Into the parking lots were of the midsized commuter variety, mostly clean and with all

four hubcaps.

A security guard stopped me. Once he determined that I posed no threat, he pointed in the

direction of the main office, at least a quarter of a mile away.

"How many units are in this place?" I asked.

"A lot," he answered. Why should he know the number?

The night manager was a student eating a sandwich, a physics textbook opened before

him. But he was watching the Bullets-Knicks game on a small TV. I asked about Hector

Palma, and he pecked away on a keyboard. G-134 was the number.

"But they've moved," he said with a mouthful of food.

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I worked with Hector. Friday was his last day. I'm looking for an

apartment, and I was wondering if I could see his."

He was shaking his head no before I finished. "Only on Saturdays, man. We have nine

hundred units. And there's a waiting list."

"I'm gone on Saturday."

"Sorry," he said, taking another bite and glancing at the game.

I removed my wallet. "How many bedrooms?" I asked.

He glanced at the monitor. "Two."

Hector had four children. I was sure his new digs were more spacious.

"How much a month?"

"Seven-fifty."

I took out a one-hundred-dollar bill, which he immediately saw. "Here's the deal. Give

me the key. I'll take a look at the place and be back in ten minutes. No one will ever

know."

"We have a waiting list," he said again, dropping the sandwich onto a paper plate.

"Is it there in that computer?" I asked, pointing.

"Yeah," he said, wiping his mouth.

"Then it would be easy to shuffle."

He found the key in a locked drawer, and grabbed the money. "Ten minutes," he said.

The apartment was nearby, on the ground floor of a three-story building. The key worked.

The smell of fresh paint escaped through the door before I went inside. In fact, the

painting was still in progress; in the living room there was a ladder, dropcloths, white

buckets.

A team of fingerprinters could not have found a trace of the Palma clan. All drawers,

cabinets, and closets were bare; all carpets and padding ripped up and gone. Even the tub

and toilet bowl stains had been removed. No dust, cobwebs, dirt under the kitchen sink.

The place was sterile. Every room had a fresh coat of dull white, except the living room,

which was half-finished.

I returned to the office and tossed the key on the counter.

"How about it?" he asked.

"Too small," I said. "But thanks anyway."

"You want your money back?"

"Are you in school?"

"Yes."

"Then keep it."

"Thanks."

I stopped at the door, and asked, "Did Palma leave a forwarding address?"

"I thought you worked with him," he said.

"Right," I said, and quickly closed the door behind me.

________________________________________________________________

Twenty-two

The little woman was sitting against our door when I arrived for work Wednesday

morning. It was almost eight; the office was locked; the temperature was below freezing.

At first I thought she had parked herself there for the night, using our doorway to battle

the wind. But when she saw me approach, she immediately jumped to her feet and said,

"Good morning."

I smiled, said hello, and started fumbling keys.

"Are you a lawyer?" she asked.

"Yes I am."

"For people like me?"

I assumed she was homeless, and that was all we asked of our clients. "Sure. Be my

guest," I said as I opened the door. It was colder inside than out. I adjusted a thermostat,

one that, as far as I had been able to determine, was connected to nothing. I made coffee and found some stale doughnuts in the kitchen. I offered them to her, and she quickly ate

one.

"What's your name?" I asked. We were sitting in the front, next to Sofia's desk, waiting

for the coffee and praying for the radiators. "Ruby."

"I'm Michael. Where do you live, Ruby?"

"Here and there." She was dressed in a gray Georgetown Hoya sweat suit, thick brown

socks, dirty white sneakers with no brand name. She was between thirty and forty, rail-

thin, and slightly cockeyed.

"Come on," I said with a smile. "I need to know where you live. Is it a shelter?"

"Used to live in a shelter, but had to leave. Almost got raped. I got a car."

I had seen no vehicles parked near the office when I arrived. "You have a car?"

"Yes."

"Do you drive it?"

"It don't drive. I sleep in the back."

I was asking questions without a legal pad, something I was not trained to do. I poured

two large paper cups of coffee, and we retreated to my office, where, mercifully, the

radiator was alive and gurgling. I closed the door. Mordecai would arrive shortly, and he

had never learned the art of a quiet entry.

Ruby sat on the edge of my brown folding client's chair, her shoulders slumped, her

entire upper body wrapped around the cup of coffee, as if it might be the last warm thing

in life.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, armed with a full assortment of legal pads.

"It's my son, Terrence. He's sixteen, and they've taken him away."

"Who took him?"

"The city, the foster people."

"Where is he now?"

"They got him."

Her answers were short, nervous bursts, quick on the heels of each question. "Why don't

you relax and tell me about Terrence?" I said.

And she did. With no effort at eye contact, and with both hands on the coffee cup, she

zipped through her narrative. Several years earlier, she couldn't remember how long, but

Terrence was around ten, they were living alone in a small apartment. She was arrested

for selling drugs. She went to jail for four months. Terrence went to live with her sister.

Upon her release, she collected Terrence, and they began a nightmare existence living on

the streets. They slept in cars, squatted in empty buildings, slept under bridges in warm

weather, and retreated to the shelters when it was cold. Somehow, she kept him in school.

She begged on the sidewalks; she sold her body--"tricking" as she called it; she peddled a

little crack. She did whatever it took to keep Terrence fed, in decent clothes, and in

school.

But she was an addict, and couldn't kick the crack. She became pregnant, and when the

child was born the city took it immediately. It was a crack baby.

She seemed to have no affection for the baby; only for Terrence. The city began asking

questions about him, and mother and child slid deeper into the shadows of the homeless.

Out of desperation, she went to a family she had once worked for as a maid, the

Rowlands, a couple whose children were grown and away from home. They had a warm

little house near Howard University. She offered to pay them fifty dollars a month if

Terrence could live with them. There was a small bedroom above the back porch, one

she'd cleaned many times, and it would be perfect for Terrence. The Rowlands hesitated

at first, but finally agreed. They were good people, back then. Ruby was allowed to visit

Terrence for an hour each night. His grades improved; he was clean and safe, and Ruby

was pleased with herself.

She rearranged her life around his: new soup kitchens and dinner programs closer to the

Rowlands; different shelters for emergencies; different alleys and parks and abandoned

cars. She scraped together the money each month, and never missed a nightly visit with

her son.

Until she was arrested again. The first arrest was for prostitution; the second was for

sleeping on a park bench in Farragut Square. Maybe there was a third one, but she

couldn't remember.

She was rushed to D.C. General once when someone found her lying in a street,

unconscious. She was placed in a dry-out tank for addicts, but walked out after three days

because she missed Terrence.

She was with him one night in his room when he stared at her stomach and asked if she

was pregnant again. She said she thought so. Who was the father? he demanded. She had

no idea. He cursed her and yelled so much that the Rowlands asked her to leave.

While she was pregnant, Terrence had little to do with her. It was heartbreaking--sleeping