I didn't want to sit in the car by myself, but by then I trusted him with my life anyway.

"Sure," I said, sinking a few inches and glancing around. "You'll be all right."

He left, and I locked the doors. After a few minutes, I relaxed, and began to think.

Mordecai wanted to be alone with the minister for business reasons. My presence

would've complicated matters. Who was I and what was my interest in the family? The

price would rise immediately.

The sidewalk was busy. I watched the people scurry by, the wind cutting them sharply. A

mother with two children passed me, bundled in nice clothing, all holding hands. Where

were they last night when Ontario and family were huddled in the frigid car, breathing the

odorless carbon monoxide until they floated away? Where were the rest of us?

The world was shutting down. Nothing made sense. In less than a week, I had seen six

dead street people, and I was ill-equipped to handle the shock. I was an educated white

lawyer, well fed and affluent, on the fast track to serious wealth and all the wonderful

things it would buy. Sure the marriage was over, but I would bounce back. There were

plenty of fine women out there. I had no serious worries.

I cursed Mister for derailing my life. I cursed Mordecai for making me feel guilty. And

Ontario for breaking my heart.

A knock on the window jolted me. My nerves were shot to hell anyway. It was Mordecai,

standing in the snow next to the curb. I cracked the window.

"He says he'll do it for two thousand bucks, all five."

"Whatever," I said, and he disappeared.

Moments later he was back, behind the wheel and speeding away. "The funeral will be

wednesday, here at the church. Wooden caskets, but nice ones. He'll get some flowers,

you know, make it look nice. He wanted three thousand, but I convinced him that there

would be some press, so he might get himself on television. He liked that. Two thousand

isn't bad."

"Thanks, Mordecai."

"Are you okay?"

"No."

We said little as we drove back to my office.

* * *

Claire's younger brother James had been diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease--thus the

family summit in Providence. It had nothing to do with me. I listened to her talk about the

weekend, the shock of the news, the tears and prayers as they leaned on each other and

comforted James and his wife. Hers is a family of huggers and criers, and I was thrilled

she had not called me to come up. The treatment would start immediately; the prognosis

was good.

She was happy to be home, and relieved to have someone to unload on. We sipped wine

in the den, by the fire, a quilt over our feet. It was almost romantic, though I was too

scarred to even think of being sentimental. I made a valiant effort at hearing her words,

grieving appropriately for poor James, interjecting fitting little phrases.

This was not what I had expected, and I wasn't sure if it was what I wanted. I thought we

might shadowbox, perhaps even skirmish. Soon it had to get ugly, then hopefully turn civil as we handled our separation like real adults. But after Ontario, I was not prepared

to deal with any issue involving emotion. I was drained. She kept telling me how tired I

looked. I almost thanked her.

I listened hard until she finished, then the conversation slowly drifted to me and my

weekend. I told her everything--my new life as a volunteer in the shelters, then Ontario

and his family. I showed her the story in the paper.

She was genuinely moved, but also puzzled. I was not the same person I'd been a week

earlier, and she was not sure she liked the latest version any better than the old. I was not

sure either.

________________________________________________________________

Eleven

As young workaholics, Claire and I did not need alarm clocks, especially for Monday

mornings, when we faced an entire week of challenges. We were up at five, eating cereal

at five-thirty, then off in separate directions, practically racing to see who could leave

first.

Because of the wine, I had managed to sleep without being haunted by the nightmare of

the weekend. And as I drove to the office, I was determined to place some distance

between myself and the street people. I would endure the funeral. I would somehow find

the time to do pro bono work for the homeless. I would pursue my friendship with

Mordecai, probably even become a regular in his office. I would drop in occasionally on

Miss Dolly and help her feed the hungry. I would give money and help raise more of it

for the poor. Certainly I could be more valuable as a source of funds than as another

poverty lawyer.

Driving in the dark to the office, I decided that I needed a string of eighteen-hour days to

readjust my priorities. My career had suffered a minor derailment; an orgy of work would

straighten things out. Only a fool would jump away from the gravy train I was riding.

I chose a different elevator from Mister's. He was history; I shut him out of my mind. I

did not look at the conference room where he died. I threw my briefcase and coat on a

chair in my office and went for coffee. Bouncing down the hallway before six in the

morning, speaking to a colleague here, a clerk there, removing my jacket, rolling up my

sleeves it was great to be back.

I scanned The Wall Street Journal first, partly because I knew it would have nothing to do

with dying street people in D.C. Then, the Post. On the front page of the Metro section,

there was a small story about Lontae Burton's family, with a photo of her grandmother

weeping outside an apartment building. I read it, then put it aside. I knew more than the

reporter, and I was determined not to be distracted.

Under the Post was a plain manila legal-sized file, the kind our firm used by the millions.

It was unmarked, and that made it suspicious. It was just lying there, ex posed, on the

center of my desk, placed there by some anonymous person. I opened it slowly.

There were only two sheets of paper inside. The first was a copy of yesterday's story in

the Post, the same one I'd read ten times and shown to Claire last night. Under it was a

copy of something lifted from an official Drake & Sweeney file. The heading read:

EVICTEES--RIVEROAKS/TAG, INC.

The left-hand column contained the numbers one through seventeen. Number four was

DeVon Hardy. Number fifteen read: Lontae Burton, and three or four children.

I slowly laid the file on the desk, stood and walked to the door, locked it, then leaned on

it. The first couple of minutes passed in absolute silence. I stared at the file in tile center

of the desk. I had to assume it was true and accurate. Why would anyone fabricate such a

thing? Then I picked it up again, carefully. Under the second sheet of paper, on the inside

of the file itself, my anonymous informant had scribbled with a pencil: The eviction was

legally and ethically wrong.

It was printed in block letters, in an effort to avoid detection should I have it analyzed.

The markings were faint, the lead hardly touching the file.

* * *

I kept the door locked for an hour, during which time I took tums standing at the window

watching the sunrise and sitting at my desk staring at the file. The traffic increased in the

hallway, and then I heard Polly's voice. I unlocked the door, greeted her as if everything

was swell, and proceeded to go through the motions.

The morning was packed with meetings and conferences, two of them with Rudolph and

clients. I performed adequately, though I couldn't remember anything we said or did.

Rudolph was so proud to have his star back at full throttle.

I was almost rude to those who wanted to chat about the hostage crisis and its aftershocks.

I appeared to be the same, and I was my usual hard-charging self, so the concerns about

my stability vanished. Late in the morning, my father called. I could not remember the

last time he'd called me at the office. He said it was raining in Memphis; he was sitting

around the house, bored, and, well, he and my mother were worried about me. Claire was

fine, I explained; then to find safe ground, I told him about her brother James, a person he

had met once, at the wedding. I sounded properly concerned about Claire's family, and

that pleased him.

Dad was just happy to reach me at the office. I was still there, making the big money,

going after more. He asked me to keep in touch.

Half an hour later, my brother Warner called from his office, high above downtown

Atlanta. He was six years older, a partner in another megafirm, a no-holds-barred litigator.

Because of the age difference, Warner and I had never been close as kids, but we enjoyed

each other's company. During his divorce three years earlier, he had confided in me

weekly.

He was on the clock, same as I, so I knew the conversation would be brief. "Talked to

Dad," he said. "He told me everything."

"I'm sure he did."

"I understand how you feel. We all go through it. You work hard, make the big money,

never stop to help the little people. Then something happens, and you think back to law

school, back to the first year, when we were full of ideals and wanted to use our law

degrees to save humanity. Remember that?"

"Yes. A long time ago."

"Right. During my first year of law school, they took a survey. Over half my class wanted

to do public interest law. When we graduated three years later, everybody went for the

money. I don't know what happened."

"Law school makes you greedy."

"I suppose. Our firm has a program where you can take a year off, sort of a sabbatical,

and do public interest law. After twelve months, you return as if you never left. You guys

do anything like that?"