Individual wrongs; they are sometimes used as pulpits.

My presence complicated matters. My soft, pale face could be the one behind bars. My

license to practice law, and thus make a living, was at risk.

"I'm not jumping ship, Mordecai," I said.

"I didn't expect you to."

"Let me give you a scenario. What if we convince them to pay a sum of money we can

live with; the criminal charges are dropped; and there's nothing left on the table but me

and my license? And what if I agree to surrender it for a period of time? What happens to

me?"

"First, you suffer the indignity of a disciplinary suspension."

"Which, unpleasant as it sounds, will not be the end of the world," I said, trying to sound

strong. I was horrified about the embarrassment. Wamer, my parents, my friends, my law

school buddies, Claire, all those fine folks at Drake & Sweeney. Their faces rushed

before my eyes as I saw them receive the news.

"Second, you simply can't practice law during the suspension."

"Will I lose my job?"

"Of course not."

"Then what will I do?"

"Well, you'll keep this office. You'll do intake at CCNV, Samaritan House, Redeemer

Mission, and the other places you've already been to. You will remain a full partner with

the clinic. We'll call you a social worker, not a lawyer."

"So nothing changes?"

"Not much. Look at Sofia. She sees more clients than the rest of us combined, and half

the city thinks she's a lawyer. If a court appearance is necessary, I handle it. It'll be the

same for you."

The rules governing street law were written by those who practiced it.

"What if I get caught?"

"No one cares. The line between social work and social law is not always clear."

"Two years is a long time."

"It is, and it isn't. We don't have to agree on a two-year suspension."

"I thought it was not negotiable."

"Tomorrow, everything will be negotiable. But you need to do some research. Find

similar cases, if they're out there. See what other jurisdictions have done with similar

complaints."

"You think it's happened before?"

"Maybe. There are a million of us now. Lawyers have been ingenious in finding ways to

screw up."

He was late for a meeting. I thanked him, and we locked up together.

I drove to the Georgetown Law School near Capitol Hill. The library was open until

midnight. It was the perfect place to hide and ponder the life of a wayward lawyer.

________________________________________________________________

Thirty-seven

DeOrio's courtroom was on the second floor of the Carl Moultrie Building, and getting

there took us close to Judge Kisner's, where my grand larceny case was awaiting the next

step in a cumbersome process. The halls were busy with criminal lawyers and low-end

ham-and-eggers, the ones who advertise on cable TV and bus stop benches. They

huddled with their clients, almost all of whom looked guilty of something, and I refused

to believe that my name was on the same docket with those thugs.

The timing of our entry was important to me--silly to Mordecai. We didn't dare flirt with

tardiness. DeOrio was a fanatic for punctuality. But I couldn't stomach the thought of

arriving ten minutes early and being subjected to the stares and whispers and perhaps

even the banal pregame chitchat of Donald Rafter and Arthur and hell only knew who else they would bring. I had no desire to be in the room with Tillman Gantry unless His

Honor was present.