It was busy and dusty and I was fascinated with the place.

A fierce Hispanic woman stopped typing after watching me for a moment. "You looking

for somebody?" she asked. It was more of a challenge than a request. A receptionist at

Drake & Sweeney would be fired on the spot for such a greeting.

She was Sofia Mendoza, according to a nameplate tacked to the side of her desk, and I

would soon learn that she was more than a receptionist. A loud roar came from one of the

side rooms, and startled me without amazing Sofia.

"I'm looking for Mordecai Green," I said politely, and at that moment he followed his

roar and stomped out of his side office and into the main room. The floor shook with each

step. tie was yelling across the room for someone named Abraham.

Sofia nodded at him, then dismissed me and returned to her typing. Green was a huge

black man, at least six five with a wide frame that carried a lot of weight. He was in his

early fifties, with a gray beard and round eyeglasses that were framed in red. He took a

look at me, said nothing, yelled again for Abraham while sauntering across the creaking

floor. He disappeared into an office, then emerged seconds later without Abraham.

Another look at me, then, "Can I help you?"

I walked forward and introduced myself.

"Nice to meet you," he said, but only because he had to. "What's on your mind?"

"DeVon Hardy," I said.

He looked at me for a few seconds, then glanced at Sofia, who was lost in her work. He

nodded toward his office, and I followed him into a twelve-by-twelve room with no

windows and every square inch of available floor space covered with manilla files and

battered law books.

I handed him my gold-embossed Drake & Sweeney card, which he studied with a deep

frown. Then he gave it back to me, and said, "Slum. um~.m~ing, aren't you?"

"No," I said, taking the card.

"What do you want?"

"I come in peace. Mr. Hardy's bullet almost got me."

"You were in the room with him?"

"Yep."

He took a deep breath and lost the frown. He pointed to the only chair on my side. "Have

a seat. But you might get dirty."

We both sat, my knees touching his desk, my hands thrust deep into the pockets of my

overcoat. A radiator rattled behind him. We looked at each other, then looked away. It

was my visit, I had to say something. But he spoke first.

"Guess you had a bad day, huh?" he said, his raspy voice lower and almost

compassionate.

"Not as bad as Hardy's. I saw your name in the paper, that's why I came."

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do."

"Do you think the family will sue? If so, then maybe I should leave."

"There's no family, not much of a lawsuit. I could make some noise with it. I figure the

cop who shot him is white, so I could squeeze a few bucks out of the city, probably get a

nuisance settlement. But that's not my idea of fun." He waved his hand over the desk.

"God knows I got enough to do."

"I never saw the cop," I said, realizing it for the first time. "Forget about a lawsuit. Is that

why you're here?"

"I don't know why I'm here. I went back to my desk this morning like nothing happened,

but I couldn't think straight. I took a drive. Here I am."

He shook his head slowly, as if he was trying to understand this. "You want some

coffee?"

"No thanks. You knew Mr. Hardy pretty well."

"Yeah, DeVon was a regular."

"Where is he now?"

"Probably in the city morgue at D.C. General."

"If there's no family, what happens to him?"

"The city buries the unclaimed. On the books it's called a pauper's funeral. There's a

cemetery near RFK Stadium where they pack 'em in. You'd be amazed at the number of

people who die unclaimed."

"I'm sure I would."

"In fact, you'd be amazed at every aspect of homeless life."