by design?" I asked. Officer Roberts raised an eyebrow.

"You don't?"