The King of Torts Read Online Free PDF Page A

A whiteboy in this ghetto was an irresistible target, regardless of the time of day.
    D Camp was an ancient warehouse, long abandoned by whoever last used it for storage, condemned by the city, then auctioned off for a few dollars to a nonprofit that somehow saw potential. It was a hulking structure, the red brick spray-painted maroon from sidewalk to roof, with the lower levels repainted by the neighborhood graffiti specialists. It rambled down the street then back an entire city block. All the doors and windows along the sides had been cemented shut and painted, so that fencing and razor wire were not needed. Anyone wishing to escape would need a hammer, a chisel, and a hard day of uninterrupted labor.
    Clay parked his Honda Accord directly in front of the building and debated whether to race away or get out. There was a small sign above a set of thick double doors: DELIVERANCE CAMP. PRIVATE. No trespassing. As if someone could wander inside, or want to. There was the usual collection of street characters loitering about: some young toughs no doubt hauling drugs and enough assault weapons to hold off the police, a couple of winos staggering in tandem, what appeared to be family members waiting to visit those inside D Camp. His job had led him to most of the undesirable places in D.C., and he had grown proficient at acting as though he had no fear. I’m a lawyer. I’m here on business. Get out of my way. Don’t speak to me. In nearly five years with OPD, he had yet to be shot at.
    He locked the Accord and left it at the curb. While doing so he sadly admitted to himself that few if any ofthe thugs on this street would be attracted to his little car. It was twelve years old and pushing two hundred thousand miles. Take it, he said.
    He held his breath and ignored the curious stares from the sidewalk gang. There’s not another white face within two miles of here, he thought. He pushed a button by the doors and a voice cracked through the intercom. “Who is it?”
    “My name is Clay Carter. I’m a lawyer. I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Talmadge X.” He said the name clearly, still certain that it was a mistake. On the phone he had asked the secretary how to spell Mr. X’s last name, and she said, quite rudely, that it was not a last name at all. What was it? It was an X. Take it or leave it. It wasn’t about to change.
    “Just a minute,” the voice said, and Clay began to wait. He stared at the doors, trying desperately to ignore everything around him. He was aware of movement off to his left side, something close.
    “Say, man, you a lawyer?” came the question, a high-pitched young black male voice, loud enough for everyone to hear.
    Clay turned and looked into the funky sunshades of his tormentor. “Yep,” he said, as coolly as possible.
    “You ain’t no lawyer,” the young man said. A small gang was forming behind him, all gawking.
    “Afraid so,” Clay said.
    “Can’t be no lawyer, man.”
    “No way,” said one of the gang.
    “You sure you’re a lawyer?”
    “Yep,” Clay said, playing along.
    “If you a lawyer, why you drivin’ a shit car like that?”
    Clay wasn’t sure which hurt more—the laughter from the sidewalk or the truth of the statement. He made matters worse.
    “My wife drives the Mercedes,” he said, a bad attempt at humor.
    “You ain’t got no wife. You ain’t got no wedding ring.”
    What else have they noticed? Clay asked himself. They were still laughing when one of the doors clicked and opened. He managed to step casually inside instead of diving for safety. The reception area was a bunker with a concrete floor, cinderblock walls, metal doors, no windows, low ceiling, a few lights, everything but sandbags and weapons. Behind a long government-issue table was a receptionist answering two phones. Without looking up she said, “He’ll be just a minute.”
    Talmadge X was a wiry, intense man of about fifty, not an ounce of fat on his narrow frame, not a hint of