The Street Lawyer Read Online Free PDF

out.
    His name was DeVon Hardy, age forty-five, a Vietnam vet with a short criminal record. A mug shot from an arrest for burglary was put on the screen behind the early morning newsperson. It looked nothing like Mister—no beard, no glasses, much younger. He was described as homeless with a history of drug use. No motive was known. No family had come forward.
    There were No comments from our side, and the story fizzled.
    The weather was next. Heavy snow was expected to hit by late afternoon. It was the twelfth day of February, and already a record had been set for snowfall.
    Claire drove me to the office, where at six-forty I was not surprised to see my Lexus parked among several other imports. The lot was never empty. We had people who slept at the office.
    I promised to call her later in the morning, and we would try to have lunch at the hospital. She wanted me to take it easy, at least for a day or two.
    What was I supposed to do? Lie on the sofa and take pills? The consensus seemed to be that I needed a day off, after which I guessed I would be expected to return to my duties at full throttle.
    I said good morning to the two very alert security guards in the lobby. Three of the four elevators were open, waiting, and I had a choice. I stepped onto the one Mister and I had taken, and things slowed to a crawl.
    A hundred questions at once: Why had he picked our building? Our firm? Where had he been in the moments before he entered the lobby? Where were the security guards who usually loitered near the front? Why me? Hundreds of lawyers came and went all day long. Why the sixth floor?
    And what was he after? I did not believe DeVon Hardy went to the trouble of wrapping himself with explosives and risking his life, humble as it was, to chastise a bunch of wealthy lawyers over their lack of generosity. He could’ve found richer people. And perhaps greedier ones.
    His question, “Who are the evictors?” was never answered. But it wouldn’t take long.
    The elevator stopped, and I stepped off, this time without anyone behind me. Madam Devier was still asleep at that hour, somewhere, and the sixth floor was quiet. In front of her desk I paused and stared at thetwo doors to the conference room. I slowly opened the nearest one, the one where Umstead stood when the bullet shot over his head and into Mister’s. I took a long breath and flipped a light switch.
    Nothing had happened. The conference table and chairs were in perfect order. The Oriental rug upon which Mister died had been replaced with an even prettier one. A fresh coat of paint covered the walls. Even the bullet hole in the ceiling above Rafter’s spot was gone.
    The powers that be at Drake & Sweeney had spent some dough the previous night to make sure the incident never occurred. The room might attract a few of the curious throughout the day, and there certainly could be nothing to gawk at. It might make folks neglect their work for a minute or two. There simply couldn’t be any trace of street trash in our pristine offices.
    It was a cold-blooded cover-up, and, sadly, I understood the rationale behind it. I was one of the rich white guys. What did I expect, a memorial? A pile of flowers brought in by Mister’s fellow street people?
    I didn’t know what I expected. But the smell of fresh paint made me nauseous.
    On my desk every morning, in precisely the same spot, were
The Wall Street Journal
and
The Washington Post
. I used to know the name of the person who put them there, but it was long forgotten. On the front page of the
Post
’s Metro section, below the fold, wasthe same mug shot of DeVon Hardy, and a large story about yesterday’s little crisis.
    I read it quickly because I figured I knew more details than any reporter. But I learned a few things. The red sticks were not dynamite. Mister had taken a couple of broom handles, sawed them into little pieces, wrapped the ominous silver tape around them, and scared the living hell out of us. The gun was a