Justice at Risk Read Free Page B

Buddha, but with the trace of an ironic smile softening his formidable face. “That was the way you put it, wasn’t it, Alex?”
    I shot Templeton a glance sharp enough to slice a cheap steak. She responded with a sheepish look, as the hostess arrived with Joffrien’s beer to take our orders. When that was accomplished, and she was gone, an awkward silence fell over us. Joffrien sipped his beer thoughtfully, stared into the distance a moment, then turned purposefully in my direction.
    “Alex tells me you might be looking for a writing assignment.”
    “I’m always looking for a writing assignment. Given my history, they’re not easy to come by.”
    “It was my impression you were doing fairly well.”
    “I’ve managed a few freelance magazine pieces lately. Mostly nonmainstream, publications like Out and Poz . That’s about it.”
    “You don’t sound all that happy about the way it’s going.”
    “I’m grateful for the work.”
    “The assignments aren’t meaty enough?”
    “I’m getting strictly color pieces, offbeat features, usually on the seamy side. As if my checkered past enables me to bring something special to tawdry subject matter, but also limits me to it. I’m becoming a journalistic oddity, the reporter tainted by scandal, and I’m not sure I like that. On the other hand, I made my bed, so I have to sleep in it, don’t I?”
    “Restlessly, it seems.”
    Joffrien’s eyes had never left mine; I felt strangely connected to him, almost against my will.
    “I’ve always been restless. And you? Does academia suit you?”
    Instead of answering, he looked up as the hostess returned, accompanied by a slim, handsome waiter with the same dusky skin, who served plates all around, and placed bowls of side dishes in the center of the table. We ate in the traditional way: with our fingers, using swatches of injera bread in place of utensils, mopping up the rich, spicy pastes and sauces with the meat and vegetables. During a long silence, I caught Joffrien exchanging a glance with Templeton. A moment later, he spoke offhandedly, without looking up from his food.
    “I have a friend, a television producer, who might have a project for you.”
    I swiped at the red chile paste on my plate, fed the peppery injera into my mouth, and chewed, saying nothing. Joffrien pushed his point.
    “Have you ever considered working in television?”
    “Not for a moment.”
    “Justice considers television the death knell of civilization.”
    “My friend, Cecile Chang, does some interesting work. Documentaries mostly, funded by grants. At the moment, she’s producing a nine-part series for PBS.”
    “What’s her topic?”
    “AIDS.” He hesitated, as if to let the word sink in. “From what I read in GQ , you might bring something special to the subject—some interesting insights.”
    “I’m afraid my credibility is suspect.”
    “Cecile’s a maverick. She likes to take chances on people, looks for the alternative viewpoint. When she did a series on prisons, she hired an ex-con to write one of the segments.”
    “Sounds like an interesting lady.”
    “I’d be happy to give her a call.”
    “Thanks, but I don’t know the slightest thing about writing a television script.”
    “Neither did the ex-con. Cecile gave him the guidance he needed. He won a Peabody Award.”
    “He didn’t have to give it back, did he?”
    Joffrien grinned, and shook his head.
    “No, Ben, he didn’t have to give it back.”
    Templeton leaned forward on her elbows, her hands folded optimistically.
    “At least you could talk to her, Benjamin.”
    “I guess I could do that.” She beamed. Joffrien didn’t move a muscle, just kept his reassuring eyes on me, as if giving me whatever time I needed. Accepting kindness, even simple compliments, had never been easy for me; I had grown up tasting love in the form of scraps, handed out on loan, attached to debts and expectations. I believe Joffrien sensed that instinctively; perhaps he’d