The King of Torts Read Online Free PDF Page B

for possession last year, three months there. Not a bad record for one of us. Nothing violent.”
    “How many felonies?”
    “I don’t see one.”
    “I guess that’ll help,” Clay said. “In some way.”
    “Sounds like nothing will help.”
    “I’m told there were at least two eyewitnesses. I’m not optimistic.”
    “Has he confessed to the cops?”
    “No. They’ve told me that he clammed up when they caught him and has said nothing.”
    “That’s rare.”
    “It is,” Clay said.
    “Sounds like life with no parole,” said Talmadge X, the voice of experience.
    “You got it.”
    “That’s not the end of the world for us, you know,Mr. Carter. In many ways, life in prison is better than life on these streets. I got lots of pals who prefer it. Sad thing is, Tequila was one of the few who could’ve made it.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Kid’s got a brain. Once we got him cleaned up and healthy, he felt so good about himself. For the first time in his adult life, he was sober. He couldn’t read so we taught him. He liked to draw so we encouraged art. We never get excited around here, but Tequila made us proud. He was even thinking about changing his name, for obvious reasons.”
    “You never get excited?”
    “We lose sixty-six percent, Mr. Carter. Two thirds. We get ’em in here, sick as dogs, stoned, their bodies and brains cooked on crack, malnourished, even starving, skin rashes, hair falling out, the sickest junkies D.C. can produce, and we fatten ’em up, dry ’em out, lock ’em down in basic training where they’re up at six A.M. scrubbing their rooms and waiting on inspection, breakfast at six-thirty, then nonstop brainwashing from a tough group of counselors who’ve all been exactly where they’ve been, no bullshit, pardon my language, don’t even try to con us because we’re all cons ourselves. After a month they’re clean and they’re very proud. They don’t miss the outside world because there’s nothing good waiting for them—no jobs, no families, nobody loves them. They’re easy to brainwash, and we are relentless. After three months we might, depending on the patient, start easing them back onto the street for an hour or two a day. Nine out of ten return, anxious to getback into their little rooms. We keep them for a year, Mr. Carter. Twelve months, not a day less. We try to educate them some, maybe a little job training with computers. We work hard at finding them jobs. They graduate, we all have a good cry. They leave, and within a year two thirds of them are doing crack again and headed for the gutter.”
    “Do you take them back?”
    “Rarely. If they know they can come back, then they’re more likely to screw up.”
    “What happens to the other third?”
    “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Carter. That’s why I’m a counselor. Those folks, like me, survive in the world, and they do it with a toughness no one else understands. We’ve been to hell and back and it’s an ugly road. Many of our survivors work with other addicts.”
    “How many people can you house at one time?”
    “We have eighty beds, all full. We have room for twice that many, but there’s never enough money.”
    “Who funds you?”
    “Eighty percent federal grants, and there’s no guarantee from year to year. The rest we beg from private foundations. We’re too busy to raise a lot of money.”
    Clay turned a page and made a note. “There’s not a single family member I can talk to?”
    Talmadge X shuffled through the file, shaking his head. “Maybe an aunt somewhere, but don’t expect much. Even if you found one, how could she help you?”
    “She can’t. But it’s nice to have a family member to contact.”
    Talmadge X kept flipping through the file as if hehad something in mind. Clay suspected he was looking for notes or entries to be removed before it was handed over.
    “When can I see that?” Clay asked.
    “How about tomorrow? I’d like to review it first.”
    Clay shrugged. If