I pulled into my driveway last night to find someone standing over my son, Max.  I don't remember taking my seat belt off, opening the door, saying anything.  I must have been terrified that Max was hurt, maybe dying.  I couldn't have had time to conclude that a judge would probably give me one punch on my own property.  I must have thought that the attacker looked a lot older.  I have a vague recollection of Max shaking my shoulder, a bloody boy at my feet emitting noises I'll hear in my final hours.