I watched ten minutes of the second half, then left with spasms in my back, aftereffects of

the car wreck.

* * *

The motel was another new one on the northern fringe of Bethesda. Also forty, bucks a

night, and after three nights I couldn't afford any more lockdown therapy for Ruby.

Megan was of the opinion it was time for her to return home. If she was going to stay

sober, the real test would come on the streets.

At seven-thirty Tuesday morning, I knocked on her door on the second floor. Room 220,

per Megan's instructions. There was no answer. I knocked again and again, and tried the

knob. It was locked. I ran to the lobby and asked the receptionist to call the room. Again,

no answer. No one had checked out. Nothing unusual had been reported.

An assistant manager was summoned, and I convinced her that there was an emergency.

She called a security guard, and the three of us went to the room. Along the way, I

explained what we were doing with Ruby, and why the room wasn't in her name. The

assistant manager didn't like the idea of using her nice motel to detox crackheads.

The room was empty. The bed was meticulous; no sign of use during the night. Not a

single item was out of place, and nothing of hers had been left behind.

I thanked them and left. The motel was at least ten miles from our office. I called Megan

to alert her, then fought my way into the city with a million other commuters. At eight-

fifteen, sitting in stalled traffic, I called the office and asked Sofia if Ruby had been seen.

She had not.

* * *

The Lawsuit was brief and to the point. Wilma Phelan, trustee for the estates of Lontae

Burton and her children, was suing RiverOaks, Drake & Sweeney, and TAG, Inc., for

conspiring to commit a wrongful eviction. The logic was simple; the causal connection

obvious. Our clients would not have been living in their car had they not been thrown out

of their apartment. And they wouldn't have died had they not been living in their car. It

was a lovely theory of liability, one made even more attractive because of its simplicity.

Any jury in the country could follow the rationale.

The negligence and/or intentional acts of the defendants caused the deaths, which were

foreseeable. Bad things happened to those living on the streets, espe cially single mothers

with little children. Toss them out of their homes wrongfully and you pay the price if they

get hurt.

We had briefly considered a separate lawsuit for Mister's death. He too had been illegally

evicted, but his death could not be considered foreseeable. Taking hostages and getting

shot in the process were not a reasonable chain of events for one civilly wronged. Also,

he had little jury appeal. We put Mister to rest, permanently.

Drake & Sweeney would immediately ask the Judge to require me to hand over the file.

The Judge might very well make me do it, and that would be an admission of guilt. It

could also cost me my license to practice law. Further, any evidence derived from

anything in the stolen file could be excluded.

Mordecai and I reviewed the final draft Tuesday, and he again asked me if I wanted to

proceed. To protect me, he was willing to drop the lawsuit entirely. We had talked about

that several times. We even had a strategy whereby we would drop the Burton suit,

negotiate a truce with Drake & Sweeney to clear my name, wait a year for tempers to

cool, then sneak the case to a buddy of his on the other side of town. It was a bad strategy,

one we ditched almost as soon as we thought of it.

He signed the pleadings, and we left for the courthouse. He drove, and I read the lawsuit

again, the pages growing heavier the farther we went.

Negotiation would be the key. The exposure would humiliate Drake & Sweeney, a firm

with immense pride and ego, and built on credibility, client service, trustworthiness. I

knew the mind-set, the personality, the cult of great lawyers who did no wrong. I knew

the paranoia of being perceived as bad, in any way. There was guilt for making so much

money, and a corresponding desire to appear compassionate for the less fortunate.

Drake & Sweeney was wrong, though I suspected the firm had no idea how very wrong it

was. I imagined Braden Chance was cowering behind his locked door praying fervently

that the hour would pass.

But I was wrong too. Perhaps we could meet in the middle somewhere, and cut a deal. If

not, then Mordecai Green would have the pleasure of presenting the Burton case to a

friendly jury one day soon, and asking them for big bucks. And the firm would have the

pleasure of pushing my grand larceny case to the limit; to a point I didn't care to think

about.

The Burton case would never go to trial. I could still think like a Drake & Sweeney

lawyer. The idea of facing a D.C. jury would terrify them. The initial embarrassment

would have them scrambling for ways to cut their losses.

Tim Claussen, a college pal of Abraham's, was a reporter for the Post. He was waiting

outside the clerk's office, and we gave him a copy of the lawsuit. He read it while

Mordecai filed the original, then asked us questions, which we were more than happy to

answer, but off the record.

The Burton tragedy was fast becoming a political and social hot potato in the District.

Blame was being passed around with dizzying speed. Every depaiuiient head in the city

blamed another one. The city council blamed the mayor, who blamed the council while

also blaming Congress. Some right-wingers in the House had weighed in long enough to

blame the mayor, the council, and the entire city.

The idea of pinning the whole thing on a bunch of rich white lawyers made for an

astonishing story. Claussen--callous, caustic, jaded by years in journalism--couldn't

suppress his enthusiasm.

* * *

The ambush of Drake & Sweeney by the press did not bother me in the least. The firm

had established the rules the prior week when it tipped a reporter that I had been arrested.

I could see Rafter and his little band of litigators happily agreeing around the conference

table that, yes! it made perfect sense to alert the media about my arrest; and not only that

but to slip them a nice photo of the criminal. It would embarrass me, humiliate me, make

me sorry, force me to cough up the file and do whatever they wanted.

I knew the mentality, knew how the game was played.

! had no problem helping the reporter.

________________________________________________________________

Thirty

Intake at CCNV, alone, and two hours late. The clients were sitting patiently on the dirty

floor of the lobby, some nodding off, some reading newspapers. Ernie with the keys was

not pleased with my tardiness; he had a schedule of his own. He opened the intake room

and handed me a clipboard with the names of thirteen prospective clients. I called the first

one.

I was amazed at how far I'd come in a week. I had walked into the building a few minutes

earlier without the fear of being shot. I had waited for Ernie in the lobby without thinking

of being white. I listened to my clients patiently, but efficiently, because I knew what to

do. I even looked the part; my beard was more than a week old; my hair was slightly over

the ears and showing the first signs of unkemptness; my khakis were wrinkled; my navy

blazer was rumpled; my tie was loosened just so. The Nikes were still stylish but well worn. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and I would have been the perfect public interest

lawyer.

Not that the clients cared. They wanted someone to listen to them, and that was my job.

The list grew to seventeen, and I spent four hours counseling. I forgot about the coming

battle with Drake & Sweeney. I forgot about Claire, though, sadly, I was finding that

easier to do. I even forgot about Hector Palma and my trip to Chicago.

But I couldn't forget about Ruby Simon. I somehow managed to connect each new client

to her. I wasn't worried about her safety; she had survived on the streets far longer than I

could have. But why would she leave a clean motel room with a television and a shower,

and strike out through the city to find her abandoned car?

She was an addict, and that was the plain and unavoidable answer. Crack was a magnet,

pulling her back to the streets.