Throwing stones at an institutional empire takes more than just courage. It takes savage quantities of acceptance. You have to accept the fact that you’re eventually going to jail, that you yourself will also be included in the drainage of the swamp. Because if you deny this possibility, if you fixate on the hope that you’ll somehow escape unscathed, you’ll hesitate at a crucial moment. You won’t jump into the fray. You’ll fail to do what’s needed exactly when it’s needed most. And you’ll lose.
Case in point, right now what I was facing was the potential repercussions of illegally entering a bank office to illegally access material I shouldn’t access. The plan was basic: if I could expose them before they publicly attacked me, then anything they’d do to me would be recognized for exactly what it was, an attempt to scapegoat an innocent employee. Hurrying through the neighborhood of Saint-Denis, one of the more dangerous places in Europe, an hour north of Paris, taking advantage of the fact that in a giant ghetto like this, I had a decent chance of eluding whoever had been chasing me earlier. There were sordid individuals on every corner, along with broken windows and graffiti. It was ideal cover from the fake cop—the one who searched my room—but even the remote odds of this guy lurking behind one of these tight corners, even all the way out here, scared me just as bad as the prospect of jail. What was he capable of? What kind of retaliation had he been contriving these past few hours? What did he even want from me?
I deliberately chose the most illogical streets possible. Each time I arrived at an intersection, I asked myself, What route would this guy guess I’d take? Metro Fort d’Aubervilliers or avenue du Général Leclerc? Turning left looked safer and faster, so I turned right, not stopping, still hurrying, going against my default logic, choice after choice, turn after turn, contradiction after contradiction, even sneaking on and off a crowded bus for a minute, so by the time I’d hit the final half mile inside the posh eighth, my zigzags had tripled my fatigue. I was approaching the Euro Bank headquarters just before the end of the lengthy Parisian workday, which would become, ironically, ideal timing. At 6:45 p.m. the majority of the local staff would be out, yet it wouldn’t be so late in the day that the security team would wonder why someone would be entering instead of exiting. When I rounded the final corner and was within direct view of the office, ready to get right to the task at hand, I felt good about what was to come, and that’s when I saw him—the guy—the fake cop—sitting at a café across the street, patiently waiting at a small table in the corner, having perfectly anticipated my choice of destination.