But I couldn’t shower. I felt disgusting by the time some FBI agents finally picked me up and took me to FBI headquarters in West Los Angeles, where they took a mug shot of me. I knew I looked a mess—unshowered, uncombed, wearing the same clothes I’d been in for three days, and having slept badly each night on a small cot. At least that picture was to give me some small comfort at a crucial time later on.