RANGE: Ah, thanks. Things are going pretty well. We have a great team.
HOWARD: Your modesty does you credit, Wes, but I’m more interested in your ambition. We have a lot of big goals at Mercury right now. I want us to become a technology-first company, one that just happens to operate in the payments space rather than the other way around. We’ve bought a few mid-sized processors recently--perhaps you’ve seen this in the Journal. In the middle of integrating them now. You probably know where I’m going here. Every technical integration has a few hiccups.
RANGE: Well, Fortune 500 hiccups are our specialty. But, I have to tell you, Jack, the CEO isn’t usually the person calling me personally to retain our services.
HOWARD: No, I would imagine not. And I am already up to my eyeballs in consultants, believe me. You’re perfectly right, I called with a bigger question in mind. Do you have a clear picture of what you want to do with your company?
RANGE: Right now it’s all about controlled growth and keeping our options open--
HOWARD: Mhm.
RANGE: --but things are moving quickly. Things can change. Sometimes a good decision is worth more than preserving optionality.
HOWARD: Ah ha, thank you for saying that. Do you know--I met with my CIO this morning, and she used the exact same phrase? Preserving optionality. I must have skipped the wrong article in HBR last month. Anyway, I’ll cut to the chase: have you given any thought specifically to selling? Is that one of the options on ice for you?
RANGE: Sure, I’ve thought about it. It would have to be the right fit, you know, the right deal.
HOWARD: Sure. But it is something you’re open to exploring, as a possibility?
RANGE: Yes, definitely, yes.
HOWARD: Okay, well, that’s great news in my book. Listen, I’m in Europe next week, but I’ll be coming to New York the following Thursday--Thursday, July 9, I believe. We’re one of the sponsors for a big event at the Met. Most of our executive team should be there. It would be great if you could join us too. It’ll be a nice time. Bring your wife.
RANGE: Ironically, my wife will be in Philadelphia--but I’d be delighted.
HOWARD: Okay--well, bring your number two, then. Maybe that’s even better. We can all get to know each other. See if it’s “the right fit.” We can test the waters.
RANGE: Sounds great, Jack.
HOWARD: I’ll have my assistant call Cassie with the details, if that works for you.
RANGE: It does. Looking forward to it.
HOWARD: Likewise. Enjoy the weekend. Bye, now.
RANGE: Bye, Jack.
[4:40 PM OUTGOING CALL TO: PAPPAS-FIDICIA, JULIAN (INTERNAL EXTENSION 2235), 1 minute]
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Hello, asshole.
RANGE: Julian!
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: What?
RANGE: I fucking love you! Come to my office.
{Laughter. Music playing in background.}
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: What is going on over there?
{Singing.}
RANGE: --you’re the one--I want--to--want me--
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: I am severely concern--
RANGE: Get over here!
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Fine, but I’m bringing a straitjacket.
[6:53 PM INCOMING CALL FROM: WHALEN, DIANA (WIRELESS NUMBER 917-XXX-XXXX), 1 minute]
RANGE: Hi.
WHALEN: You’re still at the office?
RANGE: Yeah.
WHALEN: Seriously? The rehearsal dinner starts at seven fifteen.
RANGE: Oh--shit. Okay, okay--I’m leaving. I’ll see you there.
WHALEN: Fine, whatever.
RANGE: What? I said I’ll see you there. I’ll be there.
WHALEN: And I said fine!
RANGE: Yeah, but you’re obviously upset. I can hear it in your tone.
WHALEN: I don’t have a tone!
RANGE: You d--
WHALEN: I’ll talk to you later. You have to go.
[6:55 PM OUTGOING CALL TO: PAPPAS-FIDICIA, JULIAN (WIRELESS NUMBER 917-XXX-XXXX), 2 minutes]
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: I’m glad you called. I am at Taco Bell, and having second thoughts on the Cheesy Gordita Crunch. Should I get a Chalupa or--
RANGE: Sorry, I really can’t talk--running late.
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Oh, I’m sorry. I was under the impression that you called me. You know how I feel about interruptions involving food.
RANGE: I know, I know--I’m sorry. Forgot to tell you not to mention anything to anyone about Mercury or the Met event, okay? Including--er--your friend that works there--and . . . even Diana, okay?
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: And with such a fishy request, no less! And not even, by the way, of an edible kind.
RANGE: Look, there’s nothing “fishy” about it. I just don’t want Diana getting her hopes up. Like, it’s still so early, you know? What if their offer sucks? I just--I just don’t want her getting her hopes up. Look, I really have to go. Just please do this for me, okay?
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Fine. But that doesn’t quite explain why you wouldn’t want me to tell Vivien. Not anything about the deal, just that we’ll be at the event. I was planning to go anyway, and she’ll definitely be there, you know. And why did you just call her my friend? You seemed pretty chummy if I recall. Technically, you’ve known her longer.
RANGE: Yes, no, yes--I mean--there’s no big reason why. She’s . . . great. I just don’t want anyone to know and thought--only because she works there and all--that you might tell her specifically. Look, I just don’t want anyone at all to know, okay? It could be construed as inside information. I’m not being unreasonable here. And I really have to go.
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Okay, okay, yadda, I get it. I won’t say anything. Go have a lovely evening.
RANGE: Thanks. Careful not to get Chalupa on your new white pants.
PAPPAS-FIDICIA: I hate you. See you Sunday.
CHAPTER XVII.
Sunday in the west village was unseasonably cool with an intermittent light drizzle, the kind of weather, Diana knew, that encouraged the realization of Julian Pappas-Fidicia’s most profound sartorial fantasies. There—see him in front of Café Croix, teetering in his wellies and reading a book, an extravagantly hooked umbrella curled over his left forearm like a dormant scepter. Upon closer inspection there are several competing tartans at play, broken up by a moody mélange of waxed cotton and weathered leather. With the threadbare canvas tote bag—known to Diana to be one of Julian’s “rustical” tote bags—he yielded the overall impression of Lord Grantham going antiquing in mid-coast Maine.
Diana hollered a good morning from across the street and rushed ahead of Wes to give him a hug, which he only sparingly tolerated, and she relished in flaunting her exemption. Wes shook Julian’s hand and asked what he was reading. Julian proudly displayed the book for inspection, as if he were advertising it on the Home Shopping Network. As Wes read the title aloud, it took the form of a question:
—Paid For: My Journey Through Prostitution?
—I stole it from the Yale Club. Their checkout system is incomprehensible.
Wes grabbed the book playfully and skimmed the back.
—Seriously? You were that keen to read the memoirs of a prostitute?
—Maybe I’m considering a career change because my boss is a dick.
—Mm, I see. Because prostitution is the logical choice when you are looking to encounter fewer d—
—Oh, all right! You win this round, Julian bristled.
Wes released a roguish grin, the kind that still had the power to captivate Diana. How charming and funny he was around everyone else!
—Can we backtrack for a second? Diana cut in. You stole a book called Paid For?
—I am aware of the irony in this particular detail.
—We’ll make sure he pays for it now, Wes said to his wife with a wink, flopping the book into Julian’s tartan stomach casually, drawing a mock-offended hiss.
—Well. Aren’t you two just the Bonnie and Clyde of my dignity. Is this like foreplay for you? It has a compe
lling narrative and I could not put it down! Can we go inside now? I haven’t eaten in almost two hours.
Café Croix on Twelfth Street was a midsize establishment beloved to the New York alumni of the Patrick Henry Society that compensated for terrible service with excessive crown molding, Parisianly striped waitstaff, and sensational food. They did not take reservations for brunch, and refused to seat incomplete parties, relying instead on a handwritten clipboard list, protectively wielded by unwashed American Apparel– model-type hostesses like a squad of sexy Saint Peters with the keys to the kingdom of heaven.
—Paypass—er—Paypass FedutchEEah, party of three? One of the hostesses called out the door.
—Oh, thank god—it is pronounced Pahpahs-FihDEEchia, but yes, that is us, said Julian.
The hostess looked at her list warily, as if she suspected Julian of trying to screw over poor Mr. Paypass, clearly ahead of them in line. When no one else came forward and Julian pursed his lips in that universal I told you so look of wide-eyed exasperation, she relented, showing them to a table past the bar.
Menus were unnecessary. They would all order the same thing: the Breakfast Club Sandwich. If brunch was their religion and Café Croix their chapel, if literature their doctrine and debate their dogma, then the Breakfast Club Sandwich was a holy sacrament indeed. Crispy toast encasing crispy bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado, with an ambrosial spicy mayo and perfectly fried egg—all carefully balanced and aesthetically sliced on the diagonal, providing visual confirmation of the layered presence of every flavor in every bite. Thin, delicate fries, piping hot, with swirly little Edenic tubs of ketchup and more spicy mayo provided the ideal complement. The aroma of other parishioners’ orders hung in the air, delivered tantalizingly to other placemats.
—Aren’t you off to Paris tomorrow? Julian asked Diana. Where are you eating there? Hopefully the service will be better than it is here, though I wouldn’t count on it. Lousy service is the Frenchiest thing about this place.
—I’m going tonight on the red-eye. The food will be conference-room fare for the most part, sadly. Oh, except Thursday. We decided not to fly out until Friday morning so we could have a big night out—
Diana blushed at her offhand use of the first-person plural—
—As a team, I mean, she continued. Then I’m flying to Nantucket Friday morning—to meet Wes.
She smiled unconvincingly and asked Julian what he was doing for the Fourth.
—Montauk share house, with a group from Penn, said Julian.
With Dale, you mean, Diana thought with a galling surge of jealousy, followed shortly by self-reproach. She struggled to keep her gaze trained politely at Julian while her brain focused on the periphery, at Wes, shifting in his seat. He looked—what was it? Wary, maybe. Circumspect? Uncomfortable for sure. Did he—was it possible that he suspected her of something? Of what, exactly? And—what did it matter if he did? She had done nothing wrong. She had painstakingly, expressly violated her every desire and impulse precisely in order to have done nothing wrong—precisely to avoid the very guilt she was beset with anyway. Perhaps she should proactively mention her “nice colleague” Dale McBride; she could prove through casual admission that there was nothing to admit. But she’d already reddened at the mention of staying in Paris for an extra night, and remembering it made her blush again. You don’t have to prove anything, Diana reminded herself.
—How fun, Julian; I love Montauk, she said.
—I am probably going to have to share a room with someone repellent, but I am guaranteed a seafood dinner at the Lobster Roll. It is amazing what I am willing to put up with for excellent food and the air of exclusivity. Speaking of which, where the hell is our server?
They ordered their Breakfast Club Sandwiches and Bloody Marys. Julian added a couple of other sundry drinks and, as usual, a side of “limp” bacon.
—What? Why are you looking at me like that, Julian demanded, more in a statement than a question. We have been over this. That is how I like it.
—Prostitution may not be the field for you after all, Diana remarked.
—Don’t bet on it, said Julian. People have all sorts of perversions. Would you prefer if I ordered it flaccid?
—There has to be a better way.
—If there was, I dare say I would have found it. I’m a very articulate person; I think we can all agree on that.
The Bloody Marys arrived and the conversation shifted with commensurate morbidity. The new topic was the long-form pseudo-documentary podcast Serial.
In the spring-summer of 2015, nothing had captured the post-post-collegiate creative-professional Sunday-brunching American psyche quite like Sarah Koenig’s Peabody Award–winning “story told week by week” about the 1999 murder of Hae Min Lee, a high school student in Baltimore County, and Adnan Syed, her ex-boyfriend convicted of the crime. It was a factual drama of debatable facts, a real-world tale of love and death and justice and truth repackaged in the rhetoric of highbrow fiction and presented through the aesthetic metanarrative lens of Koenig’s personal investigative discovery fifteen years later. Koenig was Serial’s journalist, but also a new kind of self-consciously unreliable narrator, opining on “secret assignations” and packaging “tendrils of truth” like a particularly literary personal acquaintance. Listening, it often felt like she was there in the room with you, that crescendo of dissonant percussive chopsticks and automaton introduction like a knock at your door: This is a Global Tel-link prepaid call from [Adnan Syed], an inmate at a Maryland correctional facility. It had the emotional intrigue of a Shakespearean drama wrapped in the titillating frame story of an Agatha Christie novel. There was a sense of desperation and immediacy, yes, but also a detached archaeological quality, allowing for endless debate and analysis. Above all, it carried a high ratio of narrative schadenfreude to narrator consequence. It was bloody fucking seductive.
—I’m sorry, but he’s guilty.
This was Julian speaking.
—You’re missing the point, said Wes. It isn’t about guilt. What matters here is beyond a reasonable doubt. The state’s case was never strong enough to warrant a conviction. No physical evidence, conflicting accounts, a single unreliable witness . . .
—I think we can all agree there wasn’t enough evidence for a conviction, Diana said. It’s the question of truth that—
—Excuse me, but we cannot all agree that there wasn’t enough for a conviction, Julian interrupted, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Other than Sarah Koenig’s poetics, this is a story of the United States Criminal Justice System at work. Adnan Syed had legal representation and received due process. The prosecution and the defense presented their arguments, and a jury of his peers found him guilty. Because, hello, he is guilty. There is a preponderance of evidence.
—It wasn’t a civil trial, said Wes, and the last time I checked, in this country defendants are presumed innocent. Adnan may have had a jury of his peers, but they were hopelessly bias—
—Oh my god, please tell me you are not about to say something like “the only thing Adnan is quote unquote ‘guilty’ of here is being Muslim,” Julian said loudly, rolling his eyes.
—Do you honestly think that you or I would have been convicted on the same evidence, Julian? Wes said. At the absolute minimum, there was unconscious bias at play. And yes, potentially outright bigotry.
—Oh, this is rich! Charles Wesley Range the Fourth, ladies and gentlemen, Julian slow-clapped, drawing the attention of tables nearby. Defender of the downtrodden, paradigm of political correctness. Is that why everyone is so enamored of this case? Because it provides the opportunity to show off their finely tuned liberal morals? I cannot fathom any other reason why this has so captured the public imagination.
—Maybe if you hadn’t interrupted me, you would, Diana quipped. Serial is revolutionary as a medium because the metanarrative overpowers the actual one. There is the question of whether Adnan is guilty or innocent, sure. But the question we really want t
o know the answer to is whether Sarah will find out. It’s more a story about the reporter’s relationship to the crime than the crime itself. She’s been pulled so far in, she’s become part of the story. The teenage love triangle helps, of course, but it’s Koenig’s internal conflict with the truth’s unknowability, of what actually happened that day—that’s what makes Serial so interesting.
—Oh my god, are you serious right now, Diana? Julian said, finding a new target for his indignation. What actually happened that day is he did it. Sarah Koenig’s intimations of innocence rest on, like, Adnan’s “big brown eyes.”
Diana could feel herself getting heated:
—But she admits her own thoughts are prejudicial! Koenig’s personal discomfort with the way she’s feeling, the way she works to counteract her own bias, wondering if she’s overcompensating—it’s fascinating. It’s one of those stories where the narrator turns out to be the most interesting character.
—I guess I’ll give you that she’s a character, said Julian, because she certainly isn’t a journalist.
Wes wrinkled his brow:
—A teenage girl was murdered, and a teenage boy was sentenced to life in prison on scanty evidence, and you think the most interesting person here is the privileged white woman winning awards for being, like, really, really interested in it?
Diana had mistaken Wes’s individual conflict with Julian as a unified front, and her husband’s accusatory rhetoric came as a hard surprise. As she studied him more closely, though, she began to sense that Wes’s fervor really sprung from his own growing discomfort with the arguments he was making—that, eager to disprove Julian’s ad hominem attacks, he had wandered into a position in which he knew he was supposed to but probably did not quite believe. It was cowardly, and she looked at him coldly.
—Sarah Koenig is using her position to get at the truth, and yes, I find it both interesting and admirable that she would personally embed herself in such an effort. Sorry if I forgot to apologize for her privilege, Wes. Ugh, women are supposed to apologize for everything! I refuse to apologize. Stop using us to offload your own liberal guilt.
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