In the midst of this sad obituary, a glimmer of hope sprang forth. After Temeko arrived,

Lontae stumbled into the House of Mary, a women's day center similar to Naomi's, where

she met a social worker named Nell Cather. Ms. Cather was quoted at length in the story.

According to her version of Lontae's last months, she was determined to get off the

streets and clean up her life. She eagerly began taking birth control pills, prodded by the

House of Mary. She desperately wanted to get clean and sober. She attended AA/NA

meetings at the center, and fought her addictions with great courage, though sobriety

eluded her. She quickly improved her reading skills, and dreamed of getting a job with a

steady' paycheck to provide for her little family.

Ms. Cather eventually found her a job unpacking produce at a large grocery store; twenty

hours a week at $4.75 an hour. She never missed work.

One day last fall she whispered to Nell Cather that she had found a place to live, though it

must be kept a secret. As part of her job, Nell wanted to inspect the place, but Lontae

refused. It wasn't legal, she explained. It was a small, two-room squatter's apartment with

a roof and a locked door and a bathroom nearby, and she paid a hundred dollars a month

in cash.

I wrote down the name of Nell Cather, at the House of Mary-, and smiled to myself at the

thought of her on the witness stand, telling the Burtons' story to a jury.

Lontae became terrified at the thought of losing her children, because it happened so

often. Most of the homeless women at the House of Mary had lost theirs, and the more

Lontae heard their horror stories, the more determined she became to keep her family to

gether. She studied harder, even learned the basics of a computer, and once went four

days without touching drugs.

Then she was evicted, her meager belongings tossed into the street along with her

children. Ms. Cather saw her the next day, and she was a mess. The kids were hungry and

dirty; Lontae was stoned. The House of Mary had a policy forbidding the entry of any

person obviously intoxicated or under the influence of drugs. The director was forced to

ask her to leave. Ms. Cather never saw her again; not a word until she read about the

deaths in the paper.

As I read the story, I thought of Braden Chance. I hoped he was reading it too, in the

early morning warmth of his fine home in the Virginia suburbs. I was certain he was

awake at such an early hour. How could a person under so much pressure sleep at all?

I wanted him to suffer, to realize that his callous disregard for the rights and dignities of

others had caused so much misery. You were sitting in your nice office, Braden, working

hard by the golden hour, shuffling papers for your rich clients, reading memos from

paralegals you sent to do the dirty work, and you made the cold, calculated decision to

proceed with an eviction you should have stopped. They were just squatters, weren't they,

Braden? Lowly black street people living like animals. There was nothing in writing, no

leases, no papers, thus no rights. Toss 'em. Any delay in dealing with them might hinder

the project.

I wanted to call him at home, jolt him from his morning coffee, and say, "How do you

feel now, Braden?"

The second story was a pleasant surprise, at least from a legal point of view. It also meant

trouble.

An old boyfriend had been found, a nineteen-yearold street tough named Kito Spires. His

photo would frighten any law-abiding citizen. Kito had a lot to say. He daimed to be the

father of Lontae's last three children-the twins and the baby. He had lived with her off

and on over the last three years; more off than on.

Kito was a typical inner-city product, an unemployed high school dropout with a criminal

record. His credibility would always be questioned.

He had lived in the warehouse with Lontae and his children. He had helped her pay the

rent whenever he could. Sometime after Christmas, they had fought and he had left. He

was currently living with a woman whose husband was in prison.

He knew nothing about the eviction, though he felt it was wrong. When asked about

conditions in the warehouse, Kito gave enough details to convince me he had actually

been there. His description was similar to the one in Hector's memo.

He did not know the warehouse was owned by Tillman Gantry. A dude named Johnny

collected rent, on the fifteenth of each month. A hundred bucks.

Mordecai and I would find him soon. Our witness list was growing, and Mr. Spires might

well be our star.

Kito was deeply saddened by the deaths of his children and their mother. I had watched

the funeral very carefully, and Kito was most certainly not in attendance.

Our lawsuit was getting more press than we could have dreamed of. We only wanted ten

million dollars, a nice round figure that was being written about daily, and discussed in

the streets. Lontae had sex with a thousand men. Kito was the first prospective father.

With that much money at stake, other fathers would soon appear and claim love for their

lost children. The streets were full of prospects.

That was the troubling part of his story.

We would never get the chance to talk to him.

* * *

I called Drake & Sweeney and asked for Braden Chance. A secretary answered the phone,

and I repeated my request. "And who's calling, please?" she asked.

I gave her a fictitious name and claimed to be a prospective client, referred by Clayton

Bender of RiverOaks.

"Mr. Chance is unavailable," she said.

"Tell me when I can talk to him," I said rudely.

"He's on vacation."

"Fine. When will he return?"

"I'm not sure," she said, and I hung up. The vacation would be for a month, then it would

become a sabbatical, then a leave of absence, and at some point they would finally admit

that Chance had been sacked.

I suspected he was gone; the call confirmed it.

Since the firm had been my life for the past seven years, it wasn't difficult to predict its

actions. There was too much pride and arrogance to suffer the indignities being imposed.

As soon as the lawsuit was filed, I suspected they got the truth from Braden Chance.

Whether he came forth on his own, or whether they pried it out of him, was immaterial.

He had lied to them from the beginning, and now the entire firm had been sued. Perhaps

he showed them the original memo from Hector, along with the rent receipt from Lontae.

More than likely, though, he had destroyed these and was forced to describe what he had

shredded. The firm--Arthur Jacobs and the executive committee--at last knew the truth.

The eviction should not have occurred. The verbal rental agreements should have been

terminated in writing, by Chance acting for RiverOaks, with thirty days' notice given to

the tenants.

A thirty-day delay would have jeopardized the bulkmail facility, at least for RiverOaks.

And a thirty-day delay would have allowed Lontae and the other tenants time to survive

the worst of winter.

Chance was forced out of the firm, undoubtedly with a generous buy-out package for his

partnership share. Hector had probably been flown home for briefings. With Chance gone,

Hector could tell the truth and survive. He would not, however, tell of his contact with

me.

Behind locked doors, the executive committee had faced reality. The firm had enormous

exposure. A plan of defense was devised with Rafter and his litigation team. They would

defend vigorously on the grounds that the Burton case was based on materials stolen from

a Drake & Sweeney file. And if the stolen materials couldn't be used in court, then the

lawsuit should be dismissed. That made perfect sense, from a legal perspective.

However, before they were able to implement their defense, the newspaper intervened.

Witnesses were being found who could testify to the same matters protected in the file.

We could prove our case regardless of what Chance had concealed.

Drake & Sweeney had to be in chaos. With four hundred aggressive lawyers unwilling to

keep their opinions to themselves, the firm was on the verge of an insurrection. Had I still

been there, and been faced with a similar scandal in another division of the firm, I would

have been raising hell to get the matter settled and out of the press. The option of

battening down the hatches and riding out the storm did not exist. The exposure by the

Post was only a sample of what a fullblown trial would entail. And a trial was a year

away.

There was heat from another source. The file did not indicate the extent to which

RiverOaks knew the truth about the squatters. In fact, there was very little

correspondence between Chance and his client. It appeared as though he was given

instructions to close the deal as soon as possible. RiverOaks applied the pressure; Chance

steamrolled ahead.

If we assumed RiverOaks did not know the evictions were wrongful, then the company

had a legitimate claim for legal malpractice against Drake & Sweeney. It hired the firm to

do a job; the job was botched; and the blunder was to the detriment of the client. With

three hundred fifty million in holdings, RiverOaks had sufficient clout to pressure the

firm to remedy its wrongs.

Other major clients would also have opinions. "What's going on over there?" was a

question every partner was hearing from those who paid the bills. In the cutthroat world

of corporate law, vultures from other firms were beginning to circle.

Drake & Sweeney marketed its image, its public perception. All big firms did. And no

firm could take the hammering being inflicted upon my alma mater.

* * *

Congressman Burkholder rallied magnificently. The day after his surgery, he met the

press in a carefully staged exhibition. They rolled him in a wheelchair to a makeshift

podium in the lobby of the hospital. He stood, with the aid of his pretty wife, and stepped

forward to issue a statement. Coincidentally, he wore a bright red Hoosier sweatshirt.

There were bandages on his neck; a sling over his left arm.

He pronounced himself alive and well, and ready in a few short days to return to his

duties on the Hill. Hello to the folks back home in Indiana.