rather unique funding source-the very corporations they sought to expose and change. She hoped her newly constituted organization would be the equal of Nader’s in its formative years. That was a lofty goal she set. And she was equally determined that The Center not lose focus like Nader had. In 1971 he officially founded Public Citizen as a permanent organization, and in time it drifted into mediocrity and loss of influence mainly because it attracted a staff of poorly-paid nonprofit careerists whose internal politics closely resembled academia. Isobel had something to get her started that Ralph Nader never had-an enormous amount of money. She was determined to use it to build a staff of lawyers, analysts, researchers, investigators, and administrators who would be paid as much as the very best in their field might earn in the private sector.
As part of her plan, The Center would have the equivalent of a major industry marketing department, complete with writers, media people, and specialists in promotion and public relations. The work of The Center would be delivered to the public as effectively as if they were in the beer or automobile business. She knew influence would come with public acceptance. She also knew acceptance was as much the result of advertising and promotion as was brand preference and market share for laundry detergent or soft drinks.
For Isobel, just as the New York Times was regarded as the country’s newspaper of record, she wanted The Center for Consumer Concerns to build a social position of equal weight. Nick Stevenson told her she had carte blanche. The trustees were there mainly to handle the legalities of forming and operating The Center. She started February 1st and they told her The Center would pull in about thirty million in its first thirty days. Another thirty million would follow in the weeks after that. Of course, she already knew that. She would be responsible for setting policy guidelines for delivery of the remaining pledges, within the framework of the three and four year time limits. She would work directly with the contributors themselves. With those as her only instructions, The Center leased office space near Colony Square in midtown Atlanta, and she got started.
It took only two weeks for Nathan Stein to call Nick Stevenson. He was prepared to transfer $29,910,000 to The Center for Consumer Concerns. Nick provided the routing numbers and other information needed to complete such an electronic deposit.
“We’re so pleased with your generous support,” Nick said. “All of us at The Center are grateful. Exactly how would you like this contribution attributed, Mr. Stein?” Nathan broke it down for him, listing amounts for himself, Thomas Maloney, the Stein, Gelb firm, Alliance Industries Inc., and SHI Inc. When he was done, Nick was once more effusive with his thanks.
Nathan said, “Are we supposed to play this game all the time, or what?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr. Stein,” said Nick.
“You don’t, huh? You’re Leonard Martin’s partner, aren’t you?”
“Former partner.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself. The money’s on its way.” He hung up.
Walter called from the airport. “Good afternoon, The Center for Consumer Concerns,” said a friendly voice with a delightful southern accent.
“Good afternoon to you too, but I think it’s still morning, isn’t it?”
“Why, no sir. It is truly afternoon. Twenty minutes after twelve noon.” By the sound of her voice Walter could tell she was smiling.
“You know, you’re right,” he said, realizing where he was. “I just got off a plane from Chicago and I’m still on Central time.”
“Well, welcome to Atlanta and the Eastern time zone.”
“Thanks. Can I speak with Isobel Gitlin, please?”
“I’ll put you right through.”
“Very nice,” thought Walter, “no ‘ whose calling’ or ‘what company are you with’ or, the most hated of all demands, ‘may I tell her what this is in reference to?’”
“Hello,” said Isobel.
“Hello.”
“Walter! Where are you?” He told her he was at the airport, changing planes in Atlanta on his way home. His flight to St. Thomas didn’t leave until five fifteen. Could they meet for lunch somewhere?
“You want real food, or bar food?”
“Bar food is fine with me,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Me too.” Isobel gave him directions to Manuel’s Bar on Highland Avenue. “Tell the cab driver to get off at the Presidential Parkway, otherwise you’ll end up in Chattanooga. It’s a great bar. You’ll love it.” The cab ride, she told him, won’t be more than twenty minutes. “I’ll be there, waiting.”
Isobel was right. Less than a half hour later Walter saw her standing in front of Manuel’s. He reached out to hug her and she kissed him just the way she had at the Hilton on Sixth Avenue. Once inside, Walter could see that the founder, Manuel Maloof, was something of a local personality. A large painting of Manuel hung over the bar. The walls were covered with old photographs, nearly all of them showing Manuel with some entertainer, politician, or sports celebrity. Walter recognized many of them, and those he didn’t know looked just like the ones he did. Jimmy Carter was there. Bill Clinton with dark hair and Bill Clinton with gray hair. Andrew Young. Hank Aaron, Frank Sinatra, and Carol Channing. There was one with LBJ and another that looked like young Manuel and a young Elvis Presley.
“This guy, Manuel, still alive?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m still new here.”
They sat at a table in the front room just off the bar, the nonsmoking section of what Walter agreed looked like a terrific neighborhood establishment.
“You live nearby?” he asked.
“Not too far. I’m in a condo until I get myself settled. I think I’m going to buy a house in a neighborhood called Inman Park.” Walter never did well at these kinds of conversations. He had no idea where or what Inman Park was, and, except for the fact that Isobel might buy a house there, no interest in finding out or being told. They started going through all the uncomfortable questions with all the meaningless answers. She asked where he was coming from? Did he have a good flight? Was he happy to be getting back to St. John? How was his health? Was he hungry? He asked if she liked Atlanta. Where the Center’s offices were? Was the weather more enjoyable than the winter in New York? All the crap, and it continued even after their food arrived. Finally, he said, “Isobel, no more bullshit. This is going to drive me fucking nuts. How are you? Really?”
“Fine. I’m f-fine.” It wasn’t what he was looking for. Her eyes had no sparkle, her smile, such as it was, lacked the warmth he’d come to treasure, and her manner made no offer of intimacy. He reached out across the table to hold her hand.
“Is there someplace we can go. I don’t have to be back at the airport-”
“No. No, I can’t. I’ve got to get back to the office.”
“What for?”
“This is a real job, Walter. I’m not running around chasing Leonard Martin anymore. And I’m not ducking photographers from the Post or the Daily News. No one in Atlanta knows who I am. Isn’t that wonderful?” The food ran out before the small talk.
“I should be home by ten,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m not even sure-”
“When are you coming to St. John?” Walter asked. Now it was Isobel who leaned across the table to take Walter’s hand. They sat beneath a photo of a middle-aged Manuel and two other men of the same age. All three stood next to Arnold Palmer. They were smiling. Arnold was young, in his prime, lean and fit, had dark hair, and a cigarette in one hand.
Isobel said, “Walter, don’t go getting serious on me, alright? It was great, wonderful-I love you dearly-but we each have things we need to do. Don’t we? Places to go. People to meet. We’ll see each other again. We will.” Her smile was breaking his heart.
“It’s just, I thought-”
“Don’t. Please don’t.”
“I love you, Isobel.”
“Oh, Walter, you don’t. No, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. It’s been a long time for you. I know. But you have a life, Walter. We both do. We’ll always be friends and we will see each other again. We will. I promise.”
