'No,' I protested. Warner would go from martinis to wine. We would leave the restaurant late, and he would be up at four fiddling with his laptop, shaking off the slight hangover as just another part of the day.
'Candy ass,' he mumbled. I browsed the menu. He examined every skirt.
His drink arrived and we ordered. 'Tell me about your work,' he said, trying desperately to give the impression that he was interested. 'Why?'
'Because it must be fascinating.'
'Why do you say that?'
'You walked away from a fortune. There must be a damned good reason.'
'There are reasons, and they're good enough for me.'
Warner had planned the meeting. There was a purpose, a goal, a destination, and an outline of what he would say to get him there. I wasn't sure where he was headed.
'I was arrested last week,' I said, diverting him. It was enough of a shock to be successful. 'You what?'
I told him the story, stretching it out with every detail because I was in control of the conversation. He was critical of my thievery, but I didn't try to defend it. The file itself was another complicated issue, one neither of us wanted to explore.
'So the Drake and Sweeney bridge has been burned?' he asked as we ate. 'Permanently.'
'How long do you plan to be a public interest lawyer?'
'I've just started. I really hadn't thought about the end. Why?'
'How long can you work for nothing?'
'As long as I can survive.'
'So survival is the standard?'
'For now. What's your standard?' It was a ridiculous question.
'Money. How much I make; how much I spend; how much I can stash away somewhere and watch it grow so that one day I'll have a shitpot full of it and not have to worry about anything.'
I had heard this before. Unabashed greed was to be admired. It was a slightly cruder version of what we'd been taught as children. Work hard and make plenty., and somehow society as a whole would benefit.
He was daring me to be critical, and it was not a fight I wanted. It was a fight with no winners; only an ugly draw.
'How much do you have?' I asked. As a greedy bastard, Warner was proud of his wealth.
'When I'm forty I'll have a million bucks buried in mutual funds. When I'm forty-five, it'll be three million. when I'm fifty, it'll be ten. And that's when I'm walking out the door.'
We knew those figures by heart. Big law firms were the same everywhere.
'what about you?' he asked as he whittled on freerange chicken.
'Well, let's see. I'm thirty-two, got a net worth of five thousand bucks, give or take. when I'm thirty-five, if I work hard and save money, it should be around ten thousand. By the time I'm fifty, I should have about twenty thousand buried in mutual funds.'
'That's something to look forward to. Eighteen years of living in poverty.'
'You know nothing about poverty.'
'Maybe I do. For people like us, poverty is a cheap apartment, a used car with dents and dings, bad clothing, no money to travel and play and see the world, no money to save or invest, no retirement, no safety net, nothing.'
'Perfect. You just proved my point. You don't know a damned thing about poverty. How much will you make this year?'
'Nine hundred thousand.'
'I'll make thirty. what would you do if someone forced you to work for thirty thousand bucks?'
'Kill myself.'
'I believe that. I truly believe you would take a gun and blow your brains out before you would work for thirty thousand bucks.'
'You're wrong. I'd take pills.'
'Coward.'
'There's no way I could work that cheap.'
'Oh, you could work that cheap, but you couldn't live that cheap.'
'Same thing.'
'That's where you and I are different,' I said. 'Damned right we're different. But how did we become different, Michael? A month ago you were like me. Now look at you--silly whiskers and faded clothes, all this bullshit about serving people and saving humanity. Where'd you go wrong?'
I took a deep breath and enjoyed the humor of his question. He relaxed too. We were too civilized to fight in public.
'You're a dumb-ass, you know,' he said, leaning low. 'You were on the fast track for a partnership. You're bright and talented, single, no kids. You'd be making a million bucks a year at the age of thirty-five. You can do the math.'
'It's already done, Wamer. I've lost my love for money. It's the curse of the devil.'
'How original. Let me ask you something. What will you do if you wake up one day and you're, let's say, sixty years old. You're tired of saving the world because it can't be saved. You don't have a pot to piss in, not a dime, no firm, no partners, no wife making big bucks as a brain surgeon, nobody to catch you. What will you do?'
'Well, I've thought about that, and I figure I'll have this big brother who's filthy rich. So I'll give you a call.'
'What if I'm dead?'
'Put me in your will. The prodigal brother.'
We became interested in our food, and the conversation waned. Warner was arrogant enough to think that a blunt confrontation would snap me back to my senses. A few sharp insights from him on the consequences of my missteps, and I would ditch the poverty act and get a real job. 'I'll talk to him,' I could hear him say to my parents.
He had a few jabs left. He asked what the benefit package was at the 14th Street Legal Clinic. Quite lean, I told him. What about a retirement plan? None that I knew of. He embraced the opinion that I should spend only a couple of years saving souls before returning to the real world. I thanked him. And he offered the splendid advice that perhaps I should search for a likeminded woman, but with money, and marry her.
We said good-bye on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. I assured him I knew what I was doing, that I would be fine, and that his report to our parents should be optimistic. 'Don't worry them, Warner. Tell them everything is wonderful here.'
'Call me if you get hungry,' he said in an effort at humor.
I waved him off and walked away.
* * *
The Pylon Grill was an all-night coffee shop in Foggy Bottom, near George Washington University. It was known as a hangout for insomniacs and news addicts. The earliest edition of the Post arrived each night just before twelve, and the place was as busy as a good deli during lunch. I bought a paper and sat at the bar, which was an odd sight because every person there was buried in the news. I was struck by how quiet the Pylon was. The Post had just arrived, minutes before me, and thirty people were poring over it as if a war had been declared.
The story was a natural for the Post. It began on page one, under a bold headline, and was continued on page ten where the photos were--a photo of Lontae taken from the placards at the rally for justice, one of Mordecai when he was ten years younger, and a set of three, which no doubt would humiliate the bluebloods at Drake and Sweeney. Arthur Jacobs was in the center, a mug shot of Tilhnan Gantry was on the left, and on the right was a mug shot of DeVon Hardy, who was linked to the story only because he'd been evicted and got himself killed in a newsworthy fashion.
Arthur Jacobs and two felons, two African-American criminals with little numbers across their chests, lined up as equals on page ten of the Post.
I could see them huddled in their offices and conference rooms, doors locked, phones unplugged, meetings canceled. They would plan their responses, devise a hundred different strategies, call in their public relations
