It was twenty minutes past nine when I arrived with my lawyer at the Carl Moultrie

Building, on the corner of Sixth and Indiana, downtown. Mordecai knew where we were

going. I had never been near the Moultrie Building, home of civil and criminal cases in

the District. The line formed outside the front entrance, and it moved slowly as the

lawyers and litigants and criminals were searched and scanned for metal devices. Inside,

the place was a zoo--a lobby packed with anxious people, and four levels of hallways

lined with courtrooms.

The Honorable Norman Kisner held court on the first floor, room number 114. A daily

docket by the door listed my name under First Appearances. Eleven other criminals

shared space with me. Inside, the bench was vacant; lawyers milled about. Mordecai

disappeared into the back, and I took a seat in the second row. I read a magazine and tried

to appear utterly bored with the scene.

"Good morning, Michael," someone said from the aisle. It was Donald Rafter, clutching

his briefcase with both hands. Behind him was a face I recognized from litigation, but I

could not recall the name. I nodded and managed to say, "Hello."

They scooted away and found seats on the other side of the courtroom. They represented

the victims, and as such had the right to be present at each stage of my proceedings.

It was only a first appearance! I would stand before the Judge while he read the charges. I

would enter a plea of not guilty, be released on my existing bond, and leave. Why was

Rafter there?

The answer came slowly. I stared at the magazine, struggled to remain perfectly calm,

and finally realized that his presence was merely a reminder. They regarded the theft as a

serious matter, and they would dog me every step of the way. Rafter was the smartest and

meanest of all litigators. I was supposed to shake with fear at the sight of him in the

courtroom.

At nine-thirty, Mordecai emerged from behind the bench and motioned for me. The

Judge was waiting in his chambers. Mordecai introduced me to him, and the three of us

setfled casually around a small table.

Judge Kisner was at least seventy, with bushy gray hair and a scraggly gray beard, and

brown eyes that burned holes as he talked. He and my lawyer had been acquaintances for

many years.

"I was just telling Mordecai," he said, waving a hand, "that this is a very unusual case."

I nodded in agreement. It certainly felt unusual to me.

"I've known Arthur Jacobs for thirty years. In fact, I know a lot of those lawyers over

there. They're good lawyers."

They were indeed. They hired the best and trained them well. I felt uncomfortable with

the fact that my trial judge had such admiration for the victims.

"A working file stolen from a lawyer's office might be hard to evaluate from a monetary

point of view. It's just a bunch of papers, nothing of real value to anyone except the

lawyer. It would be worth nothing if you tried to sell it on the streets. I'm not accusing

you of stealing the file, you understand."

"Yes. I understand." I wasn't sure if I did or not, but I wanted him to continue.

"Let's assume you have the file, and let's assume you took it from the firm. If you

returned it now, under my supervision, I would be inclined to place a value on it of

something less than a hundred dollars. That, of course, would be a misdemeanor, and we

could sweep it under the rug with a bit of paperwork. Of course, you would have to agree

to disregard any information taken from the file."

"And what if I don't return it? Still assuming, of course."

"Then it becomes much more valuable. The grand larceny sticks, and we go to trial on

that charge. If the prosecutor proves his case and the jury finds you guilty, it will be up to

me to sentence you."

The creases in his forehead, the hardening of his eyes, and the tone of his voice left little

doubt that sentencing would be something I would rather avoid.

"In addition, if the jury finds you guilty of grand larceny, you will lose your license to

practice law."

"Yes sir," I said, very much chastised.

Mordecai was holding back, listening and absorbing everything.

"Unlike most of my docket, time is crucial here," Kisner continued. "This civil litigation

could turn on the contents of the file. Admissibility will be for another judge in another

courtroom. I'd like to have the criminal matter resolved before the civil case progresses

too far. Again, we're assuming you have the file."

"How soon?" Mordecai asked.

"I think two weeks is sufficient time to make your decision."

We agreed that two weeks was reasonable. Mordecai and I returned to the courtroom

where we waited another hour while nothing happened.

Wan Claussen from the Post arrived with a rush of lawyers. He saw us sitting in the

courtroom, but did not venture over. Mordecai moved away from me, and eventually

cornered him. He explained that there were two lawyers in the courtroom from Drake &

Sweeney, Donald Rafter and another guy, and perhaps they might have a word for the

paper.

Claussen went right after them. Voices could be heard from the back bench where Rafter

had been killing time. They left the courtroom and continued their argument outside.

My appearance before Kisner was as brief as expected. I entered a plea of not guilty,

signed some forms, and left in a hurry. Rafter was nowhere in sight

* * *

"What did you and Kisner talk about before I got back there?" I asked as soon as we were

in the car.

"Same thing he told you."

"He's a hard-ass."

"He's a good judge, but he was a lawyer for many years. A criminal lawyer, and one of

the best. He has no sympathy for a lawyer who steals the files of another."

"How long will my sentence be if I'm convicted?"

"He didn't say. But you'll do time."

We were waiting for a red light. Fortunately I was driving. "All right, Counselor," I said.

"What do we do?"

"We have two weeks. Let's approach it slowly. Now is not the time to make decisions."

________________________________________________________________

Thirty-three

There were two stories in the morning Post, both prominently displayed and accompanied

by photos. The first was the one promised in yesterday's edition--a long history of the

tragic life of Lontae Burton. Her grandmother was the principal source, though the

reporter had also contacted two aunts, a former employer, a social worker, a former

teacher, and her mother and two brothers in prison. With its typical aggressiveness and

unlimited budget, the paper was doing a splendid job of gathering the facts we would

need for our case.

Lontae's mother was sixteen when she was born, the second of three children, all out of

wedlock, all sired by different men, though her mother refused to say anything about her

father. She grew up in the rough neighborhoods in Northeast, moving from place to place

with her troubled mother, living periodically with her grandmother and aunts. tier mother

was in and out of jail, and Lontae quit school after the sixth grade. From there, her life

became predictably dismal. Drugs, boys, gangs, petty crime, the dangerous life on the

street. She worked at various minimum-wage jobs, and proved to be completely

unreliable.

City records told much of the story: an arrest at the age of fourteen for shoplifting,

processed through juvenile court. Charged again three months later for public

drunkenness, juvenile court. Possession of pot at fifteen, juvenile court. Same charge

seven months later. Arrested for prostitution at the age of sixteen and handled as an adult,

conviction but no jail. Arrested for grand larceny, stealing a portable CD player from a

pawnshop, conviction but no jail. Birth of Ontario when she was eighteen, at D.C.

General with no father listed on the birth certificate. Arrested for prostitution two months

after Ontario arrived, convicted but no jail. Birth of the twins, Alonzo and Dante, when

she was twenty, also at D.C. General, also with no father listed. And then Temeko, the

baby with the wet diaper, born when Lontae was twenty-one.