I noticed something I should have seen before. There were different levels of

homelessness, distinct rungs on the socioeconomic ladder. At one table, six men ate and

talked happily about a basketball game they had seen on television. They were reasonably

well dressed. One wore gloves while he ate, and except for that, the group could've been

sitting in any workingclass bar in the city without being immediately branded as

homeless. Behind them, a hulking figure with thick sunglasses ate alone, handling the

chicken with his fingers. He had robber boots similar to the ones Mister wore at the time

of his death. His coat was dirty and frayed. He was oblivious to his surroundings. His life

was noticeably harder than the lives of the men laughing at the next table. They had

access to warm water and soap; he couldn't have cared less. They slept in shelters. He

slept in parks with the pigeons. But they were all homeless.

Liza did not know Kelvin Lam, but she would ask around. We watched her as she moved

through the crowd, speaking to the people, pointing to the wastebaskets in one corner,

fussing over an elderly lady. She sat between two men, neither of whom looked at her as

they talked. She went to another table, then another.

Most surprisingly, a lawyer appeared, a young associate from a large firm, a pro bono

volunteer with the Washington Legal Clinic for the Homeless. He recognized Mordecai

from a fund-raiser the year before. We did law talk for a few minutes, then he

disappeared into a back room to begin three hours of intake.

"The Washington Legal Clinic has a hundred and fifty volunteers," Mordecai said. "Is

that enough?" I asked.

"It's never enough. I think we should revive our pro bono volunteer program. Maybe

you'd like to take charge and supervise it. Abraham likes the idea."

It was nice to know that Mordecai and Abraham, and no doubt Sofia too, had been

discussing a program for me to run.

"It will expand our base, make us more visible in the legal community, and help with

raising money."

"Sure," I said, without conviction.

Liza was back. "Kelvin Lam is in the rear," she said, nodding. "Second table from the

back. Wearing the Redskins cap."

"Did you talk to him?" Mordecai asked.

"Yes. He's sober, pretty sharp, said he's been staying at CCNV, works part-time on a

garbage truck."

"Is there a small room we can use?"

"Sure."

"Tell Lam a homeless lawyer needs to talk to him."

* * *

Lam didn't say hello or offer to shake hands. Mordecai sat at a table. I stood in a corner.

Lam took the only available chair, and gave me a look that made my skin crawl.

"Nothing's wrong," Mordecai said in his best soothing tone. "We need to ask you a few

questions, that's all."

Not a peep out of Lam. He was dressed like a resident of a shelter--jeans, sweatshirt,

sneakers, wool jacket--as opposed to the pungent multilayered garb of one sleeping under

a bridge.

"Do you know a woman named Lontae Burton?" Mordecai asked. He would do the

talking for us lawyers.

Lam shook his head no.

"DeVon Hardy?"

Another no.

"Last month, were you living in an abandoned warehouse?"

"Yep."

"At the corner of New York and Florida?"

"Uh-huh."

"Were you paying rent?"

"Yep."

"A hundred dollars a month?"

"Yep."

"To Tillman Gantry?"

Lam froze, and closed his eyes to ponder the question. "Who?" he asked.

"Who owned the warehouse?"

"I paid rent to some dude named Johnny."

"Who did Johnny work for?"

"Don't know. Don't care. Didn't ask."

"How long did you live there?"

"'Bout four months."

"Why did you leave?"

"Got evicted."

"Who evicted you?"

"I don't know. The cops showed up one day with some other dudes. They yanked us and

threw us on the sidewalk. Couple of days later, they bulldozed the warehouse."

"Did you explain to the cops that you were paying rent to live there?"

"A lot of people were saying that. This one woman with little kids tried to fight with the

police, but didn't do no good. Me, I don't fight with cops. It was a bad scene, man."

"Were you given any paperwork before the eviction?"

"No,"

"Any notice to get out?"

"No. Nothing. They just showed up."

"Nothing in writing?"

"Nothing. Cops said we were just squatters; had to get out right then."

"So you moved in last fall, sometime around October."

"Something like that."

"How did you find the place?"

"I don't know. Somebody said they were renting little apartments in the warehouse.

Cheap rent, you know. So I went over to check it out. They were putting up some boards

and walls and things. There was a roof up there, a toilet not far away, running water. It

wasn't a bad deal."

"So you moved in?"

"Right."

"Did you sign a lease?"

"No. Dude told me that the apartment was illegal, so nothing was in writing. Told me to

say I was squatting in case anybody asked."

"And he wanted cash?"

"Only cash."

"Did you pay every month?"

"Tried to. He came around on the fifteenth to collect."

"Were you behind on your rent when you were evicted?"

"A little."

"How much?"

"Maybe one month."

"Was that the reason you were evicted?"

"I don't know. They didn't give no reason. They just evicted everybody, all at once."

"Did you know the other people in the warehouse?"

"I knew a couple. But we kept to ourselves. Each aparmtent had a good door, one that

would lock."

"This mother you mentioned, the one who fought with the police, did you know her?"

"No. I'd maybe seen her once or twice. She lived on the other end."

"The other end?"

"Right. There was no plumbing in the middle of the warehouse, so they built the

apartments on each end."

"Could you see her apartment from yours?"

"No. It was a big warehouse."

"How big was your apartment?"

"Two rooms, I don't know how big."

"Electricity?"

"Yeah, they ran some wires in. We could plug in radios and things like that. We had

lights. There was running water, but you had to use a community toilet."

"What about heating?"

"Not much. It got cold, but not nearly as cold as sleeping on the street."

"So you were happy with the place?"

"It was okay. I mean, for a hundred bucks a month it wasn't bad."

"You said you knew two other people. What are their names?"

"Herman Harris and Shine somebody."

"where are they now?"

"I haven't seen them."

"Where are you staying?"

"CCNV."

Mordecai pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Lam. "How long will

you be there?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Can you keep in touch with me?"

"why?"

"You might need a lawyer. Just call me if you change shelters or find a place of your

own."

Lam took the card without a word. We thanked Liza and returned to the office.

* * *

As with any lawsuit, there were a number of ways to proceed with our action against the

defendants. There were three of them--RiverOaks, Drake & Sweeney, and TAG, and we

did not expect to add more.

The first method was the ambush. The other was the serve and volley.

With the ambush, we would prepare the skeletal framework of our allegations, run to the

courthouse, file the suit, leak it to the press, and hope we could prove what we thought

we knew. The advantage was surprise, and embarrassment for the defendants, and,

hopefully, public opinion. The downside was the legal equivalent of jumping off a cliff

with the strong, but unconfirmed, belief that there was a net down there somewhere.

The serve and volley would begin with a letter to the defendants, in which we made the

same allegations, but rather than sue we would invite them to discuss the matter. The

letters would go back and forth with each side generally able to predict what the other

might do. If liability could be proved, then a quiet settlement would probably occur.

Litigation could be avoided.

The ambush appealed to Mordecai and myself for two reasons. The firm had shown no