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It was virtually impossible to ever find my brother worrying about himself. But one afternoon about a year ago, he briefly engaged in a rare bit of fretting. As we discussed life after DEP, he wondered about his next move. “I guess I can finally get that law school degree,” he said. We then joked about the name of his future firm (“Rasta Man Associates”). But he didn't need the degree. After all, he was perfectly suited for the job he always had in East Flatbush—working class hero.
