John Grisham - The Street Lawyer

I handed him my gold-embossed Drake and 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."

It was a soft jab, and I was not in the mood to spar. "Do you know if he had AIDS?"

He cocked his head back, looked at the ceiling, and rattled that around for a few seconds. "Why?"

"I was standing behind him. The back of his head was blown off. I got a face full of blood. That's all."

With that, I crossed the line from a bad guy to just an average white guy.

"I don't think he had AIDS."

"Do they check them when they die?"

"The homeless?"

"Yes."

"Most of the time, yes. DeVon, though, died by other means."

"Can you find out?"

He shrugged and thawed some more. "Sure," he said reluctantly, and took his pen from his pocket. "Is that why you're here? Worried about AIDS?"

"I guess it's one reason. Wouldn't you be?"

"Sure."

Abraham stepped in, a small hyper man of about forty who had public interest lawyer stamped all over him. Jewish, dark beard, horn-rimmed glasses, rumpled blazer, wrinkled khakis, dirty sneakers, and the weighty aura of one trying to save the world.

He did not acknowledge me, and Green was not one for social graces. "They're predicting a ton of snow," Green said to him. "We need to make sure every possible shelter is open."

"I'm working on it," Abraham snapped, then abruptly left.

"I know you're busy," I said.

"Is that all you wanted? A blood check."

"Yeah, I guess. Any idea why he did it?"

He removed his red glasses, wiped them with a tissue, then rubbed his eyes. "He was mentally ill, like a lot of these people. You spend years on the streets, soaked with booze, stoned on crack, sleeping in the cold, getting kicked around by cops and punks, it makes you crazy. Plus, he had a bone to pick."

"The eviction."

"Yep. A few months ago, he moved into an abandoned warehouse at the corner of New York and Florida. Somebody threw up some plywood, chopped up the place, and made little apartments. Wasn't a bad place as far as homeless folk go--a roof, some toilets, water. A hundred bucks a month, payable to an ex-pimp who fixed it up and claimed he owned it."

"Did he?"

"I think so." He pulled a thin file from one of the stacks on his desk, and, miraculously, it happened to be the one he wanted. He studied its contents for a moment. "This is where it gets complicated. The property was purchased last month by a company called RiverOaks, some big real estate outfit."

"And RiverOaks evicted everyone?"

"Yep."

"Odds are, then, that RiverOaks would be represented by my firm."

"Good odds, yes."

"Why is it complicated?"

"I've heard it secondhand that they got no notice before the eviction. The people claim they were paying rent to the pimp, and if so, then they were more than squatters. They were tenants, thus entitled to due process."

"Squatters get no notice?"

"None. And it happens all the time. Street folk will move into an abandoned building, and most of the time nothing happens. So they thrink they own it. The owner, if he's inclined to show up, can toss 'em without notice. They have no rights at all."

"How did DeVon Hardy track down our firm?"

"Who knows? He wasn't stupid, though. Crazy, but not stupid."

"Do you know the pimp?"

"Yeah. Completely unreliable."

"Where did you say the warehouse was?"

"It's gone now. They leveled it last week."

I had taken enough of his time. He glanced at his watch, I glanced at mine. We swapped phone numbers and promised to keep in touch.

Mordecai Green was a warm, caring man who labored on the streets protecting hordes of nameless clients. His view of the law required more soul than I could ever muster.

On my way out, I ignored Sofia because she certainly ignored me. My Lexus was still parked at the curb, already covered with an inch of snow.

I drifted through the city as the snow fell. I couldn't recall the last time I had driven the streets of D.C. without being late for a meeting. I was warm and dry in my heavy luxury car, and I simply moved with the traffic. There was no place to go.

The office would be off-limits for a while, what with Arthur mad at me; and I'd have to suffer through a hundred random drop-ins, all of which would start with the phony "How you doin'?"

My car phone rang. It was Polly, panicky. "Where are you?" she asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"A lot of people. Arthur for one. Rudolph. Another reporter called. There are some clients in need of advice. And Claire called from the hospital." "What does she want?"

"She's worried, like everybody else."

"I'm fine, Polly. Tell everybody I'm at the doctor's office."

"Are you?"

"No, but I could be. What did Arthur say?"

"He didn't call. Rudolph did. They were waiting for you."

"Let 'em wait."

A pause, then a very slow "Okay. When might you be dropping by?"

"Don't know. I guess whenever the doctor releases me. Why don't you go home; we're in the middle of a storm. I'll call you tomorrow." I hung up on her.

The apartment was a place I had rarely seen in the light of day, and I couldn't stand the thought of sitting by the fire and watching it snow. If I went to a bar, I'd probably never leave.

So I drove. I flowed with the traffic as the commuters began a hasty retreat into the Maryland and Virginia suburbs, and I breezed along near-empty streets coming back into the city. I found the cemetery near RFK where they buffed the unclaimed, and I passed the Methodist Mission on Seventeenth where last night's uneaten dinner originated. I drove through sections of the city I had never been near and probably would never see again.

By four, the city was empty. The skies were darkening, the snow was quite heavy. Several inches already covered the ground, and they were predicting a lot more.