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336 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 1, 2014

The worst thing about being a black lawyer is that everyone you know thinks you’re their lawyer and they can call you about anything at any time. And while I’m sure that happens to all lawyers-white, yellow, brown, and beige-because I’m black it’s almost a guarantee that whatever my people need me for at whatever time is likely so ghetto and/or hood, there’s simply no way I can tack my signature to anything have to do with the situation.
“Negro, please. You’re ordering mimosas when I’ve never seen you drink anything but Heineken. You asked me out to brunch in Hell’s Kitchen when you never leave Harlem. And you’re being all nice to me. You have to want something. Just say it.” I sat back and looked at little bits of skin peeling off Kent’s forehead.
“Ellison would say, ‘I yam what I am.’” “A king?” “Oh, you’re tripping on my name, too?” “It’s not every day you come across a white boy-“ “Man,” he corrected me. “I’m a man, Full man” “Yes…a white man named King.”
