Interest in talking. Hector asked how much rent was being charged for the apartments,

and Herman said none; said that he was squatting. The sight of an armed guard in a

uniform had a chilling effect on the conversation.

On the east end of the building, ten units of similar design and construction were found.

A crying child drew Hector to one of the doors, and he asked the guard to stand back in

the shadows. A young mother answered his knock; she held a baby, three other children

swarmed around her legs. Hector informed her that he was with a law firm, that the

building had been sold, and that she would be asked to leave in a few days. She at first

said she was squatting, then quickly went on the attack. It was her apartment. She rented

it from a man named Johnny, who came around on the fifteenth of each month to collect

a hundred dollars. Nothing in writing. She had no idea who owned the building; Johnny

was her only contact. She had been there for three months, couldn't leave because there

was no place to go. She worked twenty hours a week at a grocery store.

Hector told her to pack her things and get ready to move. The building would be leveled

in ten days. She became frantic. Hector tried to provoke her further. He asked if she had

any proof that she was paying rent. She found her purse, under the bed, and handed him a

scrap of paper, a tape from a grocery store cash register. On the back someone had

scrawled: Recd frm Lontae Burton, Jan 15, $100 rent.

The memo was two pages long. But there was a third page attached to it, a copy of the

scarcely readable receipt. Hector had taken it from her, copied it, and attached the

original to the memo. The writing was hurried, the spelling flawed, the copying blurred,

but it was stunning. I must have made some ecstatic noise because the cabdriver jerked

his head and examined me in the mirror.

The memo was a straightforward description of what Hector saw, said, and heard. There

were no conclusions, no caveats to his higher-ups. Give them enough rope, he must have

said to himself, and see if they'll hang themselves. He was a lowly paralegal, in no

position to give advice, or offer opinions, or stand in the way of a deal.

At O'Hare, I faxed it to Mordecai. If my plane crashed, or if I got mugged and someone

stole it, I wanted a copy tucked away deep in the files of the 14th Street Legal Clinic.

________________________________________________________________

Twenty-nine

Since Lontae Burton's father was a person unknown to us, and probably unknown to the

world, and since her mother and all siblings were behind bars, we made the tactical

decision to bypass the family and use a trustee as a client. While I was in Chicago

Monday morning, Mordecai appeared before a judge in the D.C. Family Court and asked

for a temporary trustee to serve as guardian of the estates of Lontae Burton and each of

her children. It was a routine matter done in private. The Judge was an acquaintance of

Mordecai's. The petition was approved in minutes, and we had ourselves a new client.

Her name was Wilma Phelan, a social worker Mordecai knew. Her role in the litigation

would be minor, and she would be entitled to a very small fee in the event we recovered

anything.

The Cohen Trust may have been ill-managed from a financial standpoint, but it had rules

and bylaws covering every conceivable aspect of a nonprofit legal clinic. Leonard Cohen

had been a lawyer, obviously one with an appetite for detail. Though discouraged and

frowned upon, it was permissible for the clinic to handle an injury or wrongful death case

on a contingency-fee basis. But the fee was capped at twenty percent of the recovery, as

opposed to the standard one third. Some trial lawyers customarily took forty percent.

Of the twenty percent contingenty-fee, the clinic could keep half; the other ten percent

went to the trust. In fourteen years, Mordecai had handled two cases on a contingency basis. The first he'd lost with a bad jury. The second involved a homeless woman hit by a

city bus. He'd settled it for one hundred thousand dollars, netting the clinic a grand total

of ten thousand dollars, from which he purchased new phones and word processors.

The Judge reluctantly approved our contract at twenty percent. And we were ready to sue.

* * *

Tip-off was at seven thirty-five--Georgetown versus Syracuse. Mordecai somehow

squeezed two tickets. My flight arrived at National on time at six-twenty, and thirty

minutes later I met Mordecai at the east entrance of the U.S. Air Arena in Landover. We

were joined by almost twenty thousand other fans. He handed me a ticket, then pulled

from his coat pocket a thick, unopened envelope, sent by registered mail to my attention

at the clinic. It was from the D.C. bar.

"It came today," he said, knowing exactly what it contained. "I'll meet you at our seats."

He disappeared into a crowd of students.

I tipped it open and found a spot outside with enough light to read. My friends at Drake

& Sweeney were unloading everything they had.

It was a formal complaint filed with the Court of Appeals accusing me of unethical

behavior. The allegations ran for three pages, but could have been adequately captured in

one good paragraph. I'd stolen a file. I'd breached confidentiality. I was a bad boy who

should be either (1) disbarred permanently, or (2) suspended for many years, and/or (3)

publicly reprimanded. And since the file was still missing, the matter was urgent, and

therefore the inquiry and procedure should be expedited.

There were notices, forms, other papers I hardly glanced at. It was a shock, and I leaned

on a wall to steady myself and contemplate matters. Sure, I had thought about a bar

proceeding. It would have been unrealistic to think the firm would not pursue all avenues

to retrieve the file. But I thought the arrest might appease them for a while.

Evidently not. They wanted blood. It was a typical big-firm, hardball, take-no-prisoners

strategy, and I understood it perfectly. What they didn't know was that at nine the

following morning, I would have the pleasure of suing them for ten million dollars for the

wrongful deaths of the Burtons.

According to my assessment, there was nothing else they could do to me. No more

warrants. No more registered letters. All issues were on the table, all lines drawn. In a

small way, it was a relief to be holding the papers.

And it was also frightening. Since I'd started law school ten years earlier, I had never

seriously considered work in another field. What would I do without a law license?

But then, Sofia didn't have one and she was my equal.

Mordecai met me inside at the portal leading to our seats. I gave him a brief summary of

the bar petition. He offered me his condolences.

While the game promised to be tense and exciting, basketball was not our top priority.

Jeff Mackle was a part-time gun at Rock Creek Security, and he also worked events at the

arena. Sofia had tracked him down during the day. We figured he would be one of a

hundred uniformed guards loitering around the building, watching the game for free and

gazing at coeds.

We had no idea if he was old, young, white, black, fat, or lean, but the security guards

wore small nameplates above their left breast pockets. We walked the aisles and portals

until almost halftime before Mordecai found him, hitting on a cute ticket clerk at Gate D,

a spot I had inspected twice.

Mackle was large, white, plain-faced, and about my age. His neck and biceps were

enormous, his chest thick and bulging. The legal team huddled briefly and decided it

would be best if I approached him.

With one of my business cards between my fingers, I walked casually up to him and

introduced myself. "Mr. Mackle, I'm Michael Brock, Attorney."

He gave me the look one normally gets with such a greeting and took the card without

comment. I had interrupted his flirting with the ticket clerk.

"Could I ask you a few questions?" I said in my best homicide detective impersonation.

"You can ask. I may not answer." He winked at the ticket clerk.

"Have you ever done any security work for Drake & Sweeney, a big law firm in the

District?"

"Maybe."

"Ever help them with any evictions?"

I hit a nerve. His face hardened instantly, and the conversation was practically over.

"Don't think so," he said, glancing away. "Are you sure?"

"No. The answer is no."

"You didn't help the firm evict a warehouse full of squatters on February fourth?"

He shook his head, jaw clenched, eyes narrow. Someone from Drake & Sweeney had

already visited Mr. Mackle. Or, more than likely, the firm had threatened his employer.

At any rate, Mackle was stonefaced. The ticket clerk was preoccupied with her nails. I

was shut out.

"Sooner or later you'll have to answer my questions," I said.

The muscles in his jaw flinched, but he had no response. I was not inclined to push harder.

He was rough around the edges, the type who could erupt with a flurry of fists and lay

waste to a humble street lawyer. I had been wounded enough in the past two weeks.