I drank tea with a Catholic priest at the Redeemer Mission off Rhode Island. He studied

the names with great intensity, but no bells went off. "There are so many," he said.

The only scare of the morning occurred at the Freedom Coalition, a large gathering hall

built by some long-forgotten association and later converted to a community center. At

eleven, a lunch line was forming by the front entrance. Since I wasn't there to eat, I

simply ignored the line and walked directly to the door. Some of the gentlemen waiting

for food thought I was breaking their line, and they threw obscenities at me. They were

hungry, and suddenly angry, and the fact that I was white didn't help matters. How could

they mistake me for a homeless person? The door was being manned by a volunteer, who

also thought I was being an ass. He stiff-armed me rudely, another act of violence against

my person.

"I'm not here to eat!" I said angrily. "I'm a lawyer for the homeless!"

That setfled them down; suddenly I was a blue-eyed brother. I was allowed to enter the

building without further assault. The director was Reverend Kip, a fiery little guy with a

red beret and a black collar. We did not connect. When he realized that (a) I was a lawyer;

(b) my clients were the Burtons; (c) I was working on their lawsuit; and (d) there might

be a recovery of damages down the road, he began thinking about money. I wasted thirty

minutes with him, and left with the vow to send in Mordecai.

I called Megan and begged off lunch. My excuse was that I was on the other side of the

city, with a long list of people yet to see. The truth was that I couldn't tell if she was

flirting. She was pretty and smart and thoroughly likable, and she was the last thing I

needed. I hadn't flirted in almost ten years; I didn't know the rules.

But Megan had great news. Ruby had not only survived the morning session of AA/NA,

she had vowed to stay clean for twenty-four hours. It was an emotional scene, and Megan

had watched from the rear of the room.

"She needs to stay off the streets tonight," Megan said. "She hasn't had a clean day in

twelve years."

I, of course, was of little help. Megan had several ideas.

* * *

The afternoon was as fruitless as the morning, though I did learn the location of every

shelter in the District. And I met people, made contacts, swapped cards with folks I'd

probably see again.

Kelvin Lam remained the sole evictee we'd been able to locate. DeVon Hardy and Lontae

Burton were dead. I was left with a total of fourteen people who had fallen through the

cracks in the sidewalks.

The hard-core homeless venture into shelters from time to time for a meal, or a pair of

shoes, or a blanket, but they leave no trail. They do not want help. They have no desire

for human contact. It was hard to believe that the remaining fourteen were hard core. A

month earlier, they had been living under a roof and paying rent.

Patience, Mordecai kept telling me. Street lawyers must have patience.

Ruby met me at the door of Naomi's, with a gleaming smile and a fierce hug. She had

completed both sessions. Megan had already laid the groundwork for the next twelve

hours--Ruby would not be allowed to stay on the streets. Ruby had acquiesced.

Ruby and I left the city and drove west into Virginia. In a suburban shopping center, we

bought a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, shampoo, and enough candy to get through

Halloween. W'e drove farther away from the city, and in the small town of Gainesville I

found a shiny new motel advertising single rooms for forty-two dollars a night. I paid

with a credit card; surely it would somehow be deductible.

I left her there, with strict instructions to stay in the room with the door locked until I

came for her Sunday morning.

________________________________________________________________

Twenty-eight

Saturday night, the first day of March. Young, single, certainly not as rich as I was not

too long ago, but not completely broke, yet. A closet full of nice clothes, which were not

being used. A city of one million people with scores of attractive young women drawn to

the center of political power, and always ready, it was rumored, for a good time.

I had beer and pizza and watched college basketball, alone in my loft and not unhappy.

Any public appearance that night could have ended quickly with the cruel greeting "Hey,

aren't you the guy who got arrested? Saw it in the paper this morning."

I checked on Ruby. The phone rang eight times before she answered, and I was about to

panic. She was enjoying herself immensely, having taken a long shower, eaten a pound of

candy, and watched TV nonstop. She had not left the room.

She was twenty miles away, in a small town just off the interstate in the Virginia

countryside where neither she nor I knew a soul. There was no way she could find drugs.

I patted myself on the back again.

During halftime of the Duke-Carolina game, the cell phone on the plastic storage box

next to the pizza squawked and starfled me. A very pleasant female voice said, "Hello,

jailbird."

It was Claire, without the edge.

"Hello," I said, muting the television.

"You okay?"

"Just doing great. How about you?"

"Fine. I saw your smiling face in the paper this morning, and I was worried about you."

Claire read the Sunday paper only, so if she saw my little story, someone gave it to her.

Probably the same hot-blooded doc who'd answered the phone the last time I'd called.

Was she alone on Saturday night, like me?

"It was an experience," I said, then told her the entire story, beginning with Gasko and

ending with my release. She wanted to talk, and as the narrative plodded along I decided

that she was indeed by herself, probably bored and maybe lonely. And perhaps there was

a chance that she was really worried about me.

"How serious are the charges?" she asked.

"Grand larceny carries up to ten years," I said gravely. I liked the prospect of her being

concerned. "But I'm not worried about that."

"It's just a file, isn't it?"

"Yes, and it wasn't a theft." Sure it was, but I was not yet prepared to admit that.

"Could you lose your license to practice?"

"Yes, if I'm convicted of a felony, it would be automatic."

"That's awful, Mike. What would you do then?"

"Truthfully, I haven't thought about it. It's not going to happen." I was being completely

honest; I had not seriously thought about losing my law license. Perhaps it was an issue

requiring consideration, but I had not found the time for it.

We politely inquired about each other's family, and I remembered to ask about her

brother James and his Hodgkin's disease. His treatment was under way; the family was

optimistic.