I raced to the sidewalk, sliding in the snow but staying on my feet, then down p Street to

Wisconsin, over to Thirty-fourth to a newsstand. Out of breath and horrified, I grabbed a

paper. On the bottom comer of the front page was the story, obviously thrown in at the

last minute. No names.

! yanked open Section A, dropping the rest of the paper onto the wet sidewalk. The story

continued on page fourteen with a few standard comments from the police and the

predictable warnings about the dangers of clogged tailpipes. Then the heartbreaking

details: The mother was twenty-two. Her name was Lontae Burton. The baby was

Temeko. The toddlers, Alonzo and Dante, were twins, age two. The big brother was

Ontario, age four.

I must have made a strange sound, because a jogger gave me an odd look, as if I might be

dangerous. I began walking away, holding the paper open, stepping on the other twenty

sections.

"Excuse me!" a nasty voice called from behind. "Would you like to pay for that?" I kept

walking.

He approached from the rear and yelled, "Hey, pal!" I stopped long enough to pull a five-

dollar bill from my pocket and throw it at his feet, hardly looking at him.

On P, near the apartment, I leaned on a brick retaining wall in front of someone's

splendid rowhouse. The sidewalk had been meticulously shoveled. I read the story again,

slowly, hoping that somehow the ending would be different. Thoughts and questions

came in torrents, and I couldn't keep up with them. But two repeated themselves: Why

didn't they return to the shelter? And, did the baby die wrapped in my denim jacket?

Thinking was burden enough. Walking was almost impossible. After the shock, the guilt

hit hard. Why didn't I do something Friday night when I first saw them? I could have

taken them to a warm motel and fed them.

The phone was ringing when I entered my apartment. It was Mordecai. He asked if I'd

seen the story. I asked if he remembered the wet diaper. Same family, I said. He'd never

heard their names. I told him more about my encounter with Ontario.

"I'm very sorry, Michael," he said, much sadder now.

"So am I."

I couldn't say much, the words wouldn't form, so we agreed to meet later. I went to the

sofa, where I remained for an hour without moving.

Then I went to my car and removed the bags of food and toys and clothing I'd bought for

them.

* * *

Only because he was curious, Mordecai came to my office at noon. He'd been in plenty

of big firms in his time, but he wanted to see the spot where Mister fell. I gave him a brief

tour with a quick narration of the hostage affair.

We left in his car. I was thankful for the light Sunday traffic because Mordecai had no

interest in what the other cars were doing.

"Lontae Burton's mother is thirty-eight years old, serving a ten-year sentence for selling

crack," he informed me. He'd been on the phone. "Two brothers, both in jail. Lontae had

a history of prostitution and drugs. No idea of who the father, or fathers, might be."

"Who's your source?"

"I found her grandmother in a housing project. The last time she saw Lontae she had only

three kids, and she was selling drugs with her mother. According to the grandmother, she

cut her ties with her daughter and granddaughter because of the drug business."

"Who buries them?"

"Same people who buried DeVon Hardy."

"How much would a decent funeral cost?"

"It's negotiable. Are you interested?"

"I'd like to see them taken care of."

We were on Pennsylvania Avenue, moving past the mammoth office buildings of

Congress, the Capitol in the background, and I couldn't help but offer a silent curse or

two at the fools who wasted billions each month while people were homeless. How could

four innocent children die in the streets, practically in the shadow of the Capitol, because

they had no place to live?

They shouldn't have been born, some people from my side of town would say.

The bodies had been taken to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, which also

housed the morgue. It was a two-story brown aggregate building at D.C. General Hospital.

They would be held there until claimed. If no one came forward within forty-eight hours,

they would receive a mandatory embalming, be placed in wooden caskets, and quickly

buried in the cemetery near RFK.

Mordecai parked in a handicapped space, paused for a second, and said, "Are you sure

you want to go in?"

"I think so."

He'd been there before, and he had called ahead. A security guard in an ill-fitting uniform

dared to stop us, and Mordecai snapped so loud it scared me. My stomach was in knots

anyway.

The guard retreated, happy to get away from us. A set of plate-glass doors had the word

MORGUE painted in black. Mordecai entered as if he owned the place.

"I'm Mordecai Green, attorney for the Burton family," he growled at the young man

behind the desk. It was more of a challenge than an announcement.

The young man checked a clipboard, then fumbled with some more papers.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mordecai snapped again.

The young man looked up with an attitude, and then realized how large his adversary

really was. "Just a minute," he said, and went to his computer.

Mordecai turned to me and said loudly, "You'd think they have a thousand dead bodies in

there."

I realized that he had no patience whatsoever with bureaucrats and government workers,

and I remembered his story about the apology from the Social Securety secretary. For

Mordecai, half of the practice of law was bullying and barking.

A pale gentleman with badly dyed black hair and a clammy handshake appeared and

introduced himself as Bill. He wore a blue lab jacket and shoes with thick rubber soles.

Where do they find people to work in a morgue?

We followed him through a door, down a sterile hallway where the temperature began

dropping, and, finally, to the main holding room.

"How many you got today?" Mordecai asked, as if he stopped by all the time to count

bodies.

Bill turned the doorknob and said, "Twelve."

"You okay?" Mordecai asked me.

"I don't know."

Bill pushed the metal door, and we stepped in. The air was frigid, the smell antiseptic.

The floor was white tile, the lighting blue fluorescent. I followed Mordecai, my head

down, trying not to look around, but it was impossible. The bodies were covered from

head to ankle with white sheets, just like you see on television. We passed a set of white

feet, a tag around a toe. Then some brown ones.

We turned and stopped in a corner, a gurney to the left, a table to the right.

Bill said, "Lontae Burton," and dramatically pulled the sheet down to her waist. It was

Ontario's mother all right, in a plain white gown. Death had left no marks on her face.

She could've been sleeping. I couldn't stop staring at her.

"That's her," Mordecai said, as if he'd known her for years. He looked at me for

verification, and I managed a nod. Bill wheeled around, and I held my breath. Only one

sheet covered the children.

They were lying in a perfect row, tucked closely together, hands folded over their

matching gowns, cherubs sleeping, little street soldiers finally at peace.

I wanted to touch Ontario, to pat him on the arm and tell him I was sorry. I wanted to

wake him up, take him home, feed him, and give him everything he could ever want.

I took a step forward for a closer look. "Don't touch," Bill said.

When I nodded, Mordecai said, "That's them."

As Bill covered them, I closed my eyes and said a short prayer, one of mercy and

forgiveness. Don't let it happen again, the Lord said to me.

In a room down the hall, Bill pulled out two large wire baskets containing the personal

effects of the family. He dumped them on a table, and we helped him inventory the

contents. The clothing they wore was dirty and threadbare. My denim jacket was the

nicest item they owned. There were three blankets, a purse, some cheap toys, baby

formula, a towel, more dirty clothes, a box of vanilla wafers, an unopened can of beer,

some cigarettes, two condoms, and about twenty dollars in bills and change.

"The car is at the city lot," Bill said. "They say it's full of junk."

"We'll take care of it," Mordecai said.

We signed the inventory sheets, and left with the personal assets of the Lontae Burton

family. "What do we do with this stuff?." I asked.

"Take it to the grandmother. Do you want your coat back?"

"No."

* * *

The funeral parlor was owned by a minister Mordecai knew. He didn't like him because

the Reverend's church was not friendly enough to the homeless, but he could deal with

him.

We parked in front of the church, on Georgia Avenue near Howard University, a cleaner

part of town without as many boards over windows.

"It's best if you stay here," he said. "I can talk to him a lot plainer if we're alone."