Page 235 - A Little Life: A Novel

people who make less than nine figures a year. People who think the laws
are applicable only by race, or by tax bracket.”
He said nothing, just let Harold become more and more agitated, because

he knew Harold was right. They had never explicitly discussed it, but he
knew Harold had always assumed that he would make his career in public
service. Over the years, Harold would talk with dismay and sorrow about
talented former students he admired who had left jobs—at the U.S.
Attorney’s, at the Department of Justice, at public defender offices, at legal
aid programs—to go to corporate firms. “A society cannot run as it should
unless people with excellent legal minds make it their business to make it

run,” Harold often said, and he had always agreed with him. And he agreed
with him still, which was why he couldn’t defend himself now.
“Don’t you have anything you want to say for yourself?” Harold asked
him, finally.
“I’m sorry, Harold,” he said. Harold said nothing. “You’re so angry at
me,” he murmured.

“I’m not angry, Jude,” Harold said. “I’m disappointed. Do you know how
special you are? Do you know what a difference you could make if you
stayed? You could be a judge if you wanted to—you could be a justice
someday. But you’re not going to be now. Now you’re going to be another
litigator in another corporate firm, and all the good work you could have
done you’ll instead be fighting against. It’s just such a waste, Jude, such a
waste.”

He was silent again. He repeated Harold’s words to himself: Such a
waste, such a waste. Harold sighed. “So what is this about, really?” he
asked. “Is it money? Is this what this is about? Why didn’t you tell me you
needed money, Jude? I could’ve given you some. Is this all about money?
Tell me what you need, Jude, and I’m happy to help you out.”
“Harold,” he began, “that’s so—that’s so kind of you. But—I can’t.”

“Bullshit,” said Harold, “you won’t. I’m offering you a way to let you
keep your job, Jude, to not have to take a job you’re going to hate, for work
you will hate—and that’s not a maybe, that’s a fact—with no expectations
or strings attached. I’m telling you that I’m happy to give you money for
this.”
Oh, Harold, he thought. “Harold,” he said, wretchedly, “the kind of
money I need isn’t the kind of money you have. I promise you.”