The basement was packed with people; standing room only. I arrived a few minutes before 7:00 and made my way to the back of the room after receiving a blue bookmark with the number “111″ on it. I would be the one-hundred and eleventh person to have former Duke lacrosse coach Mike Pressler sign my copy of his recently-released book, “It’s Not About the Truth”.

My regular readers will recall that I’ve been less than sympathetic towards the lacrosse players involved in this scandal. I recall vividly reading about this when the news first “broke”, and I remember chatting with my wife about it over dinner. My premise was simple: how could a house full of boys so full of privilege and machosim not be guilty of something? This was Duke, after all - an ivy-league league university set in a city not lacking for problems. Surely a few of them had gone overboard and done something.

I even have to admit feeling a bit smug about the news conference in front of the Durham jail some months later. The Durham County Jail is not a place for well-coifed kids in ties and jackets to hold press conferences, and it all seemed a bit too well orchestrated.

I went to tonight’s book signing feeling rather indifferent towards the case. Nifong has been disbarred and faces a world of headaches. There’s a sentiment shared by many in Durham that this has gone on for long enough, and we simply need to move on.

I was not, however, prepared for the full force of Pressler’s sincerity.

They say that you can judge a man by the enemies he makes. My first impression was simple: I couldn’t imagine Mike Pressler having a single enemy in the world. He fielded question after question from the audience with a grace and literacy lacking in many of our leaders, and his emotions were heartfelt and sincere.

What hit home wasn’t so much the talk about the case itself; Mike went into some detail about the anguish that this case brought onto his own family. A letter written to the president of Duke University by Pressler’s daughter is recreated verbatim in the book; one would be completely lifeless to not feel the weight of her words.

I was one hundred and eleventh in a line of one hundred and eleven people. By the time I made it up to the signing desk, I had already made it to page 115 in the book. My exchange with Pressler went something like this:

“You know, Mike, up until a few weeks ago I thought those kids were as guilty as shit.”

Mike paused and looked me straight in the eye - not sure exactly how to respond. There was a glimmer of hurt in his eyes, but he didn’t break eye contact as he said, “well, at least you’re man enough to admit it.”

I had intended to say a lot more, but I think he understood the hurt look in my own eyes. So much is often said without words.

On the drive home, I went past 610 North Buchanan Boulevard. If you didn’t know the address, you would never notice this house; it’s a rather decrepit looking bungalow set among many larger houses, in the shadow of a huge university across the street. I wonder what will become of it; even with the allegations dismissed and innocence proclaimed, there’s still an incredibly haunting feeling about the place, as if someone had died there.

As if.