Lawrence doesn’t respond, although I can tell from the hard set of his jaw that what he sees is unsettling. He grew up in a place like this, a blue-collar town called Pittsfield in western Massachusetts. His father, a much-loved Irish tavern owner, died of cirrhosis of the liver when Lawrence was three. A year later, his mother sold the bar to pay off her husband’s debts then worked two jobs to put food on the table. Lawrence was expected to contribute, but when his silver tongue earned him a full ride to Groton, an elite prep school, she agreed to let him go. His mom had reservations, to be sure. She didn’t want her boy living away from home, much less among rich, spoiled snobs. What values might he learn? What bad habits? In retrospect, her concern is poignant, given that every aspect of his charmed life—career, home, wife, sons, me—can be traced back to Groton.

Despite his disadvantaged start, Lawrence flourished. After high school, he went to Columbia, also on scholarship, then spent years as a media consultant, advising political candidates on PR strategies. Lawrence’s genius is exploiting the space between fact-based truth and news-based reality, and he created successful campaigns for contenders in local races before advancing to state and national elections. Through Eleanor, he was introduced to the upper echelon of the country’s legal, business, and journalism communities, which helped him build a vast referral network.

And yet, for all his success, Lawrence is a humanitarian at heart. Losing a father so young left him with the persistent need to be loved and do good. So, he was lucky to find Eleanor, with whom he shares a social conscience that informs their life choices. About six years ago, Lawrence started to sour on politics. The country’s economic divide sickened him, but so did getting paid to write blustery speeches filled with false promises. When Eleanor encouraged him to switch careers, he decided to use his talent, experience, and influence to benefit those less privileged. I was still in high school when he created the first blueprints for the Stockton-Quinn Foundation, a private nonprofit devoted to wealth redistribution. His big idea is to pair corporate dollars with underserved communities and create social welfare programs at the neighborhood level. (I said it was a big idea, not a novel one.) Lawrence genuinely wants to help people; he also wants never to go back to Pittsfield. To see his youngest child locked up in the middle of nowhere must feel like a cruel twist of fate.

A sharp tap on Lawrence’s window startles me. I look up to see a Black man peering through the glass. He raps again, this time with the tip of his rifle.