I wrote down these instructions as if they were complicated. Waylene was owed two

hundred ten dollars. The last case I worked on at Drake & Sweeney was an antitrust

dispute with nine hundred million dollars at stake.

The second client was unable to articulate a specific legal problem. He just wanted to talk

to someone. He was drunk or mentally ill, probably both, and Mordecai walked him to

the kitchen and poured him coffee.

"Some of these poor folks can't resist getting in a line," he said.

Number three was a resident of the shelter, had been for two months, so the address

challenge was simpler. She was fifty-eight, clean and neat, and the widow of a veteran.

According to the stack of paperwork I rummaged through while my co-counsel talked to

her, she was entitled to veteran's benefits. But the checks were being sent to a bank

account in Maryland, one she could not access. She explained this. Her paperwork

Verified it. Mordecai said, "va is a good agency. We'll get the checks sent here."

The line grew as we efficiently worked the clients. Mordecai had seen it all before: food

stamps disrupted for lack of a permanent address; a landlord's refusal to refund a security

deposit; unpaid child support; an arrest warrant for writing bad checks; a claim for Social

Security disability benefits. After two hours and ten clients, I moved to the end of the table and began interviewing them myself. During my first full day as a poverty lawyer, I

was on my own, taking notes and acting just as important as my co-counsel.

Marvis was my first solo client. He needed a divorce. So did I. After listening to his tale

of sorrow, I felt like racing home to Claire and kissing her feet. Maryis' wife was a

prostitute, who at one time had been a decent sort until she discovered crack. The crack

led her to a pusher, then to a pimp, then to life on the streets. Along the way, she stole

and sold everything they owned and racked up debts he got stuck with. He filed for

bankruptcy. She took both kids and moved in with her pimp.

He had a few general questions about the mechanics of divorce, and since I knew only

the basics I winged it as best I could. In the midst of my note-taking, I was struck by a

Vision of Claire sitting in her lawyer's fine office, at that very moment, finalizing plans to

dissolve our union.

"How long will it take?" he asked, bringing me out of my brief daydream.

"Six months," I answered. "Do you think she will contest it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Will she agree to the divorce?"

"We ain't talked about it."

The woman had moved out a year earlier, and that sounded like a good case of

abandonment to me. Throw in the adultery, and I figured the case was a cinch.

Marvis had been at the shelter for a week. He was clean, sober, and looking for work. I

enjoyed the half hour I spent with him, and I vowed to get his divorce.

The morning passed quickly; my nervousness vanished. I was reaching out to help real

people with real problems, little people with no other place to go for legal representation.

They were intimidated not only by me but also by the vast world of laws and regulations

and courts and bureaucracies. I learned to smile, and make them feel welcome. Some

apologized for not being able to pay me. Money was not important, I told them. Money

was not important.

At twelve, we surrendered our table so lunch could be served. The dining area was

crowded; the soup was ready.

Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped for soul food at the Florida Avenue Grill.

Mine was the only white face in the crowded restaurant, but I was coming to terms with

my whiteness. No one had tried to murder me yet. No one seemed to care.

* * *

Sofia found a phone that happened to be working. It was under a stack of files on the

desk nearest the door. I thanked her, and retreated to the privacy of my office. I counted

eight people sitting quietly and waiting for Sofia, the nonlawyer, to dispense advice.

Mordecai suggested that I spend the afternoon working on the cases we had taken in

during the morning at Samaritan. There was a total of nineteen. He also implied that I

should work diligently so that I could help Sofia with the traffic.

If I thought the pace would be slower on the street, I was wrong. I was suddenly up to my

ears with other people's problems. Fortunately, with my background as a self-absorbed

workaholic, I was up to the task.

My first phone call, however, went to Drake & Sweeney. I asked for Hector Palma in real

estate, and was put on hold. I hung up after five minutes, then called again. A secretary

finally answered, then put me on hold again. The abrasive voice of Braden Chance was

suddenly barking in my ear, "Can I help you?"

I swallowed hard, and said, "Yes, I was holding for Hector Palma." I tried to raise my

voice and clip my words.

"Who is this?" he demanded.

"Rick Hamilton, an old friend from school."

"He doesn't work here anymore. Sorry." He hung up, and I stared at the phone. I thought

about calling Polly, and asking her to check around, see what had happened to Hector. It

wouldn't take her long. Or maybe Rudolph, or Barry Nuzzo, or my own favorite paralegal.

Then I realized that they were no longer my friends. I was gone. I was off-limits. I was

the enemy. I was trouble and the powers above had forbidden them to talk to me.

There were three Hector Palmas in the phone book. I was going to call them, but the

phone lines were taken. The clinic had two lines, and four advocates.

________________________________________________________________

Nineteen